Fic: Resolution (Sam/Dean NC-17)
Title: Resolution
Author:
aynslee
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 4,500
Warnings: Wincest
Spoilers: None
Beta:
leighm
Summary: Future-fic with mild post-apocalyptic setting. Written for the prompt: Dean gets sick and Sam has to nurse him back to health/put up with his whining/wait on him hand and foot.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, and no profit is being made.
Notes: For
marishna; written for
spn_holidays. I hope you like it. Happy New Year!
Resolution
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sam’s crouching over the fire when he feels Dean’s hands on his back. “Move,” Dean yells, shoving Sam sideways, away from the flames and into the damp grass. Sam lands on his ass, but he’s alert. He’s always alert now, even more than he was before, and when he spins around, he sees two men looming.
One is huge and reeks of rotten meat, the other is smaller, his face streaked with dried blood, and by the time Sam’s on his feet, Dean’s already fighting the larger one. Dean dodges the guy’s punch and darts into the woods, and fuck, now Sam can’t see him. Sam wants to go after Dean, doesn’t want him alone for even a second, but the smaller man is faster than Sam guessed. He grabs Sam and gets him pinned against the tree, but the man doesn’t really know how to fight, and after a few seconds, Sam’s got his hands braced well enough to twist the guy’s neck. Sam yanks hard to the left until there’s a satisfying crunch, and the man goes limp.
He can hear Dean’s muffled grunts and a distant splashing. Sam’s already running before the guy’s body hits the ground.
By the time Sam’s fifteen feet into the woods, Dean’s staggering back toward the fire. He stops and slumps backward against the nearest tree, sliding down until he’s on the ground, panting. Sam creeps slowly toward his brother, watching for other attackers. When he’s close enough, he touches the edge of his brother’s soaked clothes.
“Threw me in the creek,” Dean says with effort, exhaling heavily.
“Let me dry you off,” Sam says, nearly pleading-Dean’s been fighting a cold for days, and Sam doesn’t want him getting worse, but Dean huffs and rolls his eyes.
“I can take care of myself,” Dean snaps, and he tries, pulling at his coat and muttering under his breath, but in the end Sam has to help. By the next morning, Dean’s arm is purple and swollen, and he’s moving very carefully.
Sam curses as he gathers their supplies. They’ve been so careful, so tedious about watching their backs. Six months of this life, and this is the first time anyone’s gotten so close. “We’ll get you fixed up,” Sam says, running his fingers over Dean’s wrist, staring at the mottled bruises in the early morning sun.
“Yeah. Because I’m sure there’s a clinic just around the corner.” Dean has to stop and cough. “Maybe I’ll get a sucker if I’m good.”
Sam sighs. He’s used to Dean’s attempts to deflect. “I’ll figure something out.”
“It’s fine. I’ve had worse. Much worse.” Dean coughs again, struggles to get to his feet, yanking his arm away when Sam reaches to steady him.
“I know, I know, you’re like the Hulk or whatever, don’t need my help, blah blah,” Sam says, and Dean actually smiles at him.
***
By late afternoon, there’s a thin layer of snow coating the ground. The road is completely covered, but spikes of yellow grass still peek out through the flakes. The wind picks up, whipping Sam’s hair into his eyes, and Dean is coughing nearly non-stop. It’s an ugly, hacking sound that makes Sam’s chest hurt just listening. “I think we should find a place to rest.”
“No,” Dean says. Then he stumbles.
Sam’s right there, grabs his good arm and hauls him up. When Dean only manages a semi-glare, Sam knows they have to stop. He doesn’t want to stay out on the road, so he drags Dean off to the side, sits him up against the pole of a sagging billboard.
Sam realizes the snow will make their clothes wet a second too late. “Fuck,” he mutters.
Dean manages a feeble smirk. “Sounds good to me.”
Sam doesn’t smile back. He slips down next to his brother, even more wary than usual after last night’s attack, and tries to figure out where they are. So many of the road signs are gone, ripped away or flattened, but there’s one just beyond the billboard that says Canton, two miles. Sam hopes that it’s a big enough town for a Walgreen’s. Even if all the food’s been looted, there might be a splint and a fresh bottle of cough syrup for his brother.
Sam pulls his map out of his back pocket, and his little calendar falls out with it. Sam stares at the date. Thursday, December 24th, Christmas Eve. How fitting. Sam shivers as he makes his check mark. Dean makes fun of him, but Sam thinks the check marks are better than crossing the days off with an X. The checks are hopeful instead of desperate-they mean one more day survived.
By the time Sam’s finished with the map, Dean’s asleep on his shoulder. And dammit, it feels like he’s got fever. Sam presses the back of his hand to Dean’s forehead, and sure enough, it’s burning up. Since Dean’s asleep he grabs a few sticks and a t-shirt from their bag and wraps Dean’s arm up as well as he can. After that’s done, he can’t waste any more time-he’s got to get Dean somewhere safe where he can rest. He pulls Dean up, and for a little while, maybe thirty minutes, Dean walks on his own, Sam’s arm wrapped tight around his waist. But then he starts to stumble again and nearly falls.
“This isn’t working out so well,” Sam says, but Dean doesn’t answer. Sam looks down at his brother’s face, and his eyes are closed. That’s when Sam starts to panic.
A cold, even the flu, is no big deal when they have a bed and some fresh water, even if they’re sleeping in a grimy motel room. But when they have to sleep outside in Tennessee, in the middle of winter, never knowing when the next attack will be, whether from a demon or another person, it’s not something to blow off. After everything they’ve been through, Sam’s not going to let the combination of a cracked bone and the flu take his brother.
The world may be dead, but he and Dean are going to survive. Hell, they’ve been doing a damned good job of it for the last six months. So Sam picks Dean up and keeps walking, ignoring the burn in his shoulder from his brother’s weight. He hasn’t seen a pharmacy yet, or any store, not even a ransacked Fred’s or a hollowed out Wal-Mart, but he’s not giving up.
