Work Text:
16. Misery loves company
A particularly violent cramp pulled Dean out of his slumber and he groaned. His stomach was just so <em>angry</em> with him. And for what? He wasn’t nauseous anymore, not since throwing up all over himself, but it hurt to breathe. He didn’t even dare move, so he just rode out the cramp and waited for it to be over.
Once he could breathe again, Dean looked over at the nightstand and saw a glass of water and some Tylenol sitting there for him. He slowly reached over and grabbed the glass and the pills, downing them one at a time, and curled back up under the blankets. He fell back asleep faster than he thought he would, considering how much his stomach hurt.
Sam winced suddenly, bending forward where he sat on the couch with Bobby.
“You okay?” Bobby asked, looking over at him skeptically.
“Uh oh,” Sam said as he wrapped an arm around his middle. He wasted no time running up the stairs and into the bathroom, pausing when he was standing in front of the toilet. Because of Dean, Sam assumed that he’d feel like throwing up, but instead there was a grumbling low in his stomach. He dropped his pants and sat on the toilet, hoping he felt better once he was done.
“Sam? You okay in there?” Bobby asked, knocking softly at the bathroom door after Sam had been in there for quite some time.
“Yeah, one second.” Sam cleared his throat and cleaned himself up. After washing his hands, he pulled open the door and looked at Bobby with attitude written all over his face.
“How’re ya doin’?” Bobby stepped out of the way so that Sam could go into his bedroom.
“Well, I just shit straight water, so I’ve been better.” Sam winced and settled into his own bed.
“Yikes. Want something?” Bobby glanced over at Dean’s sleeping form and then back at Sam.
“No. Better if I go to sleep.”
Bobby pulled the thermometer out of his back pocket and handed it over, staring Sam down until he stuck it in his ear.
“99.8,” Sam read off.
Bobby frowned and took the thermometer back, sticking it in Dean’s ear since the man couldn’t do it himself. “Dean’s up to 100.5.”
Sam sighed and pulled the blankets up over his shoulder. “Night, Bobby. Thanks for letting us crash here.”
“Anytime, kid. Sleep well, wake me up if you need me.” Bobby turned out the light and left the boys’ room.
Dean rolled onto his back and rubbed at his eyes. It was light out, so he’d been sleeping for a long time, but he still felt like he could sleep a little longer. His stomach wasn’t cramping anymore, and he hadn’t thrown up over night, so he figured he was in the clear and slowly sat up. Sam was curled up in his bed, a second trash can pulled up close to his mattress. Dean looked over his sleeping brother’s form and wondered if Sam had gotten sick, too, but didn’t want to wake him up to find out.
Slowly, Dean stood up and dug some fresh clothes out of his duffle bag. He showered, feeling much more himself once he was clean, and padded down the hall and down the stairs to find Bobby sitting at his desk in the living room.
“Mornin’ sunshine. Feeling better?” Bobby took in the wet hair and flushed cheeks on the older Winchester and itched to feel his forehead.
“Yeah,” Dean answered, sitting in the recliner. He was wiped out from his shower and the walk downstairs, which meant he was probably still getting over whatever had knocked him out so quickly. “How’s Sam?”
“Had the Hershey squirts all night,” Bobby answered, stuffing a random scrap of paper into his book to mark his page. He stood and walked up to Dean, frowning as he approached. “You look peaky.”
“Don’t feel 100% yet,” Dean admitted. His stomach, which had been okay when he woke up, was feeling a little unsettled at the mention of Hershey squirts.
Bobby reached out and felt Dean’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Here. In your ear.” He handed him the thermometer and waited for the reading.
Dean stuck the tip in his ear and held it there until it beeped. “100.1.”
“Down a little from last night. Are ya hungry?” Bobby took the thermometer back and looked Dean over. There was a green tinge around Dean’s mouth that hadn’t been there when he’d first come downstairs.
Dean shook his head. “Might just chill on the couch, watch some tv.”
Bobby frowned harder at that. There wasn’t a time he could recall that Dean voluntarily sat still, let alone <em>relaxed</em>. “Well, let me know if you change your mind.” Bobby went back to his book and listened to the sounds coming from the tv while he researched. He’d almost forgotten that Dean was even in the room when a wet belch came from the area of the couch and the younger man went running towards the kitchen sink.
Dean clamped a hand over his mouth, desperate not to vomit on himself twice in a 12 hour period, as he ran to the kitchen to find <em>anything</em> to hurl into. It was the stupid Wendy’s commercial that had set him off—the close up of the chicken and beef patties—and here he was, throwing up into Bobby’s sink.
“You’ve gotta be jokin’,” Bobby said, trailing Dean closely. He rubbed a hand over his face as Dean retched into the sink. “I just cleaned that out, ya know.” Sighing, he went up behind Dean and rested a hand on the kid’s back. “Let it all out, you’re okay,” he said as he rubbed a comforting circle through Dean’s shirt.
“Sorry,” Dean croaked out. “Was the Wendy’s commercial—” he gagged as he said it, the thought of it still triggering his stomach.
“Shh, stop talkin’ about it.” Bobby ran the water, trying to thin out the vomit in the sink, and kept rubbing Dean’s back.
After a few minutes, Dean nodded and took a step back. “I’m done.”
“Go sit down, I’ve got this.” Bobby nodded to the couch.
“You sure? I can do it,” Dean started. His legs were starting to shake, and he knew he had to sit down soon whether he wanted to or not.
“I’m sure, now go sit before you pass out!” Bobby gave him a gentle push toward the living room and waited until he was out of sight before grabbing his yellow rubber gloves from under the sink. “Bunch a idjits,” he muttered under his breath as he scrubbed the sink clean.
Sam gasped awake, a gurgling in his stomach telling him to get to the bathroom, pronto. He threw back the blankets and shuffled to the blessedly empty bathroom, shutting himself in and sitting on the toilet. He wasn’t very familiar with having diarrhea, typically steering clear of foods that looked like they would disagree with him, but he decided in that moment that he’d rather throw up any day than piss out of his ass.
When he was done, he washed his hands and dared to venture downstairs. Dean was curled up on the couch, pale as a ghost and huddled under a blanket.
“Morning’,” Bobby said as he walked into the room with an old mop bucket in his hand. He set it on the floor next to Dean and turned his attention to Sam. “Feelin’ any better?”
Sam shook his head and sat next to his brother, pulling his feet up under him.
Bobby draped a second blanket over Sam and handed him the thermometer. “100.2,” he said once it beeped. “You boys never take it easy, do ya?”
“Sorry, Bobby,” Sam and Dean said at the same time.
Bobby huffed out a laugh. “I’m teasin’ ya. You come here any time you’re under the weather and I’ll take care of ya.” He kissed the top of Sam’s head and then Dean’s. “You need anything?”
Dean just groaned, glad the tv was off now.
“Maybe some Gatorade?” Sam knew he was dehydrated, and that meant Dean was <em>really</em> dehydrated.
“That’s a good idea. I’ll run to the store, stock up on some stuff. You’ll be okay until I get back?” Bobby grabbed his keys off the hook by the door.
“Yeah, we’re fine.” Sam smiled at Bobby, though he could tell it wasn’t at all convincing.
Dean held out a thumbs up, no other part of him moving at all.
Sam slid sideways once Bobby was gone, resting his head on the arm of the couch. “Wanna watch something?”
“It can’t have commercials,” Dean said, shuddering.
“Okay?” Sam turned the tv on and flipped until he found a channel playing M*A*S*H reruns with minimal commercials, and he and Dean stayed like that for the rest of the day, taking turns blowing up the bathroom in different ways.