The Crow Calls
Title: The Crow Calls
Summary: Sam got sick so quickly, swallowed by a fever in a matter of hours.
Word Count: 1,744
Author's Note: Also on FF.net. Plenty of sick/limp!Sam and worried/protective!Dean. Set pre-series.
Dad has been gone for an hour. He should be back by now. He needs to be back by now. But looking outside, seeing how everything is white and heavy with snow, Dean knows his Dad won’t be back for a while. If the blizzard keeps going like it is, Dad might not be back until it’s light out.
The cabin is too cold, Dean can see where his breath latches onto cold air, he can see his fingers tremble but he can’t feel them anymore as he dips cloth into water and wrings it out. The lamp is orange and flickering, like it’s clinging on for as long as it can, casting a soft, dancing glow over Sammy’s sweat-slicked face.
Sam got sick so quickly, swallowed by a fever in a matter of hours.
Dean presses the cloth to Sam’s brow. The kid is shivering like he’s out in the storm, but he’s deadly hot whenever Dean feels his skin. Sam rolls a little away from the cloth, eyes glassy and he’s barely looking at Dean.
“Nuh,” he mutters, and even for such a short sound he manages to drag it out through chattering teeth.
“Sammy, I need to keep you cool,” Dean says softly. He knows that anything he says won’t really enter Sam’s fevered brain but it makes him feel better, like he’s doing something. Anything.
Dad needs to be back now.
He presses the cloth back onto Sam’s skin, completely ignoring the soft whimpers he makes like Dean just sliced him. Dean does what he can. He cools Sammy’s skin, he brushes the kid’s hair back, he whispers soft words to him.
But Sam just shifts and cries and says things that Dean isn’t sure are real words.
“Sammy,” Dean says it for the hundredth time, “Sammy, Dad’s gonna come back with medicine. You’ll feel better in no time. Promise.”
Sam just shudders again and says, “Please… Don’t go. I, I can’t… Please.”
And Dean has no clue what that means because he sure as hell isn’t going anywhere. He sighs and rings out the cloth again once Sam’s skin has warmed it up too much. He brushes his hand gently over Sammy’s bony shoulder, back and forth, like his mom used to do. He remembers that. She always brushed her fingers through his hair, over his back when he cried, sang softly to him.
Sam is crying now, sobbing about the shadows, flinching like something’s really swiping its claws at him. So Dean brushes his fingers through his brother’s hair, over his back as he cries, sings softly to him. At fifteen Dean understands how his mom must have loved the two of them because he thinks it must be something like the love he has for Sammy.
Poor, sick Sammy.
“Th-they’re real fast,” Sam shudders and chokes, rolling onto his back and away from whatever he thinks he sees. “W-watch out… Dean…”
And he’s sobbing again, hot wet tears getting lost in the beads of sweat on his cheeks. He’s ghostly white, and Dean would know, he’s seen plenty of them. Sam is fire-hot and the whole cabin reeks of sickness. Dean has a bucket by his feet in case Sam feels like dragging out his stomach again.
Dean doesn’t know how Sammy got sick or even what he has. He just knows that five hours ago the kid was complaining that his stomach and head hurt, then three hours ago he wouldn’t stop throwing up or screaming about the pain in his skull, then two hours ago he passed out, then one hour ago he woke up boiling hot and shaking like a leaf, then Dad was straight out the door with nothing more than a watch out for Sammy.
But Sam was getting worse and Dean didn’t know what else he could do but wait for Dad. A sick feeling twisted in his gut and told him that Sam wouldn’t last through the night if they didn’t do something soon.
“D-Dean…”
He looks down, surprised to see that Sam actually looking at him. “Hey, little brother,” he whispers, brushing a greasy strand of hair out of the kid’s eyes.
Sam frowns. “Dean,” he whines again, “Dean, m’scared…”
“Don’t be,” is Dean’s immediate answer, “I’ve got you. Dad’ll be back soon. You’ll be fine. Promise.”
“Nuh,” Sam stresses, he squirms on the mattress. “She said… she said m’gonna die…”
Dean freezes, his breath hanging in a mist, his heart thundering. “Who said that?”
