Sammy, You're a Star (In Nobody's Eyes But Mine)

[shangrilada]

Title: Sammy, You're a Star (In Nobody's Eyes But Mine)
Summary: It's December 22rd in Bloomfield, Vermont, and the snow's coming down hard. 3 nights, 3 Winchesters, 2 beds.
Warnings/Spoilers: Just language.
Wordcount: 8,652
Author's Note: Sammyverse--Sam has asthma and the boys get along, damn it. Sam is 17 and Dean is 21, so there was not really texting back then, but there also aren't really monsters so it's all right, I think. Logically I should post this like a month and a half from now. Fuck logic. Title robbed and mauled from The Killers's "Andy, You're a Star." Did you know I'm a sap? Because you're about to. 


--

It's December 22rd in Bloomfield, Vermont, and the snow's coming down hard. Dean thinks the red lights flashing up ahead are vaguely Christmasy, and he has his captain in the passenger seat and his first mate in the back (what does that make Dean?) and is about as close to the holiday spirit as the Winchesters ever get, so he's feeling pretty damn good.

They've been driving north since early this morning, which means the Impala's full of blankets and fast food wrappers and books. The heat's cranked to its highest and windows are fogged all the way through because it's three below outside and Sam likes to get sick. They're almost there.

John jerks himself awake and gestures towards the stereo. “You need to take better care of your cassettes.”

“What? They're perfect.”

“Nah, the quality's all messed up. They're whining.”

Dean frowns for a second before he laughs and turns down the volume, adjusts the rear view mirror. “Sammy.”

“Mmm?” Sam has The Hotel New Hampshire and his geeky book light back there, so he's in his happy little world. He also has half a candy cane sticking out of his mouth. Dean's pretty sure Sam already ate his, and that that one is Dean's, but whatever.

“Dad's blaming my tapes for that sound you're making.”

Sam, in the mirror, looks confused, and John turns around to look at him. “Sam. You all right?”

Sam takes a test breath in and out. He's wheezing high and scratchy. “Yeah.”

“Take your inhaler. All hands on deck until Christmas, okay?”

Sam puts his book down and stretches out on his back. “I just took it like five minutes ago.” He's seventeen and can still pout like a fucking six year old when he wants to.

But he also doesn't fuck around with his lungs, so Dean says, “He did, Dad. I saw him.”

John says, “Have you been coughing?”

“No,” Sam says. John looks at Dean, and Sam huffs out a breath and sits up. “Don't check with Dean. I told you.”

But John's still looking at Dean, so Dean shrugs and says, “He hasn't been coughing. But he's feeling shitty.”

Sam shifts around. “I'm not.”

“Then explain the squirming.”

“I don't know. For fun.” He rolls himself off the backseat and onto the floor.

John cracks a smile.

**

For the past few years, they always get two rooms, three beds. Or at least one room, two beds, and a cot. John says it's because Sam's a bitch to sleep with, which is true, because Sam is six hundred inches of arms and legs that turn into nine hundred when he's sleeping, but really that's Dean's problem, not John's, and yeah, he breathes like a fucking jet engine but one way or another someone's going to hear it because fuck if they're getting Sam his own damn room (and fuck if they haven't learned to sleep through it at this point, honestly, it's their fucking lives).

But whatever, they don't argue.

They're standing in the lobby stamping snow off their boots, and Sam has his ragged blue asthma scarf wrapped all the fuck around the bottom half of his face, and now he's coughing, and he's like some diseased fucking bandit.

Temperature changes are always rough on him, so he's always fucking coughing for a while when he comes in from the cold, so he and Dean made it a game a few winters ago. Sam stands back and coughs and they count how many it takes for the guy behind the counter of whatever the fuck motel to start to panic that Sam's going to spread TB throughout his fine establishment. It would probably be nice of them to let John in on this game at some point. Some point is not tonight. This guy takes eighteen coughs to break. That's pretty good.

John raises an eyebrow at Sam, who grins at him.

“Two rooms,” John says. “Single and double.”

“Just the one room left,” the guy says, and Sam looks at Dean with huge eyes, trying not to laugh, and Dean knows he's fucking envisioning all three of them piled in one bed, John with his gun and Dean with his knife and Sam with his octopus limbs, and Dean rubs his hand over his mouth and will not laugh, damn it.

“A double?” John says.

“Yep.”

Sam pretends to snap his fingers, but he starts coughing before Dean can fucking smack him.

John glances at Sam, reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder while the kid hacks. “You have a spare cot?”

The guy behind the desk looks at him like cot is a new word to him.

All right then.

On the way to their rooms, John asks how Sam's feeling and mentions, off-hand, that he'll split a bed with him to keep an eye on him.

Sam and Dean look at each other.

Shrug.

“Cool,” Sam says. “I'll try to be quiet.”

“Don't worry about it,” John and Dean say together.

**

He does a shitty job of being quiet, but Dean's the only one awake to be fucking bothered by it, because Sam's oblivious to his own breathing half the time and John had a few drinks before bed and damn does Dean wish he did too, because Sam's in that awkward place where he sounds like hell but he's sleeping, he's sleeping, so what the fuck point is there in waking him up and making him breathe better except to freak him out and hype him up on meds that make him jittery?

