CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
This chapter is for Psycho33 who wanted Dean to get sick. Sorry it took so long, but it's better late than never. :)
Dean gets sick with a cold, Sam and Bobby look after him.
Five nights after his hospital appointment, Dean was laying in his bed, tossing and turning, trying to escape the dreams that had plagued him since their father's death. Night after night, yellow eyes and his father's face mocked and tormented him, as he yet again found himself face to face with the yellow-eyed demon, its eerie eyes staring straight into the deepest corners of Dean's mind as he taunted him.
*'You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don't need you. Sam, he's clearly John's favourite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you.'*
Dean flinched and cried out in his sleep, as those yellow orbs changed to the brown ones of his dad. The familiar face sneered hatefully at him as it got closer, the dream changing from memory to nightmare like it did every night.
*'This is your fault. You should be dead, not me. You deserve to die. You wonder why everyone you love always leaves you? Just take a look in the mirror. You're worthless, Dean. Always have been... always will be.'
John was inches from Dean's face, sneering, eyes blazing savagely as they changed back to yellow. 'Your dad was almost happy when he died. Being in hell is a lot better than being around you. They never loved you, neither does your precious Sammy. Sam was always your mom and dads favourite. You... you they put up with. They don't need you. Bobby pities you, but deep down, he wishes you were dead too.'*
Tear streamed down Dean's cheeks as he struggled to wake up, his breathing hitched as he fought to get out of the dreams claws, and wake up in the real world.
*'It should be you here,' Sneered the demon, as John stepped away from him, flames licking over his face as the eyes faded back to brown. 'You should've died. You should be here... Not me.'*
Dean shot up in bed with a gasp as John burst into flames and the room turned into hell. "No." He looked around the room with wide watery eyes to make sure he was out of the dream and back in his bedroom at Bobby's. Sam was sleeping peacefully in the next bed, unaware of Dean panting as he tried to get control of his emotions, the dream fading into the background, but the hateful words still ringing in his ears.
Running his thin hands through his hair, Dean threw the covers from the bed. He quietly climbed out of bed, quickly left the room and tiptoed downstairs. Quietly opening the front door, he slipped outside and walked over to the Impala. Sitting on the hood of his car, Dean settled his feet on the bumper and held his head in his hands.
"I-I don't deserve to d-die," he whispered, before staring up at the stars. "Sammy and B-Bobby don't hate me." He shook his head, as if he was trying to convince himself, and wrapped his arms around his skinny body and curled up, almost as if he was trying to protect himself from something.
Since he didn't wear Sam's hoodie for bed, he was just wearing his sweatpants and a t-shirt, but he didn't seem to notice the cold weather, even though he was trembling violently and his teeth were chattering together while he watched the stars twinkling in the sky.
"They don't need you... Not like you need them." The voice was so loud and clear, it sounded as if someone was standing beside him, whispering into his ear. He frowned, and looked around Bobby's yard, but when he didn't see anybody there, he covered his ears to get rid of the voice.
A sob ripped from his throat, and he tightened his arms around his body almost as if he was trying to comfort himself. "I'm sorry I'm not the son you wanted me to be. I'm sorry I'm such a screw up and a disappointment," he whispered to the stars, rubbing his chest, which had ached all day. Sitting outside in the freezing cold wasn't going to help, but he just needed to get away from his bed and the nightmares that plagued him every night.
No matter how many times his family told him that it wasn't his fault and he shouldn't blame himself, he had a hard time separating what was reality and nightmare, between the truth that Sam and Bobby told him, and the lies that the demon tormented him with.
Trembling from the freezing weather and the sobs that racked his body, Dean continued to sit on the hood of the Impala until the morning light shone through the clouds.
The next day Dean felt like crap, the morning started with him jumping out of bed and running to the bathroom. He crashed to his knees in-front of the toilet and vomit exploded from his mouth as soon as he doubled over.
Dean's hands clenched the edge of the toilet and he took large gulps of air that almost choked him while he continued to throw up the little amount of food he had managed to eat in the past two or three days.