Sam’s probably walked about a mile when he hears a faint sound. He stops and listens carefully, imagines that he can hear voices through the wind. He’s just about convinced himself that he’s lost it totally, hallucinating what he wants to see, when he sees a thin pillar of smoke rising. People. A group of people, something they haven’t seen in nearly three months. Maybe others like them, who are still fighting, who haven’t given up and turned savage and feral.
Sam leaves the highway and turns onto a narrow street lined with abandoned homes. The houses are nice-three and four bedroom homes, brick and siding, with front porches and perfectly straight eaves and chimneys. They’re new, no more than ten years old, built by upper middle class families back when sidewalks and homeowner’s associations were their most pressing issues.
Now the houses are dark, no twinkling Christmas lights, no cars racing by as people rush to do last minute shopping, no trees gleaming in the front windows. Sam puts Dean down for a second and shifts him to the other shoulder, holding onto him as tightly as possible.
About a half-mile into the neighborhood, there’s a fence. A thick wooden fence, with rugged boards stretching toward the sky, the top lined with curled barbed wire.
Just walking up to this camp is a risk, but Sam’s choices are limited. Dean’s hurt and sick, and there aren’t really any other options. So Sam knocks on the gate, shouts, kicks it, anything to draw their attention.
It’s less than a minute before the small latch is opened and a rough male voice shouts back, “What the fuck do you want, and who are you?”
Sam’s relieved that the man at least sounds sane. “I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean, and we need some help.”
“Are you armed?”
Sam moves closer, ready to explain. “Yes,” he says, and he’s about to say that he’s willing to leave all their weapons outside when he finds himself splashed with holy water. He blinks, the drops falling from his bangs. Sam bites his lip, and stays quiet, trying to be respectful. If they’re checking for demons, then surely that’s a good sign.
The gate creaks open slowly, and then the guy dumps the rest of the water on Dean’s face, who flinches but doesn’t wake up.
“Okay you two,” the man says. “We’ve got a lady here who can tell if you’re up to something. If she says so, then you can stay.”
Sam has a wild hope that it’ll be Missouri coming to greet them, but of course, it’s not. It’s a bland looking lady with a nice smile. “I’m Ella,” she says, as if that means something to them. She looks over at the man who is functioning as a guard. “They’re fine.”
Sam sighs, relieved, and Ella points him across the street, tells him they can visit the doctor.
Sam shakes his brother. “Come on, Dean. Wake up. Maybe the doctor’s hot.” It doesn’t work, but Dean stirs a little and makes a small whining sound, which makes Sam feel better.
***
The doctor is actually hot. She’s got dark brown hair and golden skin, but she’s all business. Dean would definitely like her, even if he hasn’t picked up women in quite some time.
“We got attacked,” Sam says, and she doesn’t even look up. “His arm’s broken, and I think he’s got the flu on top of that.”
She cuts Dean’s shirt off. “I’m out of fiberglass,” she says, unwrapping the dingy t-shirt Sam had wrapped around Dean’s arm, “but I’ve got a splint.” She laughs and holds up one of the sticks Sam used. “A real one.”
“Do you mind if I ask how you all survived?” Sam asks while she’s wrapping an ace bandage around the outside of the hard plastic. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but we’ve been on the road since the day it happened, and everyone we’ve seen has been...” She nods, and Sam doesn’t need to finish.
“I was the chief of staff at our local hospital,” she says. “It’s a small town, and Ella, who you’ve probably met, is a psychic. She’s also my sister. So about a week or two before it happened, Ella tells us all that something’s going to happen. Something bad, and that we all have to get ready.”
Sam nods. He wonders idly how much like Missouri this Ella person is. Wonders if they’ll have a chance to get to know her.
“There are basements in the hospital, long lines of hallways and rooms with heavy doors. We stockpiled supplies, and we spread the word. We told all the hospital employees, all the school employees. Then we invited the rest of the town,” the doctor says, taking Dean’s temperature with an old-fashioned mercury thermometer.
Sam’s incredulous. “And they believed you?”
“Not all of them,” she says, stopping to frown at the thermometer. “But anyone who knows Ella was scared, and they listened. Of course, we still lost people. But there are about a hundred of us left, and we’re lucky, because we’ve got some supplies from the hospital and the local stores.”
She gives Sam a quick smile, indicating that she’s done talking about the whole thing. She puts her hand on Dean’s leg. “His fever’s 103.5, so I’m going to give him some Tylenol. Once it’s down around 101, don’t give him any more. Just wipe him down with a lukewarm cloth.” She gives Sam some pain pills for when Dean’s arm hurts, then goes home, leaving Sam alone with his brother.
Sam finally takes the time to look around, and they’re in the living room of a house. The room’s been turned into a makeshift hospital, with beds and supplies, but otherwise it’s just like the other houses that lined the streets outside the fence. He peeks out the window, and it looks the same, rows of new homes, one after the other, for a few hundred feet. At that point, the fence rises up behind the houses, sealing the camp off from the outside world.
Sam pulls one of the empty beds up close to his brother and lies down. It’s been so long since he relaxed, that it’s almost uncomfortable. He doesn’t sleep much, getting up and checking Dean’s fever every hour or so, but it’s nice to lie down on a bed again.
Friday
The next morning around dawn, Ella shows up again. “We’ve got a house you guys can have.”
“A house?” Sam was expecting a sleeping bag, or a tent if they got lucky.
“Yes. Most of our families live together. They’re still terrified. Everyone knows each other, so there might be nine or ten people in one house. Leaves plenty of room.”
“Wow. Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“We’ll figure out a way for you to repay us. Have a Merry Christmas,” she says. And then she’s gone.
Once the sun’s been up for awhile, Sam hurries outside to use the bathroom, and when he gets back, Dean’s awake, staring up at the ceiling. Sam sits down next to him. “Hey man. How ya feeling?”
