Fic - Just Breathe
Title: Just Breathe
Summary: Sam's not feeling too great, but Dean's right by his side. Featuring sick!Sam.
Rating: PG13
Genre/Pairing: Sam and Dean. Gen.
Warnings/Spoliers: Minor language. Set in Season 14, but no major spoilers.
Word Count: 1600+
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all the standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This was written for ohsam's annual November 2nd meme for cowboyguy's prompt. I'm a little late to the party, but hopefully you'll enjoy this!
Just Breathe
Sam coughs into his fist, and it feels like his lungs are rattling around inside his chest; bruised and sore.
“Dude, that's just gross!” Dean's nose wrinkles in disgust. “And watch the car, OK? I don't need you spraying your germs all over her.”
Sam huffs a soft laugh, which causes another coughing fit, but he manages to keep the car on the road; mostly. He flicks on the headlights; it's gotten dark real fast.
“How long have you had that now? 'Cause it doesn't sound too great.”
Sam shrugs, not risking another coughing fit. Besides, he's really not sure how to answer it; it feels like they've been on one long case for weeks; everything blurring and bleeding together. He can't remember the last time they were in the bunker.
Sam's phone buzzes on the bench seat next to him; he can feel it vibrating against his thigh. He glances down, sees it flashing Mom.
“You not answering that?”
Sam can feel Dean's glare heating the skin on his face. He turns the heater off and opens the window a crack. He needs some air. “Dude, I'm driving!”
It stops ringing, and then a moment later there's a ping of an answer phone message, that spikes a nail into Sam's brain.
Sam can see Dean shaking his head from the corner of his eye; he's staring out of the window into the depths of pitch black. He looks sad, and kind of lost; has been for a while now.
“I'm beat. We're stopping in the next town we see.”
It's an order, or that's how Sam reads it anyway. But he's just too tired to pick a fight about it right now. So he just nods, and follows the signs to the next town.
He tries to hold back the cough he can feel coming, not wanting to draw more attention, but the more he does that, the worse it seems to gets, and then Dean's throwing him yet more annoying concerned looks. “Will you quit that?”
“What?”
“Looking at me like that. I'm fine.”
Dean turns to face the window again. “Yeah. Sure you are.”
So much for not picking fights.
It's not a bad motel. The room looks and smells clean, and there's even a little coffee making station by the TV, with tiny sachets of instant coffee and hot chocolate, a little perk that they don't often see, but that Dean would usually notice. Instead he heads straight into the bathroom, leaving Sam to unpack their bags in a haze, working purely on autopilot.
He doesn't remember collapsing onto his bed, but he must have, because the next thing he knows Dean's shaking his leg, and Sam's lost some time; Dean's hair is damp and he's wearing his sleeping sweats and t-shirt.
“Hey Darth Vader, get in the bathroom. The steam will do you some good.”
Honestly Sam feels too wiped to stand up, and his chest is tight and uncomfortable. He doesn't really notice that he's wheezing heavily until he stands, rubbing at his chest.
Every step seems to be in slow motion, like he's walking through molasses. But finally Sam's able to pull open the bathroom door, a cloud of steam hitting him in the face, and immediately easing the pressure in his chest as he breathes it in.
Sam can hear the shower running, and he closes the bathroom door behind him. He collapses onto the closed lid of the toilet, his head in his hands, his temples pounding, and just lets himself breathe.
Maybe Dean's right; maybe he's pushing himself too hard. He does feel like shit, but he can't quit now. He won't.
He breathes as deep as he can, lets the steam ease the tightness in his chest. He thinks about getting a shower, but the thought of getting undressed is just too much, so he sits back and breathes; in and out. In and out.
When he finds the energy to turn off the shower, and drags himself back into the bedroom, Dean's in bed, lying on his stomach, hands under the pillow. Sam knows there's a weapon under there without having to ask.
“Your phone rang again.” Dean mumbles into the pillow.
“I'll sort it out in the morning.” It's only then that Sam realises he's not wearing shoes, and he doesn't remember taking them off. But they're by the door next to Dean's; his jacket hanging on the back of the chair, his duffel by the side of his bed.
