#caretaker dean

[1heartfanfics]

Stitched up

As promised, a destiel fic next. Set sometime after they're living in the bunker and Cas is newly human. Destiel is cannon-ish in this fic but not explicitly stated. Sam knows though lol.

---

"Nice job out there team, that was a rough one," Dean said as they walked down the steps to the bunker. They were all worn, beaten and bruised from taking down a nasty vamps next in Missouri. "Anybody need medical attention?" he asked.

Sam, who had been favoring his right leg since getting tossed down a flight of stairs, shrugged and limped over to the table to sit down. "Sprained my ankle probably but I'm alright other than that I think," he said.

Dean considered this answer, giving Sam a once over, and decided that it was honest enough. "Cas?" he asked.

"I'm fine, Dean," Cas said quickly.

"I'll be the judge of that. Sit down and take off your shirt," Dean said, gesturing to the chair across from Sam. Cas had a pretty gnarly blood stain on one sleeve of his coat that Dean was concerned about.

Cas sighed but walked over to the chair and sat down. He peeled off his coat and his shirt, leaving him in just a white tee. Sure enough, there was a pretty deep gash running down the side of Cas's bicep.

"See this Cas? This is not 'fine'," Dean huffed, getting up to grab the first aid kit.

"I didn't even feel that," Cas mumbled, looking down at his arm in surprise.

"You were hopped up on adrenaline," Dean shrugged. "It happens. Bet you feel it now though huh?" he asked.

Cas nodded with a wince. Dean was right. His arm was throbbing where the cut was now.

"Don't worry, I'll get you fixed up. You're gonna need some stitches though. I'm guessing you've never had any?" Dean asked.

Cas shook his head.

"Right. Here, drink up," Dean nodded, handing his flask over. Cas looked at it warily. He'd tried Dean's booze before and was never very impressed. It tasted like rubbing alcohol.

"It's the closest thing we've got to anesthetic," Sam piped up from across the table. "I'd take at least a couple sips if I were you," he added, having been stitched up many times himself.

So Cas took a couple drinks, wincing after each one. It did help to dull the pain in his arm some. He felt fuzzy. And warm.

"Yeah, that's the point Cas," Dean chuckled, getting his supplies ready on the table.

Oh. Cas hadn't realized he'd been speaking out loud.

"I'm gonna clean it first, it'll sting quite a bit but won't last long," Dean said, before pouring rubbing alcohol down Cas's arm. Cas flinched, drawing in a breath. But Dean was right, it faded as quickly as it had come.

Dean threaded a needle with a pack of sutures that they'd stolen from who knows where, then doused both with alcohol as well.

"Alright, here comes the bad part. This is gonna hurt a lot, but I'll be as quick and gentle as I can. If you need a break, just say the word and we'll stop for a minute okay?" Dean said, giving Cas the rundown. Cas nodded, but he looked nervous.

So Dean leaned toward Cas, bracing one hand on his good shoulder to keep him steady, his other hand wielding the needle. He paused a few inches away from Cas's skin.

"You're gonna want to hold onto something," Dean added.

Cas silently reached up to grab a handful of Dean's sleeve, of the arm that wasn't about to sew up his flesh. That hadn't been exactly what Dean had meant, but it would work.

As Dean went in with the needle the first time Cas gasped, body jerking in surprise from the pain. Dean pressed into Cas's shoulder to keep him steady as he put in the first stitch. When he started the second, Cas kept still, but hissed through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut.

"You're doing good Cas," Dean mumbled, going in for a third stitch.

"Stop," Cas whispered, "Stop, please."

"Alright, alright, let me just finish this one," Dean said, pulling the needle through. "It would hurt a lot more if I left it in trust me," he said, knotting it off.

"Fuck that hurts," Cas swore, something he normally didn't do, despite how much time he spent with Dean.

"Yeah, I know. We're about halfway done though," Dean said.

Cas nodded, taking a deep breath and wiping the sweat off of his face with his uninjured arm. Then he nodded at Dean, "I'm ready," he said.

Dean nodded, resuming his previous position. Cas latched onto his arm again as he began the next stitch.

It ended up taking 7 stitches in total. By the time Dean was finished Cas had tears streaming down his face, but he'd managed to power through the last 4 without stopping.

"That's it, Cas. Hard part's done. You did good," Dean told him. He dropped the needle and sutures down onto the table and picked up a damp rag.

