As always, I have to thank my wonderful beta morrismsteph for spending hours just expanding and editing this world I've created in my head and helped me put down in words!
The breakfast table was always a busy place in the Stark household. Every morning was exactly the same: Clint rushed to finish whatever homework he'd forgotten was due that day, Thor and Steve shoveled food into their mouths as if they hadn't eaten in months, and Tony collapsed against the counter near his coffee machine, hissing like an angry cat until his 'liquid of the gods' was available for consumption. Nat, of course, sat quietly at the table, the calm in the middle of the storm.
From their first morning with the family, Sam and Dean fit into this chaos seamlessly. Sam bombarded Bruce with questions about whichever textbook the college student had chosen to read that day, and Dean made himself useful, flipping pancakes onto the communal plate to ensure the stack never ran out.
This particular morning, however, held slight changes. Tony, already alert and holding a cup of coffee, was standing in the doorway of the kitchen when Dean came down. Meanwhile, Thor stood in Dean's usual spot–eating half the pancakes before they even reached the table, it would seem.
"Dean! I thought you were sick?" Bruce questioned when the teen entered. The 18-year-old was passing pancakes to Clint, who was already covered in syrup.
Tony raised an eyebrow at Dean's appearance. "He is. What are you doing out of bed?" Tony's voice was flat.
Steve stood up from the table. "You certainly look sick." The man reached out to check his temperature.
"I'm fine, Steve." Dean ducked, trying to avoid the hand headed for his forehead. Steve got him anyway, briefly touching Dean's heated skin with the back of his hand.
"Dean, you look like death, and you're burning up." Steve was using his 'dad' voice with those stupid, big blue eyes that held a hint of 'I know you're not really sick, but we're going to pretend you are.' "You're not going to school today."
Clint's head popped up from the table. "I can stay home and take care of him! It will be a sacrifice, but anything to help out my brother!" he exclaimed, draping himself across his sister's lap in a show of dramatics.
"Nice try, mister. Good luck on your math quiz today," Tony chuckled as he ruffled Clint's hair. "I'll stay home with him this morning. I've got some meetings this afternoon, but I don't want to go to them anyway…"
Steve reached out to ruffle Tony's hair in jest. "Nice try, mister, but Pepper would have both our heads if I let you miss those meetings. I'll do my afternoon classes by video conference. I'm sure my students would love the excuse to stay in their pajamas."
Dean could feel the heat radiating off his wound and knew he was getting paler the longer he stood there. "It's okay, really! You don't have to take care of me! Go to work, both of you–I'll be fine! In fact, I'm not really sick! I'm fine to go school!"
Tony frowned and placed his mug on the table. Dean followed the man's hand with his eyes, preparing for Tony to finally snap. Tony noticed.
Slowly, so Dean could follow his movements, the man rested his hand on Dean's arm. "Dean, there's no way in hell you're going to school, and there's no way we're leaving you home alone today, either. Now, get up to bed, and I'll bring you some soup."
Dean looked from Tony, to Steve, and lastly to Sam, who was too busy asking Bruce about the swirly thing on the cover of a science textbook to notice the commotion. After a moment, he dropped his head in defeat and shuffled towards the stairs.
He really did feel awful. Every muscle ached, his head was pounding, his side screamed in agony, and with all the different smells in the kitchen, it was a miracle he didn't end up with his head over the sink. A quick nap couldn't hurt.
He was out by the time Sam came to say goodbye.
Dean woke to a hand stroking his hair. He relaxed easily into the fingers, melting with every pass. One second he was floating in easy peace, the next he was leaning over the side of the bed, heaving up everything in his stomach.
"I'm guessing that's a 'no' on the soup."
Dean couldn't care less who or where that came from. His stomach hurt–he needed it to stop hurting! The hand was back, cradling his forehead, and another was on his back, soothing him through every hard heave.
"Shh, I know. It fucking sucks. Let it out. As much as it feels like shit now, at least it's coming out at all. I remember there was one night–well, I guess it was morning–where I was over the toilet for five hours. I timed it.
"Well," Dean heard, "Pepper timed it. She could sit in the next room with a stopwatch, but heaven forbid she actually help me. 'You got yourself into this mess; you can deal with the consequences,'" the voice poorly parodied the shrill sound of a woman. "I mean, she was right, but seriously. I felt like I was dying. She could've at least given me a glass of water!"
Dean's stomach finally settled, and, with the hands' help, he flopped back onto the bed. Exhausted, Dean cracked his eyes open to see Tony drawing the blankets up to his chest.
"Speaking of!" Tony continued, not bothering to pause. "Water!" He produced a glass from the bedside table and presented it to Dean. The thought of putting anything in his stomach was absolutely repulsive. Dean closed his eyes, pushed the glass away, and turned over, intent on never eating again.
At least, that's what he tried to do. In reality, he groaned and lifted his hand about an inch or two off the bed, before feeling his side burn and dropping his hand back down.
"Trust me. You want something in there if you start puking again," Tony pushed. "Dry heaving? Ten times worse!" He waited a moment more before accepting that Dean wasn't going to move, then set the glass back on the nightstand. "You're really not doing too great, huh? How many of those tablets did you take yesterday?"