But it's so fucking sad when he wheezes in his sleep, in this way that Dean still can't explain. He just looks fucking miserable curled up around his pillow and driving his forehead into the mattress and snagging and coughing every few breaths, but mostly it's just that fucking stuffed-up wheeze over and over and over.

Dean pulls his pillow over his head but keeps his vision clear to watch Sam a little longer. He can't make out much, not his face or anything.

If it gets worse, he'll wake him up.

It gets worse.

Dean throws his pillow at him. He hits John instead. Accidentally. Of course.

John startles and is probably about to ask Dean what the fuck he just did, but Sam's kind of an attention whore over there so John sighs and sits up and shakes Sam's shoulder. “Sammy.”

Sam's awake now, Dean can tell from the rhythm of his breathing, and he curls up and muffles a load of coughs into his pillow.

John looks at Dean for advice. Because Dean does more nights with Sam.

“He can do this himself,” Dean says. “He's all right.”

Sam gets up and treks to the bathroom with his mouth buried in his elbow, coughing the whole way. Dean hears the hiss of his inhaler and some pills clicking together. Probably Benadryl. Fucking dusty motels.

He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and the room for a minute, looking kind of dazed and enormous, before he stumbles back into bed.

“You all right?” John says.

Sam's burrows under the covers. “Yessir.”

“Gimme my pillow back,” Dean says, and Sam flings it at him.

Twenty minutes later, John's long asleep, but Dean isn't, and he can tell by Sam's too-good breathing that he isn't either.

“You okay?” Dean whispers.

“Can't sleep.” He squirms and laughs a little. “Dad has me squished all to one side here.”

“'cause you'd be all the fuck over him otherwise. Sleep on the floor.”

“I'll wheeze to death.”

“You want mine?”

Sam shakes his head. “No. I'm fine. Just whining.”

“Sleep.”

Sam nods, but he's still awake when Dean drops out.

In the morning, though, he sleeps through the alarm, and John looks like he's about to bitch but thinks better of it and says, “Coffee run, Dean. You want to join me?”

“Yessir,” Dean says, because coffee run with Dad is code for cigarette and it's been too damn long. He's not a fucking smoker or anything, but damn, one first thing in the morning is fucking unbelievable, and it's as good an excuse as any to get to spend time with just Dad, because Sammy, God love him, sucks both their attention up all the time with his stupid jokes and his pissy attitude and his huge smile and his fucking chest whenever he's around.

They don't leave him a note because he's not fucking five.

Dad lights two cigarettes as soon as they're in the parking lot and passes one to Dean. It'd be nice to sit and talk for a while, enjoy it, but it is fucking freezing and anyway, there are rules with cigarettes--never standing still (or the smell will linger), never in the car, never, obviously, in a motel room, and never, never, never around Sammy.

It's kind of stupid, really, because Sam's been known to hang out at a bar or a restaurant where someone's smoking and not keel over on them, but they kind of want to do better by the kid than not making him keel over, you know?

But it's fucking nice sometimes to remember that he can do this, that Sam's lungs aren't his, because Jesus, Dean feels like he's dragging Sam's fucking asthma around with him sometimes too, and he knows that that makes him a fuck of a lot weaker than Sam that he needs a fucking break from not even having asthma but is that supposed to be news or something that Dean's weaker? (And it's not like it's a fucking secret which kid John likes more, okay? All the more reason Dean has to do these things, has to find these moments with Dad, has to remind him that he fucking exists.)

And of course the conversation always comes around to Sam.

“We need to stave this off until the hunt is over,” John says, blowing smoke through his nose. “Until after Christmas, if we can.”

“Stave what off?”

“What he's gearing up towards. He sounded bad last night.”

“No worse than most nights.”

“Really?”

Dean shrugs. “It's cold. Cold bugs him. Maybe he's a little sick. But he's not heading towards a hospital stay, he's heading towards needs-a-weekend-off.” He orders coffee from a truck and gets a huge one for Sam. “Are we researching today?”

“Yes.”

“We should let him stay in, sleep. Take care of it ourselves.”

“He breathes worse when he sleeps than when he's awake. He's just in the library today. And we need him. God knows he's a faster reader than we are.” John lights another cigarette.

“Just trying to keep his head above water, sir.”

“He's tough.”

“Yeah.” Dean doesn't know why they talk about Sam because it always ends on this same damn note, Dean telling John the fucking truth and John acknowledging it but dismissing it all with a hearty Sam's tough and yeah, he fucking is, but that's not always enough. They stop out their cigarettes and head back inside. Sam's a fucking mess, still half-asleep with his hair all the fuck over the place and fist pressed into one eye.

“Rise and shine, sunshine,” Dean says, while John heads into the shower. He hands him a cup of coffee and fucks with his hair on the way back to his bed.

Sam frowns at the closed bathroom door. “Why does he always steal the shower before I can get my fucking meds?”

“Why don't you keep your fucking meds on the fucking nightstand?”

“I don't like them staring at me first thing in the morning,” which is just so representative of the bullshit that comes out of Sam's mouth.

“Tried to get you the day off,” Dean says. “No dice.”

“Fucking hate this shit. My book's getting good, too.”

“I don't want to hear it today, all right? I'm cold to my fucking bones and I already had to have this fucking conversation with Dad.”

“Should I make it short, then? Hunting sucks and I miss school. And my chest hurts.” He rolls over onto his back. “Tada. Done.”

