Musings of a Serial Writer

Title: Takotsubo
Author: el_spirito23
Characters: Dean, Lisa, Ben
Genre/pairing: faintly Dean/Lisa
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,372
Spoilers: season 5/6
A/N: Written for salty_catfish's prompt on hoodie_time's h/c meme 6. Also, 'takotsubo' is the Japanese word for an octopus trap.

Summary: "Impressive, Winchester," she says. Dean smiles again, but now that she's closer Lisa can see that it's plastered on, and it doesn't reach his eyes, and he looks like he's gone weeks without sleeping.

"I know," Dean answers. "I'm awesome."

Lisa looks at him and wishes he believed that.


xxxx
"Here you go," Lisa says. She has an armful of blankets with a pillow stacked precariously on top; she sets them on the couch and manages to smile slightly at the man in front of her. He is hardly the man she remembers from those years before, no longer vibrant and goofy and smart-ass. Now he just looks broken and sad and completely directionless.

"Are you sure about sleeping on the couch?" She asks. She's started arranging the blankets without even thinking about it. Ben used to like to make little nests out of his blankets and pillows, pulling them up around his head so that only his face peeked out. Lisa wonders briefly if that is what her house is for Dean, and if he'll even allow his face to peep out in the wake of this latest tragedy.

"I'm sure," Dean says quietly. He sounds tired. "I just-it's just for a few days, just until-" His voice cuts out and he chokes on the word and Lisa plumps his pillow then gently squeezes his knee.

"It's okay," she says. "Take all the time you need. It's okay."

Dean nods like he doesn't believe her.

"I mean it," she says "As long as you need." She leans down and hugs him loosely around the shoulders. She doesn't take it personally when he flinches away slightly.

She leaves the living room and turns the corner toward the stairs, unsurprised to see Ben sitting on the stairs, arms and chin resting on his knees.

"Mom?" He says quietly. "What's wrong with Dean?"

Lisa sits next to him, strokes his hair out of his eyes.

"He's really sad, baby," she says. "His brother just died and he hasn't quite figured out how to keep going yet."

"Oh," Ben says. He sniffles a bit then rests his head on her thigh. "Where do you think he went? His brother."

"I don't know, Benny," Lisa whispers. "Wherever it is, I like to think that it's a better place than here."

Ben is silent a moment before he sighs.

"I like to think that too."

"Good," Lisa says, planting a kiss on Ben's forehead. "Get some sleep, baby. School tomorrow."

Ben pads up the stairs and Lisa follows. She doesn't sleep very well.

xxxx

The next morning she wakes up to the smell of bacon and pancakes. She pulls on a robe and peeks into Ben's room, surprised to see that he's already out of bed, then walks down the stairs. Dean is standing in front of the stove, spatula in one hand as he masterfully flips pancakes from the stove to a plate. Ben is standing next to him transferring bacon from the pan to a plate, and he laughs at something Dean says too low for Lisa to hear.

"Morning boys," she says with a smile, and it comes out naturally, like she was always meant to say it. They both turn to look at her, AC/DC shirts on and wearing matching grins, and for a second she forgets that Dean is broken and that their relationship is anything but normal, and just revels in the feeling of utter rightness.

"Made you some breakfast," Dean says, gesturing to the table. It's been set for three, with a pitcher of orange juice and the bottle of syrup acting as centerpieces.

"Dean taught me to make the best bacon ever!" Ben announces, bringing the plate containing said bacon to the table. It smells delicious and Lisa snags a piece. It crunches just right when she bites into it, and she raises an eyebrow.

"Impressive, Winchester," she says. Dean smiles again, but now that she's closer Lisa can see that it's plastered on, and it doesn't reach his eyes, and he looks like he's gone weeks without sleeping.

"I know," Dean answers. "I'm awesome."

Lisa looks at him and wishes he believed that.

xxxx

Ben's gone for school and the dishes are done and Dean is sitting on the couch with a beer in one hand, his head in the other. Lisa wants to say something about the alcohol or about Sam or about grieving, but she doesn't. Instead, she sits next to Dean and rests her elbows on her knees.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asks finally.

"No," Dean says softly. He takes a swig of the beer and Lisa looks away when she sees tears swimming in his eyes. Dean takes a second to compose himself before speaking again.

"How'd Ben's baseball team do?" He asks. Lisa is touched that he remembers and slightly exasperated by the deflection.

"They sucked. Only won a few games, but they played their hearts out. Ben loves it."

"Good," Dean says. "That's good."

They're quiet again. Dean frowns and rubs at his chest, and Lisa can see that he's grown pale.

"You okay?" She asks.

Dean snorts.

"I'm as okay as you could be, I guess," he says. "Considering."

He waits a beat then laughs sharply.

"Which means I feel like shit."

Lisa knows it's probably the most honest thing he's ever said to her.

"Do you want to go do anything?" Lisa asks. "I know that sometimes just sitting around is pretty bad. We could go to the movies, or you could come grocery shopping, or work out at the gym…anything sound good?"

Dean has that pained look on his face again.

"No, that's okay," he says. "I, uh, I didn't sleep well last night and I might just lay down for awhile."

Lisa feels uneasy but nods and squeezes his shoulder.

"Okay. I'm just going to get some laundry done, so don't hesitate if you need anything."

"Right," Dean says.

"Hey. I mean it," Lisa says. "Anything. You don't have to be alone."

"Okay," Dean says, looking intently at Lisa, his face closed-off and unreadable. Still, she thinks- hopes, really- that she's gotten through to him.

xxxx

Half an hour later, Lisa's managed to track down all of Ben's dirty clothes that he'd strewn around his room and has started the first load when Dean stumbles into the laundry room.

"Lis-" he says, before bending over to vomit. Lisa drops her basket and wraps her arms around Dean's shoulders to keep him from losing his balance. He's sweated through his shirt and his breathing is quick and shallow. He groans when he's done heaving and brings his arm up to his chest again, face scrunched.

"Come on Dean, let's get you in the living room," Lisa says, heart pounding. "Does your chest hurt? What about your arm?"

"Chest, yes," Dean grits out. "Arm, no."

"Okay, that's good. We're good," Lisa says as they stumble toward the living room. Dean nods his head but seems too focused on his breathing to do much else. Once in the living room Lisa arranges Dean into the recovery position, tucking a pillow under his head and smoothing her hand over his sweaty forehead. Cool, clammy, definitely no fever.

"M' heart," Dean whispers. "So fast."

Lisa nods, trying to maintain some composure as she presses her fingers to Dean's neck, feeling the rapid, uneven thump beneath the skin.

"You're okay," she says, fumbling to get her cell phone out of her jeans pocket. "You're just fine. Hang in there."

She calls 911 and tells them –god, please, no-that she thinks Dean is having a heart attack. Dean moans and she threads her fingers through his hair and presses her palm to his chest and whispers pleasepleaseplease under her breath and tries to stop her hands from shaking.

They tell her an ambulance is on the way and Lisa nods and prays and puts the phone on speaker so that she can have both hands on Dean, reassuring them both that he's still alive.

"'S wrong," Dean says, his words slurring. "'S all wrong."

"I know, Dean, ssh, it's okay."

"Wrong," Dean whispers again.

xxxx

The ambulance ride is curt and uneventful. The paramedics hook Dean up to leads and wires and give him Aspirin and listen to his chest while Lisa sits on the little bench and lies to herself that everything's going to be okay.

They take him into the ER and immediately start drawing blood for tests and starting IVs and Dean looks so, so small. Lisa bites her lip to keep her emotions in check, and takes calming breaths in an attempt to remain calm, but she still feels tears run down her face.

"We're taking him back for some tests now," a doctor says, looking at her sympathetically. "We're going to do an emergency cardiac catheterization. Do you know what that is?"

Lisa wants to ask him how the hell she would know something like that. Instead she shakes her head.

"We're going to wind a tiny tube up through a vein in Dean's groin, all the way up to his heart…"

Lisa tunes out after that, nods when she needs to and says she understands, but all she knows is that Dean is broken and he could actually die and she can't do a damn thing about it.

xxxx

"It wasn't a heart attack," the doctor says. "Have you ever heard of Takotsubo cardiomyopathy?"

Lisa takes a deep breath and manages not to yell at him and demand how the hell she would know something like that.

"No. I haven't," she says.

"What about broken heart syndrome?"

xxxx

"So," Dean says, "what you're saying is I had a fake heart attack because my heart was broken?" He's in a hospital bed, sporting cardiac leads and IV lines and a cannula under his nose, and he looks utterly disgusted.

"Not exactly," the doctor says, but Dean waves his hand around in disgust.

"Look, I think I just must have been a little over tired and I had a panic attack. None of this 'broken heart' bullshit."

Lisa sighs as the doctor adjusts his glasses.

"Mr. Winchester, it was much more severe than that. I can assure you that you had very physical symptoms, and while the cause may sound unlikely, it is a real condition. I hear you've suffered a great loss, and been very stressed out on top of it. Those are the greatest risk factors for developing this syndrome. Well, those and being a post-menopausal woman."

Dean's eyes widen comically, and Lisa closes her eyes in frustration with the doctor.

"Post-menopausal—Look, whatever. When can I get out of here?" Dean demands, moving to yank an IV out.

"Dean. You're staying here under observation for a few days," Lisa says, grabbing hold of Dean's hand. "You need to stay. You're probably fine, but you had a couple of scary moments and they just want to make sure."

Dean looks at her, tries to read her expression.

"Dean, we caught this in time to prevent any long-term damage, but your heart went into arrhythmias, and we had to cardiovert you. Do you know what that means?"

"Why the hell would I know what that means?" Dean asks, and Lisa wants to cheer.

"It means we used a defibrillator to normalize your heartbeat. If you hadn't been in the hospital when that happened, you might not be here right now."

Lisa looks at him as he closes his eyes and digests that information and wonders if he wishes he had died. She decides she'd rather not know the answer to that question.

"Right," Dean says finally. "So if I stay here and check out after a few days, I'm good to go?"

"Yes," the doctor says. "Though I would suggest trying to lessen the stress in your life. The chances are good that you wouldn't relapse, but you're obviously prone to such episodes."

"Don't worry," Lisa says. "I can help with that."

Dean looks at her with an expression full of longing and hope and fear and finally squeezes her hand back.

xxxx

Ben cries when Lisa picks him up from school and tells him that Dean's in the hospital, even though she's quick to assure him that Dean's doing okay. When they get home, Ben draws a picture of the Impala and writes 'get well soon' underneath it. On the back, he's drawn a rough sketch of what Lisa thinks might be a man playing a guitar, with the words 'AC/DC rocks!' scrawled next to it.

Dean takes the picture like it's something breakable and priceless, and he shows it off proudly to every nurse that comes in.

xxxx

"You're serious about this, Lis?" Dean asks, looking distastefully at the yoga mats she's laid out on the floor. Lisa pulls her hair up into a ponytail.

"Yes, Dean. The doctor said you need to eliminate stress. This can help," she says, stretching. Dean eyes her uncertainly.

"I'm not, uh, I'm not very…" he trails off as he waves his hand in Lisa's direction.

"Flexible?" She asks.

"Bendy," he answers.

