Fic: Because of Dean 1/1
Title: Because of Dean
Author: wave_obscura
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3000
Summary: A hot chick named Jess brings Sam homemade soup. Dean doesn't care how shitty Sam feels, he's not going to let her get away.
Warnings/Spoilers: sick!Sam. pre-Sam/Jess. AU in which Sam has cystic fibrosis, a chronic illness of the lungs. Stanford-era AU. Language. Lacking in angst.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Note: A long time ago, someone on ff.net wrote me a message asking me to write Sam with CF. At first I was like HAHA RIGHT, I'LL TOTALLY GET ON THAT. Then the idea wouldn't stop eating at me. I started and abandoned this fic probably over a year ago, worked on it sporadically, abandoned it two or three more times, then spontaneously edited it down and finished it just now. And uh... here it is.
Note Two: Please don't shoot me for posting this when Amazons hasn't been updated since July. I'm sorry :( I AM still working on it. I have two of the remaining four chapters finished, and I'll post it all when it's complete.
Because of Dean
by wave obscura
Julie or Julia or Jessica or whatever her name is hooks her hair around her ears, and scoots closer to Dean every time she laughs, which is often, and Dean's just about to ask her if she wants to get the hell out of this dump when his phone vibrates against his thigh.
He looks at the screen, recognizes the prefix from the hospital and is instantly choking on panic. It's almost two in the morning in California; he knows because they're in the same timezone, so there's no reason for Sam to be awake unless--
"Don't freak, Dean," Sam's voice says, "I'm fine."
"You're fine," Dean says incredulously. Julie/Julia/Jessica tries to kiss his neck; he pushes her away, just a little, holds up a one minute finger. "Why the fuck are you at the hospital?"
Sam coughs, dry and rasping, and Dean relaxes a little. "I’m at the center. Just a tune-up. I'm getting out the day after tomorrow, probably--"
"Dad's not with you?"
"No. I told him I'd better check myself in, and... he had errands to run.”
Unfuckingbelievable. “He ditched you to go on a hunt?”
“I’m a big boy. I don’t need someone at my bedside twenty-four seven.”
“Is that what Dad told you?”
Sam sighs loudly in his ear; an absolute yes.
“So why are you calling, then?”
A long silence on the other end of the line. Then a sigh. “I dunno. Bored, I guess.”
Translation: Doesn’t need someone at his bedside. Wants someone at his bedside.
“I’m on my way." Dean gets up from the table, throwing Julia or Julie an apologetic glance, and goes outside, digging in his pockets for his car keys. “I’ll try to be there before you’re released.”
“No, really. I’m fine. Dad’ll be back in a couple of days."
"I’ll pick you up, if anything."
"Not necessary, damn it," Sam says, his voice rising. "I'm a--
“I know, you’re a grown man, blah blah blah. Get some rest, alright?"
Sam’s scoff vibrates Dean’s cell, rattles in his ear. He hangs up.
Dean drives.
***
“You look like you’ve lost weight,” is the first thing Dean says when they meet in the pick up area outside the CF center. Sam hefts his duffel over his shoulder. Dean pulls him into a hug. “You feel like a skeleton.”
“I weigh the same as always.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Worn out. Glad to be free.”
“Good. You wanna have lunch somewhere or you too tired?”
“Too tired.”
“We’ll do drive thru. What’re you in the mood for?”
Sam shrugs.
Next thing he knows Dean’s shaking him awake. They’re in front of his apartment and the car smells like cheeseburgers. “Go on into bed,” Dean says. “I’ll bring everything in.”
Sam does, he crawls into bed and falls the hell to sleep. Two hours later-- according to the clock on his desk-- Dean brings him water and food. Sam ignores the cheeseburger and eats the Oreo McFlurry because it feels fantastic on his battered sore throat. Even after the long nap he feels indescribably fatigued, tired enough that he nods off more than once trying to eat the burger, and wakes with it resting on his chest. Dean wraps it and puts it away, mops the mayo off his shirt with a napkin.
