New Story: Remembering How to Dream (SPN)
Remembering How to Dream
by Ancasta
Title: Remembering How to Dream
Summary: This was written in response to ohsam’s Sam-Focused H/C Meme. I chose this prompt: S5 Sam is out of his head with fever for whatever reason. Thinks Dean is Ruby and that his brother is still in Hell.
Spoilers: General spoilers for all of Season 5.
Word Count: ~4,100
Disclaimer: They don’t belong to me. If they did, there would be far fewer shirts worn. Trust me.
Author's Notes:
My freaking comment fic turned into a full-fledged story.
::Sigh::
Big thanks to my gal, debbiel66, a fine writer, beta and all-around enthusiastic cheerleader. I normally work with Ms. callistosh65 on projects like this. But this prompt is hers. So I wanted the story to be a surprise. I hope I did you proud, babe.
***
Even on his best days, Dean is a poor man's Florence Nightingale. Always has been. That doesn't mean he hasn't done his share of nursing. He may not have Sam's way with a needle and dental floss, but he knows his way around a first aid kit. Ever since putting Stanford in their rear view mirror, the two of them have gone through more tubes of Neosporin and more boxes of Ace bandages than every stuntman who has ever worked on a Jerry Bruckheimer film combined.
Still, he hates it.
Because no matter what turns out to be wrong or what steps he takes to fix it, the reality is, in the end, he's pretty damned useless. He can dress a wound or dole out pain meds with the best of them, but when you get right down to it, nurses don't cure the sick and injured. The sick and injured do their healing on their own. All Dean can do is what he can do…and wait.
And waiting sucks.
He should know. He's spent the last two and a half days, sitting on his ass in this sorry excuse for a roadside motel.
Waiting.
Oh, he's played on the internet some, even done a little honest to God research about things like fever and influenza, H1N1 and pneumonia. But none of it has really told him anything definitive.
Damn it, Sam. I'm a hunter, not a doctor.
Or a nurse.
He glances at his watch and thinks about turning on the television, only this stupid motel has nothing but basic cable. Besides, it's four o'clock in the afternoon, and that doesn't exactly scream must-see TV. The best he could probably hope for would be reruns of some sitcom that was already in syndication back when he was still taller than Sam.
And anyway, his ginormous little brother is sleeping. Sort of. And if there's one thing Dean has learned from all his Googling, it's that Sammy needs his rest. Dean would hate for The Golden Girls to be the thing that wakes him up.
He thinks Sam has the flu. All the symptoms are right. Whatever the hell this is, it came on quickly. Sam was fine three nights ago when they took out that demon possessed dog just outside Wheeling, West Virginia. But the next morning, when they piled in the car and headed west on Highway 70, Dean knew something wasn't right.
Sam complained of a headache, said the weak March sunlight was hurting his eyes, and curled himself into the lumpiest looking ball imaginable to try and steal a few more hours of sleep. Only he wasn't very successful. By the time Dean stopped for gas and a microwaved burrito just west of Indianapolis, Sam was wearing both his own coat and Dean's to try and combat the chills.
As far as Dean was able to tell, the chills looked to be winning.
Still, Sam told him to drive and Dean did. As far as Wentzville, Missouri. By that time, it was dark, Dean's stomach looked back on that burrito with fond yet faint memories, and Sam's picture was added to the dictionary next to the word "pitiful." Eyes dark and dull, his skin was flushed with fever even as his teeth chattered so loudly Dean could actually hear them. They tapped against each other, quick and light, like nervous fingers. It was annoying as hell. And kind of disturbing. Dean was thankful when he saw the Show Me Inn's flickering neon sign glowing just off the interstate.
Sam burrowed under the covers on the bed farthest from the motel room door before Dean was even finished bringing in their things from the Impala.
"Come on, man," Dean said, after his second trip to and from the car, the first aid kit and Sam's duffel in his hands. "Change into sweats or something. You'll be more comfortable."
"Too much work," Sam protested weakly from beneath his quilted, polyester bunker. All Dean could see of him was the top of his head. His hair was rumpled and sticking up in places like weeds shooting up from the floral bedspread.
"Oh, for fuck sake," Dean said, coming to the foot of Sam's bed and pulling the spread and blankets free from their hospital corners. "At least take your shoes off." Then, rather than waiting for Sam to do as he was told, Dean did it for him. That Sam didn't try to stop him-or at least kick him-was, to Dean's way of thinking, ample evidence of just how lousy Sam felt.
Through it all, Dean has done what he can to make Sam more comfortable. He made the trek across the motel parking lot to the small diner next door, and brought back the Soup of the Day three days running. Sam has yet to finish a single bowl.
So Dean has tried other diner delicacies-scrambled eggs with cheese, pancakes with butter and syrup, and a truly delicious slice of blueberry pie-anything he can think of to tempt Sam's appetite. Only it's like trying to seduce a nun. There is very little interest in anything on the menu.
So, Dean relies on liquids instead. Every time Sam is awake for a bit, Dean puts a glass of water in his hand. He bought Sam orange juice at the gas station mini-mart and stores it in the room's plastic ice bucket along with cans of ginger ale from the vending machine. And every four to six hours, depending on when Sam wakes up, Dean feeds him Tylenol and takes his temperature. It was just over one hundred and one when they got to the motel. The previous evening, it climbed to one hundred and two. Dean found it worrying when it didn't drop this morning.
