A Return To Form
Title: A Return To Form
Summary: Written for the Sneezy Sammy comment fic meme. Sam's back from hell, asthma and all.
Warnings/Spoilers: R for language, Spoilers through S5
Author's Note: Aftermath-verse.
Now with some AMAZING art from the talented ottermusprime! View it here.
Sam’s asthmatic wheeze is a familiar sound, almost comforting in its regularity. He’s been gone for over a year, and Dean’s missed him, every bit of him, so that whistle in his breath is like Sam walking around the house shouting “I’m back!” It’s a song. Dean would sing along if he could.
Sam wheezes his way through meals, and it makes him eat slowly, pushing food around for hours on his plate before he takes a bite. Dean smiles at him across the table, because he can’t not smile, because it’s all so Sam.
They (whoever the fuck they are, Dean doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter) brought Sammy back, completely Sammy, fucked up lungs and stupid hair and every piece exactly as it should be.
So that wheeze is Dean’s goddamn lullaby.
***
He’s still adjusting to the feel of his body; the long reach of his arms, the solid warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, the taste of food that doesn’t turn to blood or ash in his mouth. Nothing is predictable. Every moment is full of surprises.
And Sam knows he’s not supposed to be able to breathe.
So he doesn’t really think anything of the fact that every breath is an effort. He doesn’t even register that he’s constantly tired. This is what it’s supposed to be. He’s a severe asthmatic, always has been, and he’s just readjusting to how that feels.
Dean says, “we should really pick you up an extra inhaler and some stuff,” and Sam nods, because he knows that’s smart, but he also knows no doctor’s going to give him a prescription without taking blood, so he stalls.
“Tomorrow.”
“You’re going to have to do it, Sam.”
“I know,” Sam squirms around on his chair. “Not yet, though.”
“You breathing?”
Sam pulls in a steady trickle of air, demonstrating.
“Okay,” Dean says, and lets it go for now.
***
It’s Cas who finally figures it out. Cas, for whom a year is insubstantial, who might as well have been talking to Sam yesterday, shows up out of nowhere and the first words out of his mouth are “Sam, where’s your inhaler?”
Sam shrugs - he doesn’t answer, he shrugs as if he doesn’t know, and that’s Dean’s first fucking clue that something’s really wrong with his brother.
“You’re blue,” Cas says. “Don’t you need it?”
Dean’s up off the couch before he can form a thought, checking Sam’s hands, and fuck, his nail beds are purple, he’s not getting enough air. “Shit, Sammy.”
Sam looks up at him, all vague and out of it. Dean could fucking kick himself for not seeing how bad this was. He’s been walking around for days so damn grateful for that wheeze, and it’s suffocating his brother. “Sam, why didn’t you tell me?
Sam shakes his head and leans his head on Dean’s shoulder, doesn’t speak. He’s straining with effort. Dean wraps an arm around him. “Fuck, you’re working hard.”
“He needs medicine,” Cas says blandly, as though Dean doesn’t know that, and Dean wants to be angry except how can he when he didn’t know, when it took Cas to point it out to him? “Where’s his inhaler?”
It’s Sam who answers, chokily - “Don’t have one. He got…rid of my backup…”
“When you were in hell,” Cas fills in, and fuck him for saying it, and thank fucking god Dean didn’t have to say it. Sam nods.
“That was short-sighted,” Cas says, glancing at Dean.
Dean’s about to answer - I know, all right, it was an idiot move, no one ever stays gone, but it was killing me to look at the things that used to keep Sam alive and I couldn’t keep faith and I’m sorry sorry sorry - but Sam tenses against him, and then he’s coughing and coughing, these dry useless hacks that aren’t moving a goddamn thing, not even air.
***
Dean’s doing his best, Sam wants to tell Cas.
Dean always takes care of me.
Right now, for example, Dean is robbing a pharmacy for medicine to give to Sam. Cas is sitting opposite him on the couch, outstretched palm flat on Sam’s chest, doing an awkward but decent job of monitoring Sam’s breathing.
Sam’s breathing is shit.
I’m supposed to be able to breathe better than this, Sam understands.
It’s not frightening. It’s a relief. It won’t always be like this.
“Are you uncomfortable?” Cas asks quietly, and Sam nods. It’s a stupid question, but Cas is trying. Everyone is trying.
“Can I help?” Cas asks. “I mean, will you let me?”
Sam looks at him quizzically.
“You don’t like it when I do this.”
That’s right. He remembers now. A lifetime ago, a dusty motel room, his lungs all but closed up. Fighting so hard for air while Dean held his hand and choked back sobs. And Cas, standing over him, reaching into his chest, bright and hot and strong and terrible. Making him breathe. Making him scream.
Cas hovers a hand carefully over Sam’s chest and says, “Only if you want me to.”
It fucking hurts right now, so Sam nods.
And suddenly he’s filled with light, filled with air, and he feels his head roll back on his neck it’s so overwhelming, but it doesn’t hurt this time. It doesn’t hurt at all.
***
Dean comes back with a backpack full of treatments Cas has never really understood, but he knows these are things Sam needs, so that’s good.
“He’s breathing,” Dean observes, not taking his eyes off his sleeping brother on the couch.
Cas nods. “He should be all right for a while.”
Dean goes over and sits on the floor and rests his ear on Sam’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his lungs, and whispers, “this is how it’s supposed to sound.”
He curls around his sleeping brother, and Cas stands there watching them for a long time.