That’s the awesome thing, and why he called Dean, honestly. Tune-ups feel like getting hit by a train, and his friends, his roommates, they mean well but they don’t understand that. They’re still awkward when he’s sick. Mostly they steer clear, wish Sam the best until he’s well again. And Sam can’t say he blames them.
Dean and Dad constantly circle Stanford, checking in on him, which most of the time is a pain in the ass. But Sam feels weird, asking friends for help, people whose daily lives have never included serious illness. So, begrudgingly, sometimes he lets Dean take care of shit.
Speaking of. A bit of sandwich pokes at his lips.
“Sammy,” Dean says. “You need to try to eat a little more.”
“Dude,” Sam protests.
“Well take it.”
Sam rips off a piece of the bun and chews and swallows. “I don’t know why it’s always burgers,” he complains.
“Lots of calories.”
“Not if it doesn’t stay down.”
“It’ll stay down.”
Sam grumbles, but shoves another bite in his mouth.
***
Dean doesn’t know he’s dozed off until he’s awoken by a faint knock at the door. A polite, delicate knock, which means it’s probably a solicitor or religious nut, because Sam’s idiotic friends are loud and tend to stay away until Sam is three or four days out of the hospital and feeling fairly normal.
He’s surprised to find a tallish blonde at the door, curls all over the place, cute little mole on her forehead.
“Hi, is Sam home?” she says, and wow, what tits, what a smile.
But he sets that aside for the moment. “He’s asleep. I’m his brother. What can I do for you?”
She holds out a reusable grocery bag. “I heard he hasn’t been feeling well.”
“Uh huh?” he says.
“Well, I mean, it’s probably stupid, you know, because I know it’s not just a cold? But I thought maybe he might want some soup to eat. I--I heard he likes soup, when... you know. So it’s my grandma’s recipe, it’s this awesome tomato bisque?”
Now her arm is trembling from holding out the bag, and she’s looking kind of desperate, so he takes it. “Thank you. He, uh-- thank you.”
The girl looks at him expectantly.
“Oh,” he says, “I-- uh...?”
“Jess.”
“Jess... thank you for the soup, but Sam is pretty tired out. I don’t think he’s up for a guest.”
Which is such bullshit, taking another look at her. Sam might not be feeling so hot-- in addition to being a lame-o in general-- but he still has a dick.
Jess’s face falls. “Fuck. I probably shouldn’t’ve... I mean, pneumonia and all, of course he’s not in the mood for--”
“What?” Dean interrupts.
“What?”
“Pneumonia?”
Jess blinks. “Isn’t... doesn’t he have pneumonia?”
Pneumonia.
Dean holds his tongue. Dad has told him a thousand times, Sam’s CF isn’t Dean’s business to spread around.
He knocks on the door frame, thinking. “Actually I’ll wake him up. Come in.”
He leads her into the living room, offers her a seat. Goes to Sam’s door, opens it a crack to avoid revealing his brother in all his fresh-out-of-the-hospital unsexyiness, in his striped boxers, propped up on half a dozen pillows, asleep with his head lolled to one side and his mouth hanging wide open.
“Sammy,” Dean hisses urgently, “You have a guest.”
Sam coughs into his pillow for a good twenty seconds Doesn’t bother to open his eyes.
“Your friend Jess is here,” Dean says. “But I wouldn’t worry about that, man, cause she’s way out of your league.”
“Jess?” Sam sits straight up. His eyes look as if they might pop right out of the sockets. “Did you let her in?”
“Of course.”
“Why the fuck did you let her in?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Sam looks around, wide-eyed. “Tell her I don’t feel well.”
“No. Get up. Five minutes and I’m sending her in.”
“Dean, damn it.”
***
Sam’s going to kill his brother.
There are nails in his throat, brillo pads in his lungs. His head’s starting to hurt, his chest muscles pull and throb every time he moves, and he just in general kind of wants to drop dead.
Dean pushes a few pills into his palm. Massages his shoulder. “She’s hot, dude. Get up. You can do this.”
But no, Sam can’t. He can’t be sick and charming at the same time. He can’t woo a girl while nodding off or gasping for air. It doesn’t work that way.
