|One Pill Makes You Small
Author: wave obscura PM
How Sam and Dean keep their first aid kit stocked with the good stuff. Whiny!Hurt!Dean, BigBrother!Sam, bleeding, potty-mouths, banter and —of course— nudity! OneShot.Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor/Hurt/Comfort - Dean W. & Sam W. - Words: 2,165 - Reviews: 26 - Favs: 38 - Follows: 7 - Published: 05-27-09 - Status: Complete - id: 5092180
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: For the sick and not-for-profit pleasure of myself and others. No copyright infringement intended.
I wrote this a few weeks ago after sitting in the emergency room with a friend ALL DAMN NIGHT (she's fine now) and wasn't going to post it, but the lovely Laura's-eyes insisted, so um… blame her :D
A billion-trillion thanks to my beta, PADavis, who's also very lovely.
One Pill Makes You Small
By wave obscura
Dean's in the shower taking care of business, and he's so close, he can practically feel the silky smooth roundness of Demi Moore's—
And that's it. It's over. He deflates like a punctured balloon.
"Jesus Christ, Sam. What?" Dean punches the water off and rips a towel from the rack.
Always considerate, Sam barges into the bathroom, letting a waft of freezing Minnesota air slice through the steam. "We're running really low on pills, dude. It's time to go to the ER."
"And you couldn't let me finish my shower because…?"
"You've been in here for forty-five minutes, dude," Sam snorts, "If it hasn't happened by now, it ain't gonna."
Dean lets a long, silent beat go by—damn it— while his brother stands there sniggering at him.
"No idea what you're talking about," Dean grumbles. He pushes passed his brother and into the main room, making sure his shoulder connects hard to Sam's chest as he goes by.
Sam goes oomph but he's still giggling, the little bastard.
The main room is freezing, and Dean scrambles over to his duffle for his clothes, shivering and cursing. But the bag is completely flat, emptied. He checks the drawers under the TV, and –
"Dude. You gotta stop touching my underwear. It ain't right."
Dean drops his towel— hopefully fast enough to moon Sam before he has a chance to look away—and chooses a pair of boxers, all of which his brother has rolled into a littlespace-saving cylinders.
"We're gonna be here for a few days while you recover, dude," Sam says, "Might as well settle in."
Still smirking in his famous self-satisfied, all-up-his-own-assy kinda way, Sam sits on the bed and begins to rummage through the first aid kit.
"Aspirin, Imitrex, three-year-old bottle of doxycycline and one-two-three-four-five oxycodone. That's it."
"Dude, I swear," Dean says, pulling on his boxers. "Next time you touch my under—"
"It's your turn, Dean," Sam persists, and Dean groans a little, because he fucking knows it's his turn.
But it won't hurt to try. "No, it isn't. I did it back in—"
"You did not," Sam's voice shoots up several octaves. "You almost punctured my lung last time, dick. I was in the hospital for a week. It's your turn."
"Had to make it look real, Sammy."
The joke is no use—Sam is already in full bitch mode, gnashing his teeth and everything. His right arm is in a cast, and Dean's been counting the days till it comes off because swear to God, if he gets all tantrum-y and slams it on a table in anger one more time, Dean's gonna break… well he's gonna break Sam's other arm. Or something.
Right now, though, probably best to try a different approach. Logic, maybe?
"You really think this should be our priority right now?" Dean says gently, "I mean, Bobby says this poltergeist is nasty, and—"
"Wait'll the next time you need 20 stitches and we don't have any Percocet. We need more painkillers, Dean. Before the next hunt."
Damn it. Dean's eyes search the floor for a minute, pawing around in his brain for a solution, because he really, really doesn't feel like being stabbed tonight.
"Dude. I have an idea," Dean says, and Sam's face pinches up in suspicion. "Just listen."
Sam crosses his arms.
"How about instead of the old oops-I-was-running-with-a-butcher-knife thing, we just… fake it?"
"Fake it?" Sam slams the kit shut and shoves it away. "No. You're a terrible actor. Remember the tooth ache thing last year? They accused you of doctor-shopping in a dry county and not twenty-four hours later I was digging a bullet out of your chest with no painkillers and no booze. You screamed so loud my ears are still ringing. Not doing it again."
"Well, we'll just have to stop hunting in Mississippi, that's—"
"Dean, goddamn it—"
"OKAY!" Dean relents. "Okay."
Dean sits on the bed next to his brother, close enough that their knees are touching, because Sam always seems to soften up when they get all cozy.
"It's just… come on. It's only been, what? Two years since my back surgery? We'll say we're on vacation and that I strained something. One look at my x-rays and they'll give us anything we need."
He looks hopefully at Sam, but his little brother's all squinty and closed off. Impenetrable.
"Funny, you never like that idea when it's my turn to get the painkillers," he says.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean says cheerily, putting his arm around Sam's shoulder and jerking him close, "You're right. I almost hit your lung last time. And it scared the crap outta me, thought I was gonna lose you. It got me thinking, you know, that maybe there's a better way to do this."
"I mean, maybe if we went to the ER uninjured, we'd be able to coordinate, you know? Maybe even steal a prescription pad or something. Then we'd never have to stab each other again."
Bingo. Sam's forehead relaxes, and he looks up at the ceiling, clearly irritated, but at least he's seriously thinking about it.
Then he looks at Dean with a stony face. "Your knife or mine, Dean?"
Dean sighs mightily. Hopeless. Freakin' hopeless.
"Oh fuck, Sam. I think you hit something important. Oh, god."
"Stop clawing at it. I barely nicked you."