“It's winter fucking break, Sam, the noooormal kids aren't at school either.”

“The noooormal kids get Christmas trees and fireplaces and caroling.”

Dean ticks them off on his fingers. “Allergic, asthmatic, tone deaf.”

“Fuck you, what would you even do without the lovely sound of my voice?” Something important about Sam is that he can do a very fantastic John impression, so now he's out of bed and rummaging around in his bag, and between fucking wheezes he's got his gruff voice on saying shit like “Got to get an early start, boys, there's bitches to kill, bitches to save. Dean, stop using your fucking turn signal, turn signals are for pussies. Sam, stop touching your goddamn brother, touching your brother is for pussies.”

“You shouldn't make me laugh this fucking much when you can't breathe. It feels so wrong.”

“Nah, you're doing it for me.”

“Bitch.”

“Mmm.”

John comes out of the bathroom, fully clothed, like always, toothbrush in his mouth, towel around his neck. “Who's next?”

“Me,” Dean says, and Sam rocks from foot to foot and says, “I need my meds, Dean.”

“Yeah, come get 'em.” It's not until Dean's brushing his teeth and Sam's inhaling shit and knocking back pills that Dean notices that the kid sounds like crap, and he glances in at John packing his bag and puts a hand on Sam's back. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Feeling kind of shitty.”

“Getting sick?”

He shakes his head. “Think if I said I was, he'd let me skip?” They kind of have a rule to coddle Sam when he's sick, because he likes to get really incredibly sick because he's a fucking drama queen, but if they let Sam get out of shit every time he's feeling kind of shitty they'd never get anything done, and that's just reality.

“Don't fucking lie about that,” Dean says.

“Yeah, I know.” He braces himself on the counter and coughs some. “Can I stay in and breathe the steam while you shower?”

“Yeah.”

“Sam?” John calls. “Could I get your help out here?”

Sam looks at Dean. “If he makes me help load the car, expect a dramatic asthmatic death scene.”

“I usually do.”

“Have a nice shower without me, darling.” He lets the door slam.

Dean shakes himself off.

**

John made him help load the car, so at the library Sam's wheezing so badly people are looking over and he's embarrassed out of his fucking mind. He hides in his scarf and slumps over the table, but it's cold in here and he's pretty miserable. Dean surreptitiously rubs the small of his back, which doesn't fucking help at all but sometimes it gets him to relax some.

“I need to go,” he whispers to Dean.

“Yeah? We'll check a few books out. He's got to go, Dad.”

John points to Sam's book. “Think you've almost got something there. Finish it up and then we can go.”

“I'm bothering people.”

John glances around. “Fuck 'em.”

“Can't fucking breathe,” Sam grumbles into his book, except yeah, he can, he's moving a good amount of air, and if they were back at the motel he'd be ignoring the wheeze until Dean nagged the shit out of him. Dean gets that it probably sucks to do this in public, but if he'd save can't breathe for situations when he actually couldn't, John might take him seriously.

“Okay.” Sam coughs into his fist and shoves his book over to Dean. “Found something. Farmer's wife, stabbed through with a pitchfork. Vics are all young, strapping farmers found with three bleeding holes in their gut. That's our Hitler. I'm going.”

“Where are you going?” John says.

Sam, halfway up, hesitates. “The motel?”

“You're going to walk?”

He tries to sigh but he's such a fucking mess. “Can I have the keys? I'll pick you guys up when you're done.”

John looks at Dean and says the fucking thing he doesn't want to say out loud because he knows Sam will fucking freak out on him so that means it's up to Dean, awesome.

“You shouldn't be driving in this fucking weather,” Dean says.

See, if John had said it, Sam would have launched into this breathless fucking speech about his driving prowess, but with Dean Sam shrugs and says, “So come with me.”

“We have people to interview, Sam,” John says. “I can't hit them all in one day on my own. And tomorrow, we're not going to have any luck.”

Sam looks at Dean, confused.

“Tomorrow's Christmas Eve, Sammy,” Dean says, quietly.

Sam runs his hand through his hair.

“I need to just sit in the car for a while,” Sam says, quietly. “It's fucking cold in here. Okay?”

“All right.” John tosses him the keys. “Keep an eye on the gas gauge. We'll be down soon. Stay warm. Here.” He takes his coat off the back of his chair and passes it to Sam.

Sam wraps it over his shoulders. “Thanks.”

“Feel better, champ,” Dean says (which might as well be part of Sam's name for the amount they say it to him, Samuel Feelbetterchamp Winchester) and Sam nods and heads for the elevator. “He's going to crash,” Dean says to John.

“You said he'd be fine.”

“I also said he needed a break...”

“He's getting a break right now.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dean and John do some fact-checking...or John does some fact-checking and Dean texts Sam and John pretends like he doesn't see Dean texting Sam, but he can't help mumbling something about then being joined at the fucking hip, and whose fault is that, seriously? Who the fuck else's hip is he supposed to be joined at? (Is he supposed to not enjoy the kid's fucking company? What other choice did he ever had? It's called conditioning and Sam learned it in AP Psych.)

Sam's doing shitty and threatening suicide by open window and four degree air. Why is Dean getting the feeling that Sam's not exactly psyched about a day of interviews?

And then he and John get out of the car and see that Sam's fucking soaked in snow and dripping all over the backseat because-and this is really the kind of thing you'd only hear from fucking Sam-he couldn't find where they'd parked the car.

