SPN fic: This fever's bringing me down
Title: This fever's burning me down
Author: D. (namegoeshere)
Rating: PG13.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Wordcount: 1430.
Warnings: Blatant schmoop.
Summary: It's been two days. Sam's fever is still sitting at 103, and he's sweating and shaking beneath the thin motel blankets Dean's piled over him. Dean hasn't slept in over sixty hours, hasn't eaten, his stomach knotted with worry. He paces the motel room; hasn't left since Sam got sick, and if he lets himself admit it, he's scared.
A/N: Ahahaha, it's done at last. For slashfest round IV. I have the feeling my requestor will be a little disappointed, since the comfort sex that was supposed to be in here didn't happen as planned. Still. Thank you to the lovely alazysod for the beta. One fic down, seven to go.
†
It's been two days. Sam's fever is still sitting at 103, and he's sweating and shaking beneath the thin motel blankets Dean's piled over him. Dean hasn't slept in over sixty hours, hasn't eaten, his stomach knotted with worry. He paces the motel room; hasn't left since Sam got sick, and if he lets himself admit it, he's scared. He keeps telling himself that if Sam's fever goes up, if it hits 104, they'll go to the hospital, FBI breathing down their necks or not. Fucking job. Fucking sewers.
Sam's skin is pink, flushed, hot. Dean tries not to touch him, just presses a wet washcloth to his forehead, looking down into Sam's vacant eyes. He's not asleep. He just isn't really there, either.
"Need to break this fever, Sammy," Dean murmurs, stroking Sam's sweat-slicked hair back from his face. "Need to get back on the road." The room stinks of perspiration, the both of theirs.
"Gotta go to the moon, Dean," Sam whispers back, his voice parched, lips dry and cracked. Dean touches the washcloth his brother's mouth, trying to wet his lips, trying to still his shaking hands.
Dean just nods. "Sure, kiddo," he agrees. "Just get better, okay? Then we'll go wherever you want." He doesn't think Sam actually hears him, his head lolling to the side, eyes closing briefly. He's pretty sure Sam's never been this sick, not even when he was eight and throwing up all over the backseat of the Impala between Delaware and West Virginia.
†
He wakes up with Sam's hand on his hair. He doesn't remember falling asleep, and his head feels foggy. He's exhausted, his whole body aching, and Sam's hand is just as hot as the rest of him, clammy as it moves down, fingers rubbing over Dean's eyelids, his nose, his lips.
Sam says, "Dean," voice faint and cracked.
"I'm here."
"I'm scared, Dean," Sam whispers. "Where am I?"
He sits up, finally, takes Sam's large hand in both of his. "You're in a motel room in Billings, Montana," he says. "You're sick. It's okay. I'm here, Sam. Everything's okay."
"Don't leave." His clammy fingers tighten, gripping one of Dean's hands. "Dean, don't leave." He keeps saying Dean's name, eyes searching, like he expects his big brother to fix this somehow, the way he's always done. Dean can't; he doesn't know how.
Dean does what he can, leans in and presses his mouth to Sam's. His brother's lips are dry, so fucking dry, split, and he tastes like sweat and sickness, but Dean kisses him anyway. "I won't leave."
"Thank you," Sam breathes. As soon as Dean pulls away, he starts to cough, painful and dry. He curls in on himself, his whole body shuddering as he gasps for breath, lungs rasping. Dean sits by, helpless, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder.
"I'm right here, Sammy. I'm right here."
†
It's been a week. Sam's fever is down to 102.5, which isn't much of improvement, but at least it's not getting any higher. He’s still delirious, confused, sweating and coughing, frightened in the few moments when he's almost all there. Dean eats a few bites of cold pizza to keep himself going, and feeds Sam Mr. Noodles chicken-flavoured soup that he grabbed at the grocery and made heating up water in the motel's percolator.
He doesn't know how much longer their current card is going to last, and he's trying not to let on that's he's afraid. Sam's not all there, to the point where Dean almost doesn't remember the last time he really saw his brother, but he picks up on it when Dean's anxious, starts to toss and turn and whimper beneath his sweat-soaked blankets.
