Written for this prompt quite awhile ago: Dean gets a terrible chest cold and Sam has to stalk him everywhere trying to get him to stop smoking even though he can barely breathe. So, yes, AU in that Dean smokes. But FYI - the original Supernatural script called for Dean to smoke so while it's AU it's an AU that isn't necessarily unimaginable. Can be read as set in any season after Four.
/
The smoking thing - well, Sam's tried. Tried and given up. Tried and failed. Tried and even semi-succeeded on one occasion - but mostly: tried and failed.
Pure and simple - Dean's just addicted. Whether it's physical or psychological or both - he needs to smoke. No amount of cajoling or trickery or medical intervention or anything Sam has done to get him to quit the mother fucking cigarettes has ever worked. Not the second-hand smoke argument, not the gum, not Sam pointing out how damn expensive it is - especially on their limited means - not even Dean landing in the hospital when Alistair all but crushed Dean's trachea could get Dean to stop, at least not for more than a little while. And come to think of it, that still pisses Sam off, Dean sneaking out of the hospital to grab a quick smoke the minute he was off the IV's, all under the guise of "talking to Cas." "You're insane," Sam had grumbled, when he'd found him standing in the parking lot, finishing a cigarette - and fuck knows who bummed him one, Sam hadn't even bothered to find that out, didn't think he had the mental capacity to stomach the answer to that on top of everything else. "You're never going to get out of here if you keep pulling shit like that."
"Fuck off, Sam," Dean had said, after he'd taken one last drag, flicked the butt into a puddle and then actually put one hand on Sam's shoulder to steady himself while he coughed and gasped and then coughed some more. "Don't give me that self-righteous crap right now," he'd added, when he could actually breathe again.
Of course, that had been before Sam had known about the seals and Dean breaking the first one and all that other shit Alistair had done to him, but still. Smoking while in a hospital ICU for life-threatening injuries - some respiratory-related - just seemed over the fucking top, even for Dean, though apparently not, as witnessed by him having a cigarette in the rain in the fucking parking lot in the middle of the damn night wearing nothing but a flimsy hospital gown. Apparently, there isn't any time or place Dean won't say no to a smoke, and after that particular event, Sam pretty much gives up. If he's going to smoke when he's in that situation, well, what the hell is Sam going to do?
The thing about Dean and the smoking - it doesn't really seem to affect his health in any major sort of way. Sam doesn't get it. Pure and simple, Dean's stamina is amazing. Sam can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Dean sick, but that's the thing; he might not get sick all that often, but when he does, it's more than just noticeable, it's a damn pain in the ass, and annoying as hell. Because Dean doesn't ever do anything half way, including illness, and this time is no exception.
It comes on quick, with next to no warning. One minute everything's right as fucking rain, they're bumbling along trying to hunt a werewolf and help Castiel out with all the shit he has going on, just doing their usual thing, when Dean comes down with a cold. He's fine when they get up in the morning and he lights up his first cigarette of the day, nothing of note that Sam can tell, but by noon, when they're stopped at a wayside so Sam can piss and Dean can smoke, Dean's sniffling and sneezing all over the place, enough where someone watching would think he was having an allergy attack of some sort, except Dean's never been allergic to anything that Sam knows of, so Sam knows he's coming down with something viral. And respiratory in nature.
He doesn't bother saying anything - what's to say, as they're tooling down the road, Dean snuffling and sneezing all over his jacket and his sleeves - other than that Dean's getting sick, and if Sam tries to bring that up, Dean's going to get pissed - maybe not at Sam specifically, but at life in general - and there's no reason to fuel that particular fire at the moment, at least not to Sam's way of thinking.
Dealing with cranky, sick Dean will come soon enough.
They drive a few more hours, and by the time they get to some hole-in-the-wall, Dean's a snotty mess, his jacket covered with darker splotches where he's been wiping his nose, his eyes beginning to have that glazed look of fever. None of that's enough to keep him from jamming a cigarette between his lips the moment he gets out of the car, though. "Dude, really?" Sam says, shaking his head. "Doesn't that make you want to puke right now?"
