thinking about a character who hates having their injuries or illnesses being obvious to others, but also, very deep down, longing for that gentle affection and tenderness and care when they’re feeling terrible
someone so fed up with sneezing over and over again, not being able to catch a break, feeling absolutely exhausted. so much so that they're starting to get upset and emotional. their eyes welling up, tears trickling down their cheeks, and their nose running even more now with the crying. poor sneezy thing.
feeling very tender about holding an incredibly sick, cold ridden person against your chest. smooth fingers of one hand running through their hair, a tissue in the other hand ready to catch any sneezes that comes. only soft touches, gentle kisses sprinkled over the top of the sickie’s head, over their temples and cheeks. whispering sweet words of comfort against their hair every time they sneeze. hitchy stifles into the tissue that you put over their nose every time you can hear their breath change.
“I’ve got you sweetheart”
“Oh that was a big one, it sounded like it hurt. Poor thing”
“Just let them out baby, don’t worry. I’m right here”
“Oh bless you honey”
“Bless you, again? Aw baby. I’m right here. Bless you”
pulling them closer, cradling them in your arms as they whimper in between sneezes, wiping their nose as they sniffle helplessly against your chest, some weak tears falling down their cheeks at the misery of their situation.
@reverieofhappiness asked me to expand upon Dean’s food poisoning scene in “Wishful Thinking” (4x08, with the magic coin in the wishing well of the Chinese restaurant…the one with the giant, alcoholic, suicidal teddy bear) and I was only too happy to oblige! Emeto (obviously), hurt/comfort, sick!Dean, caretaking!Sam.
The room was still locked, which meant that Dean wasn’t entirely incapacitated – not enough that he’d committed such a grievous error as to forget (corporal punishment, by Dad’s standards).
Sam swiped the key card and let himself into their rustic lodgings, replaying the locker room scene in his head, still in disbelief over the fact that the kid had actually dropped a coin into a wishing well and wished himself invisible, so he could spy on naked women. What kind of pathetic (or sheltered) schmuck couldn’t get his adolescent hands on some quality porn these days? The Internet existed for a reason, Sam lamented.
His train of thought was interrupted by a sudden and vile-sounding retch, coming from the bathroom. Brow furrowing, he tried the knob (that one was locked, too. Of course).
“Dean?” He called out, still lingering outside the door. “You okay?”
Another answering retch – Sam cringed as he listened to the sound of vomit splashing into toilet water – followed by a pained groan from his brother. “Wishes turn bad, Sam,” he croaked out. “Wishes turn very bad…”
Sam’s own stomach twisted in sympathy as he heard Dean trail off into a pained heave, thinner and requiring more effort to expel. “You sound terrible,” he informed, one hand still gripping the knob. “How long you been pukin’?”
A few ragged pants could be discerned through the wood that divided the brothers; Sam wished he could offer Dean some water, or a back rub, but he knew his older brother would shove him away.
“Sandwich,” was the weak reply Sam got, at last, followed by the sound of the toilet flushing. “My wish.”
Sam stood, considering this tidbit. “A magic coin that grants wishes, but at a cost,” he intoned. “Dean, I think I know what we’re dealing with here.”
The sink faucet ran, briefly, before Dean suddenly opened the bathroom door, leaving Sam to step back in momentary reeling. Dean looked awful. Sweat glistened on his pasty face, and his green eyes shone brilliantly with fever, ringed by swollen pink membranes. Tear streaks still marred his cheeks, a telltale sign that he’d been seriously exerting himself in there.
“Whoa,” was all Sam could manage. “You look rough, dude.”
“Thanks,” Dean grunted, the caustic remark somewhat marred by his recent strains of illness. He brought the hand towel was clutching up to his face to muffle a sick-sounding cough. Sniffling, he tried to regain his composure, facing Sam with as square a jaw as he could muster. “The coin is Babylonian. It’s cursed,” he continued. “Man. I feel like shi-”
Abruptly, he convulsed into the hand towel, cutting himself off and whirling again for the toilet, neglecting the bathroom door in his haste. Sam stepped through the threshold and laid a hand on his brother’s back as he heaved once more. Yellow-tinged bile splashed into the toilet with wrenching effort, and Dean gasped for air, shaky and weak with exhaustion.
“Easy,” Sam murmured, rubbing a soothing path. “I gotcha. Better out than in.”
Dean bent over, gripping his own knees, body locked and set into expulsion position. He trembled slightly – Sam could feel the quakes beneath his palm – and a string of mucous dangled from his lip. “’ss…s’comin’ out my nose,” he announced, spitting harshly and drawing in another breath. His stomach heaved again, but nothing came up this time, the straining spasm ending in nothing more than a hard cough. Immediately, another spasm gripped him, and this cough was punctuated by a brief sharp sob, one that Dean would never admit to and Sam wouldn’t bring up outside this room.
But, they were still in the room, so Sam gave into the urge to comfort his sick brother. Shifting his rubbing to a slower, circular motion, he made a soft sound of sympathy. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re done. All empty. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”
He reached over Dean’s shoulder and flushed the toilet. Dean inhaled raggedly, spitting again for good measure, and began to straighten up with some considerable effort. He blew out a breath upon standing, one hand gravitating to rest on his stomach.
“Fuck,” was all he could muster, but he thought it was succinct enough to convey his current predicament. Sam thought so, too.