"I'm just gonna clean it up now, alright? It'll hurt a little but it should be nothing compared to what you just did," Dean explained. Cas nodded, reaching up to wipe the tears off of his face. Dean could see his hand shaking and gave Cas's knee a squeeze of support before he got to work cleaning the blood and grime from around the wound. When he was finished, he carefully wrapped it in gauze and taped it in place.

"All done," Dean said, sitting back.

"Thank you," Cas said, voice shaking slightly.

"Why don't you go lay down for a while Cas. You're not gonna pass out are you?" Dean asked, noticing how pale Cas was.

"No, I'm okay," Cas shook his head. But Dean still watched him carefully as he stood up, walking slowly out of the dining room and turning down the hall toward the bedrooms.

"How come you've never stitched me up like that?" Sam asked. Dean jumped, he'd forgotten Sam was there. "You don't let me take breaks," Sam added, smirking at his brother.

"Shut up," Dean said, rolling his eyes, but he looked away as he felt his face flush.

Sam laughed, enjoying watching his brother squirm for once.

[spnj2fanlw]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Additional Tags: Episode: s09e10 Road Trip, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical themes, Post-Gadreel (Supernatural) Summary:

Crowley's little trick with the needles has some repercussions.

*****

This one is painful. Beautiful but tragic. Hurt and comfort and a broken Sam.

[inkandpaperqwerty]

Castiel wakes up covered in self-inflicted wounds, struggling to figure out what he's supposed to do next. Dean and Sam are also struggling to figure out what to do next, but it's fair to say they're looking at the situation through a completely different lens.

AO3 // fanfiction.net // wattpad

Also, look under the cut for some funny screenshots from when I was editing! Word's suggestions are getting progressively dumber with time, and it's great.

We have Castiel getting as down as he can.

It's also worth noticing Castiel now has bear arms. Not really sure why. Maybe a witch got inside the bunker and cursed him.

Keep in mind, this isn't like the dean of a school, which would be, "The dean." This is The Dean. The Dean to End All Deans. The Ultimate Dean.

Castiel is opening. What he's opening, I'm not entirely sure. Maybe it's like open mic night, and he's opening for another angel? Some kind of stand up comedy routine?

Dean just sorts of assumes sometimes.

Castiel is off the market, ladies and gents. He's never going out.

And my personal favorite...

Ah, yes. Sam Walk. We all know the infamous Walk Brothers. Going Places, Wearing Shoes: The Family Business.

[27jj-fics]

Draining (SPN, Sam)

Title: Draining

Word count: 1,050

Summary: Sam is sick with a chest cold, but there’s still a job to do.

A/N: This is one of my deleted fics from LJ (originally written for a prompt); it has been edited/expanded for tumblr.

It's 11:27 P.M. when the rain starts to fall– an erratic, plunking sound that hits the window in time to the pounding in Sam's head. 

Dean is asleep, flat on his back and fully clothed, on the bed closest to the door. In his own bed, Sam tries not to cough too hard, because if he does his head will split open. Besides, he's really tired of coughing. All he's been doing the past week is cough, and he’s over it. Not to mention his throat is sore and his voice is raw and his chest feels like there's a weight on it, pressing down hard and making each breath a workout. 

It's absolutely draining.

So Sam tosses and turns, and he ends up coughing loudly anyway, with stuttering, phlegm-filled exhalations that erupt in the quiet motel room. Dean's awake in an instant, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on Sam. He yawns and moves to sit on the edge of his bed, dragging one hand down his face before he grabs his cell phone to check the time.

"S-sorry," Sam manages between coughs, his voice hardly a whisper.

"It's okay, I got a few hours in." Dean flips on the light and considers Sam, takes in his red nose and flushed cheeks and tired eyes. "You clearly didn't."

Sam shrugs, stifles a sudden wheezing cough into his fist. He shivers and looks toward the bathroom, trying to decide if he should use the energy to go get toilet paper so he can blow his nose, and decides against it. He'll need that energy to make it out to the Impala.

As Dean tugs on his boots, Sam lethargically pulls a sweatshirt on, followed by his hooded jacket. He feels helplessly and humiliatingly weak, and he knows Dean would probably make him stay behind if this wasn't a two-person job. He's hot and can feel sweat dripping down his back, but apparently his body misses the memo because he's also chilled. Dean keeps shooting him glances that might annoy him if he wasn't so damn tired.

