Fic: I'd Give You Everything I've Got For a Little Peace of Mind
Title: I'd give you everything I've got for a little peace of mind
Rating: PG
Warnings: Set just after 7x02, bit of language
Word Count: 1,907
Summary: Written for this prompt - Sam has a space-out moment when he goes out to get Dean some pie and it’s raining outside. He’s out in the rain for hours before Dean (on crutches) finds him. He gets sick, yo. - over at the Again but With More Colds meme.
“Dean. Hey.”
There’s something giant on his forehead, giant and cold, and Dean flaps a bit trying to dislodge it.
“Settle down, crazy face,” says Sam, but he pitches his voice at the low, soothing end of the scale, eases his brother into wakefulness.
“Wh- whatcha … mmph … doin’?”
Dean cracks open one heavy eyelid, dismayed by how long it takes for his surroundings to come into focus. When they do, he sees Sam crouched beside the couch-bed, finally withdrawing his monstrous hand from Dean’s face.
“Just checking your temp. You keep falling asleep.”
“M’narcoleptic,” Dean slurs, burying his nose in a flat pillow. His leg twinges painfully because of the way his body is contorted, but he ignores it.
“You’re high. But you feel okay.”
“S’what she said.”
“ … I’m gonna do you a favour. I’m gonna blame that on the drugs.”
“You’re a gentleman a-and a… a’na … schoolteacher,” says Dean grandly.
He burrows deeper into the pillow, head swimming, though not enough to make him sick. Next thing he knows, hands are prodding at him, forcing him to move. He rolls over, groaning, and a second later he’s heaved semi-upright, a cushion shoved under his broken leg. Sam peers at him, ridiculous hair furled like waves at a surf beach.
“Are you awake? Jeez, Dean. What’d Bobby give you?”
Dean shrugs stiffly, rolling his neck against the arm of the couch, feeling a little clearer now that he’s propped up. “Handful o’something.” He glances around the cabin, eyes tracking slowly. “Where is Bobby?”
Sam grabs a chair from beside the TV, plonks himself onto it. “Are you screwing with me?”
“Um,” Dean says, wiping a hand over his bleary eyes, “not deliberately.”
“Bobby’s gone to check on Sheriff Mills. We had this conversation already. You were there. You said things.”
“Heh.” Dean’s a bit perturbed that he isn’t more perturbed, but with the amount of painkillers he’s been shoveling back it makes sense that a few of his memories have been scrubbed. “Was I delightful?”
“You drooled in your own lap.”
“You loved it. Why’d you wake me up, anyway? You’re feeling okay, right, no uninvited guests…?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, dude.” Sam stretches his legs out and crosses them at the ankles, smiling reassuringly when Dean looks skeptical. “Really. I was just thinking ‘bout making a run to the store, thought you might want some pie.”
“Peach,” says Dean instantly. “No, apple. No.” His brow scrunches. “God this is hard.”
Sam half-covers an amused snort. “How about I just get you whatever they’ve got.”
Dean thinks for a minute. It’s difficult; the edges of things are starting to turn squiggly and grey. At last, he smiles woozily, says, “That’s ‘cceptable.”
“You got it.” Sam’s out of his chair before Dean even notices he’s moved, dinner plate-sized hands helping him flop about into a comfortable position. “You need to sleep this off, kiddo. Want your soaps on while I’m gone?”
Dean does, and tries to say so, but the second he’s on his back the ceiling drops down on him and he’s out.
*
He wakes up cold, clear-headed and aching, pulse jumping in his throbbing leg. Dean reaches for it, massaging uselessly at the cast, when he realises it’s pitch black outside the windows and he’s all alone.
“Sam? Sammy?”
He has to force it, but Dean remembers the last conversation he had with the kid, something about Sam heading to the store. Panicked, thinking Sam must’ve come back and passed out in some gloom-filled corner of the cabin, Dean fumbles clumsily for the lamp beside the couch, illuminating his immediate surroundings in a soft yellow light. He's set up so he can have eyes on every room in the house, but as far as he can tell, Sam isn’t in any of them.
