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dean sniffles

May 2016

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Summery things that should happen to Dean


Maybe if we all make a pile of delicious prompts, we'll inspire each other to write things. Thiiinggsss.

1. He's all heatstroked and sick and Sam feeds him a fruit yogurt smoothie and it's all chilly and delicious and good for him and he's like I SEE WHAT YOU ARE DOING HERE SAM I KNOW THIS IS HEALTH FOOD and Sam is like shhh, drink up sickie. Jamba Jerks by i_speak_tongue. MY HEART.

2. Sam cuddles him in a lake, in a fever-lowering-cool-swim situation. Dean cuddles back.

3. They find wild berries and Dean eats sooooo many and then he has the juice all over him and is too full and it hurts and Sam is like, hee hee hee, and rubs his belly. My gluttony is not a secret vice by queerly_it_is. BAHHHH HOW SO CUTE?

4. Dean gets a cold and Sam is like "How?" and there are absurd amounts of Kleenex. How? by tarotgal. THERE ARE SPELLED SNEEZES. *bites fist*

5. Dean breaks his leg doing something heroic that attracts attention and so people send him flowers, some of them potted, and then he has to sit around on his ass and he becomes really good at taking care of the flowers and then people see his collection and bring him more and it becomes this thing where he's all hurt but brilliant and intuitive with this beautiful giant collection of indoor plants and Sam is like LOOK AT YOU and Dean is like SHUT UP AND BRING ME MORE BEGONIAS. Daisies Running Riot by prufrock_26. GOOD LORD READ IT IT IS WONDERFUL.

What else, my friendlies?

tifaching: Dean gets a terrible sunburn. He's all red and feverish and his skin is all tight and it hurts like a son of a bitch. Sam is merely bronzed like a freakin' Adonis who will take wonderful care of his brother while giving him shit about sunscreen. Elaborate. The Burniest Person I Know by janissa11. ADORABLE.

tifaching: Sam and Dean climb to the top of Mt. Washington. Or they take the shuttle. No way Dean's driving his baby up and down that road. "I know it's the middle of July, Dean! It still could be snowing up there!" "It's not snowing, Sam." Of course it is snowing with wind gusts of 70 miles an hour. Sam's got proper clothes and Dean's in a t-shirt. Elaborate. Underdressed Mountaintop Dean by mad_server.

nwspaprtaxis: Dean gets actual Yellow Fever. And there is black vomit. Also? Fever. And Jaundice. And Sammich takes care of him. Dean and the Black Vomit by mad_server.

maypoles: Dean gets A VERY HIGH FEVER during the dog days of summer. And the AC is BROKEN, just because. So Sam helps him take lots of showers and feeds him ice from the ice machine. And stuff. Showery Feverish Dean by mad_server.


i_speak_tongue: Soooo.... what about the one where Dean is stung by wasps, and Sam pulls out the little stingers for him? Frankendean by mad_server.

greeneyes_fan: You know, there are a lot of bugs in summer. What if Dean decides to take off his boots and go wading--and walks into a red anthill? They bite feet, ankles and legs a LOT if you do that! Ant-Bitten Dean by mad_server.


How can we compete with those? Here, have these two.

1. Dean gets a terrible sunburn. He's all red and feverish and his skin is all tight and it hurts like a son of a bitch. Sam is merely bronzed like a freakin' Adonis who will take wonderful care of his brother while giving him shit about sunscreen. Elaborate.

2. Sam and Dean climb to the top of Mt. Washington. Or they take the shuttle. No way Dean's driving his baby up and down that road. "I know it's the middle of July, Dean! It still could be snowing up there!" "It's not snowing, Sam." Of course it is snowing with wind gusts of 70 miles an hour. Sam's got proper clothes and Dean's in a t-shirt. Elaborate.

Wincest preferred, but gen is fine too.

Edited at 2012-06-11 11:03 pm (UTC)

The black vomit would be so worrying! Also that eye thing. I want to see what Sam would do for that.
I love summery fic!

Omg, #2. <3

Okay, how about: Dean gets A VERY HIGH FEVER during the dog days of summer. And the AC is BROKEN, just because. So Sam helps him take lots of showers and feeds him ice from the ice machine. And stuff.



I want to write #4. Desperately.


Daisies Running Riot, 1/2

I told you I liked the begonias....I was bloody MESMERIZED by those begonias.


It's week two, and the flowers are taking over.