Not bothering to get undressed, Sam peels back the covers and climbs in. He lets Dean's soft snores drag him under.
“I checked your phone. You've missed calls from Cas and Jack too, and there's a bunch of voicemails you haven't even listened to.”
Dean sounds pissed off, but Sam's just doesn't have the energy to even talk about this right now.
The sun is too bright for his eyes, and he puts on a pair of sunglasses and tries not to squint at the road ahead of him. He rubs his hand over his chest. It feels a little better, but he's running on empty and they both know it.
“They're worried. So don't be a jackass about it.”
“I just haven't had the time, OK?” Sam snaps, and damn Dean for pushing all of his buttons, when he knows that Sam's trying not to talk about this. “I said I'll take care of it, and I will.”
A shiver runs down Sam's spine and he grips the steering wheel tighter to stop his hands from shaking. He wishes he put his jacket on.
“Right, of course you will.” Dean crosses his arms over his chest like a surly teenager.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“I don't know, Sam.” Dean flicks his gaze at him from over his shoulder. “How about you're as sick as a dog and you don't seem to give a shit, you're only getting a few hours of shut-eye before hitting the road, you're ditching calls from family, and now I'm worried about you too!”
“I told you, I'm fine.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really.”
Sam coughs into his fist, but it's getting harder to breathe. It sounds wetter than before; he can't remember if that's good or bad.
“Pull the car over.” Dean barks. “Do it, Sam. Now!”
Sam pulls the car over onto the verge, and lets the tires spin on loose dirt just to piss his brother off. He turns off the engine, and listens to it tick as it cools down.
“Just breathe, c'mon, Sammy... just breathe.”
Sam's still coughing, but then something shifts in his chest and it feels like he can finally breathe. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, allowing his lungs to slowly expand and release.
When he opens them again Dean's staring at him.
“Where are we heading, Sam?”
Sam's head feels kinda thick and muffled, like it's stuffed full of cotton. “I...well...”
“Because we're driving around in circles.”
Sam frowns. He thought they just were outside Atlanta, something about a lead, a good one this time, and it was important, but it was a bust, just like all the others.
Shit. Oh shit.
Dean's still staring, and Sam feels so untethered, so lost, like he's floating off into the stratosphere.
“You can't find Michael, or save me, if you don't take care of yourself.” Dean's tone is softer now, and his face is a picture of concern; his brow furrowed, his eyes brimming with worry.
Sam lets out a long stuttered breath that pulls at something deep in his chest. He winces.
“The fever's been pretty bad for the last day or so.” Dean's looking at his pointedly, and then his hand is on San's forehead, and it's cool and calloused; just like he remembers. It lingers longer than it needs to, but Sam's doesn't say anything. It all feels so damn real, and Sam's not sure what's happening to him, because the last thing he really remembers is following a lead to find his missing brother.
“There's a town a few miles out. You'll stop there and get a room. You'll call Mom; tell them all that you're OK. That the lead to find me didn't work out, but that there'll be another one. You'll rest up, take something from the first aid kit, and you'll put stay until you feel better. You hear me?”
Sam nods, turning the key in the ignition, the Impala roaring to life. “I'm sorry, Dean. I'm trying to find you, I really am, but-”
Dean gaze pierces into his own. “Just have a little faith in yourself. I do.”
Sam wakes up to a silent motel room. His jacket is hung on the back of the chair, his shoes are by the door, and his duffel bag in next to his bed. The first aid kit is lying open on the empty twin bed beside his own, and there's a bottle of Tylenol on the night stand.
“Dean?” His voice is full of gravel, but his chest doesn't feel as tight. He pulls himself out of bed, feeling older than his years, and everything feels sore and overused, but his head feels clearer.
He walks into the bathroom, but it's empty. So is the Impala. There's no sign of Dean, but then again there wouldn't be, would there. His fever must have broken.
Sam hasn't felt this alone in a long time.
He lets his weary body sink down on the empty spare bed and pulls out his phone. “Hey Mom.”
The End