Diner
The first time it happens they are sitting in a diner in Wisconsin.
Sam is surfing the net, reading distinctly boring and uninformative articles about dead cattle and Dean is about to steal Sam’s french fries (“You’re not gonna eat that, are you?”).
Sam shakes his head without looking up and Dean gets up to reach across the table. One moment he’s talking and stuffing his mouth and he’s fine … and the next moment he’s on the floor - not moving - and Sam kind of missed everything in-between.
“Dean!”
His own panicked shout still rings in his ears. He finds himself on the floor next to his unconscious brother without any recollection of how he got there. Dean is pale and ohmygodhe’snotmoving! Why isn’t he moving? Frantically Sam searches for blood or any serious wounds Dean could’ve forgotten to mention, because that’s totally something Dean would do. He searches for a pulse, an infinite loop of ‘No! Dean! No! No! Not again!’ playing in his head.
“Oh god, what happened?”
“Do you need any help, buddy?”
“We need a doctor! Is there a doctor?”
There are useless people shouting in the background and Sam’s fingers are slick with sweat but after countless attempts he finally feels the faint flutter of Dean’s pulse. He counts beats and seconds in his head, petrified with horror. But the rhythm is slow and steady, sounding completely normal and healthy and okay.
He feels his own heartbeat slowing down to a less painful tempo.
“Here’s a doctor! We found one!”
“Well, actually I’m a gynecologist…”
“Make room for the doctor!”
A middle-aged man kneels down next to him and reaches out for his brother. He’s bald and sweaty and there’s no way he knows more about first aid than Sam does.
“Don’t touch him!” Sam snarls. It’s an almost involuntary response, but the urge to protect his currently defenseless brother from all possible threats is overwhelming.
The guy freezes as he catches a glimpse of Sam’s face. Sam knows he probably looks like a raving lunatic right now, but he couldn’t care less.
He has to stay calm. He has to think. He has to…
God Dean, wake up, please! Please wake up, why isn’t he waking up? Don’t do this!
Dean doesn’t seem to be bleeding to death anywhere and he’s obviously not in pain and except for the unsettling fact that he’s unconscious he seems to be alright. A little pale maybe, and he has dark smudges under his eyes, but that’s not something new either. He’s just not sleeping very well at the mo-…
Sleeping. Sam blinks.
“Be quiet!” he hisses and maybe he looks just crazy and threatening enough because the voices around him suddenly fall silent.
He holds his breath and listens. And there it is. Quiet, but unmistakable. A sound he hasn’t really heard in a while.
Dean is snoring.
It’s a soft, almost peaceful sound.
What the hell…?
“Dean…,” he says softly, shaking him. “Dean, wake up.”
He almost can’t believe it’s that easy, but Dean actually stirs, eyelashes fluttering.
He blinks sleepily and murmurs: “Gimme ten more minutes, Sammy…”
And Sam doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh, cry with relief or toss his coffee at Dean’s head.
“Huh?” Dean sounds confused as he looks around. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Somebody got hurt?”
^tbc^
Nachwort: Ich weiß, das ist entsetzlich kurz, aber das liegt daran, dass es als Comment-fic-Meme auf Livejournal angefangen hat. *hust* Es existieren bisher 4 Kapitel - alle relativ kurz, aber hey, dafür kann ich öfter updaten. ;)
Street
Woohoo - kurze Kapitel, aber dafür schnelle Updates.
Liest hier überhaupt irgendwer englische fics? ^^* *drops* Na, egal. Viel Spaß, so oder so.
Warnungen für diesen Teil: Angst, kiiitsch und so weiter (nichts neues also)
“All I’m saying is you should get it checked out. Just… just in case.”
“In case of what? It was nothing!”
“Nothing?! You just keeled over, Dean! That is not nothing! You gave me a frigging heart attack, man!”
Yes, Sam is aware that he is nagging, thank you very much, but he just can’t stop it. The way Dean had suddenly crumbled and just laid there… it had hit too close to home. It had reminded him too much of other times when his brother hadn’t woken up anymore…
“Sam, I swear…”, Dean sighs exasperatedly, slurping his milk shake.
