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John is speaking again. His voice is grating and angry and oh so accusing, rough on Dean’s fragile, infected ears and sharp on his heart. His words no longer make much sense the longer he stews in his makeshift bed on the ground, coughing and shivering and clothes dirty with sick, sticking to his feverish body and making him itch. His head pounds with his heart as John looms as a blurred image over his trembling body and sneers, a dreadful and heart wrenching thing as a calloused hand is rough against his hot forehead and Dean mumbles, soaked sheets digging into his back.
“Get over this, Dean.”
The statement is like a fresh burn, blistering and Dean unconsciously jerks away from the words, away from John as the hand lifts from his forehead and footsteps trudge away. It is not the first time John has spat out such a phrase, tinged with annoyance and impatience, but it still stings as if is it, like it’s his fault delirium has rattled his body and sickness has clung to his stomach and he can will it away with a single thought.
Dean tried at first. John was ways away on a hunt and Dean was sniffly, snot in his nose and throat sore when he woke. He chugged down expired Benadryl he found tucked in the crevice of a cabinet in the motel room, no doubt left by a previous tenant, and tended to his whiny younger brother with meals and playtime and protection. He ignored the nausea by avoiding food and treated the growing pressure in his head with old pills he stole from the connivence store down the road. Too expensive to buy, and funds went to Sam to feed and clothe his growing body.
He blew his nose in secret and hacked up phlegm all night, spending nights locked in the bathroom as to not disturb a sleeping Sam, still young enough to curl up in the scratchy motel sheets and snooze with mild anxiety and sassy comments about his Dad being gone. His brother would wake sometimes and sheepishly knock on the door, asking for him and if he was okay, but Dean would shoo him away and tell him he didn’t want him to get the cold he had.
Mild sickness bled into quick decline, as lack of food and swelling illness robbed him of sleep and energy, swaying on his feet and blinking away blurriness and confusion when he took care of Sam or tried to buy food at the corner store and adults took notice, feeling his face and commenting on the skinniness of his features and the paleness of his skin. Medications were tossed at him but with dwindling money and unanswered calls from a missing John, Dean bought food and water and juice and nearly passed out on the walk home. Blood spattered on tissues when he coughed and Sam offered water with a worried face. He told him to call Dad. Dean did so for his sake and left a voicemail.
It wasn’t until Dean fainted trying to make Sam mac and cheese and spilled hot water on himself and burned his hands that Sam dialed up John himself, and threatened through tears if he didn’t answer the phone and come back to the hotel that Sam would call an ambulance to get Dean help. John answered within the next few minutes and promised to be home.
Sam tried his best. He did. He was teary and scared and Dean tried to reassure and shove himself up, but his hands were shaking and weeping and his head spun with nausea. Sam wet a rag and tried to treat the burns, and Dean faded in and out of consciousness as fear quaked in his chest at the thought of his father coming home to such a sight, having been pulled away to tend to them both when Dean was the one who was supposed to watch out for Sam and be dependable.
John reeked of beer when he got back to the hotel just a few hours later, and his face was drawn into a scowl and journal tossed aside as he tramped his way over to Deans crumpled form and Sam’s nattering self, worry flooding from his tone and wringing his hands. He knelt in front of Dean and scanned him over, taking one of his wrists roughly to examine his hands and let out an annoyed sigh.
“Can you stand?”
A desperate attempt to scramble to his feet proved fruitless, and he flinched when his hands brushed the floor and his stomach turned. John rubbed a hand over his face and hoisted him by the armpits, lugging him over to the floor by the bed they shared.
His grip was hard and quick, and it hurt. It hurt deep in his chest when a pillow was placed on the ground and Dean was laid haphazardly against it, outer shirt undone and pulled off his trembling arms. His mother used to hold him gently and fuss when he was sick, and John used to cuddle and hug him when he was up all night coughing. He missed it. They cared for him then.
Now, John muttered words to himself and snapped at Sam when he got too close trying to help, and shoved him away and back towards the kitchen. He was obviously upset with Dean, and Dean couldn’t help but feel it was deserved for failing the one role his father have him.
“You better get over this soon. I have things to do and you need to take care of Sam.”
A day later, still secluded to his spot on the floor so he didn’t get the others sick, a sheet for a blanket, Dean vomited and developed a high fever, and John fed his exasperation with beer. Sam ate meals half cooked or burned and had unbuttoned sleeves, and listened to John huff angrily over the phone to Bobby and other hunters. Dean fell further and further into fever and mucus and hunger as the days stretched.
He is still in those same clothes four days later, and he stinks of sweat and his skin is slick with oil. His hair is tattered and his mind is rambling, twisting and twirling with fever and images that’s creep in the corner of his eye and he hasn’t eaten, because he cannot keep it down and John didn’t think it was worth trying to feed him solids when it always spilled out his lips. He would help him drink water mixed with flavor as a substitute for food, but it was always accompanied with a command or a remark.
