I gotcha, Sammy (SPN, sick!sam, s2 AU, migraine, emeto h/c)
Summary:
S2-ish. Sam begins suffering horrible migraines following his visions. Dean is there and tries to soothe as best he can. For a Tumblr prompt.
Notes:
Written for a Tumblr prompt by user @builder051 (incidentally, an AWESOME emeto h/c author and y'all should totally go check out their blog if you're into that sort of thing).
also, I have actually (thankfully) never suffered a migraine myself, so I did the best I could with the descriptions of pain, etc. Dean being supportive is really what's important here, after all ;)
Work Text:
“Ggh-” Sam choked, squinting tight against the horrendous pounding in his skull, tears streaming. “God-”
Dean readjusted the cold washcloth on his brother’s neck, setting his jaw in steel reserve against his own welling emotions. He spoke to him, his voice very gentle (in a way it hadn’t been in a long, long time). “Easy, Sam…” he murmured, a low baritone rumble. “Take it easy. I gotcha.”
Together they waited, Sam hovering in dread over the toilet bowl, suffering through the awful throes of another migraine. They’d started accompanying the visions - flashes (rapid, disorienting, like closing your eyes against sunlight streaming through trees while riding in a car) of death, of women shrieking, of people dying in fires, of blood splattering and yellow eyes flickering, sinister, inhuman. In the wake of this episodic madness, Sam would find himself on his knees, clutching his head against the onslaught of horror - and of pain. Dean was helpless to stop these attacks, but damned if he didn’t try anyway.
Another feeble moan, and then a gasp, and then Sam doubled over with a harsh retch, stomach acid splashing into the water below. He let out a soft sob, more tears welling and spilling down his cheeks (particularly his right eye, where most of the sharp agony seemed to be concentrated, throbbing a pulsing staccato - stabbing, unbearable, pain).
Dean’s mouth hardened into a thin line, his brow drawing together in worry, in sympathy, in sadness. “Jesus Christ, Sammy…” he murmured, rubbing Sam’s back in soft circles. “Wish I could do more t’help you, man. Just breathe. ‘S okay. I gotcha.” (mindless reassurance, trite bullshit, he thought, what a help).
He’d spent the last couple hours sitting on the edge of the grimy motel bathtub (ass numb, back aching), bent over his little brother, who was bent over the toilet, suffering through unceasing agony. Dean himself hadn’t ever had the pleasure of experiencing a full-blown migraine, but he knew Sam was predisposed. Kid used to spend hours studying textbooks in dim motel lamplight, squinting with fatigue, until he started rubbing his right eye and letting out soft little grunts of pain that eventually escalated to full moans, at which point Dean would intervene and send his ass to bed with a cool washcloth on his forehead. Those headaches, Dean remembered, were few and far between - but when they hit, they hit him hard.
These new ones, however - the ones that followed the visions - were another animal entirely. Supernatural, almost, in their alarming alacrity. No pills Dean could shove down Sam’s throat, no words of soft encouragement as he vomited, no back rubs or cool cloths on his forehead, could slow them down. His poor gigantic little brother would spend the next several hours in absolute misery, having to take the next day to recuperate (slowing them down considerably, but damned if Dean was going to complain). He’d called Bobby - told him about the visions, the attacks, everything going on with Sam that was beyond the abilities of Dean’s unwavering solid big brother presence to heal - and got nothing. Bobby was just as helpless to solve this mystery as Dean, and after promising to hit the books and get ahold of them as soon as he found something, after some imparted advice on migraine remedies and dehydration risks and illegal ways to fork hospital-grade pain meds, he hung up.
(Son of a BITCH! Dean had screamed, and thrown his phone against the wall).
Beneath him, Sam began to shiver, panting with exertion and huffing out helpless, small grunts of pain. The shakes had set in, and this part Dean hated almost as much as the puking. “D-Dean,” he choked out, spitting into the toilet bowl. “Sss-”
“I gotcha, Sammy,” Dean assured him, keeping a big warm hand on his shoulder, reaching up with the other to dab at his clammy forehead with the washcloth. “’m right here. Shh.”