(“Low blood sugar! My niece used to pass out when…” “He probably needs some protein…” “Could somebody get the poor dude something to eat?”) Sam had expected Dean to be embarrassed about being the centre of everybody’s attention, but who was Dean to refuse a gratis chocolate milkshake? Yeah, right.
“I was just sleeping, ok? No biggie.” Dean repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. “Unusual timing? Yes. Unusual occurrence? Not so much. It was probably just a, dunno, a freak napping-thing accident or something. It probably happens all the time.”
‘No, it doesn’t’, Sam thinks, but he keeps quiet for once.
And that’s it for Dean. A freak ‘napccident’. Not going to talk about it, fuck you very much.
The next time it happens it’s not so much fun anymore (not that it ever was funny to begin with).
They drive through Arkansas and Dean is softly singing Metallica under his breath, drumming on the wheel. The last hunt was a success. Nobody died, nobody got hurt and there was just a lot of mud and disgusting monster fluids splattering around. That’s about as good as it gets in their line of work.
Sam is half-asleep in the passenger seat surrounded by the familiar smell of gunpowder and burger and ‘Impala’ and the even more familiar sound of Dean’s humming. And suddenly, it’s silent, really silent in a way that it only ever is when Dean is not around, is not really there.
There tires aren’t screeching, there’s no honking from other cars, but Sam startles anyway, heart hammering wildly in his chest.
Dean’s head is resting on the wheel. His eyes are closed and his face is slack. He looks almost peaceful. The Impala is skidding slowly, almost gently to the opposite lane.
There is a truck heading for them and Sam screams in terror, sees the truck plowing into them tires screeching glass shattering Dean Dad Dad! Dean bleeding to death on the backseat…Dean !
Without a conscious thought he wrenches the wheel out of Dean’s slack grip and jerks it to the right, missing the truck by a hair’s breadth.
The Impala jerks and the wheel almost slips through his fingers. They are swerving madly across the lanes. And shit, there’s no way he’s able reach the brakes, not with Dean in the way. Cars are honking and he hears tires screeching and he can’t keep it steady, he can’t…
They’re going to die; Dean is going to die again!
“Dean!” he shouts, almost hysterically, hoping against hope that his voice is enough to rouse Dean. “Wake up! DEAN!”
Dean wakes up with a start, eyes wide open. Like a reflex his hand shoots out to Sam.
“Sammy, are you…Shit…” he breathes, straightening up. “Shitshitshit…”
It’s probably only a lifetime of honed instincts that makes him react so fast and without thinking.
He snatches the wheel out of Sam’s grip and steers to the right, looking frantically to the sides. They’re bypassing other cars in reckless maneuvers and Sam holds his breath, clinging to the passenger door.
On the hard shoulder, Dean hits the brakes and the engine dies with a soft, almost anti-climactic splutter.
“Oh shit. What the…MotherfuckingJesuschristonastick…” he pants, letting his head fall against the seat. “Damnit…”
Sam tries to make a sound and realizes he can’t. He feels like suffocating and like he’s about to pass out at the same time. His own heartbeat is drumming in his ears. He stares at Dean, anxiously trying to gauge if he’s all right, if it was another one of those ‘napccidents’.
Napccident.
We almost crashed into a truck, but it was just a napccident. He can feel hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest.
“Sam?” Dean’s head jerks from the seat and he turns to Sam. “Are you okay?” One of his hands shoots out and clutches at his T-Shirt right over Sam’s frantically beating heart.
“Are you hurt?” he asks anxiously.
Sam shakes his head, unable to speak.
It’s his fault. He should’ve made Dean go to the hospital. He should’ve made sure that Dean got examined. What if he’s seriously ill? What if Dean keeps passing out during driving, during hunting? What if…
“Dude, breathe!” Dean’s hand on his shoulder shakes him roughly and Sam tries to obey.
But he keeps seeing the truck heading for them, keeps hearing glass shatter and tires screech. So yes, maybe he’s got some form of PTSD in relation to trucks. Maybe he’s got some form of PTSD in relation to his brother dying. It’s too late for therapy anyway.
“I’m sorry…” Dean says, sounding desperate. “Sam, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I swear, I’ve never…”
And Sam realizes that Dean really has no clue what just happened.