"I'm good," Dean says, and lights up. That's all he says, it's just two words, but it's enough for Sam to hear the hoarseness that's crept into Dean's voice, like his throat is sore or he might be heading toward something laryngitic in nature. Which, Sam thinks, wouldn't necessarily be the worst thing in the world.
And then immediately regrets the thought, though only for one guilt-ridden moment.
"Yeah," he says. "You sound good. Awesome, in fact."
Dean opens the trunk, cigarette dangling from his lip and pulls out a bottle. "Nothing that a little of this won't cure," he says, and then winks, and then has the nerve to smirk.
And then abruptly sneeze - twice - nearly sending the cigarette flying out of his mouth and no, Sam, doesn't feel totally justified as he watches Dean curse and wipe his nose and pitch the half-finished smoke onto the ground.
But if he's honest with himself, he feels at least partly justified.
/
This goes on for the better part of two weeks.
Not so much the sneezing and snotting part - that goes away almost as quickly as it comes, is replaced by a horrendous cough as the cold sinks into Dean's chest, a hard, painful hacking that makes its first appearance when they're trying to go to sleep one exhausting night after one frigging exhausting day, and goes on until frigging exhausting Day Seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Who can keep track, Sam thinks, every damn day is the same as the one before. Get up, watch Dean drag his ass around, coughing and wheezing and smoking while they track down leads and take phone calls and have brief yet thoroughly intense and frustrating conversations with Castiel before eating bad roadside food and falling into bed, only to listen to Dean cough and groan and get up and drink water or - if things are particularly bad, a gulp of whiskey - and blow his nose and cough some more, off and on through the night, usually into the wee hours of the morning.
Yeah, Sam thinks, more than once. It doesn't get much better than this.
"Go take some cold medicine," Sam finally grumbles, when Dean gets up around three on Day - Night - Seven to piss, stretch his legs and down some whiskey.
"Do you see any cold medicine laying around here?" Dean says, pulling on his jacket. His voice is still croaky and cracky, still giving out on him at odd moments. "Because I sure as hell don't."
"Dude, there's a store thirty seconds from here," Sam says. "It's open all night."
"Good for them," Dean says. "That shit never works and it costs a lot of money."
So instead, he goes outside to have a drink.
And a smoke.
It takes Sam awhile to figure it out because once Dean's gone and taken his horrid, wheezing cough with him, Sam falls asleep, the silence of the room lulling him, but he awakens a couple hours later, the quiet still deafening, Dean still not back yet.
Shit.
Sam manages to keep the franticness to a dull roar while he pulls his jeans on, but really, he's more than slightly freaked out - Dean should've been back a long time ago and if Sam's learned anything, it's that when one of them leaves and doesn't check back in within a reasonable amount of time, there's almost always a bad reason for it.
It takes Sam all of ten seconds to find out what the hell's going on - he finds Dean sitting by the now-defunct swimming pool in the courtyard, the ember of his cigarette glowing like some kind of damn beacon. Sam's both relieved and pissed enough that his adrenalin's making his heart race - but as he gets closer to Dean and hears him hacking his way through another coughing fit, being pissed wins out over the relief, and if he could, Sam would throw something at Dean's head.
"What the hell? What are you doing out here?" Sam demands, shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pockets to try and keep warm - it's probably forty degrees, tops. "I thought you were -" and admittedly, he hadn't really given thought, exactly, to what Dean might be up to, other than he had whiskey and his cigarettes with him, so Sam had assumed he was going to have a drink and a smoke and then get his ass back to the room, not spend the damn night out here - "only going to be gone for a couple minutes."
"Couldn't sleep," Dean answers, knocking back another swig. "You should know this is where I go when I can't sleep."
