Dizzojay's Dean Dreams (dizzojay) wrote,
Dizzojay's Dean Dreams

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It Takes Two - Stoned

Over my years of writing fanfic, I've built up a little collection of hurty-comfort one-shots that involve hurt/sick/cranky!Dean and awesome!Sam. Throughout the collection, I've thrown in some humour, some angst, some schmoopy hurty/comfort, and I've called this little collection, 'It Takes Two'.

I've decided to give these stories an airing over here at last, so I'm going to be posting one story a day for the next few days ...

Hope you enjoy the hurty Dean :)

Rating: T
Genre: Humour/Hurt-Comfort
Characters: Sam and Dean
Spoilers/Warnings: Warning for Dean's naughty mouth and coarse references to bodily functions
Word Count: 2,950
Disclaimer: Don't own

Dean's having some unfortunate problems in 'that' part of the world ...

The diner's mint green décor was fresh and coolly relaxing; just the tonic the Winchesters needed as they enjoyed a prolonged period of inactivity.

The supernatural world appeared to be having a bit of downtime. Not that the brothers minded in any way; a series of arduous hunts over previous weeks had left them both battered and bruised in both body and mind, and the brief hiatus was extremely welcome. Dean, in particular had seemed uncharacteristically keen on extending their period of rest for the foreseeable future.

A companionable silence had settled between the two men as Dean, having just worked his way unusually slowly through half a stack of pancakes, sat back in his chair with a deep sigh and wiped his mouth across the back of his hand.

"Hey Sam?"

Sam savoured a long sip of his apple juice; "yeah?" he responded idly, gazing out of the window at the hazy morning sunlight.

"My piss is a funny colour."

Dean barely blinked as his brother sprayed a generous mouthful of apple juice across the table.

"Excuse me?" Sam spluttered, wiping watering eyes.

"My pee," Dean confirmed, enunciating the words as he dabbed droplets of apple juice off his sleeve with a napkin; "it's a weird colour."

"What sort of colour?" croaked Sam, wheezing through the stray apple juice flooding his windpipe.

"Kinda pink."

Sam pushed his glass to one side with a grimace," the golden liquid within destined to remain untouched; "that doesn't sound good," he speculated.

Dean shrugged casually; "don' know, m'not a doctor."

"Well, how're you feeling?" Sam asked cautiously, the worry wheels in his mind beginning to turn slowly.

"Okay, I guess," Dean began evasively; "well, kinda … I think … um, don't really know," he hesitated as his reply began to run out of steam.

Sam's brow furrowed; "and … that means?"

Dean frowned.

"Feel like crap Sammy," he eventually volunteered with a defeated slump of the shoulders.

Sam stared at him levelly. "Define 'crap'," he wheedled slowly and carefully, determined to get to the truth, even if he had to waterboard it out of his brother.

Dean shrugged, and took a listless sip of cold coffee; "back aches like a bitch," he grumbled, "I thought it might be some old injury actin' up, but it's not, it's in the wrong place; too low and kinda … deep, feels like it's in my belly sometimes." He paused, "oh yeah, an' when I take a leak, nothing happens."

Sam's brow furrowed; "what d'y mean, 'nothing happens'?"

Dean snorted irritably, "what d'y think happens when I take a leak? I don't dive down the friggin' U-bend and come up in Narnia," he huffed impatiently; "when I take a leak, I piss like a racehorse Sammy."

Both brothers' cheeks coloured slightly as they watched the elderly woman sitting behind them get up with a disgusted frown and take her coffee over to another table. Dean leaned forward so that their foreheads were practically touching and lowered his voice to a whisper; "but now - nothing comes out, hardly anything; just a few drippy squirts an' it's freakin pink!"

Sam was beginning to seriously regret his quest for more information.

"Dean, you gotta see a doctor," he coaxed.

Dean huffed in exasperation; "perhaps if I jus' drunk lots of fruit juice or something it might go away?"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, pink pee and drippy squirts are SO not good signs. You're seeing a doctor."

