ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 06:26 pm
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 06:26 pm
Entry tags:
Not the Demons You're Looking For (17/24)
Part 16
Part 17
Fever or no, Dean was soaking wet and still shivering, and Sam found it more expedient to strip him down and put him in the shower until his lips weren't blue anymore, ignoring his feeble protests to the effect that he was fine, that he didn't need help, and that he certainly didn't need help taking a shower, and had Sam forgotten everything he'd ever learned about personal space while he was at Stanford? Sam rolled his eyes but let him be, parked himself by the door, wishing that sitting in wet jeans didn't chafe quite so much. He heard the water shut off, and a muffled thump and a curse, followed by harsh, barking coughs.
“Dean?” There was no answer. “I'm coming back in.”
He shoved the door open, found Dean sitting on the edge of the tub, a towel tucked around his hips, one hand braced against the tiled wall, the other pressed to his sternum as he coughed, pain etched on his features.
“Jesus, you sound terrible.” Dean made a noncommittal sound, accepted the glass of water Sam handed to him, made a face and motioned for the bottle of pills on the sink. Sam handed them over, pursing his lips. “I'm amazed you can still walk. Come on, let's get you up,” Sam gripped his elbow, praying that Dean was too far gone to put up much of a fight, and found himself even more worried when that turned out to be the case. He did mutter something about not needing to be put to bed, but Sam ignored that as well, rummaging in the duffel bags for something warm, to little avail. They were definitely overdue for laundry. There was a timid knock at the open door, and he found Andy waiting, still looking as though he was expecting to be punched at any moment.
“Uh... I have an extra pair of pajamas.” He held out a bundle at arm's length. “They're clean, and, uh, flannel. I thought, y'know, what with you having been in the rain... uh... I brought an extra blanket, too.”
“Thanks.” Sam took the bundle from him, gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I got this, Andy.”
“Okay. Yeah, sure. Look, I'm sorry, but it didn't look like he was going to...”
“It's fine,” Sam interrupted. “Don't worry about it. He'll be pissed, but it'll blow over. It's not like you made him do anything he didn't secretly want to do anyway. You just gave him an out.”
Andy gave him a dubious look, but nodded. “Uh... you want me to make up the sofa?”
“If it'll give you something to do.”
“Right.” He cast about with his eyes. “There's a washer-dryer, if you want to dry your clothes. You're, uh, kind of soaked.”
“Yeah, thanks. I'll do that.”
“I'll uh... yeah. I'll just go.”
With Andy gone on his self-imposed mission, Sam was able to turn his attention back to Dean, who had listed to the side again and was leaning his head and shoulder against the headboard. He turned glassy eyes on Sam, couldn't quite manage to speak above a rasp.
“Fladdel?”
“At least they're warm.”
“HHEISH!”
Dean batted his hands away again, and it took all of Sam's patience not to shake him or snap at him. As obnoxious as he was ordinarily, Dean was ten times worse when he was sick. God forbid a Winchester ever admit weakness unless he was bleeding out. “Stop fussig. I cad dress byself. Dot three years old.” He fumbled with the buttons on the pajama top, finally gave up and let Sam help him, twisted away halfway through the process to sneeze against the back of his wrist. “HAISHH! ISHOO!”
“Gesundheit. Those pills helping any?”
Dean shook his head. “Dot really.”
He let Sam shove him back onto the bed, didn't say a word when Sam wrapped his twisted ankle in an elastic bandage to keep the swelling down, kept his eyes closed, braced on his hands, head propped against the headboard. His expression turned mutinous, however, when Sam produced a thermometer and waggled it meaningfully. “Cobe od.”
“Humour me,” Sam said firmly. “I know you have a fever, I just need to see how high it is after that shower. Open up. I'm not kidding, Dean. Don't make me get Andy to force you, because I will do it, even if it gives the poor kid a heart attack.” With a resigned if exasperated look Dean let him slide the thermometer under his tongue, waited impatiently until it beeped. Sam took it back, checked the digital readout. “102. I suppose it could be worse, but that's way too high for just a cold. Your sinuses hurt?” Dean just glared, glassy-eyed. “I'll take that as a yes. If you're not better by tomorrow we're getting you to a clinic, getting you some antibiotics.”
