Chapter Text
SOUP FOR THE SICKLY (AND DEAN WINCHESTER)
Kicking back in his bed Dean inhaled the scent of pine and day old Febreze around him. His room itself smelt like pizza crust which was easily detectable if he breathed in deep enough. This in itself was important. His nostrils were very much so clear. It was a damn shame too considering the Star Trek marathon playing today — a Monday.
For practice Dean coughed experimentally. Once, twice, three times. Eventually he got his very much so healthy lungs to sound more like hacking. “Mom!” He called out, attempting to make his throat sound raspy. “Mom, I can't go to school today. 'M sick.”
And for all his theatrics Mary Winchester never even heard him. At the moment she was listening to her twelve year old son explain all about the sixth amendment in the 1960s. She folded laundry from the wicker bench in their dining room. Placing each stack of color, not color, whites, and blacks in respective piles. A throw blanket was draped on top, bright yellow sunflowers lighting up the room.
“So get this mom,” Sam continued, eyes lit with childish enthusiasm. “We get to do an actual case in English, like a mock up of that one scene in To Kill a Mockingbird.” Voice hushed yet the awe held all the more audible.
Mary nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “I'm sure you will enjoy that,” she replied warmly.
During this conversation Dean had been continuing to scream his lungs out. Well, at least his voice sounded raspy now. It became apparent that his mom wasn't coming out anytime soon. He had to sell this. Dean grabbed his thick, plaid blanket from his bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. Reaching for a tissue from the box on his nightstand, he blew his nose a few times. Tissue rubbed harshly against the skin. He hoped that by this point it appeared red and irritated.
Shuffling out of his room Dean continued to cough at a semi-random pattern as he approached his mom. And yeah, lying was bad. He knew that. But holy shit did he want to watch Captain Kirk and Spock in their finest. “Mom,” he croaked out, “I'm sick.”
One look at her son and Mary knew. She didn't mention that, instead standing from the bench to approach Dean. “So you are,” she cooed. Brows knitting together she pressed a palm against the teen's forehead. “And I suppose you want to stay home?” Hands dropped to her hips. A weary sigh escaped.
Sam looked over at his brother. He seemed fine, probably had some test he hadn't studied for. “You’re not sick!” He taunted with his head had to tilt back just a little to reach Dean's eyes. “You are just faking it, jerk,” the twelve year old accused. Hazel gaze searched for any real sign of fatigue.
“Shut up. Bitch.” Frustration rattled in Dean's brain. If Sammy was gonna rat him out he'd already been done for. “We don't even have a test today,” he promised, guessing his little brother's thoughts. “ 'M just sick,” he coughed out.
In all honesty Mary found her boys amusing. Even if one of them was lying to her, and they both had used foul language. It was fairly typical in the Winchester household. Of course if they truly meant to insult the other she would have to give another lecture. “You know, baby,” she began kindly. Her hands raked through her older son's hair much to his protest. “I don't mind if you want to take a 'sick' day every once in awhile.” Dean did have the grades to.
Laundry crumbled to the floor as Dean sat down on the bench. Now it seemed a matter of principle more then anything. He could pick locks like a pro, or get out of hand cuffs as if they were nothin', but he couldn't even lie to his mom? Granted he loved his mom a whole lot. The point remained that he was a teenager, damn it. This should come easy. Ignoring the pile of clothes knocked down he huffed, “Mom! I really am sick okay?” Dragging out the okay to show that yeah, he really was sick.
Mary's eyes flashed. She did not understand why her son seemed so insistent on being 'sick.' Of course the entire aspect of lying was aggravating in itself. Her mouth quirked as she thought of an idea. “I believe you, you are most certainly not well enough to go to school.”
Next to her Sam appeared from where he had been searching for breakfast in the kitchen. Ever the health nut the twelve year old stood in the entry way munching on a granola bar. “But mooooom,” he whined, mouth full of oats. “Dean isn't sick, you can tell!” He jerked his arm with food in hand to point at his smug brother.
Turning to face her younger son Mary winked. In return Sam's annoyed expression melted. 'Ohhh,' was clear on his features without being audible. Dean looked between the two confused.
“Am I missing somethin' here?” The teen asked, his voice still consistently rough.
Both mother and son were silent. Sam grabbed his backpack crammed full of books off the counter slipping each strap on. Afterwords he fiddled with the straps. “Bus is gonna be here soon,” he told his mom. That was all the dismissal he needed to head for the door. “Later jerk!”
Dean moved after his brother and the pace was one that matched any sick person. Blocking the doorway with a smirk, he ruffled Sam's hair.
“Let me through Dean,” he said with exasperation. Floppy brown hair and a scrawny body did nothing to throw off the leveled death glare Sam gave.
Mary looked on fondly at her boys, amused at their antics. She crossed her arms as she watched the two.
“Or what shortie,” Dean challenged. One jean clad leg reached up kicking his shin. Howling, Dean was caught off guard as he grabbed his leg. The little shit darted in front of him before running off to the bus stop. “Damn it Sammy!” He called after him.
