Rating: PG-13 for non-recreational drug use
Characters: Dean & Sam (pre-slash depending on how you squint)
Word Count: 1,557
Disclaimer: If I owned it, it'd be a hell of a lot happier.
Summary: Written for the following prompt on hoodie_time: It’s Christmas Evening or Dean’s birthday. Dean’s legs are stiff, his ribs hurt and the cut in his back stings and he sneezes. He takes a shower, swallows some painkillers and goes to bed. When Sam arrives he wants to make sure that Dean’s okay but maybe Dean didn’t count how many pills he took. Dean can’t understand why Sam’s poking him and doesn’t let him alone. Also, I am ALWAYS happy when Sam feeds Dean.
A/N: This is unbetaed and written quickly this evening because I wanted to contribute something to the winter/holiday meme on hoodie_time. Feel free to point out any glaring mistakes, and I'll correct them. :)
Dean sits on the side of the bed, rubbing at his thighs as he tries to fight off the chill that’s settling in his bones. He’d always thought Bobby was full of shit when he said he could predict the weather by the aches in his bones. Dean guesses it’s going to snow soon and hopes Sam gets back with the food before the weather goes to shit. He’s not hungry, pain is the ultimate appetite killer, but the last thing he wants is his errant brother driving around in his car in bad weather. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Sam, it’s just…well, she’s his baby.
He tries to cover his mouth as a sneeze rips through his body; the sharp jerk of his shoulders makes him wince and he struggles to control the waves of pain. His back must be sliced up worse than he thought. He shrugs it off without doing the actual shrugging because he knows that would hurt, too.
He can handle this. Hell, this little debacle doesn’t even break his top twenty. It’s nothing that a few painkillers and a nice, hot shower can’t fix. Dean manages to get to his feet and eases his way over to the duffel bag on the floor. He pulls out a bottle of painkillers that Sam had picked up a few days ago, drops a few in his palm and swallows them dry. He coughs, dry heaves for a few seconds and tries to control the pain that’s racketing through his body. Sam’s voice is loud in his head: “Nice job, genius. Next time try that with water, okay?”
He mentally flips off the voice in his mind and trudges to the shower, leaving his clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor. The water stings as it cascades over his body, and Dean grits his teeth and finishes what he came here to do. He washes away the dirt and grime of their last hunt with practiced efficiency. He swallows a couple of mouthfuls of water, trying to ease the burn in his throat from those horse pills he choked down a few minutes ago.
After he shuts off the water, he gingerly pats himself dry with one of the old motel towels. The edge has been taken off, but the pain is still there, niggling in the back of his mind. He fills a cup of water and tosses back one more painkiller from Sam’s bottle just to make sure. He manages to pull on a pair of boxers before he slips under the covers to wait for Sam to get back with dinner. Bastard was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. He worries for a few minutes before something heavy and warm pulls him under. Something incredibly powerful that he can’t fight and there’s nothing supernatural about it.
“Dean? Dammit, Dean. Wake up.” The voice sounds annoyed, like what it’s just said had been repeated many times. Dean tries to shove the weight off his chest, mumbling incoherent syllables that are meant to be words.
“Come on. Wake up.” Two strong hands wrap around his biceps, fingers pressing into flesh. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. It feels like nothing more than a nuisance, and all he wants to do is fall back asleep. “Open your fuckin’ eyes, Dean.” There’s more shaking and a light slap to his cheek that he can’t really feel, but the pressure registers somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Only Sam could be this annoying which explains why he passed it off as a nuisance in the first place. If Dean ignores him long enough, chances are he’ll go away and he can rest in peace.
“What did you take? Tell me what you took. How much? Fucking hell, Dean,” Sam barks, shaking him so hard his head snaps back and forth. It’s too many questions, and Dean can’t focus on anything, mind swimming in the haziness of drug induced exhaustion. “Did you do this on purpose? Tell me, Dean. I need to know if you –“ Sam’s voice cracks, and that wakes something in Dean, causes him to force his eyes open as Sam slowly swims into focus. He looks worried. He also looks fuzzy, like he’s obscure around the edges, coming out of the lines of his skin, but he’s also concerned, eyebrows furrowed and he’s expecting an answer.