“At leasdt chage oudt of your clothes, Sab. You're sdtill soakig wet. Doh use both of us gettig sigk.”
Sam smiled, rolled his eyes, did as he was told. “Get comfortable. I'm going to go do some laundry, since Andy offered.” When Dean didn't move he took him firmly by an arm, settled him further down on the bed. “It'll go better if you sleep it off. Just... don't fight me on this. I need you back on your feet, okay? I can't do all of this on my own, and you're no use when you're too sick to sit up.” It was a cheap trick, but Sam was accustomed to playing the little-brother card more often than he liked just so Dean would take care of himself.
“Dabbed straight,” Dean muttered, burrowing under the covers and curling up on his side. “Gotta w-watch your b-bagk, Sab... Hih... ISHOO! Freagkig debods everywhere...” he was having a hard time keeping his eyes focussed, and suddenly Sam let out a surprised huff of laughter as he finally put two and two together.
“Oh my God, you're high. How many of those pills did you take, dude?”
Dean just rolled his eyes, winced, pulled the covers over his face. “Shud up.” Sam couldn't see his face, but heard another sharp intake of breath. “HEPTSHUH! Huh... huh-EKSH-uh!”
“All right. Get some sleep. I'll be back soon, okay?”
There was no answer as Dean started to cough again, and Sam patted his leg before taking an armful of laundry down the stairs. Andy directed him to a room just past the kitchen where he found the aforementioned washer-dryer. It felt like untold luxury to operate machines that didn't require quarters, not to have to wait his turn in line, not have to put up with pushy women who insisted he was taking too long with the dryer, not to have to feed more coins into a dryer that only half-worked. He scowled at the machines. God, sometimes his life sucked. He left the machines to run, and made his way back into the kitchen, thinking he'd see if there was a kettle and tea bags. He didn't think he could take any more coffee, but a hot drink would be welcome just about now.
“Looking for something?”
Sam started slightly. “Uh, yeah. Got any tea?”
Andy shook his head. “Sorry, don't really drink the stuff. There's soup. Canned, but it's soup. Cupboard on your left.”
Sam shrugged, pulled out the can of soup, rummaged for a can opener. “Thanks. You want some? I don't know about you, but I'm cold.”
“Well, I wasn't the one out in the rain, but sure. Uh... how's Dean?” Andy scuffed at the floor with the toe of his shoe.
“Sick as a dog,” Sam poured water into a pot, switched on the stove. “I'm hoping he'll be able to sleep off the worst of it, but I think he's going to need antibiotics, which is just great because we've got no insurance and we're not exactly swimming in cash right now. Sorry,” he rubbed at his forehead, realizing he was unloading on Andy, who certainly hadn't asked for it. “I'm just a little stressed.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Sam bit back a sigh, stirred the soup with a whisk he found in a drawer. “I'm going to have to go back to Lesley's later, help her make the house safe. They're not safe by themselves.”
“Except you don't want to leave your brother alone,” Andy guessed. “You want me to stay with him? Keep an eye on him?”
“Would you mind? I wouldn't ask, except he's got a fever, and I need to make sure he doesn't get any worse.”
Andy rolled his eyes. “Look, man, you guys totally saved my bacon before. Tracy would be dead, and I'd be trying to figure out how to get away from my psychopathic evil twin and probably framed for multiple homicides. I owe you. I owe you a lot. Besides, I like your brother when he's not thinking about using me as a punching bag.”
“He's got a thing about control,” Sam said mildly.
“Noticed that. I can't really blame him. I mean... I don't really like making people do things they don't want to do, unless it's harmless. Concert tickets and free parking is one thing, but... the things I could do if I went all Dark Side?” Andy shuddered, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Weber made people kill themselves, made them do it and say that it was all right while they did it. It makes me sick, knowing I've got that in me.”