“You’re robbing me of work. I need you to get better.”
Sam yells at him to stop being so mean. John shoots back and they fight. The sound is angry and frightening on his ears, and Dean worries for his brother.
He feels disgusting. He feels dirty to his core and his skin itches and he longs for a shower or even a cloth to wipe his face, but he is too weak to do it himself and John would never take the time. He’s even hesitant, unwilling to be bothered, to help Dean walk to the bathroom so he doesn’t soil himself and only does when Dean can’t truly get up. Fever reducers are shoved down his throat and Dean longs for a comforting touch. He tries to shove the thought away, but the more the fever burns his brain, the more locked up thoughts seep their away through his dam.
He wants John to care. He wants John to treat him how he did before his mother died. He wants to be fed meals he can stomach and given clean clothes and not treated as though his sickness is a defiance against his father.
Delirium follows quickly. He no longer speaks as his mind sinks deeper and deeper into delusions, sparks dancing in his eyes and old memories replacing the walls of the dingy motel. He can see his mother tending to his hands and brushing his hair, and he can see his father holding an infant Sam and cooing words he’d never say. He’s back in her arms as she wipes his forehead clean and tells him he will be okay, he will get better, and his father tells him to ride the wave and be brave.
When John waters him, he calls him mom. He grows angry and tosses the bottle and stomps away, and Dean is confused as tears fill his eyes and he cries. John yells at him and tells him to knock it off, and Dean asks for his mother and begs him to not be so angry. John tells him he’s a pansy and tosses the sheet over his face and storms out the door, slamming it shut, and Dean flinches at the sound and weeps into his pillow.
He mumbles to himself. He mumbles phrases he remembers and places and times, the names of monsters and schools and facts that bubble up. Sam sits with him when John isn’t around and tries to clean his face, and Dean thanks him so happily and slurs his words, and Sam takes it. Sometimes, Sam looks like mom, and sometimes, Sam looks like Dean, and he tries to touch his face and pet him.
“Rest, De. Just rest. You’ll get better soon.”
The name De is so strange and loving, and it swirls in his chest. He babbles it to himself until John tells him to shut up and takes his temperature. He huffs angrily when it’s the same as it was yesterday. Dean pays no mind as dream John reads him books and rustles his hair.
He doesn’t know how long he spends in such a state. He isn’t aware of the passage of time or the hunger in his belly, only the visions that fuel him and the angry words from his father that confuse him. John never speaks like that in these dreams, these dreams that feel real, and Dean wants to cling to this kind version of John that cares for him and not his usefulness. He wants to cling to his mother that is still alive and bathes him and puts him in soft clothes and a warm bed.
He wakes one day with a start and a shaking body, beaded with sweat, and the world is clear. The dirty walls of the motel are there, and the scratchy carpet digs into his skin, and John with a scowl looms over his body. Dean blinks and blinks and stares, and John hoists his torso upwards and puts a glass to his lips. Dean gasps and shakes and looks around frantically, but it’s all gone. His mother is gone and the kindly look of his dad, still young and fresh and holding him up high is replaced with this angry one, shoving a glass in his face and demanding he drink. It’s so much more bitter than the John in his dreams, and it jerks him back to reality, to how he truly lives. The fantasy is gone.
He drinks, and John gives a scrutinizing look. “Finally coherent?”
Dean smacks his lips and coughs, rubbing a twitching hand through his hair. “Yeah.” He wants it back. He wants the delirium back.
John clucks his tongue and presses the back of his hand to Deans forehead, and gives a whistle. “Fuckin’ finally. Think the fevers broke.”
A thermometer is shoved in his mouth and he chokes. The glass is cold on his tongue. John watches as the red crawls up and gives a grin. Dean crosses his eyes and can read a double 100 across the top, and quiet happiness bubbles in his chest. It’s nice to see his dad happy he is better.
John stands and rubs his eyes. “Good. Get off your ass and shower. You stink. I need to head out and make up for lost time since you got sick and couldn’t care for your brother.”
He shouldn’t be shocked, but he is, and he doesn’t move while John slinks a bag over his shoulder and heads to the door. Emotions wash over him and he pulls the stick clothes from his chest.
“Dad-“ he says before he can think, because isn’t there anything else? Isn't John happy he’s feeling better for the sake of his son and not for his use as a babysitter? Doesn’t he care beyond the jobs and Sam and hunter phone calls and monsters and demons?
John looks over his shoulder and snorts. “What? Can you not take care of Sam? C'mon Dean, it’s just a bug.”
It’s like a whip. The words crackle in the air and Dean slumps.
“Good luck.” Is all Dean says, and John is out the door.