Dean doesn’t stop to think about the pain of his next move, just thrusts himself off the couch and hangs off the back of it till he’s standing. Everything tilts dangerously, but he doesn’t give a damn.
“Sammy, are you here?”
Dean’s crutches are god knows where, but he knows he’s not going to make it far on one foot, so he snatches up some kind of makeshift cane slash fire poker and uses that instead. He’s sweating after the first step, guts roiling, but it’s his own stupid fault. What the hell was he thinking letting Sam go out on his own? Fucking pain meds.
He leans, panting, against the window sill, breathes a little easier when he glimpses moonlight bouncing off the trunk of a very familiar car. If the Impala’s here there’s a good chance Sam’s still close by. The second he's out the front door he spies the fruits of his logic.
There are enough stars sprinkling the sky for Dean to make out the shape of Sam’s broad frame on the uncovered porch. He’s upright, which is something, but he’s motionless - and drenched. As Dean hobbles awkwardly closer he can see the way Sam’s hair and clothes are plastered to his body, his feet fixed as if by nails in a puddle of water. It obviously rained while Dean was knocked out on the couch; droplets fall from leaves and hit the ground with muddied plops. The wind is thin, but icy.
“Holy crap, Sam, what the -? What are you doing?”
There’s no response. Sam’s chin is tipped up, his mouth open and slack. His eyes are frighteningly vacant. Dean trembles, and then reaches out hesitantly to touch his brother’s shoulder.
At the contact, Sam’s head tumbles back gently on his boneless neck. His wet eyelashes bat together, once, twice. Dean shakes him, heart thumping sickly. Something jangles - the keys to the Impala, still dangling from Sam’s right hand.
There are no shopping bags, no tire tracks. Sam never even made it to the car. He’s probably been standing out here for hours.
“Sam! SAM.” Dean’s not too proud to admit that he loses it a little. He lets go of his makeshift crutch, lets it clatter to the decking, and fists his brother’s collar roughly. “Sam, come back, god damn it. Look at me!”
Something sparks in Sam’s face, a light of recognition - and just in time, too. He murmurs weakly, shifting, just as Dean’s leg gives out.
It’s instinct, not design, that sees Sam catch him, and it doesn’t last. Dean tugs at Sam until they hit the ground, then, ignoring the shooting pain in his broken bone, cups the younger man’s cheeks.
“Sammy, you with me?” he demands, pushing his brother’s soaked hair out of his eyes. “Sam, dude, don’t do this to me. Please, I’m beggin’ you, Sam. Answer me, man.”
“M’here.”
The whispered words are almost drowned out by the cracking of rain-bent branches, but Dean feels them with his hands when Sam’s jaw moves. The relief is disorienting. He holds it together, though, grins at Sam until his teeth hurt.
“That’s great, Sammy. That’s really great. I got you now, all right.”
Getting back inside is an ordeal Dean hopes not to have to repeat. Sam’s shivering with cold, conscious, but unsteady, and Dean’s in so much pain he can’t do much but be dragged along. He tries to help, points Sam’s wobbly limbs in the right direction, coaxes him the whole way. In the cabin, the first thing he does is drop onto his butt in front of the chimney and stokes the fire to roaring. Then, he goes about getting Sam warm.
Frustratingly, Sam won’t let him do much. Now that he’s back online he’s more concerned about Dean’s welfare than his own. There are still shadows in his eyes, panic at the fact that he’s been lost inside his head for hours, but he’s masking that worry by jumping all over Dean, nagging him about his wet clothes, his leaf-stuck cast. On the proviso that Sam changes his own clothes and dries his hair, Dean slithers into a fresh pair of sweats, turning away so Sam won’t see him go pale. For all his attentions, Sam’s still out of it enough not to notice. He just stands there in front of the crackling flames, a towel around his neck, two fingers crawling now and then to irritate the gash across his palm.
