Some Peace Of Mind, 1/2, PG-13, S2
I've written my two Sweet Charity fics for devon99 as she bid upon, but she gave me five fantastic plot bunnies, and...my muse liked them all. She's received her two fics via email, and the second one I'll be posting this upcoming week. For now, here's the first half of the other fic I wrote for one of her prompts. ^_^
And I managed to fit in the prompt for this week, too! Huzzah! (I intended this to be a oneshot but, well...my muse had different plans.)
Title: Some Peace of Mind
Rating: PG-13
Chapter: 1/2
Prompt: #151 - Higgledy-Piggledy for tamingthemuse
Spoilers: Hunted from Season 2.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Sam falls ill after a hunt in a marsh. Sick enough that Dean decides serious downtime is needed, not just two days rest in a motel room.
Warnings: sick!Sammy, bigbrother-motherhen!Dean, schmoop, wee bit of angst (yeah, I know, y'all are shocked. Shush up.)
A/N: Title snagged from the lyrics to Boston's "Peace of Mind".
It was almost lunch when Dean pulled the car off the road. The road was deserted, only a few farms dotting the landscape around them. The sun was bright but not hot, and even the damn birds were singing something happy.
Dean stepped out quietly and kept the door almost-shut. Opening the back car door was more difficult on account of the hinge that Dean hadn't been able to keep from squeaking. Not since the accident. He still tried to open it as carefully and quietly as possible, then ducked down to gaze inside.
Sam was laid out in the back, knees tucked up and pressing against the front seats. He'd slid down from the small pillow Dean had snagged from the last motel and rested now with his head flat on the seat. His hair looked wet, and his skin looked too pale. His lips were slightly parted, raspy breaths pulled in and out. It was for that reason that Dean had pulled the car over.
Dean carefully climbed in, nearly laid out on top of his brother to reach Sam's forehead. He felt warmth, too much warmth, but sweat, too. Which was better than it had been two days ago, with no sweat and way too much heat. Leaning and leaving his weight against the front seats, Dean carefully began to lift Sam back up onto the pillow.
Worst part of it was, this hadn't been supernatural. Sure, they'd been hunting something supernatural, but the damn thing had led them around a bog in the middle of the night for hours on end. By the time they'd gotten out, they'd both been soaked, cold, pissed off, and tired. They'd taken warm showers and fallen into warm beds. Creature dead, sleep earned. End of story.
Except the next morning, Sam had awakened with a sore throat. Mentioned it in passing, hadn't said anything else besides that. All throughout the next two days, though, Sam'd started sneezing more, coughing, looking more miserable.
The fourth day, Dean had gotten up to find Sam pale, shivering, and nearly unconscious.
The ER had deemed it pneumonia, and the on-call doctor had written out a prescription for medication. Otherwise than that, the only thing that was going to help was rest (which Sam had apparently been lacking in order for the pneumonia to spread this fast), fluids (again, something Sam wasn't high on), and his big brother. Last one hadn't been prescribed, but Dean knew where and when he was needed.
Sam stirred just as Dean began to move him. His eyes cracked open, hazel peeking through the slits. “Shhh, s'all right,” Dean murmured. “I got you. Just movin' you, okay?”
A soft noise was the response. Dean cradled Sam's head and neck, placed him on the pillow. Sam's eyes sought Dean, always sought Dean, and Dean gave a small smile. The slitted eyes fell shut and the breathing evened out once more. Not as raspy as before. Not perfect, either, but Dean'd take what he could get. He stayed there, hunched over Sam with his legs and back beginning to cramp up from the twisted angle, ignoring both in favor of watching Sam. He'd forgotten how the normal, usual things could be as dangerous, painful, as the things they hunted.
He slid out and stretched in an attempt to get his back to forgive him. Nearby, he could hear a tractor going through the fields, though it wasn't anywhere in sight. Nice, peaceful, normal place.
Hopefully the house would be the same. It was maybe twenty or so more minutes up the road, according to Bobby. Off-road place, had belonged to Pastor Jim, had been bequeathed to Bobby in the will. “Key's under the mat,” Bobby had told Dean when he'd called from the ER, Sam groggy in the hospital bed beside him. “Stay up as long as you need to. If you were closer, I'd demand you boys come to me, but Jim's little fishing place should be easier to get to.”
