missbaylisss

Summary:
Coda to episode 02x14 Born Under a Bad Sign. Dean gets shot off a dock into Lake Superior and then punched in the face a bunch of times.

Anytime



He shouldn’t be driving.

His vision is hazy at best. Head thumping along with the beat of his heart. His left arm is numb and on fire at the same time and he’s pretty sure those two things are mutually exclusive.

Sam lets out a breath in the passenger seat. They’d just been laughing at Dean's quip about Meg being inside Sam for a whole week, but the laughter petered out quickly.

Dean swallows against a wave of nausea. He drank too much whiskey at the bar. There’s a small orange bottle of pills digging into his right thigh through his pocket and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about them since they left Bobby’s.

His head is pounding.

“Dean.”

His hand slips off the wheel. He brings it back up but the movement is too sluggish. Reaction time elongating.

“Hey, are you alright?” Sam asks, turning concerned eyes on him and damn, did Dean miss those.

Dean smirks, “Could use a break,” his words sound fuzzy in his own head and Sam sits up straighter.

“Pull over up here.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees and adds nothing else to the conversation, because his thoughts are distant right now and he can’t seem to reach them. Not a single one. So he pulls over.

“How’s your head?” Sam’s asking as he puts her in park.

“It’s… not great,” he manages, flings his door open and hurls on the gravel shoulder.

Sam is in front of him and pushing him back across the bench seat. Dean arches at the pain in his shoulder. It feels like he got shot.

“Dude, I messed you up bad,” Sam sounds sad and the car starts again.

Dean shakes his head, it’s a mistake.

“Wasn’t you.”

Dean coughs and leans towards the window, resting his head on the cool glass.

Then he remembers the pills.

“Sam.”

Those eyes are watching him again.

“Yeah, Dean? Need something?”

He’s got his left arm tucked in tight to his body, trying not to move, but he needs the pills in his pocket.

“Jo gave me something,” his words are slurring like he’s drunk and maybe he did drink too much whisky back at the bar. He manages to free the pill bottle from his jeans but he can’t get the lid off. “Urgh, my head,” he moans.

Sam takes the wheel with his knees and gets the top off easily.

Dean swallows two or three, he doesn’t count.

“We need to find somewhere to hole up,” Sam says, “You need to lie down.”

Dean nods because yeah, that’s a good idea. He coughs again.

“Why are you coughing like that?” Sam asks and Dean shrugs. He doesn’t know but he feels hot all over, and sick. And he’s going to be sick again.

“Sam,” Dean closes his eyes and he feels the car pull off the highway.

“Just hang on. There’s a town up here.”

He breathes through it, willing his stomach to settle but his head hurts too much. It’s too much.

He doesn’t need to say anything because Sam’s big eyes have been watching him and the car pulls over. Dean can barely get the door open so ends up vomiting on his pant leg and the car door as well as the road.

“God, Dean… you’re okay. I got you, man.”

He’s back in the car with a blanket bunched up under his head, and time is missing.

It’s got to be concussion.

“Yeah, I know. I hit you hard.”

Wasn’t you.

“It wasn’t you.”

The next thing Dean is aware of is a mattress underneath him. He feels vaguely disconnected from his body.

Must have taken three.

“Hey, you okay, man?” Sam’s asking from beside him somewhere. He feels a pull against the skin in his shoulder and opens his eyes to look.

Sam’s stitching the bullet wound closed.

Dean just blinks at him.

“How’s your head?”

Dean closes his eyes again and the next time he opens them there’s a bag full of ice over his shoulder and a washcloth on his forehead.

“Sam?” He asks and coughs again.

His chest is sore and he’s not sure why.

There’s some shuffling noises and Sam enters his field of vision, looking dazed and sleepy.

“I’m here, man. You okay?”

Dean coughs again. He’s covered in cold sweat.

“What’s wrong with me?” he croaks.

“You’ve got concussion and you took a bullet to the shoulder.”

When Dean wakes up again his head feels clearer but he knows something else is wrong. Something deep in the bases of his lungs and he can’t stop coughing.

“You went into the lake after I shot you.”

“Wasn’t you.”

“Did Jo get you out of the water?”

“I got up to the ramp and passed out,” Dean manages before he’s coughing again.

“How did she find you?”

“Face down.”

“Did you breathe in the water?”