He comes to for a few minutes once, whispering, "Dean."
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Thanks for putting up with me. I'm sorry I'm so -- "
"Hey," Dean says quietly. "It's okay. I'm your big brother, that's what I'm here for. Don't go getting all girly on me; I'm just doing my job."
Sam just nods, closing his eyes for a minute. "Okay," he agrees. Then, "Dean, I need to go to the bathroom."
Dean rolls his eyes, pulling the blankets off his brother. "Of course you do. You need me to hold it for you, princess?"
†
It's another four days before the fever breaks. He's grabbing a few hours of sleep when Sam shakes him awake. He's still flushed and sweating, his clothes sticking to his skin, but he whispers, "Dean, I'm cold." His temperature's down to 99.1, and Dean tucks him in with the blankets over him, then finally crawls back in next to him, sliding an arm over his waist.
"This okay?" he asks, mouth against Sam's ear, and his little brother nods.
"Warm." Sam is sticky and hot, and he goes to sleep with Dean wrapped around him. Dean doesn't fall back asleep -- can't -- but he slides his hand under Sam's T-shirt and strokes the smooth, moist skin of his stomach. Sam still smells sick, sour with old sweat and too many drugs, but his lungs don't rattle so much when he breathes. He coughs quietly in his sleep, shivering slightly, and Dean tugs him a little closer, pressing a kiss into the soft, damp curls at the nape of Sam's neck.
It's really about time they both showered.
†
He gets Sam into the shower in the morning, and lets himself doze off for a few moments on the unmade bed while the water runs in the bathroom. He doesn't know how long he sleeps before Sam wakes him up, saying, "Hey, man, wake up. You should take a shower, too."
Dean’s been asleep long enough that Sam's dressed in clean clothes and his hair is already dry. "Yeah," he agrees.
Sam follows him into the bathroom, even turns the shower back on for him, and helps Dean out of his shirt and the grungy, nasty boxers he's been wearing for longer than he really wants to remember. He gets in after Dean even though he's already showered once, passes Dean the soap and the shampoo. They don't talk much, although they touch, the motel shower really too small for the both of them, and their bodies brush together as Dean washes his hair.
Sam still looks tired and too thin, but there's a light in his eyes that's been missing. He says, "You really need to shave," as he leans in and presses a kiss against Dean's neck, splaying one huge hand over Dean's hip. He rubs his cheek against Dean's, the gesture affectionate and not as awkward as it should be. Sam's already shaved down his stubble, his skin smooth and soft when Dean reaches up to touch him.
"I know."
When they get out of the shower, Sam presses his razor into his hand, muttering, "I'll be in the other room." Sure enough, when Dean's finished, Sam's spread out on the bed, soaking the sheets, his wet hair tousled. Dean sinks onto the bed next to him, still damp, leaning over to press a kiss to Sam's shoulder. "You're still a little flushed," he says, rubbing a hand over Sam's thigh.
Sam gives him a lopsided smile. "It could just be because I'm horny."
†
Sam sleeps, well-fucked and sated, although he still looks flushed, maybe a little feverish. Dean packs their things; they've been here too long, and it's time to move on. The room smells like spunk and fever, the air rank and stuffy, even with the windows open wide to let a fresh breeze in. He doesn't want to wake his brother, would be fine letting Sam sleep for the next week if he thought it would help. He's scared he'll get sick again, and leans in to press his mouth against Sam's forehead, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
Sam blinks up at him, touching his arm. "You totally just kissed my forehead," he says.
"Did not." He leans in, kissing Sam's mouth.
Sam laughs, leaning up to kiss him a little more firmly. "My big brother is awesome," he says, and he sounds so loose and relaxed when he says it that Dean puts the back of his hand to Sam's cheek, trying to feel if he's too warm, maybe delirious again. Sam's skin finally feels cool, though, and he smiles up at him. "I'm okay," he promises. "Just want to sleep a bit more."
Dean slumps down on the bed next to him. He's tired, too. "Yeah," he says. "We can do that."
