Worried
Title: Worried
Characters/pairing: Sam, Dean (gen)
Summary: Sam’s worried about Dean. Dean’s worried about Sam.
A/N: Sam's sick, duh. Wrote this with the intention of continuing, but then wasn't able to, so it's weird and feels incomplete but it's something.
::: ::: :::
He’s shivering under the covers, half asleep, when the comforter he’d kicked off sometime in the night is draped over him.
“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean whispers, but it’s not Dean’s voice. Something’s off.
Sam opens his eyes, tries to squint up at the figure looming over him, but then there’s a hand over his mouth. Before he can move, he’s overcome with incredible pain. There’s a familiar smell of smoke, of fire, and though his vision is blurred he can see them, inches in front of his face.
A pair of eyes. Black.
And then everything is black.
::: ::: :::
“Nightmare?”
Sam’s covered in sweat. He’s shivering again, but the blanket is wrapped tightly around him. As he struggles to shake the dream, he reaches for the gun under his pillow and slowly sits up.
“Yeah?”
Sam winces at the uncertainty in his voice. Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam curls his finger around the trigger of his pistol and clears his throat.
“Uh. Yeah. Sorry.” Sam wrenches to the side with an enormous sneeze, holding it back long enough to pull his hand out from under the pillow before he can accidentally pull the trigger.
“Was it about flowers?” Dean looks like he’s holding back a laugh.
“Ha ha.” Sam rolls his eyes and scrubs at his nose. He’s pretty convinced he’s awake now; the persistent tickle in his nose is far too real to be a dream.
“Seriously, though, dude. You okay?”
Sam coughs into a fist and narrows his eyes.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“I’m golden, man. Or, I will be once we get some breakfast. You gettin’ up or what?”
When Sam sighs, a faint whistling sound comes from his nose.
“Yeah. I’ll be ready in ten.”
::: ::: :::
Characters/pairing: Sam, Dean (gen)
Summary: Sam’s worried about Dean. Dean’s worried about Sam.
A/N: Sam's sick, duh. Wrote this with the intention of continuing, but then wasn't able to, so it's weird and feels incomplete but it's something.
::: ::: :::
He’s shivering under the covers, half asleep, when the comforter he’d kicked off sometime in the night is draped over him.
“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean whispers, but it’s not Dean’s voice. Something’s off.
Sam opens his eyes, tries to squint up at the figure looming over him, but then there’s a hand over his mouth. Before he can move, he’s overcome with incredible pain. There’s a familiar smell of smoke, of fire, and though his vision is blurred he can see them, inches in front of his face.
A pair of eyes. Black.
And then everything is black.
::: ::: :::
“Nightmare?”
Sam’s covered in sweat. He’s shivering again, but the blanket is wrapped tightly around him. As he struggles to shake the dream, he reaches for the gun under his pillow and slowly sits up.
“Yeah?”
Sam winces at the uncertainty in his voice. Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam curls his finger around the trigger of his pistol and clears his throat.
“Uh. Yeah. Sorry.” Sam wrenches to the side with an enormous sneeze, holding it back long enough to pull his hand out from under the pillow before he can accidentally pull the trigger.
“Was it about flowers?” Dean looks like he’s holding back a laugh.
“Ha ha.” Sam rolls his eyes and scrubs at his nose. He’s pretty convinced he’s awake now; the persistent tickle in his nose is far too real to be a dream.
“Seriously, though, dude. You okay?”
Sam coughs into a fist and narrows his eyes.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“I’m golden, man. Or, I will be once we get some breakfast. You gettin’ up or what?”
When Sam sighs, a faint whistling sound comes from his nose.
“Yeah. I’ll be ready in ten.”
::: ::: :::