Dean asks him a couple of times if he’s okay, uncomfortably aware of the smallness of the question, and Sam just shrugs. Dean figures it’s the best he’s going to get right now.
Night sinks in deeper, eats away at the light emanating from the lamp.
Eventually, without even having to talk about it, Sam drags an air mattress out in front of the fireplace, heaps blankets and pillows on it, and they both settle in. Dean drifts off immediately into a hazy, red-washed dream state, stirring when he feels his leg being lifted carefully and eased onto piled bedding.
“S’gonna be okay, Sam,” he mumbles.
*
At first, Dean doesn’t know what wakes him, thinks maybe it’s the gauzy drift of sunlight over his eyelids, or the persistent, agonizing thrum that’s a compound fracture’s gift that keeps on giving.
It’s neither of those things, he realises soon enough. The thing that’s dragged him back to consciousness is the sound of his brother’s loud, sputtering breaths. Son of a bitch, Dean thinks. There really is no such thing as a Winchester catching a break.
Sam’s running a fever, Dean can tell it just by looking at him. His cheeks are flushed a dark red, his skin clammy. Tendrils of hair curl limply at his temples. Dean props himself up on an elbow, wraps a hand over Sam’s forehead. He’s warm to the touch, but not burning.
“Sam?” Dean says gently, rubbing his thumb along Sam’s eyebrow. “Hey, wake up for a sec.”
Sam doesn’t take long to come around, but he’s prickly about being roused. His mouth droops petulantly, eyelashes fanning slowly. Dean smiles. Sam stretches sluggishly and throws an arm over his eyes.
“Ugh, I feel like crap.”
“I’m not surprised; you’re rocking a pretty high mercury,” Dean informs him.
“Great,” says Sam stuffily, “Jesus,” then, “Hey, how are you, how’s your leg?”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about me. I’m gonna get you some Tylenol, okay. Don’t go anywhere.”
“If I wanted to,” says Sam.
Dean’s crutches are still AWOL, and his makeshift cane is probably mildewing on the porch, but there are enough pieces of furniture around for him to hold onto on the way to the bathroom. Or so he thinks. He makes it all the way to sitting, shifts his leg. Bright spots pop in front of his eyes.
“Dean? Whoa, hey.”
He doesn’t fall over, or black out, but he honestly can’t move. He clutches his leg like that’s actually gonna do some good and breathes very slowly through his nose. As the rush of blood gradually fades from his ears, it’s clear that Sam has left his side. He understands why a moment later when pills are being shoved forcefully between his lips and a glass held up to them.
“Nngh, no, Sam, they make me loopy …mmph!”
He chokes, water rushing unasked down his throat, and can’t help but swallow. God damn it, how’s he supposed to look after his brother if he’s all drugged-up? Sam just gazes at him triumphantly.
“You’re a friggin’ idiot, Dean,” he says, swaying a bit on his knees. “Anyway, relax, I gave you less than you should be taking.” After downing his own fistful of Tylenol, Sam puts the glass down next to the burnt-out fire. Instantly, his face scrunches, eyes going dewy. “Wow. I really might throw up.”
“Easy, Sammy,” says Dean, and with his limited range of movement, pats at Sam’s fluttering ribs. “Ex-nay on the omit-vay.”
Sam gulps thickly, trembling. He’s slick with sweat, throat glistening. The patches under his armpits have spread halfway across his chest. Dean can’t do much with his freakin’ cast hindering everything, but he can at least do something about that. He strips off his own dry t-shirt, holds it out.
“Swapsies?”
Sam actually laughs. And okay, maybe Dean’s a giant sap, but he swears that at the sound the pain in his leg dulls perceptibly. It’s either that or the meds are kicking, but he doubts it. His head is still un-fogged and his stomach, despite growling hungrily, isn’t tying itself in knots.