Author: D. (namegoeshere)
Rating: PG13.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Wordcount: 1430.
Warnings: Blatant schmoop.
Summary: It's been two days. Sam's fever is still sitting at 103, and he's sweating and shaking beneath the thin motel blankets Dean's piled over him. Dean hasn't slept in over sixty hours, hasn't eaten, his stomach knotted with worry. He paces the motel room; hasn't left since Sam got sick, and if he lets himself admit it, he's scared.
A/N: Ahahaha, it's done at last. For slashfest round IV. I have the feeling my requestor will be a little disappointed, since the comfort sex that was supposed to be in here didn't happen as planned. Still. Thank you to the lovely alazysod for the beta. One fic down, seven to go.
†
It's been two days. Sam's fever is still sitting at 103, and he's sweating and shaking beneath the thin motel blankets Dean's piled over him. Dean hasn't slept in over sixty hours, hasn't eaten, his stomach knotted with worry. He paces the motel room; hasn't left since Sam got sick, and if he lets himself admit it, he's scared. He keeps telling himself that if Sam's fever goes up, if it hits 104, they'll go to the hospital, FBI breathing down their necks or not. Fucking job. Fucking sewers.
Sam's skin is pink, flushed, hot. Dean tries not to touch him, just presses a wet washcloth to his forehead, looking down into Sam's vacant eyes. He's not asleep. He just isn't really there, either.
"Need to break this fever, Sammy," Dean murmurs, stroking Sam's sweat-slicked hair back from his face. "Need to get back on the road." The room stinks of perspiration, the both of theirs.
"Gotta go to the moon, Dean," Sam whispers back, his voice parched, lips dry and cracked. Dean touches the washcloth his brother's mouth, trying to wet his lips, trying to still his shaking hands.
Dean just nods. "Sure, kiddo," he agrees. "Just get better, okay? Then we'll go wherever you want." He doesn't think Sam actually hears him, his head lolling to the side, eyes closing briefly. He's pretty sure Sam's never been this sick, not even when he was eight and throwing up all over the backseat of the Impala between Delaware and West Virginia.
†
He wakes up with Sam's hand on his hair. He doesn't remember falling asleep, and his head feels foggy. He's exhausted, his whole body aching, and Sam's hand is just as hot as the rest of him, clammy as it moves down, fingers rubbing over Dean's eyelids, his nose, his lips.
Sam says, "Dean," voice faint and cracked.
"I'm here."
"I'm scared, Dean," Sam whispers. "Where am I?"
He sits up, finally, takes Sam's large hand in both of his. "You're in a motel room in Billings, Montana," he says. "You're sick. It's okay. I'm here, Sam. Everything's okay."
"Don't leave." His clammy fingers tighten, gripping one of Dean's hands. "Dean, don't leave." He keeps saying Dean's name, eyes searching, like he expects his big brother to fix this somehow, the way he's always done. Dean can't; he doesn't know how.
Dean does what he can, leans in and presses his mouth to Sam's. His brother's lips are dry, so fucking dry, split, and he tastes like sweat and sickness, but Dean kisses him anyway. "I won't leave."
"Thank you," Sam breathes. As soon as Dean pulls away, he starts to cough, painful and dry. He curls in on himself, his whole body shuddering as he gasps for breath, lungs rasping. Dean sits by, helpless, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder.
"I'm right here, Sammy. I'm right here."
†
It's been a week. Sam's fever is down to 102.5, which isn't much of improvement, but at least it's not getting any higher. He’s still delirious, confused, sweating and coughing, frightened in the few moments when he's almost all there. Dean eats a few bites of cold pizza to keep himself going, and feeds Sam Mr. Noodles chicken-flavoured soup that he grabbed at the grocery and made heating up water in the motel's percolator.
He doesn't know how much longer their current card is going to last, and he's trying not to let on that's he's afraid. Sam's not all there, to the point where Dean almost doesn't remember the last time he really saw his brother, but he picks up on it when Dean's anxious, starts to toss and turn and whimper beneath his sweat-soaked blankets.
