"Shot Through the Heart" (Secret Santa for ooo)

[scarlett_ohara2]

“Shot Through the Heart”

Author: me (Liz)

Fandom: Supernatural, Dean (M), Season 2 (set directly after ep. 2.14, “Born Under a Bad Sign”)

Disclaimer: I’ve been thinking lately that maybe I should stop wishing so hard for a Winchester… knowing my luck, I’d probably get John. Title is taken from “You Give Love a Bad Name” by Bon Jovi.

Prompt:

For some reason (hehe, get creative), Sam and Dean have to take a long plane journey somewhere. Set S1 where Dean still "kinda has a problem with..." flying. Annnd, Sam only realises after the plane's taken off, but Dean's coming down with a bad cold/flu. Sam has to calm him down when he's all panicky, and do his best to look after sick Dean with their limited range of materials.

Author’s Note: I couldn’t believe my luck with this prompt- I’ve always wondered what would happen if Dean had to get on a plane again… BUT- I didn’t want to do anything similar to “Phantom Traveler.” So, I posed myself the question, “Is there anything that would get Dean to fly again, that doesn’t involve a haunted plane/demonic possession?” Aaaand… ta-da! This was born. Since it’s me, there will be angst. You are warned. I tried to make it as medically accurate as possible (seriously, you don’t want to know about the conversations I had to do research for this thing. Advice: things sound REALLY strange out of context.), but you may have to suspend your disbelief slightly if you are really in-the-know medically.

Also, if it's not clear in the story (because I know I didn't say so in so many words), Sam and Dean are flying because Hendrickson has somehow got wind of where they are, and they need to move fast.

9:14 a.m. Hector International Airport, Fargo, North Dakota.

Dean’s not entirely sure what day it is, but Sam’s got the tickets, so he figures he’ll leave all that up to him, and focus on the task at hand. He’s leaning just a little too far over the counter, hitting on the ticket agent, and as Sam walks up he can hear him saying, “Don’t worry, I won’t bite… unless you’re into that kinda thing…”

Sam clears his throat obviously and waves the tickets at Dean, who mutters something under his breath and then leans back in towards the ticket agent with a falsely confidential loud whisper, “… Sorry. You know how little sisters can be.” He strolls up to Sam as if he hasn’t a care in the world, and gives him a little punch in the arm, though Sam doesn’t miss the slight grimace that flickers across his face.

“Why the sourpuss, Sam? Did someone forget your sweet sixteen or something?”

“No.”

“Then lighten up. I’m sure Anthony Michael Hall is still into you.”

“Ha-ha. I didn’t know you were a fan of Molly Ringwald movies.”

“What can I say, Sammy? ‘Being bad feels pretty good’!”

“You would quote John Bender.”

“Hey, he’s a rebel… with a cause. Like us.”

“John Bender doesn’t have a cause.”

“Sure he does. He wants to get into Molly Ringwald’s pants. And if that’s not a cause, I don’t know wha—hah—haauuughhhx-shoo!—whad is…” The sneeze snaps Dean forward, and he presses a hand to the recently-dealt gunshot wound.

“What the hell was that?”

“The mystical and elusive sneeze… take a picture, Sam, ‘cuz if you don’t stop staring at me this’ll be the last thing you’ll see clearly.”

Sam sighs. “How’s the shoulder?”

Dean thinks that this must mark the hundredth time Sam has asked, and no matter how many times he’d said that it was okay, he’d been possessed, Sam couldn’t let it go.

Dean sniffs loudly. “Like… ‘fantastic’ and ‘peachy keen,’ all wrapped up in one.”

“So… ‘keenly fantastic’?”

“Yeah. About like that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

9:47 a.m.

Collecting their sparse carry-ons from the conveyer belt, Dean turns back to Sam and gestures at the metal detectors, “Good thing Jo pulled that sucker out, huh?

“‘Shot through the heart,’” he continues, sounding amused. “I’m going to have to restrain myself from calling you darlin’, darlin’.”

Sam stops to sit on a bench and put his shoes on properly.

“Dean, what are we doing?”

“Uh… we’re getting on a plane. And running from the law…. Though hopefully minus the actual, uh, ‘getting on the plane’ part.” Dean sets his duffel down on the airport floor, and Sam observes the way he leans over gingerly, his left arm bent protectively against his chest.