“Shitty.”
“Yeah. But hey, I told you I’d get you fixed up, huh?”
Dean glares at the splint. “My hero.” He seems to come out of his daze then, remembering. “Sam. Where the fuck are we?” he asks, struggling to sit up.
“Hey. Calm down,” Sam says, pushing his brother back down against the bed. “We’re good.” Sam explains everything he knows, but Dean’s still staring at him dubiously.
“You just waltzed us in here? You know why we don’t go in buildings now, you know it’s too easy to get trapped-” Dean sputters, mouth gaping at Sam’s easy posture. “Oh my god, you’ve gone insane.”
“Relax.” Sam pats his brother’s shoulder. “It’s not like I had much of a choice. It was either drag your ass in here, or let us both die out there.”
***
After his brief period of lucidity, Dean passes out again. He stays that way even after the doctor says they’re free to go, so Sam carries Dean down the street to the house they’ve been assigned. It’s a two-story house, tan siding and a white front porch. The house is still neat, just cold and musty. He settles Dean on the couch while he makes a fire, grateful that it’s a real fireplace, capable of handling smoke and ash, not just one of the decorative ones that require actual electricity or gas.
Sam drags the top part of the mattress from the master bedroom, drops it in front of the fireplace. He crouches in front of his brother, touching his forehead. Dean’s still feverish, passed out cold.
The doctor said to keep wiping him down until the fever’s gone. So Sam finds a few gallons of bottled water in the pantry, heats the water over the fire. He wets a washcloth he found in the bathroom, smiling when his brother moans appreciatively. He washes Dean all over, his face and hair, and even brushes his teeth with a spare toothbrush from upstairs, using only a speck of the toothpaste he found so Dean won’t choke.
He doesn’t want to sleep, but he lies down next to Dean. Sam keeps one hand on Dean’s chest all night, even after he drifts off to sleep.
Monday
Saturday and Sunday pass in a blur. Dean sleeps most of the day and when he’s awake, he doesn’t talk, just stares dreamily at the ceiling. Sam’s worried, but the doctor says it’s just a combination of the pain pills and the flu, so Sam keeps up their routine. On Monday, Dean’s fever seems lower so Sam tries asking him a question. “You want some water?”
Dean sniffs and rolls over onto his back. “My underwear is orange,” he mumbles. Sam shakes his head. Dean doesn’t have on any underwear, just the sheets and blankets that Sam’s covered him with, so Sam finds some clothes for Dean in the dresser, pajama pants and long sleeved t-shirts.
After Dean’s dressed, he’s quiet again, and Sam looks around the living room. There are books in the shelves and Sam studies them eagerly-he hasn’t read a book in so long. He spent the previous year reading frantically about Dean’s deal, and before he even had a chance to break it, the demons came. The demon in charge didn’t care about the deal once she was out of hell for good, and then war started. Sam hasn’t read anything at all since then.
He gathers up books of all kinds, textbooks, non-fiction, novels, and takes them to the living area. He sits propped up next to Dean, less than an inch away, and reads. He reads for twelve hours straight, only stopping to sit Dean up and dribble water into his mouth, or wipe him down with the washcloth.
Tuesday
On Tuesday, Sam tries talking to Dean again. He asks the same question. “You want some water?”
“Orange juice,” Dean says, his voice cracking.
Sam grins. This is the first time Dean’s been coherent since they got to the house. “I know you’re delirious, but there’s no orange juice.” Sam pats Dean’s knee. “Hasn’t been for five months or so.”
“Really fucking want some Tropicana.”
Sam is not annoyed by Dean’s whining; he’s just glad that he’s talking again. “Man, if I could get it for you I would.”
“The good kind? In the little carton instead of the plastic jug?”
“Dean, if we had oranges, I’d squeeze them myself.”
“Fucker.” He tries to swat at Sam but misses. “Grape juice?”
Sam laughs. “I’ll go check.” He knows there’s no juice in the house they’re in, but there might be some in the little store where the town keeps their rations. He props Dean up, puts Dean’s gun in his good hand and an open flask of holy water in the other.
Sam walks quickly to the house where they store the rations, not wanting Dean to be left alone for long. “Do you have any juice?” he asks the woman in charge.
The woman peers out at him, raising her eyebrows over the half glasses perched on the end of her nose. “We usually save the juice for the kids, but since your brother’s sick, I’ll make an exception.”
Sam blinks. Other than the doctor and Ella, he hasn’t met anyone, but this person clearly knows who he is. “I don’t want to cause any problems,” Sam says, as politely as he can manage.
“I’ve got some apple juice,” she says, reading from the label. “Grown on a farm. Doesn’t expire until March 2010.”
“That’s great, thank you.” Sam takes the bottle from her, hurrying back. He figures Dean is safe, but he hates taking chances. “Apple juice,” Sam says when he gets back, holding up the container. “100% juice, organic. Couldn’t do better with an orchard.”
“Okay, Martha Stewart,” Dean says, laughing. “Shut up and pour me some.”
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Dean’s in the master bedroom looking for clean blankets when Sam comes up behind him, catches him around the waist. Dean’s still weak, unsteady on his feet even though the fever’s gone, and he sways a little. Sam tightens his arms around Dean, nuzzles his neck. When he looks up, he notices they’re standing in front of a full-length mirror, the old-fashioned kind, framed in a wooden oval, standing on a base. He grins at their reflection.
Dean lets him nuzzle for a few seconds, then tries to shake him off. “I wonder if they have any lube here.”
Sam wrinkles his nose. “We can’t use someone else’s lube.”
“Oh come on,” Dean says, eyes rolling. “I seriously doubt anyone around here is going to be offended if we borrow some.”
Sam maneuvers Dean over to what’s left of the bed frame, sitting him down while Sam searches through the bathroom cabinets. He holds his hand up triumphantly when he finds what he’s looking for. “Vaseline.”