It's true. Dean has always - always been a nighttime wanderer, ever since - well, if Sam's honest about it - he started smoking, around fifteen or so. It's a pattern he'd established when he had to hide the fact that he smoked around John, one that had stuck with him even after he was grown and the sneaking around wasn't an issue. Dean rarely smokes indoors, even though Sam has told him it's okay when the weather was being a bitch, and when Dean can't sleep - and it happens quite a bit, unsurprisingly - he quietly slides out of the room, no matter the weather or the place, and finds a place to light up, sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for hours. Sam's always thought it was so he wouldn't keep anyone awake - and that was, indeed, part of the whole thing - but it really has more to do with Dean's need to just get out and - try and get a handle on things that are stressing him out. Which could be anything and everything, depending. "I do my best thinking while everyone's asleep," Dean once said, when Sam found him huddled at a picnic table during a snowstorm during some long-ago hunt in some long-forgotten state, sitting under his jacket like it was a frigging tent, smoking one cigarette after the other. "It's just snow, Sam. If I didn't want to be out here, I wouldn't be."
That's not completely true - it isn't like Dean would've been sitting out in a blizzard, enjoying the sights if he hadn't needed to smoke, but after that, Sam gives up, gets used to Dean going out in the dead of night to smoke and drink and ponder the meaning of life and do whatever it was that he did out there.
Smoke, mostly.
But now, tonight, as Sam watches him miserably hunched over, shivering - maybe from the chill air but more likely from the fever he knows Dean's got going - and wheezing and smoking, Sam's pretty much over it. "You can't sleep because you're sick, dumbass."
Dean shrugs, takes another drag. "Whatever. The end result is the same - can't sleep."
"Put the cigarettes down for five fucking seconds," Sam says. "That might help."
"Doubt it," Dean says. "I'm pretty sure I'll still be sick whether I smoke or not." But he stubs out the cigarette, and with a noise that's a cross between a groan and a cough, gets to his feet and takes another drink.
"If you didn't smoke, you'd be better by now."
"Shut it, Sam."
It's one of Dean's more mild responses, and because Sam's goal is to see Dean get his sick ass into bed, he lets it go, doesn't say anything else. And for his part, Dean crawls into bed as soon as they get inside, stops just long enough to take off his boots, shrug out of his jacket before burying himself in the blankets.
That's when Sam steals Dean's cigarettes.
It's not like it's something's he's planned - he's never done it before, taken Dean's cigarettes away, at least not like this, where Dean isn't aware of what he's doing, and maybe it has something to do with listening to how crappy Dean's breathing sounds when he finally falls asleep, or maybe it's Sam's own exhaustion from being kept up every damn night listening to Dean trying to cough up a lung when they should be sleeping - whatever it is, something inside Sam snaps at the thought of Dean smoking when he can hardly fucking breathe like the fucking nitwit that he is and he grabs the pack of cigarettes off the nightstand and peers inside.
Three left.
Sam hesitates for a fraction of a millisecond and then crumples the pack between his fingers before throwing the broken and battered cellophane/nicotine combo into one of the public trash cans outside.
Game on.
/
Of course, Dean's not stupid - well, okay, he is, at least about this, Sam thinks, but he's not that stupid, and he catches on to the cigarette stealing pretty fast, though not as fast as Sam would've predicted.
He doesn't notice the missing pack that Sam's stolen off the nightstand - probably because they sleep past breakfast and when they finally do get going, Dean is still feverish and groggy, and not necessarily thinking about having his first cigarette of the day, especially when the start of that day is all messed up. If he wonders about their disappearance from the night table, he doesn't say, and it really doesn't matter - by the time they're in the car, ready to run down and talk to the local medical examiner, Dean's fishing a freshly unopened pack from his jacket pocket, and lighting up before they've hit the interstate. Sam doesn't say anything, just makes some kind of irritated noise and shakes his head. If Dean notices that he doesn't let on, but then again, he's too busy smoking and then coughing and then trying to catch his fucking breath, so he probably isn't all that aware or concerned about the fact that he didn't smoke the last three cigarettes from some previous pack he can't remember having, and he certainly isn't concerning himself with any little irritating noises Sam might be making about the smoking - he's heard it a million times before, is likely immune to that tactic.
