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Look, it's not that Dean's lazy -- he's not. He works hard.
He just picks his spots.
Hockey -- yes. Hot girls -- naturally. Grades – to keep his parents happy, yes.
Housekeeping?
Well, not so much. It’s just one of the few perks of being on his own, he supposes. He can’t fudge his performance in school or on the ice, but there’s no one making sure that he changes his sheets every week or inspecting the lip of the toilet bowl.
So the house has gotten a little messy. And then a little messier.
And the last time he brought a girl over, she suggested they go out instead.
But that’s not the end of the world, as far as Dean’s concerned.
No, it's Tucker who makes a big deal about it, complains about the state of things, and Logan admits, it'd be nice if there were clean dishes. Garrett holds out the longest, but even he admits that it's hard to bring people back when the bathroom looks like that.
"Whatever," Dean says. "Just tell me what you need me to do."
"Seriously, Dean," Tucker says, like he knows Dean is full of shit. "This needs to get done."
"Yeah, everyone pulls their weight," Logan agrees. He shoves at Dean. "Everyone."
Dean grunts and shoves him back. "Are you implying something?"
Before the scuffle can escalate, Garrett steps between them. "We're a team," he says. "On the ice, and off."
"The team that cleans together--?" Dean ventures.
Logan rolls his eyes. Tucker shakes his head. "I knew this would be hard."
Garrett levels Dean with a glare. "Just do your part, Dean," he says.
Dean feels moderately offended. "I always do my part."
To the growing skepticism and doubt from his so-called friends, Dean flips them the bird and continues about his day.
-o-
Honestly, chores are the last thing on Dean's mind. He's got training and practice; he has classes, apparently. He has a busy social life, all of it.
"Don't forget about Saturday," Tucker tells him.
"I have this hot date," Dean says, snapping his fingers. "Thanks--"
Tucker looks dismayed. "No, Dean--"
"I can see if she has a friend, if you want," he offers, rather magnanimously, honestly.
"We're cleaning that day," Tucker reminds him. "Remember?"
This is vaguely familiar and entirely uninteresting. The girl -- Tiffani, he thinks, he's pretty sure -- is a nursing student, and she ticks every box in the stereotype. He might need a full health exam, for that tickle in the back of his throat the last few days.
For real.
"Yeah, well," Dean says, slapping him on the shoulder with a grin. "I'll clean up, one way or another."
-o-
Logan is less diplomatic about it.
"If I'm cleaning, you're cleaning," he says. "You've got as much dirty shit as anyone."
Dean gives him a wounded look. "That feels mean."
"Is it?" Logan asks, not backing down. "Cause I think I found your underwear in the couch."
That makes sense, actually. Dean's down a few pairs and -- yeah. That makes sense.
"Dean?" Logan asks. "You're not blowing this off."
Dean holds up his hands in mock surrender. "No blowing it off."
"I'm serious," Logan says.
"So am I," he agrees. He leans forward, grinning anyway. "How do you know I didn't leave my underwear for you to find? I know you miss me."
Logan's lips curl in disdain. "Just what I want. Your penis all over my favorite places."
Dean snorts a laugh, which cuts off with a cough. That tickle is getting worse; he's pretty sure Tiffani can help. "Then it's probably easier just to move, bro."
-o-
Friday night, though, he can't help it. He passes out early. That tickle is a cough now, and he feels a weariness settling over him. He's not really hungry, and he tries to watch TV, but his eyes just can't stay open until Garrett throws a pillow in his face.
"Dude," his friend says. "You're snoring."
Dean squints at him, confused. "What?"
"You're snoring," Garrett repeats, sounding put out. "Do that in your room. You know, so we don't have to listen to it."
This feels mean-spirited, but Dean's too tired to care. He moans as he gets himself up, shuffling pathetically back to his room.
"Dean?" Garrett asks as he crosses by him. "You okay, man?"
Dean flashes a smile and gives him the thumbs up. "Never better."
"Good," Garrett says. "Cleaning day tomorrow!"
The thought of it just makes Dean want to die.
-o-
No, really.