Sam doesn't even know the names of most of them: he shorts out after daisies and chrysanthemums, but that still leaves a good dozen pots he can't put a name to unless he digs the little while plastic strips out of the chunky black dirt. Asters, zinnias, a geranium in a frog-shaped pot, peonies and petunias and begonias in every shade of pink and purple Sam can imagine. In a tiny green pot next to Dean's plaster-sheathed ankle sits a little African violet with thick, downy leaves; Sam's caught Dean stroking them rapturously a few times, but he's decided not to mention it.

There's a knock at the door, and he hurries from the kitchen – nothing but empty cupboards and a canister of salt on the counter, but the sink's still working, and Dean has had him filling water bottles all morning (“Unless you wanna get me a watering can, Godzilla”). He can't help feeling he could be putting his time to more productive use – tracking down another case, for instance, to keep him busy while Dean's holed up here in Red Oak. But apparently the geranium's wilting, and Sam's willing to take a little time out for water bottle duty if it means keeping Dean in his chair and not hopping one-footed around the hundred-year-old, rickety-stepped house.

When he gets to the door, he sees the telltale shape through the screen: wide terra-cotta pot and big floppy petals, yellow this time. Sam can't tell what kind it is (begonia, maybe? He's getting better), but he's got to admit it's kind of pretty. The girl behind the pot's even prettier, but Sam doesn't need to look around the corner of the house to know the blushing smile's not for him, so he just nods and smiles and refrains from mentioning that Dean wasn't the only one who cleared those dead parishioners out of the church and saved the minister's life, just the only one stupid enough to break his leg doing it.

“Thanks,” he tells the girl, and takes the plant inside. He doesn't care to hang around and watch her leave, sneaking peeks at his brother all the way down the dusty driveway.

Re: Daisies Running Riot, 2/2

Dean's bent over a leafy pot when Sam emerges from the cool of the house into the blinking sunlight of the back porch. He's got his leg propped on a duffel bag in front of him, one hand scratching absentmindedly at the heavily autographed cast (Sam counts at least four different names with pronounced hearts and kisses, and wonders if any of them are the cute girl with the yellow mystery flowers). He's so caught up in drizzling rusty warm tap water into the damp potting soil that he doesn't look up until Sam clips him lightly on the shoulder.

“More fan mail,” he tells Dean, and his brother's eyes light up at the sight of the huge yellow blossoms.

“Give it here,” he says, beckoning, but Sam holds back for a minute, eyeing his brother's sweaty, flushed face critically. The skin's already peeling off his nose and cheeks where they burnt bright red last week after Dean sat out in the sun all day. Sam bought aloe but he's pretty sure Dean hasn't touched the bottle. He doesn't seem to have touched the lemonade perched on the porch railing, either; the pitcher's streaming with condensation, leaving a dark, wet patch on the splintered wood. Even after a couple of minutes in the sun, Sam can feel himself starting to sweat, the weight of the sunshine pressing down on him, hot and heavy and breathless.

“You're gonna get heatstroke,” he tells Dean.

“Dude, just hand over the damn begonia,” Dean demands, ignoring the medical advice and waving his hand impatiently.

Sam steps forward, and puts the begonia into Dean's lap. He should really, really, put a stop to this: drag Dean inside and round up all the flowers and throw them away, because it's not like they're going to settle down here or anything, and at some point Dean's going to have to say goodbye. But the sun-baked wood feels deliriously silky under his bare feet, and there's something about the combined scents of all Dean's flowers that's making him feel sleepy and lazy and not much like ordering anybody around right at the moment.

“Fifteen minutes,” he tells Dean, and Dean nods, nose bending to brush the petals as he examines the newest addition to his porch garden minutely, the way a jeweler studies a rare topaz.

Sam sets his watch, pulls up a battered plastic lawn chair, and leans back, closing his eyes. The sun envelopes him from above, and all he can smell is flowers and dirt and Dean.

He's going to have to take charge and tame the invasion – but not quite yet.

Not for another fifteen minutes, at least.

I hate you! You're killing me with prompts!
Soooo.... what about the one where Dean is stung by wasps, and Sam pulls out the little stingers for him?



How? Part 1

Prompt: Dean gets a cold and Sam is like "How?" and there are absurd amounts of Kleenex.

In January, Dean had a cold. Actually, he caught it sometime in late December, when the temperature dipped below freezing for days without end and Dean and Sam were stuck inside a motel with an especially good continental breakfast buffet and sick, sneezy, contagious people from all corners of the country passing through for the holidays. It wasn’t much of a surprise, really. And it wasn’t much of a new year’s celebration either, tucking a hoarse Dean into bed with a box of Kleenex and then falling asleep beside him a whole hour and a half before the ball dropped.