The look on Dean’s face, though-- he’s transitioned out of nursemaid mode to my-sick-little-brother-can-live-life-just-like-anyone-else mode, and it kills Sam, it fucking kills him.
“Dean,” he says, and tries to look pitiful, “I just got out of the hospital.”
“Which means your lung function is at it’s best.” Dean gives him a not-at-all subtle leer.
“Seriously. My chest is killing me.”
“I just gave you a pain pill.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“You slept all day.”
“Dean--”
“Sam.” Dean moves around his back. Now he’s massaging both shoulders. “Look. If you really feel that shitty, go back to sleep. But tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Why’d you tell her you had pneumonia?”
Fuck. Sam rubs at his chest. He feels a wheeze down low in his chest, building. His eyes are so dry they feel sticky. “Because dying guys are a turn off.”
“Tell me about it,” Dean says. “But you lied to her, dude. Mr. Sammy ‘I’m So Proud to be Me’ Winchester lied to get a girl to like him.”
Sam signs, pitches the bridge of his nose. “Yes. I lied. So?”
“So you like her.” Dean pats his shoulders, too hard. “And she made you fucking soup. So get up.”
Sam blinks. “So you think it’s good. That I lied. About my chronic, terminal illness.”
“Life-shortening.”
“Shut up. So you’re not only not mad, but you approve. Is that it?”
“Fuck yes. Have you looked at her?”
“You’re seriously fucked up.”
Dean shrugs. “Get out there. Just... eat your fuckin’ soup with her. Then I’ll tell her it’s your beddy-by time, okay? Ten minutes.”
Sam groans long-sufferingly. Thinks about Jess’s milk-white skin. The amazing mole in the middle of her forehead, which sounds unattractive but is so, so not. The curve of her neck, the curve of her ass, the curve of her breasts, and--
Nope. His downstairs is just as dead as his up.
But Dean’s looking at him so hopefully. Like if he sits and eats soup with the fucking girl, that’ll mean something important to him.
“Fine,” Sam says. “Help me up.”
***
He’s really not feeling well. He tries not to lean on Dean on the way out of the bedroom but fails, because he’s totally and absolutely going to fall on his ass if he lets go. Dean’s trying to push him off, make him stand on his own, but he keeps leaning in, right up until they’re standing awkwardly in front of Jess in the living room.
Sam’s pretty sure he needs help sitting down.
Then he takes a breath and they all hear it, the wheeze, it’s that fucking loud.
Dean shoves Sam into the chair opposite Jess, his discrete way of helping him sit. He rushes away, comes back and sets two bowls and two spoons in front of them, along with the soup.
“Bon appetite,” Dean says. He salutes them and bows dramatically out of the room.
Jess picks up the spoon. Sets it down. Laughs a little. “The soup is actually cold,” she says, “Straight out of the fridge. I didn’t know if... you know... if you’d be hungry. So I didn’t bring it hot.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “It was really sweet of you. We’ll... I’ll... do you want me to heat it up?”
She’d better say no, because Sam’s pretty sure he can’t get up.
“No,” she says, thank god. “I just ate. Plus... you look tired.”
Sam smiles. “I am tired. But. That doesn’t mean, you know. I don’t want you to. Uh. You know. Leave.”
Fuck.
“I had pneumonia once,” Jess says, and then winces like she wishes she hasn’t said anything.
Sam sucks in another wheeze. “Oh?”
“After summer camp. It was awful.”
Her camp counselor found her in bed, apparently, just as one of her campmates was playing that horrible sunrise song on the trumpet (the name escapes Sam and Jess). She had a high high fever and had to stay in the hospital for almost three days, and the antibiotics gave her crying jags, and she could barely breathe.
“It’s such a scary feeling, isn’t it?” she says, “To not be able to breathe?”
He clears his throat. “Breathing. Yeah. Breathing’s, uh. It sucks. To not be able to... do it.”
He wonders what Jess would say, if she knew that his longest hospital stay had been nearly three months and had involved Dad chasing a grief counselor out of his hospital room, and social workers telling Dean to say goodbye to his little brother, and Pastor Jim standing over his bed, praying.