He comes to for a few minutes once, whispering, "Dean."
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Thanks for putting up with me. I'm sorry I'm so -- "
"Hey," Dean says quietly. "It's okay. I'm your big brother, that's what I'm here for. Don't go getting all girly on me; I'm just doing my job."
Sam just nods, closing his eyes for a minute. "Okay," he agrees. Then, "Dean, I need to go to the bathroom."
Dean rolls his eyes, pulling the blankets off his brother. "Of course you do. You need me to hold it for you, princess?"
†
It's another four days before the fever breaks. He's grabbing a few hours of sleep when Sam shakes him awake. He's still flushed and sweating, his clothes sticking to his skin, but he whispers, "Dean, I'm cold." His temperature's down to 99.1, and Dean tucks him in with the blankets over him, then finally crawls back in next to him, sliding an arm over his waist.
"This okay?" he asks, mouth against Sam's ear, and his little brother nods.
"Warm." Sam is sticky and hot, and he goes to sleep with Dean wrapped around him. Dean doesn't fall back asleep -- can't -- but he slides his hand under Sam's T-shirt and strokes the smooth, moist skin of his stomach. Sam still smells sick, sour with old sweat and too many drugs, but his lungs don't rattle so much when he breathes. He coughs quietly in his sleep, shivering slightly, and Dean tugs him a little closer, pressing a kiss into the soft, damp curls at the nape of Sam's neck.
It's really about time they both showered.
†
He gets Sam into the shower in the morning, and lets himself doze off for a few moments on the unmade bed while the water runs in the bathroom. He doesn't know how long he sleeps before Sam wakes him up, saying, "Hey, man, wake up. You should take a shower, too."
Dean’s been asleep long enough that Sam's dressed in clean clothes and his hair is already dry. "Yeah," he agrees.
Sam follows him into the bathroom, even turns the shower back on for him, and helps Dean out of his shirt and the grungy, nasty boxers he's been wearing for longer than he really wants to remember. He gets in after Dean even though he's already showered once, passes Dean the soap and the shampoo. They don't talk much, although they touch, the motel shower really too small for the both of them, and their bodies brush together as Dean washes his hair.
Sam still looks tired and too thin, but there's a light in his eyes that's been missing. He says, "You really need to shave," as he leans in and presses a kiss against Dean's neck, splaying one huge hand over Dean's hip. He rubs his cheek against Dean's, the gesture affectionate and not as awkward as it should be. Sam's already shaved down his stubble, his skin smooth and soft when Dean reaches up to touch him.
"I know."
When they get out of the shower, Sam presses his razor into his hand, muttering, "I'll be in the other room." Sure enough, when Dean's finished, Sam's spread out on the bed, soaking the sheets, his wet hair tousled. Dean sinks onto the bed next to him, still damp, leaning over to press a kiss to Sam's shoulder. "You're still a little flushed," he says, rubbing a hand over Sam's thigh.
Sam gives him a lopsided smile. "It could just be because I'm horny."
†
Sam sleeps, well-fucked and sated, although he still looks flushed, maybe a little feverish. Dean packs their things; they've been here too long, and it's time to move on. The room smells like spunk and fever, the air rank and stuffy, even with the windows open wide to let a fresh breeze in. He doesn't want to wake his brother, would be fine letting Sam sleep for the next week if he thought it would help. He's scared he'll get sick again, and leans in to press his mouth against Sam's forehead, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
Sam blinks up at him, touching his arm. "You totally just kissed my forehead," he says.
"Did not." He leans in, kissing Sam's mouth.
Sam laughs, leaning up to kiss him a little more firmly. "My big brother is awesome," he says, and he sounds so loose and relaxed when he says it that Dean puts the back of his hand to Sam's cheek, trying to feel if he's too warm, maybe delirious again. Sam's skin finally feels cool, though, and he smiles up at him. "I'm okay," he promises. "Just want to sleep a bit more."
Dean slumps down on the bed next to him. He's tired, too. "Yeah," he says. "We can do that."