Sam’s torso convulsed with a few more abortive heaves, bringing up a thin dribble of mucus and not much else. Poor kid hadn’t eaten since lunch, no wonder he wasn’t bringing anything up.
After the last dry cough, with no results, Dean gave Sam’s back a final and reassuring rub. “Sam, you’re all cleaned out, man. C’mon, let’s get you back to bed. Sleepin’ on the bathroom floor ain’t gonna help your situation.”
Sam moaned in opposition, not at all agreeing to Dean’s proposition of movement. He hissed against a spike of pain, reaching up to clutch at his right eye, and his face contorted with a sob that tore Dean’s fucking heart out.
“Sammy…” Dean tried again, cupping Sam’s forehead in his own palm and redoubling his back rubbing efforts with the other hand. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise. C’mon...”
Slowly, eventually, Dean was able to help Sam to his feet, and together they limped carefully back toward the musty queen bed (the one closest to the tiny shithole bathroom, obviously). Dean mumbled a few more easys and I gotchas as he maneuvered Sam’s giant drooping frame around his shoulder and onto the mattress, pausing to let him catch his breath. Sam was still bent over almost double, clutching his right eye with one hand, reaching down to feebly grip the edge of the bed with his other hand, and Dean made sure to set the trash can at his feet, just in case, before heading back into the bathroom.
When he returned a moment later with a freshly dampened washcloth, he eased Sam down into the pillows and placed the rag over his eyes, keeping his hand steady on Sam’s brow, because he knew that the pressure felt good (k’p your han’there, Dean, Sam had slurred once, sighing in muted relief).
“Gonna figure this out, Sam,” Dean vowed, keeping his voice low. “Gonna fix this. Swear to God.”
And when Sam finally succumbed to tearful exhaustion, easing into unconsciousness, Dean was able to breathe his own sigh of relief and let his shoulders sag, ignoring his own aching back, because as long as Sammy was suffering these godforsaken attacks, he wasn’t gonna acknowledge his own pain.
And if he had to set aside every other hunt to find the evil sonofabitch who did this to Sam, who made him something other, something not-human, something with precognitive powers beyond his control that made him writhe with agony, then so be it.
S2-ish. Sam begins suffering horrible migraines following his visions. Dean is there and tries to soothe as best he can. For a Tumblr prompt.
Notes:
Written for a Tumblr prompt by user @builder051 (incidentally, an AWESOME emeto h/c author and y'all should totally go check out their blog if you're into that sort of thing).
also, I have actually (thankfully) never suffered a migraine myself, so I did the best I could with the descriptions of pain, etc. Dean being supportive is really what's important here, after all ;)
Work Text:
“Ggh-” Sam choked, squinting tight against the horrendous pounding in his skull, tears streaming. “God-”
Dean readjusted the cold washcloth on his brother’s neck, setting his jaw in steel reserve against his own welling emotions. He spoke to him, his voice very gentle (in a way it hadn’t been in a long, long time). “Easy, Sam…” he murmured, a low baritone rumble. “Take it easy. I gotcha.”
Together they waited, Sam hovering in dread over the toilet bowl, suffering through the awful throes of another migraine. They’d started accompanying the visions - flashes (rapid, disorienting, like closing your eyes against sunlight streaming through trees while riding in a car) of death, of women shrieking, of people dying in fires, of blood splattering and yellow eyes flickering, sinister, inhuman. In the wake of this episodic madness, Sam would find himself on his knees, clutching his head against the onslaught of horror - and of pain. Dean was helpless to stop these attacks, but damned if he didn’t try anyway.
Another feeble moan, and then a gasp, and then Sam doubled over with a harsh retch, stomach acid splashing into the water below. He let out a soft sob, more tears welling and spilling down his cheeks (particularly his right eye, where most of the sharp agony seemed to be concentrated, throbbing a pulsing staccato - stabbing, unbearable, pain).
Dean’s mouth hardened into a thin line, his brow drawing together in worry, in sympathy, in sadness. “Jesus Christ, Sammy…” he murmured, rubbing Sam’s back in soft circles. “Wish I could do more t’help you, man. Just breathe. ‘S okay. I gotcha.” (mindless reassurance, trite bullshit, he thought, what a help).