Sam dozes in the car, but he jolts awake when a shiver wracks his body as they're pulling into the cemetery. His temple throbs as if in protest to the movement, and he presses his fingers to his head in an attempt to lessen the pain.

"Think there's some Tylenol in the glove box," Dean says, and he keeps his voice soft, which Sam is grateful for. 

He pops open the glove box, and by the time he's dry swallowing a couple of pills Dean is at his door, duffle bag and shovel in hand. Sam pushes himself up from his seat and uses the car to steady himself. He shivers violently at the cold rain, and Dean snorts.

"Put your hood up," Dean instructs, but a second later he reaches up and does the task himself, tugging the hood of Sam's jacket over his head for him. 

As they make their way through the cemetery Sam tries to stay alert; Dean needs him to keep a lookout in case the spirit comes to visit them before they can salt and burn the bones.

The rain settles into a steady downpour by the time Dean starts to dig. Sam can't really remember when they lost their second shovel, but having only one means Dean will dig and Sam will hold the flashlight and the shotgun. Dean not-so-subtly nudges him under a nearby tree as he grumbles about the rain under his breath.

Hardly ten minutes in, Sam's nose starts to run. Like he isn't miserable enough. Dean's making good time on the grave, but the wind is picking up and Sam can hardly feel his face or his fingers. He sniffles and pulls his jacket tighter around himself.

"Let me know if you need a break," he says, his wrecked voice barely carrying over the wind and rain. 

Dean nods, though Sam knows there's no chance in hell Dean will let him dig tonight.

As Dean finishes digging the grave, Sam shivers and sniffles and tries to remain upright. A cough bubbles up in his chest and he nearly doubles over from coughing so hard. When he finally stops long enough to breathe, Dean's saying something to him. His head is pounding and suddenly the ground seems to be moving, but he takes a breath through his nose and forces himself to focus on Dean's face.

"Toss me your Zippo, will you?"

Sam clears his throat and sniffles wetly, his hand automatically going to his pocket even though he remembers losing his lighter a few months back. Probably when they lost the shovel, too. He gives Dean an apologetic look before hacking some more into his sleeve.

"Think I left mine at the motel," Dean sighs. "Damnit."

Sam rubs at his forehead and watches Dean dig through the duffle until he comes up with a box of matches. He suddenly feels too warm, his several layers of clothing suffocating hot. He tugs at his collar, drags his sleeve across his face, and the rain-soaked fabric feels good on his forehead.

Dean goes through match after match, but none of them will light due to the rain. Sam's pretty sure he'll never be dry again; he shivers and sways before steadying himself against a tree trunk, but the motion makes him cough and Dean curses as the light from the flashlight disappears momentarily.

"Sorry," Sam rasps, but finally, Dean somehow gets a match to light even in the darkness. 

He drops it into the grave and sighs loudly in relief as the remains ignite.

"Damnit. Can this day just be over?" Dean groans, shaking his head and sending water flying everywhere. 

By some miracle, they’ve managed to make it through without the ghost interrupting, but now they're both soaked and exhausted. Dean watches the flames for a moment before looking over at Sam, who's in the midst of another coughing fit.

"Come on. Let's get you into a bed before you pass out on me."

"Not gonna pass out," Sam mumbles hoarsely, and even if it means he'll have to endure endless teasing, he's grateful for Dean's shoulder to lean on as they make their way back to the Impala.

[dessertbird]

Daily Destiel 💙💚

You know where you are? What's the date? Earth. Several billion years from the beginning. Come on, buddy. Come on. It's like I was… inside a blender that was set to purée for a tomato salsa. And you're the tomato? In this analogy, yes. Yeah 😂😎❤️

[catnipster69]

Dean is specifically suffering under the weight of what John told him in the hospital: that if Sam goes bad, Dean might have to kill him. So Dean wants to take a break to remove Sam from “all of this.”

I'm rewatching all of Supernatural. Tell me why I'd forgotten about the scene in Croatoan (S2 Ep9) where Dean says, "I think we need to take a break from all of this."

I feel like we all have this headcannon that Sam is the one who wants the white picket fence life, but what about Dean who wants to travel? Who wants to go around the US and see all the sights with his little brother?

Don't mind me. I'll be in the corner crying and thinking about 27-year-old Dean, who's just tired and wants something normal in his life. 🥹🥹🥹

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Did you go and make promises you can't keep?