"That's okay," Lisa says. "We're starting with just some meditative techniques. You know, breathing and that kind of stuff."

Dean swallows loudly.

"Okay," he says finally, still looking completely uncertain. He sits down on the mat with a frown.

"Here," Lisa says, sitting down across from him. She draws his knees up and folds her legs around his so that they are close to each other. "Now we're going to practice breathing deeply and calmly, and on clearing your mind. Okay?"

Dean nods, but his eyes are squeezed closed and he's tense.

"Hey," Lisa says.

Dean's eyes open and he looks at her.

"I know you like to cover your problems up with alcohol," she says, pressing on despite the way Dean's face falls, "and you don't like to leave yourself open to actually thinking about things."

Dean looks down and Lisa tilts his chin back up so that they're looking at each other.

"Do you trust me?" She asks.

Dean doesn't say anything but his lower lip wobbles. It reminds Lisa of when Ben was a toddler and about to burst into tears. She leans forward and kisses Dean on the forehead, strokes a thumb over his temple.

"Dean. Do you trust me?"

Dean swallows thickly, then nods.

"Yeah," he says, voice husky. "I trust you."

"Good," Lisa says with a smile. "Then let's get started."

Title: The One Where Dean Loses His Jacket (and Sam Helps Him Find It)
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre/pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13 for language and whatnot
Word-count: 1,768
Spoilers: Um, takes place early season 2, so I guess if you haven't seen that yet...
Summary: Dean's sick. Then he loses his coat. Sam's got his back.
Disclaimer: So, they still don't belong to me.
Notes: Written for mad_server at hoodie_time for comment fic-meme 6 (but also for the winter challenge, where this was actually prompted. It just took me forever and I have no clue who the original prompter was. Sorry!)

xxxx
It's refreshingly easy, just digging up a grave, smashing a coffin, and salting and burning bones. Really, nothing to it. Except that Dean is sniffly and red-nosed and there's a little trickle of snot heading towards his mouth. Dean sniffs and makes a gross hawking noise in the back of his throat before swiping the back of his hand across his face. Sam grimaces.

He's managed to keep Dean on guard duty by claiming he's cold and needs the exercise to keep his body temp up; Dean, naturally, takes this very seriously and is standing by the grave, favorite sawed-off clutched to his chest, sniffling determinedly. He seems to think that taking the time to actually blow his nose will distract him and put Sam in danger, so instead he keeps rubbing his nose and hawking loogies and coughing lightly into his sleeve. Every once in awhile Dean shoots a sideways look at Sam that is unmistakably guilty, like he knows that Sam is watching him.

Sam sighs and hides a smile as he starts to fill in the grave. He isn't at all surprised when Dean sneezes painfully, the kind that sounds like it was unexpected. Dean's face is almost comical, and his shoulders droop, the shotgun lowering for the first time all night.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters.

xxxx

By the time they get back to the motel room, Dean is sneezing and coughing up a storm, and the flush has spread from his nose to his cheeks. Sam reaches a sneaky hand to help turn the steering wheel the last few miles after Dean nearly drives the Impala off the road, and whether he doesn't realize or doesn't care, Dean's lack of response is telling.

Dean shuffles across the parking lot, half folded over himself, pausing once to cough, but Sam restrains from helping him; Dean's fiercely independent at the best of times, and this is definitely not best. He gives Dean a few minutes to unlock the door, and finally steps in to take the key. Dean offers a muffled protest.

"Hey," Sam says. "Let me. You're sick, Dean."

Dean sneezes, then looks at Sam with glassy eyes.

"Not sick," he murmurs pitifully.

"Uh, yeah," Sam says. "You are."

Dean releases his grip on the motel key and turns away in a pout. Sam hides a smile and unlocks the door.

"Hop in the shower, Dean, I'm gonna check through the first-aid kit and see what we've got, okay?"

Dean glares at him, lower lip ever so slightly protruding. He looks so adorable Sam bites his lip to keep himself from aww-ing at him.

"Don't wanna," Dean says quietly.

"Too bad," Sam answers. Dean doesn't often get sick, but Sam knows from experience that he responds best to orders when he is. Of course, that response usually resembles what he would expect from a petulant five-year-old, but Sam will take what he can get.

"You're not my boss," Dean says, then sniffs and scrubs a hand across his nose. Sam doesn't even try to hide his grimace of disapproval. Dean looks up sheepishly mid-swipe and tries to subtly wipe his hand off on his pants before sighing heavily, shoulders drooping, and walking slowly to the bathroom door.

Sam watches him go before shaking his head with a small smile and rifling through the first-aid kit, pulling out Tylenol and cough lozenges and setting aside the thermometer just in case Dean actually allows Sam to check his temperature. He's making a mental check list, chicken soup, chamomile tea, some kind of fuzzy warm blanket, when an absolutely devastated cry rings out from the bathroom, startling Sam even as he jumps up from his chair.

"Dean! What's wrong?" He barks, barreling toward the door. Dean emerges from the bathroom shirtless and bare-footed, face crest-fallen.

"I left it Sam and now it's going to be lost!" Dean wails. Sam stops in front of Dean, grabs his brother by the shoulders and steers him toward a chair.

"What did you leave, Dean?" He asks, worried about the answer.

"Dad's coat! I don't know where it is and it's going to be gone forever," Dean moans, his voice catching. Sam shakes his head in fond exasperation.

"Okay Dean, you probably just left it in the cemetery. I'll make sure to get it while I go out to the store real quick, okay? Just get back in the shower and then get into bed, and I'll be back in no time."

Of course, Dean can't do that because Dean never makes anything easy, no matter how under the weather he is. He coughs hoarsely and shakes his head.

"No," Dean says, his voice remarkably firm considering how much his body is wavering. "No, I'm going with you."

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair as Dean heads for the door.

"Hey, whoa, you can come but not like that. You're half-naked, Dean!"

Dean looks down and seems to realize that what Sam says is true, then tries for the door again.

"Okay, c'mere," Sam says, firmly guiding his brother by the shoulders onto the bed. "Just sit there for a second. I mean it, Dean, don't move."

Dean sniffles and glares at him, swiping a hand under his nose as if in defiance. Sam rolls his eyes as he pulls a pair of socks and a shirt from Dean's duffle.

"Can you handle putting this on?" He asks, handing Dean the Henley.

"Course I can," Dean grumbles, snatching the article in question from Sam.

Sam slips the socks on over Dean's feet, then eases the familiar hiking boots on, tying the laces tightly. When he glances up, Dean is in a silent battle with his shirt, and the shirt appears to be winning. He's got one arm through the neck hole, and somehow he's also got his head through the neck hole. The effect is both amusing and somewhat amazing.

"Really Dean?" Sam says, reaching up to help correct Dean's feverish attempts at dressing.

"'M sorry," Dean says, and sniffles again. Sam isn't sure if the sniffle is just from the cold or if Dean's actually crying a bit. If it's the latter, the fever is probably higher than he's comfortable with. Dean's always become an emotional wreck with fevers that tip toward the higher end of the scale.

"It's okay," Sam assures as he finally gets the shirt righted. "Hang on, I'll get you some Tylenol and a jacket, okay?"

Dean nods miserably, dry-swallowing the pills when Sam hands them to him and making no protest when Sam pulls his heaviest, largest hoodie over his brother's head. It appears to drown Dean whole, coming down past his hands, and the hood makes him look like a Jedi.

"C'n we go now?" Dean asks.

"Yeah. No. Hang on a sec."

Sam sorts through his duffle again as Dean groans in irritation, a long drawn out "Sa-am!" that sounds like the complaints of a six year old.

"Got it, Dean," Sam says, tugging the hood off Dean's head and wrapping a thick, hand-knit scarf around his neck.

"The hell?" Dean mutters, trying to get a good look at the scarf. "Where's this from?"

"Someone made it for me," Sam says, suddenly a bit sheepish. "After that poltergeist in St. Louis. She said I looked cold, made me a scarf."

"Uh-huh," Dean says, then coughs for a few seconds. "Sounds like true love to me."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says, but it isn't malicious. Sam tugs a beanie down over Dean's ears and flips the hood back up, then nods in satisfaction.

"'M I good now?" Dean mutters, glaring at Sam.

"You're good. Let's go."

xxxx

It's started snowing since they got back to the hotel room, and it's coming down at a good clip; already there's a layer of snow an inch and a half thick across the landscape. Sam suppresses a sigh and wishes again that Dean would have relented to staying behind, but one look at his brother-hunched over and clearly miserable, but undeniably determined- and he knows that that would never have happened.

"I just, I really need it, you know?" Dean mumbles suddenly, sniffling and then abruptly sneezing.

"I know, Dean, it's okay," Sam says.

"He gave it to me," Dean elaborates, waving one hand in the air. "Said he was proud."

Sam's heart sinks for a second and he snakes a hand over and puts it on Dean's knee.

"Hey," he says, "of course Dad was proud."

It's a lie, sort of. Dad wasn't always proud, but he should have been, and if he was still alive- that thought hurts a little bit, so Sam just squeezes Dean's knee and turns back to the road.

"I need it," Dean repeats, quietly.

xxxx

The jacket is in a heap next to the gravestone where they worked before, and now that they're there, Sam can't figure out why Dean took it off in the first place. He's about to ask when he notices what Dean's doing. He's kneeling in the snow, reverently lifting the coat and brushing the snow off of it, pausing to sneeze over his shoulder, and then inspecting it from all angles.

"'S it ruined, Sammy?" He asks, looking up at Sam with wide eyes. "Did I ruin it?" His lower lip wobbles and Sam thinks dammit, high fever before he kneels down next to Dean.

"No Dean, you waterproofed the hell out of it last winter, remember?"

Dean shakes his head uncertainly and rubs the sleeve of Sam's hoodie under his nose. Sam manages not to grimace.

"Well, you did," Sam says, taking the coat and holding it up. "See? It looks fine."

Dean nods and snatches the coat back, clutching it to his chest. Sam smiles.

"Come on, we'll hit the store and then go back to the motel, okay?"

Dean nods and doesn't flinch away when Sam puts a supporting hand on his back.

xxxx

A few hours later, Dean's fever is down a bit, and Sam's managed to force-feed him half a can of chicken noodle soup and a cup of Theraflu. Dean's barely awake in front of the TV (and Sam pretends not to notice how quickly the channel is changed from 'Dr. Sexy' to the much more acceptable 'Die Hard' when he gets out of the shower) so Sam herds him to bed and eases his boots off and pulls the blanket up to his chin.

(He only laughs a little bit when he notices Dad's jacket bunched up under Dean's pillow, right next to his knife.)

Title: One For My Baby
Author: el_spirito23
Characters: Dean, John
Genre/pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13 for language and whatnot
Word-count: 1,893
Spoilers: None
Summary: The Impala breaks down. So does Dean. John picks up the pieces.
Disclaimer: So, they still don't belong to me.
Notes: Written for hoodie_time's challenge for this prompt by i_speak_tongue


You're sitting in the only chair in the room, turned toward the door. Your journal is flipped open in front of you, a map spread across the table, tiny pins scattered across its surface. You want to deny that you're anxious for Dean's return, but the stuff in front of you betrays your feelings; whenever you're nervous, you plot, look for connections you might've missed. Whenever Dean's nervous, he cleans his guns, over and over, polishing each piece until it's pristine and then putting the whole thing together without even looking. He could do it blindfolded if he wanted; you've seen him do it.