She’s a nice girl.
It’ll never work.
He squirms in his chair. His chest muscles are doing that jumping thing, the little stabbing pains in his lungs are starting up again, he’s so tired and Dean is nowhere.
“Jessica.” He grimaces, rubs his chest. “I should get some rest.”
She stands up so fast she nearly knocks over her chair. “Of course! Of course! Well. Enjoy the soup? Aaaannnd I’ll... maybe, uh--?”
“See you soon, definitely.” Sam smiles. “Very soon.”
Right. He kisses his chances with Jess goodbye, watches it float out the window, out of his reach, gone forever.
Dean doesn’t appear again until Jess is out the door, down the walk, most of the way down the street, almost out of sight. Sam is clinging to the doorknob and doorjam, panting, his face pressed against the screen door.
“I fucking hate you. Why did you make me do that?”
Dean looks super fucking proud of himself. “She’s totally into you.”
Sam scoffs. “Look at me.”
“Yeah, look at you. Like a run over puppy. C’mere, I got your neb in the bedroom.” He throws Sam’s arm around his shoulder. “I don’t think you need to wait three days to call. She made you soup.”
“I’m not gonna call her.”
“Sure you are.”
“Stop talking to me,” Sam says. “Can’t breathe.”
“You’re gonna feel better in a few days. Then you’ll thank me.”
“No I won’t. She’s never gonna talk to me again.”
They come to the bedroom door. From here Sam counts the steps-- just five more, four more-- and that’s the only way he makes it.
Dean lays him on his mountain of pillows, and he leans back and sighs, feeling his chest unclench a little.
“Vest?” Dean says. “Up to you.”
“Not right now.”
He just lays there with his eyes closed for a minute, wheezing. Dean turns off the overhead light, leaving them in blissful, blissful darkness.
“Sam.”
“Go away. Still hate you.”
“Neb, asshole.”
Sam opens one eye. Takes the mouthpiece. Closes the eye. He just breathes, tries to forget what just happened, tries to block out his stupid brother, still moving around the room doing who knows what.
The bed dips; Dean sits beside him. “So what is it, then. You think you don’t deserve a pretty girl?”
“I’m sick, Dean.”
“You just had a tune-up. You’re fine.” Sam feels Dean smoothing the fabric of his shirt. “Girls are different, Sammy. They don’t... they don’t care about this shit, you know, if you’re sick or not. They care about if you treat ‘em nice.”
“Oh yeah,” he says around the neb, “I’m sure if I treat her real nice, she won’t desire children or care if I die before my 40th birthday.”
“Hey,” Dean punches him not-soft-but-not-hard on the shoulder. “I don’t wanna hear shit like that.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not saying get down on one fucking knee, Sammy. Just... you know. Give it a chance. See where things go.”
Sam takes the neb out of his mouth. “I have nothing to offer her.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious, Dean. She’s like, blonde and leggy and I have two mucus sacks in my chest and no permanent address. She deserves better.”
“Why? Does she save orphans from burning buildings in her spare time?”
“No. But not everyone wants to play nurse.”
“Jesus, Sam. What’s with the mood?”
“I don’t have a mood.”
“You’re brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Do you need to write some poetry or something?”
“Shut up.”
“We can go down to the store, get you a black velvet suit jacket.”
“Fuck you.”
“You can start melting wax on your nipples.”
The neb is done. Sam shoves it at Dean. “Okay, let’s say she’s just jumping at the chance to date a sick guy. I still lied to her. Like right off the bat.”
“You omitted the truth.”
“I lied.”
“Pneumonia is an infection of the lungs. You had an infection of the lungs. There you go.”
“You are morally bankrupt.”
Dean smiles. “Why don’t you rest a little. We’ll discuss what you’re gonna say when you call her later.”
“I’m not calling her.”
“Shhh,” Dean says, and actually puts his finger to Sam’s lips to silence him. “Rest now.”
“I’m not calling her, Dean.”
“Rest,” Dean repeats. He tip-toes backward out of the room.
“Dean I’m not--”
The door shuts.
God damn it.