His throat burned when the vomit came out of his mouth, but there was yet another round still to come when the sick feeling returned moments later, more violent than the last, making him cry out in pain and grip his stomach tightly with the one hand not still clenched onto the bowl.
After throwing up once more, his body drained of energy, Dean curled up on the floor in-front of the toilet, and laid his ashen face against the rim, gasping for breath. His stomach heaved again, this time nothing came out, but a whimper of pain when he felt like he was trying to wretch up his organs.
"Sonofabitch," he moaned, one thin hand rubbing his stomach as he choked and gasped, sending the muscles in his throat convulsing. When he finally finished, Dean stood up shakily and flushed the toilet, before walking over to the sink to wash his face. He looked up into his reflection and grimaced when he saw the thin skeletal image staring back at him. Only the flushed cheeks added colour to his otherwise deathly pale face, the eyes staring back at him were the eyes of a haunted man.
"Ugh. You look terrible, dude," he rasped, looking up at the picture that was still stuck to the mirror. A sudden cough caught him off guard and he doubled over, almost hitting his head on the edge of the sink, his left hand clutching his chest while he coughed his lungs out.
After the coughing fit ended, Dean adjusted his clothes and walked over to open the door to go downstairs. Entering the kitchen, he saw Bobby standing at the oven, cooking breakfast. "Hey Bobby."
"Hey, What was all that about in the bathroom?"
"What are you talking about?" asked Dean, slowly making his way to sit down at the table.
"Ya know what I'm talking about. I heard ya throwing up when I passed by the bathroom."
"Oh, it was nothing. I just didn't feel too good."
Bobby turned from the pancakes and glared over at Dean, holding the spatula in one hand. "Do I look like I was born yesterday?"
"Not unless you age at the speed of light," said Dean, placing his trembling arms on the table and laying his pounding head over them. "Where's Sam?"
"Nevermind that. Have ya got something ya need to tell me?"
"Not really, no. Is there any coffee going?" he asked Bobby, who was still standing there, glaring at him. "What?"
"Ya know what."
"I didn't make myself sick, if that's what you're asking. I've felt a bit sick the past two days, but today I feel like I've been splattered by a steamroller."
Bobby rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything about the thinness of Dean's body looked as if he had been run over by a steamroller. "Ya better not be lying to me," he muttered, turning back to the breakfast.
Dean groaned in misery and closed his eyes. By the time breakfast was ready, he had already fallen back to sleep.
Later, Dean was bundled up in all the blankets and covers they could find, but he was still shivering and shaking so violently that Sam could feel the vibrations from the couch he was leaning against as he watched the movie that was playing on the TV.
"Dean, are you feeling alright?" asked a worried Sam, turning around and using one hand to check his temperature, flinching when he felt the heat. "You're burning up."
"I..." Dean started, but was cut off by a violent sneezing fit that almost had him falling off the couch and onto Sam. "Het-ktchsh-CHUH! Huhh…PTSHCH! Hptch-shuh! Huh-ETSHCHSH!"
"Wow. Bless you. I think you've caught a cold or something," said Sam, rushing over to the first-aid kit to get out the thermometer. "Have you been wearing plenty of layers? You know how vulnerable you are right now." Placing the thermometer into his mouth, Sam waited for it to beep. "And you know how bad you get even with a simple cold... and with how sick you are already, it'll probably hit you a lot more violently than it normally would."
"T-Thanks Dr Winchester," Dean muttered, chattering teeth clinking against the thermometer in his mouth as he wiped his nose with the tissue Sam handed to him.
Bobby was watching the brothers with a guilty expression. Dean had tried telling him that morning how bad he felt and he just thought he was being sick on purpose despite the talks and progress they had made recently.
When the beep came, Sam took out the thermometer and checked the number, sighing when he saw what it said. "Oh no. 101. We need to get that down or Dean will be terrorising the neighbourhood with his weirdness."
"What are ya talking about?" asked a confused Bobby with a frown.
"Dean. He goes crazy when his temperature gets too high."
"D-Dude, I'm not th-that bad."