Hell, you've forced him to do it.

Normally, you wouldn't be particularly anxious about your oldest, figure he just picked up a girl and he'll be back in the wee hours of the morning, but it's been a rough day. Six months to the day since Sam left for Stanford, and you pretend like you don't know that, like it doesn't actually mean anything, but you're both down about it. Add to that the Impala shuttering to a stop in the middle of the road and refusing to start again despite all of Dean's pleading, and it's been an all-around shitty day.

So, yeah, you might be more than a little anxious waiting for Dean to get back, but you're sure he's fine. He's 22 after all, and he's been fine since he was just a kid, taking care of you more than you ever took care of him.

There's a scraping sound against the door and you grab your gun off the table, standing and edging toward the source of the noise. Now you can hear muffled cursing as the key finally makes it into the lock and the door swings open. Dean staggers inside and smiles lopsidedly when he sees you standing there, weapon drawn.

"Hey Dad," he slurs. He closes the door behind him and limps-badly- toward his bed, dropping onto it with a grunt. You may not be the best father, but you know when your boy is hurting, and everything about him right now, the pale face, the tight lips, the clenched jaw, is screaming at you.

"Dean, what the hell have you been doing?" You demand, familiar anger bubbling up. You squat, looking more closely at the left leg Dean's been favoring; the jeans are shredded and blood soaked, and the top of Dean's boot is drenched. You ease the pant leg up, forcing yourself to ignore Dean's sharp inhale, and look closely at the wounds. There are multiple puncture wounds around his calf, dog bites from the looks of them, and they've clearly been bleeding profusely.

"The bastard at the junkyard had the alternator I need, wouldn't come down on the price at all."

"So you decided to get it yourself," you say. You slice up the front of Dean's pants; they're ruined anyway, and you need access to the bites. Dean nods tightly in response to your question, mumbles 'yes sir' and grits his teeth. "Since when has it been okay to steal, Dean?"

Dean stays quiet and you sigh.

"What kind of dog was it?" You ask, getting the first aid kit out. You take off Dean's boot and blood-rimmed sock, then pour some saline over the wounds. Dean hisses quietly.

"Dunno. Mutt of some kind, I think. Big fucker."

You can see that, looking at the size of the bites, and stitching them up is going to hurt like a bitch.

"Alright, I've gotta stitch these up," you say, handing him a flask. "You know the drill."

Dean nods, shakily, and reaches out with a pale, trembling hand, to take the flask. You narrow your eyes and look more closely at him. He's pale down to his lips, and beads of sweat are standing out on his forehead. The flask is shaking so badly as he takes a swig that you're surprised it got into his mouth. You pour a good dose of rubbing alcohol on the wound, wincing in sympathy when Dean hisses tightly and tightens his grip on the flask until his knuckles whiten.

You sigh as you thread the needle and shake your head.

"You should've waited for me Dean," you say as you begin the first stitch. Dean takes another gulp of whiskey and nods shakily. "I'd have backed you on it."

"I know," Dean says miserably. "'M sorry."

"Did you at least get the part?" You ask, glancing at your work. You've finished seven stitches and you're only just over halfway done.

"Mmm," Dean says. You look up, concerned; Dean's white as a sheet and he looks like he might be slipping into the early stages of shock. "Tried, but the dog..."

"Okay," you say. "It's okay."

"'M sorry," Dean repeats, "I should've waited. Sorry."

"Hey," you say, pausing to thumb his chin in a gruff gesture of affection. You're nearly done with the stitches now, but you know getting away without an infection would be nothing short of miraculous, and Winchester luck has never even passed for good.

"Hey," you repeat. "It was stupid, but I'll rip you a new one when you're feeling a bit better, huh?"

Dean nods blearily and runs a still-shaking hand across his eyes. You grab a blanket from your bed and drape it over his shoulders, noticing with a pang of guilt how thin Dean has become in the months since Sam has left.

"Alright, kiddo, why don't you lay down for awhile," you say as you smooth a bandage over the wound. "Hopefully with some sleep you'll feel better in the morning."

Dean's looking at you with a half-bleary, half-confused look, and you realize it's the first time you've called him 'kiddo' since he was maybe eight years old.

"Dad…?" He asks. You tamp down the little voice that reminds you how sad it is that your son is so utterly perplexed by an affectionate term.

"It's okay, Dean," you say, pushing him lightly to lay down. "Just rest, okay? I'm on watch now."

Dean nods once, then closes his eyes, mouth tight in pain. You settle in next to him, watch until his breathing settles and you know he's asleep, then turn back to the map and pick up where you left off.

xxxx

When you wake up, it's to the uncharacteristic feeling of being uncertain where you are. You jolt to your feet and look around, finally remembering that you fell asleep next to Dean's bed, which is currently empty.

"Dean?" You call, frowning when you see that the bathroom is unoccupied. You quickly suppress the tiny jolt of panic that sinks into your stomach and walk into the kitchen. Dean is crouched over the stove, precariously balanced with his bad leg stretched out to the side. You can smell bacon and eggs cooking.

"What the hell, Dean?" You bark, striding forward. "Dammit, you know better than to put weight on that leg, and just to cook breakfast? We can get breakfast at the diner down the street, and it'd probably be a damn sight better than what you're cooking."

Dean ducks his head and flushes up to his ears and you immediately feel bad for the dig. And then you remember, and you silently curse yourself.

"Dean? Look at me, son," you say, your voice gentle and soothing. At least, as soothing as you're capable of sounding.

Dean turns to look at you and you swear under your breath, damning yourself for not realizing before you chewed him out. His eyes are glassy and he looks pale and washed out aside from a blush of red across his cheeks. He's running a fever, no question, and it looks like a pretty good one, too. He's always been restless with high temperatures, always starts cleaning or doing laundry or cooking, and you kick yourself a second time for not realizing earlier.

"Alright, kiddo, let's get you back in bed, huh?" You say, approaching him with your hands spread. Dean warily allows you to wrap an arm under his then around his shoulder, and you hobble back to the bed together.

"Dad," Dean murmurs, one hand reaching out to tug at your sleeve. "The Impala. She's broken, and alone, and I need-"

"You need to rest," you say, laying his arm back on the bed. "I'll get you some meds, okay? Just relax, buddy. The Impala is fine."

You rifle through the first-aid kit, relieved that you still have some antibiotics left over from the last time you were scratched on a piece of rusty metal, and you fist them and a new wad of gauze and head back to Dean's side.

"Dad?" Dean says as you approach. "Dad, the Impala-"

"Dean, I know," you say. You help him take the antibiotics and check the wound; it's red and inflamed, and you squeeze Dean's arm before pouring more rubbing alcohol on the wound. Dean throws his head back, teeth grit, and you find yourself murmuring quiet words of comfort as you try to relax him.

"Okay buddy, why don't you try to relax, huh?" You murmur. You stroke a thumb over his forehead and find it hot and sweaty.

"Dad," Dean murmurs, "M-my car."

"I know, kid," you say, getting a washcloth damp. You return to his side and smooth the cloth gently over his forehead, smiling lightly as he leans into your touch.

"She's broken, Dad," he says quietly. "And a-alone."

"We'll fix her up, Dean, soon as you get better."

Dean continues like he didn't hear you.

"She thought she could d-do it but part of her is broken and she just had to- had to stop."

With a pang, you realize that in Dean's fevered state, he is revealing far more about himself than he would normally, and that his worry over the Impala actually has a far deeper meaning.

"Dean," you whisper. "Hey. We're going to be okay, son."

You want to say more. You want to say, I know you feel abandoned, Dean, I know you feel lost without your brother. I do too. Instead, you watch as Dean's eyelids grow heavy.

"We'll fix her up soon, kid," you say. "We'll make it."

xxxx

It's a long day. Dean's fever continues to rise for hours until he hits delirium, but between the antibiotics and continued use of washcloths and eventually a cool bath, you manage to break it by evening.

You sit by his bedside, watching as he sleeps comfortably for the first time in ages, and remember when you would find your boys sleeping in the same bed no matter how many times you put Sammy in his crib and Dean in his own bed. They've always been tight, your boys, always been best friends and codependent even when Sam was rebelling and Dean was trying to take on the role of parent. It's no wonder he feels lost and uncertain with Sam gone.

"You're going to be okay, buddy," you whisper. "We both are."

xxxx

A few hours later, you find yourself climbing over a junkyard fence with a taser in your back pocket, a monkey wrench in hand, and a conviction that you're going to fix Dean's baby or die trying. And if Dean asks about the part in the morning- well, you'll lie through your teeth.

Author: el_spirito23
Disclaimers: Sadly, I don't own the Losers. or Chris Evans.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Gen
Author's Note: Written for the Ante Up 2012 Exchange for kisahawklin who wanted a fix-it with Roque...hope this kind of delivered!
Summary:Jensen's pretty sure Roque might not be as dead as the Losers think. He isn't sure what, exactly, that means for his team.

( Read More )

Pairing: Gen
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or Jensen Ackles.
Word Count: 913
Warnings: brief language
Summary: Dean Winchester's name comes up again. Death goes to fetch him.
Author's Note: Fills a prompt over at hoodie_time and also the 'upset at higher being' square on my h/c bingo card!

xxxx
The name comes up and Death squints at it, rubbing tiredly at his nose. Dean Winchester. Again. Death sighs heavily as one of the Reapers prepares to go collect Dean.

"No," he says, "I'll take this one."

The Reaper nods and Death sighs again before going after the wayward Winchester.

xxxx

Dean is leaning up against a tree on the border of an iced over lake. There is snow on the ground around him, and his breath shows with every exhalation. There is a wound in his side and he's leaking red all over the snow. All in all, Death thinks, it's not a bad place to die, surrounded by nature's beauty. Of course, dying is still dying, no matter where it happens.

"Dean Winchester," he says, standing in front of the broken man.

"Hey," Dean grunts, looking up at Death with heavy lidded eyes. He manages a painful half-smile that has Death shaking his head. He's seen a lot in his time, but sometimes the sheer tenacity of Dean Winchester still manages to throw him off balance.

"How's it- going?" Dean pants. Death sighs heavily and settles next to him in the snow.

"It is going well," he says, looking critically at Dean, "though I preferred eating pizza with you at Rinascita to this."

"Me too," Dean says. He laughs bitterly and coughs more scarlet onto his chin. For all that Death doesn't care about people, about one insignificant being, he finds himself feeling distressingly close to concerned.

Dean shivers and Death knows that it is cold, though he cannot feel it. Dean's breathing is ragged and his pulse is slowing.

"Why am I here, Dean?" Death asks quietly. "This is not your appointed time."

Dean exhales heavily with the exhaustion that only comes after a lifetime of heartbreaks and tragedies.

"You- you took him," Dean whispers, a breathy sob. "You took Bobby."

Death nods slowly as understanding dawns.

"Robert Singer," he says. Dean nods shakily. "It was his time, Dean."

"No," Dean sobs. "I need him."

"Dean," Death says, "this is the way of the world. It has always been so."

"It isn't fair," Dean says. "I-I've given so much, and I'm- I'm tired."