“No, Dean, I meant, what are we doing?” Sam places careful emphasis on each word in the reiteration, like it’s surgical tape that will hold the gaping wound of recent events together.

Dean sniffs thoughtfully and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. When he speaks, it’s slowly, as though he’s excavating the words up from some deep dark mine inside himself, a mine where he just keeps chipping away, determined to find the diamonds hidden in the deep dust of iron filings and rock salt.

“It’s our job, Sammy.”

Sam finishes tying his shoe, and sighs as he stands again and picks up his bag.

As they’re walking through the terminal to their gate, Sam feels as though he has to say something. He’s not sure if it’s just the fluorescent airport lighting, or the concealing makeup they had to use to cover the bruising, but he thinks that Dean’s looking pale.

“Did you take anything for that?” Sam gestures at the general direction of Dean’s shoulder, apparently unable to say the words, ‘gunshot wound,’ probably because those words have recently been all buddy-buddy with the words ‘that I inflicted.’

“I have some pills,” Dean says gruffly. “Jo gave ‘em to me.”

“That doesn’t answer the question. Do you have them with you?”

“No.”

“Dean—”

“Sam.” Dean’s voice is suddenly very serious, and his green eyes are opened wide, reminding Sam of one of those creepy paintings, because no matter how many times he glances away, Dean’s still looking at him, his gaze like the beam from the headlights of a squad car.

“Sam,” Dean repeats. “We’re already using fake I.D.’s and credit cards. I didn’t want to add illegal prescription drugs into the mix.”

“Look at you all cautious, Mr. I-Laugh-in-the-Face-of-Death.”

“I dunno, Sam—Death’s one ugly bastard. I think I might spit, not laugh.” Dean clears his throat uncomfortably, and hazards a slight cough.

“Ahem. I think that’s our gate.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

10:03 a.m.

“You want a snack or something while we wait?”

“Nah, ‘m good. You go, though.” Dean looks up at Sam and gives an approximation of his cocky grin, but it falls flat, hanging lopsided on his face as though tacked up by an interior decorator with vertigo.

“You sure?” Sam asks.

Dean curls his right arm around the back of one of the airport chairs. “Yep.”

“Okay, then,” Sam says, and turns his back on his brother. He’s not more than a few steps away when he hears Dean calling out to him, heedless of anyone around them.

“You do a fabulous pout, there, Samantha. Might want to think about putting a patent on it.” Dean tips Sam a wink and it’s almost as if the last week never happened. As Sam walks away, he thinks maybe that rings truer than it should, for him at least. Or maybe he just wishes it could. He knows that they’re going to have to bring it up again sooner rather than later, though, and oddly the thought is almost comforting, in a weird sort of way- like the sweet agony of picking at a scab, even though you knew you shouldn’t. He has to know the facts of what he did, so that he can lay them out like a one-man game of chess, decide which pieces deserve to be taken off the board, whether it’s worth playing out to the end, or if black’s going to win no matter what. Sam used to think that the choice of first play that white got, that little leg up- it mattered, somehow. Tipped the scales. Now, he’s not so sure. Why give white a head start at all, if it wasn’t predestined that black would triumph?

He’s back in just a few minutes, but Dean’s already got his stuff spread out over several chairs and his leather jacket scrunched up under his head like a pillow. The packet of peanut M&M’s sails through the air and hits him in the stomach.

“Bullseye,” Sam chuckles.

“Huh?” Dean says, sounding like he’d been on the verge of sleep, and Sam had yanked him back by his boot strings.

“I said, ‘Nice reflexes’.”

Dean pushes himself up to a sitting position using his right arm. “Last I checked, Sammy, it was your target practice that needed the work, not mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

10:50 a.m.

Their row has been called, and they edge up to the queue cautiously, like skittish tigers. Dean creases and re-creases his ticket, the veneer of ersatz calm chipping off and letting the irrational panic show through.

“I have a bad feeling about this, Sam.”

“Dean, it’s safer than riding in the Impala. The statistics—”

“Do I look like I care about statistics, Poindexter?”

“Well—”

“That would be a no.”

Dean hands his ticket to the gate agent, shuffles down the ramp like an unwilling child to the first day of school.