Suddenly Sam wasn't all that hungry anymore. “I know what you mean.”
“I mean, did you see the look on Lesley's face? The way she looked at me? She was terrified.”
“I think that might have had more to do with the fact that a demon showed up on her lawn, Andy.”
Andy let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, but that wasn't all of it. You're going to burn that,” he pointed to the soup as it started to boil over, and with a curse Sam quickly pulled the pot off the burner. “You had the stove on too high.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Looks like Dean was right about your cooking.”
“Hey, I made breakfast,” Sam smiled ruefully.
“So... how do you deal with it?”
“With what, specifically?” Sam found a ladle, pulled bowls out of the cupboard, began pouring out the soup. “In case you haven't noticed, our lives are kind of filled with all sorts of supernatural crap that needs dealing with.” He sounded bitter, he knew, couldn't quite bring himself to care.
“I meant your, uh, gift.”
Sam scrubbed at his face with one hand. “Truthfully, I don't. I know this is the part where I'm supposed to say something reassuring about things getting better, but I've got nothing. Dean's right about one thing: it's getting worse, it's getting out of hand, and I don't know what to do about it. I've got no control over it at all. So... mostly, I'm not dealing with it.” He gave Andy a rueful look. “Probably not what you were hoping to hear, huh?”
Andy shook his head. “Not really, but it's better than having you lie to me. Look, I know you don't want to leave, but I don't know the first thing about keeping Lesley safe, and I think I'm about the last person she wants to see right now anyway. You're the only guy here who knows what he's doing and is still upright. I'll keep an eye on Dean, and I have your cell number.”
Sam hesitated, glanced at the ceiling as though somehow he could see through it straight to where Dean was (hopefully) sleeping. Andy was right, though. “I appreciate it, Andy. Call me if he gets worse?”
“Sure. Eat your soup, I'll bring this to him. If I'm lucky, he'll be too out of it to kick my ass.”
“He couldn't even if he really wanted to, you know.”
“I know, but when he's feeling better I'll offer him a free swing,” Andry grinned sheepishly.
“He won't take it.”
“That's what I'm counting on.”
Part 18
Part 17
Fever or no, Dean was soaking wet and still shivering, and Sam found it more expedient to strip him down and put him in the shower until his lips weren't blue anymore, ignoring his feeble protests to the effect that he was fine, that he didn't need help, and that he certainly didn't need help taking a shower, and had Sam forgotten everything he'd ever learned about personal space while he was at Stanford? Sam rolled his eyes but let him be, parked himself by the door, wishing that sitting in wet jeans didn't chafe quite so much. He heard the water shut off, and a muffled thump and a curse, followed by harsh, barking coughs.
“Dean?” There was no answer. “I'm coming back in.”
He shoved the door open, found Dean sitting on the edge of the tub, a towel tucked around his hips, one hand braced against the tiled wall, the other pressed to his sternum as he coughed, pain etched on his features.
“Jesus, you sound terrible.” Dean made a noncommittal sound, accepted the glass of water Sam handed to him, made a face and motioned for the bottle of pills on the sink. Sam handed them over, pursing his lips. “I'm amazed you can still walk. Come on, let's get you up,” Sam gripped his elbow, praying that Dean was too far gone to put up much of a fight, and found himself even more worried when that turned out to be the case. He did mutter something about not needing to be put to bed, but Sam ignored that as well, rummaging in the duffel bags for something warm, to little avail. They were definitely overdue for laundry. There was a timid knock at the open door, and he found Andy waiting, still looking as though he was expecting to be punched at any moment.
“Uh... I have an extra pair of pajamas.” He held out a bundle at arm's length. “They're clean, and, uh, flannel. I thought, y'know, what with you having been in the rain... uh... I brought an extra blanket, too.”
“Thanks.” Sam took the bundle from him, gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I got this, Andy.”
“Okay. Yeah, sure. Look, I'm sorry, but it didn't look like he was going to...”
“It's fine,” Sam interrupted. “Don't worry about it. He'll be pissed, but it'll blow over. It's not like you made him do anything he didn't secretly want to do anyway. You just gave him an out.”