Death can see the truth in his words, can see in Dean's eyes how weary he is. Death can feel the exhaustion leaking from Dean's soul as steadily as the blood that trickles from his side.

"Please," he whispers, his voice raspy. "I don't want to be alone."

Death frowns. "You still have Sam," he says.

"He's-he's different," Dean says, then coughs again, hissing in pain. "Doesn't always see me."

Death cocks his head slightly.

"What do you mean?" He asks. He is surprised to find that he is rather curious to hear the answer.

"He looks at me," Dean says, then takes a sharp breath as if even speaking is tiring him out. Death can feel his heart struggling to beat. "But he doesn't see me. He doesn't un-understand."

"Bobby did," Death says. "He understood."

"Y-yeah," Dean says. It sounds like a whimper. "Don' wanna be alone. Please."

"I cannot bring him back, Dean," Death says. He finds that he is actually sorry.

"Fuck you," Dean spits, then heaves in a desperate breath. "Could if you wanted to."

Death inclines his head.

"Yes," he says, "I could." He pauses for a moment, takes in the natural beauty that surrounds them. It is just starting to snow again, tiny flakes drifting down onto them.

"But do you think that a man whose time has come would really want to stay tied to this earth?" He asks. "Do you think your Bobby would want to stay here knowing that he does not belong here?"

Dean chokes out a sob. More blood splatters and he looks so very tired.

"No," he gasps finally. "There is no hell w- worse than that."

Death feels something close to sadness for the first time in many millennia.

"I'm scared," Dean whispers. "Don't want t' be alone."

Death isn't certain what to say, though he figures it should probably be comforting.

"It's alright to be frightened," he says finally. "And you are not alone."

As he says the words, the sound of someone—Sam—yelling Dean's name is audible and his form becomes visible, a tiny speck across the lake from where Dean sits.

"You see?" Death says. He wonders if he is being at all soothing or if he is just frustrating the young human. "Sam is coming for you already."

Dean's eyes have slipped closed, but he rouses slightly at Death's words. A half smile graces his features.

"See you-later," Dean says. "Places to-go, huh?"

"Yes," Death says, "I am busy."

Dean's eyes close again. Sam is nearly upon them.

"Dean Winchester," Death says abruptly. Dean's eyes snap open. "I will come for you."

"Huh?" Dean says, the word a mere whisper of air.

"When your time has come, I will come for you. You will not go alone."

"Oh," Dean whispers, then smiles slightly. "Thanks."

"You are welcome," Death murmurs. He watches as Sam collapses to his knees at Dean's side, massive hands cupping Dean's pale cheeks, murmuring painfully sincere reassurances as he gathers his brother's broken form to his chest. He still doesn't understand how a single human managed to make him care, but he finds that he does not resent the sentiment, and maybe even looks forward to the day when he can collect Dean Winchester's remarkable soul.

A/N: written for a prompt over at suits_meme and it also fills the 'unrequited pining' square on my h/c bingo card! also, this is my first Suits fanfic EVER which is kind of a travesty considering how much I LOVE this show.

xxxx

Five Ways Donna and Harvey Never Met…

1.

The first day of kindergarten, Harvey Specter wets his pants during class. He's sitting on one of the red chairs (and Donna isn't the slightest bit jealous even though red is her favorite color and she got stuck in a yellow chair) and one second everything's normal and the next, there's a sound like water and then there's a puddle on the floor and Harvey's face is bright red.

The kids next to him start to freak out, jumping up from their chairs with wide eyes and horrified expressions , and some of them start to laugh. Donna stays in her seat, two away from Harvey, and watches him closely. His lower lip is trembling and his eyes look all watery, but he isn't crying and his fists are clenched at his side. The teacher comes and directs the class to the play-area of the classroom while her helper ushers Harvey toward the door. As Donna watches him go, head still held high, she decides that she rather likes Harvey Specter.

The next day, Harvey is back like nothing ever happened and Donna sits in a chair right next to him even though no one else wants to be near him. He eyes her suspiciously.

"Why are you sitting next to me?" He asks. Donna shrugs.

"'Cause I want to."

Harvey turns back to the coloring page he's working on.

"You didn't cry yesterday," Donna says. "I would have cried."

Harvey looks at her again then starts coloring before speaking.

"It was an accident," he says. "Not like I meant to. Crying would've made me seem like a baby."

"Yeah," Donna answers. She decides not to point out that some people might think peeing your pants is more babyish than crying. She also decides not to point out that every time she cries, she gets what she wants. Maybe it's different for boys.

"Besides," Harvey says after a pause, "The only thing I was mad about was my pants."

Donna frowns. "Your pants?"

Harvey nods and grins. His teeth are white and small, like the little pearls Donna's mother wears.

"Clothes make the man," he says.

Donna shakes her head and thinks about that for a minute. "You're weird," she says finally.

"You like me though," Harvey laughs, poking her in the side.

"Maybe a little," Donna answers, smiling. "Let's be best friends."

Harvey spits into his hand and holds it out to her. Donna mirrors the action and they shake.

"Deals are serious," Harvey says. "This means forever."

Donna's eyes widen. "Even when we're grown-ups?"

Both children take a moment to recognize the seriousness of the situation before Harvey nods seriously.

"Even when we're grown-ups," he says firmly.

Harvey smiles again and Donna smiles too and thinks that she's very glad they're best friends, and also that she might love Harvey just a little bit.

2.

The bar is kind of a shabby one, but Donna just got fired—again—and she needs a drink and this was the first bar she found. She sips angrily at her beer and eyes the other patrons of the bar, half-heartedly wondering if any of them would be down for a one night stand. She typically doesn't go for the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am situation, but she's in a foul mood and hot, angry sex sounds like a pretty good idea for once. The bar is occupied mostly by drunks and bums, but there's one guy who looks like a college student, dressed in a slightly shabby suit with perfectly coifed hair who looks like a good target.

She sidles up to him, swaying her hips as she walks, and is about to open her mouth to purr something seductive and sexy when the man shakes his head and laughs.

"What?" She demands, offended.

"You're just about as subtle as a gunshot," he says, laughing again. "You desperate for some action?"

Donna huffs and clenches her teeth.

"No," she snaps. The man looks at her appraisingly.

"Yes you are, you're pissed off about something and want to get laid to release some tension. I'm the only guy in the bar you even considered."

Donna scowls and turns away, embarrassed and pissed and a little disappointed.

"Hey," the man says. "I never said no."

Donna flips him the bird and walks outside.

xxxx

There are two men waiting for her in the shadows, moving to stand in front of and behind her. Donna tenses, cursing herself for using the side door alone and fingers the mace in her purse. The man in front of her has a knife, and she isn't sure she can take them both out before one of them hurts her. She takes some calming breaths, channels her brief martial arts training and every kung fu movie she's ever watched, and prepares to give it her all.

And then the man from the bar, with the perfect hair and the adorable smile, steps behind the guy with the knife, hands raised.

"Hey guys, let's take it easy, huh? I've called the police, so why don't you just let her go and we'll let you have a head start?"

This seems to alarm the men rather than talk them down, though, and before Donna really knows what's going on, the one with the knife has turned on her rescuer, and the second is nearly on top of her. She doesn't even hesitate, spraying him full in the face with her mace. He yelps and falls to his knees, so Donna rushes toward the other two men. Her would-be rescuer is on the ground, arms up in an attempt to block his face from the punches raining down on him.

"Hey!" Donna shouts, and when her attacker turns, she elbows him in the face while simultaneously sending a knee to his crotch. The man exhales sharply and falls to his knees, and Donna takes the opportunity to send an uppercut to his chin. He drops boneless to the ground, and Donna doesn't try to keep the smirk off her face.

"Did you see that?" She asks, turning to her rescuer. She's proud of knocking the guys out, but even prouder that she did it in front of Nice Hair Guy.

Unfortunately, Nice Hair Guy seems pretty distracted. He's hunched over on the ground, one hand clamped to the bottom of his rib cage, and there's blood oozing out. There's a cut over his eye, too, trickling blood down his face, and his lip's swollen. A black eye is already starting to show.

"Shit," Donna hisses, hurrying to his side. "Hang on, I'll call 911."

He nods tersely and attempts to smile at her, but it's more of a grimace. By the time Donna's done calling, more people have come out of the bar to see what's happened, and a rather imposing fellow has taken up position over the would-be-attackers, so Donna sits down next to Nice Hair Guy and pulls out a handkerchief from her purse (because she like to be prepared for anything) and holds it out to him. He blinks up at her, his expression somewhere between bleary and confused.

Donna sighs and lifts his red-covered hand, presses the kerchief against the slash across his ribs, then pushes her hand over his.

"Th-thanks," he whispers.

"I should probably thank you," Donna answers, determinedly not thinking about the blood that's still spilling out of the man.

"Didn't need me," he says, laughing painfully. "Had it under control."

"You provided a distraction," Donna says. "That was pretty key."

"Mm," the man says.

"Hey," Donna says, pressing a bit harder. "Talk to me. What's your name?"

"Harvey," the man says. Donna snorts.

"Harvey?" She repeats. "Your parents hate you?"

"Nah," he murmurs, nostrils flaring as he rides out a flash of pain. "Big Jimmy Stewart fans."

Donna thinks a minute before nodding. "There was that movie, called Harvey."

"Yep," Harvey says. He coughs a little and hisses in pain.

"So you're named after an imaginary bunny," she says.

"Hey," Harvey protests. "He was real."

Donna laughs as the sirens of an ambulance and cop car finally become audible.

"Looks like your ride's just about here," she says.

"Yeah," Harvey murmurs. "Gonna get hell for this at work."

"Where do you work?" Donna asks. Harvey manages a grin.

"I work at the DA's office," he says. Donna cocks an eyebrow.

"You need an assistant?" She asks.

"You offering?" He counters.

She shrugs. "I might be."

"Are you any good?" He asks.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Honey, I'm the best you'll ever have," she says. Harvey chuckles, then winces in pain.

"Okay. Done deal," he says as the paramedics come over. They're loading him into the back of the ambulance and the cops are approaching to take her statement when Donna runs over to him.

"Hey," she says, holding out a piece of paper. He takes it from her with blood-stained hands. "That's my number. Seriously call me, okay?"

Harvey looks at the paper then at her, then nods.

"Okay," he says, grinning crookedly.

Donna hopes he'll call and thinks that she might love Harvey a little bit.

3.

Donna isn't ashamed to be at a Star Trek Convention no matter what anyone says, and she's definitely not ashamed to be dressed up like an Orion slave girl. That doesn't mean she wants everyone at work to know, though, and she's keeping an eye out for anyone she recognizes so that she can make a quick exit if she needs to.

It's during one of her many scans of the crowd that she sees him- the perfect Captain Kirk. There are tons of men walking around in his classic yellow and black outfit, most of them overweight and unattractive, but this man- he's got swagger and confidence and the Kirk hair, and he just exudes awesome. He's totally out-Shatnering Shatner.

And then he catches her eye, flashes a smile at her, and winks.

Donna feels slightly flustered and is abruptly glad for the green body paint she's wearing that will hide her blush.

He walks over to her with precise movements, with confidence and ease borne of an amazing amount of self-confidence.

