More Important
Title: More Important
Author: yami_faerie
Rating: G-PG (minor swearing)
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: like 500
Summary: Sometimes Sam's more important than a car.
Author's Note: Also from 27_jaredjensen's Sneezy Sam comment-fic meme, prompt (again) by saltfuture: "Sam has a cold which leads to a nosebleed, which leads to him snotting and bleeding all over Dean. Or maybe he's really sick and lying in the backseat of the car when it happens and yet Dean does not kill him for messing up his baby's seats." It's got a little bit of angst and tons of schmooooooop.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine.
Winters in North Dakota are really cold and really dry and really windy, sending tiny flakes of snow all over the place. Dean dusts off his hair with a mild scowl before he slides into the Impala.
He and Sam banished a poltergeist just last night from an old house in Bismarck, and the damn thing managed to lock Sam down in the cellar for over two hours before Dean finally managed to get the last of the purifying bags Missouri had taught them to make so long ago in the last wall of the house. By the time he got Sam out, he was on the verge of hypothermia. Dean considered themselves lucky that he didn’t slide off the road on the way back to the motel, where he spent the night helping Sam to warm up again.
Fortunately, Sam warmed up. Unfortunately, he kept going past normal body temperature and straight up to 103.1.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Got some NyQuil,” Dean tells Sam as he shuts the door and dusts more snow off his shoulders. “Also, soup.”
Sam’s shivering in the backseat, bundled up with every blanket they own plus some more Dean stole from the motel when they checked out nearly an hour before. Dean left the Impala’s engine idling with the heater running full-blast while he went in search of soup and meds, figuring Sam would be fine until he got back.
But Sam isn’t quite fine. “Deab,” he mumbles from behind a wad of tissues. “Deab, by dose is bleeding.”
Dean blinks, trying to translate what Sam just said in his head. Then he takes a closer look at the tissues, blankets, and even the backseat.
Blood.
Sam’s nose is bleeding.
Dean hates dry, cold winters, they always dry Sam’s sinuses up if he spends too much time outside. He had been thinking that maybe they were gonna get away without a nosebleed this time, but it seems he was too hopeful. After all, Sam was stuck in a really cold, drafty basement with tiny broken windows he couldn’t escape through and a poltergeist determined to see him dead.
“Your nose is bleeding,” Dean sighs.
Sam nods, still holding the wad of tissues against his face. “I god the sead, Deab. I’b sowwy,” he says, sounding so stuffy and young and sad that Dean can’t even imagine being upset about the potential damage to his precious car.
Sometimes even he’s willing to admit (only to himself, no need to get Sam all sappy/gooey/girly over it) that Sam’s more important than the Impala.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, grabbing more tissues and leaning over the front seat to wipe up what he can. “I can clean it later. Let’s get that bleeding stopped so you can eat and drug yourself up, okay?”
Sam nods again, shaggy hair falling everywhere and looking teary. “Oh, God, don’t go crying now,” Dean says with (fond) exasperation. “You’re such a girl, Samantha.”
Sam nods once more, harder this time, and Dean catches a hint of a smile before he sneezes hard into his mess of bloody tissues.
And maybe, just maybe, Dean smiles, too.
END
Author: yami_faerie
Rating: G-PG (minor swearing)
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: like 500
Summary: Sometimes Sam's more important than a car.
Author's Note: Also from 27_jaredjensen's Sneezy Sam comment-fic meme, prompt (again) by saltfuture: "Sam has a cold which leads to a nosebleed, which leads to him snotting and bleeding all over Dean. Or maybe he's really sick and lying in the backseat of the car when it happens and yet Dean does not kill him for messing up his baby's seats." It's got a little bit of angst and tons of schmooooooop.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine.
Winters in North Dakota are really cold and really dry and really windy, sending tiny flakes of snow all over the place. Dean dusts off his hair with a mild scowl before he slides into the Impala.
He and Sam banished a poltergeist just last night from an old house in Bismarck, and the damn thing managed to lock Sam down in the cellar for over two hours before Dean finally managed to get the last of the purifying bags Missouri had taught them to make so long ago in the last wall of the house. By the time he got Sam out, he was on the verge of hypothermia. Dean considered themselves lucky that he didn’t slide off the road on the way back to the motel, where he spent the night helping Sam to warm up again.
Fortunately, Sam warmed up. Unfortunately, he kept going past normal body temperature and straight up to 103.1.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Got some NyQuil,” Dean tells Sam as he shuts the door and dusts more snow off his shoulders. “Also, soup.”
Sam’s shivering in the backseat, bundled up with every blanket they own plus some more Dean stole from the motel when they checked out nearly an hour before. Dean left the Impala’s engine idling with the heater running full-blast while he went in search of soup and meds, figuring Sam would be fine until he got back.
But Sam isn’t quite fine. “Deab,” he mumbles from behind a wad of tissues. “Deab, by dose is bleeding.”
Dean blinks, trying to translate what Sam just said in his head. Then he takes a closer look at the tissues, blankets, and even the backseat.
Blood.
Sam’s nose is bleeding.
Dean hates dry, cold winters, they always dry Sam’s sinuses up if he spends too much time outside. He had been thinking that maybe they were gonna get away without a nosebleed this time, but it seems he was too hopeful. After all, Sam was stuck in a really cold, drafty basement with tiny broken windows he couldn’t escape through and a poltergeist determined to see him dead.
“Your nose is bleeding,” Dean sighs.
Sam nods, still holding the wad of tissues against his face. “I god the sead, Deab. I’b sowwy,” he says, sounding so stuffy and young and sad that Dean can’t even imagine being upset about the potential damage to his precious car.
Sometimes even he’s willing to admit (only to himself, no need to get Sam all sappy/gooey/girly over it) that Sam’s more important than the Impala.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, grabbing more tissues and leaning over the front seat to wipe up what he can. “I can clean it later. Let’s get that bleeding stopped so you can eat and drug yourself up, okay?”
Sam nods again, shaggy hair falling everywhere and looking teary. “Oh, God, don’t go crying now,” Dean says with (fond) exasperation. “You’re such a girl, Samantha.”
Sam nods once more, harder this time, and Dean catches a hint of a smile before he sneezes hard into his mess of bloody tissues.
And maybe, just maybe, Dean smiles, too.
END