Still, Dean is concerned, not fearful. Not yet. Sam is coughing occasionally, but his breath isn't labored, so Dean doesn't believe it's pneumonia. He wishes like hell the damned fever would break, but as long as it doesn't climb much higher, he thinks they'll be okay. Both Sam and him.
Dean's phone rings. Or rather buzzes. Dean put it on vibrate. He doesn't want some random phone call to wake Sam up either.
It's Bobby.
Dean steps outside to answer it. It's mild for March, if overcast. No one is around.
"Hey, Bobby."
"How's he doing?" Bobby has never been one for small talk.
Dean combs his hand through his hair. "About the same. He's sleeping a lot. His fever is up though."
"How high is up?"
Dean thinks there's probably a joke there. He can't tell if making it was intentional on Bobby's part or not. "A hundred and two."
"Not sure I like the sound of that. How long has it been that high?"
Hearing Bobby's worry makes Dean's worry climb a notch. "Since last night."
"If it doesn't break by this time tomorrow, you may want to get him in to see somebody."
"I think it's just the flu," Dean says, though he glances back at the closed motel door, wondering if maybe he's missed something.
"Probably is," Bobby says. "But with all these fancy strains of it floating around, better safe than sorry. You and I both know the whole pandemic thing ain't natural."
Dean frowns. He hasn't thought of it that way. "Lucifer wouldn't let anything happen to Sam." Funny how, for the first time, that's kind of comforting.
"Not if he knew it was happening," Bobby says. "But you boys are hidden from him. At least for now."
"Yeah, I guess," Dean says with a nod. "I'll keep an eye on it. If anything changes, good or bad, I'll let you know."
"You do that," Bobby says. "Tell your brother I said to feel better soon."
"Will do. Take it easy."
"You do the same."
Dean ends the call and goes back inside the room. Sam is lying on his side, his cheek cushioned on his forearm, looking over at him from the bed.
"Where'd you go?" Sam asks, rolling onto his back now that he's seen Dean return. He immediately tucks his arms beneath the covers. His voice rumbles softly, its edges worn away.
"Nowhere," Dean says, shutting the door behind him. "Bobby called. I didn't want to wake you."
"You didn't," Sam tells him, his eyes closing as if their lids are too heavy for him.
"What did?" Dean asks, coming to stand beside Sam's bed. It's probably his imagination, but his brother looks thinner than he did when they left West Virginia. He's pale now too, except for two bright spots of color high on his cheeks.
Sam blinks his eyes open again and furrows his brow, like he's trying to remember. "Don't know. I just woke up."
Dean leans over and places his hand on Sam's forehead, sliding it under the bangs lying messy and limp. Sam's skin is warm and damp against Dean's palm. Dean can't tell if the heat is worse than it was before or better.
"Bobby says if your fever doesn't come down by tomorrow night, we should probably take you to a doctor, get you checked out," Dean says, unable to resist smoothing Sam's hair back from his face before pulling his hand away entirely.
"Don't wanna go to a doctor," Sam murmurs, sounding more like the kid who used to wear footie pajamas when Dean tucked him into bed and less like the guy who these days could bench press Dean if he wanted to.
"Hey, I hear you," Dean says, sitting down on the edge of Sam's bed and laying his hand on Sam's hidden arm. "Believe me, sitting around some strip mall Urgent Care, breathing in a whole new set of germs and listening to babies cry, isn't exactly my idea of a good time."
Sam looks up at him from beneath his lashes and lifts the corners of his mouth. The smile isn't big enough to get his dimples involved. "I'll be fine. Just need to sleep."
Dean squeezes his arm. "Drink a little water first, okay? And take a couple more Tylenol. You want anything to eat?"
"No."
"Good to know there are still some constants in my life."
Dean gets the medicine inside Sam and a full glass of water. He even coaxes him up to use the bathroom. Sam makes it on his own, although Dean follows behind him in case he falters. Dean is thankful he bullied Sam into sweatpants and a t-shirt after that first night. He can't even imagine what Sam's clothes from three days ago would look like now.
When Sam is back in bed and resting on his side beneath three layers of bedding, Dean slips the thermometer into his mouth. Sam closes his eyes and lets him. Dean watches the clock and when the time is right, slides the thermometer from between Sam's lips. What he sees when he reads it makes his heart beat just a little bit faster.
"You're up half a degree, Sammy."
"S'okay. It's night time."
Dean glances at his brother, but Sam's eyes are still closed. He has the covers pulled up to his nose. Dean shakes down the mercury. "Easy for you to say."
"Hmm."
Dean puts the thermometer back in the first aid kit and stands for a moment in the middle of the room, at a loss. Sam is probably right. This is probably no big deal.
But Dean doesn't like it.
He wants to do something. If the damned fever were a ghost, he'd salt and burn it. This over the counter medicine crap is for the birds. He feels like he's trying to put out a bonfire with a squirt gun. But the only other thing he can think of to do is bundle his brother off to the doctors. And Sam doesn't want to go.