Dean clutches his chest, it’s worse than his shoulder right now and his shoulder’s pretty bad.

“Probably,” he gasps.

Sam goes out to break into a pharmacy. Dean’s face has been plastered all over the news. He can’t rock up at a GPs office like this. He’s alternating between too hot and too cold and he can’t remember if he can have more pills or if he’s already had enough. So he just lies there and sweats and waits for Sam.

They leave that motel after three disjointed and hazy days. Dean’s never coughed so much in all his life. In fact he’s coughing now and Sam is still looking at him with those doe eyes and Dean knows he’d rather die than live without him.

“I’d rather die.”

“You doing okay, man?”

“I’m good, Sammy.”

“Do you think those antibiotics are working?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t hurt so bad.”

He’s not lying. The feeling that he’s going to suffocate has gone and now he’s just tired. The aftermath of a brain belting.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says and he’s gripping the wheel with fierce intensity, knuckles white.

Dean coughs again, “Wasn’t you, Sam.”

The guy that washed the vomit off the car, changed him into clean clothes, carried him into the motel and stitched his shoulder back together, that broke into a pharmacy to steal medicine and a sling for his broken wing, that checked his pupils every hour on the hour, that encouraged him to eat and drink, and wiped down his fevered brow for three miserable days. That was Sam. That was his brother. And he’d die for him. Every time. Anytime.



End.

Summary:
Coda to 01x10 Asylum. It was 2005 at the Roosevelt asylum when Sam shot Dean in the chest, point blank, with a shotgun shell full of rock salt.

Fallout
It was 2005 at the Roosevelt asylum when Sam shot Dean in the chest, point blank, with a shotgun shell full of rock salt. Dean muscled through the case, as he usually did, using sheer power of will and the desperate need to get his Sammy back.

"Do we need to talk about this?" Sammy had asked as they both rounded their sides of the impala.

"I just want to get some sleep."

It was out of character at the time, Sam thought. For Dean to mention he was tired. But he figured he was just pissed more than anything and didn't want to have the conversation Sam knew they needed to.

Dean dragged his hand across his chest and winced. Sam remained quiet, swallowing the salty taste of guilt. Then the car started and they headed off towards the motel.

They didn't talk during the ride back, but Sam stole occasional glances at his brother. He looked tired, beyond tired. He looked hurt. In more ways than one.

Dean dragged his duffle into the bathroom with him and shut the door. And that was all Sam saw of him for the next half hour.





Dean dumped his bag on the floor and winced. He stood in front of the mirror and peeled his jacket off slowly. It took him 5 whole minutes to get all three layers off and finally assess the damage. He had rings of bruises across his chest. Some had even broken through, tiny bits of rock salt imbedded in his skin. He did his best to pick those bits out and cranked the shower up.

The water did not feel good. The pressure was too much on the chest so he had to put his back to the spray. Little trickles of blood ran down his body into the drain. He was sure that other than the superficial damage, his ribs were bruised underneath.

He closed his eyes and sighed. It made him cough and the pain had him doubling over, clutching at the wall.

He knew what Sam had said wasn't real. He was under the influence of the doctor. But on some level at least, it was true. Sam believed it. No matter how deep down it was, it was there. And it didn't make Dean angry. He wasn't angry at all. He was heartbroken.

Dean cleaned his wounds, disinfected them and put dressings on the two deepest ones. There was an ache in his bones and his arms felt heavy. He rubbed ointment over his chest and stopped to lean on the vanity, taking a few shallow breaths. He felt a cough brewing but forced it down. He forced it all down.





Sam watched Dean emerge stiffly from the bathroom, wearing his black zip up hoodie. It was open far enough to tell he didn’t have a shirt on underneath.

“Hey, do you want me to take a look at your chest?” Sam said, as a peace offering.

“I took care of it,” Dean said harshly, his voice dry and grating.

“Dean… I’m sorry.”

“Can we not right now?” Dean crossed the room and closed the curtain, blocking out the daylight, “I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Sam said, jaw working as he sat on the end of his bed.

Dean didn’t say anything else. He just climbed into bed and curled on his side, facing away from Sam.

Sam wasn’t tired. He waited till he heard Dean’s soft snores, and saw the tension release from his shoulders, then he decided he’d go out, check out the library, see a movie, kill some time, and wait for Dean to sleep and cool off from the events of the night.