"Hi," he says, smirking as he reaches her side.

"Hey," Donna answers, suddenly acutely aware that aside from the paint, she's basically only wearing a bikini.

"Harvey Specter," the man says, sticking his hand out. Donna shakes it with a smile.

"Donna Paulsen," she answers.

"Well Donna, are you doing anything for dinner tonight?"

Donna considers saying no for a second just because it's so damn cliché that she's getting picked up by Captain Kirk, but Harvey smiles again and she can't say no because she maybe loves Harvey just a little bit.

4.

Every day after school, Donna walks down to the baseball field and crouches behind the bushes to watch Harvey Specter practice pitching. The season's long over by now, but Harvey still practices every single day, throwing ball after ball over the home plate. Donna's been watching him for a week or two now, squatting awkwardly behind the bushes growing wild behind the fence rising up behind home plate, but today is the first time she's ever worked up the courage to actually talk to him.

"Hey," she says, walking up to the baseball diamond. She's timed it so that she comes a few minutes after Harvey's already started in an attempt to make it seem like she hasn't been stalking him lately. Harvey spares a brief glance at her before throwing another ball.

"You the one that's been watching me?" He asks. Donna clears her throat.

"Um. Yes."

"Hmm," Harvey says. He throws his last ball, then starts to pick up the ones that are scattered around behind home plate. Donna puts her backpack down and crouches down next to him, reaching for a baseball.

"You need to keep your elbows about the same height," she says, picking up a second ball. Harvey freezes for a second, frowning.

"What?" He asks.

"When you're in the cocked position," she explains. "You're bringing your left elbow up too high. It's throwing you off."

Harvey resumes picking up balls then straightens, cracking his back.

"What are you, a pitching expert?"

"No," Donna says, picking up the last ball and handing it to Harvey. "But my dad likes baseball a lot and he's taught me a thing or two."

Harvey doesn't say anything for a second, thoughtfully fingering a ball before he looks up.

"So my elbows are wrong, huh?"

"Yeah," Donna says. "Should be more like this." She demonstrates, bending her left leg in front of her, right extended behind, right arm cocked and ready behind her head. Harvey silently inspects her form before nodding and throwing another ball, careful to keep his left elbow raised.

"Better," Donna says, grinning. She stoops to pull a glove from her backpack and holds it up. "How'd you like to throw to a catcher instead of a fence?"

Harvey smiles.

"Sounds great."

Donna grins and squats down over the plate, smacking her glove. Harvey smiles back and rockets a ball into the glove. It hurts her hand a tiny bit, and she laughs.

xxxx

They practice until school gets out, and then they practice every day over the summer, playing catch in the park until the sun makes their shadows grow long and the cicadas start to sing. Harvey talks about his big dreams to play in the major leagues. Donna doesn't know what she wants to do yet, but she's organized and can be scary, so she's thinking maybe something where she can boss people around. Harvey laughs and agrees.

By the time baseball starts up again senior year, Harvey's throwing curveballs and fastballs like a pro. They're both convinced it's his year, and their prediction proves right when Harvey gets the starting pitcher position. They still throw a ball around a couple times a week in between homework and practice, and Donna goes to every home game and even away games when she can make it.

They both celebrate when the team qualifies for Districts, then Regionals, and then they're going to the State Championship game. Harvey is more excited than Donna has ever seen him, picking her up and swinging her around after the game. Donna wants to kiss him then, just plant one on his coy lips, but she doesn't.

xxxx

She's in the front row of the bleachers at the championship game, smashed up between strangers because Harvey's parents were too busy to go to his game (and that pisses her off so much but she keeps her mouth shut for Harvey's sake) and wearing a homemade T-shirt adorned with Harvey's number.

She screams herself hoarse through the first three innings, exhilarated and excited as Harvey pitches the game of his life. Part way through the fourth, he grimaces after a pitch and rotates his shoulder around, face pinched in pain. Donna frowns and leans forward, watching tight-lipped as he clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath, and throws.

The batter connects, looks like a fly ball, but Donna's attention is focused solely on Harvey, who is bent over, left hand holding his right shoulder with a white-knuckled grip. The coach rushes onto the field, crouching over to see Harvey's face, then helping him stumble off the field.

Donna stands, ignoring the angry shouts behind her, and climbs over all of the people between her and the aisle. The coach knows her, and she's pretty sure she'll be able to talk her way into the locker room if anyone tries to stop her. No one does; in fact, the coach looks relieved when she shows up.

"He's in a bad way," Coach says. "I've gotta go back out there, but he needs you."

"Of course," Donna says. As if she would be anywhere else.

Harvey is sitting on a bench, holding an ice pack to his bad shoulder. His head is hanging and he's trembling slightly as if trying to hold back tears.

"Hey," Donna says, sitting next to him.

"Hey," Harvey says. His voice is slightly croaky, and he sniffles. "I fucked up."

Donna shakes her head.

"No, you didn't," she says. "You threw out your shoulder. That could have happened to anyone."

"But today," Harvey moans, shoulders drooping even further than before. "Damn it."

"Hey," Donna says, rubbing his back. "You kicked ass, Harvey. Seriously."

"Yeah," Harvey mutters under his breath. "I guess so."

"Okay, stop pouting," Donna says, punching Harvey in the good arm. "No one wants to be around you when you're pissy."

"And by no one you mean…"

"Me," Donna says. "I mean me."

Harvey smiles tiredly. There are little crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"I don't want you to not be around," Harvey says, then frowns, "if that makes sense. I want you there, you know? You can be my agent or something when I make it to the big leagues."

Donna laughs.

"What if you decide not to play baseball?" She asks.

"Then I guess you'll just have to follow me wherever I go," he answers.

Donna frowns and puts her hands on her hips.

"What, you expect me to just follow you around, huh?"

"Yes," Harvey says, grinning. "You don't have anything better to do."

Donna laughs and punches him again and he laughs too, until he accidentally jars his shoulder, and Donna thinks that she maybe kind of loves him and that she would probably follow him anywhere.

5.

Donna's browsing through a record store. She has no idea what she wants and is content to peruse slowly, absorbing the laid back vibe of the little store. There's some patchouli scented incense burning somewhere, the smoke wafting up and tickling her nose. She suspects that the cashier is stoned.

"That's a good album," someone says. Donna startles and nearly drops the record, then regains some composure and plasters her most insincere smile on. She has to glance quickly to the record since she forgot what she was holding; it's a Led Zeppelin album, that appears to be titled "Zoso."

"Oh, yeah," she says. "It's great."

The man laughs and sticks a hand out. "I'm Harvey," he says. Donna eyes his hand and doesn't move. Harvey smiles and tucks his hand in his pocket.

"You like classic rock?"

Donna shrugs. "I'm not really sure what I'm looking for," she answers. Harvey nods.

"Well, do you know what genre you're looking for?"

Donna shakes her head, slightly embarrassed. Maybe she should just buy Zoso or whatever and call it good.

"Do you like jazz?" Harvey asks.

"I've never listened to it much," Donna confesses, feeling her blush growing deeper. "My parents were kinda stuck on classical."

Harvey nods slowly. "I see," he says, then leans forward conspiratorially. "Well, Nameless Woman, jazz will going to change your life if you let it."

Donna frowns cynically. "Really."

"Yep," Harvey says, flipping through a few records before pulling one out. He holds it gently, almost…caressingly.

"This," he says, "is Kind of Blue by Miles Davis. It is the single sexiest album that has even been created."

"Uh-huh," Donna says. Harvey grins.

"No, really. You put this on during a romantic candlelight dinner and you're getting laid, guaranteed."

Donna laughs and shakes her head. "Is that what you mean by life-changing?" She laughs. "You've gotten laid more since pretending to like jazz?"

Harvey shakes his head gravely.

"There is no 'pretending' about this, Nameless Woman. Jazz makes you see life in a different way. It speaks to you in a way that no other music ever has or ever will."

Donna laughs nervously. "Ooookay then," she says.

Harvey smiles again and hands her the record, then pulls out a business card.

"Look, I can tell I'm freaking you out. Why don't you take this home and listen to it, then give me a call? We can go out to coffee and talk about it sometime."

"Yeah. I'll do that," Donna says. He doesn't mean it, she really doesn't, but then Harvey looks at her and his eyes are twinkling and he's got these cute dimples and he just seems so damn sincere…

"My name's Donna," she says finally.

"Donna," Harvey says thoughtfully. "That suits you."

She watches him walk away, then takes the record up to the cash register.

"Jazz, huh? Cool man," the cashier says.

"Yeah," Donna says, fingering the business card. "It's pretty cool."

That night she listens to Miles Davis and cries a little bit and realizes that she might be just a tiny bit in love with Harvey.

…And One Way They Did

1.

Donna is typing loudly, nostrils flared and glaring at the screen. Her boss Nolan is a jackass, and even worse, he's a jackass who doesn't realize Donna has potential to do anything other than answer the phone and send e-mails to tell his wife he'll be late.

"Donna! Almost finished with that e-mail? Wouldn't want the wife to worry, huh?" Nolan rolls around the corner with a blinding smile on his face, fairly chirping. Donna wants to vomit a little bit.

"Yeah, almost done," she says, plastering a smile on her face.

"Great!" Nolan says, beaming. "I'm heading out to lunch, see you in an hour!"

"See you," Donna mumbles under her breath. As soon as he's out the door she allows her head to smack against her desk.

"That looked fun," a voice says, and then a man with great hair and a better suit walks up to the desk.

"If by fun you mean 'mind-numbingly dull,' then yes," Donna says, "it was extremely fun."

The man grins.

"I actually meant more like 'vomit inducing,'" he says. Donna smiles back.

"I like you," she says, leaning over the desk to extend a hand. "Donna Paulsen."

"Harvey Specter," the man says, shaking her hand. "I'm with the DA's office."

"Ooooh," Donna says. "You're here to talk to Mr. Rafferty? Because as you probably saw, he just left."

"No," Harvey says, leaning forward. His cologne smells sexy. "I'm here to steal you."

"To what?" Donna asks blearily. She's not sure if she's more confused by his question or stunned by his beauty.

"I'm looking for an assistant, made a few phone calls, and heard you're the best." Harvey grins at her again and leans in closer. His breath smells like cinnamon and his teeth are basically perfect .

"And I only want the best," he whispers. Donna wants to fan herself, but manages to restrain herself.

"Well," she says. "I'm the best. I am definitely the best. But you start using me as a glorified 1950s era secretary and I'll quit. First I'll kick your ass, and then I'll quit."

Harvey laughs.

"Don't worry," he says. "I like you, I like your attitude, and I want you to speak your mind. You start acting like a glorified 1950s era secretary and you'll be out."

Donna smiles.

"Just let me give my two weeks' notice," she says.

xxxx

It's only a few months into her new job with Harvey and it's already the best job she's ever had. Harvey treats her like an equal and actually relies on her, and he takes Donna's snark and fires back with his own.

Basically, it's perfect.

Except that she loves him.

"Donna," Harvey says, walking up to her. "How was last night? You went to the opera, right?"

"It was great," Donna says, smiling. "It was a great way to spend my birthday."

"Good," Harvey says, producing a package. "You didn't think I'd forget, did you? Happy birthday, Donna."