Dean doesn't sleep at all that night, throat constricted and head stuffy. His body feels weird, and every time he starts to nod off -- the tortured strain of his breathing wakes him up. He feels hot and cold all at once, and it's basically the worst.
Somewhere past dawn, he finally falls into a fit of exhaustion -- his body too worn out to even bother trying to rouse him from the cloying feeling in his sinuses. There's a certain blissful unawareness of it, until someone is rolling him out of bed.
"I told you he'd try to get out of it."
Because that's definitely why he got sick. To get out of cleaning.
"Ugh, did something die in here?"
Dean. Dean thinks he might be dead. Or he just wishes he was.
"Dude, wake up," Garrett says, throwing the sheets back. "The rest of us have already started. It's almost noon."
Time makes no sense right now, and he scrunches his face up at them. "I think I'm sick."
Logan throws his arms up, and Tucker is shaking his head. "See? See?"
Dean coughs weakly and groans. "Seriously, guys. I don't feel well."
Garrett purses his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. "And your date tonight? Brittani?"
"Tiffani," he mutters, closing his eyes. He smirks despite himself. "She already finds me hot, so she might not mind--"
There's a cascade of protests as Garrett reaches down and physically pulls him up.
He groans but doesn't fight, probably because his head is swimming too much to put up any resistance.
"Come on," Garrett says. "We do this like we do everything. Together."
It's the right thing to say.
No matter how shitty Dean feels.
-o-
Because Dean is the last one up, the jobs have already been divided. Garrett is vacuuming – which, Dean doesn’t remember how they got a vacuum but okay – and Tucker is obsessing over the kitchen. Logan seems to be doing something that resembles washing the windows, which feels like overkill, but they hand him a cloth and a bucket full of some type of chemical.
“You have the bathroom.”
He looks down at the supplies, feeling dumbfounded. He’s seen cleaning supplies before; he knows how they work. Despite the protests of his friends, he has cleaned before. A lot, really. Probably more than the rest of them, if he’s being honest. His parents had standards, and Dean
But yeah.
He sort of wants to throw up. He sort of wants to pass out. He sorts of forgets that he’s here at all until Garrett shakes him.
“Bathrooms, bro,” he says emphatically. “Make them sparkle.”
His chest aches, and he squelches the desire to cough as he offers up a half-hearted grin. “Sparkling bathrooms,” he says. “Coming right up.”
-o-
Dean makes it to the bathroom.
He makes it that far, and honestly, it feels like an accomplishment. Any hope that he had of his head clearing by being upright was woefully optimistic. If anything, the throbbing between his ears is worse, and his face feels like it could explode. The drainage running down the back of his throat is enough to gag him, and shit, he’s tired.
He could lay down right here on these floors, clean or not.
He puts the cleaning supplies down, taking a second to brace himself at the counter. He’s nauseous for a second, but then he’s just light headed, and he reaches a shaky hand up to massage the aching spot between his brows.
“Get it together,” he mutters to himself. “You got to take one for the team.”
Because Dean could be called a lot of things. Vain, shallow, flippant.
Sexy, strong, captivating.
Charming, diligent, capable.
But mostly – and most importantly – he was a team player.
“Just clean the damn bathroom,” he says, as if he could psych himself into the chore. “You know how to bring it home.”
-o-
It works.
For approximately five minutes.
Dean is able to clean the sink, scrubbing away the toothpaste tracks and the gunk collecting at the drain. His head feels funny still, so it doesn’t gross him out as it might otherwise, not even when he clears away the mold on the faucet and the splattered spit on the mirror.
His head may be spinning, but hey. The sink looks great.
He takes the supplies and turns to the toilet.
And that is his first mistake.
The movement is too much, and turning his head down completely undoes his equilibrium. His fingers falter on the bucket, his vision blurring as he tries to brace himself against the counter.
He’s okay, he tells himself as his body shudders involuntarily. He’s totally okay.
He blinks, trying to move again.
ANd that is his last mistake, it seems.
The flush rises up and drenches him. His body burns as his vision narrows. He can’t feel his hands enough to brace himself anymore, and he’s passed out enough times to know what’s coming.