Andy gave him a dubious look, but nodded. “Uh... you want me to make up the sofa?”
“If it'll give you something to do.”
“Right.” He cast about with his eyes. “There's a washer-dryer, if you want to dry your clothes. You're, uh, kind of soaked.”
“Yeah, thanks. I'll do that.”
“I'll uh... yeah. I'll just go.”
With Andy gone on his self-imposed mission, Sam was able to turn his attention back to Dean, who had listed to the side again and was leaning his head and shoulder against the headboard. He turned glassy eyes on Sam, couldn't quite manage to speak above a rasp.
“Fladdel?”
“At least they're warm.”
“HHEISH!”
Dean batted his hands away again, and it took all of Sam's patience not to shake him or snap at him. As obnoxious as he was ordinarily, Dean was ten times worse when he was sick. God forbid a Winchester ever admit weakness unless he was bleeding out. “Stop fussig. I cad dress byself. Dot three years old.” He fumbled with the buttons on the pajama top, finally gave up and let Sam help him, twisted away halfway through the process to sneeze against the back of his wrist. “HAISHH! ISHOO!”
“Gesundheit. Those pills helping any?”
Dean shook his head. “Dot really.”
He let Sam shove him back onto the bed, didn't say a word when Sam wrapped his twisted ankle in an elastic bandage to keep the swelling down, kept his eyes closed, braced on his hands, head propped against the headboard. His expression turned mutinous, however, when Sam produced a thermometer and waggled it meaningfully. “Cobe od.”
“Humour me,” Sam said firmly. “I know you have a fever, I just need to see how high it is after that shower. Open up. I'm not kidding, Dean. Don't make me get Andy to force you, because I will do it, even if it gives the poor kid a heart attack.” With a resigned if exasperated look Dean let him slide the thermometer under his tongue, waited impatiently until it beeped. Sam took it back, checked the digital readout. “102. I suppose it could be worse, but that's way too high for just a cold. Your sinuses hurt?” Dean just glared, glassy-eyed. “I'll take that as a yes. If you're not better by tomorrow we're getting you to a clinic, getting you some antibiotics.”
“At leasdt chage oudt of your clothes, Sab. You're sdtill soakig wet. Doh use both of us gettig sigk.”
Sam smiled, rolled his eyes, did as he was told. “Get comfortable. I'm going to go do some laundry, since Andy offered.” When Dean didn't move he took him firmly by an arm, settled him further down on the bed. “It'll go better if you sleep it off. Just... don't fight me on this. I need you back on your feet, okay? I can't do all of this on my own, and you're no use when you're too sick to sit up.” It was a cheap trick, but Sam was accustomed to playing the little-brother card more often than he liked just so Dean would take care of himself.
“Dabbed straight,” Dean muttered, burrowing under the covers and curling up on his side. “Gotta w-watch your b-bagk, Sab... Hih... ISHOO! Freagkig debods everywhere...” he was having a hard time keeping his eyes focussed, and suddenly Sam let out a surprised huff of laughter as he finally put two and two together.
“Oh my God, you're high. How many of those pills did you take, dude?”
Dean just rolled his eyes, winced, pulled the covers over his face. “Shud up.” Sam couldn't see his face, but heard another sharp intake of breath. “HEPTSHUH! Huh... huh-EKSH-uh!”
“All right. Get some sleep. I'll be back soon, okay?”
There was no answer as Dean started to cough again, and Sam patted his leg before taking an armful of laundry down the stairs. Andy directed him to a room just past the kitchen where he found the aforementioned washer-dryer. It felt like untold luxury to operate machines that didn't require quarters, not to have to wait his turn in line, not have to put up with pushy women who insisted he was taking too long with the dryer, not to have to feed more coins into a dryer that only half-worked. He scowled at the machines. God, sometimes his life sucked. He left the machines to run, and made his way back into the kitchen, thinking he'd see if there was a kettle and tea bags. He didn't think he could take any more coffee, but a hot drink would be welcome just about now.
