Days When Pain Is All You Have

[soncnica]

Title: Days When Pain Is All You Have
Author: soncnica
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Pairing: Sam, Dean, GEN
Wordcount: cca. 2.900
Summary: "Okay, okay, alright, 'm calling an ambulance, because man…" there are some things that Sam just can't fix, not on days like these.
Warnings: blood, language
Disclaimer: I seriously only own the grammar/spelling mistakes. Everything else is NOT MINE! ALL IS FICTION.
A/N: I just feel the need to hurt Dean these days... I do not know LOL

It's one of those days, when sweat runs down your face and back in rivers making you itch in places you don't wanna itch because it's socially unacceptable to scratch there. Fuck that.

It's one of those days, when you could do without your shirt; 's just making you feel like you're in some sort of a freakin' cage or somethin'.

It's one of those days, when coffee just makes your heart pound miles per second and you get a head rush whenever you stand up and the world tilts so bad you wanna puke just to tilt it back.

It's one of those days, when you think the asphalt's gonna melt right underneath your baby's tires.

It's one of those days, when you think you're melting into the seat and you're gonna ooze right down to the bottom.

It's one of those days, when your ass sticks to the car seat when you try to get out of the car and the noise it makes when you unglue yourself; Sam's bitch face is priceless.

It's one of those days, when no one says nothin', and everyone's saying something, but you're just too hot to get a clue.

It's one of those days, when the thing you're hunting just doesn't give a damn whether if it rips you apart, snaps your neck or just eats you while your body's still working just fine.

It's one of those days... when you just wanna fuckin' lay in bed and shoot the shit and drink yourself into a coma.

It's one of those days... that always bring trouble.

-:-

He's sweating, so badly, he thinks he's gonna drown; sink in the wetness and never come up for air again. The pillow is soft where he's twisting it between his fingers, pulling at the fabric with all the strength he can still manage, which isn't all that much really.

Fuck this day.

He's panting, the salty sweat burning his eyes and slowly tickling down his back and neck, making him squirm.

"Don't move, Dean."

Fuck this day, he's damn well gonna move, because it itches.

"Dean…"

There's a warning in that word and he settles down, because there's just no telling what Sam might do to him if he doesn't do what he's been told.

His hair is wet, he can feel it, plastered to his head like he just came out of a shower, he's not wearing a shirt, he can tell by the way air slips and slides across his chest and back, making goosebumps even in this heat.

He can't catch enough air in his lungs and he's holding it in, keeps on gulping air down, but never releases it, just piles it up and up and up in his lungs and they're gonna explode when the pile will become a mountain.

Fuck this day, and fuck Sam for telling him to just breathe out and not just in.

He can't and can't Sam fuckin' understand that, damn it.

He hisses and squeezes his eyes shut, trying so hard to breathe through the pain and he does manage to release some air but he sucks it right back in triple dose. His lungs are gonna explode and he won't be able to stop it.

Fuck this day and fuck Sam for telling him to relax.

He wants to say you relax, but he can't move his jaw to speak, he has to keep on clenching his teeth and try to bite the pillow and not his lips, because this... this hurts like hell.

Fuck this day and fuck Sam being all calm about it and gentle fingers about it and soothing voice about it.

He wants to shout, but all he manages is a hiss and a groan and a nice long breath in, because breathing out is simply not an option. He just can't make himself do it.

Fuck this day and fuck this heat and fuck this pain and goddamnit he needs some alcohol in his veins.

He groans and squeezes his eyes tighter when he feels Sam's fingers tighten a bit where he's holding him steady and down to the bed; strong, sure, long fingers digging into the soft flesh between his ribs. Damn, but his brother is a strong son of a bitch.

Fuck this day and how that makes him almost relax, but not really, because his lungs hurt, his throat hurts, his eyes sting and his teeth are clenched so tight, he's gonna chip a tooth.

He clutches the pillow tighter and bites into it harder, can't help it. Really can't help it, because his back is on fire and his lower back is on ice and he can't help but make a weird khhh sound and drench the pillow in puke and spit.

Fuck this day and fuck how that doesn't even make him feel awkward or embarrassed.

"Shit, Dean..."

Yeah, shit Dean puking all over yourself on this awesome, hot day. Shit Dean, huh?

