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

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Number Fifty - Chapter 11

Rating: T
Genre: Casefic/Hurt-Comfort/Gen
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Spoilers/Warnings: Not canon; warnings for scenes of torture
Word Count: 27,500 over 15 chapters
Disclaimer: I don't own them

Someone - or something - is scaring people to death in New York; Bobby's on the case, but opinion is divided on whether or not he needs the Winchesters' help.

But those boys; they just won't take no for an answer …


Sam drained his coffee, "hey on the subject of evil stuff, where's the ring?” He asked; “you haven't still got it hanging round your neck, have you?"

Bobby huffed a quiet laugh, "no, it's locked in a curse box in the panic room until I can figure out what to do with it."

"What d'y mean?" Sam frowned, "I remember you said you can't destroy the ring or burn the remains; can't you just bury it or drop it in the sea somewhere?"

Bobby shrugged, "maybe, but … I dunno Sam; I want to look into this more before I do anything; I don't wanna get this wrong;" he hesitated, "but I can't concentrate on doin' that and worryin' about Princess Fairycakes up there, so the spirit of Number Fifty can wait a couple more days before I toast his ass."

Sam grinned. "But before I do anything," Bobby announced, getting up from the table with a grunt; "I'm going to make some oatmeal for him so that we can start getting those antibiotics into him."

"And the shot," added Sam.

"Uh, yeah, you can do that," Bobby muttered; "I ain't going anywhere near your brother with anything pointy." He pushed the syringe toward Sam; "anyway, you're the one that stitches him up, you've done it before."

Sam pushed the syringe back to Bobby, "Yeah, that's exactly why I don't wanna do it now; he raises unco-operative to an art-form!"

Bobby grinned; "coward," he laughed.


The two men quietly entered the bedroom, and glanced towards the bed. The lump under the bedclothes stirred briefly with a breathy sigh.

Bobby stepped across the room and pulled the curtains back a few inches as Sam crouched beside the bed and gently folded the bedclothes back so he could at least see his brother's face.

"Morning bro’," he beamed as Dean's eyes woozily flickered open and looked up at him with unfocussed confusion.

"mmmmm … wha …?"

The eyes closed again, and Dean burrowed back down into the bed. "hmmm … g'way…"

Bobby chuckled under his breath, "oh, charming."

Sam softly squeezed Dean's shoulder; "c'mon dude, we just need you to eat something and take some medicine, then you can sleep all you want."

Dean sniffed, wrinkling his nose as the delicious smell of the honey-sweetened oatmeal wafted across the room, and his eyes fluttered open again, this time focussing on Sam.

"Breakfast," Sam coaxed. He placed a glass of orange juice on the nightstand, and took the seat next to the bed, resting the tray on his lap. "Bobby's 'friend' got you some antibiotics."

Dean yawned, squirming as he tried to stretch, but thought better of it. "Friend?" he wearily looked up to Bobby, "din't know y'had any friends…" he mumbled thickly, rubbing his eyes, and shuffling stiffly to try to upright himself.

Bobby stood, hands on hips, frowning in mock outrage. "You sure you wanna talk that way to someone who's about to stick a needle in your arm?"

Dean stopped squirming and froze, mid yawn. "What?"

"Tetanus shot, Dean;" Sam smiled apologetically, "sorry!"

Dean scowled. "Your friend get that too?"

"Yup" Bobby nodded, smiling broadly.

"Your friend sucks;" Dean snorted, shuffling back down and clumsily shrugging the bedclothes back over his head.

Sam spluttered with laughter; "told you;" he mouthed to Bobby.

Bobby carefully lifted the bedclothes, trying hard not to laugh; "no shot, no breakfast, Cinderella."

There was a sigh as Dean peered sourly from under the blanket up at Bobby, "bite me," came a sulky voice

Bobby smiled and in one swift movement, pulled back the bedclothes, swabbed a spot on Dean's bicep with an antiseptic wipe then slid the needle smoothly and swiftly under the skin.

Dean buried his face in the pillow and Sam heard a muffled oath.

"All done," Bobby grinned, swabbing the bleeding pinprick, "wan' a lollipop?"