Well, when ya break them, they break you right back

Amateur mistake

You can take it from me

[profoundbondfanfic]

Not Quite Fuck Buddy

Not Quite Fuck Buddy by casuallyneurotic, HesitateDisintegrate || @casuallyneurotic Rating: General audiences Word count: 9k

“Come on. You look like you’re about to pass out right there.” “If I could do that, this wouldn’t be happening,” Castiel muttered, but he obligingly put his hand in Dean’s and allowed the man to help pull him up. He swayed dangerously, and Dean rested a hand to his back, steadying him. His touch was warm, and Castiel found himself leaning into it. Castiel is getting desperate for sleep, and when his roommate suggests he find a cuddle buddy, he figures it can’t hurt to give it a shot.

Or the one where Cas is so sleep-deprived, he is positively hilarious to watch. And while Charlie does snicker a bit at his antics, she is also very worried, which is why she tells him to find a warm body to sleep next to.

Now, she might have had something entirely different in mind, but finding someone to cuddle up to turns out to be just what the doctor ordered. Or maybe, it was all just Dean. He is kind and his voice is soothing and he knows exactly what to do and what to say. Really, the perfect, most softest pillow.

Someone Cas might want to get to know better... After he wakes up.

[rizlowwritessortof]

Dangerous In More Ways Than One

Here we go, my first entry for @jacklesversebingo24 🥰 Prompt is 'Dangerous Suggestion.' Hope you enjoy!

Danger is sometimes just in your mind - but Dean is definitely danger of another kind.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 1954

Warnings: None really, except Dean in a tux; fluff

The warmth of Dean’s hands seeps through the silky fabric of your dress as he holds your waist, kissing you without warning, and the shock steals your breath away. The deliberate clearing of a throat makes it all stop, both of you looking wide-eyed towards the sound.

“Sir, ma’am – sorry, but you’re not supposed to be in here.”

You don’t have to fake your blush, and Dean glances down at the floor with an embarrassed smirk, expertly fooling the security guard standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, man – we were, uh, just looking for a little privacy, and this door was unlocked, so we just…”

“I understand. But you’ll have to find your privacy elsewhere. This office should have been locked and off-limits.”

Dean nods and takes your hand, leading you out the door as the guard steps aside, and he apologizes once again for good measure as you follow him back to the banquet hall. He parks you next to the wall and bends to whisper in your ear. “Sorry about that. Had to think fast.”

Your eyes slide up to meet his for a second, then you stare back at the floor, unwilling to let him read you quite yet. You nod, responding quietly. “Yeah, of course. At least we didn’t get caught.”

He sighs in frustration. “Didn’t get what we were after, either. So we have to come up with a new plan.” He looks over at the buffet table, cocking an eyebrow at the tempting offerings there. “How about we grab some food and a drink, sit down and figure it out.”

You agree, relieved at the thought of getting off your feet. Your heels are killing you. “Sounds good to me.”

He slips an arm around you, and the muscles in your stomach clench as his hand rests possessively at your waist again. He looks incredible in his borrowed tux, and you are having thoughts that you normally batter into submission with focused research, beer and violence against evil creatures. Unfortunately, none of that is available at the moment, but a glass of champagne can’t hurt.

You claim one of the small tables scattered throughout the room, letting Dean play the gentleman and hold your chair as you sit. Who knew he had that in him? You take a gulp of the bubbly, pop a cheese puff into your mouth, and mentally remind yourself to guard your expression before looking up into those stunning green eyes. “So, now what?”

“Well…” he managed between chewing, “I think I should head for the bathroom.”

You laugh softly. “Okay. That’ll teach ‘em.”

“I mean as an excuse, smartass. I should go, look for an unlocked door so we can duck inside and wait until everybody clears out. Then we pick the lock again, grab that fucking cursed statue and we’re home free.” The amused smile is still on your face, and he can’t resist responding with a slow grin that makes your heart skip a little. “Well, that’s my suggestion. You got anything better?”

You shake your head. “Nope. I think that’s probably the best plan. So – go tinkle or whatever, I’ll guard your baby quiche.”

He stands up, narrowing his eyes at you. “Just so you know, I counted those.” You can’t help but giggle as he turns to go. The man is serious about his food.

