FIC: Vigil
Summary: Sam's sicker than he has been in a while. Dean's got it covered.
Words: 2161
A/N: Shameless plotless self-indulgent fluff.
Sam would get a lot of colds. Whether it was from the changing seasons or from an afternoon spent interviewing witnesses in an elementary school, Dean’s little brother was sure to pick something up. Despite this - or maybe even because of it - Sam wouldn’t become seriously ill too often. Maybe a couple bouts of bronchitis in the winter (because even Dean couldn’t stop a virus from developing into something more, try as he might to bundle Sammy up in hats and socks and scarves) or even a mysterious allergic reaction every once in a while (“Who gets hay fever in the middle of February, Sam? Come on.”), but for the most part Sam’s health was nothing to worry about.
Which is why Dean’s a little concerned (but he’s not freaking out - really, he isn’t, okay? Shut up) when Sam’s temperature spikes over 103 degrees, which is higher than the usual I’m-fine-Dean-I-can-barely-feel-it-I-can-still-hunt low grade fever that usually piggybacks onto the worst of his illnesses.
And Sam was fine this morning, which is perhaps the most concerning part, save for a dry cough that Dean had chalked up to being due to the humid, early-Summer air that sometimes messes with what remains of the asthma that plagued him a lot more during childhood that it does now. But over dinner he’d been flushed (from the heat, Dean thought) and rubbing his temples (“just a headache” my ass, Sam) and barely responding to Dean’s jabs at the way his hair would (mis)behave in the humidity, so Dean gave him some Tylenol and sent him to bed, and that should have been the end of that.
But it wasn’t, not when Sam blearily opened his eyes two hours later and stood up only to collapse back onto the bed in a shivery fit of coughing that put Dean’s senses on high alert.
“Hey, hey,” Dean’s soothing now, as he mutes the already-low-volume primetime TV and steps over to Sam’s bed. He presses on his brother’s chest, firm and gentle, to try and coax him back down onto the bed. “You’re fine. Hey. You’re all right. Go back to sleep.”
“What time…?” Sam requests, slow and slurred and hoarse.
“Bed time,” Dean evades, pulling the covers back over his brother and smoothing them out. “Back to sleep or you’re going to keep me up all night. My show was just getting good.”
“Screw you,” Sam says and promptly turns over. Dean smiles, delighted that Sam’s still coherent enough to recognize his teasing and retaliate.
“Yeah, maybe when you’re feeling better,” Dean jokes, and Sam flips his pillow over his own head.
The thing about Sam’s fevers is that there’s often an edge, or a peak, that lies right above a state of delirium wherein he’s absolutely miserable. His skin is sensitive and he’s ice cold at his core but burning on the outside (like a piece of badly cooked meat, Dean muses), and he’s dizzy from dehydration. There’s not much Dean can do to help, and if it goes even half of a degree higher he knows that Sam is going to start losing his mind just a little. It makes Dean feel useless.
All he can do right now is let Sam sleep, and he knows it. He’s done this dozens and dozens of times; so much that it’s almost become formulaic. He knows when Sam needs to sleep and when he needs to be dosed up, when he needs to drink and when he needs his temperature taken. Dean monitors him just closely enough, giving him space so as to avoid making Sam feel smothered and stressed and burdensome, while stealthily hovering exactly the right amount to make sure Sam is taken care of.
Still, it’s been a while since Sam has been this sick. Often he’ll become fuzzy from a stuffy head and sore throat, each of his senses softening and knocking him off his game while his articulation is hilariously skewed from all the congestion. (And, because it’s Sam, there’s a whole lot of bitching.) He’ll rarely burn with fever like he is tonight, and he usually doesn’t become exhausted enough to be bed-ridden so early in the evening - especially not with muscle soreness and heat swings and an eye-aching migraine, and especially not with symptoms that would show up this quickly.
Dean watches his brother’s chest swell and deflate, as even as it’s going to get, and an indicator that he’s finally fallen asleep. Dean unmutes the TV, aware that Sam sleeps deeply when he’s got a fever like this one, and hopes that he’ll stay still.
And he does, for almost fifteen minutes.
Sam turns back in bed to face Dean and then blinks slowly, eyebrows furrowed tightly in confusion and breaths crackling in his chest. “Dad…?” He whispers, as urgently as someone can while speaking so slowly. “Is everything okay? Thought you wouldn’t be home for a couple more, uh…” he trails off, almost like a pause, except that he doesn’t continue.
Dean doesn’t know what to say, but he won’t let it show. Voice strong as ever, he orders, “Go to sleep, Sammy,” and stamps the back of his palm to Sam’s forehead. It’s warmer now, surprise surprise.