Sam will totally call.
::::
The end.
Author: wave_obscura
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3000
Summary: A hot chick named Jess brings Sam homemade soup. Dean doesn't care how shitty Sam feels, he's not going to let her get away.
Warnings/Spoilers: sick!Sam. pre-Sam/Jess. AU in which Sam has cystic fibrosis, a chronic illness of the lungs. Stanford-era AU. Language. Lacking in angst.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Note: A long time ago, someone on ff.net wrote me a message asking me to write Sam with CF. At first I was like HAHA RIGHT, I'LL TOTALLY GET ON THAT. Then the idea wouldn't stop eating at me. I started and abandoned this fic probably over a year ago, worked on it sporadically, abandoned it two or three more times, then spontaneously edited it down and finished it just now. And uh... here it is.
Note Two: Please don't shoot me for posting this when Amazons hasn't been updated since July. I'm sorry :( I AM still working on it. I have two of the remaining four chapters finished, and I'll post it all when it's complete.
Because of Dean
by wave obscura
Julie or Julia or Jessica or whatever her name is hooks her hair around her ears, and scoots closer to Dean every time she laughs, which is often, and Dean's just about to ask her if she wants to get the hell out of this dump when his phone vibrates against his thigh.
He looks at the screen, recognizes the prefix from the hospital and is instantly choking on panic. It's almost two in the morning in California; he knows because they're in the same timezone, so there's no reason for Sam to be awake unless--
"Don't freak, Dean," Sam's voice says, "I'm fine."
"You're fine," Dean says incredulously. Julie/Julia/Jessica tries to kiss his neck; he pushes her away, just a little, holds up a one minute finger. "Why the fuck are you at the hospital?"
Sam coughs, dry and rasping, and Dean relaxes a little. "I’m at the center. Just a tune-up. I'm getting out the day after tomorrow, probably--"
"Dad's not with you?"
"No. I told him I'd better check myself in, and... he had errands to run.”
Unfuckingbelievable. “He ditched you to go on a hunt?”
“I’m a big boy. I don’t need someone at my bedside twenty-four seven.”
“Is that what Dad told you?”
Sam sighs loudly in his ear; an absolute yes.
“So why are you calling, then?”
A long silence on the other end of the line. Then a sigh. “I dunno. Bored, I guess.”
Translation: Doesn’t need someone at his bedside. Wants someone at his bedside.
“I’m on my way." Dean gets up from the table, throwing Julia or Julie an apologetic glance, and goes outside, digging in his pockets for his car keys. “I’ll try to be there before you’re released.”
“No, really. I’m fine. Dad’ll be back in a couple of days."
"I’ll pick you up, if anything."
"Not necessary, damn it," Sam says, his voice rising. "I'm a--
“I know, you’re a grown man, blah blah blah. Get some rest, alright?"
Sam’s scoff vibrates Dean’s cell, rattles in his ear. He hangs up.
Dean drives.
***
“You look like you’ve lost weight,” is the first thing Dean says when they meet in the pick up area outside the CF center. Sam hefts his duffel over his shoulder. Dean pulls him into a hug. “You feel like a skeleton.”
“I weigh the same as always.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Worn out. Glad to be free.”
“Good. You wanna have lunch somewhere or you too tired?”
“Too tired.”
“We’ll do drive thru. What’re you in the mood for?”
Sam shrugs.
Next thing he knows Dean’s shaking him awake. They’re in front of his apartment and the car smells like cheeseburgers. “Go on into bed,” Dean says. “I’ll bring everything in.”
Sam does, he crawls into bed and falls the hell to sleep. Two hours later-- according to the clock on his desk-- Dean brings him water and food. Sam ignores the cheeseburger and eats the Oreo McFlurry because it feels fantastic on his battered sore throat. Even after the long nap he feels indescribably fatigued, tired enough that he nods off more than once trying to eat the burger, and wakes with it resting on his chest. Dean wraps it and puts it away, mops the mayo off his shirt with a napkin.