“The, the woman,” Sam chokes through a sob, eyes wandering over Dean’s shoulder. Dean whips around, there’s nothing there but the moth-eaten couch and the abandoned cooker in the corner. Outside, the snow keeps falling. When he looks back Sam is still staring, breaths shuddering, eyes wide.
“Please, Dean…” he cries.
Dean jumps to his feet, grabbing the knife he keeps strapped to his boot. “No one’s touching him, bitch,” he warns, glancing around the empty room. “You hear me?”
There’s no answer, only the soft cries and ragged breaths from the bed. He steps back slowly and sits on the edge, blocking Sammy from the rest of the room. One hand in Sam’s hair, one curled around the knife.
“What are you?” he asks. Nothing’s there. No one answers.
He’d know if a ghost were here. But the lamp isn’t flickering and the room was ice-cold anyway. But ghosts aren’t the only creatures you can’t see. Only the dying can see Reapers.
“No…” Dean shakes his head in denial and looks back to Sammy, who’s still watching the empty spot in the corner. “Sammy, where is she?”
Sam doesn’t seem to hear him that time. The sobbing has stopped, he’s just lying there, limp as a fish on dry land, head lolling against the pillow as tears and sweat soak the covers. His breaths are heavy and strained, in out, in out, like he’s dragging them through a grater.
“Sammy!” he calls again. The knife is forgotten in his hand; he lets it drop to the wooden floor with a clang in favour of tapping Sam’s cheek in the hopes to rouse him. For one horrific moment Dean fears the worst, but he can still hear Sam breathing, he can feel his brother’s heart pounding frantically under the palm of his hand.
Then the tremors start.
Dean doesn’t know what it is, he barely notices it at first because the kid has been shuddering non-stop for hours. But then Sam’s eyes roll like he can’t even keep them in place and all Dean can see are the whites. The next thing he knows is that Sam is convulsing under him.
“Sam!” Dean screams, and he never screams, not even when he came face-to-face with a werewolf when he was twelve years old. But Dean cries out so loud that his mother might have heard him, wherever she is.
Sam won’t stop and Dean doesn’t know what to do. Of all the things that his dad taught him about first aid, seizures weren’t part of the course. Dean knows that’s what this is. Sam’s having a seizure and Dean doesn’t know what to do.
Sam’s legs and arms are flailing, jolting against the mattress, head banging against the pillow. His jaw is clenched tight and a small trail of blood and saliva leak from the corner of his mouth. That’s when Dean finally cries, and that’s when headlights finally appear, flashing through the window.
---
Dean wakes up in bed with not much memory of how he got there. He can feel the sheets wrapped over him, soft and dry. He feels something too-warm and breathing under his arm. He opens his eyes to Sammy’s sleeping face and remembers.
He remembers crying and screaming like the kid that he was as his brother shook in his arms. He remembers his dad finally, finally, rushing in. He remembers seeing his dad look afraid for the first time in his life. He remembers his dad comforting, helping him wait out Sam’s seizure. Then he remembers his dad hooking up an IV and telling him it would be alright. He doesn’t remember believing him.
But then he remembers what Sam had said in his delirium. That Sam had seen a woman who told him he would die. Only now, with Sam safe and breathing next to him, does he wonder if Sam was just hallucinating.
He sits up in bed, brushes a hand over Sam’s forehead. It’s warm but not as hot as it was the night before. Sam sighs in his sleep and shifts closer. He doesn’t wake. He sees his dad sitting on the couch, a pot hanging over the fireplace and Dean can smell oatmeal, it reminds him of Sunday mornings long ago before the fire.
He notices that his dad is watching him and he wonders for how long. John gives him the barest smile. He looks tired, exhausted, but thankfully he doesn’t look drunk or hungover.
“Sammy should be okay now,” he says, turning to stir the pot.
Dean wants to ask how he knows that for sure. He wants to ask how Sam got sick so fast. He wants to ask a dozen questions but then he notices his dad’s bloodied knife and he understands.
“He’ll be okay,” Dean tells himself. He looks down again, watches Sam’s soft breathing, eyelids fluttering as he dreams, and he tells himself that Sam had only been hallucinating. Still, his eyes flick over to that empty corner.