By the time they’re settled (well, seated anyway) in their assigned row, Dean’s gripping the armrest so tightly Sam thinks it might break off.

“You wanna just do last rites right now, Sammy? I mean, you’re close enough to a priest. What with the celibacy and all.”

“Ha-ha,” Sam states acerbically. “I’m glad your sense of humor’s the last thing to go.” His expression softens when he sees that Dean’s squeezed his eyes shut, though, and he continues in a different tone.

“So… uh, you gonna be okay for this?”

Dean cracks one eye open. “You know, the last time went so well—yeah, I think I’ve conquered my phobia.”

“Really?”

“No. In fact, I think it’s probably gotten worse, because now I have déjà vu on top of it!”

“Look on the bright side. This time, we don’t have to do an exorcism.”

“Sam, there is no bright side,” Dean says wearily. “Both sides of the moon are dark.”

“What?”

“Shhh. I’m tired.”

Sam doubts this is true, because he’s pretty sure that he couldn’t sleep if he knew that a clown was in the same neighborhood, let alone the same room. He has to chuckle to himself, thinking about it- look at them, men who hunt monsters for a living. Bring on the vampires, demons, and ghosts- but send in a plane full of clowns…

It doesn’t take Dean long to give up the pretense of sleeping. He sneezes once during take-off and looks horrified, Sam’s not sure if it’s from frustration of not being able to control an involuntary action, or if it’s the sensation of no longer being attached to the Earth by gravitational forces.

“Didn’t know you liked physics so much, kiddo,” he says, poking Dean gently in the bicep.

Dean scratches at his shoulder and gives Sam an annoyed look.

“Shop class,” he says, jerking a finger at his chest and then scratching some more at his shoulder before gesturing at Sam, “Mathlete- didn’t think you could forget that, Sam, seeing as you rub it in- oh, every chance you get.”

“No,” Sam sighs. “I was just pointing out your apparent fondness for Newton’s Laws.”

A glare’s his only response, so Sam reaches out and catches his brother by the wrist.

“Cut that out.” Their eyes meet for a second, and Sam looks away first. Dean yanks his arm away and makes a show of rubbing at his shoulder.

“Sam. The gaydar works, even at high altitudes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

12:02 p.m.

“Dean… Dean, she asked you what you wanted to drink.”

Dean blinks up from the safety instruction card he’s been examining like it’s a cheat sheet to the SAT and he’s aiming for an Ivy League admission.

“Uh… Coke, no ice.”

“No ice?”

“Dude, you don’t know what could be in that water!” Dean winces slightly as he takes a swig of his drink.

The flight attendant’s not far down the aisle when Dean almost tips over his cup as he sneezes, twice in quick succession.

“Huuugguuhxx-shoo! Huuh-etsch-sheh!” Sam snags the cup before it spills, and they draw more unwanted attention.

“I… I thigck id’s the air,” Dean says sheepishly, before clearing his throat. “I’m not used to it.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam deadpans, setting Dean’s drink back in front of him. “And this is because you spend so much time outdoors, that filtrated air bothers your sinuses.”

“Um… right.”

“Dean, we spend most of our time inside a vintage car, and we sleep in motels whose mold problems are not even near the top of the maintenance list- that is, assuming they even have a maintenance list.”

“Bite me.”

“Think I’ll pass… just brushed my teeth and all.”

Yep. Looks like they’re going for a new record on the Annoyed Looks tally. The fact that this is a weekly- if not daily- occurrence is of no importance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

12:31 p.m.

Sam has surreptitiously shut the window shade, after Dean kept darting furtive looks at it, as if he was going to be sucked out the window. Dean’s perusing the Skymall like it’s his career and it’s evaluation day.

“You know,” Sam starts, “you could always pretend you were on an episode of Star Trek or something. That might help.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorts. “Except Captain Picard always ‘makes it so’ by the end of the episode, and I highly doubt everything will be ‘so’ here!”

“Not exactly…”

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” Dean over exaggerates air quotation marks.

“Well, that series was really fond of 2-part episodes…”

The ‘fasten seatbelts’ sign flashes on unexpectedly, and Dean opens his eyes wider than Sam would’ve thought possible, except he’d already experienced a flight with Dean. Skymall slides to the floor.