That’s the awesome thing, and why he called Dean, honestly. Tune-ups feel like getting hit by a train, and his friends, his roommates, they mean well but they don’t understand that. They’re still awkward when he’s sick. Mostly they steer clear, wish Sam the best until he’s well again. And Sam can’t say he blames them.
Dean and Dad constantly circle Stanford, checking in on him, which most of the time is a pain in the ass. But Sam feels weird, asking friends for help, people whose daily lives have never included serious illness. So, begrudgingly, sometimes he lets Dean take care of shit.
Speaking of. A bit of sandwich pokes at his lips.
“Sammy,” Dean says. “You need to try to eat a little more.”
“Dude,” Sam protests.
“Well take it.”
Sam rips off a piece of the bun and chews and swallows. “I don’t know why it’s always burgers,” he complains.
“Lots of calories.”
“Not if it doesn’t stay down.”
“It’ll stay down.”
Sam grumbles, but shoves another bite in his mouth.
***
Dean doesn’t know he’s dozed off until he’s awoken by a faint knock at the door. A polite, delicate knock, which means it’s probably a solicitor or religious nut, because Sam’s idiotic friends are loud and tend to stay away until Sam is three or four days out of the hospital and feeling fairly normal.
He’s surprised to find a tallish blonde at the door, curls all over the place, cute little mole on her forehead.
“Hi, is Sam home?” she says, and wow, what tits, what a smile.
But he sets that aside for the moment. “He’s asleep. I’m his brother. What can I do for you?”
She holds out a reusable grocery bag. “I heard he hasn’t been feeling well.”
“Uh huh?” he says.
“Well, I mean, it’s probably stupid, you know, because I know it’s not just a cold? But I thought maybe he might want some soup to eat. I--I heard he likes soup, when... you know. So it’s my grandma’s recipe, it’s this awesome tomato bisque?”
Now her arm is trembling from holding out the bag, and she’s looking kind of desperate, so he takes it. “Thank you. He, uh-- thank you.”
The girl looks at him expectantly.
“Oh,” he says, “I-- uh...?”
“Jess.”
“Jess... thank you for the soup, but Sam is pretty tired out. I don’t think he’s up for a guest.”
Which is such bullshit, taking another look at her. Sam might not be feeling so hot-- in addition to being a lame-o in general-- but he still has a dick.
Jess’s face falls. “Fuck. I probably shouldn’t’ve... I mean, pneumonia and all, of course he’s not in the mood for--”
“What?” Dean interrupts.
“What?”
“Pneumonia?”
Jess blinks. “Isn’t... doesn’t he have pneumonia?”
Pneumonia.
Dean holds his tongue. Dad has told him a thousand times, Sam’s CF isn’t Dean’s business to spread around.
He knocks on the door frame, thinking. “Actually I’ll wake him up. Come in.”
He leads her into the living room, offers her a seat. Goes to Sam’s door, opens it a crack to avoid revealing his brother in all his fresh-out-of-the-hospital unsexyiness, in his striped boxers, propped up on half a dozen pillows, asleep with his head lolled to one side and his mouth hanging wide open.
“Sammy,” Dean hisses urgently, “You have a guest.”
Sam coughs into his pillow for a good twenty seconds Doesn’t bother to open his eyes.
“Your friend Jess is here,” Dean says. “But I wouldn’t worry about that, man, cause she’s way out of your league.”
“Jess?” Sam sits straight up. His eyes look as if they might pop right out of the sockets. “Did you let her in?”
“Of course.”
“Why the fuck did you let her in?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Sam looks around, wide-eyed. “Tell her I don’t feel well.”
“No. Get up. Five minutes and I’m sending her in.”
“Dean, damn it.”
***
Sam’s going to kill his brother.
There are nails in his throat, brillo pads in his lungs. His head’s starting to hurt, his chest muscles pull and throb every time he moves, and he just in general kind of wants to drop dead.
Dean pushes a few pills into his palm. Massages his shoulder. “She’s hot, dude. Get up. You can do this.”
But no, Sam can’t. He can’t be sick and charming at the same time. He can’t woo a girl while nodding off or gasping for air. It doesn’t work that way.