"Go get something to eat," Dean hears Sam mumble from the bed.
"What?"
"You're thinking too much," Sam says. His eyes haven't opened. "Go. Eat. Have a beer. Do something. You must be bored out of your mind."
Dean knows Sam's psychic abilities disappeared when Dean drilled a hole in ol' Yellow-Eyes with the Colt. But there are times he would swear a little of Sam's power still remains.
Dean chuckles and shakes his head, his hands on his hips. "Yeah. All right. Maybe I will step out for awhile. Get an early dinner."
"Good."
"I'll be right back," Dean says, grabbing his wallet and coat, and making sure he has the room key. "I'll bring you something back."
Sam doesn't say anything.
Dean frowns. Maybe he shouldn't go. He could always order pizza and have it delivered. "Sam, I'm bringing my phone with me," he says, testing his brother. If Sam answers, Dean will go. If he doesn't, Dean will stick around. "If you need me or think of anything specific you want, call me. Okay?"
This time Sam replies. "'kay."
That's it then. Dean is going out to dinner. "I won't be long," he promises.
He heads on foot in the opposite direction of the diner. He noticed a small bar and grill perhaps a city block away when he went to the gas station the other morning. Sam mentioning a beer has made him crave one.
It's early and a weekday, so when he gets there, the place has only a handful of customers. Dean takes a seat at the bar, orders a beer and a cheeseburger with onion rings. The bartender is pretty and friendly, but not flirty. Dean notices her wedding ring and minds his manners. The food is good; Dean wishes Sam were there to share it with him.
When he leaves, he takes with him a sub sandwich for Sam and some chips. It's not the best food for an invalid. But they don't have a microwave in the room, and Dean figures food that's meant to be cold has got to be better than warm food that's been allowed to cool. He doesn’t know if Sam will be hungry when he gets back.
As he walks to the motel, hunched against the evening chill, Dean thinks about their situation. It's weird. This almost feels like a kind of vacation. They've been focusing so hard on trying to stop Lucifer and the angels' plans, of running from one crisis to another. There's always another hunt, another sign, another someone to save. But that burden isn't on them now. At least not directly. They can't go about business as usual, because Sam isn't up to the task. They've got a reprieve.
No one knows where they are except for Bobby, not even Castiel. They were on their way to Omaha, when Sam got sick, to talk to an old friend of their father's. The guy is supposed to be some sort of expert on End Time prophecies. He got in touch with Bobby to say he had some manuscripts they might find useful. Dean still thinks they should check it out. But if it doesn't happen tomorrow or the next day, it probably won't make much difference.
Right now, Dean's focus is Sam, in a way it hasn't been since Dean went to Hell. His brother and he have been circling each other for months, like two planets locked in orbit, their own little universe. Slowly Dean has begun to get over his hurt, and he recognizes how desperately Sam is trying to make amends. As everything they know and love seems to be stripped from them, it seems natural to turn to each other, necessary even. In spite of everything, Dean is thankful to know Sam is still there.
They aren't what they were. But maybe that's okay. At times like this, when Dean has the chance to step back and breathe, to gain perspective and even reclaim a little sanity, he reminds himself that every relationship changes, maybe not as dramatically as the one Sammy and he share. But then, the Winchesters have always been ones to "go big or go home."
None of it means he doesn't love his brother. Or that Sam doesn't love him back.
It's good to remember that sometimes.
Dean is quiet when he opens the motel room door. But when he slips inside and shuts the door behind him, he realizes Sam is far from silent.
Sam has become twisted in the bedclothes; they're bunched around his middle. His left leg is bent and uncovered entirely, along with his right arm. Dean doesn't understand why, but it bothers him that Sam's bare foot is exposed like that, as pale as his cheeks beneath their stubble, and vulnerable looking. Sam lies on his back, his head rolling on the pillow. He is mumbling to himself, but his eyes are closed.
Dean drops the bag of food on the table, and shrugs out of his coat. With a few steps, he is at Sam's side.
"Sam?" Dean leans over the bed to straighten the covers. The first thing he does is tug them down over Sam's legs and feet. Sam doesn't seem to notice. "Sammy? You okay, man? You're making kind of a mess here. Let me help you out."
"Dean," Sam mutters, his brow wrinkled, his hands clenched and unclenching around the bedding Dean has just finished spreading over him. "Dean, no…"
"Sam, what is it?" Dean asks, sitting down beside him. He reaches out and places his palm on Sam's forehead, Sam's cheek, cups the back of Sam's neck. Fuck. Sam's skin is griddle hot. Dean doesn't know for certain what Sam's temperature is, but he'd bet the Impala it's never been this high before. "Oh, Sam. Oh, no. This is not good."
"You gotta help," Sam murmurs, his eyes are tightly shut, his skin glistens. "Please, you gotta, gotta…"
Dean's mind races. Help is exactly what he wants to do. But he isn't sure how.
"Sam, I will help you," he says. "But I need you to wake up first. Okay?" Dean needs this for two reasons. One, he wants to talk to his brother, hear from Sam directly how he feels and what he wants to do. Two, if indeed Sam does need better medical care than Dean can provide for him, it'll be a hell of a lot easier getting him into the Impala if he can walk there under his own steam. "Come on, open your eyes. Open your eyes for me."