“Napccident”, he answers, voice rough with emotion. Dean flinches as if he’s been slapped.
“Sam…”
Sam shakes his head, too worried and too angry at the same time to reassure Dean.
“To the hospital”, he rasps. “Now. And you’re not driving.”
He opens the door and gets out of the car without awaiting Dean’s answer. Finally outside, he almost staggers and hastily grabs at the door to steady himself. Dean is at his side in an instant, so fast that Sam hasn’t even heard him walking around the car.
“Sit down, you dumbass.” Dean’s voice is gruff, but the hand in Sam’s neck is soft. “You’re not driving either. Not right now.”
Sam slides to the ground, closes his eyes and feels more than sees how Dean sits down next to him. Dean doesn’t say anything but his hand stays where it is, feeling warm and familiar and strangely reassuring.
“You’re totally going to use emotional blackmail,” Dean says.
“If that’s what it takes to get you examined.”
“You suck.”
After that they keep quiet because they’re Winchesters after all and they don’t talk about stuff. Not about Dean who keeps passing out and not about Sam’s possible PTSD and not about them almost dying again.
Sam knows he doesn’t even need to use emotional blackmail. It’s kind of pointless since Dean is probably beating himself up inwardly right now, because he almost got them killed accidentally.
“We could get you a milkshake on the way”, Dean finally says and wordlessly passes the keys to Sam. “To get your blood sugar levels up. Or something.”
Sam smiles and hears the silent apology anyway. “Shut up, Dean.”
Nachwort: Ja, ich trampel gerne auf ihren tiefsitzenden Ängsten herum. *hust* Sie haben aber auch so viele. Was soll ich denn machen? ;)
Hospital
Okay, ihr verdankt das schnelle Updaten nur Jitzu. (Du bist so niedlich!) ^__^
Viel Spaß damit.
Warnungen für diesen Teil: Erneut ist es schrecklich kurz, ich weiß, ich weiß, ich schäme mich. Dafür ist Kapitel 4 schon fertig und länger. ;)
They stay at the hospital for three days (much to Dean’s dismay, who keeps complaining about the slobbery food, about the lack of hot nurses, about the fucking clueless doctors, about Sam’s constant nagging and hovering and about how he can’t sleep properly, because his roommate is an old man named Humphrey who snores).
Yeah, suck it up, Sam thinks because it’s not a walk in the park for him either. He doesn’t say it though, because he can see right through Dean’s tough guy act and he knows deep down his brother is just as terrified as he is.
The bummer is…the doctors find nothing.
There are a dozen figures in white, hovering around his brother’s bed, looking self-important and busy and stuck-up and that’s what they find: A big fat nothing.
Zero. Niente. Nada.
It’s not as if Sam really trusts them. The deep ingrained distrust of all persons not-Winchesters is something he is probably never going to shake off; no matter how much he sometimes hates his dad for that.
No, while his brother is stuck with MRT and EEG and other abbreviations, Sam reads a zillion articles online about narcolepsy, brain-tumors with weird side-effects and epileptic episodes that look like sleeping.
Thing is nothing really fits. Dean isn’t dizzy, he isn’t tired or disoriented, he has no weird headaches and he’s not confused or forgetful. He just … falls asleep at random times with no identifiable pattern and without making sure he’s lying down first. It’s kind of silly and laughable…except it’s totally not.
On the second day of finding nothing the doctors start to hint that Sam is paranoid and maybe there’s actually nothing wrong with Dean. People do fall asleep at the steering wheel all the time after all, right? And falling asleep in a diner, well it happens. It’s not nice, but it’s not exactly unheard of either.
When they tell him this, Sam hasn’t slept for two days in a row and he lives of sugar and caffeine and he’s about to punch the arrogant prick in the face.
Right this moment Dean decides to pass out, dragging the doctor along in the process. He almost hits his head at the examination table halfway down.
Maybe Sam kind of freaks out a little bit. He might have even yelled and threatened some staff (and later he is glad that his brother is unconscious through it all) and forces them to check Dean for brain hemorrhage and a concussion.