Dean says, “Jesus, Sam, it's like a fifty car lot.”

“This is exactly what I've been talking about,” John says. “You don't pay attention, Sam. You're off in your head and you have no idea what's going on around you, and one day you're going to get yourself or your brother killed.”

“Yeah, I'll kill Dean by not finding a fucking parking space.” Sam shivers and sneezes. “Sorry, Dean. Apparently being a fucking badass little freak isn't enough, now I have to have normal people shit down too.”

Dean turns around to look at Sam. “Can you guys not?”

“Because this was really such a difficult task, Sam,” John quips.

“Those normal people who have to find their cars? They have normal fucking cars with little key fobs that make noise.”

John says, “Just be quiet, Sam, all right? I've had enough. We're stopping to get you some dry clothes, then we've got a busy day, and I don't want to spend it arguing.”

“Then don't fucking start arguments and expect me to be a contrite little bitch.” Then he's coughing hard, which effectively shuts him up, except after he's done he's still wheezing like crazy and scaring the shit out of John, which is making him tense up, which is making the whole car a pretty fucking horrible place, and Dean wishes it were last night again, and fuck, his family's better when they don't have to look at each other.

“He's fine,” Dean says to John, but John doesn't even fucking acknowledge him, so he turns around in his seat and says. “Hey.”

Sam's lying on his back, both hands on his forehead. “Hey.”

“You okay? We're almost there. You'll feel better dry.”

“M'fine.” He gives Dean a small smile. “Promise.”

“That's my boy,” Dean says, and when he turns back around John gives him a look, but John can fucking deal, because Dean tried with him first, okay? (Dean almost always tries with him first and fuck if he knows why. Probably because Sam already loves him best.)

**

John looks for a dry coat while Sam takes off his wet clothes and sounds like total fucking shit, and if Dean couldn't see Sam's shoulders fucking heaving as he gets changed, he'd think Sam was exaggerating it to try to get out of shit today.

Dean goes to the bathroom to get him a glass of water and rubs up and down his back a few times to try to warm him up while Sam tugs his t-shirt on. John waits until Sam's in a sweater to put his hand on his shoulder. “We'll stop for coffee on the way, all right?”

Sam coughs into his elbow, nods.

“Sorry it's so cold.”

Sam shrugs. “That's not your fault.”

**

They have files and maps to look over, so it just makes more sense for Dean to sit in the back with Sam, okay?

They stole a few of the blankets from the motel so it's like a fucking cloud back here, and Sam has one draped over his shoulders like an old lady and one laying across him that he lets Dean under. Dean kicks off his boots and finds that Sam's feet are as cold as his are. He traps one between his while they look at information on their suspect's family and try to figure out where the fuck she might be buried.

Sam's sniffling every five fucking seconds. John eventually says, “Damn it, Sam, don't you have a fucking tissue?”

“We're out. You have a kid with allergies, seriously, buy more tissues.”

“Use your sleeve,” Dean says.

Sam looks at his sweater and makes a face, and Dean rolls his eyes and wipes Sam's nose on his own sleeve. Sam takes the opportunity to cough on him.

“You're the worst thing that ever happened to me,” Dean says.

“Mmm.” He shivers and scoots in closer. Dean would be grateful to have someone else's body heat except Sam is seriously fucking freezing.

“You're going to get sick,” Dean says.

“Not how sick works.” Dean can tell by Sam's voice that he has his eyes closed.

“Not a fucking pillow, man.”

“Yeah. I'm cold.”

Dean twists his fingers in Sam's hair and tugs on it. It's still damp. “I know.”

At the next light, John says, “Dean, come and who me what you've figured out.”

“Nothing much, really.”

“Let Sam stretch out.”

“N'm fine,” Sam says. He buries his face in his arms and muffles a few coughs.

John says, “You go ahead and sleep, Sam, but I need someone to help. Relinquish your brother.” He tries to make it sound like a joke. Does the evil villain voice he used to do when he read to them.

“Gotta go,” Dean whispers. He runs his hand up Sam's back.

“No.”

“Yeah.” He gives his hair one more tug. “Stay warm.”

**

Sam sleeps in the car through the first interview, and John and Dean go in and show badges and get no useful information but a waste of a fucking hour and a bunch of fucking cat hair all over them, and they exchange looks and dust each other off by the car and keep an eye on Sam, who wheezes harder without waking up and Jesus if that doesn't make Dean want throw today in the garbage he doesn't know what the fuck will.

Oh wait, how about this, the fact that they drive around in circles until it's fucking dark looking for their next interview, and Sam sounds like he's fucking drowning in the backseat, and when they finally find the house of this lives-alone-little grandmother type it looks like she's having a Christmas party. A little old lady Christmas party, judging by the hunched over shrunken shadows moving behind the curtains.

And Dean looks at himself and looks at John and realizes at the same time as his father that no fucking way are two grizzly unshaven men going to be invited in for tea and cookies, badges or no badges, and there's Sam in the backseat, Sam and his sweet fucking face and his ratty sweater and his hair sticking up all over the place and his motherfucking wheeze, and ugh, son of a bitch.

“You do it,” John tells Dean.

“What?”

“You wake him up.”

“And force him there? No.”

“He listens to you.”