He spits the pillow out of his mouth, but doesn't move, just lies there on his side in his puke, breathing in and in and in, swallowing down so much air, he can feel it all the way down in his stomach, feeling it burn there and in his lungs. But he can't breathe out, can't do it, can't make himself do it, because fucking hell it hurts so much. His whole side, his whole left side is dipped into lava and ice.

Fuck this day and fuck Sam for being all Mr. Calm about it, while he's swimming in his sweat and puke and saliva and maybe even piss, but damn it if he's gonna go there.

He closes his eyes.

He breathes in. But not out.

"Dean, you have to breathe out, come on, man."

Fuck his brother and everything.

Just everything.

"Dude, come on, this is only making you hurt more."

He wants to shout stitch faster you bitch, stitch me up and drown me in booze you bitch and stop telling me what to do, you moron.

But that is still his brother, his little brother, his baby brother... so he says nothing and just lies there on his side, crushing the puked pillow in his hands and tries not to scream.

Fuck this day.

Just fuck it.

"Dean, dude..."

He knows exactly what Sam wants to say, his brother doesn't even have to finish the sentence, but man, it's hard... whatever happened to him, whatever clawed him, clawed him good. Got him real good and the smell of blood is just overwhelming and the smell of his own puke is enough to make him gag, but all he has is a mouthful of sour saliva and he can't deal with that. Can't.

"Done, we're done, man."

Those words are enough to make him almost weep with joy, but all he does is slowly, slowly, very slowly breathe out, fingers squeezing the pillow with every breath.

It aches, hurts, fire on ice, but he does it. Releases all that air he's been holding and just lets it finally go.

And Sam was right, that does feel better.

"Don't move, alright. I'll take care of everything, you just... lie there, okay?"

He can't even nod to that, just... lies there like a sad, sad sack of potatoes.

Bloody potatoes.

-:-

Having your little brother clean your face from puke and sweat is not something overly cool, but pain does dim the awkwardness. A bit.

"Alright, listen..."

He looks at Sam, looks right into those eyes that are so serious right now, he can't help but blush a bit. It's a weird reaction - probably happened because he's high on pain or something - especially because this isn't his first rodeo, but still... it's awkward and he wants to run or hide. Something to just get away from whatever his brother is gonna say to him… or do to him.

"Stay on your side, alright, no matter what, okay? Don't wanna rip your stitches, okay?"

He wants to nod, but all he does is blink.

"Okay, now... if you piss blood, you tell me, we'll go to the hospital, understand?"

Uh, awkward, but yes. He blinks.

"With everything else, the usual, alright?"

He blinks, because yes, damn it, he knows. This isn't the first time something like this happened and it sure as hell won't be the last.

"Good, now drink some water and then go to sleep. I'll keep watch so that you won't roll on your side, alright?"

Blink.

"Great."

The water is soft and cool down his throat and it washes away some of the disgusting taste of a half day old burrito. He wants Whiskey or beer, but he's afraid to demand that, because he's pretty sure Sam would punch his lights out. Which wouldn't be all that bad right now.

-:-

He sleeps on a fresh pillow, skin clean, the smell of blood aired out of the room, the stitches at his side itching, but his dreams are kept at bay by shitload of drugs Sam put in him. He can't feel much, hell, he can't even feel his tongue. Which suits him just fine.

So he sleeps.

That's all he really can do, before Sam wakes him up every few hours to pour some water or soup down his throat and then all but orders him to go back to sleep.

So he goes, because who is he to say no to his baby brother? He is no one.

-:-

The room is too dark and too quiet and smelling too fresh... there's no smell of days old sweat or days old blood or days old puke or days old fast food. There's just a weird smell of cleanliness. And a noise of soft snores.

He blinks the sleep from his eyes and looks at a weird, weird shape of his brother sleeping on a bed not far from his own. Man, the kid looks like he's a pretzel. He smiles and groans when he tries to move a bit. The mattress is soft, too soft for his achy bones and muscles, but it's warm and kinda cozy and the sheets feel fresh and that makes him sigh. It feels good even though the haze of pain pills has long ago left his body and now he's not feeling as lethargic as he probably should.

But screw that, it had been a fucked up day, so... why not be even more fucked up?

He moves some more, trying to get his feet to obey his brain, get up, get up, get up... when his toes touch the carpet he breathes out in relief, because it actually doesn't hurt all that much to sit here on the side of the bed.