"No—Sam. Fuck. Something's wrong, I swear to you, something's fucking wrong."
"Stop being a baby," Sam steps hard on the gas. "And stop drinking. If you're drunk they won't give us anything."
"I'm not gonna make it."
"I'm gonna pass out."
"Good, we won't have to wait as long."
"I'm gonna puke."
"You are the biggest pussy."
"This was a stupid fucking idea, Sam. Fucking stupid."
"You'll thank me the next time your ass is full of bullets."
Dean moans as pitifully as he can muster, sinking lower into the passenger seat and taking a long pull from his flask. "I'm not gonna get shot. When's the last time I got shot?"
"Six weeks ago?"
"It grazed my ear. Doesn't count."
Sam scoffs. "Grazed your ear after it went through your hand."
"Shut up," Dean whines, curling up against the window, "Just shut up and let me die in peace. Ohhhh. God."
"Check the towel, Dean. I bet you're not even bleeding anymore."
Sam eases up on the gas a little, because up ahead is a nest of flashing lights—blue, red, yellow, orange, white. They creep slowly by, and sure enough, a caravan—no, a fucking fleet—of ambulances and fire trucks are encircling a pile of mangled cars.
"Oh wonderful," Dean cries, throwing his head back, "That's just fucking great. I'm gonna die in the waiting room."
For the first time there's sympathy in Sam's eyes. "It's gonna be a long wait."
The emergency room is hot and tiny and neon-lit, with a tiny TV mounted in the corner, chairs aligned awkwardly around permanent cement tables so that the waiting people have to glumly strain their necks at odd angles to catch glimpses of Smallville.
And there are waiting people everywhere. Every chair is occupied and people are sitting zombie-eyed on the floor, on tables, milling in every corner.
Sam pauses in the entryway to adjust his brother, whose elbow is digging into his side. Dean's refusing to walk by himself, still insisting that something is wrong, and Sam has had about enough.
"Can somebody let us sit?" He irritably asks the crowd. Morons, all of them. Can't they see the blood-soaked washcloth pressed to his brother's side?
A couple of people begrudgingly haul themselves up, and Sam deposits Dean in a chair.
"Sam, please," Dean says, and there's something in his voice that sounds a little off, but no, Sam reminds himself, he's just trying to make me feel bad.
"We're telling people a three-hour wait," the receptionist says when he approaches the desk.
"My brother tripped and cut himself open with a kitchen knife," Sam says. He knows he should sound more frantic but can't seem to muster up the energy. "He's lost some blood."
The receptionist cranes her next over the counter to look at Dean. "He still bleeding?"
"No, I think it's stopped."
Seeing all sense of urgency drain from her face he adds, "Probably needs stitches, though. And he says he feels really dizzy. And it was a dirty knife. He might need a tetanus shot or something."
The woman nods, staring at her computer screen. "I'm sorry, but triage is overflowing. Even bleeders have to wait. We'll call him in just a few minutes."
Sam stands there a minute longer to answer a series of irritating questions and gives Dean's name as "Harry Henderson," hoping that anger will distract his brother from acting like a baby.
He sits back down, and Dean scoots closer so he can rest his head on Sam's shoulder. His forehead is cold and clammy against Sam's neck, and one of his knees is bobbing up and down at an alarming pace.
Sympathy—mixed with a liberal amount of guilt—washes over Sam, and he throws an arm around his brother. "Hurtin' bad enough to wanna cuddle, huh?"
"Fuck you," Dean mutters, snuggling further into Sam's side. "Stomach huuurrrts. Thirsty. Tell that bitch behind the counter to get me some water."
Sam starts to get up, but Dean groans. "No. Stay here. You're warm. It's fucking cold."
Feels a little muggy to Sam, but whatever. He didn't want to get up anyway.
He tries to watch the TV for a few minutes— a guy who must be Clark Kent exchanging soulful looks with some girl— and gets supremely bored. He tries to pick up a magazine, but Dean is squirmy and restless against him and he can't hold it still enough to read the words.
"Just a little longer, Dean," Sam says softly. "Relax, would you? You act like you've never been stabbed before."
Dean doesn't answer. He's panting a little, and growing heavier and heavier against Sam.
"Hey," Sam says, slightly worried now. "Dean? Hey."
Dean spits blood down the front of Sam's shirt and slides to the floor, and then Sam is screaming, and crowds and crowds of people are forming a tight, nosey circle around the two of them, and someone yells "GROSS!" and someone else steps on Sam's foot, and Sam swings blindly and catches some guy hard in the stomach with his casted arm and they're about to fight and Dean is still laying on the floor and finally, finally someone busts through the madness with a gurney.
"Internal bleeding," Sam tells Dean later, after surgery, once he's settled into his room and mostly coherent. "Nicked your intestine pretty good. I'm so sorry, man."
Dean smiles drunkenly at his brother. "Y'owed me one."
"Still, man. I shoulda listened to you when you said something was wrong."
Dean's head falls to one side in what Sam supposes is a gesture no. "Y'get the drugs?"
"Yeah, dude. I'm sure they'll give us lots of drugs. Problem is, you're probably going to need them all."
Sam grimaces and pats his brother on the shoulder. "Yeah. This whole thing was kinda pointless. I'm so sorry, dude."
"Do it… again?"
"No, man. No. You're right, this knife-to-the-belly thing is fucking ridiculous. We're gonna have to figure out some other way."
Sam doesn't know where the energy comes from, but Dean guffaws loud enough to make him jump.
He looks at Sam and his eyes are shining. "Nice try, Sammy. My knife or yours?"
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