“He listens to me because I fucking take care of him, which I wouldn't be doing by forcing him to go in there when he's feeling like shit.”

“Jesus, Dean, she'll probably make him some soup.”

He has a point.

A point that kind of loses his effectiveness when Dean reaches back and shakes Sam awake and Sam immediately starts coughing like he has two gallons of shit in his lungs.

Dean waits for him to quiet down before he says, “Sorry. You warm enough?”

Sam nods and fishes his inhaler off the ground, shakes it.

“We need your help. Just a little thing.”

He sits up. “Okay.” See, he's not always a fucking pain in the ass.

“We need someone adorable to go in there and talk to her, and Dad and I are just going to scare her off with our manly ways, so we figured you fit the bill.”

“I love the way you ask me for favors.”

“Not a favor and we're not asking, Sam,” John finds it helpful to add, and immediately Sam's locked into bitch mode and fuck if that needed to happen, John, seriously?

Sam slumps back in his seat and crosses his arms.

“Hey.” Dean makes Sam look at him. “It's an easy one. You're here to visit your grandfather's grave, you don't know where the cemeteries are in town, you've been going door to door but no one's been helpful and-”

Sam sneezes.

“--yeah, exactly, you're sick and cold.”

“Not sick.” He sneezes again. “Allergic to you, I think.”

“So hey, look, all the better reason to get some fresh air.” Dean messes up the kid's hair.

“Get tissues if you can,” John says.

Sam pouts and goes.

**

They're parked outside to make sure the old ladies aren't witches who are going to try to eat Sam or some shit, but judging by the enormous lanky shadow drinking something at their kitchen table, the kid's okay.

John says, “I really wanted to get those bones burned tonight, but we need Sam.”

“That's assuming this biddy's even helpful, and yeah, if we want Sam's help, it's not going to happen tonight. He's a liability more than anything.” Dean feels like fucking shit saying this stuff about Sam, but sometimes the only way to get John to give Sammy a fucking break is to tell him point blank that the kid's more harm than good at the moment.

“What the fuck's even wrong with him?” John says, and he doesn't even say it mean, just tired.

“He's cold, maybe a little sick. The cat hair.”

John says, “Am I imagining it, or...”

Dean hears the rest of the sentence as clearly as if John had said it: ...or is he getting worse. “No,” Dean says. “You're not imagining it.”

John sighs. “Got to get him to a fucking doctor. Urgent care visits aren't cutting it.” John's twitching like he wants a cigarette, and just watching him makes Dean fucking twitch too. “He's been doing well, though,” John says. “Sparred with him the other day, he got a few good hits in. Though obviously I'm a lot gentler on him than any evil son of a bitch is going to be. I'm not getting anywhere near his ribs.”

“I've been getting the upper hand on him lately.”

John looks at him. “You have?”

“Yeah.” Jesus, he doesn't have to look so fucking surprised. Sam has an inch on him now, yeah, but Dean's still wider and stronger and older and he works a fuck of a lot harder.

“Well that's something.”

Something. Awesome.

It would be so much fucking easier if he thought he got the short end of the stick just because Sam was sick and demanded more time, and Dean spent a long time trying to convince himself that that's what's going on, but he know it isn't. John loves Sam because he's determined and frustrating and learns faster than anyone any of them have ever met, and Dean gets it, that's pretty interesting, and it's a fuck of a lot like John, so yeah, John likes it, Dean gets it, and John wants to take Sam apart and figure out all the fucking pieces so that he'll know how to fix Sam up if he ever has to, and Dean sees John looking at Sam sometimes just wondering what the fuck is going on the kid's head, and just because John thinks that Dean's not a fucking enigma like Sam doesn't mean he's boring, okay? (It probably doesn't mean he's boring.) Maybe he's worth it. He doesn't fucking know. Sam tells him he is.

“When were you sparring?” John says, suddenly.

“Uh, a few days ago.” Back in Georgia, unseasonably warm even for fucking Georgia, he and Sam in the parking lot, car doors open and AC/DC blasting, John at some diner exchanging papers with someone or fucking other, Sam getting the shit kicked out of him, Sam throwing his head back and laughing.

(Dean doesn't avoid his ribs because Sam needs to know how to fucking block those shots.)

“Didn't know I left you alone long enough for that,” John says.

Dean turns. John's looking down at his lap. (And what can Dean fucking say besides, when there are two rooms, you leave us alone every night without implying something he does not fucking want to imply? )

John clears his throat and lifts his head, stares out the window. “Just be careful, all right? With Sam.”

“I'm always careful with Sam.”

“All right.”

Dean shakes his head a little.

Sam comes out a few minutes later, hands in his pocket, folded piece of paper between his teeth.

“How'd it go, Sport?” John says.

“Heaven's Row Cemetery, plot eighty-six.” He hunches over, arms wrapped around his waist. “They fussed.”

“They were meant to.”

“Yeah, I know.” He coughs and slumps down lower. “So can poor, sweet, sick little fucking Sammy go home and go to sleep, now? He's very fucking delicate, poor boy should be home with his mother, isn't that just what I fucking needed tonight.”

John clears his throat and drives, and Dean knows a fucking in when he gets one, so he turns around in seat and makes eye contact with his kid.

“Pooooor Sammy.”

Sam is trying not to smile.

“Pooooor pooooooooooooor Sammy.”