In February, Dean caught Sammy’s cold. Sam knew he should have been more careful, but it was Valentine’s Day and for fuck’s sake, kissing was what you did on Valentine’s Day. All that gooey pink heart stuff was for girls. And flowers made Sam sneeze, which would have been overwhelming given that Sam was sneezing every minute anyway. So the Winchester boys celebrated the way they always did—the only way they knew how. And they fogged up the windows of the Impala while they were at it. And, yeah, the next day Dean’s hand dipped into the tissue box between the front seat just as often as Sam’s did.

In March, Dean got the flu. He insisted it was just food poisoning, but Sam knew better. Food poisoning didn’t come with fevers of over a hundred, for one. They picked a motel and set up camp there for a week while Dean fought the flu off as best he could. Sam spent three sleepless nights sitting up with him in the bathroom, rubbing his back and stroking his hair. In the end, Dean kicked it all right. He was out there like a champ only a week after drinking green shots at a bar on St. Patty’s Day. Sam spent the next morning on the floor of the bathroom beside Dean again, cold compress held to the back of Dean’s neck and a steaming cup of coffee waiting until Dean could keep things down enough to beat the hangover.

In April, Dean came down with an awful cold. Just when they thought the winter bugs were behind them, there was a job in an elementary school. All that running around fighting demons in a self-contained germ-breading factory was bound to catch up with them. And, in the end, it was Dean whose heroism suffered the ultimate hit. He saved the school, of course. Winchesters: one, vengeful drama teacher’s ghost: zip. But Dean came down with whatever nasty bug was going around the place and it went straight to his chest.

In May, Dean still hadn’t been able to shake the racking cough from his cold. He tried every brand of cough drops sold from southern California to northern Maine; more than half of them did nothing. He tried gargling with salt water every night; goodness knew salt was good for a million and one uses, but this wasn’t one of them apparently. He even tried sleeping on the floor of the bathroom while a hot shower ran, filling the room thick with steam, but all he got was a sore neck and the shivers, waking up damp all over. In the end, Sam took him to a free clinic that didn’t ask too many questions and Dean was given a course of antibiotics that Sam was a drill sergeant about him taking.

In June, Dean still had a couple pills left in his regimen and it was starting to get warm out. A couple times, they rolled the windows down and took in all that the open road had to offer. They’d caught wind of a hunt a couple states away and made good time on the road. If it hadn’t been for the absolutely absurd number of illnesses in Dean’s recent history, Sam might have overlooked the sneeze, passing it off as just something outside tickling his nose. But now Sam felt like an expert in diagnosing his brother and a single sneeze sent up red flags of paranoia. “Dean? You okay?” He didn’t even sound normal when he asked. The words came out all shaky and almost squeaky.

How? Part 2

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

Dean’s guesses had been off all year, though, and Sam wasn’t taking any chances. He kept his eyes on his brother, not daring to look away. And, not two minutes later, he was rewarded for his efforts.

A wrinkle in the bridge of the nose. A flare of the nostrils. A gentle sway forward as his chest puffed up. A fluttering of eyelids. Another flare of the nostrils as he swung back and forth with a “hat-CHISIKKKK!” It had been quick enough for him to catch the bend in the road ahead without any difficulty. But slow enough for Sam to have registered every horrible detail.

“Gas station in one mile. Pull over so I can stock up.”

“Aw, Sabby…” he coughed.

Dean is stuffed up already, which shouldn’t even be possible. “See? I mean, hear? It’s just a matter of time, Dean.”

“Baybe dot—cough—this tibe?”

“Yeah. And maybe demons’ll all embrace peace and start handing flowers out at airports. Now pull over.”

Dean put his blinker on and rumbled straight into the gas station.



Sam glanced at the clock, which was still on eastern time. Sometimes it just wasn’t worth going through the steps to reset it. Dean had managed one and a half solid hours of sleep. Not bad. But the tell-tale sneeze indicated he was awake, as did the snuffling blow that followed. Sam looked up at the rear view mirror. He had adjusted it to look into the back seat.

Dean lay on his side, curled around a tissue box and shivering terribly under Sam’s bulky winter coat. His body tensed and he ripped two tissues from the box with an urgency usually reserved for the hunt. “her-KSchhhh!

“Sleep well?”

“Yeah.” The congestion in his voice was terrible, making it deep, making it crackle. “We id Illidois yet?”

“No such luck. Still Ohio for another twenty at least.”

“Dabb!” Ohio always seemed longer than it was supposed to. He coughed and snuffled some more, bunching tissues at his face and breathing hotly into them to keep the germs to himself.

“We’ll find somewhere outside Indianapolis to spend the night.”

“Y’dod’t hab to.”

Sam looked away to roll his eyes. “Kinda do. I need somewhere to set up base so I can get your sick, pathetic self under control?”

