Do I Not Bleed?
A couple people at OhSam asked for a fic in which Soulless!Sam gets sick. How exactly does Dean take care of someone who can't sleep and doesn't feel emotions? Especially when he'd rather kick the guy's ass?
Here's the thing: Real Sam's an open book.
Dean always knows if Sam is sick, usually before Sam does. The way he rubs at his temple, the weariness in his eyes, the rapid breathing, Dean knows all the kid's tells. This guy, though, this RoboSam? Like trying to read the book after somebody dropped it in a paint can. The first clue Dean gets is when he doubles over in the passenger seat, coughing until he turns red.
Dean turns to stare at him. "Got air?"
Not-Sam's mouth twists. "Think I'm getting sick."
"You get sick?" Dean asks.
"Uh, yeah. I'm human, like I keep telling you. Prick me, I bleed. And sometimes I get a cold. Can we get on with this?"
And they get on with it. But by the time Dean's ready for bed that night, Sam's coughing more than he's breathing, and the water bottle Dean finally shoves at him doesn't seem to be doing much good. When Sam stands up to get out of the car, he winds up dropping to the pavement on hands and knees, gripping the curb white-knuckled.
Dean stops behind him. "You, ah, need help?"
Sam ignores him, crawls forward and pushes against the wall, struggling to his feet. Dean opens the door, and Sam stumbles forward, falling toward the first bed. He lies down on top of the blankets as if he never intends to move again. Probably the first bed he's actually used all year. Well, used for something other than fucking.
A moment later, Sam's yanking his head back up as a ragged, desperate coughing fit rips through him. He pulls out the pillows and props himself against the headboard, breathing a bit more evenly once he's upright.
"You, ah, need anything," Dean asks awkwardly. Can't put Sam's soul back in a body that's suffocated.
"More water, shot of whiskey, and the waitress from breakfast," Sam rasps.
Dean arranges the first two, then digs through the medical kit for the NyQuil he hopes isn't expired. Luckily, there's a few more doses in the bottle. As soon as Sam sees the bottle, he shakes his head.
"No way. Not that shit."
"Come on. You know it helps."
"Makes me drowsy." There was no wheedling in Sam's tone, only flat refusal.
Dean can't understand what he's bitching about, cold medicine always sends Sam right off to sleep, and he usually looks much more alive in the morning. Except…
Except this guy doesn't sleep.
Dean once mixed up some labels and took too much cold medicine. He still remembers how miserable that night was, too dizzy and drowsy to stand up, and yet too wired to sleep. "Huh. Guess that would suck."
"Look. You need sleep, I need to cough, and find a decent porn channel. Just go get another room."
Dean goes. His fingers remember the way his brother's hair felt, soft and damp with fever-sweat, when Dean stroked his face and coaxed him to sleep.
Here's the thing: Real Sam's an open book.
Dean always knows if Sam is sick, usually before Sam does. The way he rubs at his temple, the weariness in his eyes, the rapid breathing, Dean knows all the kid's tells. This guy, though, this RoboSam? Like trying to read the book after somebody dropped it in a paint can. The first clue Dean gets is when he doubles over in the passenger seat, coughing until he turns red.
Dean turns to stare at him. "Got air?"
Not-Sam's mouth twists. "Think I'm getting sick."
"You get sick?" Dean asks.
"Uh, yeah. I'm human, like I keep telling you. Prick me, I bleed. And sometimes I get a cold. Can we get on with this?"
And they get on with it. But by the time Dean's ready for bed that night, Sam's coughing more than he's breathing, and the water bottle Dean finally shoves at him doesn't seem to be doing much good. When Sam stands up to get out of the car, he winds up dropping to the pavement on hands and knees, gripping the curb white-knuckled.
Dean stops behind him. "You, ah, need help?"
Sam ignores him, crawls forward and pushes against the wall, struggling to his feet. Dean opens the door, and Sam stumbles forward, falling toward the first bed. He lies down on top of the blankets as if he never intends to move again. Probably the first bed he's actually used all year. Well, used for something other than fucking.
A moment later, Sam's yanking his head back up as a ragged, desperate coughing fit rips through him. He pulls out the pillows and props himself against the headboard, breathing a bit more evenly once he's upright.
"You, ah, need anything," Dean asks awkwardly. Can't put Sam's soul back in a body that's suffocated.
"More water, shot of whiskey, and the waitress from breakfast," Sam rasps.
Dean arranges the first two, then digs through the medical kit for the NyQuil he hopes isn't expired. Luckily, there's a few more doses in the bottle. As soon as Sam sees the bottle, he shakes his head.
"No way. Not that shit."
"Come on. You know it helps."
"Makes me drowsy." There was no wheedling in Sam's tone, only flat refusal.
Dean can't understand what he's bitching about, cold medicine always sends Sam right off to sleep, and he usually looks much more alive in the morning. Except…
Except this guy doesn't sleep.
Dean once mixed up some labels and took too much cold medicine. He still remembers how miserable that night was, too dizzy and drowsy to stand up, and yet too wired to sleep. "Huh. Guess that would suck."
"Look. You need sleep, I need to cough, and find a decent porn channel. Just go get another room."
Dean goes. His fingers remember the way his brother's hair felt, soft and damp with fever-sweat, when Dean stroked his face and coaxed him to sleep.