SPN: Spooks: Cold
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Sam screams for almost an hour, after Death puts back what Lucifer stole. The howls of anguish stop only when he starts convulsing, and Dean is about to climb the walls, so sick of all of this. They’ve paid their dues, and they’ve stopped the fucking apocalypse; is it too much to ask for his younger brother back in one whole piece?
But Death is watching the spasms without concern, head tilted slightly in a manner eerily reminiscent of Castiel, and holds up a wrinkled hand every time Dean steps closer. “Leave it alone Dean. It’s only expected that his body would attempt to reject it.”
Like his soul is some sort of transplant.
The seizures stop after another half hour, fading into quiet whimpers, tremors and shakes. Death smiles grimly at Dean, tips his head, and disappears. Dean’s half afraid to touch him, worried about bringing back the screams and delusions he always had when detoxing. It’s his baby brother, the same Sammy he’s always known, and he can’t resist the urge to make sure he’s okay. Probably won’t ever be able to resist that urge. He sets a hand on the thickly muscled shoulder, feeling the quivers underneath the flesh as he hears the broken keening noise. “God, Sammy.” He’s got his eyes scrunched shut and face buried as best he can, and it’s only then that Dean realizes he’s still restrained, still stretched out like some bizarre offering.
The buckles come undone easily despite unsteady fingers, and Sam curls up instantly on the cot, breath hitching. He fights any attempts to get him vertical, and Dean gives up, lets him have the battle. He isn’t surprised when Sam almost instantly passes out, still making pitiful noises and jerking as the dreams follow him into the sleep he’s been missing out on for over a year.
When Dean checks on him after dusk, he’s not surprised in the least to feel the heat radiating off him, eyes glassy and confused when he’s roused enough to open them. The hazel orbs are warmer than they have been, soft in a way that screams ‘Sammy’, and Dean relaxes a bit at the confirmation that his brother is back; Robo-Sam and his cold, hard gaze are gone. It’s just his brother, sick, broken and feverish, and that’s something Dean has more than enough experience in handling.
It’s a week of solid sleep, a steady diet of Tylenol and Pedialyte. There’s a broth Bobby’s kept simmering on the burner, topping it off with water every few hours to keep it from getting too strong, before Sam’s even approaching coherent. The fever makes him alternate between clinging and combative, the moods swinging as much as the fever does. But it slowly steadies out as the thermometer drops, until it’s just a tired and cranky Sam; one who follows Dean too easily upstairs, twisting fingers in the hem of his brother’s shirt, and sleeps on the couch, pressed close, like always.
His brother’s back.
Previous (Apology) Home Next (Heart)
Sam screams for almost an hour, after Death puts back what Lucifer stole. The howls of anguish stop only when he starts convulsing, and Dean is about to climb the walls, so sick of all of this. They’ve paid their dues, and they’ve stopped the fucking apocalypse; is it too much to ask for his younger brother back in one whole piece?
But Death is watching the spasms without concern, head tilted slightly in a manner eerily reminiscent of Castiel, and holds up a wrinkled hand every time Dean steps closer. “Leave it alone Dean. It’s only expected that his body would attempt to reject it.”
Like his soul is some sort of transplant.
The seizures stop after another half hour, fading into quiet whimpers, tremors and shakes. Death smiles grimly at Dean, tips his head, and disappears. Dean’s half afraid to touch him, worried about bringing back the screams and delusions he always had when detoxing. It’s his baby brother, the same Sammy he’s always known, and he can’t resist the urge to make sure he’s okay. Probably won’t ever be able to resist that urge. He sets a hand on the thickly muscled shoulder, feeling the quivers underneath the flesh as he hears the broken keening noise. “God, Sammy.” He’s got his eyes scrunched shut and face buried as best he can, and it’s only then that Dean realizes he’s still restrained, still stretched out like some bizarre offering.
The buckles come undone easily despite unsteady fingers, and Sam curls up instantly on the cot, breath hitching. He fights any attempts to get him vertical, and Dean gives up, lets him have the battle. He isn’t surprised when Sam almost instantly passes out, still making pitiful noises and jerking as the dreams follow him into the sleep he’s been missing out on for over a year.
When Dean checks on him after dusk, he’s not surprised in the least to feel the heat radiating off him, eyes glassy and confused when he’s roused enough to open them. The hazel orbs are warmer than they have been, soft in a way that screams ‘Sammy’, and Dean relaxes a bit at the confirmation that his brother is back; Robo-Sam and his cold, hard gaze are gone. It’s just his brother, sick, broken and feverish, and that’s something Dean has more than enough experience in handling.
It’s a week of solid sleep, a steady diet of Tylenol and Pedialyte. There’s a broth Bobby’s kept simmering on the burner, topping it off with water every few hours to keep it from getting too strong, before Sam’s even approaching coherent. The fever makes him alternate between clinging and combative, the moods swinging as much as the fever does. But it slowly steadies out as the thermometer drops, until it’s just a tired and cranky Sam; one who follows Dean too easily upstairs, twisting fingers in the hem of his brother’s shirt, and sleeps on the couch, pressed close, like always.
His brother’s back.
Previous (Apology) Home Next (Heart)