Dean lifts his eyebrows and nods. “Good enough to jack off with, so why not?”
Sam laughs, drags Dean back into the den. He gets Dean laid out on the mattress, and Dean sighs, but he sounds happy. Sam inhales, and his brother smells clean, the fresh scent of citrus soap clinging from the last sponge bath. Sam breathes hot onto Dean’s skin, hoping he smells good too. Dean moans then, and Sam’s about to start yanking clothes off the both of them when he gets an idea.
“Hang on just a second.” Sam gets up and hurries to the bedroom. He grabs the mirror with both hands, carries it to the den.
“What the hell is that?” Dean asks, and he’s staring at Sam like the mirror is some sort of unknown torture device.
Sam puts the mirror down right next to the mattress. “What does it look like?”
“Oh hell no. It’s been six months and you need to get freaky to get off?”
“No, I don’t need to get freaky,” Sam says, settling back down on top of his brother. “Not that this is freaky to begin with.” Sam bites the edge of Dean’s jaw playfully. “I just thought it would be nice.”
Dean throws an arm over his face, ignoring Sam. “Oh my god.”
Sam smiles. His brother didn’t say no, so Sam picks up where he left off. He tugs Dean’s shirt off, then the pajama pants, and Dean’s warm under his hands. Sam relishes the feel of heated skin, kissing down his brother’s neck, licking his chest. He turns his head, watches himself moving in the mirror.
He’s surprised to see Dean looking too. He meets his brother’s eyes, and Dean blushes, but doesn’t look away. Sam groans at the look on Dean’s face, feels his dick get even harder. So Dean wants to watch too. He can handle that.
Sam grins again, and sits up enough to strip off his own clothes before going back to Dean. After the war started, the real war, they couldn’t let their guard down. They’ve had to settle for rushed handjobs, usually not able to risk a blowjob, and certainly not sex. It’s been six months since they’ve had this, six months since Sam’s seen Dean fully naked, had time to appreciate his body. And now Sam’s here, he’s got Dean, and Dean’s going to be okay. In spite of everything, Sam feels like the luckiest guy in the world.
He spreads Dean’s legs, smoothes his palms up and down the inside of Dean’s thighs, rubbing his cheek against skin that’s flushed with want and not fever. Dean lies back, looking up at Sam with a near-smile, allows Sam to kiss and touch him all over, doesn’t even try and hurry him along.
Sam dips his fingers into the tub of Vaseline, coating them all over. Dean moans and Sam joins him, relishing this feeling of being close to his brother again. Dean’s so tight, so Sam’s careful, takes his time. His cock may be the hardest it’s ever been, and he may only last a second once he’s inside, but he’s not going to rush.
Once Sam’s got two fingers in, he sneaks a glance back over at the mirror, gets to see Dean arching up into his touch from a different angle. Sam gapes; his brother is always beautiful, but in the dim firelight, Dean’s skin is golden. He’s thinner than he should be, but his muscles are still taut and firm, and Sam watches Dean’s stomach muscles flex as he runs a hand across.
“Like what you see?” Dean asks, meeting Sam’s gaze in the mirror and cocking one of his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I think I do,” Sam says, and he’s done lingering for now. He leans down to Dean’s ear. “You’re gonna like it too.”
He rolls Dean over, and Dean lets him, unusually compliant. Sam tugs on Dean and scoots them both over until they’re directly in front of the mirror, facing it, Dean leaning forward on his good arm, Sam behind him on his knees.
“Gonna fuck you like this,” Sam whispers.
Dean closes his eyes, doesn’t try and make a comeback. “God.”
Sam figures Dean’s ready, so he pushes in, one arm wrapped tight around Dean’s chest, the other on his hip. Sam goes as slowly as he can, but Dean’s relaxed, and it doesn’t take long before he’s fully inside. Sam balances himself on his knees, gets Dean pulled up so that he’s sitting up on his knees too, resting back against Sam. He thrusts up, looking at the two of them in the mirror, all long lines and hard muscle, tan gleaming skin.
“Look at us,” Sam says, thrusting again, and god, he’s so close. He rubs his hand over Dean’s cock, stroking. “Look at us together,” he says again, and Dean looks, eyes glazed over as Sam rocks into him.
“You okay?” Sam asks, because Dean’s eyes are closed now and he’s sweating, and god, what if Sam’s caused him to have a relapse?
Dean’s eyes snap open and his mouth quirks. “Jesus, Sam. I’m fine, fuck me already.”
“Bastard,” Sam says, smiling, and he moves faster, thrusting harder while he strokes Dean. It’s probably only been two minutes, but it’s too much, too good, and Sam comes, gasping, his arm tightening around Dean’s chest. Sam keeps his hand steady on Dean’s cock, tries not to lose the rhythm, and then he’s coming too, all over Sam’s hand.
Sam never looks away from the mirror.
He doesn’t let go of his brother, unwilling to let him just flop back onto the mattress and jar his arm. Dean makes an attempt to shove Sam away, but it’s so half-hearted that Sam hangs on, getting Dean back onto the mattress with only a few curses aimed at him.
Dean’s breathing is already slowing, and he’ll be practically unconscious in a few minutes. Sam gets a washcloth and cleans them both up, then pours some juice for Dean and puts it beside the mattress.
“Happy New Year,” Sam whispers, more than a little awed that they’ve made it another year. He kisses his brother’s forehead and snuggles in closer, pulling the blankets up over both of them.
-end-
Author’s Notes: This was my first time to participate in a holiday exchange fic, and I wanted it to be something that
marishna would like. Two of the prompts caught my eye right away, so I decided to combine them. I really liked the Dean gets sick and Sam has to nurse him back to health/put up with his whining/wait on him hand and foot, so I knew I’d be writing that. And I can’t do deathfic, but I love apocalypse fic, especially if demons have destroyed the world, so prompt number 4 interested me as well. I hope you like the combination!