“Dude, you need to calm down,” Sam says in a slow, reasonable tone.

“Sam, I ca- cah-hah-hhaaaughxx-shoo!- can’t.”

“Does the word ‘inconspicuous’ mean anything to you?”

Dean merely wipes his nose on his sleeve and suddenly looks very young, his freckles standing out against a pale complexion, like a constellation in a paint-by-number entitled “Ominous.”

Sam leans over. “Are you shaking?”

“No,” Dean replies defiantly. “I’m shivering.”

“Thanks, Webster.”

“Well.” Dean still sounds petulant. “It’s like the friggen’ tundra in here!”

Sam slaps his palm on Dean’s forehead before he has time to react. Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to swipe his hand away, but gives up after the movement must pull something in his shoulder. Sam removes his hand after a few moments, and gives Dean a straight look.

Dean attempts to deflect it with a snarky comment, Winchester standard. “You just can’t keep your hands off of me. Are you that desperate to cop a feel?”

“You feel pretty warm, Dean.” Sam swallows, is reminded for some inexplicable reason of the film Stand By Me (“I’ll see you around.” “Not if I see you first.”), goes on, “I think your shoulder’s getting infected.”

Dean shrugs with his good arm, fights another shiver, and then unsuccessfully tries to stifle a quick, harsh sneeze that makes him press his hand to his shoulder again. Sam waits until Dean’s blown his nose with the cocktail napkin before he indicts in a low voice, “How long did you think you could keep this a secret, Dean?”

“Secrets are practically our currency.” Dean glares at the man across the aisle, who seems far too interested in their conversation, then turns back to Sam.

“Practically?” Sam repeats. “How many credit cards do you have?”

“Three.”

“And under how many names?”

“Uh… three.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1:07 p.m.

The fever had crept up on Dean and then pounced when he wasn’t expecting it, sinking its claws deep into his chest. Sam’s alarmed by how quickly it seems to take hold, by how quickly Dean sinks into a wordless daze, by how long it took him to notice.

Spitting the demon’s words out of his mouth was like gargling hydrofluoric acid- a deceptively weak acid that’s still the only one with the ability to etch glass. Somehow Sam thinks it was worse when it was his own words, though- That’s not my point… no matter what I did, you wouldn’t shoot. He remembers Dean’s insistence that it was the right move, wonders just how many gratuitous ‘right move’-s he’s going to get before it ends with one of them on the ground, the other with their finger on the trigger and one less bullet in their gun.

Dean’s words in his head again (It’s our job, Sammy); he’s not sure why exactly it’s their job to fight their own little slice of chiaroscuro- because really, did anyone ever hear of the moonlight overcoming the night?

Eventually Sam gets up, brushes past his brother, and stalks up to where the flight attendants are gossiping. As he goes past, the man across the aisle catches him by the shirt, jabs a thumb in Dean’s direction.

“Hey- is your friend okay?”

Sam’s not really sure how to answer. Everything’s wrong on so many levels and he doesn’t know how they keep building on this precarious house of cards when the foundation’s been shot for a long time. Sheer determination, maybe.

“Uh… yeah, yeah,” he says, feeling as though it’s lucky no one would ever get him as a defense attorney. “He’s just going through some complications from a… a recent surgery.”

Or maybe he was meant to be a lawyer, after all- the ‘recent’ part is true, and he supposes you could put a spin on ‘surgery,’ too- call it an outpatient procedure. Dean had been the patient, and Jo had taken the bullet out. If that wasn’t ‘outpatient,’ Sam would like to see what was.

Sam wasn’t really paying attention, but when he turns back to the man from across the aisle, he’s somehow procured a prescription bottle of Vicodin from his bag, and he’s shaking pills out into his hand. He holds them out to Sam, tips them into his palm. Sam’s not sure when he forgot that people could be nice for no reason, that there existed action without reaction, that despite Triumph’s admission, sometimes good things could be free, but regardless, the reminder is- well, not reassuring, per se, but hopeful anyway.

The flight attendants are extremely helpful and prompt with his request, and he misses the comment he’s sure Dean would have made about their ‘speed and helpfulness.’

When he returns to their seats, Dean blinks at him groggily.

“How’d you get back?”

“I teleported. What do you think?”

