Dean for the Soul (gen-fic, pg, 1162 words)
Dean for the Soul
(gen-fic but with hints of weecest if you want to see it, pg, 1162 words)
Schmoop. That is all.
It's the morning after a feverish night propped up against the tub in the bathroom, trembling and retching his guts down the toilet. It had a surreal horror to it, the shivery helplessness of it, the disjointed sensation of Dean wiping at his lips with scraps of toilet paper, Dean's hand on his forehead, Dean's voice muttering soothing nothings that echoed off the cold enamel.
There's only a vague memory of Dean helping him back to bed, of him propping Sam's aching body up against his own as he stripped him out of sweat-damp pyjamas and slid him into a clean set.
Sam hasn't slept at all. He knows Dean thinks he has because he was moving so quietly about the motel room as he dressed for school. But Sam's been awake, lingering on the pleasant edge of blank unconsciousness. The pillow's thin and cool beneath his cheek and Dean's tucked the blankets up about his ears.
It feels like Dean's been gone forever. Sam's body hurts too much for him to move and check the clock. He heard Dean leave amid the hustle and roll of trucks starting up in the parking lot and travellers checking out. Then it went quiet, aside from the distant thrum of the road beyond and the occasional noise of people outside passing by the door.
Sam's eyes are swollen and sore but he blinks against the muzzy golden daylight that seeps in through the gap between the cheap curtains. He sighs with the weary contentment of someone who is surprised to find their stomach is taking a break from trying to turn itself inside out. The sour tang of the smell of vomit is entirely gone from the air, replaced with the sharper, citric scent of disinfectant and Sam wonders when Dean found time to clean between playing nursemaid to him, sleep and getting ready for class.
Sam's missing an algebra test today. There's History and Geography too but it's the algebra test that he frets about most because he studied so damn hard for it. He went over problem after problem and stuck to it even when Dean tried to coax him away from the books for dinner. It was only pizza for dinner though and Sam could eat a greasy slice of that while he studied and Dean slouched on the sofa and watched formulaic crime dramas. He could have slouched with Dean because he's missing the stupid test he was studying for, all because of some stupider virus.
His spine is beginning to ache from being in the same position for too long and Sam takes a risk and flips over. There's a moment when he thinks he's done something too daring for someone whose insides are still delicate but the urge to retch passes and he sinks back into the butter-waves of the soft yellow blankets.
He counts motes of dust in the air until his eyelids get too fat and heavy to stay open. Then he lets his eyes sink shut and stares at the crazy red and magenta lines on the back of his eyelids. He's so tired he could cry but sleep won't come. He can only lie there in bed and be quietly ill.
Every time he hears footsteps outside his room he thinks (hopes) it's Dean. He knows Dean won't spend the whole day at school, not if Sam's ill. Dad won't care if he skips out - it's been decided at some nebulous point in the past that academia's just not for Dean, not like it is for Sam. Besides, Dad's out on a hunt and won't be back before the weekend, at the earliest. So even if he did care, it wouldn't matter. Dean won't spend any longer away from Sam than he has to while Sam's ill.
Some jerk goes back and forth between his room and the manager's office a few times, and Sam gets his hopes up every time he passes by. He listens to the sound of raised voices as they argue over whatever the problem is and drifts listlessly at the edge of actually passing out.
Sometimes Sam thinks he actually has managed to fall asleep, only to realise that he can't possibly have done because he's thinking about it. His brain simply won't shut down, goes on churning out thoughts about how much it wants to be asleep. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels the prickle of tears. As he ducks under the covers to wipe his face on the blankets, he hears the key in the lock.
Relief surges through him. It's an instinctual recognition that everything's going to be better now Dean's here to take care of him. Sure, Sam's stomach is still going to act like it's full of quicksand and his eyes are still fat and swollen but hey, Dean's here.
More light floods in as Dean opens the door and Sam squints against it. Dean picks his way across the room to his bedside, dumping an armful of books on top of the TV. He twitches the cover down so he can lay his hand on Sam's forehead. His palm is warm and reassuring. Sam blinks at him blearily. He's greeted with a smile.
"Hey kiddo. You playing possum? How you feeling? You gonna puke again?"
He shakes his head and is not too sick to catch the slight sagging of Dean's shoulders or his relieved sigh. Dean moves off and Sam can only just track him across the room. There's a pleasing familiarity in watching Dean slide his battered leather jacket off, kick his sneakers off his feet.
"Picked up your homework for you," he's saying. "But you're not getting it 'til I say you're well enough, y'hear me? Didn't sit with you through all that last night for you to make yourself ill on physics and shit. And I spoke to Mr Guthrie and he says you can have your algebra test when you get back."
Sam makes a soft, happy noise and Dean grins at him.
"Freak," he says, but there's too much affection in his voice for it to be meant convincingly as an insult.
Then Dean's face disappears behind the cotton of his t-shirt as he strips off. His hair comes out spiky and messy. He changes his jeans for a pair of old, thin sweatpants. He flicks the TV on and skips through the channels until he finds an ancient episode of Cheers. When he crosses to the bed, Sam scoots over to make room for him.
The bed dips at his weight and then Sam is wrapped in the hard, warm shape of his brother's body as Dean curls about him. He closes his eyes as Dean's arm comes around him.
He falls asleep to the sound of Dean's laughter and the rumble of it in Dean's chest against his back. The brush of Dean's lips over his temple is the last thing Sam's conscious for.