Author:
aynslee
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 4,500
Warnings: Wincest
Spoilers: None
Beta:
leighm
Summary: Future-fic with mild post-apocalyptic setting. Written for the prompt: Dean gets sick and Sam has to nurse him back to health/put up with his whining/wait on him hand and foot.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, and no profit is being made.
Notes: For
marishna; written for
spn_holidays. I hope you like it. Happy New Year!
Resolution
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sam’s crouching over the fire when he feels Dean’s hands on his back. “Move,” Dean yells, shoving Sam sideways, away from the flames and into the damp grass. Sam lands on his ass, but he’s alert. He’s always alert now, even more than he was before, and when he spins around, he sees two men looming.
One is huge and reeks of rotten meat, the other is smaller, his face streaked with dried blood, and by the time Sam’s on his feet, Dean’s already fighting the larger one. Dean dodges the guy’s punch and darts into the woods, and fuck, now Sam can’t see him. Sam wants to go after Dean, doesn’t want him alone for even a second, but the smaller man is faster than Sam guessed. He grabs Sam and gets him pinned against the tree, but the man doesn’t really know how to fight, and after a few seconds, Sam’s got his hands braced well enough to twist the guy’s neck. Sam yanks hard to the left until there’s a satisfying crunch, and the man goes limp.
He can hear Dean’s muffled grunts and a distant splashing. Sam’s already running before the guy’s body hits the ground.
By the time Sam’s fifteen feet into the woods, Dean’s staggering back toward the fire. He stops and slumps backward against the nearest tree, sliding down until he’s on the ground, panting. Sam creeps slowly toward his brother, watching for other attackers. When he’s close enough, he touches the edge of his brother’s soaked clothes.
“Threw me in the creek,” Dean says with effort, exhaling heavily.
“Let me dry you off,” Sam says, nearly pleading-Dean’s been fighting a cold for days, and Sam doesn’t want him getting worse, but Dean huffs and rolls his eyes.
“I can take care of myself,” Dean snaps, and he tries, pulling at his coat and muttering under his breath, but in the end Sam has to help. By the next morning, Dean’s arm is purple and swollen, and he’s moving very carefully.
Sam curses as he gathers their supplies. They’ve been so careful, so tedious about watching their backs. Six months of this life, and this is the first time anyone’s gotten so close. “We’ll get you fixed up,” Sam says, running his fingers over Dean’s wrist, staring at the mottled bruises in the early morning sun.
“Yeah. Because I’m sure there’s a clinic just around the corner.” Dean has to stop and cough. “Maybe I’ll get a sucker if I’m good.”
Sam sighs. He’s used to Dean’s attempts to deflect. “I’ll figure something out.”
“It’s fine. I’ve had worse. Much worse.” Dean coughs again, struggles to get to his feet, yanking his arm away when Sam reaches to steady him.
“I know, I know, you’re like the Hulk or whatever, don’t need my help, blah blah,” Sam says, and Dean actually smiles at him.
***
By late afternoon, there’s a thin layer of snow coating the ground. The road is completely covered, but spikes of yellow grass still peek out through the flakes. The wind picks up, whipping Sam’s hair into his eyes, and Dean is coughing nearly non-stop. It’s an ugly, hacking sound that makes Sam’s chest hurt just listening. “I think we should find a place to rest.”
“No,” Dean says. Then he stumbles.
Sam’s right there, grabs his good arm and hauls him up. When Dean only manages a semi-glare, Sam knows they have to stop. He doesn’t want to stay out on the road, so he drags Dean off to the side, sits him up against the pole of a sagging billboard.
Sam realizes the snow will make their clothes wet a second too late. “Fuck,” he mutters.
Dean manages a feeble smirk. “Sounds good to me.”
Sam doesn’t smile back. He slips down next to his brother, even more wary than usual after last night’s attack, and tries to figure out where they are. So many of the road signs are gone, ripped away or flattened, but there’s one just beyond the billboard that says Canton, two miles. Sam hopes that it’s a big enough town for a Walgreen’s. Even if all the food’s been looted, there might be a splint and a fresh bottle of cough syrup for his brother.
Sam pulls his map out of his back pocket, and his little calendar falls out with it. Sam stares at the date. Thursday, December 24th, Christmas Eve. How fitting. Sam shivers as he makes his check mark. Dean makes fun of him, but Sam thinks the check marks are better than crossing the days off with an X. The checks are hopeful instead of desperate-they mean one more day survived.
By the time Sam’s finished with the map, Dean’s asleep on his shoulder. And dammit, it feels like he’s got fever. Sam presses the back of his hand to Dean’s forehead, and sure enough, it’s burning up. Since Dean’s asleep he grabs a few sticks and a t-shirt from their bag and wraps Dean’s arm up as well as he can. After that’s done, he can’t waste any more time-he’s got to get Dean somewhere safe where he can rest. He pulls Dean up, and for a little while, maybe thirty minutes, Dean walks on his own, Sam’s arm wrapped tight around his waist. But then he starts to stumble again and nearly falls.
“This isn’t working out so well,” Sam says, but Dean doesn’t answer. Sam looks down at his brother’s face, and his eyes are closed. That’s when Sam starts to panic.
A cold, even the flu, is no big deal when they have a bed and some fresh water, even if they’re sleeping in a grimy motel room. But when they have to sleep outside in Tennessee, in the middle of winter, never knowing when the next attack will be, whether from a demon or another person, it’s not something to blow off. After everything they’ve been through, Sam’s not going to let the combination of a cracked bone and the flu take his brother.
The world may be dead, but he and Dean are going to survive. Hell, they’ve been doing a damned good job of it for the last six months. So Sam picks Dean up and keeps walking, ignoring the burn in his shoulder from his brother’s weight. He hasn’t seen a pharmacy yet, or any store, not even a ransacked Fred’s or a hollowed out Wal-Mart, but he’s not giving up.
