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

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Down Time - chapter 4

Down Time.jpg


Rating: T
Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Humour
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, OFC
Spoilers/Warnings: None - no particular adherence to canon
Word Count: 8,300 (all five chapters)
Disclaimer: I don't own these wonderful people

The boys are recovering from 'flu and they both need some serious down time.
Dean's determined to make the most of it.

Dean's eyes flickered open as the night's sleep began to recede and he rolled over, blinking blearily in the grey morning daylight, vaguely aware of the distant hiss of the continuing rain.

Craning his neck, he looked over his shoulder towards the other bed and saw nothing more than a motionless lump under the frayed burgundy comforter topped by a tangled mass of dark hair.

He yawned, the back of his hand rubbing the haze of sleep from his eyes, and arched into a lavish stretch.

It was the fifth morning after the 'flu had really taken hold of him, leaving him a wheezing, burning, snot-ridden mess and for the first time since then he finally felt better; much better. Well, great actually.

He scowled; crap!

This was so not fair. Finally, after years of having only Sam to heal his hurts, he'd finally got the undivided attention of a gorgeous, sassy naughty nurse; one with 'real' magic fingers. A little tickle of bliss skittered down his spine and he shuddered at the thought of those skilful fingers at work.

Poor Sammy's well-meaning mutton-paws couldn't hope to compare.

He let out a long sigh.  Friggin' sonofabitch, douchey, crappy Winchester Luck.

Why the hell couldn't it let him suffer just a few more days? Heck, that massage yesterday was better than every episode of Casa Erotica he'd ever seen combined. Whoever would have thought that muscle liniment could have been so frickin' kinkily awesome?

A miserable huff.

No! Balls to Winchester Luck; he was damn-well going to enjoy Diana's attentions for a couple more days.

With all the strife and crap he had dealt with through the course of his life saving countless lives, looking after Sammy, all the bruises and stabs and broken bones; surely he had earned the freakin' right to have this cute babe climbing all over him for a while longer.

He glanced across at the burgundy lump in the bed beside him as it shifted and groaned, and as he ducked under the bedclothes his sulky pout stretched into a wicked smirk.

Sammy's waking up …

Show time.


Sam slowly rolled over, cringing as the bedsprings groaned under his weight. Conscious that he didn't want to wake Dean, his first thought was to check on Dean's condition.

Looking across to the bed containing his brother, he saw the comforter move as Dean fidgeted underneath it.

"Dean;" he whispered.

No response was forthcoming.

"Dean;" he leaned up on one elbow and raised his voice slightly.

A tousled head emerged slowly from under the blanket, blinking damply in the harsh daylight.

"How y' doin' bro'?" He asked tentatively, not feeling optimistic, judging by the vacant, glassy squint aimed in his direction.

Dean swallowed thickly, lifting a shaky wrist to rub his brow. "Not so good," he croaked, following up with a lavishly wet sniff.

Sam's head dropped back onto the pillow as he gave a long sigh, "Jeez Dean, this damn flu's really brought you down this time."

Dean rolled over onto his belly, groaning with the effort; "goddam 'flu," he mumbled miserably into his pillow.

"You still in pain?" Sam asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Yeah, Dean sighed, propping himself up onto his elbows with a pained wince, coughing harshly; "don' worry; s'nothin'."

Sam frowned, "doesn't look like nothing."

"Back aches like a bitch," Dean croaked, letting loose another salvo of harsh, barking coughs; "an' head aches." He gave another lengthy snuffle.

Standing up, Sam pulled his arms over his head in a massive stretch; "I can't believe how this thing's lingering … do you feel any better at all?"

"A bit," sighed Dean, making a mental note that he shouldn't worry Sammy too much; "breathin's easier now," he paused; "so I don't need no doctor," he added abruptly in case Sam went and got any stupid ideas in that direction.

Sam yawned, "Diana had better take another look at you," he replied, running a hand though his unruly fringe; "If she thinks you need a doctor, you'd better see one."

Dean lay back in the bed, closing his eyes; "don' wanna keep bothering her," he murmured unconvincingly into his chest.

Sam smiled; "don't lie, you're loving it!"

Dean's breath hitched, and his eyes snapped open. Had Sam rumbled him?

Sam patted Dean on the shoulder; "gonna hit the head, then I'll get you a coffee. Get some rest."

Dean let out a small snort of relief; obviously not.

He relaxed back into the bed and sighed, allowing a sly smile to spread across his face.


It was about an hour later that Diana strolled into the room with a steaming hot coffee and some toast, "Sam says you're still feeling a bit rough," she stated kindly, taking up his wrist and pressing into the pulse point.

"Have you been able to get up and about yet?"

Dean took a deep shuddering breath, "tried earlier but got dizzy," he croaked weakly.

"That'll be because you've been on your back for four days," Diana replied, seemly satisfied with his pulse.

Dean hid a faint smirk, "I wish …" he thought.

She laid a hand flat on his forehead, "well at least you're not so warm today."

Dean frowned, feeling his sympathy advantage slipping away; "still feel hot, though," he replied weakly, mind whirring as he pondered ways to reinforce his need for some heavy duty TLC.

