Supernatural One Shots

Day by Day

DAY ONE:

It's not a pretty sight. Dean observes himself in the mirror, looking at the cuts on his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the fever spots on his cheeks.

He looks down at his torso. The left side is colored bright red which he knows will turn into a huge, ugly bruise by the morning. He's hoping his ribs aren't broken, but there's only one way to check. Well, actually, there's more than one. Most people's choice would be to go to the hospital and get x-rays, but not Dean Winchester.

He starts at where his sternum and ribs connect. He presses there, causing himself to curse lightly, and walks his fingers slowly to the left. He rubs the bones in circles with the tips of his fingers at a few places where he thinks they might be cracked. By the end, he's fairly certain they're cracked or broken in at least two places. Not that it matters. Like always, he'll keep hunting and lie to Sam about how he feels.

Dean's getting more tired by the minute, so he decides it's time to shower. He usually takes steaming hot showers, but tonight he turns the taps so the water is only lukewarm. He gets in and just stands under the water for a few minutes, letting it wash away the sweat and blood and cool down his feverish skin.

After about twenty minutes in the shower, Dean feels marginally better. He gets out and carefully dries himself off, patting the cuts on his face dry with the towel and moving cautiously so as not to jar his ribs. He puts on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to hide his bruised ribs from his little brother.

Despite feeling like shit and being plain exhausted, Dean exits the bathroom like nothing's wrong and heads to the table where the food is. He's just starting to unwrap his burger when Sam smacks his hand. "What the hell, man?" Sam holds out a thermometer. "Back off." Sam sighs as Dean unwraps his burger and starts eating.

"At least take these." Sam shakes a bottle of tylenol.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Dean says.

"Your funeral."

After a few minutes silence, Sam asks, "You sure those aren't broken?" He points at Dean's left hand.

"I think I know what broken fingers feel like, Sammy."

"Shut up. How's you head?"

"Just some scratches."

"Whatever."

DAY TWO:

Next morning rolls around and Dean feels ten times worse. His ribs are killing him. It feels like his head is going to explode. His whole body aches.

Dean groans.

"I was gonna ask how you're feeling," Sam says from the kitchen, "but that answers my question."

"I'm fine." Then he sneezes, making pain shoot through his ribs and head. Something lands beside him on the bed – a box of tissues. Dean blows his nose and leaves the tissue on the bed next to him, not bothering to throw it into a trashcan.

"I wonder how many other people use the word 'fine' in the same way you do," Sam muses.

"Shut up." Dean leans back into his pillow and stares blankly at the ceiling.

Sam appears in Deans line of sight, looking down at him. "Your head's bleeding," he remarks.

Dean lifts a hand carefully to touch the cuts on his temple. Sure enough, there's blood on the tips of his fingers; the wounds must've reopened during the night. "So it is."

"You put any antiseptic or anything on that last night?" Dean rubs his fingers together, spreading the blood around them. "That's a no." As Sam walks away, Dean slowly sits up, minding his ribs, he sets up two pillows behind him and leans back against them. He blows his nose again.