Fic: Priorities
Title: Priorities
Fandom: Supernatural
Words: 1808
Prompt: Written as a fill for a prompt at tarotgal’s commentfic meme: I adore the sneezefic staple where one character is obviously coming down with something but keeps denying it until it bites him in the ass. I want to see the opposite, which is less used in sneezefics. A character is obviously coming down with something and the OTHER character keeps trying to convince him it's nothing.
“hhESSHHCHHuh!” Sam sneezes as he comes out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam wafting into the motel room after him. The hot shower really hadn’t helped. He feels just as congested as he did when he woke up, only now it’s worse because all of the steam is making his nose tickle.
“Y’okay?” Dean asks distractedly, putting a pile of papers down on the table where the rest of their research material is scattered. He heads over to his duffle bag to dig out a change of clothes, not waiting for Sam’s answer.
Sam shrugs, sniffs, and hunts through his own duffle for a shirt, his arms feeling weirdly heavy and achy. He pulls a clean t-shirt out of his bag and is midway through pulling it over his head when the tickle returns with a vengeance. He freezes, sleeves halfway pulled over his arms, and shakes his head slowly, trying to ease the sneezes out. “hh… hehh… ha’ISSHHHH! hn’MPFSHHH!”
“Allergies, huh?” Dean assumes, brushing past him on the way to the bathroom. “Soon as I’m ready, we’ll head over to the library, check out the local papers for any more info. I wanna figure out what we’re dealing with here. Can you be ready in ten?”
“Actually, I-“ Sam starts, but the door is already closed, and a moment later there is the sound of running water as Dean gets into the shower. Sam sits down on his bed, running his hands through his damp hair, and seriously contemplates just curling back up under the covers and trying to sleep. Maybe if he makes it obvious how miserable he is, Dean will back off.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later they’re in the Impala, headed across town to the library. Dean’s driving, focused on street signs and navigating around slow drivers, and is not paying any attention at all to Sam in the passenger seat.
Sam’s got his laptop open, reading over the article they’d found about a series of “wild animal attacks” on the edge of town. The longer they drive, the more difficult he’s finding it to concentrate on the words in front of him. The steady motion of the Impala, coupled with the warm spring sun shining through the windshield, is threatening to make him fall asleep right here in the car.
“heh’nghk!” He quickly stifles another sneeze into his shoulder, and the laptop nearly slides right off his lap. He flails a hand forward, catching it just before it falls, and snaps the lid shut, giving up on reading. He sniffs and clears his throat, grimly noticing the way the back of his throat is starting to feel sore in a way that it hadn’t an hour ago.
“Hey, uh,” he starts in a voice that’s just a little deeper and rougher than normal. “You remember when we were interviewing teachers at that elementary school last week?”
“The haunted auditorium thing? Uh-huh,” Dean answers, changing lanes around a bus that’s slowing down in front of them.
“I think maybe I caught something,” Sam says, sniffling again. “Been feeling weird all morning.”
Instead of sounding concerned or asking Sam any questions, Dean says, “Maybe it’s just allergies or something. You don’t really get sick a lot, y’know? And I heard the pollen count has been pretty high in the area lately.”
“Yeah, that you heard,” Sam mumbles under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Sam gives up, shoving his laptop back into his bag as they pull into the library parking lot. Dean’s not listening, and Sam doesn’t have the energy to keep trying.
* * *
Once they’re in the library, they split up to work. Sam camps out at a study table with his laptop and a handful of tissues from the nice librarian who took pity on him, while Dean stays on the other side of the building, practically glued to the microfiche machine as he searches through old newspapers.
Sam tries to work, he really does, but the air is so warm and stagnant, and the congestion just keeps building in his sinuses until the only thing he’s really concentrating on is trying not to sneeze too much or too loudly. After a while, the fatigue finally takes over. One minute he’s scrolling through a website on North American legendary creatures, and the next he feels a firm hand shaking him awake.
“Sammy, what the hell, man?” comes Dean’s voice, and Sam jolts upright, blinking up at his brother who is staring at him with a disappointed look on his face. “Sleeping on the job…” He rolls his eyes and then slaps a neat pile of papers down on the table next to Sam’s laptop. “I think I figured it out,” he says.
“Good for you,” Sam retorts, because he’s tired and cranky and his head hurts.
“Turns out it’s not a creature at all. I’m pretty sure it’s the ghost of this crazy survivalist dude who used to live in the woods outside of town…”
Dean keeps talking, describing the information he uncovered, and Sam nods along like he’s listening until Dean tells him to pack up his stuff and they’re on their way out of the library.
* * *
It’s getting dark by the time they leave, and Sam doesn’t notice at first that they’re driving in the wrong direction until the streetlights start to thin out and suburban neighborhoods start being replaced by gently rolling hills and farmland.