He isn’t gone long, sits down and takes a sip of his whiskey. “Okay, we’re good. Just need to wait until the crowd thins out a little so we can get in there without Mall Cop catching us.” He glances down, then glares over at you. “You ate one of my quiche.”

People have finally started to leave, and you are so ready for this night to be over. You had taken as long as possible to eat, each had another drink, strolled around pretending to look at the art on display, but you are officially over wearing heels and trying to act like you fit in with this rich, pretentious crowd.

The guard Dean had dubbed ‘Mall Cop’ is busy manning the door as people leave, so now is as good a time as any to get yourselves settled in for the next hour or two until the place is empty. Dean guides you down the hall, a couple of doors down from the office you needed to get into later, looking over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear.

“Ok, let’s go,” Dean says, his voice barely above a whisper. He opens the door, craning his neck to look over his shoulder as he urges you past him to the doorway. “Get in there before somebody sees us.”

You step around him, and your eyes grow wide as your hands fly out to brace on the sides of the door frame. “This is a bad idea.”

Dean’s voice hisses in your ear as he pushes you inside. “You agreed to it, sweetheart, now move.”

He squeezes in behind you, pulling the door closed quietly. It’s pitch black and there’s barely enough room for both of you in the tiny broom closet, which is luckily empty of all but a couple of brooms and a mop leaning in one corner. “I changed my mind. I hate your suggestion. It’s a very bad suggestion. A very bad, dangerous suggestion.”

Dean scoffs at your comment. “It’s not dangerous. As long as we’re quiet, they’re not gonna know we’re here. They’ll all clear out in an hour or so, and then we can hit Maitland’s office, get that damn statue and then we’re outta here.”

Your breathing is quickening, your heart beginning to pound. “It is dangerous. I can feel it.”

You feel his hand on your shoulder, his fingers trailing down the length of your bare arm as he chuckles softly. “Afraid to be in the dark with me?” His hand covers yours, and he freezes for a moment, feeling the trembling of your fingers beneath his. When he speaks, the tone of his voice is completely different. “Claustrophobia? But I thought you were okay with hiding out until...”

“I thought it would be a room. Like, a real room, a whole, big room with, you know, room and – and air. Lots and lots of air. Not a tiny death trap. We’re gonna get stuck in here, the walls are going to close in on me and I… I can’t breathe.” Even though you are whispering, your fear comes through loud and clear.

Dean moves both of his hands up to your upper arms, supporting you. “We’re not going to get trapped. All I have to do is open the door, there’s not even a lock on it. Okay?” His voice is gentle as he continues. “The walls aren’t going to close in on you.”

Your trembling continues, and each breath is coming in soft, desperate little whines. “I… can’t…”

He says your name quietly. “Do you trust me?” After a second, you nod, and he gives your arms a squeeze. “Okay. First of all, take off those ridiculous shoes. You need to get comfortable.”

You slip out of your heels, doing what he asks without question, and the cool floor on your bare feet is actually soothing.

“Okay, now just lean back into me.” He moves his hands to cover yours, bringing them up to rest at your waist. “Just relax, feel when I breathe and breathe with me. In – out. In – out. In – out.” His hands stay on yours, holding you in place, grounding you as he slowly guides you out of your panic.

You are tense at first, but gradually you lay your head back against his shoulder and relax against his firm chest, your body responding and your breathing syncing with his. Your quaking begins to calm, and Dean gives your hand a squeeze. “Better?”

You nod as you answer. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You draw in a shaky breath. “Just – talk to me. So I don’t have to think about where I am.”

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Anything.”

He blows out a breath. “Okay. So – you look amazing tonight.”

You let out a disbelieving little laugh. “Wow, you really are trying to distract me.”

He sputters a little as he answers. “No! Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. I should have told you before, but when you came out in this slinky dress and those sexy high heels, I couldn’t get any words to come out. So, I’m telling you now.”

You blow out an incredulous breath. “I – didn’t think you even noticed how I look. Like, ever.” You tilt your head back as if you can look up at him, even though it’s too dark to see. “And you said my shoes were ridiculous.”

“Well, they are. I mean, they can’t be comfortable. But they are sexy, and when you walk, it kinda puts a little extra swing in your step, it’s – ah…” he clears his throat. “Yeah, sexy.”

“Women are used to being uncomfortable just to look good for men.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t need to. I mean, you always look good. Barefoot, in your old jeans, or those cute little cut-offs you wear sometimes. And that old sweatshirt that hangs off your shoulder, that’s good, too.” He leans down so he can speak softly in your ear. “Kinda makes me want to take a bite.”