As soon as he is done freaking out and after he has made sure there’s nothing wrong with Dean (except the obvious), Sam feels almost kind of smug. There you are, you bastard. Nothing wrong with him. My ass.
Then he feels like crying, because Dean looks confused and oddly self-conscious when he wakes up and they still don’t know what’s going on.
After that the doctors insist the problem might be “psychosomatic”.
“Let’s blow this freaking shithole”, Dean says on the third day, going for nonchalant and failing big time. “I need a burger anyway. The food here sucks.”
Sam nods and feels mute and helpless. Later, he gets his ass kicked as he tries to help Dean dress (“Dude, my napping may be out of whack, but I’m not a cripple!”) and it makes him feel a tiny bit better for a moment. As long as Dean can still bitch about stuff, it’s not too bad, right?
There’s a moment of awkwardness, when they reach the car. Dean automatically steers to the driver’s side and falters mid step. Sam bites his lower lip to keep from saying anything.
He doesn’t have to.
Dean looks torn. Finally, he throws the keys at Sam and Sam catches them without taking his eyes off of his brother.
“’M gonna kick your ass if you don’t take care of her”, Dean says and his voice sounds as if he’s sure he’s never going to drive her again.
Sam swallows and nods, unable to speak, because Dean is pale and is eyes are huge and worried. And because Dean saying goodbye to his baby is so wrong on so many levels. And because Dean did it once already, putting Sam in charge of the Impala and the last time it ended with Dean dying and going to hell and Sam … he can’t even go there.
“Look”, he says when he starts the engine, “if it’s not something physical it has to be a curse, right?”
“Yeah, that or ‘psychosomatic’.” Dean grunts, but he actually perks up at the word ‘curse’. Curse is good. Curse sounds familiar. Curse is something they know how to deal with. At least Sam hopes they do.
“Dude! Who would curse me?” As he sees Sam’s look Dean reconsiders. “Yeah okay, but who would curse me with ‘instant napping’? That’s SO lame. That’s like the lamest curse I’ve ever heard of, including this witch in Alabama who made people see talking hotdogs all the time.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah, it wasn’t so funny anymore when you started naming them after the Rolling Stones and insisted we’d buy them ketchup for breakfast.”
^tbc^
Sex
Warnungen für dieses Kapitel: Enthält Erwähnungen von *gasp* hetero-sex. Allerdins nicht mehr als die Serie auch. ;)
“Are you sure this is a good idea?“ Sam asks when Dean throws his leather jacket on. Sam tries to sound nonchalant, but fails. It might be because he’s a tiny little bit freaked out about the possibility of his brother passing out somewhere. In some shady bar. Alone.
“Hell yes. It’s the damn best idea I’ve had all day.”
Dean had been wired and fidgety ever since they had left the hospital this morning, pacing up and down the small motel room like a caged animal. He is restless by nature and not even having the theoretical opportunity to drive somewhere, makes him feel trapped and uneasy Sam can tell.
It’s not as if Sam is making progress with the research or as if Dean’s restless pacing and bitchy mood is helping the matter.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be on your own right now”, Sam says and wishes he hadn’t. That’s exactly the wrong thing to say to his brother.
“Yeah, and why is that?”
“I mean, with you being …” Sam makes a vague gesture with his hand, searching for a word that describes Dean’s current condition. Sick? Cursed? Out of commission?
“Me being what? Sleepy?” Dean huffs, clearly annoyed, and pops up his collar. “Look, for the activities I have in mind I’d need a bed anyway.”
He leers and waggles his eyebrows, looking incredibly stupid and reckless and so young that Sam feels something strong and hot and fierce unfurling in his stomach.
“TMI, dude.” He sighs and throws his hands up exasperatedly, just to stop himself from hugging his stupid brother. “Fine. Do whatever you like, I don’t care.”
It’s a lie and obviously he’s doing a crappy job at not caring, because Dean’s eyes soften unconsciously.
“I’ll be fine, Sammy. Don’t worry. It’s just around the corner. Only a few beers and if I’m lucky a girl with nice pair of…” he makes some explicit gestures in front of his chest. “…eyes”, he ends, smirking.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Just, you know, be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
You never are, not with yourself, is on the tip of Sam’s tongue, but he swallows it down and nods anyway.
