Had they not been clearly hunting a poltergeist, Dean would have been one-hundred percent certain that there was a witch in the area. The fact that he'd been feeling fine in the morning but now felt as if his brim was melting and leaking out through his nose was sending up some red flags. Maybe he had some form of ghost sickness (cause he'd heard Bobby talk about that before), or maybe there was a witch that was set on killing people slowly with the mother of all headaches.
It had started with a weird, shimmering line dancing in the corner of his vision in Geometry this morning, which had really bugged him because it had refused to go away. At the moment, he'd been convinced that he was having a stroke. Then, closer to the end of class, it had simply vanished. It was gone as quickly as it came, and Dean accounted it to the lights reflecting off the tile floors oddly into his face. Nothing to worry about.
But by his last class of the day, the right side of his head was pounding as if someone were taking a jackhammer to his brain, and a stabbing pain behind his eyes made him squint. He tried massaging his temples, as that usually relieved a stress-related headache, but the throbbing pain stayed there. He pinched the bridge of his nose in attempt to alleviate the tension behind his eyes. It didn't help. All he could think about was going home, burying his head underneath the covers, and going to sleep. His droning English teacher's voice was suddenly far too loud, and each word sent stabbing pains throughout his neck and head. Finally, right on time, the dismissal bell rang and Dean was home free.
He could barely concentrate when he walked over to the middle school. He could barely see since he was squinting so hard. His head was about to explode, and when Sam came energetically flouncing up with a loud exclamation of, "Hey, Dean," he visibly cringed. Sam frowned, floppy hair falling into his eyes when he saw his brother, saying a softer, "You okay?"
Dean nodded stiffly, as too much motion made his head ache, and said, "C'mon."
He didn't notice Sam's worried, fleeting glances. He was too busy controlling his breathing because his head hurt so frickin' bad. He tried to think about the last time he'd been exposed to witches, and when they could have cursed him like this, but thinking was too painful. He couldn't bring himself to care less about who or what caused his head to hurt like this, his only thoughts being slow, disconnected blurbs about how good a soft pillow and a dark room would feel. He suddenly wished he had sunglasses, because the pavement was glaring up at him way too harshly, sending spikes of pain into his eyes.
They finally got back to the motel after what felt like a five-day trek through the desert while a bird picked meticulously at Dean's brains. He fumbled with the key in the lock, and when he got in, he nearly collapsed onto the bed, letting out a low sigh of relief.
"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam's too-loud voice demanded. Dean slowly opened one eye, wincing at just how bright the room was, and looked at his brother sitting on the opposite bed.
"Just a headache," he murmured, voice already low and rough with exhaustion. He closed his eyes once more and felt himself slowly drifting off, his head still pounding as if someone were methodically hammering his brain. Sleep would soothe the pain, and it would all be better once he woke up.
It was not better once he woke up.
If he had to guess, he'd slept for only a couple hours. He felt not-at-all refreshed, and his headache was about ten times worse than it had been earlier. Thankfully, the sun had gone down now so the motel room was a smidge darker, but the ceiling lights were still blinding him. He could sense Sam sitting on the couch, probably watching the TV, but he couldn't concentrate on any of these facts. All he could hear were the loud throbs of his head aching in his ears. He tried to sit up slowly, set on getting himself a cup of water or something, but his stomach suddenly lurched with his movements and he ended up lunging towards the bathroom. He barely made it there in time before he started heaving, though only a little bile came out. His stomach was mostly empty since he'd had nothing to eat for lunch—food supplies were running low and the school they were at didn't have free or reduced lunch—so he was left dry-heaving until his stomach decided to stop revolting. He could barely keep his grip on the toilet seat because his hands were so sweaty, and every time his stomach lurched, a white-hot blinding pain shot through Dean's head.
He was nearing passing out since the pain was so bad, but then Sam rushed into the bathroom and held Dean's shoulders so that he didn't fall face-first into the toilet. Dean groaned, in agony from his bout of sickness, and fell limply across his twelve-year-old brother. Sam was saying something, but Dean couldn't make it out through the angry throbbing in his head. Dean let out a sob. He was miserable, his head hurt, and he just wanted to sleep. Was that too much to ask?
"Dean, you need to calm down," Sam's cool, blissfully-soft voice said. Dean's face was pressed into his younger brother's shoulder, shielding his aching eyes from the light as he moaned. Sam was rubbing his back, and Dean felt himself relaxing, though his skull was pounding more violently after the puking-fest.
"Hurts," Dean groaned, wincing since even his voice seemed too loud.
Sam patted Dean's back softly, a heartening gesture. "All right, it's okay," he whispered. "Let's get you back to bed. I'll turn off all the lights and go to bed myself, okay?"
Dean nodded stiffly, the movement jarring pain though his head. He tried to keep his eyes closed as Sam wrestled him back into the bedroom and onto his bed, swaddling him in covers. Dean sighed in relief.
There was a shuffling sound that Dean tried not to pay attention to—concentrating made his head hurt—and then Sam was back in front of him, holding out two white pills.
"Take these," Sam ordered lightly. "They'll help."