“Yeah…” Sam agrees, breathlessly, and chuckles. “Oh, man…” And he’s still laughing, wheezing a little (or a lot) with his head tilted back, shiny eyes squinting happily at the ceiling. Whenever Sam’s not in his right mind, regardless of the cause, he always becomes giddy - and it would be endearing - cute, even - if it didn’t mean that he’d feel a hundred times worse in the morning.
But it doesn’t mean Dean can’t probe him. “What’s so funny?”
“Just…” Sam begins, wheezing out another loose laugh while Dean uncaps the bottle of Tylenol and fills up a glass of water for Sam’s next dose.
“Here,” Dean interrupts, putting his free hand on the small of Sam’s back. “Think you can sit up for me, Giggles? Take some more medicine?”
“What are you talking about?”
Oh, so it’s like that.
“You’re sick, Sammy,” Dean explains for what he anticipates won’t be the first time tonight. “Come on, just for a couple seconds.”
Sam sighs all melodramatically like a teenage girl. “Again?” He asks incredulously. “Why don’t you ever get sick?”
Dean doesn’t have an answer, because even though Sam - with his salads and exercise and bottled water - manages to succumb to any virus that even considers latching onto him, Dean’s diet of cheeseburgers and pie and beer seems to thoroughly protect him from catching anything more than a winter cold every couple years.
So Dean hands Sam the pills and watches as he swallows them dry and uses the water as a chaser. Sam flops back down on the bed, eyes closed.
“These pills are soooo tired,” Sam complains. “They make-I mean. They make me tired? Dean?”
“Your fever makes you tired,” Dean corrects. “It’s good. Sleep it off, remember?”
All Sam says is, “Dean?”
“Right here,” Dean confirms. “I’m not going anywhere, Sammy.”
Sam calms at this (or maybe it’s the medicine) and burrows deep under the covers, flipping over onto his stomach and sliding his arms underneath the pillow. Dean knows he’s drifting back into what’s sure to be a fitful slumber, and he’ll be lucky if the poor kid is out for even a couple hours before he’s up again, his metabolism burning through the acetaminophen far more quickly than it should.
It’s past midnight and although Dean’s not really tired (he’s not, really), he switches off the television, slips into his own bed and closes his eyes.
He isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep before he wakes up to a humid stuffiness in the room, hot and stifling. Sam has pulled the motel’s desk chair over to the thermostat, and he’s camped out on it with his comforter pulled around his shoulders.
“Sam? You turn the heat on?” Dean doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s out of bed, racing back to set the temperature straight. Dean’s already sweating but he can tell that Sam is not, which means that his fever has yet to break.
“Freezing out there, Dean,” Sam says. He points to the window. “Already snowing.”
“That’s just rain, Sammy. It’s the middle of May.” Dean reaches up and switches off the heater, but doesn’t open a window or turn on the A/C because of the way Sam is shaking, chills and fever and adrenaline wracking his body far too desperately.
Sam squints and then nods, crossing his arms tightly over his body. “Feels like snow,” he mumbles.
It isn’t time yet for more Tylenol, especially not when Dean’s been doubling the dose the last few hours to account for Sam’s size and particularly high temperature. Instead he pats Sam on the shoulder and helps him to his feet.
“Gonna try to bring your fever down,” Dean notifies. “Okay? I’ll be right back.”
Because the Tylenol’s not working, Dean dampens a washcloth from the bathroom and wrings it out over the sink, making sure that the temperature is just cool enough, even though he knows Sam’s body heat will warm the towel back up in no time.
And despite Dean being gone for at least under thirty seconds, Sam has a confusing combination of worry and humor and relief in his voice when Dean returns to his bedside. “Thought you got lost.”
“Right here, Sammy,” Dean promises, pushing his brother’s bangs back and placing the washcloth on his forehead. He braces himself for the hiss that Sam emits, a nonverbal complaint at the cold dampness of the remedy. “It’ll help. You trust me, right?”
Sam presses the cloth harder against his skin to show Dean how much he really does. Tendrils of water are squeezed out from the fabric, spilling down the sides of Sam’s dry face. Dean wipes them away with his thumb until Sam drops his own hand, soothed and unconscious.
Dean doesn’t fall asleep now, because he knows that Sam won’t be out for long, and he doesn’t want to wake up disoriented when his brother needs him. Instead, he busies himself by cleaning the guns and rearranging their med kit until Sam jolts up in his bed, washcloth falling from his forehead onto his lap.