"You're not huh? Dean, the last time you had a high fever you put your underwear on the outside of your jeans, tied the arms of my black hoodie around your neck like a cape and ran around telling everyone you were Batman and was there to save the day. Then you jumped off the roof thinking you could fly and ended up in the hospital with a broken leg, your collarbone cracked in two, a broken arm, and a fractured skull. The time before that you went up to this really short guy with a moustache, held up a mushroom and just started yelling 'GROW MARIO! GROW!' Then you picked up this flower and told him to use his fire power to battle the army of evil green turtles," he said, before rushing back out of the room to get a bowl of water and some painkillers.
Bobby started laughing at the image Sam was describing, only Dean could go that crazy while sick. When Dean started glaring at him, it just made him laugh harder.
When he came back into the room, Sam made sure Dean was still covered up, and then passed him the meds and dipped the cloth into the water to gently wipe Dean's face with it. "There we go. How does that feel?"
With a sniffle, Dean snuggled into the covers warmth and shrugged, looking miserable.
"It'll be alright. Bobby and I will take care of you until you feel better."
"Oh joy. I-I'll try to g-get excited later," Dean whispered when a violent shudder racked his body.
"Hopefully you'll be able to keep something down later otherwise you'll end up back to where you started. Crap. I just had a thought."
"S-Should I call an ambulance? Y-You m-might give yourself a concussion."
Sam mock-glared at him. "Haha. Very funny. If you can't keep anything down, what about anti-depressants? Will they still work?" he asked Bobby, looking worried.
Bobby shrugged. "I have no idea. We better call his doctor or something."
"But what if he wants us to take Dean in for a few days?"
"NO!" Dean yelled, struggling to sit up. "I'm not... NO!"
Sam placed his hands on Dean's shoulders and gently lowered him back down. "Nobody will take you back to hospital. We'll do our best to look after you here, okay? I'll check on my laptop soon, but we need to give you plenty of fluids so you don't dehydrate."
Dean settled back on the couch, and coughed weakly, using one sleeve to wipe his nose. "K-Kay," he whispered through chattering teeth as he pulled the covers up to his chin.
"You'll be okay, big brother. Ooh ooh." Getting up again, he rushed upstairs to get some more things to keep Dean warm. Two minutes later, he came back downstairs with his arms bundled with clothes.
Dean and Bobby were staring at the younger Winchester as he walked into the room armed with enough clothes to clothe an army.
"What are all those for?" asked a shocked Bobby. "Have ya got fifteen imaginary friends we don't know about?"
Sam smiled and knelt in-front of the couch, placing the clothes in a pile beside him. "Here," he said, holding out a thick sweater to Dean, who was laying there looking at him. "If you don't put it on, I'll treat you like a child and dress you myself."
With an eye-roll, Dean slowly sat up with Sam's help and carefully dressed himself in the warm clothing. His eyes went even wider when Sam held another out to him. "Sam, are y-you trying t-to cook me or what?"
"I'm trying to make sure you don't get sicker than you already are. So put it on, or I'll get Bobby to sit you on his knee and then I'll dress you and take pictures to put up all over Facebook."
"Oh for crying out loud." With a scowl, Dean snatched the item of clothing and put it on along with the dark blue hoodie that Sam was holding up. "Sam, I'm not dying, y-you know," he told Sam, who huffed and puffed as if Dean was at deaths door.
After putting another pair of sweatpants on, Sam took out a thick pair of thermal socks and pulled the covers back to expose Dean's feet.
"Sam, w-what the he-hell are you doing?" asked Dean, reaching over to cover his cold feet back up, but Sam started tickling his feet, making him laugh and kick out at him. "S-Stop."
"Sorry. I can't hear you," laughed Sam, tickling the other foot. He started grinning when Dean started laughing uncontrollably and trying to escape from the ticklish feeling. "What did you say?"
"S-S-S-S..." Twisting and turning, and kicking his feet, Dean continued to laugh even though it hurt his throat and his stomach from laughing so hard.
Sam laughed with him and Bobby shook his head, smiling in amusement. After spending a few funny minutes laughing and acting like children, the mood became serious when Dean suddenly started coughing violently.