“And no pool hustling!” he yells after Dean’s retreating figure. Dean is reckless enough usually, hustling biker gangs and aggressive college jerks. The last thing he needs is to pass out while he’s about to make a lot of people angry at him. Not when Sam is not there to have his back.
Sighing he sits back down in front of his laptop. Research it is.
It’s kind of frustrating how many myths and curses there are on sleep and how little is actually relevant to their case. It’s all about eternal sleep and hundred years of sleeping and deadly nightmares and stuff that’s not helpful at all. Nobody writes about sudden sleep spells anywhere. He even googles “napccident” out of sheer desperation and feels kind of stupid when (needless to say) nothing comes up.
Approximately two hours later, he’s engrossed in an article about old Indian curses that makes the cursed person sleep for a hundred days when his cell starts to ring. The sound is “You shook me all night long” which means it’s Dean, and his heart skips a beat.
“Dean?” he breathes.
“Help me, please!” It’s a woman’s voice. She sounds young and at the edge of hysterics. “I didn’t do anything, I swear! I didn’t …”
Sam is out of his chair already and fumbling for his jacket, feeling his pulse speed up. “Who’s there?”
“My name’s Lizzie. Oh god, I don’t… Are you Sam?”
“Yes! Yes, I’m Sam. I’m Dean’s brother. Okay, Lizzie calm down.” His heart is jackhammering in his chest. “Calm down and tell me what happened! Where is he? Where are you?”
She tells him a street name and a number and his fingers are shaking as he scribbles them down. “He just … he passed out on me.” She’s nearly sobbing now. “We were fooling around and all of the sudden…. And he won’t wake up. I didn’t do anything to him, I swear. One second he was completely fine and the next…he’s not…he’s still breathing, I swear! He just won’t wake up…”
Adrenalin is pumping through his veins and his fingers are slick with sweat as he reaches for the keys, almost stumbling halfway to the door. “Listen to me - I’ll be right there! Stay with him, ‘till I get there! Got that?”
“Y-yes …” she sounds hesitant as if she’s about to bolt any minute now. And even if she obviously can’t do shit to protect Dean, it’s better than the alternative. Sam feels his stomach churn at the thought of his brother being unconscious and defenseless and alone somewhere.
“Stay with him!” he barks, makes it an order. “Keep trying to wake him. Talk to him, I don’t know – and for heaven’s sake” he rubs his forehead, because he should’ve known something like this would happen, “get him dressed if you can. I’ll be there in ten!”
The Impala makes it in five.
The street belongs to an old block, flickering streetlights and broken cars at the sides.
He’s not checking for a trap or traces of sulfur or anything.
Dean would so kick my ass for that. He puts a gun in the back of his pants. Oh please, let Dean be able to kick his ass.
He doesn’t even know why he’s so afraid all of the sudden. Nothing happened. Dean always, always woke up again. He was always fine. He was always just asleep.
Still he rushes up the stairs, taking several steps at a time. It’s the fourth floor and he hammers at the door, trying to catch his breath.
“It’s Sam!” he yells. “Lizzie!”
A young woman yanks the door open, looking anxious. She’s pretty, in that blonde and busty way Dean prefers, but her eyes look red and swollen and her hair and make-up is a mess.
“Where is he?” Sam demands.
“B-bedroom.” She hiccups a little. “I did read about people having heart attacks during sex, but I never thought… He is so young and…”
He dashes off without hearing her out.
Dean lays on his stomach, loose limbed and silent, one hand dangling over the edge of the bed. He’s naked except his black boxer shorts and a blanket thrown hastily over his lower body.
Sam crouches down next to him, reaching for his neck, counting seconds in his head and murmuring ‘please, please, please’ under his breath.
Dean’s face is slack and peaceful, pressed into the pillow, and he looks merely sleeping.
He is merely sleeping, Sam determines after feeling the faint but steady flutter of his pulse. Sam releases a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding and feels his shoulders sagging. Thank God, he thinks.
“Is he…is he going to be okay?” Lizzie asks from the door, her voice quavering. “Shouldn’t we call a doctor?”
“He’ll be fine”, Sam answers without looking up.
“What is it? Is it some kind of disease?”