The look on Dean’s face, though-- he’s transitioned out of nursemaid mode to my-sick-little-brother-can-live-life-just-like-anyone-else mode, and it kills Sam, it fucking kills him.
“Dean,” he says, and tries to look pitiful, “I just got out of the hospital.”
“Which means your lung function is at it’s best.” Dean gives him a not-at-all subtle leer.
“Seriously. My chest is killing me.”
“I just gave you a pain pill.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“You slept all day.”
“Dean--”
“Sam.” Dean moves around his back. Now he’s massaging both shoulders. “Look. If you really feel that shitty, go back to sleep. But tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Why’d you tell her you had pneumonia?”
Fuck. Sam rubs at his chest. He feels a wheeze down low in his chest, building. His eyes are so dry they feel sticky. “Because dying guys are a turn off.”
“Tell me about it,” Dean says. “But you lied to her, dude. Mr. Sammy ‘I’m So Proud to be Me’ Winchester lied to get a girl to like him.”
Sam signs, pitches the bridge of his nose. “Yes. I lied. So?”
“So you like her.” Dean pats his shoulders, too hard. “And she made you fucking soup. So get up.”
Sam blinks. “So you think it’s good. That I lied. About my chronic, terminal illness.”
“Life-shortening.”
“Shut up. So you’re not only not mad, but you approve. Is that it?”
“Fuck yes. Have you looked at her?”
“You’re seriously fucked up.”
Dean shrugs. “Get out there. Just... eat your fuckin’ soup with her. Then I’ll tell her it’s your beddy-by time, okay? Ten minutes.”
Sam groans long-sufferingly. Thinks about Jess’s milk-white skin. The amazing mole in the middle of her forehead, which sounds unattractive but is so, so not. The curve of her neck, the curve of her ass, the curve of her breasts, and--
Nope. His downstairs is just as dead as his up.
But Dean’s looking at him so hopefully. Like if he sits and eats soup with the fucking girl, that’ll mean something important to him.
“Fine,” Sam says. “Help me up.”
***
He’s really not feeling well. He tries not to lean on Dean on the way out of the bedroom but fails, because he’s totally and absolutely going to fall on his ass if he lets go. Dean’s trying to push him off, make him stand on his own, but he keeps leaning in, right up until they’re standing awkwardly in front of Jess in the living room.
Sam’s pretty sure he needs help sitting down.
Then he takes a breath and they all hear it, the wheeze, it’s that fucking loud.
Dean shoves Sam into the chair opposite Jess, his discrete way of helping him sit. He rushes away, comes back and sets two bowls and two spoons in front of them, along with the soup.
“Bon appetite,” Dean says. He salutes them and bows dramatically out of the room.
Jess picks up the spoon. Sets it down. Laughs a little. “The soup is actually cold,” she says, “Straight out of the fridge. I didn’t know if... you know... if you’d be hungry. So I didn’t bring it hot.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “It was really sweet of you. We’ll... I’ll... do you want me to heat it up?”
She’d better say no, because Sam’s pretty sure he can’t get up.
“No,” she says, thank god. “I just ate. Plus... you look tired.”
Sam smiles. “I am tired. But. That doesn’t mean, you know. I don’t want you to. Uh. You know. Leave.”
Fuck.
“I had pneumonia once,” Jess says, and then winces like she wishes she hasn’t said anything.
Sam sucks in another wheeze. “Oh?”
“After summer camp. It was awful.”
Her camp counselor found her in bed, apparently, just as one of her campmates was playing that horrible sunrise song on the trumpet (the name escapes Sam and Jess). She had a high high fever and had to stay in the hospital for almost three days, and the antibiotics gave her crying jags, and she could barely breathe.
“It’s such a scary feeling, isn’t it?” she says, “To not be able to breathe?”
He clears his throat. “Breathing. Yeah. Breathing’s, uh. It sucks. To not be able to... do it.”
He wonders what Jess would say, if she knew that his longest hospital stay had been nearly three months and had involved Dad chasing a grief counselor out of his hospital room, and social workers telling Dean to say goodbye to his little brother, and Pastor Jim standing over his bed, praying.