"WHOA!" yelled Sam, helping Dean turn over onto his side to gently rub soothing circles on his heaving back. His heart sank when he could still feel the pebbled bones of Dean's spine even through all the layers. He tried not to think about that and focused on trying to help his brother. "It's alright, Dean. I've got you."
Dean curled up into himself and coughed into the crook of one arm, and held onto Sam's shirt with the other. The coughs racked his body, tearing him up from the inside as he doubled over, choking and spluttering around whatever his lungs were trying to dislodge.
Sam took his hand from Dean's back for a second to grab a handful of tissues from the table, which was littered with enough sick items to supply a pharmacy. "Here."
Dean opened his eyes to see the white tissue in his field of vision, and Sam's worried face. He choked as he felt something rise to his throat, and Sam's warm, comforting hand rubbing soothing circles against his back.
"Spit," Sam said softly, and Dean complied, coughing one more time before spitting the yellowish, greenish glob of goo into the tissue.
"Ugh. Hurts," he whispered, blinking up at Sam.
"I know." Sam rubbed at Dean's back again, trying to soothe away the aches deep inside his thin body. When Dean was ready, Sam helped him settle back against the mountain of pillows again, and carefully grabbed his feet and pulled the thick socks over them. After covering him back up, Sam grabbed the cough syrup and the little cup to pour him some medicine.
Rubbing his chest with his eyes closed, Dean jumped in surprise when the couch dipped beside him. He opened his eyes to see Sam holding out a medicine cup of pinkish liquid.
"Hey, sit up so you can take this," he said, sliding his other hand behind Dean's back and urging him upright.
Dean groaned, and reluctantly cuddled up against Sam's side to take the mouthful of cough syrup. After drinking the liquid, Sam arranged the pillows behind him so he would be able to lay more comfortably.
Dean looked up at Sam, the only colour on his ashen face were the red nose, flushed cheeks and the freckles that covered his cheeks and nose, looking so dark that it looked as if a child had played join the dots on his face with a brown marker. He snuffled, and wiped his congested nose with a handful of tissues, his messy hair was sticking up in all directions, making him look like a sick four year old.
"Can I get you anything? How about some chicken soup? That's supposed to help with a cold. Do you think you can keep some soup down? Or do you want to try later?"
The sick Winchester thought for several seconds, before shrugging with a grimace. "T-Try some s-soup," he whispered, shivering violently even with all the layers covering him.
"Okie dokie. I'll be back in a minute," said Sam, leaving the wet cloth on Dean's forehead and getting up. "I'll make some hot tea too, that should help."
"Tea? Since when do we have tea?" asked Bobby, his nose scrunched up in disgust.
"I bought some this morning because I noticed that Dean was getting sniffly yesterday. I read that if you drink hot tea with honey, it'll help when you have a cold."
"S-Sniffly? Is that even a word?" asked Dean with raised eyebrows.
Sam shrugged, ruffling Dean's hair. "I'll be back in a minute. Bobby, look after Rudolph here."
"Don't call me that," said Dean as he snuggled even further down into the covers. He scrunched his red nose up, and sneezed several times into the bunch of tissues he was holding in his hands.
Sharing a look with Bobby, Sam left the two alone and walked into the kitchen to get the items that he hoped would help his sick sibling.
"What do ya want to watch?" asked Bobby, grabbing the remote and flicking through the channels to find something that Dean would like.
"D-Don't care," whispered Dean, closing his eyes weakly with a groan. Usually, a cold or even the flu wouldn't bother him, but this time, since he was already so skinny and weak, it knocked him straight on his ass, and he felt like he was dying.
When Kermit the frog suddenly appeared on the screen, Dean started waving his arm at the TV. "Ooh. The mu-muppets. Can we watch the muppets?" he asked Bobby, who sighed and put the remote down. "I u-used to love the muppets. D-Do you watch the muppets?"
"Yeah. I'm watching one right now," said Bobby with a straight face, staring at Dean.
Dean laughed, and grimaced when his chest started hurting. "Ugh. F-Feel like crap."
When Sam came back into the room he was carrying a tray with the tea and soup. "Here we go," he said, placing the tea beside the tissues and medicines.