Dean inches up to a straighter sitting position, throws cautious looks at the closed window, as though in Sam’s absence, it’s going to fly open and give him a glimpse of just how high up they are. Sam squeezes past him, and Dean lets a trace of a smile tinge his face.

“See, it’s a question of etiquette, Sammy…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam replies distractedly. “Being clever works out great for you.”

There’s a pause, as Dean sees what Sam’s brought from the in-flight first aid kit. “Sam,” he says seriously. “I am going to kill you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“No one’s gonna care what time it is when we crash, Sam” p.m.

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam lays the in-ear thermometer down on the tray table like he’s giving up his weapons. “This isn’t like some kiddie stuff you can knock back with some Tylenol. This is the real deal.”

Dean tries out a cough, scrunches his face up in pain. “Have I ever been a poser? What you see is what you get, and what you get is pretty—Haaarschh-shoo!—ow, God, pretty dab awesub.” He rubs at his nose with his sleeve, and slumps back into the seat.

“God,” he repeats, but then his face lights up for a second to match too-bright green eyes. “Well… good thing I’m not wearing a red shirt, huh?”

“Wrong Star Trek.”

“Oh.”

Dean soon drops off into a restless sleep, after Sam makes him swallow the donated Vicodin. There are no comments about whether Sam’s got a portable whiteboard stashed in his bag, and he doesn’t even stir when Sam hesitatingly places his hand on his good shoulder and rubs in small, comforting circles. Sam’s sure that he knows, though- any man who rests with a machete under his pillow is obviously quite aware of anyone invading his personal bubble, let alone touching him while he sleeps.

And for once, Winchester (mis)fortune leaves them alone for the rest of the flight. Maybe it’s just because they’ve already had such a spectacularly sucky week that it feels pity for them (yeah, right), but whatever, they’ll take it like they take everything, whether it was coming for them to begin with or not. Dean sleeps straight through until landing, even when Sam applies his makeshift compress (paper towels dipped in tepid water), which tells Sam more about his deteriorating state of health than anything.

He rouses when the seatbelt sign shuts off, though, and removes the compress with a strange look that’s a battle between grudging gratitude and annoyance.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Sam says. “Let’s go get you to a doctor, huh?”

Dean swallows, leans over Sam to peer out the now-shadeless window.

“Land being the operative word.”

[ooo]

I LOVE YOU.

I mean, you know that. But.

I'm going to come back after breakfast when I'm coherent... But for now:

[27jj]

Yay!!! It’s here! This was sooo good! Not that I’m surprised about that:) There are SO many lines I wanted to quote but it would just be too long, but I thought it was all brilliant.

I love Sam’s “what the hell was that?” after Dean’s first sneeze, and of course Dean’s reply. Awww and Sam telling Dean to stop scratching his shoulder reminded me of Yellow Fever:) And Dean blaming the sneezing on the fact that he’s not used to the air.

I also love the timeline and seeing them deal with the whole Sam-shot-Dean issue. Oh, and getting a thermometer from the in-flight first aid kit was a good idea, hadn’t even thought of that!

So basically, it was amazing:)

[ooo]

Back, and hardly more coherent but I'm going to try.

So, OH MY GOSH, this is exactly what I wanted with this prompt and you are brilliant. And it's miiiine! *is possessive* THANK YOU.

I loved the way you weaved in all the references to Sam having shot Dean, and the repercussions, and Jo taking the bullet out. I really liked all the little time-headers (especially that they started in Fargo! I'll ramble at you about why in the PM I'm writing at the moment...), and especially the last one, hehe! Oh and Dean flirting with the ticket agent, and 'You know how little sisters can be', heee, and that lovely sneeze you had in the middle of Dean's sentence, YUM.

Loved the little musing about chess and white getting a head start. And so much lovely panicky Dean, and the fever, you are amazing. I loved Sam rubbing Dean's shoulder in his sleep, and knowing that Dean can feel it. And the makeshift compress, which was EXACTLY what I had in my head when I prompted this and how are you this awesome??

Okay and a little (okay, big) list of phrases/paragraphs I just absolutely adored:

“Nah, ‘m good. You go, though.” Dean looks up at Sam and gives an approximation of his cocky grin, but it falls flat, hanging lopsided on his face as though tacked up by an interior decorator with vertigo.

(...)

