Oh boy. It's late, and I just wrote this thing in about an hour. LOL. So please forgive any mistakes! The headache idea is from the lovely Emerald-Water, who always has brilliant ideas. *hugs* Once I started thinking about it, the story just came to me all at once, and I had to write it, no matter how late. As a migraine sufferer myself, I know just how much pain and torture I'm putting Dean through in this chapter. And I really do feel bad about it, I DO. But, he's just too adorable. *eee*I think it may be one of my favourites of all these chapters. It has a bit of everything - some "C'mere", some shirt clutching, and as usual, sappiness. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: Of course, I own nothing.
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Dean watches as Sam wipes the silver blade clean and returns it to his pocket.
"Friggin shapeshifters," he says, and Sam nods in agreement, his dark hair lightly frosted with snowflakes.
It's been a long hunt. They knew it was a shapeshifter when they arrived, but tracking the damn thing down proved to be near impossible. But once they did find it, it made a pretty freaking bad mistake, and took on the appearance of their dad.
Now, Dean looks at the body of his father - again - lying face down in the snow. "Still can't believe it thought it could get us by pretending to be Dad," Dean says, his voice shaking just a little. He's kind of glad he can't see the face anymore, but hell, the broad, strong shoulders of his dad is enough.
"Guess it got kinda mixed up," Sam replies. He stands up from their duffel, holding a box of garbage bags. "Thought Dad was still alive. Anyway, guess we better cut this thing up and throw it somewhere."
Dean nearly gags at the thought. He can't do that to his father's body. He doesn't care if it's not his dad. It still looks like him.
Sam looks up at him. "You okay?"
Dean considers. There's a definite feeling of nausea sitting in his stomach, and there's a weird sort of pinching feeling between his eyes. And there's no way he can do this. He shakes his head, stepping back a little.
"Hey - it's fine. I'll do it," Sam says, taking a step forward and holding out his hand, like he's about to catch Dean.
Dean shakes his head again. "You shouldn't have to do it yourself."
Sam shrugs. "We shouldn't have to do this at all, Dean. But somebody's got to. And I'm not going to make you do it. I just won't look at the face."
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his palm on his forehead. This is all so frigging wrong. Why this? Why now?
"Dean?"
He opens his eyes again, looks at Sam. He looks sort of weirdly glowy against the snow. It hurts Dean's eyes. "Hmm?"
"Go wait in the car, okay?"
"No, it's not..."
"Dean. Come on." Sam grabs his arm, making him jump a little, and starts walking. "Just sit in the car, relax, I'll be done in just a few minutes."
"Done chopping up Dad?" There's a sour taste in his mouth now.
"It's not Dad, Dean," Sam says shortly, and Dean doesn't argue. Sam opens the door of the Impala, sits Dean down in the passenger seat. "Wait for me here, okay?"
"Ok." He closes his eyes, expecting to hear Sam's feet walk off, crunching in the snow, but there's nothing.
He cracks open one eye, Sam is leaning on the Impala's frame, staring at him. "What?" Dean asks.
"Nothing. I'll be back." Then Sam walks off.
Dean waits. The ache between his eyes is spreading, now his head hurts, but just on the right side. Like somebody whacked him one. He leans his head back on the seat, but that kind of makes it worse. He hears the chainsaw start up, shudders at the sound. Can't believe Sam can actually do that. One more thing he can do now that he couldn't do before. Chop up family members just by not looking at the face. The sour taste in his mouth suddenly gets a lot worse, and he shoves open the door of the Impala and gets sick in the snow.
He shivers, puts some snow in his mouth. Lets it melt, spits it out. The freezing cold hurts his head. God, the pain's even worse now. What the hell is happening to him? Must be a headache. But he's never had one this bad before. And it's never come on this fast.
"Dean?"
Dean jumps, looking up. "What?" His voice is rough.
"Why are you kneeling in the snow?" Sam asks, and Dean thinks Sam might be just a little bit stupid.
"Why do you think? Cause it's fun? Got sick, Sam." He holds out his hand, and Sam's hand is there in a split second, as though he's been expecting it.
Sam hauls him up. "How come you're sick? Is it... cause of that stupid monster?"
Dean shakes his head, not wanting to talk about it. Anything. Especially that frigging shapeshifter. "No. No, I dunno. Can we go? Please?"
"Yeah - yeah," Sam replies, sounding surprised. He helps Dean back into the car, and closes the door. Dean winces at the sound, putting a hand to his head. Sam gets in the driver's seat a minute later, looking a bit worried. "You okay?" he asks again. "What's wrong?"
"Head hurts," Dean replies, pressing his palm between his eyes again. It doesn't really help, but he feels like he needs to do something.
"Headache?" Sam asks sympathetically, and Dean nods slightly. "So you did know why you were sick. Well, go to sleep. I just gotta bury the body somewhere, then we can go back to the motel."
Dean sucks in his breath sharply. He forgot about the dumb body. Even longer to wait. Dammit. Nevertheless, he drifts off after a few minutes of the Impala's familiar motion.
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Pain. Head-splitting, stomach-churning, ear-bleeding pain. He cracks one eye open. The car's not moving. He's a bit disoriented at first - there's no Sam in the driver's seat, and the world outside the car is a strange pinky-yellow. It's still snowing. He sits up, and nearly screams. His head hurts a thousand - a billion - times worse than it did before. He moans, pressing hard on his forehead, which kind of only makes it worse.
