Chapter Text
“Dean. Dean, wake up.”
Someone was nudging him. A woman, judging by the voice, and too low, too smooth to be Charlie. Bela. Of course it was Bela. Did that girl ever sleep?
“Dean!” Her voice prickled with irritation and Dean finally grudgingly opened his eyes, punched his pillow to reshape it.
“What?” he grumbled, his voice still heavy with sleep.
“Claire’s sick.”
That got his attention. Claire was as tough as nails and twice as sharp; he didn’t want to imagine anything that could make her noticeably ill, much less feel bad enough to let it show. “Claire? Claire Novak, about yea high, blonde hair and terrible attitude? Stubborn as an old mule? We talking about the same girl?”
Bela folded her arms and looked him up and down with the kind of scalding glare that made Dean wish he was a turtle. Then he could just retreat back into a big, comfy, custom-made shell and hide from her. “If you’re quite through?”
“I’m just saying, it’s not like her to go crying to anyone.” He got up anyway and stretched; pulled down the hem of his cotton t-shirt where it had ridden up over his stomach. “What’d you need from me?”
“Muscle,” Bela said smoothly, turning on one heel and leaving his bedroom door open for him to follow. He obeyed, stifling a yawn as he did so.
As soon as he left the sanctuary of his room, the sour smell of vomit hit him like a brick wall. He winced, but didn’t shy away from it.
Sam was already up - shocking, because Dean beat him awake almost every day these days - stood about ten feet back, gingerly sprinkling handfuls of sawdust from the storerooms over the source of the smell. He grimaced as Dean approached, nodding towards the bathroom. The door was cracked, and a thin stream of light leaked from underneath.
Dean followed Bela and she fearlessly pushed it open. Charlie was awake too - that was no surprise, she stayed up till four and slept till ten most days. Her hands were full of blonde ponytail and her brow was furrowed with concern. And Claire herself huddled on the ground by the toilet, visibly quivering even from the doorway. Sweat plastered her hair against her skin, and her t-shirt clung to her loosely.
As he followed Bela in, her shoulders visibly lurched and she coughed wetly. Charlie flinched back but didn’t drop her hair, shyly rubbing her shoulder with one hand. “She didn’t make it the first time,” Bela supplied a bit belatedly.
Claire finally looked up; her blue eyes were glazed with fever and her nose was running. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, dazedly gazing up at Dean. “Jesus, Charlie, wanna start waking the dead too?” She nodded accusingly towards him. “All I needed was a glass of water and some help with the mess, you didn’t have to wake up the whole bunker.”
“Sorry, kiddo.” Dean crouched down and ruffled her sweaty hair affectionately. Claire didn’t pull back or even roll her eyes; the corner of her mouth barely twitched. That worried him. If she felt that bad… “You asked for help, which from you means you’re on your deathbed. What’d you want me for, Bells?”
Bela did roll her eyes. “There’s spare blankets on the couch in the main room. I need you to carry her there and then make a run for a few supplies. I’ll give you a list.”
“I’m good here,” Claire groaned, her head lolling down. Charlie reached out at once, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder that she didn’t shake off.
“Sure you are.” After an awkward moment’s hesitation where he didn’t know what to do with his hands, Dean tore off a few squares of toilet paper and pressed it into Claire’s hand to wipe her mouth. “You’re not sleeping on the bathroom floor, kid.”
“Fine.” Claire glowered at him, and even at half strength with a pallid face and deep bags under her eyes, it was formidable enough to get him scooting back a few inches. “I can walk by myself.”
Charlie opened her mouth to protest, but Dean gave her a look that made her close it. “All right. Let’s see that.”
Claire glared at him, then groped for something to hang onto. Dean sat back and watched. She finally got hold of the edge of the sink and attempted to haul herself upright. But Sam was sprinkling sawdust in the hallway over a lot of her fluids and she swayed before she was half-up. She didn’t give up, though, and actually made it to her feet before promptly collapsing back down to the tile.
Dean caught her just before she hit the ground - he’d just been waiting for her to drop. She sagged against his chest at once, her cheek pressed against his shirt, and she was far, far too warm. “Come on, kiddo,” he said, and he thought about ruffling her hair before gently pushing it back instead. “Arms around my neck. I won’t tell the papers that the great Claire Novak needed a ride.”
Claire held back another second, then slowly reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. Dean scooped her up at once, and did everything he could to muffle his exhale of relief as she nestled her head into the crook of his shoulder.
Still following Bela, he carried her out of the bathroom and back into the hallway. Sam was nearly done with his clean-up job, but he visibly drew back at the sight of Claire in Dean’s arms. Dean made a note to sock him good for letting the shock show later and kept walking.