Sam, however, seems to be. He’s tangled up in his clingy tee, hair poking out the top. It’s just about the best thing Dean’s ever seen, and he barks out a laugh, commits the image to memory.
“Okay, idjit,” he says, “let’s get you out of there.”
“Idjit?” asks Sam once he’s freed. He isn’t even embarrassed, just wipes miserably at his clogged nose with the back of his hand.
“What, Bobby’s not here, someone’s gotta step it up.”
“It sounds weird coming from you.” Sam slides his arms into the sleeves of Dean’s t-shirt, frowning at the ultra tight fit. “I don’t like it.”
“Me either, Gay Gym Guy,” says Dean. “Here, lie down.”
Sam slumps over obediently, long, shivery frame melting into the blankets. Dean feels his forehead again. Sam bats him away, no force behind the gesture.
“Tissues?” he asks, snuffling.
“Dude, we don’t even have bread. Sorry.” Dean hands him back his sweat-stained top. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“Gross,” mutters Sam, but he takes the bundled material, sneezes into it. His whole body jerks and then coils around a groan.
“I really am sorry,” says Dean, and even he knows the apology’s too heavy for the situation. He tries to cover: “I’ll grab you a toilet roll soon as I can move. Heck, I’ll grab you two.”
“S’okay.” Sam’s eyelids look like they’re weighted down, but he makes the effort to flap his blankets meaningfully. “Don’ wan’ you getting cold, hhh-chh!”
It’s more likely he’ll get sick lying next to Sam than sitting bare-chested where he is, but Dean chooses not to say so. Instead, he eases himself down onto his back, accepts the offered warmth. Sam worms his way closer, hair tickling Dean’s temple.
It takes less than a minute for Sam to go loose, out cold. His mouth hangs open, emitting some truly terrifying snores, but he looks comfortable enough. For someone so enormous and imposing, for someone being stalked by the devil, he looks strangely child-like in sleep.
Dean watches him until the drugs start to snare at his brain and drag him down with lethargic fingers.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Set just after 7x02, bit of language
Word Count: 1,907
Summary: Written for this prompt - Sam has a space-out moment when he goes out to get Dean some pie and it’s raining outside. He’s out in the rain for hours before Dean (on crutches) finds him. He gets sick, yo. - over at the Again but With More Colds meme.
“Dean. Hey.”
There’s something giant on his forehead, giant and cold, and Dean flaps a bit trying to dislodge it.
“Settle down, crazy face,” says Sam, but he pitches his voice at the low, soothing end of the scale, eases his brother into wakefulness.
“Wh- whatcha … mmph … doin’?”
Dean cracks open one heavy eyelid, dismayed by how long it takes for his surroundings to come into focus. When they do, he sees Sam crouched beside the couch-bed, finally withdrawing his monstrous hand from Dean’s face.
“Just checking your temp. You keep falling asleep.”
“M’narcoleptic,” Dean slurs, burying his nose in a flat pillow. His leg twinges painfully because of the way his body is contorted, but he ignores it.
“You’re high. But you feel okay.”
“S’what she said.”
“ … I’m gonna do you a favour. I’m gonna blame that on the drugs.”
“You’re a gentleman a-and a… a’na … schoolteacher,” says Dean grandly.
He burrows deeper into the pillow, head swimming, though not enough to make him sick. Next thing he knows, hands are prodding at him, forcing him to move. He rolls over, groaning, and a second later he’s heaved semi-upright, a cushion shoved under his broken leg. Sam peers at him, ridiculous hair furled like waves at a surf beach.
“Are you awake? Jeez, Dean. What’d Bobby give you?”
Dean shrugs stiffly, rolling his neck against the arm of the couch, feeling a little clearer now that he’s propped up. “Handful o’something.” He glances around the cabin, eyes tracking slowly. “Where is Bobby?”
