Chapter Text
***Breakfast of Champions
"It's loud in here," says Dean, fidgeting with the blanket on the hospital bed, his body aching despite the painkillers. "I mean, all the beeping, people talking and walking in and out. How am I supposed to sleep? Might as well be in the stands during a game." Looking around, he lets out a huff.
A month.
"Fuck. I mean, this room is nice enough. The blinds on the window have got to go. Damn it, no, my stupid eyes." Rubbing the back of his neck he taps on the bed rail. He wants to see the sun, feel the warmth on his skin, but he'll deal for now.
33 days.
"Doc said it would be a few weeks before I can go outside. My eyes are all sensitive and shit. I think it was the damn asbestos in the fucking walls."
33 fucking days and damn nights.
A high pitch whine rings in his ears causing him to cover them in a futile attempt to stop it. Curling up, he squeezes his eyes shut and his breathing devolves into ragged hitches.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up," he whispers, slightly rocking. Slowly the ringing fades and relative silence envelopes him. Easing slightly, a pop makes him jump. Gasping, Dean looks up and around, nealy frantic, until his eyes focus. He uncurls himself, scratching harshly at his forearms and thighs.
Stop it, you stupid baby. You're in a hospital.
Listening to the beeps and clicks of the monitors and machines with rapt attention, Dean inhales deeply, wiping his face with the bedsheet. The pop happens again and he identifies it with a huff.
Stupid ears, stupid eyes.
Exhaling, he leans back against the raised bed and taps on the tabletop trying to capture a melody that's been playing in the back of his mind since...
"Damn it."
Alone for over a month!
Except for Cas. He balls up his hands into fists, teeth grinding. "Stupid asshole got me stuck down there. Just had to wander off like a fucking toddler."
As suddenly as it flares, his anger wanes, though he tries to fan the flame. With as much contempt as he could muster, he says, "Rich, weak-ass, pansy boy with your stupid voice and incessant beating on that fucking door. For what?"
Scared of the fucking dark.
His shoulders slump as he stirs his tiny bowl of plain cream of wheat with little enthusiasm, tapping the spoon in an irregular rhythm.
Why can't I remember that song?
"This stuff is shit, needs butter and maple syrup. I need pancakes and bacon. Waffles and sausage. Hell, I'd take Lucky Charms at this point," Dean says, gagging, and pushes the bowl away.
Despite his words, he doesn't ever want to eat anything sugary for the rest of his life. The smell of anything sweet turns his stomach. He has refused pudding, jello, even juice. He cringes remembering the argument he had with his Mom three days ago.
--Then--
"I'm not eating that." Dean crossed his arms and turned his head whenever his mother lifted the spoon. His stomach churned and his mouth watered, but not in a good way.
"There are only a few things the doctors say you can tolerate." She held the vanilla pudding, trying to get him to take it.
"I don't care." He pushed his Mom's hands away, covering his mouth. "It's too sweet, makes me sick." He gagged. "I have eaten enough sugar to last me a lifetime. My teeth still hurt."
"Okay, I understand." Mary sighed and set down the cup. "The dentist said you only had a few cavities and the bleeding is from inflamed gums due to malnutrition." She placed a hand on his arm. "After you are released, we'll get your teeth fixed." She picked up another bowl. "Eat this at least."
"No," Dean said, pouting. "I want eggs and bacon." His stomach churned at that thought. "Biscuits and gravy. Anything but that."
"You have to eat the cream of rice. It's plain." Mary looked tired, barely masking her fear.
Guilt crawled all over him.
"Anything's better than that crap," he said, trying to cover his shame. He took the spoon and slowly ate all of it, suppressing a gag.
---Present---
Mom was only trying to help and I was a dick. Again.
Running his tongue over his teeth, he winces. Brushing hurt like a bitch, but that didn't stop him from doing it several times a day. He can't get the sweet taste out of his mouth. Even toothpaste makes him throw up.
"Water is the best drink in the whole world." He takes a sip from his hospital issue mug. He never liked plain water before, but after an eternity of drinking sodas, water is wonderful. "Of course, you would know. Am I right?"
I was so stupid.
He shifts to look over at the other bed and watches Cas breathe. Listening, Dean closes his eyes. The machine regulating Cas' breathing annoys him. The constant beeping of the other machines annoys him. The people walking past his door annoy him. That mysterious song plaguing his brain annoys him.