"Dean…please." Sam is begging, his voice cracking, like he's literally at a breaking point. "Oh, please…"
"I'm here," Dean says, bending close to Sam, and taking his face between his hands, practically whispering now in his ear. "I'm right here, man. Open your eyes and you'll see me. Come on, Sam. See me."
With what looks like great effort, Sam's eyes flutter open. They're glassy with fever and more pupil than anything. Even though Dean's face is inches from Sam's own, Sam doesn't focus on him. His gaze is doing the backstroke. God. How high must his fucking fever be?
"Ruby, you promised," Sam whispers, his tone is accusing. Dean wishes Sam spoke to Ruby like that while she was still alive. "You said…you said…you would help."
"Ruby lied, Sam," Dean says, not trying to be cruel or open up old wounds. He just wants his brother to calm down, rest easy. "Don't listen to her, listen to me. I'll help you."
It's as if Dean didn't speak. "I'll do…anything…anything. Just tell me. Tell me how to save Dean."
Dean's heart plummets and lands somewhere south of his stomach. This is his brother's fever dream? Dean thought they were past that. He's back among the living, after all.
"You don't have to do anything," Dean tells him, trying hard to keep his voice gentle and soothing, like Sam is a child afraid of the dark, instead of a grown man who knows from experience what lurks there. "Nothing at all. It's okay. I'm fine. Really. Just take it easy-"
But it seems Sam doesn't want to be soothed. He squeezes his eyes shut again and turns his head violently from side to side. "No, no, no, no, no. They're killing him. Don't you understand? Over and over again, they're killing him every day…"
Dean swallows hard and loosens his hold, so that Sam's head is cradled in his grasp, yet free to move. Dean doesn't know if Sam is confusing what he told him of Hell with what Sam himself once feared or if Dean's repeated deaths are something Sam worried about from the beginning. Either way, his little brother seems devastated. And Dean can't bear it. "Sammy, no. Don't do that to yourself. I'm okay. I'm right here."
"He did it for me," Sam whispers, as tears well up from behind his closed eyes and spill over, wetting Dean's fingers. "For me. And you know what I am. I told him I would save him. I promised. But I failed. I always fail when it comes to Dean..."
Dean's eyes begin to burn as well. "Damn it, Sam. What are you doing, huh? You can’t carry that kind of stuff around with you. You've gotta let that go."
Sam just moans in response and whispers Dean's name.
Dean knows about guilt. He knows how it eats at you like acid until there's nothing left inside. He knows about failure too, how you try and try and try, and nothing is ever good enough. How promises are broken and people are hurt, despite your best intentions. He understands how it feels to be willing to give up everything, only to discover nobody wants it.
Dean has lived with it all, sometimes only barely, but he's survived.
He's always wanted so much more for Sam.
Dean leans over his brother, who is still fretting on the bed, mumbling nonsense, his tears tracking down his face. Dean rubs the wetness away with his thumbs and presses his forehead to Sam's.
"Sammy, I'm going to tell you a secret, one I probably should have told you before," he says, speaking the words softly, his breath warming both Sam's cheeks and his own. "Even after everything-what happened to me in Hell, what happened to us when I got out, all the seals and Lilith and the God damned Apocalypse, after all of it…I would still make the deal I made. I swear I would."
Sam isn't awake. But he's quieter now than he was. Dean's closeness seems to calm him.
"Believe it, Sam," Dean says. "Believe me. I know it probably hasn't always seemed that way to you, but it's true. I don't regret a thing. Except maybe how you've been beating yourself up for something that really isn't your fault. You and I have enough to make up for without taking blame for stuff we didn't do. So cut it out, okay?"
When Sam doesn't answer, Dean begins to sit back. Only Sam reaches out blindly and grabs hold of Dean's shirt, crumpling the fabric with his fist. "No," he murmurs. It appears he likes Dean where he is.
"It's okay," Dean tells him with a small smile. "I won't go anywhere." He eases his hands away from Sam's face, and places one over where Sam clings to him, holding Sam's hand to his chest. He uses the other to help himself turn and shift so he's lying on the bed alongside Sam, underneath the covers, just like his brother. Once he's settled, he pulls Sam into his arms. Sam comes easily and curls up against him. He doesn't let go of Dean's shirt.
Sam is still too hot. Dean can feel it against his skin. But he’s going to hold off taking Sam to the doctor. He's decided to wait until morning. Sam is sweating more than he was before while at the same time calming down. He's quiet, and he breathes more slowly and deeply. Dean may be a poor man's Florence Nightingale, but he's seen fevers break before, and Sam's current condition looks a lot like that to him. He isn't sure, but he's hopeful.
And sometimes hope is enough.
So Dean is going to lay in bed, his poor, sick brother in his arms and think about things like choice and destiny, and what it means to battle Heaven and Hell. And for a day or two more, Sam and he will rest and regain their strength. They're going to need it. But Dean thinks maybe Sam and he will need something else even more. Luckily he has it in his grasp.
Sam does too.