She moved her hand down from his forehead to his cheek without breaking contact and shrugged; "you feel okay, but let's check anyway," she produced the thermometer and slipped it between his lips. Dean's eyes narrowed as he glanced at the nightstand and an idea blossomed in his mind.

Giving a theatrical sniff, Dean looked up at Diana, quietly asking if she could get some tissue from the bathroom for him.

Watching her disappear through the door, he removed the thermometer quick as a flash and dipped it in his scalding hot coffee, rapidly slipping it back into his mouth as he heard Diana's quick footsteps along the landing. He swore under his breath as he realised it was the wrong way round, frantically making the fumbling adjustment a split second before she appeared back in the room.

He smiled his weary thanks as she passed him the tissue.

"Okay, lets see what we've got." Diana took the thermometer from his mouth and giving it a brief shake, she glanced at it.


She looked up at Dean in dismay; "It's a hundred and twelve. You should be dead."

Dean cringed sheepishly. "Uh ... it- um - probably don't work properly; some old bit of cheap crap of Bobby's," he croaked, giving an embarrassed grin.

Diana looked at the thermometer again; she had to admit he didn't look like someone who was burning up with a lethally high fever; she shrugged, placing the thermometer on the nightstand, "I'll try again in a minute."

"Sam said your back was aching."

Dean looked up at Diana with abject misery in his pleading eyes and manufactured a rattling cough from the depths of his chest; "yeah," he sighed breathlessly, following up with an expertly judged little wince.

Diana scraped her hair back off her face; "do you want me to see if I can loosen it up for you?"

Dean suppressed an urge to punch the air and took a deep shuddering breath; "if you don't mind …" he loosed a convincing coughing fit, following it up with a pained grimace, "I'm sure that will help, thank you."

Helping Dean to roll onto his front, Diana went to work with the soothing liniment, placing her hands on the broad shoulders in front of her and began to gently knead their muscular lines; her long nimble fingers working deep into the firm flesh soothing away the tension there.

Diana was puzzled, unsure that she could feel much in the way of strain or stiffness across Dean's back, as she looked down at the tawny, sculpted lines beneath her fingers..  Her eyes scanned his broad, muscular shoulders, following the faint ridges of his spine, and soft contours of his ribs down to slim hips disappearing beneath the faded burgundy comforter.

Okay, whatever; she was in no rush to finish the job.

Her patient seemed to dissolve deeper and deeper into the mattress as Diana's confident hands swept firmly up and down his spine, moving with the rhythmic rise and fall of his back, working across his shoulders in sweeping circular strokes, alternating between feather light and heavily firm.

She finished by gliding her thumb and forefinger up and down the back of his neck, circling the pressure point at his nape with the pad of her thumb.

"How you doin' there, Tiger?"

Her only response was a muffled incoherent groan which disappeared into the pillow.

She pulled the comforter up over Dean's back to maximise the effect of the heat that would be penetrating his muscles now and knelt down beside his head; "better?"

Dean nodded weakly and attempted to lift his head out of the pillow. Diana stifled a laugh at the heavy lidded eyes, glazed with paralysing bliss, which looked up at her.  Dean drifted slightly cross-eyed as he blinked, attempting unsuccessfully to focus on her as she cheekily slipped the thermometer back into his mouth.

She timed a minute on her watch and withdrew the thermometer, visibly relieved by the reading. "ninety nine; now that's more like it!"

Dean smiled faintly in agreement, trying his best to hide his disappointment.

"Now, your brother's eating Bobby out of house and home," Diana chuckled, patting Dean's arm, "so we're going out to the store to get some groceries in. Will you be okay for a while on your own?" She asked, clearly concerned.

Dean nodded again, still seemingly without the power of coherent speech.

"Good," Diana squeezed his shoulder; "get some rest."


Diana and Sam busied themselves in the kitchen, putting away their shopping.

She held up a giant Hawaiian pizza, "c'mon Sam, I'll cook us some lunch, do you think Dean could manage a bit? It might tempt his appetite."

Sam didn't like to tell her that a well Dean could manage a whole one with room to spare.

"Sounds like a great plan," he smiled, "I'll get the beers."

Nodding her approval, Diana slipped the pizza into the oven.

"Hey Diana?"

She looked round to see Sam crouched in front of the refrigerator.

"I could have sworn there were a couple of bottles of beer in here;" Sam looked round at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Wiping her hands on her jeans, Diana joined him, leaning over to see inside the refrigerator, she rested her arm across his back.

She shrugged; "huh! we must have imagined it," and rummaged in the grocery bag, producing a collection of bottles; "good job we bought some more!"


Upstairs, Dean slipped the empty beer bottle under the bed to join a screwed-up empty chips packet, and leaned back against his pillow closing his eyes and patting his very full, beer-sated belly as he stifled a soft burp.

He inhaled deeply of the delicious aroma of cooking pizza, smiling at the sound of Sam's footsteps heading up the stairs carrying his share.

Yep, if only the friggin' flu was always this peachy.


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

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