SPN: Colorado Winter Wind by Legoline
Title: Colorado Winter Wind
Author: legoline
Notes: PG-13, gen, angst, teen!chesters 1,000 words.
Summary: Sam's sick, and it's all his fault.
Colorado Winter Wind
by Steffi
Sammy coughs and groans, his entire body convulsing, and Dean’s by his side a moment later, helping Sam into a sitting position and rubbing circles on his back. Sammy coughs again, violently like he’s trying to cough out his lungs and all his other insides while he’s at it, and wipes some spit from his mouth. His face has gone completely pale with his dark eyes and brows the only things that stick out, and in the white t-shirt he looks a lot like that dead ghost kid from the end of Casper, except that Sammy’s not blonde.
Sammy gasps for air, and Dean reaches for the glass of water on the night stand, putting it to Sam’s lips. Sammy curls his fingers around the glass and takes a greedy gulp, before he sinks back into the pillows with a sigh. He watches Dean putting the glass back on the table and opening the bottle of cough syrup.
Dean pours some of it on a spoon and Sam grimaces at Dean, but swallows obediently with an even bigger grimace when Dean gently pushes the spoon into his mouth.
“That stuff is gross,” he says.
“That means it’s the good stuff,” Dean tells him with a forced smile. Sam raises his eyebrows and it means, you expect me to believe this crap? But he says nothing. Dean puts the cap back on the bottle of the syrup, and rubs his temple.
Coughs are never easy with Sam, not since he caught that killer bronchitis one fall when he was nine. It took months until it was finally fully gone. Ever since, Sam can never just have a plain normal cough, no, it’s always got to be the real deal. The kind that sends a rough pain through his chest like it’s going to split into halves every time he coughs, the kind that keeps him up at night, and leaves him exhausted all day.
Sam makes no comments about why he’s caught a cold this time, but the whole mess is Dean’s fault, and Dean is well aware of that.
Their house is in the middle of nowhere miles from their school, and Dad doesn’t want them to ride the school bus. It’s Dean’s duty to give Sam a lift to school and pick him up when Sam’s finished, and Dean fulfils that duty without a complaint. It means he gets to drive the car Dad borrowed from Bobby, and that Dad will give back as soon as they move again.
Only two days ago, he messed up. He had thought that Sam had said that he would finish at six. Then, about five, the telephone had rung and Sam had asked him with a tiny, shivering voice what was taking Dean so long.
Turns out, Sam had told him that he’d get up at six and finish school at four. By the time Dean had arrived at the school, Sam had been waiting in the cold Colorado winter wind for over an hour. Over night, he had developed a cough.
“You need anything?” Dean asks, but Sammy just shakes his head. He’s spread on the couch in the living room, surrounded by books and video tapes that Dean has rented especially for him. Dean has given him extra pillows, his own pillows for that matter, to make the couch more comfortable. The table’s filled with piles of drops, ointments and different kinds of syrups.
Sammy looks so tiny in between the pillows and blankets, tiny and pale and fragile. Dean’s stomach fills with little knots every time he looks at Sammy, and he hopes that this won’t turn into something more serious, something that requires calling the doctor or worse, an ambulance. Dad’s off hunting and won’t be back before tomorrow. It all depends on Dean now.
He can’t find a bell to give to Sam so his brother can call him when he needs something, but then again Dean checks on Sammy every five minutes anyway. He takes Sam’s temperature and makes him take his meds and asks how he’s feeling. He hovers by Sam’s side, day and night, and hasn’t had a decent sleep in almost forty-eight hours. He beds his head to rest at night, but he stays half awake, always listening to Sam’s breathing and as soon as another coughing fit starts, Dean’s out of bed and there to help Sammy through it.
When Dad gets home and sees Sammy like this and hears what happened, there will be reproaches and the cold shoulder treatment. Dean knows. He knows he deserves it too. He fucked up, plain and simple.
It’s Thursday afternoon. Sam is twelve, and Dean’s fucked up.
When Sammy drifts into a slumber two hours later, Dean allows himself to close his eyes too. He curls up on the other couch, using his left arm as a pillow. He tries to keep awake to listen to Sam drawing breaths, but eventually, fatigue overwhelms him and he dozes off.
He wakes slowly to muffled voices talking.
“It was my fault,” he hears Sammy say in between two short coughs. He realises then that shit, he fell asleep and he shouldn’t have, but he’s too damn tired to open his eyes.
“I told him to pick me up at six,” Sammy continues, “But I forgot school finished at four that day. Don’t be mad at him.” Sam’s voice has a pleading tone, and Dean wonders why the hell Sam’s talking at all, let alone lying when-
“Okay, Sammy. Okay.”
Dad.
Dad must have come home from the hunt early.
Dean stirs in sudden panic, shit, shit, shit, Dad’s home and Sam’s sick and Dean fell asleep when he shouldn’t have…
Dad must have notice because his hand cups around his shoulder, squeezing it gently.
“Dean,” Dad says, voice unusually soft. “Dean, go back to sleep, okay? I’ll look after Sam. Get some rest.”
Dean nods faintly, too tired for a proper response, and the last thing he knows before he drifts back to sleep is Dad spreading a woollen blanket over him, and tucking him in.
