waiting and fading and floating away
Title: waiting and fading and floating away
Author: 27_jaredjensen
Characters/pairing: Sam, Dean (gen)
Word count: 800
Summary: Sam and Dean. Sam’s hurt. There’s snow, scarves, carrying little brothers into motel rooms, etc.
A/N: OH MAN GUYS I have a crush on badbastion and her gorgeous art. She drew this lovely masterpiece and after staring at if for a long time, I looked at this prompt that she used from the ohsam comment-fic meme and realized that I NEEDED it.
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“Sammy?”
Dean keeps his voice quiet, despite the raging storm outside and the fact that Sam slept through him opening and closing his door twice. He can’t feel his nose or the tips of his ears, and he scrubs his hands together before reaching into the backseat for his duffel. Sam continues to sleep, one arm wrapped around his middle and the other hanging at his side, palm up, long fingers curled in like petals on a flower.
Along with Sam’s meds, there are some warmer clothes and a bottle of water in his bag, all of which Dean piles onto the seat between them. It’s growing colder by the minute. There’s still a half hour left before Sam has to take his meds, and though he doesn’t want to move him before giving him his pills, Dean doesn’t want him out here in the cold any longer than he has to be.
“Sammy?” This time, Dean reaches up to shake Sam’s shoulder. He barely stops himself in time, remembering the bruise spreading from Sam’s neck down to his elbow, and he brushes his fingers against Sam’s cheek instead. “Wake up.”
Sam’s eyelashes flutter, and he turns in his seat toward Dean.
“Come on, Tiger. We have a room.”
“Hm?” Sam’s lips seem to stick together for a moment before opens his mouth and pushes out a weak cough. He’s starting to shiver, tremors running through his body every few seconds, so Dean reaches down into the pile and pulls out a pair of gloves. They don’t have any fingers, and Dean is reminded of a time when Sam was shorter than him and wished for cold weather just so he could wear his Scooby Doo mittens.
He carefully pulls the gloves over Sam’s hands, then looks up to see Sam blinking slowly at him.
“’m tired,” Sam slurs, his head lolling to the side until his face is nearly pressing into his own shoulder. “Cold.”
Dean smiles and tugs a hat down over Sam’s head.
“That better?” He asks, but Sam’s nearly asleep again.
A scarf is next. Dean grimaces at the pattern, tiny little cats and paw prints, and he has to bite back a laugh when he imagines what Sam would say if he were lucid enough. Or awake, even. Once the scarf is wrapped around Sam’s neck, Dean slides a pair of earmuffs over his ears, then sits back in his seat. Sam’s nose and cheeks are already pink from the cold, but he should be warm enough until they make it to their room. Dean squints through the windshield for a moment, praying that there really is a building out there through all of that snow.
He calls Sam’s name again, and this time he takes Sam’s chin and looks into his brother’s eyes.
“Need you to stay awake for a second, okay? Just want you to take your meds and drink a little bit of water.”
Sam watches him pour the pills into his palm, and obediently opens his mouth to swallow them when Dean instructs him to. He closes his eyes when Dean lifts the water to his dry, cracked lips, but he drinks that too, his tongue coming out to lethargically lick at his lips when he’s done.
Sam winces when Dean lifts him from the seat, but he wraps one arm loosely around Dean’s shoulders, his left still hanging limply at his side.
“We goin’?” He asks, voice whisper-soft, and Dean can barely hear him over the wind.
“To bed,” Dean answers.
The room key is in the hand that’s tucked under Sam’s knees, and he struggles for a moment to get the door opened without jostling Sam around, but eventually they get inside. Dean kicks the door closed behind him and sets Sam down gently on the bed farthest from the door, propped up against the headboard and several pillows.
He sets to work, undressing Sam and getting him in sweatpants, pulling off the gloves and the hat and the earmuffs. He reaches for the scarf next, but Sam lifts a hand to his wrist to stop him, grip weak but determined. Dean raises an eyebrow when Sam lets his fingers slide down to the scarf, and as he examines it a sleepy smile forms on his face.
“Dean,” he says, expression goofy as he gestures for Dean to lean closer, like he has a secret to tell him. Dean rolls his eyes but sits on the bed and lets Sam pulls him close. Sam looks at the scarf with the paw prints, then back up at Dean, dimples deepening as he leans to whisper in Dean’s ear.
“I’m allergic to cats.”
Dean laughs, and Sam closes his eyes. His breath evens out quickly, body listing to the side, a deep sigh on his lips as he floats away.
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