“Did you take anything for that?” Sam gestures at the general direction of Dean’s shoulder, apparently unable to say the words, ‘gunshot wound,’ probably because those words have recently been all buddy-buddy with the words ‘that I inflicted.’

(...)

Sam leans over. “Are you shaking?”

“No,” Dean replies defiantly. “I’m shivering.”

“Thanks, Webster.”

(...)

Sam’s not really sure how to answer. Everything’s wrong on so many levels and he doesn’t know how they keep building on this precarious house of cards when the foundation’s been shot for a long time. Sheer determination, maybe.

(...)

Sam’s not sure when he forgot that people could be nice for no reason, that there existed action without reaction, that despite Triumph’s admission, sometimes good things could be free, but regardless, the reminder is- well, not reassuring, per se, but hopeful anyway.

And I'm sure I had more to say, but I have to go exercise my Right To Vote in a minute, so I'm just going to say THANK YOU, again.

(And and, thank you SO MUCH, again, for volunteering to write for me so I could participate! That alone made this whole thing a hundred times more fun. WHEEE.)

*goes off to reread*

[obsessed]

Mmm, I love this.

And mystical and elusive sneeze?

Brilliant. <3

[Lady Blessington]

*happy sigh*

The freaked-out Dean... the nurturey Sam... Dean loudly teasing Sam, oblivious to all the other people at the airport... this line:

Dean looks up at Sam and gives an approximation of his cocky grin, but it falls flat, hanging lopsided on his face as though tacked up by an interior decorator with vertigo

... Sam noticing Dean's pallor... the fever and forehead feel and thermometer... the shoulder-rub (agh)... the SNEEZES.

Thank you for the delicious deliciousness.

[scarlett_ohara2]

Yay!!! It’s here! This was sooo good! Not that I’m surprised about that:) There are SO many lines I wanted to quote but it would just be too long, but I thought it was all brilliant.

I love Sam’s “what the hell was that?” after Dean’s first sneeze, and of course Dean’s reply. Awww and Sam telling Dean to stop scratching his shoulder reminded me of Yellow Fever:) And Dean blaming the sneezing on the fact that he’s not used to the air.

I also love the timeline and seeing them deal with the whole Sam-shot-Dean issue. Oh, and getting a thermometer from the in-flight first aid kit was a good idea, hadn’t even thought of that!

So basically, it was amazing:)

Hee, I didn't even think of Yellow Fever when I was writing this (I just did a bunch of research on gunshot wounds, and apparently one of the symptoms of infection is itching), but YES, I love that kind of caretaking!Sam who was so lovely in that ep (and wanted mooooore), so I'm glad this evoked that!

I'm so glad you liked this and also a huge THANK YOU for helping with questions!!

Back, and hardly more coherent but I'm going to try.

So, OH MY GOSH, this is exactly what I wanted with this prompt and you are brilliant. And it's miiiine! *is possessive* THANK YOU.

I loved the way you weaved in all the references to Sam having shot Dean, and the repercussions, and Jo taking the bullet out. I really liked all the little time-headers (especially that they started in Fargo! I'll ramble at you about why in the PM I'm writing at the moment...), and especially the last one, hehe! Oh and Dean flirting with the ticket agent, and 'You know how little sisters can be', heee, and that lovely sneeze you had in the middle of Dean's sentence, YUM.

Loved the little musing about chess and white getting a head start. And so much lovely panicky Dean, and the fever, you are amazing. I loved Sam rubbing Dean's shoulder in his sleep, and knowing that Dean can feel it. And the makeshift compress, which was EXACTLY what I had in my head when I prompted this and how are you this awesome??

Okay and a little (okay, big) list of phrases/paragraphs I just absolutely adored:

“Nah, ‘m good. You go, though.” Dean looks up at Sam and gives an approximation of his cocky grin, but it falls flat, hanging lopsided on his face as though tacked up by an interior decorator with vertigo.

(...)

“Did you take anything for that?” Sam gestures at the general direction of Dean’s shoulder, apparently unable to say the words, ‘gunshot wound,’ probably because those words have recently been all buddy-buddy with the words ‘that I inflicted.’

(...)

Sam leans over. “Are you shaking?”

“No,” Dean replies defiantly. “I’m shivering.”

“Thanks, Webster.”