Summary: Sam got sick so quickly, swallowed by a fever in a matter of hours.
Word Count: 1,744
Author's Note: Also on FF.net. Plenty of sick/limp!Sam and worried/protective!Dean. Set pre-series.
Dad has been gone for an hour. He should be back by now. He needs to be back by now. But looking outside, seeing how everything is white and heavy with snow, Dean knows his Dad won’t be back for a while. If the blizzard keeps going like it is, Dad might not be back until it’s light out.
The cabin is too cold, Dean can see where his breath latches onto cold air, he can see his fingers tremble but he can’t feel them anymore as he dips cloth into water and wrings it out. The lamp is orange and flickering, like it’s clinging on for as long as it can, casting a soft, dancing glow over Sammy’s sweat-slicked face.
Sam got sick so quickly, swallowed by a fever in a matter of hours.
Dean presses the cloth to Sam’s brow. The kid is shivering like he’s out in the storm, but he’s deadly hot whenever Dean feels his skin. Sam rolls a little away from the cloth, eyes glassy and he’s barely looking at Dean.
“Nuh,” he mutters, and even for such a short sound he manages to drag it out through chattering teeth.
“Sammy, I need to keep you cool,” Dean says softly. He knows that anything he says won’t really enter Sam’s fevered brain but it makes him feel better, like he’s doing something. Anything.
Dad needs to be back now.
He presses the cloth back onto Sam’s skin, completely ignoring the soft whimpers he makes like Dean just sliced him. Dean does what he can. He cools Sammy’s skin, he brushes the kid’s hair back, he whispers soft words to him.
But Sam just shifts and cries and says things that Dean isn’t sure are real words.
“Sammy,” Dean says it for the hundredth time, “Sammy, Dad’s gonna come back with medicine. You’ll feel better in no time. Promise.”
Sam just shudders again and says, “Please… Don’t go. I, I can’t… Please.”
And Dean has no clue what that means because he sure as hell isn’t going anywhere. He sighs and rings out the cloth again once Sam’s skin has warmed it up too much. He brushes his hand gently over Sammy’s bony shoulder, back and forth, like his mom used to do. He remembers that. She always brushed her fingers through his hair, over his back when he cried, sang softly to him.
Sam is crying now, sobbing about the shadows, flinching like something’s really swiping its claws at him. So Dean brushes his fingers through his brother’s hair, over his back as he cries, sings softly to him. At fifteen Dean understands how his mom must have loved the two of them because he thinks it must be something like the love he has for Sammy.
Poor, sick Sammy.
“Th-they’re real fast,” Sam shudders and chokes, rolling onto his back and away from whatever he thinks he sees. “W-watch out… Dean…”
And he’s sobbing again, hot wet tears getting lost in the beads of sweat on his cheeks. He’s ghostly white, and Dean would know, he’s seen plenty of them. Sam is fire-hot and the whole cabin reeks of sickness. Dean has a bucket by his feet in case Sam feels like dragging out his stomach again.
Dean doesn’t know how Sammy got sick or even what he has. He just knows that five hours ago the kid was complaining that his stomach and head hurt, then three hours ago he wouldn’t stop throwing up or screaming about the pain in his skull, then two hours ago he passed out, then one hour ago he woke up boiling hot and shaking like a leaf, then Dad was straight out the door with nothing more than a watch out for Sammy.
But Sam was getting worse and Dean didn’t know what else he could do but wait for Dad. A sick feeling twisted in his gut and told him that Sam wouldn’t last through the night if they didn’t do something soon.
“D-Dean…”
He looks down, surprised to see that Sam actually looking at him. “Hey, little brother,” he whispers, brushing a greasy strand of hair out of the kid’s eyes.
Sam frowns. “Dean,” he whines again, “Dean, m’scared…”
“Don’t be,” is Dean’s immediate answer, “I’ve got you. Dad’ll be back soon. You’ll be fine. Promise.”
“Nuh,” Sam stresses, he squirms on the mattress. “She said… she said m’gonna die…”
Dean freezes, his breath hanging in a mist, his heart thundering. “Who said that?”