It was easier to get to, Dean found out. It wasn't back a dozen little roads like Bobby's place was, but it wasn't on the main road, either. Just one small lane that went back through a sparse amount of trees, flowers, and bushes, before it opened up into fields. The road dead-ended to the left with a small circle to allow drivers to turn around. Beyond the circle was the driveway of a small white house. Two-story, closed-in porch with netting, even a garage for him to set the Impala in.
It'd do.
He set the car in park and left it on for the heat, damn the gas. It was still April, still cold. He left the door almost-shut again and headed up to the porch. The door to the enclosed space was merely opened by a push, no lock anywhere. The front door before him had a small mat in front of it, and a quick search secured the key.
Even despite the fact that it was daylight, and that Bobby came out here apparently twice a year to continue upkeep on the place, Dean still kept his hand on his piece at the small of his back. He couldn't hear anything, not even a mouse or a bug, and after a quick search of the house, he doubted he ever would.
Jim had kept the place well maintained, and Bobby had continued to do so. Clean little white kitchen attached to an open living room that faced a fireplace. Two bedrooms on the main floor, one on the second, a bathroom on each floor, and the stairway wasn't too long or high. It was cozy and nice and perfect.
Dean shoved the key in his pocket and went out to bring Sam in. His slow, steady walk became a quick run when he saw Sam fumbling with the car door. “Hey, hey, easy tiger,” Dean said gently once he opened the door. “Take it easy, Sammy.”
Sam was panting slightly, and the panting turned into a hacking cough that made Dean wince. “Couldn't find you,” Sam whispered when he had his breath back.
“I'm right here, man,” Dean said, cursing himself for leaving Sam alone. Had to be done, but he should've gotten Sam up first. “Just checking the place out.”
That had Sam frowning in confusion. “...The place? What...?”
Dean smiled. “Jim's old fishing place, his “retirement” package, remember? We're staying here for a few weeks until you're back up on your feet.”
“But the job-”
“No hunting,” Dean said firmly. “No jobs. We need a break, Sam. We're taking a break.” After Gordon and Dad's secret, it was all out of control, and Sam was fumbling and falling apart in the wake of it all. Kid needed something stable, something that stayed the same for more than a day.
And frankly, so did Dean.
“Let's get you inside,” Dean said. He pulled Sam to his feet, already prepping himself to take Sam's weight. Sam's legs buckled but did hold, and Dean knew that was more because of Sam's sheer determination, not his physical strength. Together they limped across the grass, up the stairs, and into the house.
The house was just the right amount of small to leave Sam not feeling lost, and just the right amount of big to leave him feeling able to breathe.
Well, when he could.
He could feel something sharp and ragged in his throat, something that made him have to clear his throat every single time he breathed. And that in turn led to a cough, which led to no breathing until the cough subsided. Then the sharp feeling returned, and it started all over again.
The coughing was pushing at his head, pain and aches at the top of his brain. Last thing he needed right now was a vision. He winced at the thought and pulled the blanket a little tighter around him. Wasn't that cold out, Dean had the heat kicked up past a general comfort level, but Sam couldn't stop shivering.
The knife in his throat came back suddenly, and Sam was bent over, coughing and choking and trying to pull air in. Eventually the coughs were more expel than intake, and Sam could hear a ringing in his ears as he fought to breathe. God but he didn't want to pass out again. Scared the crap out of Dean two days ago when he'd done it, but he couldn't breathe-
He felt himself pulled back, straightened, then pushed down into something soft. The change in position allowed for some air to get in, and he tried not to take it in too fast. Finally his throat let go enough for him to pant and pull in more air.
His head was pounding, but at the steady hand on his shoulder, Sam opened his eyes. He knew it'd be Dean, always Dean, but he wasn't prepared for the amount of worry on his face. Gentle fingers wiped away tears from his cheeks Sam didn't remember shedding. “Water or tea?” Dean asked.
The thought of either on his throat sounded too good to be true, and he could imagine the cool water only sharpening the knife. He shuddered and closed his eyes. “You've gotta drink something,” Dean's voice said, following him to the dark space behind his eyelids. He sounded even more concerned than he had before. “And I know you don't want to, but rest and fluids were the doctor's orders.”
“Tea,” Sam finally allowed. He settled back into the pillows and dared to open one eye. “Not too hot, though; s'just gonna aggravate it.”