Sam is discouraged, no question, but not defeated. Okay, so this might not be as easy as he'd thought. Dean's a wily, stubborn fuck, especially when it comes to the smoking, but all that means is that Sam's going to have to step up his game, try to stay a few steps ahead. Really, it shouldn't be difficult, not when Dean's this sick.
And, more importantly - Sam's learned a few tricks of the deceiving trade from the master himself.
It doesn't take long for Sam to put these tricks into practice; they head out in the afternoon with the suits and ties on, to talk to some old guy on the outside of town. The jacket Dean is wearing is the only one he has clean - the cheap-ass one without any pockets on the inside, so Dean leaves his cigarettes on the dash, doesn't even hesitate, has left them there hundreds of times before. And as soon as Dean's out of the car, Sam silently reaches over and snags them, shoves them into his own pants pocket. He can't believe how easy it's been - but, of course, the last thing Dean's expecting is Sam to take his cigarettes and get rid of them, so he has no reason to be careful or observant or anything. Should've thought of this sooner, Sam thinks, and despite himself, he can't keep the small note of triumph from sounding at the thought of keeping Dean from smoking, even if it is in the tiniest of increments.
When they finish with the old man and are back in the car, Dean loosens his tie, looks on the dash, begins to feel around and then, begins searching the floor beneath his feet. "Oh, come on," he says. Sam would snicker if it wouldn't give him up - but he does what he can to try and sound normal. Unconcerned. "Dude, what's wrong?"
"I left my smokes here - on the dash, I know I did," Dean says. He's still groping around on the floor and he looks both wildly pissed and decidedly feverish. "Jesus Christ, I'm getting sick of this shit."
Sam doesn't say a word, barely dares to breathe, but it's hard, given he can feel the pack pressing up against leg through his pants, and he shifts a little so Dean - with his damn x-ray vision - doesn't notice the outline of the package in Sam's pocket. "Maybe they fell out when you got out from the car?" He wonders if his voice sounds as guilty as he thinks it does.
Not that he feels guilty or anything about snatching Dean's newly opened pack of cigarettes. After all, the moron has some kind of cold at best and respiratory infection at worst and he doesn't seem to get the hint - even as he's coughing up some kind of gunk and then opening the door and leaning out to spit it onto the street while looking for the damn cigarettes right at this very fucking moment - that his lungs could use a break, so, no, whatever guilt Sam might be feeling is quickly whisked away as he waits for Dean to finish up with the hacking and wheezing and get his shivering, feverish ass back upright behind the wheel.
"Fuck it," Dean says. His voice is still messed up - has been for the past however long he's been sick - and he tries clearing his throat, but it doesn't do any good, he still sounds on the verge of losing his voice completely. "I need to stop quick before we head out."
Sam points to his watch. "Time is money, dude. And we don't have either. We're supposed to meet with the owner of the diner at four and it's already past that." He nods his head forward. "Your cigarette break can wait."
Really, he isn't sure that Dean will comply - he rarely does when it comes to the smoking - but miraculously, he grumbles something that sounds like, "fuck," and "soon as we're done," and that's it, they're headed toward the Secrets and Surprises Diner sans cigarettes, to talk and schmooze whoever it is they need to talk to and schmooze with.
It takes awhile, but not exceptionally long, and they're back on the road in no time, heading toward the motel. Dean pulls into a gas station, and Sam thinks fast. "I'll go," he says. "I want something to eat anyway."