She’s a nice girl.
It’ll never work.
He squirms in his chair. His chest muscles are doing that jumping thing, the little stabbing pains in his lungs are starting up again, he’s so tired and Dean is nowhere.
“Jessica.” He grimaces, rubs his chest. “I should get some rest.”
She stands up so fast she nearly knocks over her chair. “Of course! Of course! Well. Enjoy the soup? Aaaannnd I’ll... maybe, uh--?”
“See you soon, definitely.” Sam smiles. “Very soon.”
Right. He kisses his chances with Jess goodbye, watches it float out the window, out of his reach, gone forever.
Dean doesn’t appear again until Jess is out the door, down the walk, most of the way down the street, almost out of sight. Sam is clinging to the doorknob and doorjam, panting, his face pressed against the screen door.
“I fucking hate you. Why did you make me do that?”
Dean looks super fucking proud of himself. “She’s totally into you.”
Sam scoffs. “Look at me.”
“Yeah, look at you. Like a run over puppy. C’mere, I got your neb in the bedroom.” He throws Sam’s arm around his shoulder. “I don’t think you need to wait three days to call. She made you soup.”
“I’m not gonna call her.”
“Sure you are.”
“Stop talking to me,” Sam says. “Can’t breathe.”
“You’re gonna feel better in a few days. Then you’ll thank me.”
“No I won’t. She’s never gonna talk to me again.”
They come to the bedroom door. From here Sam counts the steps-- just five more, four more-- and that’s the only way he makes it.
Dean lays him on his mountain of pillows, and he leans back and sighs, feeling his chest unclench a little.
“Vest?” Dean says. “Up to you.”
“Not right now.”
He just lays there with his eyes closed for a minute, wheezing. Dean turns off the overhead light, leaving them in blissful, blissful darkness.
“Sam.”
“Go away. Still hate you.”
“Neb, asshole.”
Sam opens one eye. Takes the mouthpiece. Closes the eye. He just breathes, tries to forget what just happened, tries to block out his stupid brother, still moving around the room doing who knows what.
The bed dips; Dean sits beside him. “So what is it, then. You think you don’t deserve a pretty girl?”
“I’m sick, Dean.”
“You just had a tune-up. You’re fine.” Sam feels Dean smoothing the fabric of his shirt. “Girls are different, Sammy. They don’t... they don’t care about this shit, you know, if you’re sick or not. They care about if you treat ‘em nice.”
“Oh yeah,” he says around the neb, “I’m sure if I treat her real nice, she won’t desire children or care if I die before my 40th birthday.”
“Hey,” Dean punches him not-soft-but-not-hard on the shoulder. “I don’t wanna hear shit like that.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not saying get down on one fucking knee, Sammy. Just... you know. Give it a chance. See where things go.”
Sam takes the neb out of his mouth. “I have nothing to offer her.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious, Dean. She’s like, blonde and leggy and I have two mucus sacks in my chest and no permanent address. She deserves better.”
“Why? Does she save orphans from burning buildings in her spare time?”
“No. But not everyone wants to play nurse.”
“Jesus, Sam. What’s with the mood?”
“I don’t have a mood.”
“You’re brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Do you need to write some poetry or something?”
“Shut up.”
“We can go down to the store, get you a black velvet suit jacket.”
“Fuck you.”
“You can start melting wax on your nipples.”
The neb is done. Sam shoves it at Dean. “Okay, let’s say she’s just jumping at the chance to date a sick guy. I still lied to her. Like right off the bat.”
“You omitted the truth.”
“I lied.”
“Pneumonia is an infection of the lungs. You had an infection of the lungs. There you go.”
“You are morally bankrupt.”
Dean smiles. “Why don’t you rest a little. We’ll discuss what you’re gonna say when you call her later.”
“I’m not calling her.”
“Shhh,” Dean says, and actually puts his finger to Sam’s lips to silence him. “Rest now.”
“I’m not calling her, Dean.”
“Rest,” Dean repeats. He tip-toes backward out of the room.
“Dean I’m not--”
The door shuts.
God damn it.
Sam will totally call.
::::
The end.