"Butcher;" snorted Dean ingraciously.


"How you feeling today, dude?" Sam asked, the concern obvious in his voice.

"What apart from the stabbed arm?"

"Uh, yeah, apart from that," Sam rolled his eyes, lifting his hand to Dean's forehead;

"Better now." Dean replied, barely above a whisper; trying and failing to swat Sam's hand away. "Hurt all over," he thought for a moment; "arms an' back n' ribs hurt like a bitch; can hardly move, but 'least hands don' hurt no more."

"You're still a bit warm, bro'," Sam smiled, "and wheezy."

"M'not wheezy," Dean wheezed petulantly.

"We've got you some Tylenol, that'll help," Sam continued, regardless; "but we need to take care, I read somewhere that rib injuries can lead to serious lung problems if they're not taken care of."

Settling in next to Dean, Sam helped him to prop himself up, leaning against Sam’s shoulder to keep pressure off his back, and wincing as his battered body protested against every movement.

"M’hands are better, can feed myself now Sammy;" Dean stiffly reached out for the spoon. Sam hesitated, but handed it over, then watched in dismay as the spoon toppled out of Dean's limp fingers.

Dean looked up at Sam, devastated; "thought m'hands were better..." his voice sounded so crushed, it broke Sam's heart.

"They are, dude," Sam smiled sadly, "they are, they're just not quite right yet." He squeezed Dean's shoulder, "look, have some breakfast, then you can have another sleep, and when you wake up, we'll get straight to work on strengthening your hands up. How's that?"

Dean sighed; "not hungry," he grunted sullenly.

Sam frowned, "don't start that again: you're only 'not hungry' because you can't feed yourself."

Bobby strolled over to the bed, "hold ya hands out, son;"

Doing as Bobby asked, Dean watched intently as Bobby laid a folded cloth across his outstretched hands and placed the bowl of oatmeal in them. "There, you can at least hold the bowl; so you're contributin'."

Dean looked down at the bowl, then up at Bobby, "see, ya couldn't do that yesterday; and sometime soon you'll be able to hold the spoon to eat it."

Dean gave a small smile; "hey, Bobby, you're awesome for a really old guy!"

Bobby folded his arms, glaring at the bedridden figure; "boy, you're not too sick for me to shove your face in it!"


Visibly tiring after finishing off the oatmeal and the orange juice, Dean placidly swallowed the antibiotics and the Tylenol without argument.

Exhausted though he was, he begged Sam to shave him and Sam relished the chance to help Dean.  Removing Dean's T shirt, he took the opportunity while he was shaving Dean to help him cool off and had to stifle a smile Dean insisted on holding the bowl of water.

It was only when Sam had finished his careful work, he noticed more bruising around Dean's jawline which had previously been covered up by the stubble.  Someone's hand had gripped his face hard enough to leave it heavily bruised, and more than once by the look of it. Sam's anger briefly rose, but subsided just as quickly as he felt his clean shaven brother wearily sinking into him.

Sam carefully took the bowl of foamy water out of his hands, and placed it on the nightstand before Dean dozed off completely and tipped it in his lap.

As Sam worked, Bobby changed the dressings on Dean's wrists and back, working swiftly and gently, peering over Dean's shoulder and nodding his approval of their condition to a relieved Sam.

Eventually, Sam found himself sitting on the bed, his brother fast asleep and only remaining upright by virtue of his chin resting on Sam's shoulder.

Together, Sam and Bobby worked him into a clean T shirt and lowered him back into the bed, arranging him into a comfortable position, pulling the blankets back over him.

"Well, he's settled for a while," smiled Bobby, as both men stood and stared down at the sleeping figure.

"Yeah," Sam replied quietly without taking his eyes away from his brother's bruised face.

"D'y want some breakfast Sam, c'mon, I'll make bacon sandwiches." Bobby whispered so as not to wake Dean.

Sam turned, "thanks Bobby; I think I'll just stay with him for a while if you don't mind."

Bobby nodded with a smile, "I'll bring 'em up for ya, son." He patted Sam on the shoulder as he left.



Tags: angst, bobby singer, dean winchester, fan fiction, humour, hurt comfort, sam winchester, torture

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