He pushes himself up in his seat, glancing over at Dean in the driver’s seat. “Wait, where are you going?” he asks. “The motel’s back in town.”
“What do you mean, where? I told you, I got the address of this guy’s house. People say he was buried somewhere on his property when he died. Gotta find the grave and dig up the body,” Dean responds, like he’s talking to a three-year-old. “Dude, get your head in the game.”
Sam sighs congestedly and coughs into his sleeve, slouching against the passenger door and watching the dark silhouettes of trees rushing past the window. It’s too late to turn back and Sam knows that nothing he can say will make Dean back down from a hunt if it means more people might get killed.
By the time they pull off the highway and reach the abandoned shack at the end of a gravel road through the woods, it’s completely dark.
Dean parks the Impala and shuts off the engine, reaching into the backseat for a flashlight. As he clicks it on, he says, “Should only be a mile or so, up past the house. C’mon.” He climbs out and moves around to the trunk to get the necessary supplies.
Sam opens his own door with a quiet groan and follows his brother, standing up on shaky legs. But once he’s out of the car, the earthy smell of the woods surrounding them invades his nose, sending him into a desperate sneezing fit. “htch’CHSHSHHH! HSHHH! hah’ISHHH! hh…hh…hah…hah’TCHCHH! NGXSHHSHH-ihh-CHHH! Ugh…” He coughs roughly into his fist, stumbling over to Dean and pleads, “Deand, I cad’t do this.” He looks at his brother, wide eyes silently begging for help.
“Come on, Sammy, don’t be a baby,” Dean says, shoving a canister of rock salt into a backpack. “Since when have you let allergies slow you down?”
“It’s dot allergies!” Sam insists, getting angry. “I’b freakig biserable, dude.” As if to illustrate the point, he sneezes twice more into the sleeve of his jacket - “hh’KTCHSHH! ISSHHuh!” - followed by a round of congested, wet coughs.
“You’re sick?” Dean asks, finally getting it.
“Yes!” Sam wheezes in exasperation.
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I’ve beed tryig to tell you all day!” Sam cries, fumbling in the pocket of his jeans for his last crumpled-up tissue. “hh’NKXSHH-SHHH!” He blows his nose quickly and sniffles, continuing, “But you didnd’t wadt to listend! Udless it’s about the hundt, you dod’t wanna hear it.”
Dean bites his lip, looking guilty. “…Sam, I’m sorry.”
“Save it, Dean,” Sam growls back at him. He starts down the path that’s just barely visible through the trees. “Let’s jusdt do the job, okay?”
The flashlight beam bounces behind him as Dean jogs to catch up, and then he feels a hand nudge his arm. Dean silently holds out another flashlight, which Sam wordlessly grabs and turns on, falling back a pace or two and letting his brother take the lead.
They hike through the quiet, dark woods, listening to the snap of twigs under their boots and the rhythmic chorus of cicadas in the trees. The moon overhead casts long strips of dim light in between the shadows of the trees, crisscrossing with the arcing beams of their flashlights across the ground. When they finally reach the gravesite, Dean motions for Sam to sit on a nearby fallen log, unshoulders his shovel, and begins to dig. Something has clicked, and though neither of them are really talking, Sam realizes that his brother is sorry for the way he acted.
When the job is done, and they’re leaving the pit of burning bones behind them, Dean refuses to let Sam carry any of their gear. Sam offers to help, but is secretly grateful when Dean insists on carrying everything, because his joints are achy and his coordination is definitely not what it usually is. It’s enough of a challenge just focusing on not tripping over a tree root on their way back to the car.
* * *
As soon as they get back, Dean immediately ushers Sam to bed, pulling off his jacket and bending down to help Sam take off his boots. It’s late, and Sam is so tired that he just lets his brother help, following Dean’s gentle push to sit down on the mattress and crawl under the covers.
As soon as Dean is sure Sam is settled, he says quietly, “I’m gonna run to the Rite Aid down the block, okay? Get you some meds and stuff.”
“Mmmkay,” Sam replies, and then his breath hitches as the congestion in his head shifts. “heh… Deand… deed a ti-hh… tiss-“
A wad of tissues is pressed into his hand, and he sneezes breathlessly into them. “hh’htchCHHSH! HHTCHCHHuh! …uhh… hk’TCHSHHH! ISHHH!” He closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath, head throbbing. “…Thagks,” he whispers.
He feels Dean’s fingers run briefly through his hair, and then Dean says, “Box of tissues is next to your elbow. I’ll be right back, okay?”
Sam nods, head against his pillow. “Dean?” he murmurs sleepily.
“Hmm?”
“Um… Can you…?”
Dean waits for an end to the sentence, but it doesn’t come. When he looks up, Sam is curled around the box of tissues, eyes closed and breathing slowly. Dean smiles, reaches over, and quietly turns off the lamp between their beds.