Sam’s probably walked about a mile when he hears a faint sound. He stops and listens carefully, imagines that he can hear voices through the wind. He’s just about convinced himself that he’s lost it totally, hallucinating what he wants to see, when he sees a thin pillar of smoke rising. People. A group of people, something they haven’t seen in nearly three months. Maybe others like them, who are still fighting, who haven’t given up and turned savage and feral.
Sam leaves the highway and turns onto a narrow street lined with abandoned homes. The houses are nice-three and four bedroom homes, brick and siding, with front porches and perfectly straight eaves and chimneys. They’re new, no more than ten years old, built by upper middle class families back when sidewalks and homeowner’s associations were their most pressing issues.
Now the houses are dark, no twinkling Christmas lights, no cars racing by as people rush to do last minute shopping, no trees gleaming in the front windows. Sam puts Dean down for a second and shifts him to the other shoulder, holding onto him as tightly as possible.
About a half-mile into the neighborhood, there’s a fence. A thick wooden fence, with rugged boards stretching toward the sky, the top lined with curled barbed wire.
Just walking up to this camp is a risk, but Sam’s choices are limited. Dean’s hurt and sick, and there aren’t really any other options. So Sam knocks on the gate, shouts, kicks it, anything to draw their attention.
It’s less than a minute before the small latch is opened and a rough male voice shouts back, “What the fuck do you want, and who are you?”
Sam’s relieved that the man at least sounds sane. “I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean, and we need some help.”
“Are you armed?”
Sam moves closer, ready to explain. “Yes,” he says, and he’s about to say that he’s willing to leave all their weapons outside when he finds himself splashed with holy water. He blinks, the drops falling from his bangs. Sam bites his lip, and stays quiet, trying to be respectful. If they’re checking for demons, then surely that’s a good sign.
The gate creaks open slowly, and then the guy dumps the rest of the water on Dean’s face, who flinches but doesn’t wake up.
“Okay you two,” the man says. “We’ve got a lady here who can tell if you’re up to something. If she says so, then you can stay.”
Sam has a wild hope that it’ll be Missouri coming to greet them, but of course, it’s not. It’s a bland looking lady with a nice smile. “I’m Ella,” she says, as if that means something to them. She looks over at the man who is functioning as a guard. “They’re fine.”
Sam sighs, relieved, and Ella points him across the street, tells him they can visit the doctor.
Sam shakes his brother. “Come on, Dean. Wake up. Maybe the doctor’s hot.” It doesn’t work, but Dean stirs a little and makes a small whining sound, which makes Sam feel better.
***
The doctor is actually hot. She’s got dark brown hair and golden skin, but she’s all business. Dean would definitely like her, even if he hasn’t picked up women in quite some time.
“We got attacked,” Sam says, and she doesn’t even look up. “His arm’s broken, and I think he’s got the flu on top of that.”
She cuts Dean’s shirt off. “I’m out of fiberglass,” she says, unwrapping the dingy t-shirt Sam had wrapped around Dean’s arm, “but I’ve got a splint.” She laughs and holds up one of the sticks Sam used. “A real one.”
“Do you mind if I ask how you all survived?” Sam asks while she’s wrapping an ace bandage around the outside of the hard plastic. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but we’ve been on the road since the day it happened, and everyone we’ve seen has been...” She nods, and Sam doesn’t need to finish.
“I was the chief of staff at our local hospital,” she says. “It’s a small town, and Ella, who you’ve probably met, is a psychic. She’s also my sister. So about a week or two before it happened, Ella tells us all that something’s going to happen. Something bad, and that we all have to get ready.”
Sam nods. He wonders idly how much like Missouri this Ella person is. Wonders if they’ll have a chance to get to know her.
“There are basements in the hospital, long lines of hallways and rooms with heavy doors. We stockpiled supplies, and we spread the word. We told all the hospital employees, all the school employees. Then we invited the rest of the town,” the doctor says, taking Dean’s temperature with an old-fashioned mercury thermometer.
Sam’s incredulous. “And they believed you?”
“Not all of them,” she says, stopping to frown at the thermometer. “But anyone who knows Ella was scared, and they listened. Of course, we still lost people. But there are about a hundred of us left, and we’re lucky, because we’ve got some supplies from the hospital and the local stores.”
She gives Sam a quick smile, indicating that she’s done talking about the whole thing. She puts her hand on Dean’s leg. “His fever’s 103.5, so I’m going to give him some Tylenol. Once it’s down around 101, don’t give him any more. Just wipe him down with a lukewarm cloth.” She gives Sam some pain pills for when Dean’s arm hurts, then goes home, leaving Sam alone with his brother.
Sam finally takes the time to look around, and they’re in the living room of a house. The room’s been turned into a makeshift hospital, with beds and supplies, but otherwise it’s just like the other houses that lined the streets outside the fence. He peeks out the window, and it looks the same, rows of new homes, one after the other, for a few hundred feet. At that point, the fence rises up behind the houses, sealing the camp off from the outside world.
Sam pulls one of the empty beds up close to his brother and lies down. It’s been so long since he relaxed, that it’s almost uncomfortable. He doesn’t sleep much, getting up and checking Dean’s fever every hour or so, but it’s nice to lie down on a bed again.
Friday
The next morning around dawn, Ella shows up again. “We’ve got a house you guys can have.”
“A house?” Sam was expecting a sleeping bag, or a tent if they got lucky.
“Yes. Most of our families live together. They’re still terrified. Everyone knows each other, so there might be nine or ten people in one house. Leaves plenty of room.”
“Wow. Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“We’ll figure out a way for you to repay us. Have a Merry Christmas,” she says. And then she’s gone.
Once the sun’s been up for awhile, Sam hurries outside to use the bathroom, and when he gets back, Dean’s awake, staring up at the ceiling. Sam sits down next to him. “Hey man. How ya feeling?”
