“Dean… Dean...” When he comes to again, Sam barely recognizes his own voice. It’s calling out for his brother, almost without him even thinking to do so. It’s become involuntary, and he wonders when that began. Was it when he was a boy? Or later on? He honestly has no idea. All he knows is that he was woken up by the sound of his own voice, low and pitiful and begging for his brother, tears sliding down his cheeks. He’s crying. He doesn’t know why. And then it hits him..
Every inch of his body hurts. Aches. Bleeding weakness and pain and hot and cold from every pore, he becomes aware that the pain is condensed in his middle. He curls into fetal position to try and fight it, but it’s a white hot flare inside of him. He feels saliva rush to his mouth and the heat intensifies as he continues to call out.
“Cas, grab the damned waste basket,” Dean is pulling him, harshly and quickly and roughly, over the side of the bed, and he wants to shout out for him to stop, to not tug at him, but the retching starts the next moment that he opens his mouth. Castiel has the tiny plastic trash can under him just in time.
It lasts for what seems like hours, and the hot and cold flashes return to accompany the heaving. He tries to grasp onto the voices of his brother and their angel as they flutter about the room, twisting and turning around him as if on some sort of disjointed PA speaker. “It shouldn’t last much longer.”
“How the hell do you know that – this ever happened to someone else?”
“Never. But I can feel the essence of the demons leaving him. It’s as much a spiritual thing as it is a physical one. And that’s why we have to leave again. It’s become apparent again.”
“You mean he’s fucking… Broadcasting… Again?”
“Exactly. I think this will be the… Last transmission.”
“Dude, you so do not get to share my metaphors, ever again.”
“I am merely trying to make myself seem more familiar by adapting your colloquialisms.”
“I don’t know what the hell that is, but I sure as shit don’t have any for you to adopt. And we can’t move him, not when he’s this damned sick again.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s not nearly as hot as he was before. It won’t last long. He’ll recover after this. I can sense it.”
“Forgive me if I’m not entirely reassured by your keen sense of demonic-whatchama-fuckery,” Dean hisses the last part out, and the vehemence helps to ground Sam. If nothing else, it’s true emotion. It’s the old Dean. One of the scarier aspects of the old Dean, but the old Dean nonetheless. Sam thinks he might be smiling at that, but he can’t tell. Everything is fuzzy or sharp again, cutting into him. The air is cutting into him, the blankets, everything. The world is spinning, but this time, he’s conscious for it. He notices that the retching has stopped, and tries to speak.
“Dean… Go… Kay…” He’d meant to say, ‘If we need to go, it’s okay with me,’ but under the circumstances, he’s happy with what he managed. Small victories were still victories, he supposes as he tries to stand, and he feels four hands around him once again. He doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to move, as if the world were underwater, sound and motion succumbing to pounds of pressure and light dampened by dozens of feet of sluggishly moving darkness. Fifty feet underwater, at least, he guesses. That’s what it’s like, slipping through that water, that pressure. Too much pressure… His head is going to explode… And then it stops.
FILLED: Nor Will I Imitate A Choo-Choo Train 9/10
Every inch of his body hurts. Aches. Bleeding weakness and pain and hot and cold from every pore, he becomes aware that the pain is condensed in his middle. He curls into fetal position to try and fight it, but it’s a white hot flare inside of him. He feels saliva rush to his mouth and the heat intensifies as he continues to call out.
“Cas, grab the damned waste basket,” Dean is pulling him, harshly and quickly and roughly, over the side of the bed, and he wants to shout out for him to stop, to not tug at him, but the retching starts the next moment that he opens his mouth. Castiel has the tiny plastic trash can under him just in time.
It lasts for what seems like hours, and the hot and cold flashes return to accompany the heaving. He tries to grasp onto the voices of his brother and their angel as they flutter about the room, twisting and turning around him as if on some sort of disjointed PA speaker. “It shouldn’t last much longer.”
“How the hell do you know that – this ever happened to someone else?”
“Never. But I can feel the essence of the demons leaving him. It’s as much a spiritual thing as it is a physical one. And that’s why we have to leave again. It’s become apparent again.”
“You mean he’s fucking… Broadcasting… Again?”
“Exactly. I think this will be the… Last transmission.”
“Dude, you so do not get to share my metaphors, ever again.”
“I am merely trying to make myself seem more familiar by adapting your colloquialisms.”
“I don’t know what the hell that is, but I sure as shit don’t have any for you to adopt. And we can’t move him, not when he’s this damned sick again.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s not nearly as hot as he was before. It won’t last long. He’ll recover after this. I can sense it.”
“Forgive me if I’m not entirely reassured by your keen sense of demonic-whatchama-fuckery,” Dean hisses the last part out, and the vehemence helps to ground Sam. If nothing else, it’s true emotion. It’s the old Dean. One of the scarier aspects of the old Dean, but the old Dean nonetheless. Sam thinks he might be smiling at that, but he can’t tell. Everything is fuzzy or sharp again, cutting into him. The air is cutting into him, the blankets, everything. The world is spinning, but this time, he’s conscious for it. He notices that the retching has stopped, and tries to speak.
“Dean… Go… Kay…” He’d meant to say, ‘If we need to go, it’s okay with me,’ but under the circumstances, he’s happy with what he managed. Small victories were still victories, he supposes as he tries to stand, and he feels four hands around him once again. He doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to move, as if the world were underwater, sound and motion succumbing to pounds of pressure and light dampened by dozens of feet of sluggishly moving darkness. Fifty feet underwater, at least, he guesses. That’s what it’s like, slipping through that water, that pressure. Too much pressure… His head is going to explode… And then it stops.