He’d spent the last couple hours sitting on the edge of the grimy motel bathtub (ass numb, back aching), bent over his little brother, who was bent over the toilet, suffering through unceasing agony. Dean himself hadn’t ever had the pleasure of experiencing a full-blown migraine, but he knew Sam was predisposed. Kid used to spend hours studying textbooks in dim motel lamplight, squinting with fatigue, until he started rubbing his right eye and letting out soft little grunts of pain that eventually escalated to full moans, at which point Dean would intervene and send his ass to bed with a cool washcloth on his forehead. Those headaches, Dean remembered, were few and far between - but when they hit, they hit him hard.
These new ones, however - the ones that followed the visions - were another animal entirely. Supernatural, almost, in their alarming alacrity. No pills Dean could shove down Sam’s throat, no words of soft encouragement as he vomited, no back rubs or cool cloths on his forehead, could slow them down. His poor gigantic little brother would spend the next several hours in absolute misery, having to take the next day to recuperate (slowing them down considerably, but damned if Dean was going to complain). He’d called Bobby - told him about the visions, the attacks, everything going on with Sam that was beyond the abilities of Dean’s unwavering solid big brother presence to heal - and got nothing. Bobby was just as helpless to solve this mystery as Dean, and after promising to hit the books and get ahold of them as soon as he found something, after some imparted advice on migraine remedies and dehydration risks and illegal ways to fork hospital-grade pain meds, he hung up.
(Son of a BITCH! Dean had screamed, and thrown his phone against the wall).
Beneath him, Sam began to shiver, panting with exertion and huffing out helpless, small grunts of pain. The shakes had set in, and this part Dean hated almost as much as the puking. “D-Dean,” he choked out, spitting into the toilet bowl. “Sss-”
“I gotcha, Sammy,” Dean assured him, keeping a big warm hand on his shoulder, reaching up with the other to dab at his clammy forehead with the washcloth. “’m right here. Shh.”
Sam’s torso convulsed with a few more abortive heaves, bringing up a thin dribble of mucus and not much else. Poor kid hadn’t eaten since lunch, no wonder he wasn’t bringing anything up.
After the last dry cough, with no results, Dean gave Sam’s back a final and reassuring rub. “Sam, you’re all cleaned out, man. C’mon, let’s get you back to bed. Sleepin’ on the bathroom floor ain’t gonna help your situation.”
Sam moaned in opposition, not at all agreeing to Dean’s proposition of movement. He hissed against a spike of pain, reaching up to clutch at his right eye, and his face contorted with a sob that tore Dean’s fucking heart out.
“Sammy…” Dean tried again, cupping Sam’s forehead in his own palm and redoubling his back rubbing efforts with the other hand. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise. C’mon...”
Slowly, eventually, Dean was able to help Sam to his feet, and together they limped carefully back toward the musty queen bed (the one closest to the tiny shithole bathroom, obviously). Dean mumbled a few more easys and I gotchas as he maneuvered Sam’s giant drooping frame around his shoulder and onto the mattress, pausing to let him catch his breath. Sam was still bent over almost double, clutching his right eye with one hand, reaching down to feebly grip the edge of the bed with his other hand, and Dean made sure to set the trash can at his feet, just in case, before heading back into the bathroom.
When he returned a moment later with a freshly dampened washcloth, he eased Sam down into the pillows and placed the rag over his eyes, keeping his hand steady on Sam’s brow, because he knew that the pressure felt good (k’p your han’there, Dean, Sam had slurred once, sighing in muted relief).
“Gonna figure this out, Sam,” Dean vowed, keeping his voice low. “Gonna fix this. Swear to God.”
And when Sam finally succumbed to tearful exhaustion, easing into unconsciousness, Dean was able to breathe his own sigh of relief and let his shoulders sag, ignoring his own aching back, because as long as Sammy was suffering these godforsaken attacks, he wasn’t gonna acknowledge his own pain.
And if he had to set aside every other hunt to find the evil sonofabitch who did this to Sam, who made him something other, something not-human, something with precognitive powers beyond his control that made him writhe with agony, then so be it.