“Warm tea it is.” Dean stood and straightened the covers he'd rustled before leaving. His bare feet didn't make a sound on the floor, and Sam tried to remember the last time he'd seen his brother actually walk around in his bare feet at all. Not that Sam would've suggested the idea considering the places they usually stayed, but. It meant Dean was comfortable, felt secure and safe enough in the house to walk around without his button-up or his socks.
Sam felt secure and safe in the house because Dean was there.
He slid down a little more on the pillow, enough that he wasn't fully sitting up, but up enough that he wouldn't start choking. The headache was still throbbing at his temples, though. Wasn't going to let up anytime soon, and sitting there with it wasn't going to allow him to sleep. He needed aspirin.
Unfortunately, the aspirin was on the nightstand next to him. Well, other side of the bed, and if he moved to get it for himself, Dean would kill him.
Dean had done enough for him already. Sam wasn't an invalid. He was twenty-three, and had been in worse pain than this. He could get the aspirin bottle himself, and then sip it down with the tea that Dean was already making for him.
He slid the blankets down and slid over as slow as he could. His throat seemed to have expunged the sharpness for the moment, but the headache grew in intensity each time he moved his head. It felt like weights and hammers in his skull, rolling around and beating against his brain each time his head tipped. A bad pinball game, and he could make it stop as soon as he got the aspirin. He reached out as far as he could towards the bottle.
A shock of pain went through his head, and he had to shut his eyes against it. A second later, he heard the aspirin bottle hit the floor, rattling like a maraca.
“Lay back down, now.”
And it had tattled on him, too. Sam tried to open his eyes and felt his stomach rebel as the pain flared. “Dean,” he whispered helplessly.
“There a reason you decided to crawl and almost fall off the other side of the bed?” Despite the irritated tone Sam was pulled back almost tenderly and brought back down on the pillows. The headache slid against his head mercilessly, and Sam found himself almost floating on the pain.
“Sam. Sammy.”
He blearily opened his eyes, thankful that his stomach stayed quiet. Even more thankful that his brother had two aspirin in his extended hand, a mug of tea in his closed fist. Sam took the pills and the tea, downing both with a sigh. The little sharp shards in his throat were soothed, and he took another long sip before settling back, breathing in the aroma.
Dean looked even more worried than before. “Thank you,” Sam whispered. Throat felt scratchy already, but a tentative clearing settled most of it. He could savor the tea, then.
“Next time, you tell me if you need something,” Dean said firmly. He shifted slightly from where he sat on the side of the bed. “I mean it Sammy. You're not to leave this bed unless I give the okay. Got it?”
“No argument from me,” Sam said.
“No, not now. But you'll argue later.”
“No,” Sam said, and tried to put as much insistence in it as he could. “I promise. Staying right here, letting you be my maid; you can run around higgledy-piggledy for me.”
Dean raised his eyebrow. “'Higgledy-piggledy'? Dude. I know you're sick, but...”
“Shut up,” Sam mumbled. “It's a real word.” His brother was grinning in amusement, though, and a little teasing was worth that. Anything to erase the permanent worry lines Dean had been wearing since...well.
Dean spoke again, keeping him from sliding down towards thoughts he didn't want. “I'm not wearing one of those outfits.”
“Thank god.” They shared a small grin that was broken by Sam's cough. Just a small one, but enough to make him bring the mug up and take another long sip. His throat felt even better than before, surprisingly. Dean's tea was not too cool, not too hot. Just right. Goldilocks, and the thought made his lips turn up. Dean had always known how to make things just right.
He'd rallied against being an invalid earlier, having Dean wait on him, not being independent enough to take care of himself. Now, though, Sam found he was actually...okay with letting Dean take over. It was a little bit of a relief, actually. To know Dean would be there and take care of things, to know Dean wanted to take care of Sam. To know he could let go and have Dean there to catch him. “I promise,” Sam murmured, already feeling half asleep. God, sleep. “Stay right here n' I'll let you take 'f me.” He could feel his grip on the mug loosening, too tired to hold it in his lap anymore.
And just like he'd thought, the mug was lifted away like magic. Not a drop spilled.
“Good,” Dean said softly. “It's my job, and I'm kinda awesome at it.” Sam's hair felt brushed for an instant, and then Sam could hear bare feet padding away. Dean seemed to like playing big brother, “maid” for the day or however long it'd take to get Sam well.