Sam gently placed the tray over Dean's lap, making sure he didn't burn Dean or spill any of it over the blankets. "It's only half full, so try to eat as much as you can. The bucket is beside the couch in-case you need it, okay? If you need anything else, ask me or Bobby."
Dean raised his eyebrows at the mother henning, and grabbed the spoon in one slightly trembling hand. Taking a deep breath, he brought the spoon up to his mouth to take a sip. He dropped the spoon back into the bowl and scrunched his eyes closed for several seconds, taking slow deep breaths to make sure he wasn't going to bring it back up again.
Sam was watching him closely to make sure he was okay, and smiled when Dean had a second mouthful without showing any signs of sickness. "Is it alright? I can make you something else if it's not."
"No. It's good," said Dean, forcing a smile onto his face. He settled back against the huge mountain of pillows and relaxed as he slowly ate a few mouthfuls of the soup, before putting the spoon back into the bowl. "I-I'm done."
Sam peered into the bowl to see that Dean had only managed to eat half of what he had made him, but at least he had eaten some of it even though he was sick. "You did good. Are you ready to try your anti-depressant?"
"N-Not yet. Later."
"Okay. We'll see if you can keep the soup down before you take it. Can I get you anything else?"
"No, I'm f-fine," he said, turning his head in the direction of the TV where Animal was randomly banging on the drums, making him laugh. "That guy's crazy."
"I know someone like that," said Sam, watching him fondly.
Dean turned to glare at Sam, who grinned at him. The glaring didn't last long when Dean suddenly started having a sneezing fit into the new bunch of tissues.
"Whoa. Are you sure I can't get you anything?"
"N-No. I'm fine," said Dean with a sniffle, wiping his congested, red nose. He groaned and rubbed his aching chest with his free hand, and shifted to get more comfortable.
Sam watched him with a sad expression. "I wish I could do something to help make you feel better."
"S-Sammy, it's only a cold... I think. I'm not o-on my deathbed, you know."
"I know, but with you already being so sick, it's much worse than it normally would be."
Bobby was watching Sam look after Dean, feeling guilty. "I think ya caught the cold from me when I had the sneezes a couple of days ago. I'm sorry I didn't believe ya this morning, son."
"It's okay."
"No it's not. Ya told me ya didn't feel well, and I should've listened."
"It's nobody's fault," said Sam, gently wiping Dean's hot face. "Just... Get better, okay? I don't just mean from the cold. I can't lose you."
"I'll be b-better before y-you know it," Dean assured him with a smile.
Sam nodded, and turned slightly to discreetly wipe his tears with the cloth he was using. "Why don't you get some rest, huh? You look exhausted. I'll wake you in an hour to take your pill."
Dean snuggled into the pillows and the warmth of the covers. "K-Kay," he sighed weakly. He always seemed to be tired, but the nightmares he had nightly made him reluctant to go to sleep.
"I'll be right here," Sam told him in a quiet voice, so only Dean could hear him as he adjusted the blankets so he didn't get cold.
"S-Stop fussing," whispered Dean, his eyelids fluttering closed, his body going limp as he gave into sleep.
"No." Sam smiled and sat down in-front of the couch, facing Dean so he could take care of him. The wet cloth wiped over the dark freckles that stood out clearly on his congested nose which made snuffly noises as he breathed, the protruding cheekbones looked and felt as if he had half a golf ball under his skin, and the black marks under his eyes made him look like Beetlejuice.
He looked so young and sick right now, it was heartbreaking. Sam sniffled, and wiped the last remaining tears with his free hand.
"He'll be alright, Sam," said Bobby in a quiet voice so he didn't wake Dean up. "That kid is the strongest person I know."
Sam didn't answer, but continued watching Dean. "I'll be right here with you until you get better... and even when you do recover, I'll still be here."
Later that day, Dean was now awake, and Sam was once again fussing over him. Bobby was watching them in amusement while Sam checked Dean's temperature and gave him more medication, before tucking him in again to make sure he was warm enough.
Dean was slumped against the pillows with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face as he was forced to endure the mother henning. So far he had been able to keep the soup down so Sam had given him his pill after he woke up.