It's fine - Dean doesn't suspect anything, this goes on all the time, one or the other going inside while the other waits, for whatever reason. Plus, Sam can tell he's really feeling like shit - his voice is all but gone and he's coughing every couple of minutes until he can barely get his breath. Yeah, right, like hell you're going to smoke right now, Sam thinks. He goes inside, visits the restroom and throws away the pack he's had stowed in his pocket all afternoon before going and picking out juice, a couple candy bars and cough drops.
He sets the bag with everything on the seat between them as Dean starts the car and pulls away. "Grab me those smokes," he says, once they're on the highway. "I'm dying over here." And then, as if to prove the wonderful irony of that statement, he launches into one of his coughing fits, complete with watering eyes, running nose and a string of muttered curses.
"Here," Sam says, helpfully, pulling out the cough drops. "I got these for you. They might help your voice."
Dean glances over impatiently, still trying to quit with all the coughing, but not really having much success, so he bats the cough drops away, motions for Sam to put his hand in the fucking bag and get him the damn cigarettes. "Uh, yeah, about that," Sam says. "They were out of Marlboro Reds, so I said screw it."
He knows, without a doubt, that this isn't going to go over well - it's just a matter of degree. Sam waits for it.
Luckily, it's tamped down by how sick Dean is, and how he's having to drive and cough and catch his breath all at the same time. "What - the hell, Sam," he says, when he's able. His frown is absolutely murderous, and for a brief second, Sam questions the position he's put himself in. Dean without cigarettes. After Sam offered to get him some. Not good.
Then again, neither is Dean running a fever off and on for over a week, coughing 24/7, hoarse and barely able to breathe at times. So, fuck it, fuck the cigarettes for the moment. "I didn't think you'd want me to spend money on shit cigarettes," Sam says. Not that they aren't all shit, in Sam's opinion, but he's going for innocence that he's pretty sure he's missing the mark on by a mile. "Especially when we don't have a lot of cash."
"Fuck that," Dean says, grabbing the bag and taking a look, as if the cigarettes will magically be there. "Damn it, Sam, I wanted a cigarette. I'd smoke hand-rolled manure right now if I could get my hands on it."
"Sorry," Sam says. Of course, he's anything but. "I just figured we could stop somewhere else and get you the Marlboros." He goes into patient-reasoning mode, a parent soothing a child. "Let's get back to the room, okay? I fucked up, so I'll run out and get you some. But I've gotta piss first and we might as well get out of these monkey suits."
He isn't sure this is going to fly; in fact, Sam's pretty sure it isn't, that Dean's going to peel into the nearest place that sells cigarettes and get his sick ass in there to buy some.
Plus, he sounds like such a - damn ass right now, talking to Dean like he's a three year-old - even to his own ears, but again, Dean shocks him and goes along with it. "Yeah, all right," he grumbles. "It'll be the perfect ending to a perfect day."
Well, Sam thinks, when they're back at the room and Sam comes out of the bathroom to find Dean crashed for the night. Dean was right about one thing - it might not have been the perfect day, not by any stretch, but it can be considered the perfect ending, at least in Sam's book, because it's one more check in his WIN column as far as keeping Dean from lighting up for a few hours.
The victory would be far less hollow if Dean didn't look so - well, something, Sam thinks, as he watches Dean in sleep, his arms tensely clenched around himself in protective mode, the lines around his eyes refusing to smooth out, the sound of his uneven, raspy breathing bursting into the silence of the room. Okay, maybe it's a victory of sorts, but Sam would give anything to return it, if it meant Dean wouldn't have to go through this shit.
/
They press on with the hunt - they have no choice, there's a werewolf to kill - and while it appears on the outside to be a straightforward sort of case, something they've taken care of before and therefore, should have no problem with, there are complications - the lunar cycle is off and they can't get at the damn thing, it's some sort of hybrid or something, but it doesn't matter, the long and short of everything is, the hunt is going on longer than it needs to, they can't get a hold of it and it's fucking everything up.