Dean's stomach churned at the thought of swallowing anything, but he dry-swallowed the pills, knowing that the sooner he got them down, the sooner he could feel better and get back to sleep.
He did not feel better and he did not fall back to sleep.
The ever-so-persistent pounding in his head would not allow him to sleep. Dean cried silently to himself, wishing that it would all just go away. He wished Dad was here. Dad would know what to do. Dean didn't know what to do. He'd never felt this rotten before in his life. He was dying, surely.
He wanted to call Dad so badly. To let him know that he was feeling crappy, that he needed him. But his darned Winchester pride wouldn't allow him to.
Sam tried to convince him to eat or drink in the morning, but Dean couldn't. Why eat something that you know you're going to throw up later? It felt as if someone were stabbing his eye sockets with every sound, light, movement. His head was on fire, his brain was melting. No way could he eat something right now.
Sam shoved some more pills down his throat, and Dean didn't have the heart to tell him that they hadn't helped last night. He said goodbye to Sam—or, more likely, mumbled something that resembled that—as the kid headed off for school. Dean couldn't move from his recluse spot beneath the covers.
He slept some more, before deciding that a shower would feel good. Standing slowly to make sure his head didn't spin too much, he somehow made it to the shower without collapsing. Now the question was if he could stand for the time it would take him to shower…
Unsurprisingly, the hot steam soothed his aches, if not momentarily. He made himself get out of the shower once the jets started making the pain intensify instead of wean. He dressed himself in his most comfortable sweats and a USMC hoodie that used to belong to Dad before collapsing back on his bead and falling into a hazy sleep.
Dean might have woken a few times before Sam got home, but those awakenings were short and far in between. He slept for most of the day, head shielded under blankets to keep the sun out of his eyes. His shower left him warm and refreshed, though his mood decreased steadily as the headache refused to go away.
Sam came home bearing gifts. Dean wouldn't normally be interested in whatever he'd picked up at the convenience store down the road, but one of the gifts was extra-strength Tylenol, making Dean want to kiss his brother in relief. He swallowed two gel-caps and sighed, sinking into his rock-hard pillow. He waited for the alleviation to take hold, but it never came. Dean cursed softly.
"What?" Sam asked from across the room. Dean guessed he was sitting at the coffee table.
"Not helping," Dean muttered, throwing a languid arm over his eyes.
He could practically hear Sam worrying his lip. "I did some research at school today," Sam said, still keeping his voice low for his brother's sake. "I think you're having a migraine. And a pretty bad one, if I'm judging things right."
Dean groaned. "Migraine" fit the bill. "So whadda we do?" he mumbled.
"Well, pain pills don't usually help much," Sam said. "I see they aren't helping in your case. The only real fix is sleeping it off in a dark room."
That sounded nice… "'Kay," Dean responded, his voice a mere breathless whisper.
"Or… Or if it gets really bad, you're supposed to go to the hospital. They can pump you full of pain mess to make it go away."
That sounded nice too… But Dean fell asleep before he could respond.
He didn't fully wake this time. Instead, he stayed hovering in a world of pain and half-consciousness. He couldn't tell what was happening, only that he heard people…shouting. He heard…Sam? Yes, that was Sam. And…he didn't recognize those other voices, he was fairly sure of that. His head was pounding almost rhythmically, to the point where Dean was sure it would explode in a colorful eruption of pink matter. The mental image of that, along with the stabbing agony, made Dean want to vomit again. He was shaking, he could feel that, and his eyes were screwed shut because he couldn't bear to see any glimmer of sunlight at this point without sobbing in anguish.
Then suddenly, it was all gone. Every ounce of pain vanished for the most part, and Dean allowed a sigh of relief.
Then he drifted off again.
Dad was there. That was all Dean could focus on the next time he woke up.
"Dad…," Dean murmured, holding out a hand to his father. He caught a glimpse of his skin; too pale, too clammy.
"Hey, kiddo," John whispered, clutching Dean's hand as if his life depended on it. "Youre in the hospital. How you doing?"
Dean focused on the headache he'd become accustomed to in order to gauge the pain before he realized that it was gone. Well, gone except for a twinning behind his eyes, but Dean suspected that would linger.
"Good," Dean replied, eyes already drooping. "H'spital. Glad you're here."
John nodded, and Dean thought his eyes looked a little glassy. "Yeah. Glad I'm here too. Now go back to sleep, son. We can talk in the morning."
Dean nodded, relieved to feel no white-hot pain shooting up his neck. He squeezed his dad's hand before everything went black once more.
They think stress triggered it, along with lack of a healthy diet. Dean had a migraine, and they think it can happen again. He'll just have to ease the load he was carrying and try to eat some vegetables every once in a while.
Needles to say, they gave him some pills to take when he felt a headache coming on. They worked for the most part, but sometimes a headache slipped through the cracks. Then, he was down for at least three days with some pain meds that never seemed to work. It sucked, but the Winchesters got used to it. The migraines became yet another tribulation in their daily lives. It's not like they weren't used to a challenge.
To be honest, I love stories where Dean gets headaches like these, since I can relate. Hope you enjoyed it, and don't forget to review!