Sam throws a pack of tissues-ha-and hits Dean right in the forehead. “Jerk.”

**

Back at the room, John drinks, Dean does push-ups, and Sam makes the mistake of taking a bath instead of a shower and then going all quiet so now Dean and John are nagging the shit out of him because those are sure signs that he's really not doing well, so John brews coffee and Dean sets up the nebulizer and Sam coughs and cranks the thermostat up.

He falls asleep half an hour later sprawled all the fuck out in the middle of one bed, and he's actually breathing okay so fuck if they're going to wake him. Dean and John shrug and share the other.

It ends up being one of those nights where Sam wheezes loud but constant and even, so it's pretty much a fucking lullaby, and Dean only wakes up when it stops and stutters into coughs, and a minute later he sees Sam out of bed, rubbing his chest, padding over to the bathroom. The door closes, the lights go on, and the the shower starts.

Dean stretches and doesn't knock before he comes in. Sam is still half asleep, draped across the edge of the tub, looking fucking ridiculous. He doesn't sound too bad, but he must be kind of miserable. He just looks so tired, and he barely looks up at Dean.

Dean shuts off the light and lets Sam's breathing guide him over to where he's supposed to be. He rubs a hand up and down Sam's arm.

“It's okay,” he says, softly.

He feels Sam move as he nods. “I know.”

“Sleep. I'll listen, get you back to bed when you're ready.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

“Thanks, Dean.” He readjusts himself, head against the side of the tub, back pressed  against Dean's shoulder.

“M'sorry you don't feel well,” he says.

Sam shrugs. “Not your fault.”

“That's what you say to Dad. With that underlying tension like something else is his fault.”

Sam laughs, once. “He fucking had me.”

“Hey.”

“Just the facts, ma'am.”

“Just shut up and sleep. We're going to take care of you.”

“Don't stay in here with me too long. Dad will fucking freak out.”

“I won't.” But he's not going to be in any rush to get the kid out, because with the steam and the hot water Sam doesn't feel cold for the first time all day.

**

As far as Dean can tell, John slept through the whole thing, and even if he didn't it's not exactly the first thing on his mind because another guy was forked last night and he's really fucking pissed they didn't burn those bones. They're going out as soon as it's dark and getting this shit taken care of, which means he needs his boys in top fighting condition, which means Dean does pull-ups on the shower bar and Sam sleeps. When John finally drags them out for breakfast, Sam's still a fuckton more out of breath than Dean.

Sam slips into Dean's side of the booth and asks the waitress the obligatory questions about peanuts and then orders something safe and slumps over the table with his chin on his arms and his scarf pulled over his mouth. He plays with his fork and tries to balance it on just the tines.

John watches for a minute before he turns his attention to Dean. “Did you call Bobby?”

“Yessir. He thinks it's definitely a werewolf and doesn't think he needs us out there.”

“Well.” John takes a sip of coffee. “We'll see about that. Sammy,” he says, nudging Sam's coffee cup closer to him. “Drink.”

If he added an all right? at the end of it, Sam would listen. Sam is not that hard.

Sam looks up without moving is head. “You promised us Christmas off. We're not really going to go after this werewolf, are we?"

“People are dying, Sam.”

“Why do you always have to say that like you think I don't give a shit?” Sam runs out of air by the end of the sentence but keeps talking anyway. “I get that people are dying, okay? I can never fucking not think about the people who are dying. It's pretty much stuck in my head at this point, all right? Christ.” He pushes his hand into his forehead. “I need some air.”

For most people, that means they're going to get up and take a walk. It doesn't for Sam. It means he needs some fucking air.

“God, I need out of this shit,” Sam says.

Dean says, “Okay, c'mon, sit up,” and hauls Sam up by the hood of his sweatshirt so he's sitting up instead of fucking lying everywhere. Sam pushes Dean's hand away, and Dean doesn't fucking blame him because he's pissed off and wheezing and Dean doesn't think he'd want hands on him either.

But then Sam huffs out a breath and mumbles, “Fucking freezing,” and crams himself against Dean's side.

Dean glances up at John and quickly back down. Sam continues to be completely fucking breathless and oblivious.

“You'll be fine,” Dean says.

“Yeah.”

“Nothing much to do until it gets dark,” Dean says, more to John than Sammy. “No reason we can't go back to the motel, watch a movie, get warm?”

John says, “There's acres and acres of abandoned woods a few miles out. We won't have a chance to get much shooting practice in Philadelphia with Bobby.”

“Dad,” Sam says. Quietly.

“Just for a few hours, Sammy. You'll have time to catch your breath before tonight. Your aim has been amazing lately, do you want to get rusty?”

“Oh, God, couldn't have that,” Sam says, positively leaking sarcasm.

John ignores it. “I'll make hot chocolate when we're done, okay? The really thick stuff you like so much.”

Sam looks up. “Yeah?”

“Promise.”

Sam nods and plays with his napkin, but a minute later he says, really softly, “I don't know if I can, Dad.”

“Hmm?”

“I feel like shit. I don't know.”

“You can do it. You're tough.” He gives Sam's shoulder a punch.

Sam pushes his face into Dean's arm for the next round of coughing and John has the good sense to drink his coffee and read his damn paper and shut the fuck up. Dean rubs his kid's back.