“The, the woman,” Sam chokes through a sob, eyes wandering over Dean’s shoulder. Dean whips around, there’s nothing there but the moth-eaten couch and the abandoned cooker in the corner. Outside, the snow keeps falling. When he looks back Sam is still staring, breaths shuddering, eyes wide.
“Please, Dean…” he cries.
Dean jumps to his feet, grabbing the knife he keeps strapped to his boot. “No one’s touching him, bitch,” he warns, glancing around the empty room. “You hear me?”
There’s no answer, only the soft cries and ragged breaths from the bed. He steps back slowly and sits on the edge, blocking Sammy from the rest of the room. One hand in Sam’s hair, one curled around the knife.
“What are you?” he asks. Nothing’s there. No one answers.
He’d know if a ghost were here. But the lamp isn’t flickering and the room was ice-cold anyway. But ghosts aren’t the only creatures you can’t see. Only the dying can see Reapers.
“No…” Dean shakes his head in denial and looks back to Sammy, who’s still watching the empty spot in the corner. “Sammy, where is she?”
Sam doesn’t seem to hear him that time. The sobbing has stopped, he’s just lying there, limp as a fish on dry land, head lolling against the pillow as tears and sweat soak the covers. His breaths are heavy and strained, in out, in out, like he’s dragging them through a grater.
“Sammy!” he calls again. The knife is forgotten in his hand; he lets it drop to the wooden floor with a clang in favour of tapping Sam’s cheek in the hopes to rouse him. For one horrific moment Dean fears the worst, but he can still hear Sam breathing, he can feel his brother’s heart pounding frantically under the palm of his hand.
Then the tremors start.
Dean doesn’t know what it is, he barely notices it at first because the kid has been shuddering non-stop for hours. But then Sam’s eyes roll like he can’t even keep them in place and all Dean can see are the whites. The next thing he knows is that Sam is convulsing under him.
“Sam!” Dean screams, and he never screams, not even when he came face-to-face with a werewolf when he was twelve years old. But Dean cries out so loud that his mother might have heard him, wherever she is.
Sam won’t stop and Dean doesn’t know what to do. Of all the things that his dad taught him about first aid, seizures weren’t part of the course. Dean knows that’s what this is. Sam’s having a seizure and Dean doesn’t know what to do.
Sam’s legs and arms are flailing, jolting against the mattress, head banging against the pillow. His jaw is clenched tight and a small trail of blood and saliva leak from the corner of his mouth. That’s when Dean finally cries, and that’s when headlights finally appear, flashing through the window.
---
Dean wakes up in bed with not much memory of how he got there. He can feel the sheets wrapped over him, soft and dry. He feels something too-warm and breathing under his arm. He opens his eyes to Sammy’s sleeping face and remembers.
He remembers crying and screaming like the kid that he was as his brother shook in his arms. He remembers his dad finally, finally, rushing in. He remembers seeing his dad look afraid for the first time in his life. He remembers his dad comforting, helping him wait out Sam’s seizure. Then he remembers his dad hooking up an IV and telling him it would be alright. He doesn’t remember believing him.
But then he remembers what Sam had said in his delirium. That Sam had seen a woman who told him he would die. Only now, with Sam safe and breathing next to him, does he wonder if Sam was just hallucinating.
He sits up in bed, brushes a hand over Sam’s forehead. It’s warm but not as hot as it was the night before. Sam sighs in his sleep and shifts closer. He doesn’t wake. He sees his dad sitting on the couch, a pot hanging over the fireplace and Dean can smell oatmeal, it reminds him of Sunday mornings long ago before the fire.
He notices that his dad is watching him and he wonders for how long. John gives him the barest smile. He looks tired, exhausted, but thankfully he doesn’t look drunk or hungover.
“Sammy should be okay now,” he says, turning to stir the pot.
Dean wants to ask how he knows that for sure. He wants to ask how Sam got sick so fast. He wants to ask a dozen questions but then he notices his dad’s bloodied knife and he understands.
“He’ll be okay,” Dean tells himself. He looks down again, watches Sam’s soft breathing, eyelids fluttering as he dreams, and he tells himself that Sam had only been hallucinating. Still, his eyes flick over to that empty corner.