Dean slumped in his seat with a long sigh and nodded reluctantly.

"Aw crap," he groaned; "c'mon then, let's get it over and done with." He stood abruptly and snatched up the Impala's keys before Sam got any freaky ideas about driving.


Dean stood, feet splayed, staring intently at the bark of a large cedar tree through watering eyes.

How the hell could this be his third toilet stop? They'd only been on the road forty-five minutes. He wouldn't have minded but in all those stops, he hadn't passed enough to fill a shot glass, and the pathetic amount he had managed to expel had felt like he was passing freakin' razor blades. He arched his back against an aching pressure which had been building there, kneading the muscles just above his butt with his free hand.

He tried to relax and think nice thoughts as he pointed pecker at the tree's roots and waited for the action, such as it was, to begin. He thought of cool beautiful gushing water; he thought of Niagara Falls, Old Faithful, Lake Superior, Amazon Delta … instead, what he finally got looked more like the steaming tap of a cappuccino machine.

What was worse, he just knew that Sam, far from respecting his privacy, would be sitting in the Impala watching him like a hawk, and he felt his shoulders bunch as stage-fright took hold. His back arched again as the depressingly familiar ache intensified and spread, deeper and stronger until a searing pain gripped his side like icy claws, clenching the muscles there until his legs were shaking so hard he could barely remain upright and he just knew he was listing like a drunk.

At the end of five frustrating, agonising minutes of trying, he had nothing but a small damp patch on the toe of his boot to show for his trouble.

Sam's concerned eyes followed Dean's every move as he eased himself timidly back into the car. Red-faced and sweating, he curled up miserably, concentrating hard on trying not to puke. He didn't even notice that Sam had shifted over to the drivers' side.


The glass doors to 'Cedar Springs' Medical Centre swung open as two figures emerged.

"Kidney stone?" Dean snorted, "freakin' goddamn kidney stone?"

"I've just had some freak in a white coat mauling me about for fifteen minutes to tell me I'm gonna pass K2 next time I take a leak?"

Sam shrugged; "It makes sense, you eat way too much salt and don't drink enough water."

Dean grumbled irritably, pulling in a deep breath as the intense ache across his back continued to spread deep into his belly.

"I got poked, prodded, why don't these people ever warm their freakin' hands?" Dean moaned ignoring Sam who reached out to steady him as he began to stoop, stumbling rubber-legged over the loose gravel drive.

"Then he asks me to give him a freakin' sample, right after I told him the whole point of me bein' there was that it's got a goddamn knot in it," Dean continued; "where do these people get their medical degrees? Out of a freakin' christmas cracker?"

Sam stifled a smile as Dean's tirade continued full steam ahead. The words bounced off him like summer rain; all he was interested in was the good Doctor's instruction that if Dean hadn't passed anything interesting within two days, then their next stop should be ER. Therefore, Sam had already decided unilaterally, that given they had seen a big hospital only a couple of miles back, they were staying put in this town.

"Then he says drink lots of water," Dean threw his hands up in exasperation; "how the hell can I? Gonna blow up like a goddamn balloon if I can't piss!"

Sam dared to hope that Dean's rant might be winding up.

"Then he tells me kidney stones can be painful; yeah, well thanks for the damn newsflash Doctor friggin' Crippen."

No such luck.

Dean stomped around the Impala and petulantly yanked the door open, still muttering darkly about something Sam was making no effort to hear, when he suddenly froze, stumbling to his knees as he bent over to get in the car.

"Dean!" Sam was round the car and at his side in an instant.

"Oh crap, Sam, crap, Sam, oh jee-sammy shiiiiiiit," Dean was panting, teeth gritted, his flushed cheeks puffing as he fought to bear the twisting, burning pain that had paralysed him where he knelt, leaning bonelessly against the Impala's door. Looming over him, Sam pressed a comforting hand against his shoulder and muttered empty and desperate reassurances.


The motel room could well have been decorated by someone suffering from colour-blindness. Sam was fairly sure that turquoise carpet didn't go with terracotta walls or mustard yellow bedspreads, but it was warm and it was dry and it was relatively clean.