“Shitty.”
“Yeah. But hey, I told you I’d get you fixed up, huh?”
Dean glares at the splint. “My hero.” He seems to come out of his daze then, remembering. “Sam. Where the fuck are we?” he asks, struggling to sit up.
“Hey. Calm down,” Sam says, pushing his brother back down against the bed. “We’re good.” Sam explains everything he knows, but Dean’s still staring at him dubiously.
“You just waltzed us in here? You know why we don’t go in buildings now, you know it’s too easy to get trapped-” Dean sputters, mouth gaping at Sam’s easy posture. “Oh my god, you’ve gone insane.”
“Relax.” Sam pats his brother’s shoulder. “It’s not like I had much of a choice. It was either drag your ass in here, or let us both die out there.”
***
After his brief period of lucidity, Dean passes out again. He stays that way even after the doctor says they’re free to go, so Sam carries Dean down the street to the house they’ve been assigned. It’s a two-story house, tan siding and a white front porch. The house is still neat, just cold and musty. He settles Dean on the couch while he makes a fire, grateful that it’s a real fireplace, capable of handling smoke and ash, not just one of the decorative ones that require actual electricity or gas.
Sam drags the top part of the mattress from the master bedroom, drops it in front of the fireplace. He crouches in front of his brother, touching his forehead. Dean’s still feverish, passed out cold.
The doctor said to keep wiping him down until the fever’s gone. So Sam finds a few gallons of bottled water in the pantry, heats the water over the fire. He wets a washcloth he found in the bathroom, smiling when his brother moans appreciatively. He washes Dean all over, his face and hair, and even brushes his teeth with a spare toothbrush from upstairs, using only a speck of the toothpaste he found so Dean won’t choke.
He doesn’t want to sleep, but he lies down next to Dean. Sam keeps one hand on Dean’s chest all night, even after he drifts off to sleep.
Monday
Saturday and Sunday pass in a blur. Dean sleeps most of the day and when he’s awake, he doesn’t talk, just stares dreamily at the ceiling. Sam’s worried, but the doctor says it’s just a combination of the pain pills and the flu, so Sam keeps up their routine. On Monday, Dean’s fever seems lower so Sam tries asking him a question. “You want some water?”
Dean sniffs and rolls over onto his back. “My underwear is orange,” he mumbles. Sam shakes his head. Dean doesn’t have on any underwear, just the sheets and blankets that Sam’s covered him with, so Sam finds some clothes for Dean in the dresser, pajama pants and long sleeved t-shirts.
After Dean’s dressed, he’s quiet again, and Sam looks around the living room. There are books in the shelves and Sam studies them eagerly-he hasn’t read a book in so long. He spent the previous year reading frantically about Dean’s deal, and before he even had a chance to break it, the demons came. The demon in charge didn’t care about the deal once she was out of hell for good, and then war started. Sam hasn’t read anything at all since then.
He gathers up books of all kinds, textbooks, non-fiction, novels, and takes them to the living area. He sits propped up next to Dean, less than an inch away, and reads. He reads for twelve hours straight, only stopping to sit Dean up and dribble water into his mouth, or wipe him down with the washcloth.
Tuesday
On Tuesday, Sam tries talking to Dean again. He asks the same question. “You want some water?”
“Orange juice,” Dean says, his voice cracking.
Sam grins. This is the first time Dean’s been coherent since they got to the house. “I know you’re delirious, but there’s no orange juice.” Sam pats Dean’s knee. “Hasn’t been for five months or so.”
“Really fucking want some Tropicana.”
Sam is not annoyed by Dean’s whining; he’s just glad that he’s talking again. “Man, if I could get it for you I would.”
“The good kind? In the little carton instead of the plastic jug?”
“Dean, if we had oranges, I’d squeeze them myself.”
“Fucker.” He tries to swat at Sam but misses. “Grape juice?”
Sam laughs. “I’ll go check.” He knows there’s no juice in the house they’re in, but there might be some in the little store where the town keeps their rations. He props Dean up, puts Dean’s gun in his good hand and an open flask of holy water in the other.
Sam walks quickly to the house where they store the rations, not wanting Dean to be left alone for long. “Do you have any juice?” he asks the woman in charge.
The woman peers out at him, raising her eyebrows over the half glasses perched on the end of her nose. “We usually save the juice for the kids, but since your brother’s sick, I’ll make an exception.”
Sam blinks. Other than the doctor and Ella, he hasn’t met anyone, but this person clearly knows who he is. “I don’t want to cause any problems,” Sam says, as politely as he can manage.
“I’ve got some apple juice,” she says, reading from the label. “Grown on a farm. Doesn’t expire until March 2010.”
“That’s great, thank you.” Sam takes the bottle from her, hurrying back. He figures Dean is safe, but he hates taking chances. “Apple juice,” Sam says when he gets back, holding up the container. “100% juice, organic. Couldn’t do better with an orchard.”
“Okay, Martha Stewart,” Dean says, laughing. “Shut up and pour me some.”
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Dean’s in the master bedroom looking for clean blankets when Sam comes up behind him, catches him around the waist. Dean’s still weak, unsteady on his feet even though the fever’s gone, and he sways a little. Sam tightens his arms around Dean, nuzzles his neck. When he looks up, he notices they’re standing in front of a full-length mirror, the old-fashioned kind, framed in a wooden oval, standing on a base. He grins at their reflection.
Dean lets him nuzzle for a few seconds, then tries to shake him off. “I wonder if they have any lube here.”
Sam wrinkles his nose. “We can’t use someone else’s lube.”
“Oh come on,” Dean says, eyes rolling. “I seriously doubt anyone around here is going to be offended if we borrow some.”
Sam maneuvers Dean over to what’s left of the bed frame, sitting him down while Sam searches through the bathroom cabinets. He holds his hand up triumphantly when he finds what he’s looking for. “Vaseline.”