He fumbles with the car door handle, desperate to find Sam. Sam has headaches all the time, Sam can tell me what to do, Sam'll make it better. That's all he can think of as he stumbles out of the car, eyes squeezed shut.
Outside it's freezing, like twenty-below freezing, and he breathes in heavy pants, big clouds of white leaving his mouth and disappearing into the frozen air. "Sammy?" He whispers. The world is all still, except for the falling snow. The Impala's headlights are the only light, and they're what's making the word seem pink and yellow. Looking at them sears his head with pain. "Sammy?" He tries again, but even talking hurts.
He concentrates, trying to figure out where Sam can be. Must be still burying the body. Where would he go? Away from the road. He can see the road from here, it's pretty close. He turns his head, still gripped in his hands, toward the other side of the Impala. There's Sam, not too far away, throwing shovelfuls of snow over his shoulder.
Dean heads over, stumbling a little in the deep snow, concentrating on getting to Sam. A few moments later, he's almost hit with a shovelful of snow as Sam throws it extra far. Frigging long arms. "Sammy?" he whispers again. Sam doesn't hear him, keeps going. God, is he deaf? He reaches out, touches Sam's shoulder, and the next thing he knows he's flat on the ground, on his back, the snow falling down onto his face.
"Dean? Dean what the hell! What were you thinking? How about saying something first?" Sam sounds angry, but all Dean can do is clutch his head and growl out his pain. "Dean?" Sam sounds worried now.
Damn right you should be worried! Dean thinks angrily, but there's no strength to get the words out of his mouth.
Sam's kneeling beside him now, one warm hand gripping his arm, the other gently pulling his left hand away from his head. "I'm sorry, Dean - are you okay? God, I'm so sorry. I just didn't hear you coming. Come on, let's get you up." He all but lifts Dean into a sitting position.
Dean puts his hands down, the freezing snow soaking into his clothes faster than he can get up. "Sammy?"
"Yeah?" Sam still sounds worried.
"I don't feel good." He squeezes his eyes shut, reaches out for Sam.
"I know, Dean. C'mere." Sam grasps his hands, pulls him up to a standing position, but Dean stumbles, a wave of nausea washing over him. He leans over and gets sick again, this time though, Sam holds him up with one hand and rubs his back with the other. When he's done, Sam lifts his chin and looks at him closely.
Dean feels too sick to complain, and lets Sam fuss as he looks carefully into Dean's eyes, then touches a palm to his forehead, checking for fever. "You're kinda hot," Sam says.
"More than kinda," Dean can't resist saying, even with the brain-melting pain.
Sam huffs a laugh, then sits him down on the duffel bag. "Wait for me a sec, okay? I just gotta fill this in."
Dean waits, head resting in his hands, swallowing hard. He starts to feel sick again, and goes to put his head between his knees when suddenly Sam's hand is there, stopping him. "Don't do that, Dean. You gotta keep your head up."
For a second Dean thinks Sam's giving him some sort of self-confidence lesson, but then Sam keeps going. "If you put your head down, it just hurts worse. You gotta keep it up, and don't move it too much, okay? If you want to lean it on something, bring your hands to your head. Not the other way around. Got it?"
"'Kay." Dean does as Sam says, and he's right. It doesn't hurt as bad. Knew I kept Sammy around for a reason, he thinks mildly, and lets his eyes close again.
Five minutes later, Sam's done, and he's lifting Dean up again. "Come on man. Back to the car. Then we can get you into bed and you can get some real rest."
Dean holds on tight to Sam's jacket as they walk, desperately fighting to not get sick and not fall over. His head feels like it's being crushed between two rocks, and it's getting pretty frigging old.
A few minutes later, he's back in the car again, and Sam's giving him the "keep your head up" speech again, and then they're driving again. He manages to drift a little.
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Sam helps him take off his jacket, and then lets Dean lay down.
Dean shivers, even though waves of sick heat are rolling over him. He shifts, trying to keep his head still, and lays on his back. His head pounds steadily. He shifts to his side, whimpering a little. Still pounding. "Sammy?"
"Yeah? I'm right here, Dean." Sam sits on the bed next to him, and Dean swallows hard as the mattress shifts.
"Head still hurts Sammy - I can't... please..." He knows he sounds pathetic, knows he's almost pleading, but he really, really needs some relief right now, cause his head can't take much more of this. He thought it'd be better once he got into bed, but it's almost worse.
"Okay Dean. Listen, alright? Roll onto your stomach." Sam's hand finds its place on Dean's shoulder as he rolls over slowly. "That's it. Now you just gotta find which way to turn your head, which way hurts less."
Dean turns his head to the left - towards Sam - and it feels a lot better. The pillow is wonderfully cool against his cheek. He lays still, drained.
"Better?" Sam asks, rubbing his back a little.
Dean doesn't even complain, he's so tired. Plus it feels kind of nice. You did not just think that, Dean thinks to himself, then lets it go. "Yeah. Thanks, S'mmy." He's so exhausted.
"Good," Sam says, but he doesn't leave.
Dean drifts off into wonderful, dark, painless sleep.
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Good? Bad? Ugly? Do tell. :)
Catch you on the flipside.
~Deanandhisimpala