Besides, it was the bathroom where Dean seemed to be spending most of his time.

Right now, however, he was stretched out limply on the bed, laying as still as he could ever remember laying, torpid with painkillers, and afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe. There's no way he was doing that again. That friggin pain? No way Jose.

He could still feel a pain; not tearing him apart from the inside like it was before, just a dull pounding throb from some indeterminate part of his body that he wouldn't otherwise give a thought to. Some obscure midpoint between his left asscheek and his bellybutton.

He could feel it, the sonofabitch; pound, pound, throb, throb. The painkillers that he had been popping like Skittles had only just touched the edge of the pain, and now he had the added discomfort of a painfully full bladder thanks to all the friggin' water Samantha Sadcase had been forcing down his neck.

Sip it, Sam had instructed in that annoying 'Sam knows best' tone of his; don't chug it.

Sam was gonna be freakin' wearing it if he wasn't careful.

Suddenly Dean felt the pain rising again. Biting his lip, he tried to shift a little as if that could have helped, but to no avail. It was coming in waves, each more intense than the last, spreading across his whole back, pressing down on him and filling his abdomen to bursting with a rising tide of pain, burning and clenching harder and harder until he realised he was curled up pitifully on his side, knees pulled up to his chest, both his white-knuckled fists twisted into the comforter below him as he forced harsh breaths through flaring nostrils, scared to unbite his lip because he just knew if he opened his mouth he couldn't be held responsible for the words that came out of it.

He could feel Sam's hand gripping his shoulder, and heard Sam's voice trying to soothe him. It sounded a million miles away, but Dean didn't care, he clung to that voice as tightly as he clung to the comforter.

"Crap, S-sam ... Sa-ha-ham, shi-i-it, oshitoshitoshit … hur's …"

Then gradually, it began to ease off. He felt the waves of pain gradually diminishing to a level which was somewhere in the region of bearable, and finally felt it safe to unbite his lip. He grimaced when he tasted the coppery tartness of his bloody lip.

He knew there were tears, and he knew Sam had seen them, and when this whole damn circus was over Dean would deny it vehemently; blame the dust in the room or Sam's imagination; but right now, he couldn't muster the strength or the energy to give a shit.

Sam's concerned voice began to come back to him; "dude, hell, are you okay?"

Dean knew he should try to reassure Sam, to tell him he was fine, much better now thanks, but all that came out of his mouth was a hoarse growl of, "gotta pee. Now."


Sam reached out as Dean scrambled clumsily off the bed, pain-weakened limbs steadfastly refusing to co-operate, and before he knew what was happening, he was leading Dean toward the bathroom, trying to ignore the fact that Dean was desperately unbuttoning his fly with shaking fingers as they went.

It was a few minutes before Dean emerged from the bathroom, haggard and shivering with fever, shuffling painfully back toward his bed, clothes dishevelled, his fly still hanging open. Sam flushed as he averted his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that Dean hadn't managed to pack everything away.

He looked up at Sam through watering eyes.

"Sucks, S'mmy," he croaked abjectly.

Sam scraped a hand through his hair, "should we go to the hospital?"

Dean shook his head miserably, "doc said give it a couple of days," he kneaded his side with the heel of his hand. "It's easin' off now."


And so began the nightmare.

The next day passed Sam by in a blur. His life played out to a backbeat of the flushing toilet and the sound of Dean's pained groaning which Sam insisted was actually whimpering despite the fact that Dean angrily denied he was even capable of making such a sound.

Dean lay curled up miserably, clutching his vitals and groaning - not whimpering, got that bitch? - groaning in pain.

Back and forth, he beat an increasingly desperate path to the bathroom. Sam was fairly confident that Dean had been exaggerating when he'd announced he was paying his seven hundredth visit of the day, but then he couldn't be totally sure, it wasn't like he'd been counting or anything.