You’re finding it hard to breathe again. “You’ve never even tried.”

“Well, maybe the time’s never been right. Or maybe I just didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“Wow. And I thought you could see right through me.”

“You’ve always kept your distance, and I thought that’s the way you wanted it.” His thumb is brushing over the soft skin of your hand.

“I thought that’s the way you wanted it. I didn’t think you were even interested in anything else.”

“Shhhhh,” Dean whispers, and you both go silent. Footsteps echo in the hall, then a voice right outside the door makes you jump.

“Did you check the bathrooms?” A distant ‘yeah’ came back in reply. “Good, then let’s get the hell out of here and go grab a beer.”

The footsteps retreat back the way they came, and you let out the breath you were holding. “Just a few minutes to make sure they’re gone,” Dean says softly, and you nod.

After a few long minutes have passed, he finally reaches behind him and opens the door. The dim nightlights in the hallway let you see your way out, and you take a deep breath. “This is much better.”

You start to take a step, but Dean takes hold of your hand and stops you, backing you into the wall.

“You still owe me for that quiche you stole,” he says, his eyes shining playfully. Then he bends to kiss you, gentle at first, then more hungrily as you grab at his jacket to tug him closer. When he finally lifts his head, you are both panting, his eyes searching yours as he waits for your reaction.

“I knew this was gonna be dangerous - in more ways than one,” you tease, and he grins, a touch of relief in his eyes.

“Danger is my middle name,” Dean quips in his best Austin Powers voice, and you giggle, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss him again. You smile slyly up at him as you slide out from between him and the wall, heading towards the office that holds your target. “Hey,” he says, and you stop, turning to look at him. He holds out his hand, your shoes dangling from his fingers. “Don’t forget your ridiculous shoes.”

Tags for my lovelies: 

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 @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior  @sarcasmqueen74   @maliburenee     @mrsjenniferwinchester   @yeehawbitchs  

 @emily-winchester  @hobby27    spnbaby-67   @zepskies  @ladysparkles78  

@alwaystiredandconfused   @just-another-busyfangirl    @muhahaha303    @deansimpalababy    @kr804573  

@suckitands33    @ej13928    @lmhf1

[paunchsalazar]

Dean should have been the new new Bobby… I’ll kill myself

[adalwolfgang]

[aliusfrater]

i just spent like an hour elbow deep in 2014 samblr and the only thing i've found is that we've been having the same conversations over and over for a very long time. and this is notably before season thirteen

[glamlet69]

The Destiel Sickfic is still in the works (I'm sorry), so here's another snippet to tide you over!

Dean nodded. “Do you plan on sticking around?” He didn’t know why he immediately regretted asking the question, but he did.

Cas looked at him again, making sudden and uncomfortable eye contact. Dean almost looked away, but he forced himself not to.

“Would you like me to?”

“Uh, I mean if you want to. I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“'Okay' you’re staying? Or 'okay' you’ll think about it?” 

“I’ll stay until you’re better. Something tells me Sam might need some help.”

Dean frowned, offended. “What's that supposed to mean?”

It was then that Cas smiled, exhaling a small chuckle.

Before anything else could be said, Sam returned, raising an eyebrow and hesitating in the hallway when he saw Cas in the doorway.

[27jj-fics]

Always Wear Clean Socks (SPN, Sam)

Title: Always Wear Clean Socks

Word Count: 900

Summary: Ever since they were kids, Dean has always told Sam that going out with wet hair will result in him getting sick. Even though Sam disagrees ("It's a virus, Dean. A virus not directly linked to the state of my hair."), he goes out one morning without having time to dry his precious locks, and by the end of the day he's snuffly and sneezy and miserable. Dean wishes he wasn't always right, but it's a burden he has to bear.

A/N: Starting off with one of my deleted fics from LJ (originally written for a prompt); it has been edited/expanded for tumblr

Sam's pretty much having an average morning– he wakes up, takes a shower, his favorite shirt is semi-clean– until Dean fucking clotheslines him as he's going out the door to go get coffee.

"OhmygodDean!" he yells, but thanks to his superb balance he doesn't totally fall on his ass. 

Instead, he pushes Dean's arm away and fixes his brother with a glare.

"What?"