“Cod…heh… eh-ERSchikuhh! Huh. Codtrol?” Dean breathed heavily. “Shit, I thidk I’b godda sdeeze ‘gaid.”

“I’m sure you are. In fact, if that one just now was your very last sneeze ever, I’ll literally die of surprise.”

“Fuh… fuck you… ehpt’chhhhhh! KefSCHhhhh!

“Guess I’m safe. So…” He glanced into the mirror again to see Dean rubbing at his nose with a balled-up tissue. “How the hell did you catch this cold? You’ve spent more time sick than well this year. I was thinking you might have caught absolutely everything there was to catch already. I can’t believe you somehow found something else to come down with. I mean, how do you even catch something like this when you’re already on antibiotics? It’s crazy.”

“I’b taledted. It’s by suber bower. Sniff! You get the telekedesis. I get all the gerbs. Dead Widchester: gerb bagdet. Cough! Coughcough!” His cough was light but moist. But once it started, it rumbled on and on until he caught his breath enough to clear his throat and blow his nose. Then he closed his eyes. “I feel like shit.”

“You sound it.”

“Gee, thadks.”

“Any time. Look, can you try falling back to sleep? I’m trying to drive here. It’s no fun listening to you sneezing.”

“Bitch. Turn my music back on.”

Sam did, and the sound drowned out more of Dean’s coughs until there were no more coughs to drown out, only soft, stuffy snores.

Jamba Jerks

"How is she?"

Dean lowers the hood and presses his knee hard into the front bumper. "Fixed the coolant leak, but somethin's still wonky," he says. He raises a hand to his temple, squeezes his eyes shut.

"Yeah. Like you." Sam comes closer. The strip-mall parking lot is doing nothing to relive the heat. It feels hot enough to bake pottery, and Dean's looking pretty glazed over himself.

"What?" Dean asks, louder than he needs to, more confused than he should be. His face is smeared with black grease and sunburnt and his grey t-shirt is more sweat-stained than not.

"Maybe you should take a break, man. The bookstore's got a coffee shop inside with a decent iced capp."

"How many times I gotta tell you," Dean mumbles, wiping his brow ineffectively with the shoulder of his wet shirt. "Real men... don't... "

And that's when he faints.


Sam runs ice over Dean's forehead, across the base of his neck. He tears the mini fan out of its cheap dollar store packaging, shoves the batteries in and waves it over Dean's face.

"Come on, man. You gotta tell me how to fix the car so we can get you some place a little more comfortable."

The back seat of the impala isn't much better than outside. There's shade, but Sam feels like he can barely breathe, can't imagine how shitty his brother must feel.


Dean opens his eyes reluctantly, like seeing the outside world is making him feel worse, but he makes eye contact with Sam long enough for Sam to relax a bit.

"Hey. How you feeling?"

"Sam..." he croaks, a weak hand reaching for the top of the seat-back, starting to pull himself upright. "We gotta go. Dad... gotta get there before he leaves. I gotta..." Dean looks at Sam wide-eyed then, finds the strength to shove past him and lean out the back door. He pukes onto the asphalt, and when he's through, Sam tells him it's okay. They've got time. They'll find Dad soon. Tells him everything Dean usually tells him.


"Slow sips, okay?"

Dean nods, hugs the bag of ice to his belly, his clean, dry t-shirt. He's curled on his side, facing the faint breeze from the fan Sam's now duct-taped to the back of the driver's seat.

Sam helps him lead the straw to his lips, and once he's made sure he has a decent grip on the drink, he smoothes his hand over Dean's hot forehead, his sticky, ragamuffin hair.

As instructed, Dean's first sip is slow and short. He coughs and Sam frowns.


"You look like crap."

Dean takes another sip, says, "This... tastes like crap."

"No it doesn't," Sam answers, wise to Dean's transparent attempt at remaining unimpressed by his brother's beverage choices.

Dean squints at the plastic container, scrutinizing it for defects at the same time as struggling to focus. "What the fuck is a Jamba Juice?"

"It's like a milkshake."

"For yuppies."

"For idiots with heatstroke and dehydration."

Dean rolls his eyes, then passes Sam the drink and closes them.

"Dizzy?" Sam asks.

Dean nods a little and Sam waits for it to pass. Watches a gang of teenage girls in bikini tops and cutoffs walk by sipping giant slurpies and almost regrets not getting one for Dean, not seeing the huge smile it would have put on his face.

"Coulda been over-heated," Dean mutters, tucking his chin over the top of the half-melted ice bag, eyes still firmly shut.

"The car?"

"Try starting her up again."