The complications extend beyond the hunt, specifically to Dean and his crap cold or whatever it is that he's got. He's a tough fucker, Sam will give him that: he doesn't complain, doesn't slack, doesn't let on to how shitty Sam knows he has to be feeling. He's still smoking like a damn chimney, despite the off-again, on-again laryngitis, the seesawing fever and the unrelenting cough but - and Sam takes a small measure of comfort in this, though it's very small, especially when he listens to Dean hacking his way through yet another night of broken sleep for the eightieth night in a row - he isn't smoking quite as much, given that Sam's still ninja-ing his cigarettes every chance he gets. It's not easy - somehow, Dean's wised up, and doesn't leave them unguarded for very long, but all that's meant is Sam's had to change up his game plan, and become as stealthy about taking them as Dean is about keeping them. Sometime Sam will only get one or two out of the pack but occasionally he'll manage five or six, before quickly ducking into the nearest restroom and flushing them down the toilet. If Dean's noticed how fast he's going through a pack, he doesn't let on; Sam suspects he isn't paying that close attention right now, given the state of both the hunt and his health. How long Sam can keep this up before he's caught, he has no clue; he just knows it's good enough for the time-being.
In the midst of everything, trying to get this werewolf taken care of, Castiel shows up with his own agenda, some bullshit with the angels, Sam doesn't really know or give a shit at this point, but it suddenly comes to him, as he listens to him and Dean talking - or, Castiel talking and Dean coughing and clearing his throat, trying to get his voice to work - that Cas might be of some use to him. Them. Dean.
Sam waits for the right moment and it comes when Dean goes to the can. He doesn't have a whole lot of time, but it should be enough. "Hey," he hisses at Castiel, as soon as the door's shut. Castiel looks at him, puzzled and Sam impatiently motions him over, pressing his finger to his lips when he sees Castiel about to speak. "Keep it down. I don't want Dean to hear."
Castiel frowns, but does as Sam asks, waits while Sam rummages through Dean's jacket and hastily yanks out his most recently acquired pack of smokes. "Here," Sam says, pressing them into Castiel's hands. "Get rid of these."
Castiel looks more confused than ever - and, really, it would almost be comical if Dean wasn't about to walk out of the damn bathroom - but he takes the pack and goes over to the trashcan and unceremoniously drops them in. For fuck's sake, Sam thinks, as he retrieves them. "Not that way," he says. He holds them out again, but this time, Castiel doesn't take them.
"What would you like me to do with them?"
"I - don't care, just get rid of them before Dean gets out of the bathroom. Maybe you can - zap them somewhere or something?"
"Zap them somewhere? You want me to take - those - and send them to - where exactly?"
"I don't know - the future, maybe? I don't really care, Cas, I just want you to get them out of here. Past, future, trashcan in the parking lot, wherever the hell you want to send them."
"Sam, it hardly seems like a good idea for me to use my time and energy sending - " He glances at the pack Sam's still holding. "That one item somewhere else when you - we - can just throw it away."
The toilet flushes; it's only a matter of a minute, tops, before Dean gets back out here. "Okay, never mind," Sam says. He opens up Castiel's coat and shoves the pack into one of the pockets. "Just - take them with you when you leave and then - get rid of them. Oh - and don't tell Dean when he comes back in here."
"You want me to lie?"
"I want you to keep quiet," Sam says. And then, the bathroom door opens and Dean is back with them, wiping his wet face with a towel. Trying to bring the fever down again, Sam has time to think, just as he pulls back from Castiel's personal space. "Hey," he says to Dean.
"What the hell are you two doing?" Dean's voice is a hoarse pant at best, but it's still hard not to hear the suspicion in it. Luckily, those few words send him into a coughing fit, which he smothers into the towel he's holding before pitching it across the room.
"Nothing," Sam says, taking advantage of the distraction, and discreetly shoving Castiel toward the door. "Cas was just leaving. And so are we."
