All right. This is just a goofy thing to get me into the mood of writing again. Let's see what season 6 brings, if I write much.
Disclaimer: Disclaimed. As always. And MST3K mantra and all that. Apologies to any OOC characterization (it's been a while). And, I know you've read this type of fic a lot. I hope I can do it justice.
Soup and Chocolate
Dean woke up coughing and feeling like his lungs were being squeezed by a vice. He lay back down, cussing to himself. It had been the combination between lack of sleep, that kid with a cold, Sam's cold, and that cold downpour he found himself in when he was digging up that grave on the last hunt.
He knew stress also had a lot to do with it. Lately, every fiber of his being was screaming for him to rest. Recuperate. But, between regular hunts and trying to avert the apocalypse, he let himself get to run down.
What a time to get sick, Dean thought to himself. He figured that Sam would pick up that kid's cold. Sam picked up colds at the drop of a hat. However, Sam's colds generally only lasted a couple days and he was back to normal. Well, normal-ish. He sure moped around like he was dying for those couple days.
Dean hardly ever got sick. Which is why catching this cold surprised him. He wasn't sure what would be worse—being sick or having Sam hover over him like he was dying. Which, he supposed, was probably more true than not. Since Dean hardly ever got sick, when he did, it typically turned into something serious. He knew he was susceptible to bronchitis and pneumonia.
Which sucked out loud. Particularly now. Not only were they trying to avert the apocalypse, demons and angels both wanted his head on a platter, but they actually had another ghost hunt to do now. Even though they were just researching to find out who the ghost was, it wasn't the best time to be down.
He closed his eyes, trying to breathe without coughing, when he felt Sam's hand on his forehead. "You're hot," Sam said.
Dean opened his eyes. "Well, thanks, Sammy. You're fine and all, but I'd prefer to hear that from a woman." Too bad coughing fits interrupted the flow of words. Also, his voice had dropped nearly an octave, thanks to his hoarseness. He could give Barry White a run for his money right now. But, he knew it didn't work on him.
Sam frowned. "Funny. You're running a fever." He held out a thermometer, ready to pop it in Dean's mouth when he opened it again. "I heard you hacking up a lung while I was taking a shower. How long have you been feeling sick?"
Dean gave up. "I caught your cold," he mumbled as Sam put the thermometer into his mouth. He kept choking back his coughs while Sam counted the seconds.
"Sorry about that." Sam pulled the thermometer out of Dean's mouth. "101. How long have you been feeling sick? This couldn't have just started now."
Dean rolled over, wishing he could just go back to sleep. "Since yesterday," he muttered under his coughing. He corrected himself in his head. He knew that he had been starting to feel run down for a while and sick for almost a week. But, he couldn't slow down, and he'd be damned if he would let Sam know that.
"All right. There's a free health clinic in town. Get up. We're going."
Dean wanted to say no, but he knew that Sam would play mother hen and would be bringing it up every five minutes until he gave in. Better to give in now and get it over with. Last time he had been sick, Sam hovered over him and sang 'NYSC songs until Dean figured that he had two choices—he could go to the doctor (where he was diagnosed with pneumonia) or he could kill both Sam and himself.
Dad wouldn't let him kill Sam and himself.
Dean half coughed, half groaned as he drug himself out of bed.
"I'm bored." Dean said between coughs as he turned off the TV. Daytime television sucked.
"Take a nap," Sam said without looking up from his computer where he was researching.
Dean slid out of bed as quietly as he could. He figured Sam had gotten used to his coughs that he was probably tuning them out. He could quickly get out to the pop machine for a drink. At least get out of the room before Sam noticed.
"Go back to bed," Sam said without looking up.
"I'll be right back. I just need something to drink."
"You have bronchitis and can barely stand up. Go back to bed."
"It's allergies. That doctor didn't know anything. He barely looked at me."
"It's bronchitis. I'll take what a medical professional says over your word any day. Besides, you don't have allergies, and it's not allergy season anyways."
"I feel better. I'm just going out to get the Springfield. Last time I fired it, it felt like it needed cleaning."
"I'll get it later and clean it. Go back to bed."
Dean glared at Sam as he shuffled back to bed.
"You can glare at me all you want. But, you're not going anywhere until you're cleared by the doctor. I can do this hunt without you."
"Over my dead body," Dean mumbled as he got back under the covers.
"Going out on this hunt while you're sick can ensure that." Sam stood up and walked over to Dean. He held out the prescriptions. "Here you go."
Dean played with the pills. They were powerful antibiotics as well as a decongestant that always seemed to knock him out. And he hated inhalers, although he knew that it would help his breathing. He didn't want to take them.
"Take your pills or I'm going to start singing you John Mayer songs."
Dean quickly shoved them in his mouth and gulped them down with water. If he was asleep, maybe he wouldn't hear Sam sing.
He fell into a feverish sleep. Although, at one time, he thought he heard Sam tell him that he had to leave but Cas was here.
