FIC: un homme de courage
TITLE: un homme de courage (a man of courage)
GENRE: AU, h/c, Gen
CHAR:Sam and Dean
RATING: PG 13
SPOILERS: 1.12 "Faith", AU after this episode.
WORDS:723
WARNINGS: Pretty super depressing.
A/N: Another fic written for Again With More Colds. I'm all about the comment memes lately. mad_server's prompt after the fic.
SUMMARY: Dean has a fever. Sam has issues. John has yet to show his face.
un homme de courage
It happens less now, and it's usually just a few tears before Sam gets a handle on it, finishes whatever mundane task he's trying to accomplish when it hits him. This time he's fishing through Pastor Jim's linen closet for a clean facecloth, breathing in the scent of balsam wood and staring at the chipped paint on the back of the closet door. It's everything the hospital wasn't.
When they'd let him leave, Dean had asked to come here. Maybe it's because he's hoping Dad will show up. But it feels safe either way, feels like a home and not some sterile place where everything is new and white and thrown away after five minutes.
The towels are frayed and faded from drying in the Minnesota sun, and they make Sam want to cry.
-=-
It would be pointless to call Dad again. He's left four messages at this point, all pretty goddamn desperate. And every day they sit unanswered, Sam can't help but wonder, what if it's me? What if he's not here because I am? Wonders if he just hasn't said the right words, and if he could just figure out exactly what they were, Dad would come, and be here, and Sam wouldn't have to be sitting on the edge of Dean's bed listening to him ask for someone he isn't, over and over.
Sam stares at the pile of prescription drugs on the night table, tempted to throw a few back himself, feel numb for a while.
"Dad..." Dean breathes, coming around slowly, a shaky hand reaching instinctively for the bandages over his chest. Sam waylays the movement easily, pats Dean's arm back onto the mattress.
"It's Sam, man. Sammy," he says, leaving a thin trail of cold water on Dean's forehead with the facecloth like it's careful calligraphy, Dean's face an impossible canvas of mistakes.
Dean pulls his head away, looks back and forth between the rag and Sam's face. "What's goin' on?"
Sam tries not to sound terrified. "It's okay. You just... you feel a little hot."
Dean closes his eyes again and his eyelashes vibrate against the dark circles below. "Shit," he whispers, and it pisses Sam off. Because he always sounds like he's giving up. Even if Sam knows it isn't true, even if he knows Dean's stronger than anyone, and won't stop fighting until his last drop of blood is on the ground.
Sam plucks the thermometer off the table beside him and turns it over in his fingers. "'Long as it stays under 102 you should be okay."
Dean nods, but he turns away, presses his cheek into his pillows and looks out the window into Jim's backyard where a few squirrels are digging up the acorns they stowed away in the fall through little patches of snow.
"Hey," Sam says, resting his hand on Dean's shoulder. "You made it this far. You can do this, Dean."
"What if.... HE can't?" Dean asks, jabbing his thumb softly on the thick patch of gauze.
"It'll be fine. Who can resist your charms, right?" Sam asks, a smile half-fake, half real because he suddenly can't wait to see Dean in his element again, flirting like he's God's gift to the female sex. Sam can't even fathom being embarrassed by it anymore.
"How d'you... charm... a heart?" Dean asks, turning to face him again, as if he really expects Sam to know the answer. You're the brains, Sammy. Tell him how to do it. Tell him how to survive this.
Sam looks away, down at the thermometer as he raises it to Dean's lips. Dean nods and Sam holds it in place and presses the facecloth to Dean's head once more, and they both pass a few silent minutes looking at and away from each other like strangers on a bus.
"101.3," Sam tells him after it beeps. "Some water, Tylenol, and we'll kick it's ass, alright?"
"Yeah," Dean replies, his voice dissolving into a tight gasp. "Don't wanna... go back there..." He's slipping behind the fog again, and Sam lets him, runs pruned fingertips through the smooth fringe of Dean's hairline.
"I know, man," Sam whispers. Dean leans blindly into his touch.
"Dad..."
Dean's heart has always been so easy to read, always given him away. It's hard to imagine, inside of him, someone else's.
-=-
*based on the prompt: Dean's had some kind of operation and he's all drugged up and exhausted and tender. And he has a light fever that Sam monitors diligently.