Summary: Written for the Sneezy Sammy comment fic meme. Sam's back from hell, asthma and all.
Warnings/Spoilers: R for language, Spoilers through S5
Author's Note: Aftermath-verse.
Now with some AMAZING art from the talented ottermusprime! View it here.
Sam’s asthmatic wheeze is a familiar sound, almost comforting in its regularity. He’s been gone for over a year, and Dean’s missed him, every bit of him, so that whistle in his breath is like Sam walking around the house shouting “I’m back!” It’s a song. Dean would sing along if he could.
Sam wheezes his way through meals, and it makes him eat slowly, pushing food around for hours on his plate before he takes a bite. Dean smiles at him across the table, because he can’t not smile, because it’s all so Sam.
They (whoever the fuck they are, Dean doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter) brought Sammy back, completely Sammy, fucked up lungs and stupid hair and every piece exactly as it should be.
So that wheeze is Dean’s goddamn lullaby.
***
He’s still adjusting to the feel of his body; the long reach of his arms, the solid warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, the taste of food that doesn’t turn to blood or ash in his mouth. Nothing is predictable. Every moment is full of surprises.
And Sam knows he’s not supposed to be able to breathe.
So he doesn’t really think anything of the fact that every breath is an effort. He doesn’t even register that he’s constantly tired. This is what it’s supposed to be. He’s a severe asthmatic, always has been, and he’s just readjusting to how that feels.
Dean says, “we should really pick you up an extra inhaler and some stuff,” and Sam nods, because he knows that’s smart, but he also knows no doctor’s going to give him a prescription without taking blood, so he stalls.
“Tomorrow.”
“You’re going to have to do it, Sam.”
“I know,” Sam squirms around on his chair. “Not yet, though.”
“You breathing?”
Sam pulls in a steady trickle of air, demonstrating.
“Okay,” Dean says, and lets it go for now.
***
It’s Cas who finally figures it out. Cas, for whom a year is insubstantial, who might as well have been talking to Sam yesterday, shows up out of nowhere and the first words out of his mouth are “Sam, where’s your inhaler?”
Sam shrugs - he doesn’t answer, he shrugs as if he doesn’t know, and that’s Dean’s first fucking clue that something’s really wrong with his brother.
“You’re blue,” Cas says. “Don’t you need it?”
Dean’s up off the couch before he can form a thought, checking Sam’s hands, and fuck, his nail beds are purple, he’s not getting enough air. “Shit, Sammy.”
Sam looks up at him, all vague and out of it. Dean could fucking kick himself for not seeing how bad this was. He’s been walking around for days so damn grateful for that wheeze, and it’s suffocating his brother. “Sam, why didn’t you tell me?
Sam shakes his head and leans his head on Dean’s shoulder, doesn’t speak. He’s straining with effort. Dean wraps an arm around him. “Fuck, you’re working hard.”
“He needs medicine,” Cas says blandly, as though Dean doesn’t know that, and Dean wants to be angry except how can he when he didn’t know, when it took Cas to point it out to him? “Where’s his inhaler?”
It’s Sam who answers, chokily - “Don’t have one. He got…rid of my backup…”
“When you were in hell,” Cas fills in, and fuck him for saying it, and thank fucking god Dean didn’t have to say it. Sam nods.
“That was short-sighted,” Cas says, glancing at Dean.
Dean’s about to answer - I know, all right, it was an idiot move, no one ever stays gone, but it was killing me to look at the things that used to keep Sam alive and I couldn’t keep faith and I’m sorry sorry sorry - but Sam tenses against him, and then he’s coughing and coughing, these dry useless hacks that aren’t moving a goddamn thing, not even air.
***
Dean’s doing his best, Sam wants to tell Cas.
Dean always takes care of me.
Right now, for example, Dean is robbing a pharmacy for medicine to give to Sam. Cas is sitting opposite him on the couch, outstretched palm flat on Sam’s chest, doing an awkward but decent job of monitoring Sam’s breathing.
Sam’s breathing is shit.
I’m supposed to be able to breathe better than this, Sam understands.
It’s not frightening. It’s a relief. It won’t always be like this.
“Are you uncomfortable?” Cas asks quietly, and Sam nods. It’s a stupid question, but Cas is trying. Everyone is trying.
“Can I help?” Cas asks. “I mean, will you let me?”
Sam looks at him quizzically.
“You don’t like it when I do this.”
That’s right. He remembers now. A lifetime ago, a dusty motel room, his lungs all but closed up. Fighting so hard for air while Dean held his hand and choked back sobs. And Cas, standing over him, reaching into his chest, bright and hot and strong and terrible. Making him breathe. Making him scream.
Cas hovers a hand carefully over Sam’s chest and says, “Only if you want me to.”
It fucking hurts right now, so Sam nods.
And suddenly he’s filled with light, filled with air, and he feels his head roll back on his neck it’s so overwhelming, but it doesn’t hurt this time. It doesn’t hurt at all.
***
Dean comes back with a backpack full of treatments Cas has never really understood, but he knows these are things Sam needs, so that’s good.
“He’s breathing,” Dean observes, not taking his eyes off his sleeping brother on the couch.
Cas nods. “He should be all right for a while.”
Dean goes over and sits on the floor and rests his ear on Sam’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his lungs, and whispers, “this is how it’s supposed to sound.”
He curls around his sleeping brother, and Cas stands there watching them for a long time.