Dean just grins at him and speaks like he's talking to a four-year-old, slowly and deceptively patient. 

"What do I always tell you, Sammy?"

"Driver picks the music," Sam replies. "Peanut M&M's are not the same as the plain ones." He tilts his head to one side, snaps his fingers. "No wait, I've got this. Always wear clean socks."

Dean shakes his head. "Your hair is still wet and it's windy outside. The correct answer is that you can’t go out with wet hair or you’ll catch a cold.” 

"Wow, Dean. Do you want a gold star?" Sam makes for the door again, but Dean moves in front of him.

"Sam, just go dry your hair really quick. I'm sure it will only take you two hours, tops."

"My hair is fine, jackass."

"You're gonna catch a cold if you go out like that," Dean insists, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"The common cold is a virus, Dean. A virus. It doesn't have anything to do with the state of my hair."

"You know how susceptible you are to pneumonia."

"Do you even have a brain?" He thumps Dean on the side of the head. "I honestly think you don't."

"Fine, bitch. Go get me some coffee. See if I care when you come back with icicles hanging off your head. I'm hiding the NyQuil."

"We don't have any NyQuil, genius."

Less than ten minutes later, Dean's cell phone buzzes on the nightstand. It's a text message from Sam.

Going to the library. Gonna check on local hauntings.

what about my coffee bitch? Dean texts back.

Get it yourself, jerk.

Dean rolls his eyes, then remembers that Sam walked to the café.

how far is the library?

Couple miles. I'll wear my hood.

I'm not making you soup WHEN you get sick

Sam sends him three smiley faces in reply.

Dean totally doesn't fall asleep– he's just resting his eyes for a bit– but when he's done resting them, Sam's coming through the door and letting all the cold air in the state into their room.

"Close the door," Dean groans around a yawn.

Sam rolls his eyes. He turns around and clears his throat a couple of times as he's shutting the door, unusually quiet.

Dean stretches and stands up, and notices that Sam is shaking all over. It only takes him a second to figure the hell out why.

"Dude, you're shivering so hard," he marvels, smirking when Sam sniffles. 

Sam shrugs his shoulders and clamps his hand over his mouth to muffle a sudden cough. It turns into another cough, and then another, a long string of hideous sounding coughs. Dean can't believe his ears.

"Are you sick?"

Sam avoids Dean's gaze and shrugs his shoulders again.

"Oh my god. You're actually sick."

"I'b fide," Sam mumbles quickly, before fumbling around in his jacket pocket and coming up with what looks like a receipt and a ripped fast food napkin and sneezing loudly into them. "HPSH’SHUH! I'b fide."

"I can't believe this. Fuck, Sammy," Dean huffs. "You're all nasally and shit."

Sam heaves an exasperated sigh, goes over to the nightstand and blows his nose with four different tissues before turning back to Dean. His nose is bright red.

"Actually, the term 'nasal' means that air is moving through the nose, so-"

"How are we even related?" Dean cuts him off. "Get your ass into bed. I'm getting the thermometer."

"We don't have a thermometer," Sam says, and he sounds fucking miserable as he sniffles yet again. He sits on the edge of his bed and shivers hard.

Dean looks through the first aid kit anyway. He comes up with some Tylenol and a few throat lozenges that are probably ancient, but no thermometer. He makes Sam take the Tylenol and while Sam's swallowing that, presses the back of his hand to Sam's forehead.

"You're roasting," he announces. "Bed time."

Sam rolls his eyes and sniffles and bats Dean's hand away from his face, then crawls onto the bed and collapses face down, coughing.

"You can say it now," Dean says. "Tell me I was right."

"Don't be an asshole," Sam says before sneezing into his pillow. "Hh’HTCHsh! You weren't right."

"I'm always right, Sammy," he replies with a long sigh. "You think it's easy? Always being right? It's a burden, but it's a burden I bear for the greater good." He shakes his head and tugs the covers over Sam. "Honestly, the things I do for you."

“Huh-HSHS’HOO!”

Sam sneezes again, but instead of reaching for a tissue he starts to cough afterward, sputtering and hacking into the sheets. Dean pats his back a couple of times and pulls the covers a little higher, and when Sam's done coughing he closes his eyes and drags his wrist under his nose.

"Shit, man. I'm sorry. I really wish you weren't sick…" Dean says. 

Sam sniffles and cracks one eye open to look at Dean. 

"Because who's gonna go get me coffee tomorrow?"