“Dean…” he calls out. “Dean, hey…”
And Dean’s at his brother’s side in a flash, with more washcloths and medicine and a glass of water. He feels Sam’s forehead - still too warm but he’s sweating now at least, an indicator of a (finally) broken fever - and hands him the medicine. “Hey, Sammy. You feeling better?”
“Hate this,” Sam murmurs. That’s a no, then, but Dean had been expecting as much.
“I know you do. Want to try some more medicine?”
The grimace on Sam’s face says that no, he doesn’t, but he holds out an open palm anyway and Dean drops a couple pills into it. This is different from the mild, fuzzy bugs that Sam usually comes down with, in that now he’s at least compliant (which Dean is grateful for). Give Sam a cold and he’ll whine for his country, but out of some misplaced sense of pride he’ll refuse to take anything for it unless his symptoms actually become debilitating, or an endangerment on a hunt (which is rare, Dean will give him that). But Sam with the flu is a surprisingly good patient, taking the meds that Dean gives him at regular intervals and agreeing to sleep it off, to get better as soon as possible with little complaint.
Dean can’t tell if he likes the cooperation more or if he likes it less, because it means that Sam is suffering too much to bitch and moan, desperate enough to feel better that he’ll abandon his stubborn nature for as long as it takes his body to heal.
“You sleep at all?” Sam asks, sounding mostly coherent other than the exhaustion in his tone. His voice is deeper than usual, muffled and soft.
“Little bit,” Dean says. (Don’t worry about that, Sammy.)
Sam turns over, and reaches out a hand towards Dean, index finger extended. “Stay there,” he says with half-lidded eyes. “I’ll be right back.”
And Sam’s eyes close all the way, his hand uncurls and he drops his jaw, fast asleep. Dean moves his arm so it isn’t hanging off the bed anymore. Sam paws at Dean, unconsciously, weak and affectionate before he becomes still.
Dean’s heard somewhere that fevers are like alcohol, blurring your consciousness and exposing your core feelings. If this is true, he realizes, then a part of Sam must still depend on his big brother - for comfort, for safety, for reassurance - and this makes Dean feel a hell of a lot less helpless than he’d felt before, despite Sam’s rattling lungs and simmering fever, despite his own rusty caretaking and dwindling supplies. Sam still needs him. And Sam’s confidence, Dean thinks, is absolutely infallible.
Words: 2161
A/N: Shameless plotless self-indulgent fluff.
Sam would get a lot of colds. Whether it was from the changing seasons or from an afternoon spent interviewing witnesses in an elementary school, Dean’s little brother was sure to pick something up. Despite this - or maybe even because of it - Sam wouldn’t become seriously ill too often. Maybe a couple bouts of bronchitis in the winter (because even Dean couldn’t stop a virus from developing into something more, try as he might to bundle Sammy up in hats and socks and scarves) or even a mysterious allergic reaction every once in a while (“Who gets hay fever in the middle of February, Sam? Come on.”), but for the most part Sam’s health was nothing to worry about.
Which is why Dean’s a little concerned (but he’s not freaking out - really, he isn’t, okay? Shut up) when Sam’s temperature spikes over 103 degrees, which is higher than the usual I’m-fine-Dean-I-can-barely-feel-it-I-can-still-hunt low grade fever that usually piggybacks onto the worst of his illnesses.
And Sam was fine this morning, which is perhaps the most concerning part, save for a dry cough that Dean had chalked up to being due to the humid, early-Summer air that sometimes messes with what remains of the asthma that plagued him a lot more during childhood that it does now. But over dinner he’d been flushed (from the heat, Dean thought) and rubbing his temples (“just a headache” my ass, Sam) and barely responding to Dean’s jabs at the way his hair would (mis)behave in the humidity, so Dean gave him some Tylenol and sent him to bed, and that should have been the end of that.
But it wasn’t, not when Sam blearily opened his eyes two hours later and stood up only to collapse back onto the bed in a shivery fit of coughing that put Dean’s senses on high alert.
“Hey, hey,” Dean’s soothing now, as he mutes the already-low-volume primetime TV and steps over to Sam’s bed. He presses on his brother’s chest, firm and gentle, to try and coax him back down onto the bed. “You’re fine. Hey. You’re all right. Go back to sleep.”
“What time…?” Sam requests, slow and slurred and hoarse.
“Bed time,” Dean evades, pulling the covers back over his brother and smoothing them out. “Back to sleep or you’re going to keep me up all night. My show was just getting good.”
“Screw you,” Sam says and promptly turns over. Dean smiles, delighted that Sam’s still coherent enough to recognize his teasing and retaliate.