Halfway to the couch, Claire tensed up. “Dean,” she groaned, but she didn’t get out anymore than that before her shoulders hitched and she choked on a wretched cough.
“Oh, shit,” Charlie mumbled from behind them. Bela whirled around sharply, her eyes going a little wide.
Claire wriggled in his arms and got a hand free that she instantly clapped over her mouth, but taking one look at her, Dean already knew there was going to be no making it back to the bathroom. He forced back a sigh and mentally prepared himself for his inevitable fate. “If you need to hurl, kid, hurl. Ain’t nothing here that can’t be cleaned.”
Claire hurled.
To her credit, she really tried to aim for anywhere other than Dean. Not much came up, either. But it was enough that he cringed and tried not to think too hard about the burgers he brought back last night - that Claire had only picked at, he remembered now. At least it’s not food poisoning.
“Sorry,” Claire rasped - it was only then that he saw the tears in her eyes. Probably from exertion, and the burning in her nose, but it softened him all the same time.
“You’re sick, Bear.” That was a dangerous choice - it was from a hunt a few months back. A werewolf had ripped Claire’s arm from the shoulder to the wrist and it had been an agonizing few minutes until Cas had healed her. Dean had torn up his favorite jacket to try and stop the blood and wiped the tears from her eyes as she sobbed with fear and pain and the phrase “Claire Bear” may have possibly slipped from his mouth in all the panic. So now she was Bear - at least when Dean was feeling brave.
He laid her down on the couch. “You can’t help it.” He reached for a blanket and found one, ignoring Bela’s pinched look of disapproval - she was fever-ridden and he logically knew it needed to break, but he couldn’t stand to see her shiver. “I’m gonna run into town and get you some stuff. What’s your favorite Gatorade?”
Claire blinked hard - her eyes were still welling with wetness. “Blue,” she whispered faintly, drawing her knees up to her chest as she curled up under the blanket.
“‘Atta girl.” Dean clapped her shoulder, as gently as he could. “I was scared you were gonna say purple and I’d have to throw you out in the cold.”
Claire pulled a face at the very mention of purple and Dean chuckled. “See you in an hour, kiddo. Stay out of trouble.”
Somehow Claire-duty fell to Charlie’s lot.
It made sense. Dean was off to town for blue Gatorade and something for the fever. Sam had cleaned up where Claire had projectile-vomited in the hallway and (rightfully) declared that he’d hit his quota on puke for the day. And Bela had wanted to stay - she had a soft spot for the youngest member of their cobbled-together little family - but she was still recovering from Hell, and Cas frowned heavily whenever she dodged sleep for too long on his trips back down to Earth.
“Why’d you get them?” Claire rasped when they were alone, hugging a pillow to her chest. She looked like a twelve-year-old all huddled up like that, a miserable expression on her face. “I don’t need all this.”
“You needed help,” Charlie defended, but her voice sounded lame ever to her own ears.
“‘S why I came to you,” Claire mumbled.
They were both silent for a long moment. Charlie bit her lip until she tasted a bit of blood, iron sitting heavy on her tongue. The cursed gift of hindsight. Claire wanted to save face, and she blew her cover by getting Bela.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her gaze falling down to the grout lines in the tile floors. “I didn’t know what to do.”
Claire’s face softened a little. Maybe she understood what it was like to feel useless, or maybe she just felt too sick to muster up some anger. “I just...I didn’t want to take care of myself anymore,” she murmured. Her eyelids were fluttering. “I just...I felt so sick, and I didn’t want to be alone…”
“You did the right thing,” Charlie told her. She imagined Claire in the group home Cas had plucked her from, holding back her own hair when she was sick and relying on nothing and no one but herself. The idea stung like cactus spines. “That’s the best thing about having people. You don’t have to take care of yourself all the time.”
Claire just nodded. Probably too embarrassed to be any more vulnerable and too drained to put up a tough guy act. “Wanna try for some sleep?” Charlie pushed gently.
Claire shook her head, a careful motion. “Nah. I’m probably gonna barf again in a minute.”
Charlie leaned down and tugged the bucket closer. “Wanna put your head in my lap and watch Buffy?” she offered, waving at Claire invitingly. “I won’t tell anyone you like it.”
That got her attention. Claire narrowed her eyes; propped herself up weakly on one elbow. “...promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“I promise.”
Claire hesitated, then shuffled over and let her head rest on Charlie’s knees, turning on her side to face the TV. “...thanks.”
Charlie just hummed in response, carefully carding her fingers through Claire’s sweat-plastered blonde hair as she flipped through the recordings, looking for the Buffy marathon she’d recorded last week, just hoping she’d have a chance to watch it with her.
Fifteen minutes in, Claire drifted off. Her hand was still resting loosely on Charlie’s wrist.