Smiling, Dean presses a kiss to Sam's unwashed hair, closes his eyes and tries to remember how to dream.
by Ancasta
Title: Remembering How to Dream
Summary: This was written in response to ohsam’s Sam-Focused H/C Meme. I chose this prompt: S5 Sam is out of his head with fever for whatever reason. Thinks Dean is Ruby and that his brother is still in Hell.
Spoilers: General spoilers for all of Season 5.
Word Count: ~4,100
Disclaimer: They don’t belong to me. If they did, there would be far fewer shirts worn. Trust me.
Author's Notes:
My freaking comment fic turned into a full-fledged story.
::Sigh::
Big thanks to my gal, debbiel66, a fine writer, beta and all-around enthusiastic cheerleader. I normally work with Ms. callistosh65 on projects like this. But this prompt is hers. So I wanted the story to be a surprise. I hope I did you proud, babe.
***
Even on his best days, Dean is a poor man's Florence Nightingale. Always has been. That doesn't mean he hasn't done his share of nursing. He may not have Sam's way with a needle and dental floss, but he knows his way around a first aid kit. Ever since putting Stanford in their rear view mirror, the two of them have gone through more tubes of Neosporin and more boxes of Ace bandages than every stuntman who has ever worked on a Jerry Bruckheimer film combined.
Still, he hates it.
Because no matter what turns out to be wrong or what steps he takes to fix it, the reality is, in the end, he's pretty damned useless. He can dress a wound or dole out pain meds with the best of them, but when you get right down to it, nurses don't cure the sick and injured. The sick and injured do their healing on their own. All Dean can do is what he can do…and wait.
And waiting sucks.
He should know. He's spent the last two and a half days, sitting on his ass in this sorry excuse for a roadside motel.
Waiting.
Oh, he's played on the internet some, even done a little honest to God research about things like fever and influenza, H1N1 and pneumonia. But none of it has really told him anything definitive.
Damn it, Sam. I'm a hunter, not a doctor.
Or a nurse.
He glances at his watch and thinks about turning on the television, only this stupid motel has nothing but basic cable. Besides, it's four o'clock in the afternoon, and that doesn't exactly scream must-see TV. The best he could probably hope for would be reruns of some sitcom that was already in syndication back when he was still taller than Sam.
And anyway, his ginormous little brother is sleeping. Sort of. And if there's one thing Dean has learned from all his Googling, it's that Sammy needs his rest. Dean would hate for The Golden Girls to be the thing that wakes him up.
He thinks Sam has the flu. All the symptoms are right. Whatever the hell this is, it came on quickly. Sam was fine three nights ago when they took out that demon possessed dog just outside Wheeling, West Virginia. But the next morning, when they piled in the car and headed west on Highway 70, Dean knew something wasn't right.
Sam complained of a headache, said the weak March sunlight was hurting his eyes, and curled himself into the lumpiest looking ball imaginable to try and steal a few more hours of sleep. Only he wasn't very successful. By the time Dean stopped for gas and a microwaved burrito just west of Indianapolis, Sam was wearing both his own coat and Dean's to try and combat the chills.
As far as Dean was able to tell, the chills looked to be winning.
Still, Sam told him to drive and Dean did. As far as Wentzville, Missouri. By that time, it was dark, Dean's stomach looked back on that burrito with fond yet faint memories, and Sam's picture was added to the dictionary next to the word "pitiful." Eyes dark and dull, his skin was flushed with fever even as his teeth chattered so loudly Dean could actually hear them. They tapped against each other, quick and light, like nervous fingers. It was annoying as hell. And kind of disturbing. Dean was thankful when he saw the Show Me Inn's flickering neon sign glowing just off the interstate.
Sam burrowed under the covers on the bed farthest from the motel room door before Dean was even finished bringing in their things from the Impala.
"Come on, man," Dean said, after his second trip to and from the car, the first aid kit and Sam's duffel in his hands. "Change into sweats or something. You'll be more comfortable."
"Too much work," Sam protested weakly from beneath his quilted, polyester bunker. All Dean could see of him was the top of his head. His hair was rumpled and sticking up in places like weeds shooting up from the floral bedspread.
"Oh, for fuck sake," Dean said, coming to the foot of Sam's bed and pulling the spread and blankets free from their hospital corners. "At least take your shoes off." Then, rather than waiting for Sam to do as he was told, Dean did it for him. That Sam didn't try to stop him-or at least kick him-was, to Dean's way of thinking, ample evidence of just how lousy Sam felt.
Through it all, Dean has done what he can to make Sam more comfortable. He made the trek across the motel parking lot to the small diner next door, and brought back the Soup of the Day three days running. Sam has yet to finish a single bowl.
So Dean has tried other diner delicacies-scrambled eggs with cheese, pancakes with butter and syrup, and a truly delicious slice of blueberry pie-anything he can think of to tempt Sam's appetite. Only it's like trying to seduce a nun. There is very little interest in anything on the menu.
So, Dean relies on liquids instead. Every time Sam is awake for a bit, Dean puts a glass of water in his hand. He bought Sam orange juice at the gas station mini-mart and stores it in the room's plastic ice bucket along with cans of ginger ale from the vending machine. And every four to six hours, depending on when Sam wakes up, Dean feeds him Tylenol and takes his temperature. It was just over one hundred and one when they got to the motel. The previous evening, it climbed to one hundred and two. Dean found it worrying when it didn't drop this morning.