"Are you hungry? Do you want some more tea? Are you warm enough?" Sam rambled worriedly, placing the back of his hand against Dean's forehead. "You're still really hot."
"Sammy, I swear t-to god if you don't quit it, I-I'm going to beat you to death with th-that cup," Dean threatened, pointing at the item on the little table.
"I'm just doing my job, so be quiet or I'll ask Bobby to get that frozen chicken out of the kitchen."
"I think we ate that ages ago," said Bobby, staring at Sam. "So unless we're going to get haunted by a poultrygeist, I doubt he's got anything to worry about."
"Isn't that an e-episode of Beetlejuice?" Dean suddenly asked them, making them stare at him as if he had gone mad. "What? It w-was. T-The ghost with the most got ha-haunted by a chicken."
"Riiiiiiight. Like that happens every day."
Dean laughed, still rubbing at his aching chest. "It w-was hilarious. Especially when he couldn't g-get rid of the chicken and he said 'This chicken is tough. I bet he's airline f-food in his spare time'," he said, before he burst out laughing again.
Sam and Bobby raised their eyebrows and turned to look at each other with identical expressions. "How old is he again?" asked Bobby, his lips twitching as he struggled not to laugh with Dean.
"But the c-chicken wouldn't go away... S-So he nearly drove Beetlejuice insane b-because he couldn't get any sl-sleep..." he trailed off, the smile dropping from his face.
"Are you alright?"
Dean forced the smile back onto his face and nodded. "Y-Yeah. I'm awe..." He trailed off and sucked in a gulp of air, a sharp pain in his chest was his only warning before he started violently coughing.
Sam shot up when Dean suddenly curled up into himself, and started coughing into the crook of one arm. "Take it easy," he soothed, rubbing circles around Dean's back to help him through it. "I've got you."
With Dean on his side, Sam moved his other arm so he could also rub circles on Dean's chest in the same rhythm. "Try to breathe in slowly, Dean. Not too deep, okay? That's it," he coached, trying to ignore the fact that he could feel Dean's individual ribs with his fingers as he continued with the soothing circles.
Dean tried to concentrate on Sam's voice and do what he was telling him to. After several minutes, the band around his chest loosened a little and the coughing finally came to a stop.
Bobby grabbed the empty glass and carried it into the kitchen to fill it up with some water, so Dean could have a drink.
Sam placed his arm under Dean's back, trying not to wince when the sharp shoulder blades dug into his arm, and sat him up to lean against him with his free hand, and helped him take the small cup of cough syrup.
"There we go," soothed Sam, putting the medicine cup back onto the small table to take the glass of water from Bobby. "Thanks."
"Is he alright?" asked a worried Bobby, watching Sam help Dean have a drink to soothe his sore throat and aching chest.
When Dean turned away, Sam handed the glass back to Bobby, who was standing there with a concerned expression. "He'll be okay," Sam told him with a shaky smile. He gently settled Dean back against the pillows and placed his hand on his face again, and when he felt the heat, Sam reached over for the cloth and dipped it in the water.
Dean sighed and leaned into the hand that was on his face. "T-That feels nice," he whispered in a croaky voice that the other two men could barely hear.
"It's a few hours since you last ate. Do you want some more soup? Or do you want to try some toast?"
"Er..." Dean was silent for several seconds before answering. "S-Soup."
"Okay. There's still plenty left from earlier, I'll go and heat it up. I'll be back in a few minutes, alright? Do you need anything else?"
"N-No." When he heard shuffling beside him, he opened his eyes, and jumped in surprise when he saw Bobby still standing there watching him. "What?"
"Can I get ya anything?"
"I-I'm fine Bobby. You can relax, you k-know."
Bobby nodded, and did what Dean asked. He grabbed the remote and started flicking through the channels for something to watch, and stopped when he saw a familiar movie.
Dean turned to watch whatever Bobby had put on the TV, and had to smile when he saw John Wayne on the screen. "Awesome. I love Hondo," he croaked weakly, shifting carefully onto his side and laying against the bunch of pillows to watch one of his favourites.
He didn't look away from the movie until Sam walked into the room carrying a bowl of soup, which he placed carefully on Dean's knee.
TBC
Hope you like.