Sam grabs a chair from beside the TV, plonks himself onto it. “Are you screwing with me?”
“Um,” Dean says, wiping a hand over his bleary eyes, “not deliberately.”
“Bobby’s gone to check on Sheriff Mills. We had this conversation already. You were there. You said things.”
“Heh.” Dean’s a bit perturbed that he isn’t more perturbed, but with the amount of painkillers he’s been shoveling back it makes sense that a few of his memories have been scrubbed. “Was I delightful?”
“You drooled in your own lap.”
“You loved it. Why’d you wake me up, anyway? You’re feeling okay, right, no uninvited guests…?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, dude.” Sam stretches his legs out and crosses them at the ankles, smiling reassuringly when Dean looks skeptical. “Really. I was just thinking ‘bout making a run to the store, thought you might want some pie.”
“Peach,” says Dean instantly. “No, apple. No.” His brow scrunches. “God this is hard.”
Sam half-covers an amused snort. “How about I just get you whatever they’ve got.”
Dean thinks for a minute. It’s difficult; the edges of things are starting to turn squiggly and grey. At last, he smiles woozily, says, “That’s ‘cceptable.”
“You got it.” Sam’s out of his chair before Dean even notices he’s moved, dinner plate-sized hands helping him flop about into a comfortable position. “You need to sleep this off, kiddo. Want your soaps on while I’m gone?”
Dean does, and tries to say so, but the second he’s on his back the ceiling drops down on him and he’s out.
*
He wakes up cold, clear-headed and aching, pulse jumping in his throbbing leg. Dean reaches for it, massaging uselessly at the cast, when he realises it’s pitch black outside the windows and he’s all alone.
“Sam? Sammy?”
He has to force it, but Dean remembers the last conversation he had with the kid, something about Sam heading to the store. Panicked, thinking Sam must’ve come back and passed out in some gloom-filled corner of the cabin, Dean fumbles clumsily for the lamp beside the couch, illuminating his immediate surroundings in a soft yellow light. He's set up so he can have eyes on every room in the house, but as far as he can tell, Sam isn’t in any of them.
Dean doesn’t stop to think about the pain of his next move, just thrusts himself off the couch and hangs off the back of it till he’s standing. Everything tilts dangerously, but he doesn’t give a damn.
“Sammy, are you here?”
Dean’s crutches are god knows where, but he knows he’s not going to make it far on one foot, so he snatches up some kind of makeshift cane slash fire poker and uses that instead. He’s sweating after the first step, guts roiling, but it’s his own stupid fault. What the hell was he thinking letting Sam go out on his own? Fucking pain meds.
He leans, panting, against the window sill, breathes a little easier when he glimpses moonlight bouncing off the trunk of a very familiar car. If the Impala’s here there’s a good chance Sam’s still close by. The second he's out the front door he spies the fruits of his logic.
There are enough stars sprinkling the sky for Dean to make out the shape of Sam’s broad frame on the uncovered porch. He’s upright, which is something, but he’s motionless - and drenched. As Dean hobbles awkwardly closer he can see the way Sam’s hair and clothes are plastered to his body, his feet fixed as if by nails in a puddle of water. It obviously rained while Dean was knocked out on the couch; droplets fall from leaves and hit the ground with muddied plops. The wind is thin, but icy.
“Holy crap, Sam, what the -? What are you doing?”
There’s no response. Sam’s chin is tipped up, his mouth open and slack. His eyes are frighteningly vacant. Dean trembles, and then reaches out hesitantly to touch his brother’s shoulder.
At the contact, Sam’s head tumbles back gently on his boneless neck. His wet eyelashes bat together, once, twice. Dean shakes him, heart thumping sickly. Something jangles - the keys to the Impala, still dangling from Sam’s right hand.
There are no shopping bags, no tire tracks. Sam never even made it to the car. He’s probably been standing out here for hours.