He walks back into his office as Donna fingers the slightly messily wrapped box. She rips it open to reveal a very expensive looking bottle of wine, and a little card that read 'Thanks for being my right hand man and for keeping me sane. –Harvey."

Donna sets the wine down on her desk and shakes her head. She fingers the card for a second, looking at his neat, blocky handwriting, and realizes that she can't be his right hand man and his lover at the same time. She has to make a choice.

So when Harvey comes back from lunch with her favorite sandwich from the little bistro up the street, she takes it and smiles and makes fun of him a little, but stubbornly tamps down the little part of her that gets flustered every time he glances at her.

As time goes on, though, damn if she doesn't love him just a little bit.

I love overcast, cloudy days where the weather is in the mid-60s and the air smells like it could start raining at any time. Sometimes I love it when the clouds finally just open up and downpour, and everything smells clean and fresh and new.

A/N: Written for embroiderama's prompt over at hawaii_50_hc; also fills the 'surgery' square on my h/c bingo card.
Contains slight slash.

xxxx

Danny wakes up with a throbbing ache in his stomach and the shivery hot-cold feeling that comes with a fever. Swearing softly, he fumbles for the phone at his bedside table and brings it up to his face, squinting against the blaring backlight that informs him it's five in the morning then lets his hand drop back down to his side, bringing the other up to scrub at his eyes.

Piss-poor way to start the week off.

He tries to go back to sleep, gingerly rolls onto his stomach in the vain hope that pressure will help ease the pain, but his gut is apparently on the warpath and refuses to settle. Danny finally resigns himself to slowly sitting up, one hand pressed against his stomach, and shuffling to the couch that sits only a few yards away. He's suddenly grateful for how cramped and tiny his apartment is as he eases himself down onto the couch and flips the TV on.

Danny flips through the channels for a while before settling on Little House on the Prairie. If anything will put him to sleep, it'll be Laura Ingalls and her perfect family. Two hours (and two horrible, horrible episodes) later, Danny hasn't gotten a wink more sleep and it's time to get ready for work. He levers himself to his feet with a grunt, knuckles kneading at the persistent ache of his belly, and pulls on his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. He picks out his brightest orange tie, knowing it'll annoy McGarrett, then pulls on his slacks and quickly gels his hair.

He gets to work earlier than usual; earlier, today, than even Steve. Surprisingly though, Kono's already there, head bent over some kind of paperwork.

"Hey Danny," she says, glancing quickly up at him before turning back to the papers scattered haphazardly in front of her.

"Hey," Danny answers, sitting at his desk. He starts looking at the stack of papers in front of him, realizes that it's been a bit longer than usual since he's last done his own paperwork, and blushes in chagrin. He's usually the one grilling everyone else about doing theirs.

"You okay, Danny? You kinda look like crap," Kono says. Danny can hear the concern in her tone and sighs.

"I'm fine, Kono. Thanks for asking," he says, to be polite.

"Mm-hmm," Kono says. "I'm sure. You're holding your side and you look feverish from here."

Danny drops the hand he didn't even realize was still pressed to his stomach and shakes his head.

"I'm good. My stomach's just bothering me a little this morning."

Kono narrows her eyes.

"Could be appendicitis, Danny," she says, her voice grave. Danny rolls his eyes.

"Because I might be running a fever and my stomach hurts? Appendicitis is the go-to solution for any kind of stomach problem the doctors can't figure out. Do you know how many people get their perfectly good appendixes taken out for no reason, Kono?"

Kono shakes her head. "Do you know how many people die because they ignore their appendixes until they explode?" She counters.

Danny rubs at his temple then points threateningly at Kono.

"I'm fine, okay? I don't need you telling everybody my appendix is about to explode."

"You mean you don't need me to tell Steve."

Danny sighs and grits his teeth. "Yes, that's what I mean. I am fine and I don't need you making a big deal out of nothing. I don't want some crazy SEAL coming down on my ass over something I ate."

"Fine," Kono says. "But if I see you start puking, the deal's off."

"Fair enough," Danny says. He isn't nauseous and he hasn't vomited in years. Piece of cake.

xxxx

They're called out to a crime scene, one that Danny can tell straight off is getting to Steve. Hell, it's getting to him too. The body of a former Marine who had apparently gone skydiving was found dangling from a tree, parachute straps the only thing preventing it from plunging to the ground. Of course, the man wasn't reported missing and Steve already suspects someone tampered with the chute, so they're looking at a likely murder. Steve's pissed about it, as he always is when the victim is related to the military; Danny's just trying to keep his shit together and hold down the nausea that has welled up suddenly.

He's irrationally relieved that Chin and Kono are down talking to the local skydiving companies. This situation would be ten times worse with Kono breathing down his neck.

"Hey Danny, can you see when the CSI team is gonna get here?" Steve asks, looking up at the tree.

"What, you aren't gonna climb up there and cut him down?" Danny jibes even as he pulls out his phone. McGarrett glares at him.

"I know better than that, Danny. That could ruin any evidence remaining on the body. I could totally do it, though."

Danny shakes his head. "I have no doubt," he says.

"What does that mean?" Steve demands, shooting a look at Danny.

"It means I'm not surprised you love climbing trees," Danny answers. "You being so monkey-like and all."

"I never said I love climbing trees, just that I could," Steve counters. "And if anyone here looks like a monkey, it's you."

"You keep telling yourself that, McGarrett," Danny says. "I'm going to go do my job and call the CSI guys."

"Yeah, you do that!" Steve yells after him. Danny chuckles at the pathetic comeback and winces as it increases the ache in his stomach. He walks away from the crime scene to get a bit of quiet and has just dialed when the nausea increases dramatically. He hangs up quickly then bends over, retching into the bushes.

Damn it. So much for his record.

xxxx

By the time the team is headed back to 5-0, it's time for lunch and Danny's stomach is aching even worse than before.

"Hey, I already ordered a couple pizzas for lunch," Steve says as they walk into the boardroom. Chin and Kono are there, and both look up at his announcement.

"Okay," Danny says, sinking into a chair with a sigh. After a second he realizes that Chin and Kono are both looking at him curiously, Kono a touch suspiciously. Danny bites back a curse at his fumble; normally, he'd be complaining about the low pizza standard on Hawaii and how much better Jersey is.

Luckily, Steve doesn't seem to notice, launching right into getting details of Chin and Kono's interviews. Kono shoots Danny one more glare before chiming in to Chin's explanation of their trip.

Danny, for his part, finds himself to be surprisingly drowsy, and his eyelids start drooping before Chin even finishes speaking.

"Danno! Pizza!"

Danny startles awake at McGarrett's bellow, blinking rapidly and hissing in pain for a second.

"You have a late night, Danny?" Steve asks with a grin. "You finally get laid?"

"Ha ha," Danny says humorlessly. "You have no idea."

Steve rolls his eyes and hands him a piece of pizza before digging in to his own, eyes glued to the computer screens in front of him. Danny accepts the piece and looks at it, feeling his stomach roll at the mere thought of eating. He can feel Kono's stare drilling into the back of his skull, though, so he takes a small bite, chewing it until it's practically disintegrated before swallowing.

The rest of the day seems to take ages; Danny struggles to stay productive around what he thinks must be a rising fever, not to mention the growing pain in his belly. Steve is focused like a laser on solving the case and doesn't seem to notice anything different. Kono, for her part, helps by volunteering to partner with Steve, leaving Danny to work with the much more mild-mannered (not to mention less crazy) Chin, dealing with the more mundane side of the case.

When he finally goes home at 6:00, he stops in the bathroom to vomit, then collapses into bed with his clothes still on and falls asleep (or maybe passes out, he can't really tell) immediately.

xxxx

McGarrett is annoyed. And frustrated. Danny has yet to show up for work, and this case is an important one, and much as Steve hates to admit it, he could really use Williams' point of view.

"Chin, you heard from Danny this morning?"

Chin shakes his head, frowning, as Kono looks up.

"He wasn't feeling well yesterday, boss," she says. The alarm in her voice startles Steve.

"What?" He asks, a bit more harshly than he meant to.

"His stomach was bothering him. I thought it might be his appendix, but he said he was fine."

Steve is already moving at the word 'appendix,' standing and snatching his car keys off the table and calling Danny. He swears when the phone rings before finally going to voicemail.

"Chin, I want you to have an ambulance on standby," he orders as he heads out of the room. Chin nods curtly, already moving to do as Steve ordered as Steve jogs to his car.

He gets in and pulls out of the parking lot quickly, cursing at any stoplights that dare to remain red in the face of his hurry. He contemplates just running them before deciding that he should probably be at least mildly careful, just because he doesn't want to die before he can get Danny help.

When he finally pulls in to Danny's driveway, he yanks the keys out of the ignition and barrels up to the door, banging it loudly.

"Danny! Danny, open the door!"

He's about to kick the door in when he hears someone fumbling with the lock, and then the door swings open.

"Danny, what's going on?" Steve demands, barging into the apartment. Danny's collapsed on the couch, face red and eyes bright.

"Dunno," he slurs. Steve feels his heartrate skyrocket as he sits next to Danny and presses a palm to his forehead.

"Shit Danno, you're burning up," he says, fumbling for his phone. "Hang on, I'll get the ambulance over here."

"N-no," Danny says, pawing at Steve's hand. "Better now."

"What?" Steve asks, panic dropping his stomach like a stone.

"Was gonna call you. For help," Danny explains. "But stopped hurting."

"What stopped? Your stomach?" Steve asks, tugging Danny's still tucked-in shirt from his waistband. Danny nods.

"Aw, Danno," Steve breathes, looking at Danny's visibly swollen abdomen. "You let it burst, you idiot."

Danny doesn't seem to comprehend what Steve's telling him, because he cries out in pain and curls over his belly again.

"Danny!" Steve barks, pressing his phone to his ear and quickly giving Chin the rundown.

"Hurts again," Danny moans. "Hurts bad!"

"Shit, shit shit shit," Steve mutters, running to Danny's kitchen and getting a washcloth damp. "Hang on, Danny, you're fine."

Danny keeps moaning, shaking his head back and forth and trembling with fever and pain. McGarrett gets back to his side and gently wipes the cloth over his friend's forehead and face before moving down to his chest and stomach.

"Danny, stay with me, okay? You're fine. You're going to be fine. And after you're fine, we're going to have a very serious chat about when you do and do not seek medical help, got it?"

Danny groans again, then blinks blearily up at Steve.

"-can't tell me what t' do," he murmurs. McGarrett grins.

"I sure as hell can," he says. He's dismayed that the washcloth already feels warm and prays for the ambulance to get there quickly.

"Steve!" Danny cries out suddenly, lurching over the side of the couch and vomiting, tears dripping down his face. Steve holds him up and rubs his back and tries to ignore the heat of the body beneath his hands.

Once Danny stops retching, Steve hauls him back up, supporting the smaller man and allowing Danny to squeeze his hand as he rides out the pain.

"You're doing great," McGarrett says as he hears the sound of sirens. "They'll take you in to surgery and fix you right up, good as new."

"…Grace?" Danny murmurs.

"I'll make sure she knows," Steve says.

"Good," Danny says, and goes completely boneless, head lolling onto Steve's shoulder.