But ... he has to see. Has to see what the hell happened to him and what the hell his brother stitched up. He knows how Sam stitched him up, all neat and nice, but he has to see what and where and maybe he's a masochist, but fuck it. It's been a fucked up day in a heat wave the country has never seen before so what's a bit more torture, hmm.

So he stands up and nearly falls back down on his ass, but he catches himself just in time to say screw you, gravity and makes a step.

He feels like a baby trying out its legs for the first time. All awkward and trembling and what the hell should I do with my other leg... but he manages. Stumbles only once on his way to the bathroom, cusses only ten times and feels like he's gonna hurl only three times. But he manages, and when he's finally standing in front of the mirror, leaning on the sink... he feels like he's looking at Death itself.

His skin is pale, freckles standing out strongly, his lips kinda white and his eyes are so green it's like someone spilled paint on them. It's a scary sight, and if he didn't know it was his own face staring at him, he'd want to hunt it and shoot it down until it died.

"Son of a bitch…"

His voice is shot to shit, gravely and deep and it actually scares him a little the way it cracks on words that he uses every day and come naturally to him.

He still doesn't really remember what happened, just something fast and sharp slashing him across his back. Maybe not remembering is a good thing. But damn, he looks like a ghost.

"Jesus..."

He tries to run his hand across his face, but the moment he unwraps it across his belly, he sways. Okay, that hand stays there.

He can't look at himself anymore. He knows that in a few days, with a lot of rest and sleep and food and water, he'll become more like himself, but right now... the image of him in the mirror makes him wanna reach for his gun.

He shakes his head and lets it fall down, chin resting on his chest: "Damnit..."

There's nothing he can do right now, absolutely nothing but take a leak and try to crawl back to bed.

The toilet is a bit rusty at the edges, nothing much really, he guesses Sam chose a nice motel that actually cleans its shit and all, which is super awesome, because he really doesn't think he would be able to piss without puking if he'd had to look at any mold or something.

He sends a little thank you to Sam when he sees that his brother left him in his underwear but slipped a T-shirt on him somehow, someway, because anything more than that or less than that and he would have some serious problems taking a piss. He has to lean on the wall for support with his left hand and his right one is otherwise occupied, although when he looks down and sees red on white, no arm is occupied because he collapses on the floor like the sad, sad sack of potatoes that he is.

He's pissing blood. Shit, shit, son of a bitch, no, no, nononono...

The tiles of the floor are cool, the cold seeping through the thin T-shirt and he can't breathe again. Small shivers turn into big, long shudders and he can't deal with this.

Not so soon after Hell.

He's shaking, he can feel his whole body shake, arms to legs, chest, back... he's one big wave that'll probably never reach the shore.

He wants to call out for his brother, but can't make his mouth form the word Sam, he can't make himself even bang his hand on the floor, because everything hurts so damn much... just like it did in Hell.

He closes his eyes. Opens them. Closes them. Opens them. The bathtub is still there. The floor is still there. Closes them. Opens them. Everything is still there, illuminated by a bright, white light.

Closes them. Opens them when he feels hands gripping his shoulder, fingers digging into his bicep, feet blocking the bathtub and a voice saying: "Dean, Dean, Dean, damnit, Dean, Dean!"

He knows his fuckin' name, thank you very much boy genius.

"Shit, you're pissing blood, man."

He shudders and groans and wants to curl into himself, because his dick is probably still hanging out and he's probably still pissing. Blood.

"Okay, okay, alright, 'm calling an ambulance, because man…"

He wants to protest, he does, it's on the tip of his tongue, but he's not feeling okay at all, not feeling anything actually, just that he's shaking and hurting and he wants to hide under the bathtub; crawl there like a bug and never come out. There's something seriously wrong with him, something that Sam can't fix and that's terrifying. It's so scary that his heartbeat goes wild and he can feel his heart trying to escape his chest.

"Dean, it's okay. Don't worry about it, alright? Don't worry about anything, okay?"

He doesn't. Not anymore, because it can not get anymore awkward than this; than lying shivering and sweating on a bathroom floor while his dick is out and he's pissing blood, making a warm puddle on the floor and his baby brother has to call an ambulance to come pick up his sorry ass.

He closes his eyes and doesn't open them up again. Not even when a sure, warm hand tucks his pride and joy back where it belongs, not even when something soft finds its way beneath his head, not even when his brother whispers: "You're alright..." before other people's hands are all over him.

"Sam…"

"Your brother is right here, sir."

That's his cue to finally pass out.

---

The End