“HPTSH’chuh!”

[fandom-hoarder]

Too F'n High

Summary: “Here, drink this,” Dean says. A small plastic cup is pressed to his lips, and the strong, medicinal odor of Nyquil almost clears Sam’s sinuses on its own. He whines again, not daring to open his mouth to actually voice his complaint, and hoping his stuffy nose lets him last long enough. Dean knows he hates this stuff. It makes him so groggy and woozy he can barely function, and he doesn’t even like to take a full dose. He tries to reach for the cup, but Dean grabs his wrist and Sam wonders how many hands Dean has.  The cup leaves Sam’s tightly closed lips and Dean sighs. “Sammy, c’mon, ya gotta let me take care of you, man.”

[AKA "dean feeds sam nyquil while he has a cold, and does somnophilia" --Finally, it is done!]

Written for @wincestwednesdays July 2024

July 31st Prompt: in sickness & in health

Tags: sickfic, caretaker dean, sick sam, fever, fever dream, dubcon medication, dubcon/noncon somnophilia, watersports elements, masturbation, underage, weecest, pining Sam, Sam POV, a dash of humiliation and praise kink, a pinch of oral fixation Sam, pubescent Sam

Note: Gifted to @supernaturalkickparty as a very late birthday present. Also extremely late finishing this for the fest. I was sick when I started this lol.

[1heartfanfics]

Hello! Is there anyway you could write a Dean/Cas (Romantic or platonic, up to you.) Dean is the sickee, maybe while on the road or just laying around in the bunker. Maybe he’s extra grouchy and irritable and Castiel just *knows* there is something wrong with his man.

So my favorite way to write destiel is somewhere in between. Not an established romantic relationship exactly but definitely not platonic either. An unspoken relationship that everyone knows about but never says outloud. Also this is really short, sorry.

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"What?" Dean asked shortly, having caught Cas watching him for just a bit too long.

"Are you alright Dean?" Cas asked, already knowing what the answer was going to be.

"I'm fine," Dean huffed.

Cas knew he wasn't though. He'd known as soon as Dean came into the kitchen that morning looking like he hadn't slept in days, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, face pale with slightly flushed cheeks. Then he'd made two pieces of toast for breakfast instead of his usual bacon and eggs.

All telltale signs of a fever and an upset stomach. Dean was clearly sick, but Cas knew he wasn't going to admit it very easily. So he just rolled his eyes and went back to scrolling through news feeds on the laptop.

The next time he looked up, Dean was leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. Had he fallen asleep? He really must be sick...

"Dean?" Cas asked quietly, not wanting to startle him. Dean tended to react aggressively when someone startled him.

"Hmm?" Dean jolted awake, eyes darting around the room for a second before settling on Cas.

"You fell asleep?" Cas asked, although he didn't really mean it as a question. What he meant was 'what's wrong with you?', which Dean would know. Whether or not he answered honestly was another question entirely.

"Didn't sleep well," Dean shrugged noncommittally.

Cas nodded. As if he believed that a poor night of sleep was the only thing going on with Dean. He thought better of pressing the issue any further for the moment, as he knew it would only made Dean angry. He was grumpy when he was sick.

A few minutes later Dean got up and walked out of the room. Cas heard the shower turn on from down the hall.

"What's wrong with him?" Sam asked, likely having passed Dean in the hallway and had the same concerns that Cas had.

"He's sick," Cas shrugged.

Sam raised an eyebrow skeptically, "He tell you that?"

"No," Cas rolled his eyes. "But he is," he added.

"I don't know man, I feel like Dean never gets sick," Sam shrugged, still not buying it. But Cas knew the man better than Sam did, and he knew that Dean was sick.

As if on cue, the sound of retching came from down the hall to prove Cas's point.

Sam winced, "Hangover?" he suggested.

"All he ate for breakfast was some toast, which means that he's sick because if he was hungover he would have made bacon or something," Cas shook his head.

Sam held his hands up in mock surrender, realizing that Cas had been right. "Should we go check on him?" he asked, gesturing over his shoulder.

"I'll go," Cas said, standing up from the table. He knew that Dean would still be reluctant to accept his help, but even more so from his little brother.

He gave Sam a light clap on the shoulder as he passed, knowing that Sam was worried about his brother, even if he wouldn't admit it. But Cas would take care of him, regardless of if Dean wanted him to or not.