(...)

Sam’s not really sure how to answer. Everything’s wrong on so many levels and he doesn’t know how they keep building on this precarious house of cards when the foundation’s been shot for a long time. Sheer determination, maybe.

(...)

Sam’s not sure when he forgot that people could be nice for no reason, that there existed action without reaction, that despite Triumph’s admission, sometimes good things could be free, but regardless, the reminder is- well, not reassuring, per se, but hopeful anyway.

And I'm sure I had more to say, but I have to go exercise my Right To Vote in a minute, so I'm just going to say THANK YOU, again.

(And and, thank you SO MUCH, again, for volunteering to write for me so I could participate! That alone made this whole thing a hundred times more fun. WHEEE.)

*goes off to reread*

Awww, YOU'RE WELCOME. It was my pleasure to write this!! I'm SO happy that you liked it, so YAY, joy is joyous (which makes me think of Christmas carols for some reason... oh well, I suppose that's okay, since this was a Secret SANTA and all!). Oh, and I think I got some ESP vibes from you when I was writing this, because Fargo and the compress were totally both a last-minute addition. Hee.

Remind me later to tell you the research stories.

Mmm, I love this.

And mystical and elusive sneeze?

Brilliant. <3

Hee, mystical and elusive sneeze... I couldn't resist. (Of course, when have I ever been able to?)

*happy sigh*

The freaked-out Dean... the nurturey Sam... Dean loudly teasing Sam, oblivious to all the other people at the airport... this line:

Dean looks up at Sam and gives an approximation of his cocky grin, but it falls flat, hanging lopsided on his face as though tacked up by an interior decorator with vertigo

... Sam noticing Dean's pallor... the fever and forehead feel and thermometer... the shoulder-rub (agh)... the SNEEZES.

Thank you for the delicious deliciousness.

*happy squee*

You are most welcome.

[BlueRandom]

Ohhh I thought I already commented on this! Obviously not.

I love the structure, and the dialogue is so perfect - it's definitely way up there in great things about the show, and you get it soooo right. I love Sam's jibes; esp. the "bullseye"/"nice reflexes" one.

Anyways - basically, .

[telltale]

Eeek, I was sure I'd reviewed this already! But I just re-read it and saw that I hadn't. SORRY. The fact that I re-read it should tell you that I adored it. I love your writing style, and caring!Sam, and poor phobic, feverish!Dean, naaaw.

Mmm, fevers.

[ooo]

so YAY, joy is joyous (which makes me think of Christmas carols for some reason... oh well, I suppose that's okay, since this was a Secret SANTA and all!). Oh, and I think I got some ESP vibes from you when I was writing this, because Fargo and the compress were totally both a last-minute addition. Hee.

Remind me later to tell you the research stories.

Just had to come back here and say, YES, I have had Christmas carols stuck in my head for the last month. There has been much humming and friends thinking I am very strange. Fortunately, that's not much of a change from the usual. And I shall most definitely remind you about the research stories - can't wait to hear them now that I'm finally allowed

[scarlett_ohara2]

Ohhh I thought I already commented on this! Obviously not.

I love the structure, and the dialogue is so perfect - it's definitely way up there in great things about the show, and you get it soooo right. I love Sam's jibes; esp. the "bullseye"/"nice reflexes" one.

Anyways - basically, .

Aww, thank you so much!

Eeek, I was sure I'd reviewed this already! But I just re-read it and saw that I hadn't. SORRY. The fact that I re-read it should tell you that I adored it. I love your writing style, and caring!Sam, and poor phobic, feverish!Dean, naaaw.

Mmm, fevers.

Oh, telling me that you re-read it just makes me all fuzzy inside.

so YAY, joy is joyous (which makes me think of Christmas carols for some reason... oh well, I suppose that's okay, since this was a Secret SANTA and all!). Oh, and I think I got some ESP vibes from you when I was writing this, because Fargo and the compress were totally both a last-minute addition. Hee.

Remind me later to tell you the research stories.

Just had to come back here and say, YES, I have had Christmas carols stuck in my head for the last month. There has been much humming and friends thinking I am very strange. Fortunately, that's not much of a change from the usual. And I shall most definitely remind you about the research stories - can't wait to hear them now that I'm finally allowed

Same here, luv.