“Looking for something?”
Sam started slightly. “Uh, yeah. Got any tea?”
Andy shook his head. “Sorry, don't really drink the stuff. There's soup. Canned, but it's soup. Cupboard on your left.”
Sam shrugged, pulled out the can of soup, rummaged for a can opener. “Thanks. You want some? I don't know about you, but I'm cold.”
“Well, I wasn't the one out in the rain, but sure. Uh... how's Dean?” Andy scuffed at the floor with the toe of his shoe.
“Sick as a dog,” Sam poured water into a pot, switched on the stove. “I'm hoping he'll be able to sleep off the worst of it, but I think he's going to need antibiotics, which is just great because we've got no insurance and we're not exactly swimming in cash right now. Sorry,” he rubbed at his forehead, realizing he was unloading on Andy, who certainly hadn't asked for it. “I'm just a little stressed.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Sam bit back a sigh, stirred the soup with a whisk he found in a drawer. “I'm going to have to go back to Lesley's later, help her make the house safe. They're not safe by themselves.”
“Except you don't want to leave your brother alone,” Andy guessed. “You want me to stay with him? Keep an eye on him?”
“Would you mind? I wouldn't ask, except he's got a fever, and I need to make sure he doesn't get any worse.”
Andy rolled his eyes. “Look, man, you guys totally saved my bacon before. Tracy would be dead, and I'd be trying to figure out how to get away from my psychopathic evil twin and probably framed for multiple homicides. I owe you. I owe you a lot. Besides, I like your brother when he's not thinking about using me as a punching bag.”
“He's got a thing about control,” Sam said mildly.
“Noticed that. I can't really blame him. I mean... I don't really like making people do things they don't want to do, unless it's harmless. Concert tickets and free parking is one thing, but... the things I could do if I went all Dark Side?” Andy shuddered, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Weber made people kill themselves, made them do it and say that it was all right while they did it. It makes me sick, knowing I've got that in me.”
Suddenly Sam wasn't all that hungry anymore. “I know what you mean.”
“I mean, did you see the look on Lesley's face? The way she looked at me? She was terrified.”
“I think that might have had more to do with the fact that a demon showed up on her lawn, Andy.”
Andy let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, but that wasn't all of it. You're going to burn that,” he pointed to the soup as it started to boil over, and with a curse Sam quickly pulled the pot off the burner. “You had the stove on too high.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Looks like Dean was right about your cooking.”
“Hey, I made breakfast,” Sam smiled ruefully.
“So... how do you deal with it?”
“With what, specifically?” Sam found a ladle, pulled bowls out of the cupboard, began pouring out the soup. “In case you haven't noticed, our lives are kind of filled with all sorts of supernatural crap that needs dealing with.” He sounded bitter, he knew, couldn't quite bring himself to care.
“I meant your, uh, gift.”
Sam scrubbed at his face with one hand. “Truthfully, I don't. I know this is the part where I'm supposed to say something reassuring about things getting better, but I've got nothing. Dean's right about one thing: it's getting worse, it's getting out of hand, and I don't know what to do about it. I've got no control over it at all. So... mostly, I'm not dealing with it.” He gave Andy a rueful look. “Probably not what you were hoping to hear, huh?”
Andy shook his head. “Not really, but it's better than having you lie to me. Look, I know you don't want to leave, but I don't know the first thing about keeping Lesley safe, and I think I'm about the last person she wants to see right now anyway. You're the only guy here who knows what he's doing and is still upright. I'll keep an eye on Dean, and I have your cell number.”
Sam hesitated, glanced at the ceiling as though somehow he could see through it straight to where Dean was (hopefully) sleeping. Andy was right, though. “I appreciate it, Andy. Call me if he gets worse?”
“Sure. Eat your soup, I'll bring this to him. If I'm lucky, he'll be too out of it to kick my ass.”
“He couldn't even if he really wanted to, you know.”
“I know, but when he's feeling better I'll offer him a free swing,” Andry grinned sheepishly.
“He won't take it.”
“That's what I'm counting on.”
Part 18