Sam drifted off to sleep.
~Nebula
And I managed to fit in the prompt for this week, too! Huzzah! (I intended this to be a oneshot but, well...my muse had different plans.)
Title: Some Peace of Mind
Rating: PG-13
Chapter: 1/2
Prompt: #151 - Higgledy-Piggledy for tamingthemuse
Spoilers: Hunted from Season 2.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Sam falls ill after a hunt in a marsh. Sick enough that Dean decides serious downtime is needed, not just two days rest in a motel room.
Warnings: sick!Sammy, bigbrother-motherhen!Dean, schmoop, wee bit of angst (yeah, I know, y'all are shocked. Shush up.)
A/N: Title snagged from the lyrics to Boston's "Peace of Mind".
It was almost lunch when Dean pulled the car off the road. The road was deserted, only a few farms dotting the landscape around them. The sun was bright but not hot, and even the damn birds were singing something happy.
Dean stepped out quietly and kept the door almost-shut. Opening the back car door was more difficult on account of the hinge that Dean hadn't been able to keep from squeaking. Not since the accident. He still tried to open it as carefully and quietly as possible, then ducked down to gaze inside.
Sam was laid out in the back, knees tucked up and pressing against the front seats. He'd slid down from the small pillow Dean had snagged from the last motel and rested now with his head flat on the seat. His hair looked wet, and his skin looked too pale. His lips were slightly parted, raspy breaths pulled in and out. It was for that reason that Dean had pulled the car over.
Dean carefully climbed in, nearly laid out on top of his brother to reach Sam's forehead. He felt warmth, too much warmth, but sweat, too. Which was better than it had been two days ago, with no sweat and way too much heat. Leaning and leaving his weight against the front seats, Dean carefully began to lift Sam back up onto the pillow.
Worst part of it was, this hadn't been supernatural. Sure, they'd been hunting something supernatural, but the damn thing had led them around a bog in the middle of the night for hours on end. By the time they'd gotten out, they'd both been soaked, cold, pissed off, and tired. They'd taken warm showers and fallen into warm beds. Creature dead, sleep earned. End of story.
Except the next morning, Sam had awakened with a sore throat. Mentioned it in passing, hadn't said anything else besides that. All throughout the next two days, though, Sam'd started sneezing more, coughing, looking more miserable.
The fourth day, Dean had gotten up to find Sam pale, shivering, and nearly unconscious.
The ER had deemed it pneumonia, and the on-call doctor had written out a prescription for medication. Otherwise than that, the only thing that was going to help was rest (which Sam had apparently been lacking in order for the pneumonia to spread this fast), fluids (again, something Sam wasn't high on), and his big brother. Last one hadn't been prescribed, but Dean knew where and when he was needed.
Sam stirred just as Dean began to move him. His eyes cracked open, hazel peeking through the slits. “Shhh, s'all right,” Dean murmured. “I got you. Just movin' you, okay?”
A soft noise was the response. Dean cradled Sam's head and neck, placed him on the pillow. Sam's eyes sought Dean, always sought Dean, and Dean gave a small smile. The slitted eyes fell shut and the breathing evened out once more. Not as raspy as before. Not perfect, either, but Dean'd take what he could get. He stayed there, hunched over Sam with his legs and back beginning to cramp up from the twisted angle, ignoring both in favor of watching Sam. He'd forgotten how the normal, usual things could be as dangerous, painful, as the things they hunted.
He slid out and stretched in an attempt to get his back to forgive him. Nearby, he could hear a tractor going through the fields, though it wasn't anywhere in sight. Nice, peaceful, normal place.
Hopefully the house would be the same. It was maybe twenty or so more minutes up the road, according to Bobby. Off-road place, had belonged to Pastor Jim, had been bequeathed to Bobby in the will. “Key's under the mat,” Bobby had told Dean when he'd called from the ER, Sam groggy in the hospital bed beside him. “Stay up as long as you need to. If you were closer, I'd demand you boys come to me, but Jim's little fishing place should be easier to get to.”