"Danny? Danny! Damn it!" Steve shouts, yelling for the EMTs he hears coming up the front walkway.

"You're going to be okay, Danny," Steve mutters, smoothing a thumb over Danno's heated forehead. "Damn it, you're going to be fine or I'll kill you myself."

xxxx

Steve's pacing the waiting room like a lion, his whole body tensed. He's already sent a few nurses scurrying away, and he's about to snarl at another when Kono puts a hand on his shoulder.

"What!" McGarrett barks, whirling around.

"You're going to get us kicked out," Kono says softly. "He's in surgery. They're taking care of him. You need to sit your ass down and let them do their jobs."

"I amletting them do their jobs," Steve grunts. "But someone needs to tell us what the fuck is going on up there!"

"I know you're worried," Kono says. "I'm worried too. But you're going to get kicked out and then you won't get to see Danny, and he'll be all alone."

Steve nods and runs a hand through his hair. "You're right," he murmurs. "I just- I feel so helpless-"

He hesitates a second and Kono thinks there might be tears in his eyes, but they're gone in a flash.

"The doctor said it'll be awhile?"

Kono nods. "They're going to have to irrigate his abdomen and make sure the infection's all out. It'll be a few hours."

"Okay. I'm going to hit the gym. You or Chin will call me if anything changes?"

"Of course."

"Okay. I'll be back in an hour."

xxxx

McGarrett decimates the punching bag for an hour straight, punches it until he's sweaty and achy and exhausted, then heads back to the waiting room.

xxxx

Danno's finally out of surgery, but he looks like absolute shit, and the doctor fully expects him to develop an infection over the next few days. Steve argues (loudly) that if they expect an infection they should be able to stop that infection, but the doctor patiently explains that it doesn't work like that and they'll just have to play it by ear. Steve wishes he could punch the doctor in the face.

Rachel and Grace have already stopped by, Grace with a card in tow and tears on her face, Rachel with the pinched look of someone trying to stay strong for someone else. Steve knows that look well and suspects it might be plastered on his own face.

"Is Danno going to be okay?" Grace whispers. She's tucked up onto his lap, head half-buried in Steve's chest, and Steve can feel her trembling.

"Course he is," he answers with far more confidence than he has. "Your Danno's a tough guy."

"Yeah," Grace whispers. "I bet he could maybe even beat you up."

Steve chuckles and presses a kiss to her hair. "He just maybe could," he says.

xxxx

Two days later, Danny's got a raging fever and cooling blankets and ice packs, including a couple placed over his groin. Steve winces in sympathy when those are placed and chuckles at what Danny would be saying if he were conscious.

"You know, Danny, I actually wouldn't mind a rant from you right about now," Steve murmurs, thumbing one of Danny's heated knuckles. "You just wake up and I'll take it. Won't even interrupt. Once in a lifetime deal, Danny."

Danny doesn't even twitch.

xxxx

Four days after being rushed into surgery, Danny's fever finally breaks. Steve figures he's gotten maybe eight hours of sleep total since Danny's little misadventure started, but he is at full attention the second Danny's eyelids start fluttering.

"Hey Danno," he whispers.

Danny's eyes pry open, then slam back shut, and he groans.

"Bright," he says.

"Yeah, well," Steve says, "that's what happens when you're unconscious for four days."

"Four?" Danny echoes, easing his eyelids open again. Steve shields them for a second to give his eyes time to adjust.

"Yeah, dumbass. You let your appendix burst."

"No kidding?" Danny says, which wasn't the reaction McGarrett was expecting. "Guess Kono was right."

"Yeah, she said she told you your appendix was going to explode. You should've listened to her."

Danny squirms a bit, then winces in pain. "I guess."

"Oh, there's no guessing about it. Since you clearly can't be trusted with your own health, Chin and Kono have both been instructed to come straight to me if they even suspect something might be wrong with you."

Danny groans. "Seriously? You can't do that. Isn't that a violation of my rights?"

"What rights?" Steve says, grinning. "You gave those up, Danny-Boy."

"Damn crazy overprotective SEAL," Danny mutters, glaring up at Steve in a look long since perfected.

"Damn stupid stubborn cop," McGarrett counters. He hesitates a second, then tentatively grips Danny's hand.

"You almost died," he whispers, rubbing his thumb over the back of Danny's hand. "I thought you were actually going to die."

Danny squeezes his hand back and grins.

"Yeah, well, I didn't." He raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Are you going to have to teach me a lesson?"

Steve barks out a laugh and shakes his head.

"Oh yeah," he says huskily. "Soon as we bust out of this place."

Danny smiles and closes his eyes.

"Looking forward to it," he says, falling asleep.

"Me too," McGarrett whispers.

A/N: fill for janissa11's prompt over at hoodie_time; also fills the toothache square on my h/c bingo card.

xxxx

Dean's got a toothache. He's trying to be stealthy about it, trying to keep Sam from figuring it out, but just because he's been at Stanford for a few years doesn't mean Sam forgot everything about his brother. He can see the tiny winces every time Dean chews, the subtle way he shifts his jaw while they're in the car, the wrinkles at the corner of his mouth that deepen every time he rides out pain. Besides, the constant ordering of soup (tomato rice and chicken noodle and split pea) is a dead giveaway, even without the other hints.

"Which tooth is it?" Sam asks at a diner in Wisconsin. Dean's blowing on a spoonful of tomato basil soup, and he scowls up at Sam from beneath furrowed brow.

"Don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, slurping loudly. Sam sighs.

"Dean, come on. I know that you've got a toothache, you know I know, so why don't you just tell me already?"

Dean's jaw tics and he mutters under his breath.

"What?" Sam asks, not sure if he was being cussed out or actually answered.

"I said fucking all of them," Dean hisses.

"What? You can't have-"

"It's like my whole jaw, Sam, back of the mouth especially. Hurts like a bitch."

Sam sits back in his seat and looks appraisingly at Dean for a second.

"What does that mean?" Dean demands, pointing his spoon in Sam's direction.

"Did you ever get your wisdom teeth out?"

"My wisdom teeth?"

"You haven't. Because, let me guess, Dad was too busy? You couldn't take the time out of hunting? Your welfare wasn't important enough to-"

"Sam. Shut. Up," Dean growls. "Can't you give it a rest? We don't know where Dad is, for fuck's sake, and it's not like they bothered me before. Just- just give it a rest."

Sam doesn't say anything, clenching his jaw and avoiding eye contact with Dean. His brother sounds tired, and frustrated.

"So. I'm guessing you got yours out?" Dean asks. It's an olive branch that Sam's happy to receive.

"Yeah. My first winter break, actually. It was really funny because I was staying with my friend Greg, and his mom made the absolute best turkey, but I couldn't eat it-"

He looks up and sees Dean playing awkwardly with his spoon, an insincere smile plastered on his face.

"Uh, I'm sorry Dean, I didn't mean-"

"No, it's fine. Continue," Dean says, grin widening. "What happened next?"

"Nothing," Sam says. "That was the story. There's nothing else to tell."

Dean pushes his soup away and stands up.

"Piss poor story, Sam."

xxxx

Dean spent the first Christmas after Sam left alone in the Impala wrapped up in a silver emergency blanket and nursing a bottle of whiskey.

xxxx

Of course Dean's teeth are impacted, and badly, so the oral surgeon opts for completely putting Dean under rather than just numbing him up. Dean's pretty pissed about the whole thing and has been taking it out on Sam for the past few days, snarling and snapping even more than usual.

"I don't want to get my fucking teeth pulled, Sam," he whines the night before the surgery.

"Dean. This'll stop your jaw pain and you'll feel great in a few days. It's worth it, okay?"

Dean looks less than convinced. "We could be out helping people, but instead I'm gonna be stuck sitting around, high on painkillers with bloody gauze hanging out of my mouth."

"Yeah, well, better than you being so distracted by pain that you screw up and get someone killed," Sam says, going for the jugular. A look of shame mixed with indignation flashes across Dean's face, and he scowls.

"As if I would do that," he mutters, but he doesn't complain –too much- for the rest of the night.

xxxx

When Sam got his wisdom teeth out, he spent his recovery at a friend's house with a nicer bed then he'd ever slept in and home-cooked meals every evening. He still spent most of his nights wishing Dean was there to tease him and mess up his hair and make fun of him for being a pansy.

xxxx

"Look, I'll just hang out in the waiting room until you're done, okay? Couple hours, in and out. Piece of cake."

Dean gives him the finger.

"I hate you," he mumbles, shuffling behind the surgeon toward the room.

Sam grins.

"Love you too, Dean!" He yells, then settles into the waiting room with a book.

xxxx

Once, when Sam was in school and Dean was checking up on him, Sam had practically sliced his thumb off while cooking curry and they'd had to go in to fix a few tendons or something. Dean had hung around in the waiting room, pretending to be waiting for someone else, for the whole surgery. He'd left as soon as he'd heard it went well.

xxxx

"I'm just…I'm just confused, Sammy," Dean mumbles as Sam guides him to the car with a firm hand on his back. "I don't- what's going on?"

"You just got your wisdom teeth pulled, Dean, it's just the anesthesia," Sam answers, hiding a grin. Whatever the surgeon used to put Dean out, it's got him way out of sorts. Dean's cheeks are swollen and puffy, and gauze is poking out at the corners of his mouth, blood tingeing the edges.

"I don't understand, Sammy," Dean says, his lower lip wobbling. Sam sighs and turns the key in the ignition.

"You're okay, Dean. We're just going to hit the store so I can get your prescriptions filled, okay?"

Dean nods slightly, eyes welling up with tears. The doctor warned that emotional reactions weren't uncommon with this kind of anesthesia, but Sam is still torn between laughing at his brother's confusion and feeling guilty about it.

"I'll get you some yogurt too, okay Dean?"

"Don't like yogurt," Dean says. Normally it would've been said stubbornly; now, Dean says it as if he's about to burst into tears. He probably is.

"I'll get you the key lime pie kind. You love it."

"Okay, Sammy," Dean says quietly, resting his head against the seat. "I'm really confused."

"I know, Dean. Just relax," Sam says as they pull into the drugstore's parking lot. "I'll take care of it and be out soon."

"'Kay, Sammy," Dean murmurs again, his eyelids dipping drowsily.

Sam grins and heads into the store.

xxxx

Sam knows Dean loves key lime pie yogurt because when Dean was fifteen and got his tonsils out, it's all he would eat besides milkshakes and pie. At Stanford, Sam had always kept a few cups in his refrigerator, just in case.

xxxx

When he gets out, something is way the hell wrong. Dean's slumped over in the seat, his face red and sweaty, and he's breathing in shuddering, uneven gasps.

"Dean? Dean, talk to me. What's going on?"

Dean looks up with heavy lidded eyes, and Sam can see that his arms look strange, twisted so that his fingers are pointing toward the ceiling. Dean's face is scrunched in pain. Sam puts a hand to Dean's arms and realizes that his brother's muscles are clenched, spasming under Sam's fingers.

"Hurts, Sam," he slurs. Sam grimaces and presses trembling fingers to Dean's neck, feels his shaking echoed in Dean's erratic, jumpy heartbeat.

"Shit Dean, I'm calling 911," Sam says, fumbling through the pamphlets the surgeon gave him and dialing his phone.