“Yeah,” he agreed, giving Dean’s back a final reassuring pat before lowering his hand and grabbing a washcloth from the shelf above the toilet. “Here you go. I’ll get you some water, and then you can lie down. Hopefully this’ll pass soon.”
Dean made a small, miserable grunt into the washcloth, and closed his eyes, the room beginning to spin.
He’d never complain about paying $7.99 for a sub, ever again.
Someone used to powering through pain sobbing from how miserable they are.
They ache and it hurts in ways they didn't expect they could hurt. They feel disgusting, look like an absolute mess and can't even do anything about it. They've been trying. They've been trying so hard, trying to get work done, trying to move around and get atleast the smallest of tasks done, because they've had worse than this. They've walked off injuries a million times worse than this, worked their way around people offering them help, until everyone who knows them got the memo: they're fine, they always are.
But they aren't right now.
They are cold, and hot, they ache, everything is too much, but they need someone. Under normal circumstances, they'd laugh and assure anyone suggesting they might need a hug to feel better that no, there's no need for something like that. There is no way they'll ever be so pathetic that they'll need it.
But they do, they really do need a hug.
And it tears another sob out of them, their body not able to decide if they'll be forced into a coughing fit from all of this or not. Their head almost ringing, neck stiff and their whole body curled in on itself, a pillow clutched close to them, face burried in it as they sob and try to get air in the lungs before they make themself pass out.
Their eyes burn. The pillow is wet and their eyes burn and their lips and mouth are so dry they can feel their lips start to crack. They are truly, utterly, pathetic. They should get up and get cleaned up. They need to drink water, and make soup or something warm or whatever, because this isn't helping them. They won't feel any better being weak and stewing in their misery. But they hurt. And they don't carefor should, they just know that they want someone near and-
And they feel something so cool press against their forehead they are sure their chills are going to start freezing their face first and spreading down their body. They don't have enough blankets and shouldn't even have as many as they have on them right now, but the chills just won't stop. Or the sobs, whichever it is, they don't know, they don't care, they just sob harder, tears no longer falling.
The cold moves to their neck and stays there. And they realize that it feels like a hand.
Great. They are a mess, can't sleep, can't move without crying out, they are touch starved and know there is noone coming because "they are always fine", and now their mind is conjuring phantom sensations. What's next, they'll hear someone talking to them too? Worrying over them?
"Hey," they can faintly hear a voice through their sobbing and the hammering pain in their head. They clutch the pillow harder, the cover begining to tear under the grip, their breaths hitching, hoarse, painful sound, their ribcage squeezing almost painfully around their lungs. They'll take it. If they're going to hallucinate someone is actually with them, they'll take it until they finally pass out.
"Hey, hey can you hear me," they imagine a cool hand cup their cheek, another stroking the hand ripping apart the pillow cover. Gently telling them that it's okay, that they need to let go of the pillow for a moment. They grip it tighter instead, burrying their face deeper and body shaking with quiet sobs. The hands cup their face, rubbing circles at their temples, softly shushing gentle nonsense at them.
It feels so nice. It feels so good, they wish it wasn't just an illusion conjured by their half melted, desperate brain.
"I need to go get-"
They jolt hard, the sensation vanishing. They manage to choke out a shaky "Please no, don't leave me-" pulling the pillow down and away from their face and clutch it to their middle, pleas spilling from their mouth, eyes open, unseeing, panicked with their pleas.
They feel the sensation return, and their eyes drift shut, another jolt wracking their body. The sensation doesn't leave. They relax for just a moment, another hitch in their breath.
"Hey," they can feel fingertips wiping at the burning skin of their cheeks, and hear some sort of crinkling. They feel something press against their nose, wet with the mess they made in moments. They try to sniffle, the congestion too much for their abused lungs to help more than a twitch of their nose.
"Don't do that, here," and they realize it's something soft, something white that is pressed to their nose. But their hands are gripping-
"blow your nose."
They manage to get two shaky, painful breaths in and manage a weak blow. They feel a hand gliding across their tense neck, the voice praising. They let out a humourless, half chocked laugh. They are so fucking pathetic.
"Hey now," the tissue - probably the torn cover - moves away and they feel their head being held, feel their neck relaxing enough under the touch that their gaze moves to-
Them.
"I am not going far. Okay? I'm going to get you some water and ice for your fever."
They are here.
Their breath hitches, mouth opening with a quiver, words caught in their throat, making way for a short, pained whine. Cool hands hold their cheeks, one moving away - to soon, too soon, please - to run down their head, caressing.
"This won't take long. I'm here now,"
They're here.
"Yes I am," their face grimaces, worry dancing in their eyes, "how can you even talk with your throat in this state?"
They laugh and it turns into sobs all over again. They are so pathetic and weak and-
"Shut up with this shit. Don't move, I'll be back in a moment," and they can see them move away and they watch them leave and force their eyes to stay glued on the doorway, trying to get their shaky, ragged breaths under control.
They are here. They are here and they promised they'll be back. They won't leave.
And they do come back. And they stay and help them drink. And they shush them when they try to talk, instead finding a way to lay next to their curled body, arms wrapping around them.
"You look like you could use that hug,"
If they could, they'd cry all over again. But instead their ragged breathing and a shiver let the other know just how right they are.
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