He wrote a brief note and slipped out quietly.





When Dean woke up a few hours later, the room was dark and Sam was gone. Probably sick of me bossing him around, Dean thought bitterly. He coughed suddenly, unable to suppress the power behind it.

“God,” he winced, eyes pressed shut.

He felt awful, and it was more than just the pain in his chest. He groaned inwardly, as he accepted the bitter truth that he was indeed sick on top of everything else. He felt chilled, and nauseous. A shiver ran through him. Dean couldn’t remember feeling this bad for a long time. His mind was swimming, stomach churning, heart aching.





When Sam got back he’d brought dinner as a peace offering. A cheeseburger with extra bacon for Dean. It was barely 4 o’clock in the afternoon but he knew his brother would be hungry after sleeping the day away.

He unlocked the door and didn’t see Dean in his bed. The bathroom door was ajar and the light was on.

“Dean?”

He heard a weak cough.

“You okay?”

More coughing followed and no response came. Sam sat the food on the table and nudged the bathroom door open. Dean was sitting on the bathroom floor, white as a sheet, and sweating.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean coughed out.

Sam leaned against the doorframe.

“Hey yourself.”

“Have a seat, join the party.”

Sam grimaced, “What’s wrong, man?”

Dean waved a hand and opened his mouth, “I’m –“

“No, you’re not fine.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at him, swallowing thickly.

Sam sighed as Dean leaned over the toilet and started retching.

Sam went back to the kitchen, putting the bag of food in the mini fridge, and cracking a window.

When he went back in Dean was resting back against the wall, eyes closed, sniffling.

Sam held out a length of toilet paper to him, “Hey.”

Dean opened his eyes and reached for it. His movements were sluggish and uncoordinated. He blew his nose, coughing afterwards.

“You ready to go back to bed?”

Dean balled the paper up in his hand, and held his other out to his brother. Sam grabbed Dean’s elbow and hoisted him up.

“This came on quickly,” Sam commented, guiding Dean through to his bed.

“I guess I’m a bit run down.”

Sam frowned, knowing most of that was his fault, and set Dean down. Dean collapsed back on his bed, breath sawing in and out, even whiter than he was before.

Sam sat next to him, “Dean… let me see your chest.”

Dean groaned, eyes closed, “Fine.”

He didn’t move but Sam took his window and tugged the zipper down on Dean’s hoodie. He opened it fully, pushing it aside so he could see the whole damage.

“Oh my god…”

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

“Dean…”

“I’ve had worse, Sam.”

Dean pushed Sam’s hand away and zipped his hoodie back up, shuddering.

“Hang tight. I’ll get you something,” Sam grabbed the first aid kit as Dean rolled onto his side with a violent coughing fit.

When he approached Dean with the pills, he was grabbing at his chest, eyes closed, swallowing convulsively like he wanted to puke again.

“Good timing, huh?” Sam attempted a joke.

Dean cracked one eye open, “Oh, the best.”

“Here, take the strong painkillers. We got nowhere to be right now. And I’ll go get you some ice for that.”

Dean struggled up onto an elbow and dry swallowed the pills. He sniffed thickly, “Thanks… we, uh, got any tissues?”

“Yeah,” Sam grabbed the box from the bathroom and set it next to his brother.

“Heh’SCTHSKUEWw! Huhhh’PSCHHTTuhh! Son of a…”

“Bless you,” Sam winced in sympathy, “Just keep those pills down and you should be good in a half hour.”

“Lucky me,” Dean moaned, slugglishly pulling at the tissue box, while trying to remain as still as physically possible. “Heh’CHXXTTuh! Gahh…”

Sam sighed, staring down at his injured, sick, and sad brother. He pulled the bedding off his bed and bundled it over Dean.

“What are you doing?” Dean sniffled, eyes watering.

“Making you comfortable.”

Sam tucked a pillow under Dean’s arm, gently pushing it towards his chest, “It’ll help when you cough or sneeze.”

Dean watched Sam with assessing eyes while he fussed, “You don’t have to do all this.”

“Yes,” Sam snapped, “Yes… I do. And I want to. So just, shut up and let me help you, okay? I owe you that much.”

Dean looked confused but also too tired to complain, so he just settled down and closed his eyes again, knuckles pressed up under his nose.

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sam smiled, “Anytime… anytime.”



End.