“Yeah, maybe when you’re feeling better,” Dean jokes, and Sam flips his pillow over his own head.
The thing about Sam’s fevers is that there’s often an edge, or a peak, that lies right above a state of delirium wherein he’s absolutely miserable. His skin is sensitive and he’s ice cold at his core but burning on the outside (like a piece of badly cooked meat, Dean muses), and he’s dizzy from dehydration. There’s not much Dean can do to help, and if it goes even half of a degree higher he knows that Sam is going to start losing his mind just a little. It makes Dean feel useless.
All he can do right now is let Sam sleep, and he knows it. He’s done this dozens and dozens of times; so much that it’s almost become formulaic. He knows when Sam needs to sleep and when he needs to be dosed up, when he needs to drink and when he needs his temperature taken. Dean monitors him just closely enough, giving him space so as to avoid making Sam feel smothered and stressed and burdensome, while stealthily hovering exactly the right amount to make sure Sam is taken care of.
Still, it’s been a while since Sam has been this sick. Often he’ll become fuzzy from a stuffy head and sore throat, each of his senses softening and knocking him off his game while his articulation is hilariously skewed from all the congestion. (And, because it’s Sam, there’s a whole lot of bitching.) He’ll rarely burn with fever like he is tonight, and he usually doesn’t become exhausted enough to be bed-ridden so early in the evening - especially not with muscle soreness and heat swings and an eye-aching migraine, and especially not with symptoms that would show up this quickly.
Dean watches his brother’s chest swell and deflate, as even as it’s going to get, and an indicator that he’s finally fallen asleep. Dean unmutes the TV, aware that Sam sleeps deeply when he’s got a fever like this one, and hopes that he’ll stay still.
And he does, for almost fifteen minutes.
Sam turns back in bed to face Dean and then blinks slowly, eyebrows furrowed tightly in confusion and breaths crackling in his chest. “Dad…?” He whispers, as urgently as someone can while speaking so slowly. “Is everything okay? Thought you wouldn’t be home for a couple more, uh…” he trails off, almost like a pause, except that he doesn’t continue.
Dean doesn’t know what to say, but he won’t let it show. Voice strong as ever, he orders, “Go to sleep, Sammy,” and stamps the back of his palm to Sam’s forehead. It’s warmer now, surprise surprise.
“Yeah…” Sam agrees, breathlessly, and chuckles. “Oh, man…” And he’s still laughing, wheezing a little (or a lot) with his head tilted back, shiny eyes squinting happily at the ceiling. Whenever Sam’s not in his right mind, regardless of the cause, he always becomes giddy - and it would be endearing - cute, even - if it didn’t mean that he’d feel a hundred times worse in the morning.
But it doesn’t mean Dean can’t probe him. “What’s so funny?”
“Just…” Sam begins, wheezing out another loose laugh while Dean uncaps the bottle of Tylenol and fills up a glass of water for Sam’s next dose.
“Here,” Dean interrupts, putting his free hand on the small of Sam’s back. “Think you can sit up for me, Giggles? Take some more medicine?”
“What are you talking about?”
Oh, so it’s like that.
“You’re sick, Sammy,” Dean explains for what he anticipates won’t be the first time tonight. “Come on, just for a couple seconds.”
Sam sighs all melodramatically like a teenage girl. “Again?” He asks incredulously. “Why don’t you ever get sick?”
Dean doesn’t have an answer, because even though Sam - with his salads and exercise and bottled water - manages to succumb to any virus that even considers latching onto him, Dean’s diet of cheeseburgers and pie and beer seems to thoroughly protect him from catching anything more than a winter cold every couple years.
So Dean hands Sam the pills and watches as he swallows them dry and uses the water as a chaser. Sam flops back down on the bed, eyes closed.
“These pills are soooo tired,” Sam complains. “They make-I mean. They make me tired? Dean?”
“Your fever makes you tired,” Dean corrects. “It’s good. Sleep it off, remember?”
All Sam says is, “Dean?”
“Right here,” Dean confirms. “I’m not going anywhere, Sammy.”
Sam calms at this (or maybe it’s the medicine) and burrows deep under the covers, flipping over onto his stomach and sliding his arms underneath the pillow. Dean knows he’s drifting back into what’s sure to be a fitful slumber, and he’ll be lucky if the poor kid is out for even a couple hours before he’s up again, his metabolism burning through the acetaminophen far more quickly than it should.
It’s past midnight and although Dean’s not really tired (he’s not, really), he switches off the television, slips into his own bed and closes his eyes.
He isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep before he wakes up to a humid stuffiness in the room, hot and stifling. Sam has pulled the motel’s desk chair over to the thermostat, and he’s camped out on it with his comforter pulled around his shoulders.
“Sam? You turn the heat on?” Dean doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s out of bed, racing back to set the temperature straight. Dean’s already sweating but he can tell that Sam is not, which means that his fever has yet to break.
“Freezing out there, Dean,” Sam says. He points to the window. “Already snowing.”
“That’s just rain, Sammy. It’s the middle of May.” Dean reaches up and switches off the heater, but doesn’t open a window or turn on the A/C because of the way Sam is shaking, chills and fever and adrenaline wracking his body far too desperately.
Sam squints and then nods, crossing his arms tightly over his body. “Feels like snow,” he mumbles.
It isn’t time yet for more Tylenol, especially not when Dean’s been doubling the dose the last few hours to account for Sam’s size and particularly high temperature. Instead he pats Sam on the shoulder and helps him to his feet.
“Gonna try to bring your fever down,” Dean notifies. “Okay? I’ll be right back.”
Because the Tylenol’s not working, Dean dampens a washcloth from the bathroom and wrings it out over the sink, making sure that the temperature is just cool enough, even though he knows Sam’s body heat will warm the towel back up in no time.
And despite Dean being gone for at least under thirty seconds, Sam has a confusing combination of worry and humor and relief in his voice when Dean returns to his bedside. “Thought you got lost.”
“Right here, Sammy,” Dean promises, pushing his brother’s bangs back and placing the washcloth on his forehead. He braces himself for the hiss that Sam emits, a nonverbal complaint at the cold dampness of the remedy. “It’ll help. You trust me, right?”
Sam presses the cloth harder against his skin to show Dean how much he really does. Tendrils of water are squeezed out from the fabric, spilling down the sides of Sam’s dry face. Dean wipes them away with his thumb until Sam drops his own hand, soothed and unconscious.
Dean doesn’t fall asleep now, because he knows that Sam won’t be out for long, and he doesn’t want to wake up disoriented when his brother needs him. Instead, he busies himself by cleaning the guns and rearranging their med kit until Sam jolts up in his bed, washcloth falling from his forehead onto his lap.
“Dean…” he calls out. “Dean, hey…”
And Dean’s at his brother’s side in a flash, with more washcloths and medicine and a glass of water. He feels Sam’s forehead - still too warm but he’s sweating now at least, an indicator of a (finally) broken fever - and hands him the medicine. “Hey, Sammy. You feeling better?”
“Hate this,” Sam murmurs. That’s a no, then, but Dean had been expecting as much.
“I know you do. Want to try some more medicine?”
The grimace on Sam’s face says that no, he doesn’t, but he holds out an open palm anyway and Dean drops a couple pills into it. This is different from the mild, fuzzy bugs that Sam usually comes down with, in that now he’s at least compliant (which Dean is grateful for). Give Sam a cold and he’ll whine for his country, but out of some misplaced sense of pride he’ll refuse to take anything for it unless his symptoms actually become debilitating, or an endangerment on a hunt (which is rare, Dean will give him that). But Sam with the flu is a surprisingly good patient, taking the meds that Dean gives him at regular intervals and agreeing to sleep it off, to get better as soon as possible with little complaint.
Dean can’t tell if he likes the cooperation more or if he likes it less, because it means that Sam is suffering too much to bitch and moan, desperate enough to feel better that he’ll abandon his stubborn nature for as long as it takes his body to heal.
“You sleep at all?” Sam asks, sounding mostly coherent other than the exhaustion in his tone. His voice is deeper than usual, muffled and soft.
“Little bit,” Dean says. (Don’t worry about that, Sammy.)
Sam turns over, and reaches out a hand towards Dean, index finger extended. “Stay there,” he says with half-lidded eyes. “I’ll be right back.”
And Sam’s eyes close all the way, his hand uncurls and he drops his jaw, fast asleep. Dean moves his arm so it isn’t hanging off the bed anymore. Sam paws at Dean, unconsciously, weak and affectionate before he becomes still.
Dean’s heard somewhere that fevers are like alcohol, blurring your consciousness and exposing your core feelings. If this is true, he realizes, then a part of Sam must still depend on his big brother - for comfort, for safety, for reassurance - and this makes Dean feel a hell of a lot less helpless than he’d felt before, despite Sam’s rattling lungs and simmering fever, despite his own rusty caretaking and dwindling supplies. Sam still needs him. And Sam’s confidence, Dean thinks, is absolutely infallible.