"Three," the teen whispered.
"Three?! I'm surprised you were awake for as long as you were!" Tony placed a hand on Dean's forehead and sighed when he felt the heat. "You're still burning up; your body knows it was too much." Tony started shifting to sit next to Dean, wanting to wrap an arm around his sick boy. "Seriously, Dean! That was so incredibly stupid! You could've–"
Sensing that the man was coming closer, Dean instinctively struggled to get away from his foster father as his eyes snapped open to better fend off the impending attack. There was a frenzy of blankets and pillows, and then he was falling. Heart seizing, Dean tried to grasp anything to stay upright, but moving his arm up caused a white-hot pain to shoot down his side. The agony only intensified as he felt himself hit the floor. Hard.
Fighting not to scream, the teen breathed deeply until the pain dissipated enough to sense his surroundings once more.
He'd fallen out of his own bed. Nice one.
Waiting for his heart to calm down, Dean slowly pulled himself up. Cautiously, he peered over the side of the bed, hoping to gage the man's reaction and make a break for it, if necessary.
Tony was frozen. His arms were extended, as if to try and help Dean stay on the bed. The man's mouth was open in shock, his eyes wide, his breath ragged and hard as he stared at the young boy who, delusional with fever and coming down off a high, mustered up the strength to avoid his touch.
Tony took a big breath and held it for a moment, before letting it out and dropping his arms. "Can I help you back up?" he asked, innocently enough.
Dean shook his head frantically, hurrying to pull himself off the floor. Managing to get his chest on the bed, the teen was just able to swing his legs up, as well, before gritting his teeth and rolling over onto his back. It wasn't easy, and he was sweating by the time he was done, but he did it.
"Great job, Dean. I know that couldn't have been easy." Tony was standing now, holding the glass of water. "Can you sit up for me? You really do need to drink some water."
Not wanting to upset the man any further, Dean exerted the last of his energy pushing himself up to lean against the headboard. Tony attempted to prop a pillow behind his back for comfort but stopped when the boy flinched and narrowed, nervous eyes froze him in place. Instead, the man passed over the glass of water, making sure Dean had a good grip before he let go.
"How ya feelin', bud?"
Dean fought the urge to throw up again as he sipped the water. "Like sunshine and rainbows. How do ya think I'm doin'?" he spat at the engineer. "I just love puking my guts out, don't you?"
"Hey, now." Tony's eyebrows knit together. "I get that you're not feeling great, but you only got yourself to blame. Can it with the attitude, mister."
Dean rolled his eyes and set the glass on the table. No need for his bed to get wet when fists started flying.
"Attitude? Dude, when I give you attitude, you'll fuckin' know it. I ain't pussying around with you here. Just buzz off, okay? I don't need you to take care of me," Dean sighed and braced himself for the incoming blow, knowing that apologizing would have just made things worse, but that rejecting the man probably hadn't helped any, either.
The anticipated strike never came, so Dean chanced a confused glance at his foster father.
Tony didn't even look ruffled at Dean's comment; he just let out his own tired sigh. "Okay, I'll go. I'm gonna clean up the mess, then I'll leave you to sleep for a while." It was then Dean noticed that he hadn't been puking into a bucket earlier, but straight onto the hardwood floor–and Tony's shoes.
"I–I'm so sorry, sir! S–sorry about the mess! So sorry! I'll clean it up! I will, sir–I promise! You shouldn't have to clean up after me! It was my fault!" Dean was desperately trying to sit up further, intent on appeasing the man, cheeks burning red with embarrassment on a face gone white with terror.
Tony held up a hand, and the fear-filled ramblings cut off abruptly. The father instantly wished he had thought through that action more carefully. "Don't worry about it. You aren't getting out of bed until you get more rest. And you're acting like I've never cleaned up puke before, Dean. Trust me, there isn't a person in this house whose puke I haven't cleaned up," Tony concluded.
"That especially extends to myself," the man added as an afterthought. "Now, lay down, close your eyes, and go to sleep. When you're feeling better, we'll talk about what just happened."
Dean was struggling to keep his eyes open, so, eager to let them slide shut and sink into oblivion, he nodded and buried himself in his blankets, listening as Tony quietly cleaned up his sick.
But as much his body longed to slip into a peaceful slumber, his mind was reeling. Why didn't Tony hurt him? Or at least threaten him with a beating tomorrow? Anything! This didn't make any sense! Coupled with the pain still emanating from his side, the mess in his head made it impossible to sleep.
"Tony?" he called out before the man left the room.
"Yeah, bud?"
"Did–did you end up taking the codeine?" Dean needed to know that Tony hadn't relapsed because of him. He couldn't ruin another family like that–not again.
Tony gave Dean a small smile. "No, I didn't. My sponsor held me back until Steve got home and took the bottle from me. I'm still sober and going strong, Dean."
The teen nodded in relief, comforted by the knowledge that his foster father was still sober, which relaxed him just enough to fall into a fitful sleep.