Challenge word: Gamble (suggested by the awesome Shadowess_88)
Meaning: to stake something on a contingency; take a chance.
Word Count: 500 dead on. *dance*
Time Frame: Adult, any point in the series.
Warnings/Spoilers: Um, none?
Oh yeah, that had been a bad idea. Dean slid down the wall, let the coldness soak into his skin as he leaned his head back against the tiles. Oh, yeah. The pressure of the wall on his skull said the room wasn't moving, but the instant his eyes slid shut, it felt like he was on a tilt-n-whirl. He swallowed hard, slid into the deep and steady breathing John always guided them through when their bodies rebelled against them, and fought to remind himself that the room was steady.
After a few breaths, the room settled with a grumble, and he shoved himself upright slowly and hesitatingly, inordinately pleased that the walls stayed still. He stumbled to the sink, filling the flimsy paper motel cup with the tap water before he smirked to himself. Halfway done so far.
Halfway. Shit. He eyed the distance to the bed from his vantage point at the sink, and swallowed a whimper of dismay and frustration. It shouldn't be so fucking exhausting to walk those few feet. He scrubbed a hand over his face, annoyed as he realized he could feel the prickle of sweat along his spine. Fuck. Its six steps to the toilet, where he sat down heavily, leaned back against the cold porcelain, let the chill fight the heat sweeping through him.
A week later, and he's still (trying to) kick the ass of the freaking cold that nailed him after a plunge into the river. After a freaking black dog, of all things. He snorted in the small bathroom, frustrated, and heard the sheets rustling quietly, a breathy whimper of pain from the bed.
It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn. Yeah, he wasn't a 100% yet, but even he could hold a flashlight and salt tin, wait for Sam to dig through dirt, torch the bones.
Apparently, Casper didn't get the memo. He had joined the party, angry and violent, and did Dean mention that the bastard had been a wrestler? He hadn't heard the snap of Sam's arm over the bellowing of the ghost and the rustling of leaves, but he'd seen the white pain and the clenched jaw in the inferno of the aftermath.
Broken bones sucked, and the doctors in the emergency rooms always seemed to take one look at his Sasquatch brother, and assume it would take a good deal to make him loopy. Too bad Sam was a lightweight when it came to painkillers, and the drugs they'd doctored him with last night was still working its way through him. Which left Sam passed out on the bed, arm propped up on pillows, held out awkwardly as he tried to fight his way awake, and Dean weak and shivering and dying to wash the cold meds out of his mouth. It was a gamble to chance to get to the bathroom, and, eyeing the distance, wondered how well his poker face would work.
Because damn, he was only halfway there.