It was easier to get to, Dean found out. It wasn't back a dozen little roads like Bobby's place was, but it wasn't on the main road, either. Just one small lane that went back through a sparse amount of trees, flowers, and bushes, before it opened up into fields. The road dead-ended to the left with a small circle to allow drivers to turn around. Beyond the circle was the driveway of a small white house. Two-story, closed-in porch with netting, even a garage for him to set the Impala in.
It'd do.
He set the car in park and left it on for the heat, damn the gas. It was still April, still cold. He left the door almost-shut again and headed up to the porch. The door to the enclosed space was merely opened by a push, no lock anywhere. The front door before him had a small mat in front of it, and a quick search secured the key.
Even despite the fact that it was daylight, and that Bobby came out here apparently twice a year to continue upkeep on the place, Dean still kept his hand on his piece at the small of his back. He couldn't hear anything, not even a mouse or a bug, and after a quick search of the house, he doubted he ever would.
Jim had kept the place well maintained, and Bobby had continued to do so. Clean little white kitchen attached to an open living room that faced a fireplace. Two bedrooms on the main floor, one on the second, a bathroom on each floor, and the stairway wasn't too long or high. It was cozy and nice and perfect.
Dean shoved the key in his pocket and went out to bring Sam in. His slow, steady walk became a quick run when he saw Sam fumbling with the car door. “Hey, hey, easy tiger,” Dean said gently once he opened the door. “Take it easy, Sammy.”
Sam was panting slightly, and the panting turned into a hacking cough that made Dean wince. “Couldn't find you,” Sam whispered when he had his breath back.
“I'm right here, man,” Dean said, cursing himself for leaving Sam alone. Had to be done, but he should've gotten Sam up first. “Just checking the place out.”
That had Sam frowning in confusion. “...The place? What...?”
Dean smiled. “Jim's old fishing place, his “retirement” package, remember? We're staying here for a few weeks until you're back up on your feet.”
“But the job-”
“No hunting,” Dean said firmly. “No jobs. We need a break, Sam. We're taking a break.” After Gordon and Dad's secret, it was all out of control, and Sam was fumbling and falling apart in the wake of it all. Kid needed something stable, something that stayed the same for more than a day.
And frankly, so did Dean.
“Let's get you inside,” Dean said. He pulled Sam to his feet, already prepping himself to take Sam's weight. Sam's legs buckled but did hold, and Dean knew that was more because of Sam's sheer determination, not his physical strength. Together they limped across the grass, up the stairs, and into the house.
The house was just the right amount of small to leave Sam not feeling lost, and just the right amount of big to leave him feeling able to breathe.
Well, when he could.
He could feel something sharp and ragged in his throat, something that made him have to clear his throat every single time he breathed. And that in turn led to a cough, which led to no breathing until the cough subsided. Then the sharp feeling returned, and it started all over again.
The coughing was pushing at his head, pain and aches at the top of his brain. Last thing he needed right now was a vision. He winced at the thought and pulled the blanket a little tighter around him. Wasn't that cold out, Dean had the heat kicked up past a general comfort level, but Sam couldn't stop shivering.
The knife in his throat came back suddenly, and Sam was bent over, coughing and choking and trying to pull air in. Eventually the coughs were more expel than intake, and Sam could hear a ringing in his ears as he fought to breathe. God but he didn't want to pass out again. Scared the crap out of Dean two days ago when he'd done it, but he couldn't breathe-
He felt himself pulled back, straightened, then pushed down into something soft. The change in position allowed for some air to get in, and he tried not to take it in too fast. Finally his throat let go enough for him to pant and pull in more air.
His head was pounding, but at the steady hand on his shoulder, Sam opened his eyes. He knew it'd be Dean, always Dean, but he wasn't prepared for the amount of worry on his face. Gentle fingers wiped away tears from his cheeks Sam didn't remember shedding. “Water or tea?” Dean asked.
The thought of either on his throat sounded too good to be true, and he could imagine the cool water only sharpening the knife. He shuddered and closed his eyes. “You've gotta drink something,” Dean's voice said, following him to the dark space behind his eyelids. He sounded even more concerned than he had before. “And I know you don't want to, but rest and fluids were the doctor's orders.”
“Tea,” Sam finally allowed. He settled back into the pillows and dared to open one eye. “Not too hot, though; s'just gonna aggravate it.”