Fandom: Supernatural
Words: 1808
Prompt: Written as a fill for a prompt at tarotgal’s commentfic meme: I adore the sneezefic staple where one character is obviously coming down with something but keeps denying it until it bites him in the ass. I want to see the opposite, which is less used in sneezefics. A character is obviously coming down with something and the OTHER character keeps trying to convince him it's nothing.
“hhESSHHCHHuh!” Sam sneezes as he comes out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam wafting into the motel room after him. The hot shower really hadn’t helped. He feels just as congested as he did when he woke up, only now it’s worse because all of the steam is making his nose tickle.
“Y’okay?” Dean asks distractedly, putting a pile of papers down on the table where the rest of their research material is scattered. He heads over to his duffle bag to dig out a change of clothes, not waiting for Sam’s answer.
Sam shrugs, sniffs, and hunts through his own duffle for a shirt, his arms feeling weirdly heavy and achy. He pulls a clean t-shirt out of his bag and is midway through pulling it over his head when the tickle returns with a vengeance. He freezes, sleeves halfway pulled over his arms, and shakes his head slowly, trying to ease the sneezes out. “hh… hehh… ha’ISSHHHH! hn’MPFSHHH!”
“Allergies, huh?” Dean assumes, brushing past him on the way to the bathroom. “Soon as I’m ready, we’ll head over to the library, check out the local papers for any more info. I wanna figure out what we’re dealing with here. Can you be ready in ten?”
“Actually, I-“ Sam starts, but the door is already closed, and a moment later there is the sound of running water as Dean gets into the shower. Sam sits down on his bed, running his hands through his damp hair, and seriously contemplates just curling back up under the covers and trying to sleep. Maybe if he makes it obvious how miserable he is, Dean will back off.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later they’re in the Impala, headed across town to the library. Dean’s driving, focused on street signs and navigating around slow drivers, and is not paying any attention at all to Sam in the passenger seat.
Sam’s got his laptop open, reading over the article they’d found about a series of “wild animal attacks” on the edge of town. The longer they drive, the more difficult he’s finding it to concentrate on the words in front of him. The steady motion of the Impala, coupled with the warm spring sun shining through the windshield, is threatening to make him fall asleep right here in the car.
“heh’nghk!” He quickly stifles another sneeze into his shoulder, and the laptop nearly slides right off his lap. He flails a hand forward, catching it just before it falls, and snaps the lid shut, giving up on reading. He sniffs and clears his throat, grimly noticing the way the back of his throat is starting to feel sore in a way that it hadn’t an hour ago.
“Hey, uh,” he starts in a voice that’s just a little deeper and rougher than normal. “You remember when we were interviewing teachers at that elementary school last week?”
“The haunted auditorium thing? Uh-huh,” Dean answers, changing lanes around a bus that’s slowing down in front of them.
“I think maybe I caught something,” Sam says, sniffling again. “Been feeling weird all morning.”
Instead of sounding concerned or asking Sam any questions, Dean says, “Maybe it’s just allergies or something. You don’t really get sick a lot, y’know? And I heard the pollen count has been pretty high in the area lately.”
“Yeah, that you heard,” Sam mumbles under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Sam gives up, shoving his laptop back into his bag as they pull into the library parking lot. Dean’s not listening, and Sam doesn’t have the energy to keep trying.
* * *
Once they’re in the library, they split up to work. Sam camps out at a study table with his laptop and a handful of tissues from the nice librarian who took pity on him, while Dean stays on the other side of the building, practically glued to the microfiche machine as he searches through old newspapers.
Sam tries to work, he really does, but the air is so warm and stagnant, and the congestion just keeps building in his sinuses until the only thing he’s really concentrating on is trying not to sneeze too much or too loudly. After a while, the fatigue finally takes over. One minute he’s scrolling through a website on North American legendary creatures, and the next he feels a firm hand shaking him awake.
“Sammy, what the hell, man?” comes Dean’s voice, and Sam jolts upright, blinking up at his brother who is staring at him with a disappointed look on his face. “Sleeping on the job…” He rolls his eyes and then slaps a neat pile of papers down on the table next to Sam’s laptop. “I think I figured it out,” he says.
“Good for you,” Sam retorts, because he’s tired and cranky and his head hurts.
“Turns out it’s not a creature at all. I’m pretty sure it’s the ghost of this crazy survivalist dude who used to live in the woods outside of town…”
Dean keeps talking, describing the information he uncovered, and Sam nods along like he’s listening until Dean tells him to pack up his stuff and they’re on their way out of the library.
* * *
It’s getting dark by the time they leave, and Sam doesn’t notice at first that they’re driving in the wrong direction until the streetlights start to thin out and suburban neighborhoods start being replaced by gently rolling hills and farmland.