There’s nothing he can do about it, either.
The world narrows, his heart pounding between his ears. A rush, a swell, and his knees go weak.
He’s out cold before he hits the ground.
-o-
It all feels like too much, really. To be everything he’s supposed to be. The weight of expectation is one thing. The crippling pressure of potential is another. All the things Dean could be.
And look, he’s still figuring out what he wants.
Beyond the next class, the next game, the next girl.
He knows what he wants when he sees it.
There are times, though. There are moments, really.
When he’s just not sure he’s seen it yet.
-o-
“Dean?”
“What the hell?”
“Is he breathing?”
“Dean – hey Dean.”
He opens his eyes, just a crack, confused by the faces of his three best friends, hovering above him. Tucker’s face is all wrong with wide eyes and a funny expression. Logan looks a little uncertain, like something has made him nervous. Garrett is closest, frowning at him like he’s messed something up.
Which. That feels possible.
“You with me?” Garrett asks, patting his cheek. His hand feels cold.
Or, really. Dean feels hot.
Not in a good way. Not in the way that attracts girls from across the room. Not in the way that makes him the center of attention at parties. Not in a way that burns nice and hot and–
No. Dean feels hot.
It mutes everything, making it hard to keep his eyes open at all.
“He’s pretty out of it,” Logan remarks.
“Is he okay?” Tucker says, voice pitching a little.
Dean groans, turning his head and closing his eyes. He tries to say something, but the sound doesn’t really go anywhere, and he lets himself slip listlessly to the side.
“Dean,” Garrett says again, reaching down and bracing his shoulder. “You’re freaking us out here. Wake up or we’ll call an ambulance.”
This catches his attention. He slits his eyes back open to glare at him. “I’m fine.”
The words are half-garbled, which he thinks doesn’t help him make his case.
“Yeah,” Garrett says. “Pretty sure that’s a no. I mean, what the hell even happened?”
Dean can’t completely remember. He remembers cleaning the sink. He remembers looking at the toilet.
And he remembers this, flat on his back.
When no explanation comes, he makes a sound instead. “I’m fine. Really.”
The words are a little more coherent this time at least, but the idea of moving is still too much.
“You passed out,” Logan says, shaking his head.
This seems possible, when Dean thinks about it. Thinking hurts, though. So he tries not to do it. “I’m fine,” he says one more time.
“Did he hit his head?” Tucker frets. “I still think the ambulance isn’t a bad idea.”
Garrett’s face screws up as he ignores the other two, eyes focused on Dean. “Look, man, you’ve got a pretty bad fever.”
This feels obvious. Dean told them he didn’t feel well. It’s not like he tried to hide it.
“Have you taken anything?” Logan asks.
“Have you been eating and drinking?” Tucker follows up, just as fast.
Too fast. There are too many words.
Dean’s focus slips, eyes travelling dully to the ceiling as his body starts to go numb.
“Dean,” Garrett says again, more insistent now as he taps his cheek again. “Stay awake.”
He makes a face. “You guys are demanding,” he mutters, the words only half slurred as he tries not to choke on the drainage building up in the back of his throat
Garrett rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Can you get up?”
His body screams no.
It figures, then, that Dean nods and says, “Yeah, sure. I can do that.”
He pushes up, because whatever, he’s gotten himself up off the ground before. He’s fine. He’s got this. He just has to ignore the nausea, the dizziness, the way his body hums–
He makes it to a seated position, blinking hard. His heart is pounding and shit.
“Dean?”
“You sure–?”
He huffs, too weary to shake his head. “I’m fine–”
He gets to his feet–
Ane promptly falls again.
He doesn’t go out this time, but he still can’t stop it. He thinks, this must be what swooning is. It’d be hilarious, he’s sure, if it wasn’t so damn humiliating.
As it is, there’s nothing he can do, half slumped against Garrett as Logan comes alongside him.
“The ambulance is still on the table!” Tucker squeaks.