“Warm tea it is.” Dean stood and straightened the covers he'd rustled before leaving. His bare feet didn't make a sound on the floor, and Sam tried to remember the last time he'd seen his brother actually walk around in his bare feet at all. Not that Sam would've suggested the idea considering the places they usually stayed, but. It meant Dean was comfortable, felt secure and safe enough in the house to walk around without his button-up or his socks.
Sam felt secure and safe in the house because Dean was there.
He slid down a little more on the pillow, enough that he wasn't fully sitting up, but up enough that he wouldn't start choking. The headache was still throbbing at his temples, though. Wasn't going to let up anytime soon, and sitting there with it wasn't going to allow him to sleep. He needed aspirin.
Unfortunately, the aspirin was on the nightstand next to him. Well, other side of the bed, and if he moved to get it for himself, Dean would kill him.
Dean had done enough for him already. Sam wasn't an invalid. He was twenty-three, and had been in worse pain than this. He could get the aspirin bottle himself, and then sip it down with the tea that Dean was already making for him.
He slid the blankets down and slid over as slow as he could. His throat seemed to have expunged the sharpness for the moment, but the headache grew in intensity each time he moved his head. It felt like weights and hammers in his skull, rolling around and beating against his brain each time his head tipped. A bad pinball game, and he could make it stop as soon as he got the aspirin. He reached out as far as he could towards the bottle.
A shock of pain went through his head, and he had to shut his eyes against it. A second later, he heard the aspirin bottle hit the floor, rattling like a maraca.
“Lay back down, now.”
And it had tattled on him, too. Sam tried to open his eyes and felt his stomach rebel as the pain flared. “Dean,” he whispered helplessly.
“There a reason you decided to crawl and almost fall off the other side of the bed?” Despite the irritated tone Sam was pulled back almost tenderly and brought back down on the pillows. The headache slid against his head mercilessly, and Sam found himself almost floating on the pain.
“Sam. Sammy.”
He blearily opened his eyes, thankful that his stomach stayed quiet. Even more thankful that his brother had two aspirin in his extended hand, a mug of tea in his closed fist. Sam took the pills and the tea, downing both with a sigh. The little sharp shards in his throat were soothed, and he took another long sip before settling back, breathing in the aroma.
Dean looked even more worried than before. “Thank you,” Sam whispered. Throat felt scratchy already, but a tentative clearing settled most of it. He could savor the tea, then.
“Next time, you tell me if you need something,” Dean said firmly. He shifted slightly from where he sat on the side of the bed. “I mean it Sammy. You're not to leave this bed unless I give the okay. Got it?”
“No argument from me,” Sam said.
“No, not now. But you'll argue later.”
“No,” Sam said, and tried to put as much insistence in it as he could. “I promise. Staying right here, letting you be my maid; you can run around higgledy-piggledy for me.”
Dean raised his eyebrow. “'Higgledy-piggledy'? Dude. I know you're sick, but...”
“Shut up,” Sam mumbled. “It's a real word.” His brother was grinning in amusement, though, and a little teasing was worth that. Anything to erase the permanent worry lines Dean had been wearing since...well.
Dean spoke again, keeping him from sliding down towards thoughts he didn't want. “I'm not wearing one of those outfits.”
“Thank god.” They shared a small grin that was broken by Sam's cough. Just a small one, but enough to make him bring the mug up and take another long sip. His throat felt even better than before, surprisingly. Dean's tea was not too cool, not too hot. Just right. Goldilocks, and the thought made his lips turn up. Dean had always known how to make things just right.
He'd rallied against being an invalid earlier, having Dean wait on him, not being independent enough to take care of himself. Now, though, Sam found he was actually...okay with letting Dean take over. It was a little bit of a relief, actually. To know Dean would be there and take care of things, to know Dean wanted to take care of Sam. To know he could let go and have Dean there to catch him. “I promise,” Sam murmured, already feeling half asleep. God, sleep. “Stay right here n' I'll let you take 'f me.” He could feel his grip on the mug loosening, too tired to hold it in his lap anymore.
And just like he'd thought, the mug was lifted away like magic. Not a drop spilled.
“Good,” Dean said softly. “It's my job, and I'm kinda awesome at it.” Sam's hair felt brushed for an instant, and then Sam could hear bare feet padding away. Dean seemed to like playing big brother, “maid” for the day or however long it'd take to get Sam well.
Sam drifted off to sleep.
~Nebula