Sam shrugs and shakes his head. But she comes to life just like Dean said. He drives with all the windows rolled down and watches Dean take bigger and bigger sips of his Raspberry smoothie.


This is lovely.
This is an awesome theme! And the title keeps reminding me of badfic writers who can't spell summary, which makes me giggle.

You know, there are a lot of bugs in summer. What if Dean decides to take off his boots and go wading--and walks into a red anthill? They bite feet, ankles and legs a LOT if you do that!
That would rock!

FILL: My gluttony is not a secret vice [Sam/Dean PG]


This is for prompt #2 at the top =]


“You’re a ridiculous excuse for a human being.”

You’re a ridiculous exc-oh fuck I’m gonna throw up.”

“Dean, don’t you dare!”

“Then stop touching me!”

“Dean it’s not the touching, it’s the few hundred berries you stuffed down your gullet. Honestly, there are toddlers who have more self-control than you.”

“But they were so tasty!” Not enough sighs in the world, really.

“Yeah, well that pretty much proves my point right there. That and the fact that you look like a slasher victim.”

He does too, mouth and hands covered in more pink-red juice than is probably left in all the - rather bare, now - berry bushes tucked into the corner of the field. It's down his shirtfront and dried in gore-like streaks up his wrists and along his forearms. It's even in his hair for chissakes.

It’s such a picture-perfect summer day they couldn’t not pull the car over. The sun is like someone pressing hot, soothing hands into his skin, the grass is green, the sky is blue and the birds are chirping in such a cliché-like manner he’s been waiting for the William Tell Overture to start-up at any moment.

Then of course, Dean had to go and pick the bushes clean like a goat in a garbage dump, saying something about “Tfts lk pie, Smmy!" that Sam wouldn’t have been able to understand if not for years of experience with Dean’s phobia of chewing before he talks.

Now Sam is spending what was supposed to be a relaxing, post-apocalypse, soul-included day in-between hunts kneeling in the silky grass; with one hand on Dean’s stomach underneath his tee, and another behind his head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes so hard they’ll either get stuck that way, or just spin round and round for the rest of time.

Why, when the whole ‘plan of destiny’ thing was being written, could someone not’ve added a tiny little footnote reading “And the Sword of Michael shall not be a six-year-old child in grown a man’s body.”?

“Sammy, I really don’t feel too good.”

And then there’s that. The groany, pathetic little-boy voice that makes Sam want to run one big palm over the distended mound of Dean’s fruit-filled belly, and stroke his fingers through the soft hair at the back of his head until his eyes close and the line of discomfort between them fades a little more.

As if being his brother’s quasi-boyfriend and work-slash-life partner wasn’t enough, now he’s his mom too.

Eeeew. Now he wants to throw up.

The dry ground is digging into his knees, and the left one always throbs if he keeps his weight on it too long, so he folds himself along the line of Dean’s body; scent of grass all around and sun beaming down on the side of his face as he looks at his miserable, gluttonous big brother.

Some childish impulse makes him want to poke at the fish-belly pale flesh, but he doesn’t actually want regurgitated wild berries all over his clothes. Dean’d only put ipecac in his coffee at the first opportunity anyway, so it’s probably not worth it in the long run.

So instead he runs circles over Dean’s stomach, not used to being so completely gentle - with anything, much less putting his hands on Dean. He feels it rise and fall with the movement of his breath, slight churn and gurgle of his body trying to break down all that sugary mess. His other hand scratches lightly through hair that’s already going blonde at the tips where it isn't splotched in the blood of innocent plants, nails running over the warm scalp at the top of Dean’s head, and like the total hedonist he is, he can‘t help but arch into it.

“Hm. S’nice.” It’s low and breathy and absent enough that Dean probably didn’t mean to say it, and Sam is kinda too caught-up in actually being allowed to do this to mock him for it right now.

Without taking his hands away, he drops his head to the ground; blades of almost-luminescent green rising at the periphery of his vision like skyscrapers, feel of it crinkling behind his head, and shuts his eyes against the light that warms him through and through, as he tries to remember the melody of Hey Jude.

Not such a bad day, really.


Edited at 2012-06-16 11:18 pm (UTC)

Re: FILL: My gluttony is not a secret vice [Sam/Dean PG]

Ohhhh my goodness. This made me feel so warm and smiley. I could totally hear them saying the lines... you nailed their voices... and the gentleness, oh maaan... goat!Dean, ravaging the bushes and all covered in berry-blood, hee hee heeee. AND HEAD SCRATCHING. And the belly rubbing. AND CUDDLES. And happy summer times.

This is exactly what I wanted, only better. THANK YOU SO MUCH. ♥ ♥ ♥