Dean lifts his eyebrows and nods. “Good enough to jack off with, so why not?”
Sam laughs, drags Dean back into the den. He gets Dean laid out on the mattress, and Dean sighs, but he sounds happy. Sam inhales, and his brother smells clean, the fresh scent of citrus soap clinging from the last sponge bath. Sam breathes hot onto Dean’s skin, hoping he smells good too. Dean moans then, and Sam’s about to start yanking clothes off the both of them when he gets an idea.
“Hang on just a second.” Sam gets up and hurries to the bedroom. He grabs the mirror with both hands, carries it to the den.
“What the hell is that?” Dean asks, and he’s staring at Sam like the mirror is some sort of unknown torture device.
Sam puts the mirror down right next to the mattress. “What does it look like?”
“Oh hell no. It’s been six months and you need to get freaky to get off?”
“No, I don’t need to get freaky,” Sam says, settling back down on top of his brother. “Not that this is freaky to begin with.” Sam bites the edge of Dean’s jaw playfully. “I just thought it would be nice.”
Dean throws an arm over his face, ignoring Sam. “Oh my god.”
Sam smiles. His brother didn’t say no, so Sam picks up where he left off. He tugs Dean’s shirt off, then the pajama pants, and Dean’s warm under his hands. Sam relishes the feel of heated skin, kissing down his brother’s neck, licking his chest. He turns his head, watches himself moving in the mirror.
He’s surprised to see Dean looking too. He meets his brother’s eyes, and Dean blushes, but doesn’t look away. Sam groans at the look on Dean’s face, feels his dick get even harder. So Dean wants to watch too. He can handle that.
Sam grins again, and sits up enough to strip off his own clothes before going back to Dean. After the war started, the real war, they couldn’t let their guard down. They’ve had to settle for rushed handjobs, usually not able to risk a blowjob, and certainly not sex. It’s been six months since they’ve had this, six months since Sam’s seen Dean fully naked, had time to appreciate his body. And now Sam’s here, he’s got Dean, and Dean’s going to be okay. In spite of everything, Sam feels like the luckiest guy in the world.
He spreads Dean’s legs, smoothes his palms up and down the inside of Dean’s thighs, rubbing his cheek against skin that’s flushed with want and not fever. Dean lies back, looking up at Sam with a near-smile, allows Sam to kiss and touch him all over, doesn’t even try and hurry him along.
Sam dips his fingers into the tub of Vaseline, coating them all over. Dean moans and Sam joins him, relishing this feeling of being close to his brother again. Dean’s so tight, so Sam’s careful, takes his time. His cock may be the hardest it’s ever been, and he may only last a second once he’s inside, but he’s not going to rush.
Once Sam’s got two fingers in, he sneaks a glance back over at the mirror, gets to see Dean arching up into his touch from a different angle. Sam gapes; his brother is always beautiful, but in the dim firelight, Dean’s skin is golden. He’s thinner than he should be, but his muscles are still taut and firm, and Sam watches Dean’s stomach muscles flex as he runs a hand across.
“Like what you see?” Dean asks, meeting Sam’s gaze in the mirror and cocking one of his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I think I do,” Sam says, and he’s done lingering for now. He leans down to Dean’s ear. “You’re gonna like it too.”
He rolls Dean over, and Dean lets him, unusually compliant. Sam tugs on Dean and scoots them both over until they’re directly in front of the mirror, facing it, Dean leaning forward on his good arm, Sam behind him on his knees.
“Gonna fuck you like this,” Sam whispers.
Dean closes his eyes, doesn’t try and make a comeback. “God.”
Sam figures Dean’s ready, so he pushes in, one arm wrapped tight around Dean’s chest, the other on his hip. Sam goes as slowly as he can, but Dean’s relaxed, and it doesn’t take long before he’s fully inside. Sam balances himself on his knees, gets Dean pulled up so that he’s sitting up on his knees too, resting back against Sam. He thrusts up, looking at the two of them in the mirror, all long lines and hard muscle, tan gleaming skin.
“Look at us,” Sam says, thrusting again, and god, he’s so close. He rubs his hand over Dean’s cock, stroking. “Look at us together,” he says again, and Dean looks, eyes glazed over as Sam rocks into him.
“You okay?” Sam asks, because Dean’s eyes are closed now and he’s sweating, and god, what if Sam’s caused him to have a relapse?
Dean’s eyes snap open and his mouth quirks. “Jesus, Sam. I’m fine, fuck me already.”
“Bastard,” Sam says, smiling, and he moves faster, thrusting harder while he strokes Dean. It’s probably only been two minutes, but it’s too much, too good, and Sam comes, gasping, his arm tightening around Dean’s chest. Sam keeps his hand steady on Dean’s cock, tries not to lose the rhythm, and then he’s coming too, all over Sam’s hand.
Sam never looks away from the mirror.
He doesn’t let go of his brother, unwilling to let him just flop back onto the mattress and jar his arm. Dean makes an attempt to shove Sam away, but it’s so half-hearted that Sam hangs on, getting Dean back onto the mattress with only a few curses aimed at him.
Dean’s breathing is already slowing, and he’ll be practically unconscious in a few minutes. Sam gets a washcloth and cleans them both up, then pours some juice for Dean and puts it beside the mattress.
“Happy New Year,” Sam whispers, more than a little awed that they’ve made it another year. He kisses his brother’s forehead and snuggles in closer, pulling the blankets up over both of them.
-end-
Author’s Notes: This was my first time to participate in a holiday exchange fic, and I wanted it to be something that
marishna would like. Two of the prompts caught my eye right away, so I decided to combine them. I really liked the Dean gets sick and Sam has to nurse him back to health/put up with his whining/wait on him hand and foot, so I knew I’d be writing that. And I can’t do deathfic, but I love apocalypse fic, especially if demons have destroyed the world, so prompt number 4 interested me as well. I hope you like the combination!