GENRE: AU, h/c, Gen
CHAR:Sam and Dean
RATING: PG 13
SPOILERS: 1.12 "Faith", AU after this episode.
WORDS:723
WARNINGS: Pretty super depressing.
A/N: Another fic written for Again With More Colds. I'm all about the comment memes lately. mad_server's prompt after the fic.
SUMMARY: Dean has a fever. Sam has issues. John has yet to show his face.
un homme de courage
It happens less now, and it's usually just a few tears before Sam gets a handle on it, finishes whatever mundane task he's trying to accomplish when it hits him. This time he's fishing through Pastor Jim's linen closet for a clean facecloth, breathing in the scent of balsam wood and staring at the chipped paint on the back of the closet door. It's everything the hospital wasn't.
When they'd let him leave, Dean had asked to come here. Maybe it's because he's hoping Dad will show up. But it feels safe either way, feels like a home and not some sterile place where everything is new and white and thrown away after five minutes.
The towels are frayed and faded from drying in the Minnesota sun, and they make Sam want to cry.
-=-
It would be pointless to call Dad again. He's left four messages at this point, all pretty goddamn desperate. And every day they sit unanswered, Sam can't help but wonder, what if it's me? What if he's not here because I am? Wonders if he just hasn't said the right words, and if he could just figure out exactly what they were, Dad would come, and be here, and Sam wouldn't have to be sitting on the edge of Dean's bed listening to him ask for someone he isn't, over and over.
Sam stares at the pile of prescription drugs on the night table, tempted to throw a few back himself, feel numb for a while.
"Dad..." Dean breathes, coming around slowly, a shaky hand reaching instinctively for the bandages over his chest. Sam waylays the movement easily, pats Dean's arm back onto the mattress.
"It's Sam, man. Sammy," he says, leaving a thin trail of cold water on Dean's forehead with the facecloth like it's careful calligraphy, Dean's face an impossible canvas of mistakes.
Dean pulls his head away, looks back and forth between the rag and Sam's face. "What's goin' on?"
Sam tries not to sound terrified. "It's okay. You just... you feel a little hot."
Dean closes his eyes again and his eyelashes vibrate against the dark circles below. "Shit," he whispers, and it pisses Sam off. Because he always sounds like he's giving up. Even if Sam knows it isn't true, even if he knows Dean's stronger than anyone, and won't stop fighting until his last drop of blood is on the ground.
Sam plucks the thermometer off the table beside him and turns it over in his fingers. "'Long as it stays under 102 you should be okay."
Dean nods, but he turns away, presses his cheek into his pillows and looks out the window into Jim's backyard where a few squirrels are digging up the acorns they stowed away in the fall through little patches of snow.
"Hey," Sam says, resting his hand on Dean's shoulder. "You made it this far. You can do this, Dean."
"What if.... HE can't?" Dean asks, jabbing his thumb softly on the thick patch of gauze.
"It'll be fine. Who can resist your charms, right?" Sam asks, a smile half-fake, half real because he suddenly can't wait to see Dean in his element again, flirting like he's God's gift to the female sex. Sam can't even fathom being embarrassed by it anymore.
"How d'you... charm... a heart?" Dean asks, turning to face him again, as if he really expects Sam to know the answer. You're the brains, Sammy. Tell him how to do it. Tell him how to survive this.
Sam looks away, down at the thermometer as he raises it to Dean's lips. Dean nods and Sam holds it in place and presses the facecloth to Dean's head once more, and they both pass a few silent minutes looking at and away from each other like strangers on a bus.
"101.3," Sam tells him after it beeps. "Some water, Tylenol, and we'll kick it's ass, alright?"
"Yeah," Dean replies, his voice dissolving into a tight gasp. "Don't wanna... go back there..." He's slipping behind the fog again, and Sam lets him, runs pruned fingertips through the smooth fringe of Dean's hairline.
"I know, man," Sam whispers. Dean leans blindly into his touch.
"Dad..."
Dean's heart has always been so easy to read, always given him away. It's hard to imagine, inside of him, someone else's.
-=-
*based on the prompt: Dean's had some kind of operation and he's all drugged up and exhausted and tender. And he has a light fever that Sam monitors diligently.