~end
(gen-fic but with hints of weecest if you want to see it, pg, 1162 words)
Schmoop. That is all.
It's the morning after a feverish night propped up against the tub in the bathroom, trembling and retching his guts down the toilet. It had a surreal horror to it, the shivery helplessness of it, the disjointed sensation of Dean wiping at his lips with scraps of toilet paper, Dean's hand on his forehead, Dean's voice muttering soothing nothings that echoed off the cold enamel.
There's only a vague memory of Dean helping him back to bed, of him propping Sam's aching body up against his own as he stripped him out of sweat-damp pyjamas and slid him into a clean set.
Sam hasn't slept at all. He knows Dean thinks he has because he was moving so quietly about the motel room as he dressed for school. But Sam's been awake, lingering on the pleasant edge of blank unconsciousness. The pillow's thin and cool beneath his cheek and Dean's tucked the blankets up about his ears.
It feels like Dean's been gone forever. Sam's body hurts too much for him to move and check the clock. He heard Dean leave amid the hustle and roll of trucks starting up in the parking lot and travellers checking out. Then it went quiet, aside from the distant thrum of the road beyond and the occasional noise of people outside passing by the door.
Sam's eyes are swollen and sore but he blinks against the muzzy golden daylight that seeps in through the gap between the cheap curtains. He sighs with the weary contentment of someone who is surprised to find their stomach is taking a break from trying to turn itself inside out. The sour tang of the smell of vomit is entirely gone from the air, replaced with the sharper, citric scent of disinfectant and Sam wonders when Dean found time to clean between playing nursemaid to him, sleep and getting ready for class.
Sam's missing an algebra test today. There's History and Geography too but it's the algebra test that he frets about most because he studied so damn hard for it. He went over problem after problem and stuck to it even when Dean tried to coax him away from the books for dinner. It was only pizza for dinner though and Sam could eat a greasy slice of that while he studied and Dean slouched on the sofa and watched formulaic crime dramas. He could have slouched with Dean because he's missing the stupid test he was studying for, all because of some stupider virus.
His spine is beginning to ache from being in the same position for too long and Sam takes a risk and flips over. There's a moment when he thinks he's done something too daring for someone whose insides are still delicate but the urge to retch passes and he sinks back into the butter-waves of the soft yellow blankets.
He counts motes of dust in the air until his eyelids get too fat and heavy to stay open. Then he lets his eyes sink shut and stares at the crazy red and magenta lines on the back of his eyelids. He's so tired he could cry but sleep won't come. He can only lie there in bed and be quietly ill.
Every time he hears footsteps outside his room he thinks (hopes) it's Dean. He knows Dean won't spend the whole day at school, not if Sam's ill. Dad won't care if he skips out - it's been decided at some nebulous point in the past that academia's just not for Dean, not like it is for Sam. Besides, Dad's out on a hunt and won't be back before the weekend, at the earliest. So even if he did care, it wouldn't matter. Dean won't spend any longer away from Sam than he has to while Sam's ill.
Some jerk goes back and forth between his room and the manager's office a few times, and Sam gets his hopes up every time he passes by. He listens to the sound of raised voices as they argue over whatever the problem is and drifts listlessly at the edge of actually passing out.
Sometimes Sam thinks he actually has managed to fall asleep, only to realise that he can't possibly have done because he's thinking about it. His brain simply won't shut down, goes on churning out thoughts about how much it wants to be asleep. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels the prickle of tears. As he ducks under the covers to wipe his face on the blankets, he hears the key in the lock.
Relief surges through him. It's an instinctual recognition that everything's going to be better now Dean's here to take care of him. Sure, Sam's stomach is still going to act like it's full of quicksand and his eyes are still fat and swollen but hey, Dean's here.
More light floods in as Dean opens the door and Sam squints against it. Dean picks his way across the room to his bedside, dumping an armful of books on top of the TV. He twitches the cover down so he can lay his hand on Sam's forehead. His palm is warm and reassuring. Sam blinks at him blearily. He's greeted with a smile.
"Hey kiddo. You playing possum? How you feeling? You gonna puke again?"
He shakes his head and is not too sick to catch the slight sagging of Dean's shoulders or his relieved sigh. Dean moves off and Sam can only just track him across the room. There's a pleasing familiarity in watching Dean slide his battered leather jacket off, kick his sneakers off his feet.
"Picked up your homework for you," he's saying. "But you're not getting it 'til I say you're well enough, y'hear me? Didn't sit with you through all that last night for you to make yourself ill on physics and shit. And I spoke to Mr Guthrie and he says you can have your algebra test when you get back."
Sam makes a soft, happy noise and Dean grins at him.
"Freak," he says, but there's too much affection in his voice for it to be meant convincingly as an insult.
Then Dean's face disappears behind the cotton of his t-shirt as he strips off. His hair comes out spiky and messy. He changes his jeans for a pair of old, thin sweatpants. He flicks the TV on and skips through the channels until he finds an ancient episode of Cheers. When he crosses to the bed, Sam scoots over to make room for him.
The bed dips at his weight and then Sam is wrapped in the hard, warm shape of his brother's body as Dean curls about him. He closes his eyes as Dean's arm comes around him.
He falls asleep to the sound of Dean's laughter and the rumble of it in Dean's chest against his back. The brush of Dean's lips over his temple is the last thing Sam's conscious for.
~end