**

Target practice, at least for Dean, ends up being really fucking cathartic, because for those seconds after seconds when the shots are echoing in his head, he can't hear Sammy or John or John bitching at Sammy or Sammy fucking wheezing, it's just Dean, his gun, the snow.

The snow's coming down hard again, muffling everything, blurring Dean's whole world at the edges. It's hard to tell, as his brother and father walk back and forth collecting shells and adjusting the targets, which is which. They're exactly the same height, which John's really fucking proud of, always measuring Sammy against himself and slapping him on the back and saying he always knew that Sam would grow, and Dean's an inch below and probably fucking done, awesome, just fucking awesome.

One of them pauses and leans forwards with his hands on his knees and coughs like a madman, so yeah, two guesses which one that one is.

He straightens up and comes over, adjusts Dean's stance.

“Ugh, fuck you.”

He's wheezing right the fuck in Dean's ear. “You'll keep your aim better for multiple shots if your feet are a little wider.”

“Jesus, you sound like shit.”

“Mmm.” Sam tilts his head back, closes his eyes. “Snow feels nice.” The flakes get all stuck in his eyelashes. He jerks back down and sneezes.

Dean looks away. “Don't need your help.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam shoulder-checks him to the side, takes his gun, and shoots (feet wide) and hits the target fucking exactly.

John appears and claps Sam on the shoulder. “That's my boy.” He takes the gun and unloads it, clicks the safety on. “You two go move the targets.”

Dean pretends to be pissed at Sam as they walk towards the trees where the targets are pinned. Sam shoves him and laughs.

“Ugh, fuck you.”

“So mopey over there.” Sam coughs into his elbow.

“Yeah, well, what the fuck about you?

“Mmm. Dunno. Feeling better.”

He doesn't fucking sound better. In fact, Dean thinks, watching him unpin the target, he sounds fucking worse, but they're out in the snow so big fucking surprise, but he also looks pretty bad, pale and crazy-eyes and a little wobbly. And smiling, which combined with those other things is a shitty sign of one thing only.

Dean pulls his glove off with his teeth and palms Sam's forehead. Sam closes his eyes and leans into it.

“Shouuuld have told me,” Dean sing-songs.

“Diiiidn't realize.”

“C'mon.” Dean hauls Sam up by his collar and brings him back to John. “Dad?” He presents Sam like some sort of trophy, and John immediately bunches up the sleeve of his cost to put his forearm against Sam's forehead.

“Shit. All right, come on.”

**

John sends Dean out for supplies, and when he comes back Sam's showered and in sweats and John's microwaved him some soup and made him hot chocolate, so they're doing okay. Sam's fever is pretty low, but they still need to get him to a clinic at some point, but unless he gets a lot worse they're not doing ER, and nothing else is open on Christmas Eve.

John's fussing in his John-way, mauling Sam's forehead whenever he passes by his bed, growling about dirty motel rooms and fucking bones that need burning. Sam, dry and a little closer to warm, looks okay. The cough is soggy and gross.

They let him sleep for an hour and load him up with DayQuil and then it's time to go.

**

If they could do it with two people, they would, but the fact of the matter is this spirit sounds like a bitch and the ground's frozen solid and if they don't have more than one person digging at once, it's never going to get done. Dean makes himself feel better about the whole thing as his hands numb and blister against the shovel by repeating to himself that at least they're not making Sam dig. Sammy's standing close with the shotgun and the flashlight, illuminating their work with a light that shakes every time Sam sneezes.

“Fucking sick kids,” Dean says, loud enough so Sam's sure to hear, and Sam laughs and kicks him.

“Not the time, boys,” John says. Short.

The spirit shows up just as they're breaking through the coffin. Sam and his perfect aim shoot the shit out of her and John and Dean salt and burn the bitch. It's easy and Dean has the bizarre thought, as he's watching his little brother wheeze his way back to the car, that it kind of doesn't seem worth it, and what the fuck does that mean? People were dying, Dean. (The problem is that Sam thinks about that every second, but Dean doesn't. That's not what Dean's always thinking about.)

Sam gives Dean's head a shove as they trek back into the motel room, and John cranks up the thermostat so they can start stripping off layers.

“Merry Christmas, boys,” John says, but it's not midnight yet. “Think this calls for a little celebration. Bar right down the street. You up for a drink, Sam?”

“No, sir.”

John looks back at him. “Yeah?”

Sam shakes his head and crawls between the covers, closes his eyes.

“You gonna be okay?”

Sam's voice is muffled in his pillow. “Yessir.”

John measures out another dose of everything and lines it all up on the nightstand with Sam's inhalers and allergy meds and all the other crap he always takes. “We'll be back before long. You call if you start to feel too bad, okay?”

Dean mumbles, “Take his temperature, Dad.”

“What?”

“Temperature. I've got it.” He hands Sam the thermometer and sits down by his feet, plays with them through the comforter. John reorganizes his bag.

You okay? Dean mouths to Sam.

Sam nods, mimes that he's cold.

I'll stay with you.

Now he shakes his head, glances at John.

He'll deal.

The thermometer beeps and Sam spits it out. “It's fine,” he says, quietly, then clears his throat and checks the display. “101. I'm fine.”

“We'll bring you some whiskey back and warm it up,” John says, like there isn't fucking whiskey in the room with them, but whatever. He ruffles Sam's hair on his way to the door. “Feel better, champ. Love you.”