Still, Dean is concerned, not fearful. Not yet. Sam is coughing occasionally, but his breath isn't labored, so Dean doesn't believe it's pneumonia. He wishes like hell the damned fever would break, but as long as it doesn't climb much higher, he thinks they'll be okay. Both Sam and him.
Dean's phone rings. Or rather buzzes. Dean put it on vibrate. He doesn't want some random phone call to wake Sam up either.
It's Bobby.
Dean steps outside to answer it. It's mild for March, if overcast. No one is around.
"Hey, Bobby."
"How's he doing?" Bobby has never been one for small talk.
Dean combs his hand through his hair. "About the same. He's sleeping a lot. His fever is up though."
"How high is up?"
Dean thinks there's probably a joke there. He can't tell if making it was intentional on Bobby's part or not. "A hundred and two."
"Not sure I like the sound of that. How long has it been that high?"
Hearing Bobby's worry makes Dean's worry climb a notch. "Since last night."
"If it doesn't break by this time tomorrow, you may want to get him in to see somebody."
"I think it's just the flu," Dean says, though he glances back at the closed motel door, wondering if maybe he's missed something.
"Probably is," Bobby says. "But with all these fancy strains of it floating around, better safe than sorry. You and I both know the whole pandemic thing ain't natural."
Dean frowns. He hasn't thought of it that way. "Lucifer wouldn't let anything happen to Sam." Funny how, for the first time, that's kind of comforting.
"Not if he knew it was happening," Bobby says. "But you boys are hidden from him. At least for now."
"Yeah, I guess," Dean says with a nod. "I'll keep an eye on it. If anything changes, good or bad, I'll let you know."
"You do that," Bobby says. "Tell your brother I said to feel better soon."
"Will do. Take it easy."
"You do the same."
Dean ends the call and goes back inside the room. Sam is lying on his side, his cheek cushioned on his forearm, looking over at him from the bed.
"Where'd you go?" Sam asks, rolling onto his back now that he's seen Dean return. He immediately tucks his arms beneath the covers. His voice rumbles softly, its edges worn away.
"Nowhere," Dean says, shutting the door behind him. "Bobby called. I didn't want to wake you."
"You didn't," Sam tells him, his eyes closing as if their lids are too heavy for him.
"What did?" Dean asks, coming to stand beside Sam's bed. It's probably his imagination, but his brother looks thinner than he did when they left West Virginia. He's pale now too, except for two bright spots of color high on his cheeks.
Sam blinks his eyes open again and furrows his brow, like he's trying to remember. "Don't know. I just woke up."
Dean leans over and places his hand on Sam's forehead, sliding it under the bangs lying messy and limp. Sam's skin is warm and damp against Dean's palm. Dean can't tell if the heat is worse than it was before or better.
"Bobby says if your fever doesn't come down by tomorrow night, we should probably take you to a doctor, get you checked out," Dean says, unable to resist smoothing Sam's hair back from his face before pulling his hand away entirely.
"Don't wanna go to a doctor," Sam murmurs, sounding more like the kid who used to wear footie pajamas when Dean tucked him into bed and less like the guy who these days could bench press Dean if he wanted to.
"Hey, I hear you," Dean says, sitting down on the edge of Sam's bed and laying his hand on Sam's hidden arm. "Believe me, sitting around some strip mall Urgent Care, breathing in a whole new set of germs and listening to babies cry, isn't exactly my idea of a good time."
Sam looks up at him from beneath his lashes and lifts the corners of his mouth. The smile isn't big enough to get his dimples involved. "I'll be fine. Just need to sleep."
Dean squeezes his arm. "Drink a little water first, okay? And take a couple more Tylenol. You want anything to eat?"
"No."
"Good to know there are still some constants in my life."
Dean gets the medicine inside Sam and a full glass of water. He even coaxes him up to use the bathroom. Sam makes it on his own, although Dean follows behind him in case he falters. Dean is thankful he bullied Sam into sweatpants and a t-shirt after that first night. He can't even imagine what Sam's clothes from three days ago would look like now.
When Sam is back in bed and resting on his side beneath three layers of bedding, Dean slips the thermometer into his mouth. Sam closes his eyes and lets him. Dean watches the clock and when the time is right, slides the thermometer from between Sam's lips. What he sees when he reads it makes his heart beat just a little bit faster.
"You're up half a degree, Sammy."
"S'okay. It's night time."
Dean glances at his brother, but Sam's eyes are still closed. He has the covers pulled up to his nose. Dean shakes down the mercury. "Easy for you to say."
"Hmm."
Dean puts the thermometer back in the first aid kit and stands for a moment in the middle of the room, at a loss. Sam is probably right. This is probably no big deal.
But Dean doesn't like it.
He wants to do something. If the damned fever were a ghost, he'd salt and burn it. This over the counter medicine crap is for the birds. He feels like he's trying to put out a bonfire with a squirt gun. But the only other thing he can think of to do is bundle his brother off to the doctors. And Sam doesn't want to go.