"Sam, no. Sam. What?" Dean's muttering to himself, a confused jumble of words that are frighteningly slurred.

"Just hang on, Dean," Sam says, blurting Dean's symptoms as soon as the 911 operator picks up the phone.

"And he's just had surgery?" The operator asks once Sam's done word-vomiting.

"Yeah," Sam says, resting his hand on Dean's leg in an attempt to soothe him.

"I'm sending an ambulance to you. You need to get him out of the car and in the recovery position. Do you know how to do that?"

"Yes," Sam says impatiently.

"Good. Get him in that position and stay with him until the ambulance arrives. I want you to stay on the line but put the phone down while you move your brother, then get back on with me, okay?"

"Okay," Sam says, setting the phone down. "Hey Dean, I'm gonna get you out of the car, okay? I don't want you cracking any jokes about this, either."

Dean mumbles something unintelligible and sort of turns his head in Sam's direction, which Sam realizes is the most acknowledgement he's going to get. He eases Dean out of the car and he is panicking though he's trying not to, about how hot Dean feels. Because Dean's gotten fevers before, spiked them all the time when they were younger, but this is hot.

"Dean, Dean, stay with me," Sam says, stripping off his shirt and balling it under Dean's head. "Just hang on."

He grabs the phone out of the car and puts it on speaker phone next to Dean's prone form, then sits next to his brother, rubbing firmly at the clamped muscles.

He doesn't know what the hell this is.

"Sam, any change?" The woman asks through the phone.

"No, no, but he's so hot, holy shit he's hot, and his muscles are tight and what the hell is this?"

He doesn't hear the woman's response because Dean goes into a seizure, muscles locked and convulsing, a combination of blood and spittle trickling down his chin. Sam is yelling at the 911 operator and watching helplessly, and Dean is twitching, twitching, twitching, and Sam hasn't been this scared since he woke up with the ceiling on fire and blood on his face.

xxxx

Dean got sick when he was on his own, spent a few days hacking a lung out in the motel and watching 'Hogan's Heroes' on TV before he finally buckled down and stole some fever reducer and cough suppressant from the supermarket. The suppressant only made things worse, and one day he'd woken in a hospital instead of the motel room. His first thought was Dad and then Sam, but it was just a maid who'd found him passed out and shaking with fever. He got better and signed himself out and kept hunting like nothing had happened.

xxxx

A few people approach Sam as he cradles Dean's jerking form, but Sam snarls at them to back the hell off and they do, hands raised and eyes wide. When the EMTs get there, Sam backs off just enough for them to work and keeps one hand on Dean's heated head, kneading through the sweaty hair and telling himself that Dean's still alive and this is okay and everything's going to be fine.

The ambulance attendants let him ride in the back with them, so he grips Dean's hand tightly and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see them shove a tube down Dean's throat and jam needles into his arms. He half hopes that Dean will wake and come up swinging, loudly demanding to know what they think they're doing, but he just lays there, pale and limp and far too corpse-like for Sam's liking. Sam closes his eyes again and reminds himself that Dean's still alive and the hospital will figure out what's wrong and everything is going to be rainbows-and-unicorns-fine.

xxxx

Sam had nightmares, sometimes, when he was at Stanford. Usually it was that he ran to class without realizing there was a test, or sometimes it was showing up to the wrong place and being unable to go to the right classroom. Sometimes, though, it was that his phone rang in the middle of the night and his dad was on the line, telling him that it was Dean, that he'd gone out like a hero, like a fucking hero, that he'd saved countless lives. In his dreams, Sam had always cried and said that he didn't care how many lives Dean saved because he hadn't saved his own.

He'd always woken sweaty, dried tear tracks on his cheeks.

xxxx

The doctors tell him it was some malignant hyperthermia thing, but it might be okay because they'd caught it before Dean's kidneys shut down or he went into cardiac arrest, which isn't really all that reassuring to Sam, not when he felt how hot Dean was-is - and held him while he seized. He looks it up on Google the first chance he gets and pukes into the hospital bathroom when he realizes how damn close Dean came to dying and how it was basically his fault for forcing Dean into the surgery and how his brother is still hotter than a freakin' inferno.

"This wasn't your fault, Sam," a nurse says as she checks Dean's ventilator and adjusts the cooling blanket draped over his body. "This is rare. You couldn't have known."

Sam doesn't say anything, but he thinks I should have and blinks back tears as guilt threatens to swallow him up.

Dean, for his part, lays there still and quiet, red-faced and gaunt with dark circles under his eyes like bruises. The doctor said it should only be a day, two at the most, before they know if Dean will make it, but he's 'cautiously optimistic' because of the lack of kidney or heart shutdown. Still, the seizures lasted a bit longer than they're comfortable with, and Dean could have permanent brain damage, and the fact that he's on a ventilator isn't all that reassuring. Not to mention the fever that's still tearing through Dean's body in numbers like 106 and 107 that Sam knows usually mean death.

A few hours of watching Dean and feeling the heat pour off him like steam, Sam finally breaks down and calls Dad. He leaves a passionate and slightly angry voicemail and ends up perched next to Dean's bed, his brother's hot limp hand cradled in his own, waiting for Dean to wake up, waiting for Dad to call.

xxxx

Dean called Sam once a week at first, kept him up to date on what was going on, but mostly just listened to Sam tell stories of parties and tests, great grades and hilarious cooking disasters. At the time, Sam never noticed the slightest hint of longing in Dean's voice, but since then he's realized it had been there the whole time, hidden beneath dirty jokes and teasing insults. But back then, Sam never noticed and eventually got so caught up in his perfect life that he stopped answering his phone and forgot about Dean.

Sometimes, Sam can't figure out how Dean still loves him and protects him after all the crap he pulled. Sometimes, he doesn't feel worthy.

xxxx

Two hours after his fever finally drops below 100 degrees, Dean wakes up pissed. Sam takes it as a good sign and calls for a nurse as Dean tries to yank the ventilator out of his throat.

"Hang on Dean, we'll get that out," he says, grinning. Dean glowers at him, arms crossed over his chest. Sam hands him a pen and piece of paper, and Dean writes sloppily, his muscles still exhausted from the trauma of the past few days. Sam takes the paper back and snorts at the scribbled words: fucking teeth.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, shaking his head to cover the shaking of his voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd react to the anesthetic and I shouldn't have pushed-"

He's interrupted by Dean snapping and impatiently holding his hand out for the paper. Sam forks it back over and waits a few seconds before it's shoved back into his hands.

Not your fault. Bitch.

"Jerk," Sam answers with a grin.

The doctor comes in and takes the ventilator tube out. Dean retches and coughs, then looks at Sam with watering eyes.

"Glad you're okay, Dean," Sam says, feeling a weight lift off his chest. He pictures sunlight and the Hallelujah chorus busting out over his head and smiles widely at the image, and he might even tear up a tiny bit as Dean frowns, because a few hours ago, he wasn't even sure Dean would be Dean. A second later his brother coughs hoarsely and shakes his head.

"Still a girl, huh, Sammy?"

Sam laughs and scrubs at his eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I guess so."

xxxx

Stanford never felt like home, even when he was with Jess and everything was seemingly perfect. No, Sam found home in crappy motels and long car rides and stupid prank wars, Dean's old tapes and the smell of leather and gasoline.

It had taken him too long to realize that home was less of a place and more of a person. He didn't intend to forget again.

Title: This Fire Grows High
Author: el_spirito23
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Alistair
Rating: R
Word-count: 737
Warnings: Some language and violence
Summary: Dean wanted to be a fireman when he was little. Fill for H/C Bingo 'trapped between realities' spot
Disclaimer: I still don't own the Amazing Brothers Winchester.

xxxx

There are people screaming and screaming, their cries echoing in his ears, and it's his fault, all of it. The flames burn hot next to his hand and he wants to move, to escape, but he can't. The chains are too tight, the hooks too strong, and Alastair is laughing as he tries to get free. He's always been destined for this, Dean thinks. He's always been destined to burn.

xxxx

Dean wanted to be a fireman when he was little. Sometimes Sam pictures him dressed up for Halloween in a yellow plastic coat, smudges of makeup lovingly applied to look like smoke on his cheeks, but it's always overshadowed by the image of a little boy gripping a pistol in too-small hands, biting his lip in determination as he aims at a tin can thirty feet away. He wanted to be a fireman and maybe never stopped, and as Dean charges into a building lit up by flames Sam curses the little boy and tries to save the man.

xxxx

The burning has spread to engulf his entire left arm, and his chest is aching fiercely so that each breath seems to come at a horrible price. It's a new tactic for Alistair; typically, he likes to stretch the torture out for hours and days (if time can be measured as such in a place like Hell) and so burns and burns but without and smoke, starting at the toes and moving upward. The smoke inhalation, while quicker, hurts even more than the arm, and Dean wonders why Alistair's never tried it before.

xxxx

Dean is slumped over when Sam gets there. There's a badly charred form barely recognizable as what had once been a child in the corner, and Sam's heart sinks at Dean's failure; his brother will certainly blame himself and maybe never stop, another check on the list of Things That Dean Winchester Did Wrong, right after 'letting Sammy die' and 'letting Dad die for me.' Sam tucks his hands under Dean's armpits and heaves, coughing and cursing the foul smoke that hangs heavy on the air and that clogs his brother's lungs, and heads for the door.

xxxx

He's passing out. He can tell, because he's done so many times before, and that lightheaded, tingly feeling is in full force. He's never fainted in Hell though, never been granted that reprieve before. Dean's starting to think that something might be wrong when a figure appears, glowing and bright and huge and reaches out to him, and it must be Cas and this can't be right and this has happened before-

Dark.

xxxx

They take Sam off in the ambulance too, tuck a blanket around his shoulders and a mask on his face. They shove a tube down Dean's throat and crowd around his arm, but not before Sam can see it, can see the skin that looks melted and oozing. He throws up into a basin they hurriedly shove at him, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve and grips Dean's good hand.

"You're a bastard, Dean," he murmurs, thumbing the calloused skin. "You're a fucking bastard."

xxxx

Dean wakes up and the first thing he notices is that it's cold. A good cold, not the kind that Alistair uses when he's freezing his fingers and toes, but the comfortable cold that comes with air conditioners and ice cubes.

"Dean," someone says, and he knows that voice.

"Sam?" He murmurs.

"You're an idiot. And you owe me for pulling your ass out of that fire. You're listening to Death Cab for Cutie for the next month. Two months. Argue and I'll kick your ass."

"…Sam?" Dean murmurs again, because he doesn't really know what happened, and Sam's rambling is confusing.

Sam sighs.

"You don't think before you do shit," he says. "And you're a bastard."

"Oh," Dean says. "Same old, then."

Sam grits his teeth and purses his lips in a classic bitch face.

"Just shut up and get some sleep. We can talk more when you're coherent."

"Okay," Dean says, letting his eyes drift shut. Sam's still muttering about some Death-Cutie-thing, but Dean doesn't really care because this isn't Hell and Sam is real and Alistair is gone, gone, gone.

xxxx

Dean repeats that over and over again like a mantra when he wakes up on the rack, a knife slicing between his ribs and Alistair's laugh ringing in his ears.