SFTCOLARS - Secret - Santa - Fic
Dean jerks his eyes away from the TV as Sam once again stumbles to his feet.
“Sam, you think getting up is a good idea right now?”
Tired eyes blink up at him. “Can’t… need… have to-“ The mumbled words break off and the dull gaze turns away from him, crawls over to the bathroom door which is only a few feet away from his brother’s rumpled bed. From the way Sam is shaking with exhaustion it could as well be a hundred miles, he doesn't think will be able to make it there on his own. Dean watches in silence how Sam leans heavily against the wall next to his bed, swaying precariously on his feet as he tries to find his balance.
“Sam-“ Dean starts, but is interrupted when his brother takes a wobbly step and almost goes down. He is on his feet and at his brother’s side in time to prevent him from kissing the floor, but only moments later he finds himself almost wishing he hadn’t been fast enough to catch him when Sam gets sick all over him. Literally.
He yelps and tries to get out of the way but he isn’t fast enough, part of whatever is left of Sam’s lunch hits his jeans and the miserable groan Sam wheezes out in between breaths is just barely enough to make him hold on to his brother until the younger man finally stops heaving.
“Dude, what the hell?” Dean growls under his breath and tries to get his brother upright, stopping when the dark head lolls weakly before it lifts slightly.
“-sssoorrry…” Sam slurs tiredly and he sounds just the right amount of genuinely embarrassed that Dean cannot suppress the teasing words that escape his lips while he helps Sam to scoot away from the mess on the floor.
“Damned right you’re sorry, just wait till you get my dry-cleaning bill.”
Even sick as a dog Sam obviously can’t resist a little teasing as well, there is the ghost of a chuckle against Dean’s side, then his brother’s strained voice drifts across the room. “Like you have anything worth dry-cleaning…”
He finds himself grinning and he is careful to keep that out of his voice as he nudges Sam softly. “My clothes rock, you pansy-ass…” He can tell that Sam is trying to keep up with their bickering but clearly lacking the strength to do more than snort weakly at his words. Dean gives him a moment to compose himself, then slowly tries to pull him to his feet. “C’mon, let’s get you to the bathroom…”
Sam is shaking like a leaf in the middle of a thunderstorm, there is no way he is going to be able to keep himself upright or on his feet alone. Dean moves in, careful to support him without being too obvious about it, taking a playful swipe at his brother’s arm when Sam once again sways and leans heavily against him, panting softly. His wide, unfocused eyes roam the room and from the lost expression on his face Dean can tell that Sam is having trouble remembering where they are. The younger brother groans miserably, trying to hold on to the wall next to them.
“-sucks-“
And it does. And it is so very pointless… They are used to getting shot at, getting hurt, the occasional broken rib when bone meets wall and even a concussion is nothing that would send them to the ER like most people.
Being drugged is something entirely different.
Especially when it is an accident, a freaking Winchester-case of bad ‘luck’.
He still has no idea what exactly has happened, the last thing he remembers is being in the middle of some serious hustling while Sam is checking something on his laptop. Then suddenly his brother is right next to him, trying to get his attention while not being too obvious about it, which results in Sam slumping heavily against him, trying desperately to stay upright. His whole body is shaking uncontrollably and he seems to have trouble focusing. Dean doesn’t get what he is mumbling, but the blown pupils and the desperate look in those wide eyes tell him they need to leave the bar right now. He doesn’t really remember how they get out, all he recalls is Sam whose condition is getting worse by the minute, his balance is so off that Dean has to more or less carry him to the Impala.
Drugs.
He doesn’t know which one, he doesn’t know how Sam got drugged in the first place, but the results are devastating, Sam is alternating helplessly between mumbling incoherently about all kinds of weird hallucinations which assault him and trying to keep his world stable enough not to lose whatever he has had for lunch. Not very successfully, the first time Sam looses the fight Dean can barely get the passenger’s door open in time to help his shaking brother out of the car.
And it only gets worse. Once he gets his brother into bed the younger hunter cannot even sleep it off or relax and try to get over it, whatever is coursing through his system does not let him rest; when Sam is not twisting and turning in some sort of half-doze he is restless with nausea and hallucinations.
Dean doesn’t really know what to do, he cannot get him to a hospital, Bobby’s told him that Sam’s symptoms are so vague he cannot identify the drug at all and other than let him sweat (or puke) it out of his system and watch him closely there seems to be nothing he can do. And that sucks. And goes against every instinct he has, he hates to watch his brother suffer, hates it even more when he cannot do anything to help him, ease his pains or at least tease him a little to take his scattered thoughts off the situation.
The (too) few moments of Sam’s mental awareness between nausea and restlessness are spent explaining (again and again) what has happened, that he (Sam) needs to calm down and rest as best as he can until that damned drug is out of his system. Sam just nods at him every time and tries to relax, watching him with tired eyes until the shivering gets worse again and his feverish mind takes over his reality. Whatever nightmares (memories?) Sam has to face… they are bad.
And there is nothing he can do.
“D’n?”
Sam’s exhausted voice drifts up to him and pulls him out of his thoughts. His brother is still huddling against the wall, leaning against him.
“You still need to go?”
Sam considers his answer for a moment, his still very unfocused gaze crawling across the floor toward his bed and he looks at it longingly. Then suddenly his brow furrows and his face scrunches up in a way that tells Dean exactly what he needs to know.
20 minutes and three breakdowns later Sam is back in his bed again, curled on his side, watching Dean drowsily as he cleans the mess from the floor. Dean doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks his brother is getting better, he had been able to walk-sway back to bed in a more or less straight line and could even sit on his own for a few moments while Dean had helped him change into a new shirt. He’d even smiled his thanks at him before his strength had given out and he had just collapsed onto the bed.
When Dean looks up again Sam’s eyes have drifted closed, his too pale face looks relaxed, no traces of pain left. His body is still shivering slightly from time to time, otherwise lax hands flexing weakly whenever he tenses, but other than that he seems to be asleep. And the feeling intensifies, somehow Dean just knows that the worst is over and that his brother will get better. He doesn’t fight the small sigh that escapes his lips as he sinks down onto his own bed, watching, doing what he has always done best, what it will always come down to:
Looking out for his brother.
***