"Go get something to eat," Dean hears Sam mumble from the bed.
"What?"
"You're thinking too much," Sam says. His eyes haven't opened. "Go. Eat. Have a beer. Do something. You must be bored out of your mind."
Dean knows Sam's psychic abilities disappeared when Dean drilled a hole in ol' Yellow-Eyes with the Colt. But there are times he would swear a little of Sam's power still remains.
Dean chuckles and shakes his head, his hands on his hips. "Yeah. All right. Maybe I will step out for awhile. Get an early dinner."
"Good."
"I'll be right back," Dean says, grabbing his wallet and coat, and making sure he has the room key. "I'll bring you something back."
Sam doesn't say anything.
Dean frowns. Maybe he shouldn't go. He could always order pizza and have it delivered. "Sam, I'm bringing my phone with me," he says, testing his brother. If Sam answers, Dean will go. If he doesn't, Dean will stick around. "If you need me or think of anything specific you want, call me. Okay?"
This time Sam replies. "'kay."
That's it then. Dean is going out to dinner. "I won't be long," he promises.
He heads on foot in the opposite direction of the diner. He noticed a small bar and grill perhaps a city block away when he went to the gas station the other morning. Sam mentioning a beer has made him crave one.
It's early and a weekday, so when he gets there, the place has only a handful of customers. Dean takes a seat at the bar, orders a beer and a cheeseburger with onion rings. The bartender is pretty and friendly, but not flirty. Dean notices her wedding ring and minds his manners. The food is good; Dean wishes Sam were there to share it with him.
When he leaves, he takes with him a sub sandwich for Sam and some chips. It's not the best food for an invalid. But they don't have a microwave in the room, and Dean figures food that's meant to be cold has got to be better than warm food that's been allowed to cool. He doesn’t know if Sam will be hungry when he gets back.
As he walks to the motel, hunched against the evening chill, Dean thinks about their situation. It's weird. This almost feels like a kind of vacation. They've been focusing so hard on trying to stop Lucifer and the angels' plans, of running from one crisis to another. There's always another hunt, another sign, another someone to save. But that burden isn't on them now. At least not directly. They can't go about business as usual, because Sam isn't up to the task. They've got a reprieve.
No one knows where they are except for Bobby, not even Castiel. They were on their way to Omaha, when Sam got sick, to talk to an old friend of their father's. The guy is supposed to be some sort of expert on End Time prophecies. He got in touch with Bobby to say he had some manuscripts they might find useful. Dean still thinks they should check it out. But if it doesn't happen tomorrow or the next day, it probably won't make much difference.
Right now, Dean's focus is Sam, in a way it hasn't been since Dean went to Hell. His brother and he have been circling each other for months, like two planets locked in orbit, their own little universe. Slowly Dean has begun to get over his hurt, and he recognizes how desperately Sam is trying to make amends. As everything they know and love seems to be stripped from them, it seems natural to turn to each other, necessary even. In spite of everything, Dean is thankful to know Sam is still there.
They aren't what they were. But maybe that's okay. At times like this, when Dean has the chance to step back and breathe, to gain perspective and even reclaim a little sanity, he reminds himself that every relationship changes, maybe not as dramatically as the one Sammy and he share. But then, the Winchesters have always been ones to "go big or go home."
None of it means he doesn't love his brother. Or that Sam doesn't love him back.
It's good to remember that sometimes.
Dean is quiet when he opens the motel room door. But when he slips inside and shuts the door behind him, he realizes Sam is far from silent.
Sam has become twisted in the bedclothes; they're bunched around his middle. His left leg is bent and uncovered entirely, along with his right arm. Dean doesn't understand why, but it bothers him that Sam's bare foot is exposed like that, as pale as his cheeks beneath their stubble, and vulnerable looking. Sam lies on his back, his head rolling on the pillow. He is mumbling to himself, but his eyes are closed.
Dean drops the bag of food on the table, and shrugs out of his coat. With a few steps, he is at Sam's side.
"Sam?" Dean leans over the bed to straighten the covers. The first thing he does is tug them down over Sam's legs and feet. Sam doesn't seem to notice. "Sammy? You okay, man? You're making kind of a mess here. Let me help you out."
"Dean," Sam mutters, his brow wrinkled, his hands clenched and unclenching around the bedding Dean has just finished spreading over him. "Dean, no…"
"Sam, what is it?" Dean asks, sitting down beside him. He reaches out and places his palm on Sam's forehead, Sam's cheek, cups the back of Sam's neck. Fuck. Sam's skin is griddle hot. Dean doesn't know for certain what Sam's temperature is, but he'd bet the Impala it's never been this high before. "Oh, Sam. Oh, no. This is not good."
"You gotta help," Sam murmurs, his eyes are tightly shut, his skin glistens. "Please, you gotta, gotta…"
Dean's mind races. Help is exactly what he wants to do. But he isn't sure how.
"Sam, I will help you," he says. "But I need you to wake up first. Okay?" Dean needs this for two reasons. One, he wants to talk to his brother, hear from Sam directly how he feels and what he wants to do. Two, if indeed Sam does need better medical care than Dean can provide for him, it'll be a hell of a lot easier getting him into the Impala if he can walk there under his own steam. "Come on, open your eyes. Open your eyes for me."