-end-
Author: legoline
Notes: PG-13, gen, angst, teen!chesters 1,000 words.
Summary: Sam's sick, and it's all his fault.
Colorado Winter Wind
by Steffi
Sammy coughs and groans, his entire body convulsing, and Dean’s by his side a moment later, helping Sam into a sitting position and rubbing circles on his back. Sammy coughs again, violently like he’s trying to cough out his lungs and all his other insides while he’s at it, and wipes some spit from his mouth. His face has gone completely pale with his dark eyes and brows the only things that stick out, and in the white t-shirt he looks a lot like that dead ghost kid from the end of Casper, except that Sammy’s not blonde.
Sammy gasps for air, and Dean reaches for the glass of water on the night stand, putting it to Sam’s lips. Sammy curls his fingers around the glass and takes a greedy gulp, before he sinks back into the pillows with a sigh. He watches Dean putting the glass back on the table and opening the bottle of cough syrup.
Dean pours some of it on a spoon and Sam grimaces at Dean, but swallows obediently with an even bigger grimace when Dean gently pushes the spoon into his mouth.
“That stuff is gross,” he says.
“That means it’s the good stuff,” Dean tells him with a forced smile. Sam raises his eyebrows and it means, you expect me to believe this crap? But he says nothing. Dean puts the cap back on the bottle of the syrup, and rubs his temple.
Coughs are never easy with Sam, not since he caught that killer bronchitis one fall when he was nine. It took months until it was finally fully gone. Ever since, Sam can never just have a plain normal cough, no, it’s always got to be the real deal. The kind that sends a rough pain through his chest like it’s going to split into halves every time he coughs, the kind that keeps him up at night, and leaves him exhausted all day.
Sam makes no comments about why he’s caught a cold this time, but the whole mess is Dean’s fault, and Dean is well aware of that.
Their house is in the middle of nowhere miles from their school, and Dad doesn’t want them to ride the school bus. It’s Dean’s duty to give Sam a lift to school and pick him up when Sam’s finished, and Dean fulfils that duty without a complaint. It means he gets to drive the car Dad borrowed from Bobby, and that Dad will give back as soon as they move again.
Only two days ago, he messed up. He had thought that Sam had said that he would finish at six. Then, about five, the telephone had rung and Sam had asked him with a tiny, shivering voice what was taking Dean so long.
Turns out, Sam had told him that he’d get up at six and finish school at four. By the time Dean had arrived at the school, Sam had been waiting in the cold Colorado winter wind for over an hour. Over night, he had developed a cough.
“You need anything?” Dean asks, but Sammy just shakes his head. He’s spread on the couch in the living room, surrounded by books and video tapes that Dean has rented especially for him. Dean has given him extra pillows, his own pillows for that matter, to make the couch more comfortable. The table’s filled with piles of drops, ointments and different kinds of syrups.
Sammy looks so tiny in between the pillows and blankets, tiny and pale and fragile. Dean’s stomach fills with little knots every time he looks at Sammy, and he hopes that this won’t turn into something more serious, something that requires calling the doctor or worse, an ambulance. Dad’s off hunting and won’t be back before tomorrow. It all depends on Dean now.
He can’t find a bell to give to Sam so his brother can call him when he needs something, but then again Dean checks on Sammy every five minutes anyway. He takes Sam’s temperature and makes him take his meds and asks how he’s feeling. He hovers by Sam’s side, day and night, and hasn’t had a decent sleep in almost forty-eight hours. He beds his head to rest at night, but he stays half awake, always listening to Sam’s breathing and as soon as another coughing fit starts, Dean’s out of bed and there to help Sammy through it.
When Dad gets home and sees Sammy like this and hears what happened, there will be reproaches and the cold shoulder treatment. Dean knows. He knows he deserves it too. He fucked up, plain and simple.
It’s Thursday afternoon. Sam is twelve, and Dean’s fucked up.
When Sammy drifts into a slumber two hours later, Dean allows himself to close his eyes too. He curls up on the other couch, using his left arm as a pillow. He tries to keep awake to listen to Sam drawing breaths, but eventually, fatigue overwhelms him and he dozes off.
He wakes slowly to muffled voices talking.
“It was my fault,” he hears Sammy say in between two short coughs. He realises then that shit, he fell asleep and he shouldn’t have, but he’s too damn tired to open his eyes.
“I told him to pick me up at six,” Sammy continues, “But I forgot school finished at four that day. Don’t be mad at him.” Sam’s voice has a pleading tone, and Dean wonders why the hell Sam’s talking at all, let alone lying when-
“Okay, Sammy. Okay.”
Dad.
Dad must have come home from the hunt early.
Dean stirs in sudden panic, shit, shit, shit, Dad’s home and Sam’s sick and Dean fell asleep when he shouldn’t have…
Dad must have notice because his hand cups around his shoulder, squeezing it gently.
“Dean,” Dad says, voice unusually soft. “Dean, go back to sleep, okay? I’ll look after Sam. Get some rest.”
Dean nods faintly, too tired for a proper response, and the last thing he knows before he drifts back to sleep is Dad spreading a woollen blanket over him, and tucking him in.
-end-