“Sam! SAM.” Dean’s not too proud to admit that he loses it a little. He lets go of his makeshift crutch, lets it clatter to the decking, and fists his brother’s collar roughly. “Sam, come back, god damn it. Look at me!”
Something sparks in Sam’s face, a light of recognition - and just in time, too. He murmurs weakly, shifting, just as Dean’s leg gives out.
It’s instinct, not design, that sees Sam catch him, and it doesn’t last. Dean tugs at Sam until they hit the ground, then, ignoring the shooting pain in his broken bone, cups the younger man’s cheeks.
“Sammy, you with me?” he demands, pushing his brother’s soaked hair out of his eyes. “Sam, dude, don’t do this to me. Please, I’m beggin’ you, Sam. Answer me, man.”
“M’here.”
The whispered words are almost drowned out by the cracking of rain-bent branches, but Dean feels them with his hands when Sam’s jaw moves. The relief is disorienting. He holds it together, though, grins at Sam until his teeth hurt.
“That’s great, Sammy. That’s really great. I got you now, all right.”
Getting back inside is an ordeal Dean hopes not to have to repeat. Sam’s shivering with cold, conscious, but unsteady, and Dean’s in so much pain he can’t do much but be dragged along. He tries to help, points Sam’s wobbly limbs in the right direction, coaxes him the whole way. In the cabin, the first thing he does is drop onto his butt in front of the chimney and stokes the fire to roaring. Then, he goes about getting Sam warm.
Frustratingly, Sam won’t let him do much. Now that he’s back online he’s more concerned about Dean’s welfare than his own. There are still shadows in his eyes, panic at the fact that he’s been lost inside his head for hours, but he’s masking that worry by jumping all over Dean, nagging him about his wet clothes, his leaf-stuck cast. On the proviso that Sam changes his own clothes and dries his hair, Dean slithers into a fresh pair of sweats, turning away so Sam won’t see him go pale. For all his attentions, Sam’s still out of it enough not to notice. He just stands there in front of the crackling flames, a towel around his neck, two fingers crawling now and then to irritate the gash across his palm.
Dean asks him a couple of times if he’s okay, uncomfortably aware of the smallness of the question, and Sam just shrugs. Dean figures it’s the best he’s going to get right now.
Night sinks in deeper, eats away at the light emanating from the lamp.
Eventually, without even having to talk about it, Sam drags an air mattress out in front of the fireplace, heaps blankets and pillows on it, and they both settle in. Dean drifts off immediately into a hazy, red-washed dream state, stirring when he feels his leg being lifted carefully and eased onto piled bedding.
“S’gonna be okay, Sam,” he mumbles.
*
At first, Dean doesn’t know what wakes him, thinks maybe it’s the gauzy drift of sunlight over his eyelids, or the persistent, agonizing thrum that’s a compound fracture’s gift that keeps on giving.
It’s neither of those things, he realises soon enough. The thing that’s dragged him back to consciousness is the sound of his brother’s loud, sputtering breaths. Son of a bitch, Dean thinks. There really is no such thing as a Winchester catching a break.
Sam’s running a fever, Dean can tell it just by looking at him. His cheeks are flushed a dark red, his skin clammy. Tendrils of hair curl limply at his temples. Dean props himself up on an elbow, wraps a hand over Sam’s forehead. He’s warm to the touch, but not burning.
“Sam?” Dean says gently, rubbing his thumb along Sam’s eyebrow. “Hey, wake up for a sec.”
Sam doesn’t take long to come around, but he’s prickly about being roused. His mouth droops petulantly, eyelashes fanning slowly. Dean smiles. Sam stretches sluggishly and throws an arm over his eyes.
“Ugh, I feel like crap.”
“I’m not surprised; you’re rocking a pretty high mercury,” Dean informs him.
“Great,” says Sam stuffily, “Jesus,” then, “Hey, how are you, how’s your leg?”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about me. I’m gonna get you some Tylenol, okay. Don’t go anywhere.”