"Dean…please." Sam is begging, his voice cracking, like he's literally at a breaking point. "Oh, please…"
"I'm here," Dean says, bending close to Sam, and taking his face between his hands, practically whispering now in his ear. "I'm right here, man. Open your eyes and you'll see me. Come on, Sam. See me."
With what looks like great effort, Sam's eyes flutter open. They're glassy with fever and more pupil than anything. Even though Dean's face is inches from Sam's own, Sam doesn't focus on him. His gaze is doing the backstroke. God. How high must his fucking fever be?
"Ruby, you promised," Sam whispers, his tone is accusing. Dean wishes Sam spoke to Ruby like that while she was still alive. "You said…you said…you would help."
"Ruby lied, Sam," Dean says, not trying to be cruel or open up old wounds. He just wants his brother to calm down, rest easy. "Don't listen to her, listen to me. I'll help you."
It's as if Dean didn't speak. "I'll do…anything…anything. Just tell me. Tell me how to save Dean."
Dean's heart plummets and lands somewhere south of his stomach. This is his brother's fever dream? Dean thought they were past that. He's back among the living, after all.
"You don't have to do anything," Dean tells him, trying hard to keep his voice gentle and soothing, like Sam is a child afraid of the dark, instead of a grown man who knows from experience what lurks there. "Nothing at all. It's okay. I'm fine. Really. Just take it easy-"
But it seems Sam doesn't want to be soothed. He squeezes his eyes shut again and turns his head violently from side to side. "No, no, no, no, no. They're killing him. Don't you understand? Over and over again, they're killing him every day…"
Dean swallows hard and loosens his hold, so that Sam's head is cradled in his grasp, yet free to move. Dean doesn't know if Sam is confusing what he told him of Hell with what Sam himself once feared or if Dean's repeated deaths are something Sam worried about from the beginning. Either way, his little brother seems devastated. And Dean can't bear it. "Sammy, no. Don't do that to yourself. I'm okay. I'm right here."
"He did it for me," Sam whispers, as tears well up from behind his closed eyes and spill over, wetting Dean's fingers. "For me. And you know what I am. I told him I would save him. I promised. But I failed. I always fail when it comes to Dean..."
Dean's eyes begin to burn as well. "Damn it, Sam. What are you doing, huh? You can’t carry that kind of stuff around with you. You've gotta let that go."
Sam just moans in response and whispers Dean's name.
Dean knows about guilt. He knows how it eats at you like acid until there's nothing left inside. He knows about failure too, how you try and try and try, and nothing is ever good enough. How promises are broken and people are hurt, despite your best intentions. He understands how it feels to be willing to give up everything, only to discover nobody wants it.
Dean has lived with it all, sometimes only barely, but he's survived.
He's always wanted so much more for Sam.
Dean leans over his brother, who is still fretting on the bed, mumbling nonsense, his tears tracking down his face. Dean rubs the wetness away with his thumbs and presses his forehead to Sam's.
"Sammy, I'm going to tell you a secret, one I probably should have told you before," he says, speaking the words softly, his breath warming both Sam's cheeks and his own. "Even after everything-what happened to me in Hell, what happened to us when I got out, all the seals and Lilith and the God damned Apocalypse, after all of it…I would still make the deal I made. I swear I would."
Sam isn't awake. But he's quieter now than he was. Dean's closeness seems to calm him.
"Believe it, Sam," Dean says. "Believe me. I know it probably hasn't always seemed that way to you, but it's true. I don't regret a thing. Except maybe how you've been beating yourself up for something that really isn't your fault. You and I have enough to make up for without taking blame for stuff we didn't do. So cut it out, okay?"
When Sam doesn't answer, Dean begins to sit back. Only Sam reaches out blindly and grabs hold of Dean's shirt, crumpling the fabric with his fist. "No," he murmurs. It appears he likes Dean where he is.
"It's okay," Dean tells him with a small smile. "I won't go anywhere." He eases his hands away from Sam's face, and places one over where Sam clings to him, holding Sam's hand to his chest. He uses the other to help himself turn and shift so he's lying on the bed alongside Sam, underneath the covers, just like his brother. Once he's settled, he pulls Sam into his arms. Sam comes easily and curls up against him. He doesn't let go of Dean's shirt.
Sam is still too hot. Dean can feel it against his skin. But he’s going to hold off taking Sam to the doctor. He's decided to wait until morning. Sam is sweating more than he was before while at the same time calming down. He's quiet, and he breathes more slowly and deeply. Dean may be a poor man's Florence Nightingale, but he's seen fevers break before, and Sam's current condition looks a lot like that to him. He isn't sure, but he's hopeful.
And sometimes hope is enough.
So Dean is going to lay in bed, his poor, sick brother in his arms and think about things like choice and destiny, and what it means to battle Heaven and Hell. And for a day or two more, Sam and he will rest and regain their strength. They're going to need it. But Dean thinks maybe Sam and he will need something else even more. Luckily he has it in his grasp.
Sam does too.
Smiling, Dean presses a kiss to Sam's unwashed hair, closes his eyes and tries to remember how to dream.