He pushes himself up in his seat, glancing over at Dean in the driver’s seat. “Wait, where are you going?” he asks. “The motel’s back in town.”
“What do you mean, where? I told you, I got the address of this guy’s house. People say he was buried somewhere on his property when he died. Gotta find the grave and dig up the body,” Dean responds, like he’s talking to a three-year-old. “Dude, get your head in the game.”
Sam sighs congestedly and coughs into his sleeve, slouching against the passenger door and watching the dark silhouettes of trees rushing past the window. It’s too late to turn back and Sam knows that nothing he can say will make Dean back down from a hunt if it means more people might get killed.
By the time they pull off the highway and reach the abandoned shack at the end of a gravel road through the woods, it’s completely dark.
Dean parks the Impala and shuts off the engine, reaching into the backseat for a flashlight. As he clicks it on, he says, “Should only be a mile or so, up past the house. C’mon.” He climbs out and moves around to the trunk to get the necessary supplies.
Sam opens his own door with a quiet groan and follows his brother, standing up on shaky legs. But once he’s out of the car, the earthy smell of the woods surrounding them invades his nose, sending him into a desperate sneezing fit. “htch’CHSHSHHH! HSHHH! hah’ISHHH! hh…hh…hah…hah’TCHCHH! NGXSHHSHH-ihh-CHHH! Ugh…” He coughs roughly into his fist, stumbling over to Dean and pleads, “Deand, I cad’t do this.” He looks at his brother, wide eyes silently begging for help.
“Come on, Sammy, don’t be a baby,” Dean says, shoving a canister of rock salt into a backpack. “Since when have you let allergies slow you down?”
“It’s dot allergies!” Sam insists, getting angry. “I’b freakig biserable, dude.” As if to illustrate the point, he sneezes twice more into the sleeve of his jacket - “hh’KTCHSHH! ISSHHuh!” - followed by a round of congested, wet coughs.
“You’re sick?” Dean asks, finally getting it.
“Yes!” Sam wheezes in exasperation.
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I’ve beed tryig to tell you all day!” Sam cries, fumbling in the pocket of his jeans for his last crumpled-up tissue. “hh’NKXSHH-SHHH!” He blows his nose quickly and sniffles, continuing, “But you didnd’t wadt to listend! Udless it’s about the hundt, you dod’t wanna hear it.”
Dean bites his lip, looking guilty. “…Sam, I’m sorry.”
“Save it, Dean,” Sam growls back at him. He starts down the path that’s just barely visible through the trees. “Let’s jusdt do the job, okay?”
The flashlight beam bounces behind him as Dean jogs to catch up, and then he feels a hand nudge his arm. Dean silently holds out another flashlight, which Sam wordlessly grabs and turns on, falling back a pace or two and letting his brother take the lead.
They hike through the quiet, dark woods, listening to the snap of twigs under their boots and the rhythmic chorus of cicadas in the trees. The moon overhead casts long strips of dim light in between the shadows of the trees, crisscrossing with the arcing beams of their flashlights across the ground. When they finally reach the gravesite, Dean motions for Sam to sit on a nearby fallen log, unshoulders his shovel, and begins to dig. Something has clicked, and though neither of them are really talking, Sam realizes that his brother is sorry for the way he acted.
When the job is done, and they’re leaving the pit of burning bones behind them, Dean refuses to let Sam carry any of their gear. Sam offers to help, but is secretly grateful when Dean insists on carrying everything, because his joints are achy and his coordination is definitely not what it usually is. It’s enough of a challenge just focusing on not tripping over a tree root on their way back to the car.
* * *
As soon as they get back, Dean immediately ushers Sam to bed, pulling off his jacket and bending down to help Sam take off his boots. It’s late, and Sam is so tired that he just lets his brother help, following Dean’s gentle push to sit down on the mattress and crawl under the covers.
As soon as Dean is sure Sam is settled, he says quietly, “I’m gonna run to the Rite Aid down the block, okay? Get you some meds and stuff.”
“Mmmkay,” Sam replies, and then his breath hitches as the congestion in his head shifts. “heh… Deand… deed a ti-hh… tiss-“
A wad of tissues is pressed into his hand, and he sneezes breathlessly into them. “hh’htchCHHSH! HHTCHCHHuh! …uhh… hk’TCHSHHH! ISHHH!” He closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath, head throbbing. “…Thagks,” he whispers.
He feels Dean’s fingers run briefly through his hair, and then Dean says, “Box of tissues is next to your elbow. I’ll be right back, okay?”
Sam nods, head against his pillow. “Dean?” he murmurs sleepily.
“Hmm?”
“Um… Can you…?”
Dean waits for an end to the sentence, but it doesn’t come. When he looks up, Sam is curled around the box of tissues, eyes closed and breathing slowly. Dean smiles, reaches over, and quietly turns off the lamp between their beds.