A few days after the hunt, I get a cold. When I wake up and have a hard time breathing, I think that it's something supernatural. It takes me a full ten minutes of panic to realize that I just have a stuffy nose. When I notice that, I calm down a lot and realize that there's almost nothing wrong with me.
My muscles are oddly sore when I get out of my bed. I just assume that it's because I went on a mile run yesterday, even though I've done a lot more and gotten less crap from it. I put on my usual tank top and jeans and head out of my room.
Dean and Sam are sitting at the table, chewing on leftover burritos from last night while looking through some of the books. "Morning, guys," I say as I walk in. My voice is surprisingly congested, most likely from the fact that I can barely breathe through my nose.
"It's not exactly morning, Skylar. It's 11:30," Dean points out, not looking at me. I look at the clock, and he's right. Wow, I can't believe that. "What time did you go to bed last night?" he asks me.
"10, I think," I say, although I'm not really sure. I went to bed pretty early last night, and it could have been earlier than ten. I kind of forget.
Dean looks over at me, concerned. He gets up and puts the back of his hand against my forehead. I shiver, because it's so cold. Then I notice that everything is cold. "You're going back to bed," he decides. I try to protest. "Skylar, you're sick. Go back to bed," Dean tells me, firm on his decision.
"I don't even feel that bad!" I protest, and then start coughing, which doesn't prove my point at all. Dean just gives me a look, and I know that he's not going to change his mind-not unless I do something. "Sam, help me out here," I beg him.
For a second, I think that Sam's considering helping me out, but I'm disappointed. "Skylar, you're sick. You should listen to Dean," he tells me.
I groan in protest. The last thing I want to do is sit around all day and do nothing. I hate feeling useless. "Can't I help you guys with whatever you're researching?" I half-beg.
Dean doesn't look like he's willing to let me, but Sam shoots him a look, which I really appreciate. After about thirty seconds of glaring at each other, Dean gives in, at least a little bit. "Okay, fine. But if you get any worse, you're going to bed," he says firmly. I suppose that's a fair deal, so I don't object.
I sit down at an empty chair, and start going through books. After about two seconds, I realize that I'm freezing cold, and I get chills. Dean comes behind me and wraps a blanket around me about thirty seconds later. "Thanks, Dean," I tell him, sincere. The blanket doesn't change everything, but it definitely helps significantly.
Dean disappears for about an hour when I'm doing research, without even saying goodbye or telling us where he's going. When he comes back, he has nearly twenty cans of chicken noodle soup, a huge box of saltines, three six packs of seven up, and practically an entire store full of cold medicine. I don't say anything, but I'm a little concerned. Who in hell needs that much cold medicine? Not me, not anyone.
Dean gives me a big bag full of those Halls throat lozenges-the cherry flavored ones. I mean it's not the best thing-because they taste like cough syrup, but I take them, anyway. "I'm sorry they didn't have the watermelon flavor. This was the best I could get," Dean says, apologetically.
"Thanks," I say. It's kind of surprising that he just knows that the watermelon ones taste the best, and it's a little bit endearing that he apologizes for not being able to get them.
"I basically got everything at the pharmacy I could think of. I don't want you to stay sick," he tells me, explaining all the medicine.
"Thanks. I really appreciate it," I tell him, kind of half-minded. I'm digging through this book, and it's taking me forever to find a little bit of information. I can't concentrate as much as I normally do, because I've got this pounding head ache that's driving me insane. "Do you have any advil? My head's killing me." Dean hands me a giant bottle of the medicine, and gets me a glass of water to take the pills with. I take three, because that's how bad my head ache is.
About fifteen minutes after Dean comes back, he makes me chicken noodle soup. I'm forced to put the book away, and eat the soup with the saltines. I'm not at all hungry, but Dean insists. He claims that it's the only way that I'll get better. Personally, I think it's a load of shit, but I don't protest as far as I could. I know that Dean's just trying to look out for me, and I appreciate it.
I go to bed early, on Dean's insistence. The entire day, he'd been forcing me to drink a gallon of seven up, and I had to take at least five different types of cold medicine. I go on my computer for at least an hour before Dean comes in my room and tells me that I really need to sleep.
I don't sleep well that night, mostly because I can barely breathe through my nose, and that's a pain in the ass. I use almost an entire tissue box throughout the night, and I wake up the next morning surprised that I'm actually waking up. Because waking up implies that I actually went to sleep, and that surprises me.
I feel ten times worse this morning than I did the day before. All my muscles are sore, my lungs feel like they're full of some thick syrup or something, my headache is pounding even worse than the day before, and I can barely breathe. Overall, I just feel like hell.
Dean comes in about ten minutes after I wake up. "Hey, Skylar. How're you feeling?" he asks when he realizes that I'm awake.
"Hell might be a nice alternative," I tell him, although it comes out slightly garbled.
"So not good," Dean reasons, only stating the obvious. He comes over and sits down on my bed and puts a hand to my forehead. "Yeah, you're worse than yesterday," he decides. He tells me that he'll be back in a few minutes, and then leaves.
He comes back with a bowl of chicken noodle soup, a bottle of seven up, and some medicine, all on one of those plastic lap desks. 'Thanks, dean' is what I meant to say. Instead, I say, "Thanks, Dad," and I try to cover up my mistake by not looking like I said anything wrong, just hoping he doesn't notice.
Dean looks more puzzled than anything else, and is debating whether or not I actually said that. It takes him a long time-a lot longer than I expected-to bring it up. "Did you just call me Dad?" he asks, not completely sure.
"I called you by your name. My nose is just so stuffy that you didn't hear me right," I say, being careful not to say 'Dean' because it would ruin everything and disprove what I said.
Dean doesn't mention it, and starts heading out the door. He's gone for a full second before he comes back to the doorway and says, "You know, if you did call me 'dad,' I wouldn't be mad. Honestly, if you want to call me that, I'd like it. If not, that's okay, too. Think about it if you want."
I do think about that, a lot. While I'm eating my soup, I think about it. While I'm on tumblr, reflagging Doctor Who posts, I think about it. When Dean comes back in each hour to check on me, I think about it. I avoid using names or pronouns or basically calling him anything.
When I go to sleep that night, all I can think about is that word. 'Dad.' Why would you call someone your father? What really is a father? He's someone who who loves you unconditionally, no matter what kind of stupid shit you do. A father is someone who will always have your best interests at heart, even if you don't realize it at first. He's someone who's proud of you for your accomplishments, no matter how big or small.
Dads are loving, and caring, and sometimes a little too strict. They take care of you when you're sick, and buy all the medicine they can think of to make you feel better. Sometimes they can be a little mean, but they're always trying to look after you.
Then it hits me, I don't know that stuff because of my biological father. The parents I grew up with didn't care about me enough to do any of those things, or to teach me that parents were supposed to do those things. Books taught me that, and that's not right. Based on all that criteria, Dean is my dad. There's no denying that, and I decide that I'm not going to. But I'm still not sure if I'm going to call him dad, not just yet. I've been living with the Winchesters for less than six months at this point. Yet, somehow, I feel like I know Dean Winchester more than I knew my own biological parents.