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1. “It’s the middle of the night, why are you up?”
Rubbing his eyes, Dean shuffled down the stairs, one arm curled around his stomach. He paused when he noticed that the lights in the living room were on, and dread replaced the nausea he was feeling in his stomach. He was hoping that Bobby would be asleep already and that he could camp out on the couch until his stomach calmed down a little.
Bobby looked up from his desk when he heard footsteps descend the stairs. He glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. “It’s the middle of the night, why are ya up?” He couldn’t see which Winchester boy was up, but whoever it was was supposed to be asleep.
Dean rounded the corner and squinted in Bobby’s direction, his eyes not used to the bright light of the living room yet.
“Dean?” Bobby asked, his frown deepening when he saw the pallor of Dean’s face. “What’s the matter?”
Dean shuffled over to the couch and sat heavily, sweat prickling on the back of his neck. “Stomach’s upset,” he said hoarsely. Leaning forward on his knees, Dean swallowed thickly and shivered. “Didn’t want to wake Sam up.”
Bobby stood from his desk and hurried into the kitchen, grabbing the puke bucket and the thermometer before hurrying back to Dean’s side. He set the bucket on the ground between Dean’s feet and palmed Dean’s forehead. “You’re runnin’ warm.” He handed over the thermometer and waited patiently while Dean slipped it under his tongue.
“I’m okay,” Dean muttered around the thermometer.
“Shut your pie-hole and let it do it’s job. Jeez.” Bobby sat down next to Dean and rested his hand on Dean’s back. He could feel the shivers running through the boy, and wondered when Dean started feeling bad.
The thermometer beeped and Bobby grabbed it before Dean could hide the numbers on him. “99.8,” Bobby read.
“That’s not even a real fever,” Dean responded, breathing deeply as a wave of nausea nearly smothered him.
“Real enough to keep you home from school tomorrow,” Bobby replied. “Think ya can keep down some meds?”
Dean shook his head and leaned farther down, closer to the bucket. The thought of swallowing anything made bile rise in the back of his throat, and he had to fight back a gag. Sweat trickled down his temples and made him shiver.
“Cold?” Bobby asked, rubbing his hand up and down Dean’s back. He draped the blanket that was folded on the back of the couch over Dean’s shoulders and wrapped it snuggly around the boy. “Maybe you oughta just get it out of your system,” he said when he saw Dean swallow down another gag.
“Nngggh, I don’t wanna,” Dean whimpered. He could feel the pressure building in his stomach and knew that he wouldn’t have a choice soon, but he wanted to put it off for as long as possible.
“Nobody wants to, son.”
Dean let out a whine and curled his fists in the blanket, squeezing until his knuckles were white.
Bobby leaned over and picked the bucket up, resting it in Dean’s lap and keeping a steady hold on it.
It wasn’t long before Dean was vomiting into the bucket, snot and strings of bile hanging from his mouth and nose. It seemed to go on forever and Dean was scared he wouldn’t be able to breathe ever again, but soon enough he had brought everything in him up.
“Sit tight, kiddo,” Bobby said gently as he stood and took the bucket with him to clean out. He dumped the contents of the bucket down the toilet and rinsed it a few times with water from the tub before dumping that in the toilet, too, and flushing it all away. He wet a washcloth and carried both items back to the living room with him. “Here, wipe your face down.”
Dean took the washcloth from Bobby and wiped away the snot and sick that still clung to him. Now that nausea wasn’t the biggest thing he was feeling, he realized how achy and exhausted he was. He curled up on his side, shivering as he pulled his knees up to his chest.
Bobby pulled on the blanket and spread it out so that it was covering Dean’s whole body, smoothing his hair away from his face as he felt Dean’s temperature again. “Still feeling sick?”
Dean shook his head. “Not to my stomach, anyway.”
Bobby frowned—it wasn’t often Dean admitted to feeling badly in any sort of way. “What’s the matter, then?”
Dean shut his eyes and pulled the blanket up over his ear to keep some of his body heat around him. “Tired, achy, throat hurts,” he listed. He knew that it wasn’t tough or manly to admit that he wasn’t feeling well, but he was too tired to care. Plus, he knew that Bobby wouldn’t think any less of him for getting sick.
“Hmm,” Bobby hummed. “Seems like ya got yerself the flu.” He fussed over Dean for another minute, moving the bucket closer to the couch and filling up a glass of water for the kid before settling in his armchair. “You let me know if you need anything, alright?”
“Mmhmm,” Dean sighed, letting sleep pull him under.
When Dean woke next, the only light in the room was coming from the lamp on Bobby’s desk. He could hear Bobby snoring softly from where he slept in his armchair, and he sat up quietly so he didn’t wake him up. His stomach was roiling again, despite not having anything put into it since the last time he barfed, and he reached for the bucket. If his head wasn’t swimming so much, Dean would have scurried off to the bathroom to throw up in private, but he didn’t trust his legs to get him to the toilet in time.
Too tired to fight against it, Dean leaned over the bucket and gagged, bringing up a pathetic mouthful of bile and saliva before dry heaving painfully for a seemingly endless amount of time.
Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt Bobby’s hand rest against his forehead and a solid weight sit next to him on the couch.
“Sorry I woke you up,” Dean croaked in between heaves. His throat was burning something awful and his nose was running all down his chin.
“Nonsense,” Bobby said, handing over a fresh washcloth. “Wipe your face.” He lowered the bucket so Dean could breathe and handed over the thermometer when Dean seemed ready for it. “I think your fever is up.”
Dean, his stomach empty for the time being, stuck the thermometer under his tongue again and closed his eyes until it beeped.
“Up to 101,” Bobby stated as he pulled it out of Dean’s mouth. “You done with this for now?” He motioned towards the bucket and Dean nodded miserably.
Dean stayed sitting up while Bobby was cleaning out the bucket and rested his head in his hands. It was times like these, when he was as sick as a dog, that Dean missed his mom the most. He vaguely remembered her wiping his fevered brow with a damp cloth and cradling him in her arms as she sang softly to him, rocking back and forth. The memory made Dean’s eyes water.
“There, all clean,” Bobby said as he came back to the couch. He set the bucket down near Dean’s feet and sat beside him again. “Can I get ya anything?”
Dean shook his head and let himself tip sideways until he was nestled into Bobby’s side. He took in a shuddering breath when Bobby wrapped an arm around his shoulders and fussed with the blanket until Dean was covered up.
“Comfy?” Bobby asked softly. He adjusted himself so that Dean could almost recline against his chest and held the boy tenderly, like a wild animal he didn’t want to spook.
Nodding, Dean snuggled into Bobby’s side and let his eyes fall shut. “Love you, Uncle Bobby,” he whispered.
“I love ya, too, kiddo.” Bobby kissed the top of Dean’s head and listened as Dean’s breathing evened out into sleep.