Sam was a constant presence, doing what he could to help and reassure; presenting Dean with painkillers and glass after glass of water (because he knew damn well the stubborn dick wouldn't drink a thing if he didn't have a full glass pressed into his great mitt), each one was received more ingraciously than the last and Sam was sure he had come within a well-timed abdominal cramp of being force-fed the last one, glass and all.

Deep down he knew kidney stones were a fairly run-of-the-mill deal. He knew people got them all the time, but even so; to see Dean suffering so miserably, was heartbreaking and secretly - just a little bit exasperating.


Sam hoped that a combination of time, painkillers and gallons of water would improve the situation as the day went on.

They didn't.

"There's gotta be a spell, incantation – something, anything," Dean begged pathetically.

"Dean, I am not calling Bobby to see if he knows of any spell that removes internal organs."

"But, Sammy …"

"No Dean!"

"Bi … ah-ah-ah-ah …iiitch."


"'m dying."

It was late afternoon and Dean was lying face down on the bed, arm cradled protectively under his belly, his words were muffled into his pillow.

"I'm gonna give birth to Ayers Rock and I'm dyin'," he croaked pitifully; "always hoped I'd go out in a blaze of glory," he sighed; "not sprawled out on a bed, half dead and stinkin' of piss."

Sam sighed as he saw Dean's back clench with another bolt of pain tearing through him, and a muffled whimper - suck it up Dean, that SO was a whimper - dissolved into the pillow.

He placed another full glass of water on the nightstand.

"Hospital, if it's no better by this afternoon dude."

There was the faintest nod.

"Be dead by then."

"Of course you will, Dean."


It was around three hours later, Sam was halfway through an excellent book, when Dean emerged on trembling legs from the bathroom; red-faced, feverish and just radiating pain-fuelled misery.

Sam couldn't deny the fact; Dean looked broken. So crushed by pain and fatigue, he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

Stepping down from his bed, Sam laid a sympathetic hand across Dean's back, an unspoken gesture of brotherly support that was met by a violent flinch; "God no, Sam, n-not my back," Dean gasped breathlessly, doubling over and gripping his shaking knees as if they were threatening to give way any second.

"Hospital dude?" Sam asked hopefully.

Dean gripped his side, kneading the clenched muscle and swallowed harshly, looking for all the world like he was going to hurl, his chest swelling as he sucked in a series of long, harsh breaths.

His hand slipped down from his side to his belly, pressing against the pain, way low down in a part of the world where, as sympathetic as Sam was to Dean's plight, he had no intention of offering any assistance.

Eventually Dean gave up trying to speak, and just nodded mutely.

"Okay, c'mon then," Sam's face lit up in relief as he crossed the room to pick up Deans jacket; "this has gone one long en …"

He turned just in time to see the bathroom door slam shut.


Sam was starting to worry by the time the bathroom door opened and his brother emerged timidly from behind it.

The first thing that Sam noticed was that Dean was walking upright; slowly, cautiously, but upright. Sam couldn't be sure, but there might even have been a watery smile on his face.

"Holy crap," Dean sighed; "look at this."

He took Sam's hand and dropped something into it. In his puzzlement, Sam couldn't quite rationalise what it was he was holding; no bigger than an apple pip, dark brown and jagged; it felt slightly damp.

He rolled it around in his palm absently, studying it curiously.

Then he looked up at Dean's weary but smiling face.

"That's all it freakin' was; hell Sam, I was expecting something a bit more seismic than that!"

The penny suddenly dropped.

"Eeeuuuuuugh," Sam squealed; "dude you are gross!"

He snatched his hand away in disgust, the outraged jerk sending the tiny fragment into orbit, leaving him unaware that it bounced off the ceiling and landed in his bed as he frantically wiped his hands on his jeans.

Dean smiled wearily and flopped down on his bed, closing his eyes in blissful relief; "whatever; make the coffee, bitch."

"And wash your hands first," he added.



Tags: dean winchester, groggy!dean, humiliating, humour, hurt comfort, kidney stone, sam winchester, sulky!dean, supernatural

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