Dean wanted to ask where Sam was going and why he called Cas, but by the time he thought of the question and woke up enough to ask it, he noticed that he felt better and a couple hours had past.
He rolled over, still coughing, and saw that the angel was sitting on Sam's bed, watching every move he was making with those big, intense eyes. "Cas?" he asked, aware that he could hardly hear his own voice. "What are you doing here?"
"Sam called. He asked me to come and stay with you."
"Where did he go?"
"He said that he had to do some research at the library and would be back later. And, he told me that if you were to try to get out of bed, I was to put you back to sleep."
Dean sat up, and Cas stiffened. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere. So, what do you want to do? Watch TV or anything?"
The angel looked down. "Sam says you're sick."
"I wouldn't say that. I'm just a little under the weather."
"He says you have a serious lung infection."
Dean rolled his eyes. "I guess you can put it like that. I'll be fine."
"You don't look very well."
"Gee, thanks," Dean said sarcastically.
"You don't sound very well either. Does this have anything to do with the apocalypse?"
Dean grinned. "You mean, did I get sick from anything with angels and demons?" At Cas' nod, he said, "No."
"Sometimes we just get under the weather." A puzzled look flickered in Cas' eyes. "We just get sick. I caught a cold that developed into something more."
"Oh." Cas still looked confused, but he said, "I brought you some things."
"Like what?" Dean watched Cas as he reached for a plastic bag. "Did you go shopping?"
"I heard that humans go for soup when they're sick." Cas pulled a huge can of tomato soup out of the bag. "I brought you some."
Dean hid his laughter behind a cough. "You brought me soup? I thought you didn't carry money."
"I found some. Grocery stores are weird places. But, the girl wearing the smock said that when she's sick, she likes to have soup."
"Sam thought it was funny."
"It is." Dean choked back another laugh and a cough. Cas looked a little embarrassed. "I appreciate it, though."
"I didn't know how to open the can."
"If I promise I won't run away, can I get up to open this up? And you won't use your modified Vulcan grip on me to knock me out, right?" Dean asked.
Cas nodded, and Dean pulled himself out of bed. He felt better, but his head felt disconnected from the rest of him. Overly medicated and hazy. He staggered to the small kitchenette in the room and found a can opener. As he was opening it, he felt Cas standing over him. Like a shadow.
Sam has passed on his hovering trait to Cas. "Mind taking a step back? Remember personal space?"
Just then, he heard Cas' phone ring. The angel stepped back to answer it. He could hear Sam's voice on the other end of the phone.
"All right," Cas said into the phone.
"Let me talk to him," Dean said, holding out his hand to take the phone.
"He's wake. He wants to talk to you," Cas said before turning the phone over and sitting down on the bed again.
"Sam? What'd you find out?"
"I know who the ghost is. I'm heading out now. How are you feeling?"
"I'm feeling better. Where are you going? I can help."
"It's too late to come back. I'm already halfway there. Besides, with your cough, sneaking around isn't exactly an option. I'll be back in a couple hours. The ghost is just a kid, so I don't really need you. It's not like I don't know what I'm doing. So, go back to bed!"
With that, Sam hung up.
Dean angrily disconnected and tossed the phone to Cas before turning back to the soup. As he started the microwave, Cas said, "Sam said he'll be back in a couple hours."
"Yeah. Look, you don't have to stay here with me."
Cas frowned. "You don't want me here? Sam said you would probably want company. Plus, he said that he didn't want to leave you all by yourself, sick."
Dean awkwardly shifted around. He enjoyed having the angel around, but hated the attention. He was feeling better, but he knew he could use just time off to hang out and get better. Before he could answer, he saw Cas frowning into his plastic bag. There were more things in that bag.
"What do you got there?"
Cas dumped out the bag. Bags and bags of M&Ms and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups came out.
Dean laughed, although his lungs and his throat objected. "You brought candy bars?"
"Is that all right? The girl at the store said whenever she's sick, chocolate makes her feel better."
Dean pulled the tomato soup out of the microwave and walked over to examine the candy bars. "Did you buy the whole store out?"
"I didn't know what you liked. I don't even know if you like chocolate."
Dean grabbed the peanut M&Ms. "Who doesn't like chocolate?" He held the bag out to Cas who hesitantly took a fun-sized pouch. "But, you didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to do something."
Dean got back in bed and sipped at his soup. "You're a good friend, Cas," he blurted out. Stupid medication, he thought to himself, right after he said that.
The barest hint of a smile crossed the angel's face. "That's what the girl at the store said."
A/N: OK, not my best work. I've seen sick fics a lot, and I've written other versions. But, I started playing around with this idea from a one-shot from CaffeineKitty about Sherlock Holmes being sick.
Also, I'm a little under the weather right now. Stupid allergies. But, yes, I am susceptible to bronchitis as well. So, a little from my own perspective here.
I hope you halfway enjoyed this.