He almost laughs at that, because no, Dean isn’t sick, he’s friggin’ ‘Sleeping Beauty’ and Sam obviously isn’t the damn prince, because he can’t do jackshit to wake him up.
He stares at his brother, who never sleeps next to strangers, who never even rests without making sure there’s someone there to have his back. Even with Sam or Dad in the same room Dean was always alert, was always on guard and ready to be awake at the slightest sound.
It makes his stomach clench to see Dean like that. Unguarded, unprotected. Fragile, somehow. Needing Sam to be there, to look out for him. To protect him.
And maybe that’s the reason why this whole thing freaks him out so much. It’s so … not Dean.
“It’s okay”, Sam says, his voice sounding hoarse. “I’ll take care of him. He’s going to be fine.”
“All right.” He can feel her hesitating in the doorway.
“Really, he’s fine”, he says, turning away from Dean and for the first time he really looks at her, notices her as a person and not just an obstacle on his way to his big brother.
“Thank you for calling me”, he adds, feeling genuinely grateful that she did. A sudden thought occurs to him and he asks: “How did you know to call me anyway?”
“He put his cell on the nightstand.”
She smiles a little and wipes her puffy, red eyes. She looks really upset about the whole thing and Sam starts to feel a little bit bad about yelling at her. It wasn’t her fault to begin with. And she seems to be genuinely worried about Dean.
“He told me…he said if something happened, I should call ‘Sam’. I just assumed…oh, I don’t know what I thought. I should’ve asked what he meant, but we were really…occupied at the time.” She blushes.
“Oh okay. I get it.” Sam blushes, too. He can’t really help it. At the same time he feels a rush of warm affection as he watches Dean’s back rise and fall.
He hears Lizzie’s soft footsteps as she leaves and gives them some privacy, for which he is eternally grateful. This is going to be embarrassing enough as it is, without her being there.
“Dean.” Carefully he lays his hand on Deans back. “Dean, wake up, man.”
The skin under his fingers feels warm and soft and alive. For a second nothing happens and he starts to get nervous. What if Lizzie was right? She couldn’t wake him up either. What if this time is the time when Dean won’t wake up again? What if…
“Dean!” he says louder, more forcefully, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.
Dean makes a soft, sleepy noise and blinks confusedly.
“…Sam?” he murmurs.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Sweet relief is surging through his veins. “I’ve got you. It’s fine”, he adds soothingly, because Dean startles all of the sudden.
“I…what…?” He blinks and slowly he looks down at himself. “Dude”, he says. “What happened? Why am I naked?”
“You’re wearing boxers?” Sam supplies helpfully, feeling giddy and all kinds of grateful all of a sudden.
Dean looks around startled. Then he sniffs tentatively and promptly makes a face. “It smells like sex in here and I’m naked with you in bed. That’s so wrong on so many levels!”
Sam can’t help it, he laughs. He pats Dean’s back. “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll still respect you in the morning.”
“Sam! Don’t even joke about it …! Dude, gross.” He groans and buries his face in his hands. “It was a napccident, right?” he finally asks, sounding mutedly.
Sam nods, instantly sobering up. “Looks like it.”
“Oh, fucking great. Awesome. Nothing new then.”
Sam feels his heart clench a little at his brother’s miserable voice. “Seriously, though”, he asks. “Are you all right, dude? Not feeling weird? Dizzy? Sick?”
Dean shakes his head and starts to get up. He stops mid-motion, squints and seems to think for a moment.
“Wait a minute. There was a girl…” he finally says, sounding embarrassed and worried and confused all at the same time. “Uhm…Lizzie? Is she…? Is she all right? Did she…? Did I…?” he makes a vague gesture with his hand.
“Lizzie. Yes, she’s fine. She’s good. She called me”, Sam assures him. “And yes, I’m afraid to say it, but I think you might have missed the… climax of your acquaintance.”
“Oh God…” Groaning Dean buries his head in the pillow. “No way. Kill me, Sam, kill me now!”
Nachwort: So, jetzt brauche ich erstmal ne kleine Pause um meine Wichtel-FF zu schreiben. Danach widme ich mich aber auch wieder dieser FF. =)