“Just, help me with him,” Garrett grunts, turning Dean’s uncooperative body so Logan can take one of his arms. Dean’s head flops forward as his friends support him from both sides, pressed close enough that the fine tremors wracking his body are suddenly more noticeable than he realized. “Easy–”
Their touch is gentle as they get him up a little more, adjusting their grip on his arms. He wants to do something, but the very act of staying conscious preoccupies him. He manages to lift his head, just for it to flop back, and Garrett’s shoulder catches it, cradling it in his shoulder as his eyelids flutter.
“Let’s get him back to bed,” Garrett says. “Just – careful.”
They move forward, a rhythm that they don’t have to talk about but they all know from years of experience on the ice and off. Tucker goes ahead, opening the doors and clearing the way, and Logan watches him anxiously while Garrett stays focused on the task ahead.
“Just a little more,” he coaxes, even though it’s pretty clear Dean’s not doing any of the work. He has a fleeting thought to make his legs cooperate, but by the time he makes the connection from his brain to his feet, they’re already in his bedroom. “Here we are–”
They lay him down, easing his ass first before Garrett cradles the back of his neck and guides him down to the pillows. Logan grabs his legs, sweeping them back on the bed while Tucker hastily pulls the sheet over him like they’ve done this before.
Maybe it’s embarrassing. He’ll catch shit about it, he’s sure.
But for now it feels good, he can’t pretend it doesn’t.
“I still think he needs an ambulance,” Tucker says.
“Or just a doctor,” Logan suggests.
“Look, what’s a doctor going to do, really,” Garrett argues.
“I don’t know, not let him die,” Tucker says.
Garrett sighs. “He’s not going to die.”
“He did just pass out,” Logan reminds them. “Twice.”
It’s a little weird, the way they’re talking about him like he’s not even there. He should care.
He doesn’t.
“Well, yeah,” Garrett says. “He has a fever. And like you said, Tuck. If he’s not eating or drinking–”
“Yeah, so ambulance–”
“Or doctor–”
“He just needs to rest–”
“Dude,” Dean says, cracking his back open. “Can you guys shut up?”
Garrett is back over him in a second. “Dean?”
It’s too close. It’s too loud. “I just want to sleep–”
“You’re pretty sick,” Logan chimes in.
“You’re really sick,” Tucker adds.
Dean makes a sound, a protest that he can’t quite verbalize. “I just want to sleep.”
He’s whining; he’s not supposed to whine.
But this feels like a whining situation.
“Okay,” Garrett says, patting him on the chest. “You’ll take some meds, drink some water, and then we’ll let you sleep.”
This compromise seems okay to him. Not that he has any ability to argue with it. He blinks – longer than he intends – and when he opens his eyes again, Garrett has him in a half-seated position while Logan puts two pills in his hand.
“These will help with the fever,” he says.
Dean looks dumbly at his hand, barely remembering to lift it. He no sooner has the pills in his mouth before Tucker gives him the glass of water.
“You need to be hydrated,” he says, lifting Dean’s hand a little. “Drink.”
Coordination is a hell of a feat right now, but Dean feels pleased when he gets the water down without spilling it all down his front. As it is, the effort exhaustions him, and he sags a little more than he wants into Garrett’s touch.
“Okay,” Garrett says, reading the unconscious cue for what it was. “Sleep.”
“I don’t know, guys,” Tucker continues to say. “We should get him some soup at least.”
“What the hell is soup going to do?” Logan asks.
“It’s a sick thing,” Tucker says. “I don’t know.”
Dean’s too tired to answer them. Dean’s too tired to care.
Dean’s just too tired.
“Just – shut up,” Garrett says. “He needs to sleep.”
There’s quiet, then, and Dean’s eyelids flutter as he looks at his friends again.
Logan and Tucker standing at the foot of the bed. Garrett, patting his chest one more time. “I guess you really were sick, huh?”
He hums a little. “I’ll do the chores later,” he says, no more than a whisper. “I promise.”
Garrett rolls his eyes. “Let us do the chores this time,” he says. “You sleep, okay?”
And that, Dean decides as his eyes slip shut and his body goes light, is the best idea they’ve had all day.
Because the thing is, Dean’s a team player, all the way.
But his friends?
Well, they are, too.