“If I wanted to,” says Sam.
Dean’s crutches are still AWOL, and his makeshift cane is probably mildewing on the porch, but there are enough pieces of furniture around for him to hold onto on the way to the bathroom. Or so he thinks. He makes it all the way to sitting, shifts his leg. Bright spots pop in front of his eyes.
“Dean? Whoa, hey.”
He doesn’t fall over, or black out, but he honestly can’t move. He clutches his leg like that’s actually gonna do some good and breathes very slowly through his nose. As the rush of blood gradually fades from his ears, it’s clear that Sam has left his side. He understands why a moment later when pills are being shoved forcefully between his lips and a glass held up to them.
“Nngh, no, Sam, they make me loopy …mmph!”
He chokes, water rushing unasked down his throat, and can’t help but swallow. God damn it, how’s he supposed to look after his brother if he’s all drugged-up? Sam just gazes at him triumphantly.
“You’re a friggin’ idiot, Dean,” he says, swaying a bit on his knees. “Anyway, relax, I gave you less than you should be taking.” After downing his own fistful of Tylenol, Sam puts the glass down next to the burnt-out fire. Instantly, his face scrunches, eyes going dewy. “Wow. I really might throw up.”
“Easy, Sammy,” says Dean, and with his limited range of movement, pats at Sam’s fluttering ribs. “Ex-nay on the omit-vay.”
Sam gulps thickly, trembling. He’s slick with sweat, throat glistening. The patches under his armpits have spread halfway across his chest. Dean can’t do much with his freakin’ cast hindering everything, but he can at least do something about that. He strips off his own dry t-shirt, holds it out.
“Swapsies?”
Sam actually laughs. And okay, maybe Dean’s a giant sap, but he swears that at the sound the pain in his leg dulls perceptibly. It’s either that or the meds are kicking, but he doubts it. His head is still un-fogged and his stomach, despite growling hungrily, isn’t tying itself in knots.
Sam, however, seems to be. He’s tangled up in his clingy tee, hair poking out the top. It’s just about the best thing Dean’s ever seen, and he barks out a laugh, commits the image to memory.
“Okay, idjit,” he says, “let’s get you out of there.”
“Idjit?” asks Sam once he’s freed. He isn’t even embarrassed, just wipes miserably at his clogged nose with the back of his hand.
“What, Bobby’s not here, someone’s gotta step it up.”
“It sounds weird coming from you.” Sam slides his arms into the sleeves of Dean’s t-shirt, frowning at the ultra tight fit. “I don’t like it.”
“Me either, Gay Gym Guy,” says Dean. “Here, lie down.”
Sam slumps over obediently, long, shivery frame melting into the blankets. Dean feels his forehead again. Sam bats him away, no force behind the gesture.
“Tissues?” he asks, snuffling.
“Dude, we don’t even have bread. Sorry.” Dean hands him back his sweat-stained top. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“Gross,” mutters Sam, but he takes the bundled material, sneezes into it. His whole body jerks and then coils around a groan.
“I really am sorry,” says Dean, and even he knows the apology’s too heavy for the situation. He tries to cover: “I’ll grab you a toilet roll soon as I can move. Heck, I’ll grab you two.”
“S’okay.” Sam’s eyelids look like they’re weighted down, but he makes the effort to flap his blankets meaningfully. “Don’ wan’ you getting cold, hhh-chh!”
It’s more likely he’ll get sick lying next to Sam than sitting bare-chested where he is, but Dean chooses not to say so. Instead, he eases himself down onto his back, accepts the offered warmth. Sam worms his way closer, hair tickling Dean’s temple.
It takes less than a minute for Sam to go loose, out cold. His mouth hangs open, emitting some truly terrifying snores, but he looks comfortable enough. For someone so enormous and imposing, for someone being stalked by the devil, he looks strangely child-like in sleep.
Dean watches him until the drugs start to snare at his brain and drag him down with lethargic fingers.