Big watering green eyes looked up at Mary. “Aren't you going to stop him?” Her son whined. Mary sighed heavily in a what-can-you-do sort of manner. “You know he is sensitive about his height,” she supplied.
Snorting Dean rubbed at his leg. “Yeah, he looked real sensitive while kicking my shin off.” In all honesty it had hardly hurt, and he wasn't one to complain about pain anyway. But getting his little brat of a brother in trouble had perks. Annoyingly enough though Sammy never even got a warning.
Blue wrinkles were smoothed down. Continuing to adjust her police uniform Mary regarded her son. “Well I suppose next time you won't make fun of your brother,” she said, thin pink lips twitching in amusement. She searched her pockets for the keys to the Impala.
Shutting the door behind him Dean went over to the kitchen cabinets to rummage around for something to eat. Preferably pie. “You going to work soon mom?” He yelled over his shoulder. Maybe five minutes later, he was impatient like that, he decided on a bag of Doritos for breakfast.
“I am,” Mary answered, walking over to the kitchen to join him. “And so are you.”
Nose scrunching up he dragged out a chair and sat down. His blanket laid in a heap underneath the dinner table. “You want me to go to work with you?” He asked, voice confused. Orange powder from the Doritos sat on Dean's lips. He shoved another chip in his mouth. “Thought I gotta stay home...” Because yeah, this totally sounded like an evil mom-ploy to get him to school.
Blonde curls fell as Mary shook her head. “I never said you get to stay home, Dean. I said you don't have to go to school,” she explained smartly. “I am taking you to a hospital since you are sick.”
The clarification made his shoulders droop. “Oh.” Dean's mouth almost dropped open in shock, but he managed to hide his reaction with another handful of chips. So much for Star Trek.
Now in the passenger seat of Baby, Dean crossed his arms over his chest petulantly. “I don't need to go to a freakin' hospital,” he grumbled. The leather of the seats hot against his skin. A constant reminder that they were on the brink of summer.
Music blasted from the speakers. Loud and clear The Beatles played as they drove down the road. “So you are not sick then?” Mary questioned with one delicately raised eyebrow.
Immediately Dean backtracked. Chuckling nervously he defended himself. “Nah, no, nope, no way.” One hand rubbed the back of his neck. “I uh, I mean yeah I am sick— just not sick enough to go to a hospital...” He trailed off dumbly.
“Then you are well enough for school,” His mom declared, her voice triumphant. And well, now that they were this far he couldn't just give up. Even if it meant sitting his ass with a bunch of germ-infested people. Point one for Mary Winchester. Dean deflated.
Trees surrounded his vision as he looked out the window. Rolling hills of grass cut like the type of manicured lawn seen in magazines. They were a college town so the upkeep made sense. Home to both KU and this other place he didn't really care for that seemed more like a huge prep school then anything.
The summer left everything hot. Sticky sweat that poured down his back and clung to his dark gray shirt. “Can you crank up the AC, mom?” Dean complained, dramatically tugging on the fabric to his shirt.
“It's only about eighty-six,” Mary replied with a small smile. She turned up the AC regardless. Then thought for a moment. “It's a good thing your father is a mechanic,” she told, tapping slim fingers against the wheel. “If he hadn't we would just have had to rely on the windows,” she mused.
Yeah Dean knew what his mom meant. His dad could be awesome sometimes. He was kind of like a celebrity in that way. Far away he seemed like this cool dude anyone would want to know until it became clear he was a total douche. Not that he'd ever tell his mom that. “Installing air conditioning isn't that hard,” Dean snorted. Crap, he hadn't wanted to come off so snarky. That usually was Sammy's gig.
Mary released a breath heavy and old. The tired gloom clouding green-blue iris spoke volumes. “Honey,” she began. Voice patient and coated in kindness she said, “John does try.”
Try. Dean freakin' hated that word. Whatever 'try' meant, it sure as hell wasn't good enough. Younger he would have been happy with the word try, he had been a good little soldier. Yet now he saw the distress lined in his mom's face. He heard the nightly arguments.
Smiling painfully Dean replied, “I know, mom.”
Reminded of a little boy who hugged her tight made Mary's eyes light with happiness. She thought of the pie she baked that day, the crumbled apples and fresh cinnamon drifting through their house. And then her baby assuring her that 'It's okay mom. Dad still loves you. I love you, too. I'll never leave you.'
She turned down the street heading down Sundale Avenue that lead to the hospital. “You are still my little angel, you know that?”
Dean looked mortified. “Mooooom,” he groaned, cheeks pinkening. “No chick flick moments.”
Making a silent move of zipping her lips and throwing away the key, Mary looked over at her son. “It'll be our little secret,” she promised.
Green eyes shifted to the window once more. “Yeah, okay,” Dean mumbled. He noticed a sign proudly stating Lawrence General Hospital in the distance. In frustration he threw his head back. “Do I have to go?” And that wasn't whining, Dean Winchester didn't whine.
Mary hummed along to Hey Jude as she pulled the Impala into the parking lot. “Well, you are sick.”
Son of a bitch. He was in for it now. Dean could only hope the hospital was full of hot nurses and cute patients.