"You sound like you have smoker's lung," Dean says, tracing the imitation wood grain on the rolling table. He shrugs his right shoulder and says, "One of my Dad's friends sounded like you. He was diagnosed with lung cancer a few years ago and died within six months." He looks away.
Does he have cancer? Will I get cancer?
It was Cas' raspy, wheezing breaths that pushed him to make through the last few days until they were rescued. Dean yelled and screamed, trying to wake up that lazy ass, as he beat a hole big enough in that damned door for him to reach through and grab a hold of Cas.
Dean shakes his head, uselessly trying to erase the memory.
I'm not a fucking pansy. Not like him. I'm no fag. I am brave. I play football and go hunting. I'm…
… a fucking fraud.
He grits his teeth and he looks at the boy, frowning. He seems to always forget how bad Cas' looks. His bandaged hands are strapped into what looks like torture devices made of boards and wires to uncurl his fingers. He is covered nearly head to toe in bandages. His shaven head shines with miles of black stitches making tracks around his skull and face. The sheer amount of tubes and wires sticking into and on him is ridiculous.
"You look like Frankenstein's monster." Dean huffs, pulling at his hospital gown, suddenly hot. "Ya know, people are always saying the monster, ya know the dude the doc stitched together and brought to life, is Frankenstein. They're wrong. The doctor's name was Frankenstein. The monster never had a name." He knows he's rambling, but he has gotten good at rambling. "I mean, I couldn't find a name when I read the book."
He's so skinny.
"Don't be so shocked, smart ass, I read." Scowling, Dean pokes at his own stomach. He lost 17 pounds, most of it in muscle mass, and that was with eating and drinking all that damn junk. His stomach rumbles, reminding him of his hunger. Reluctantly he takes a bite of the cream of wheat, forcing himself to swallow.
I can't even finish a fucking half cup of this shit! I'm never gonna get back to my playing weight.
"When you wake up, they are gonna give you the pastiest, blandest gruel. Make you barf." He chuckles and looks back to Cas. "You have to eat it because if I have to, you have to. They better not give you bacon and eggs."
Wincing, Dean gags and drops the spoon. Memories flood his brain of him purposefully bragging about the meals he ate, exaggerating every damn bite, knowing Cas had nothing.
He worked every day to get me out of that damn room. We're not even friends. Hell, I harassed the asshole. I'm fucking useless.
"I'm gonna be eating steak before you get your lazy ass up," he says too loudly.
Dean looks up when the door opens. Shielding his eyes, he smiles at the nurse who comes in.
"Good morning, Nrs. Hannah." He grins in the way he remembers. His gut twists as he puts a spoonful of cream of wheat in his mouth. He makes a show of swallowing.
It's not that bad.
"When can I get a burger and fries? This stuff is killing me," he lies, leaning over, giving her his puppy-dog-eyes look he learned from Sam.
"Good morning, Dean. You know you need to speak with your doctor and nutritionist." She smiles politely and does her thing on his side before moving to Cas' side of the room.
"How is he today?" Dean asks quietly, afraid of the answer. Clearing his throat, he says with forced annoyance, "All these machines are driving me crazy. I don't see how he can sleep through them, but he did sleep through those big machines digging us out. It was deafening." He covers his ears remembering, his body trembling. He quickly recovers before she can see.
"He's doing well as expected." She writes something and turns to leave.
"When will he wake up?" He hates how needy he sounds. Dean clears his throat and says, "I mean, I don't care, but as soon as he does, he'll be talking my ear off. That guy never shuts up." He concentrates on his bowl, stirring slowly, holding his breath.
Liar.
"I don't know." Her voice is soft when she answers. "He needs rest to heal."
"Yeah, he was always running back and forth between me and his water supply. He had… I mean, thankfully he had water, ya know?" He taps on the table, wanting her to leave but needing her to stay. "He had all kinds of space to move around in. I was stuck in that tiny room."
"Yes, I understand." She smiles politely again and turns away.
She has no fucking clue.
Disappointment envelopes him as the door softly closes behind her. Dean lays back forcing his breathing to steady, looking at the ceiling, and listening to the sounds of their various monitors. He wants to rip off that door and open the window. He can't stand the dark, but can't tolerate the light. He needs to punch something.
"She wants me." He forces a laugh and continues pushing around his food, tapping on the table with increasing frustration.
***