“Love y'.”

Dean squeezes his foot. “Bye, kiddo. Sleep well.”

“Should get sick more often,” Sam says, and Dean hears him smiling. “Evr'one's so nice to me.”

Dean can't fucking have that, so he hurls a pillow at him on his way out the door.

**

John and Dean break a rule and smoke sitting down, but they're at a fucking bar so what the hell else are they going to do?

“Good night, all in all,” John says, staring down at his glass. Looking not at all fucking happy. He's on his fourth drink, though, so he'll start talking soon.

“We were damn fast getting that grave done.”

“That we were.” Now John lifts his head and gives him one of those fucking smiles, and shit, maybe Dean has a soft spot for smiles, because it's not just Sammy's that fucking kills him, John's will do it too, with that shine in his eyes and the dimples Dean forgets he has because they're not all over his face all the fucking time like this kid he knows but then John smiles at Dean like he's the only fucking thing in the world and fuck, when you're used to only getting that look from this snot-nosed aforementioned kid it can be pretty gratifying to remember that he's not fucking invisible to everyone outside of that aforementioned aforementioned fucking kid. “You're becoming quite the hunter,” John says, then he takes a sip of his drink and says, “Your brother too.”

Of course.

“I don't know, though,” John says, three drinks and two cigarettes later. “I don't know about that kid.”

“He'll be fine.”

John shakes his head absently. “Something about that kid.”

That's Dean's cue to shut up and drink.

“He's not like you, Dean,” John says. “He's...”

Yeah.

“I can depend on you,” John says. “Know what the fuck to expect from you. Know you'll be where I need you to be. But Sam...”

“Sam takes care of us, Dad. Asthma or no asthma.”

“Not the asthma I'm talking about. I know he can beat the shit out of that when he wants to.” John signals for the bartender, then drains his glass. “It's just.. .Sam. Fucking troubling as fuck kid, God knows what the hell I'm going to do.”

The thing is that Dean thinks-hell, Dean has probably said-these exact same words himself, but never like this.

“He's just a whole deck full of...full of fucking wild cards,” John says. “Trying to get a fucking handle on him. You gotta...you've got to be careful with him, Dean.”

“I'm always careful with Sammy.”

“Y'know what I mean.”

“No. I don't.”

John sighs and drinks.

Dean is starting to feel sick.

“He's the one that'd do it,” he says. “He's the one of you I've got to worry about. Want you to know that I know that, Dean. I know you're my good kid.”

“Sam's your favorite.” God, Dean's drunk.

John doesn't even have the decency to look surprised, he just says, “It's not that simple. When the fuck's anything ever simple with Sammy?”

And it's just the most moronic fucking thing Dean's ever heard, because this kid...you can say whatever you want about Sam, you can call him a fucking enigma all the fuck you want, but there's nothing goddamn simpler than this kid. He's just this overgrown fucking pain-in-the-ass goofball with a pair of shitty lungs and a laugh that will make you want to throw the whole world off a fucking cliff, and he's rolling around on his bed bitching about stupid shit and leaving his geeky shit everywhere and folding his fucking laundry like it's the most important thing he's ever done, doing everything like it's the most important thing he's ever done, counting out his meds like he never fucking thinks about what goddamn shit deal he has but whining like the world's fucking over when Dad makes him get up five fucking minutes earlier than he wanted to, falling in love with girls he meets at bus stops and bringing home As on tests Dean helped him study for and bitching out at the last minute and coughing up shit in the backseat and making John race them to the doors of grocery stores and forgetting his lighter for the hundredth fucking time and crying his way through a stomach flu and shrugging through a shattered knee and drifting off with his head on Dean's shoulder, there is nothing in the entire goddamn universe simpler than Sam.

John sighs. “Just a few more, I guess. We gotta get out early tomorrow to meet Bobby.”

Dean puts out his cigarette and pulls on his jacket. “Think I'll head back.”

**

Sam's awake, bundled up in blankets and tissues and his scarf, wheeze-laughing through How the Grinch Stole Christmas. “Hey!”

“Hey. I smell like fucking smoke, I'm sure, hold on.” He stays by the door to strip off layers, and Sam coughs into his scarf. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, nose running.”

“I'm too out of breath to blow it. Life is exciting.”

Dean climbs onto his bed next to him, pinches out a tissue and scrubs it under his nose. “You're like a fucking five year old.”

“Mmm.” He drops his head onto Dean's shoulder. “You don't smell like smoke. You're warm.”

“You're fucking warm.”

“Fever.”

“Yeah. Going up?”

“Think so. Just stay close, okay?”

Dean doesn't say anything, just tangles his fingers in Sam's hair and makes it all pretty fucking obvious. Sam rubs his scarf against his cheek.

The alcohol and the sick kid on his shoulder are making him sleepy. He slumps down on the bed and figures, what the hell, they've done every other sleeping arrangement, they fucking get this one tonight.

“You need a washcloth or something for your head?” he says, quietly, in case the kid's asleep.

Looks like he is, so Dean just mops him up a little with a tissue and pushes his bangs off his forehead. Sweating's a good sign. Means Sam's full of shit about the fever rising.

He glances at the clock to see if it's time to check it again. 12:04.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy,” he whispers.

Sam, at least a little awake after all, adjusts himself against Dean's shoulder. “Mmm.”