“Just some pills,” Dean mumbles, trying to push Sam away. He musters the last of his waning strength, and rests his hands on Sam’s arms and leaves them there, fingers dragging along taunt flesh without feeling. “The painkillers in your bag.”
Sam glances over his shoulder, scowling at his open duffel bag. “The Vicodin? How many did you take, Dean? Come on, I need to know.” He slides his hands down Dean’s sides, not pressing, but holding him there, trying to ground Dean to the present, to the here and now.
“Four? Maybe five? No big deal.” It’s not a big deal; they’ve both swallowed handfuls of pills in the past. Whatever Sam is on about, it’s just going to have wait until morning.
“That wasn’t regular strength, you dumbass. It was Vicodin HP.”
“Harry Potter?” Dean mumbles as he leans forward to rest his head on Sam’s shoulder. He could fall asleep right here if Sam would just leave him alone.
Sam’s body vibrates around him, and Dean knows each shake and tremble of his brother, and he knows he’s not laughing. “You’re not funny.”
“Funny looking,” Dean replies, grinning against the cotton of Sam’s shirt.
Sam sighs, resting his hand on the back of Dean’s neck. “Yeah, you’re not that either.”
There’s something there, and it carries weight, but Dean can’t string together enough brain cells to process it so he lets it slide by as he scratches his cheek against Sam’s shoulder. “Itches.”
“That’s what you get,” Sam huffs.
It’s not entirely unpleasant, the narcotic induced itch. It’s annoying, but it brings sweet relief and right now Dean’s happy to go with it.
“You’re an idiot,” Sam repeats. His voice drops when he says, “I couldn’t wake you up. I’ve been trying for almost five minutes. Your eyes rolled into your head, and you still wouldn’t wake up.”
“M’ fine,” Dean mumbles. He soon discovers Sam’s unshaved face is a much better place to scratch his forehead.
“Next time read the fucking bottle, okay?” Sam snaps. For all his anger, he holds still as Dean uses him as a glorified scratching post.
“Bottle’s usually wrong,” Dean replies. They swipe whatever they can and drop it in empty aspirin bottles or whatever they have on hand. Nine times out of ten, the bottle doesn’t even have the right drug, never mind the right dosage.
“This time it wasn’t,” Sam growls as he rubs his hands down Dean’s arms easing tingling skin. “I leave you alone for an hour and you make a spirited attempt at overdosing. Nice, Dean. Really nice.”
“Accident,” Dean mumbles.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Ever heard of an accidental overdose?”
“I’m not an idiot,” Dean says without heat.
“Current circumstances prove otherwise,” Sam replies flatly. He presses one hand to the back of Dean’s head and holds him there as he adjusts the pillows with his free hand. He continues to cradle Dean’s head as he eases him back against the pillows. “You need to eat something.”
Dean shakes his head or at least tries to. His head tilts once and his chin rests against his chest. It’s too much work to move it again. “Not hungry.”
“Right now I really don’t give a shit,” Sam replies as he stands up and moves to the forgotten takeout bags on the table. He rummages through the bags and pulls out a Styrofoam container. He tosses the plastic lid on the nightstand and pushes Dean’s legs aside as he sits down. “I got some soup.”
“M’ not sick,” Dean mutters.
“No, you’re high and stupid.” Sam tries to hand him the container a couple of times and eventually gives up. “Open your mouth.”
“If you think –“
Sam cuts across him. “This is going to happen one way or another. I didn’t trudge out in the snow so you could –“
“So it did snow,” Dean says. “Huh. My knees said it would.”
“Okay,” Sam says with an elongated sigh as he brings the conversation back on track. “Did your knees also tell you to eat some damn food because you haven’t eaten anything in nearly twenty four hours?”
“That’s not really how it works, Sammy.”
“Whatever. Open your mouth, you big weirdo.”
“If you ever tell anyone about this –“
“Dean,” Sam barks, an eyebrow crawling up his forehead in a move that makes Dean kind of proud.
“Christ, keep your shirt on,” Dean mumbles as his mouth drops open.
The soup is tepid now, but it’s easy to swallow and Sam’s mouth curves up slightly so Dean takes another few swallows.
Sam proceeds to give him the lecture of a lifetime about taking too many pills containing acetaminophen, and Dean lets him drone on because he figures it’s the least he can do. He even manages to stay awake for most of it. Whatever he misses, he knows without a doubt that Sam will catch him up tomorrow.