Castiel looks between the two of them, still clearly at a loss, but he manages to hold it together when he gets one last look from Sam. "Right. Just leaving," and then he's - thank God - gone, Dean's cigarettes gone with him.
"What do you mean, we're leaving?" Dean asks. He's digging around in his jacket, and Sam knows what he's looking for. "Where are we going?"
"I have an idea," Sam says. "I think I know where we can find this werewolf." It's hard for him to concentrate on what he's saying, what with watching Dean looking for - and not finding - his cigarettes. Again.
Dean doesn't answer right away, is too busy hunting for the third missing pack in just about as many days, and when he's rifled through his jacket and his pockets and pushed shit around on the table, he turns to Sam in exasperation. "Damn it, Sam, where are my cigarettes?"
Sam shrugs; it's all he trusts himself to do without giving himself away. And it's not exactly a lie; they could be anywhere by now. He watches Dean fruitlessly searching another few seconds. "Dude, come on. There's plenty of places to get more cigarettes. Let's just go and worry about it later. We've got to get this done."
"Yeah, whatever," Dean mutters. He grabs a bottle of Tylenol he unearthed from somewhere, and dry swallows a couple, wincing. "Jesus."
"You all right?"
"Gee, Sam, why do you ask? I can barely talk, I can't breathe right, I feel like shit, we have to go out and try and gank some werewolf that keeps getting the jump on us and now I can't even have a smoke because I can't find yet another pack of cigarettes that I just bought. So in answer to your question, no, I'm not all right at the moment."
"Maybe they're in the car," Sam says, very carefully. "Here, I'll drive so you can look." He knows there aren't any there - he's been doing a regular search and destroy in there every time Dean's otherwise occupied. But at least if he drives, they'll have less of a chance of stopping to get more, at least for right now. And he knows once Dean's busy with the werewolf business, he'll temporarily forget about smoking.
He knows he can't keep this façade going much longer, but Sam does know he won't willingly give it up until he has to.
And right now, they have a werewolf to hunt.
/
Ganking the werewolf, even one who isn't following the normal werewolf blueprint, isn't nearly as difficult as they'd initially led themselves to believe.
Or, Sam later realizes, it wouldn't have been if there hadn't been one very sick Dean Winchester in the picture.
Sam can't entirely fault Dean for how crazy things go - Sam himself has to shoulder at least some of the bad decision making that takes place once they find the abandoned factory where the werewolf's supposedly at, starting with letting Dean talk him into separating once they suspect there's an intended victim hidden away - stupid, fucking stupid Sam will think, over and over, he and Dean splitting up in this kind of situation isn't a good plan in the best of times, but now it just seems insane, what with how they aren't really sure what the hell they're walking into and how tired and sick Dean is, definitely not completely on his game.
But against his better judgment, they do it Dean's way, and after that things are a fucked-up, blurry mess in Sam's mind - he'll never quite figure out the sequence of events in the whole thing, but the short version of it all ends up Sam hearing a gunshot, and then a scream and, heart racing as he spends what seems like Iyears/I running around trying to find Dean, only to come upon a girl flipping her shit on the floor and the fucking werewolf on top of Dean, Dean's gun on the floor, out of Dean's reach.
Son-of-a-bitch, is all Sam has time to think before everything starts rushing at him - pushing the hysterical girl out the door, yanking the werewolf off Dean and shoving his silver knife square into the fucker's heart and then trying to retrieve Dean's gun - and how the fuck had Dean missed and then dropped the damn thing anyway, Sam thinks, as he goes over to Dean, who's trying to pull himself up and not really succeeding, and Sam has a pretty fucking good idea why everything went to hell here, can pretty much guess that Dean's too sick to be doing this shit right now, that there's no other explanation for Dean to fuck everything up like this unless he's too fucked up himself to take care of business like he normally would, and the sight of Dean unable to stand and choking out Sam's name pretty much confirms this.
He can barely hear Dean's voice, it's all pretty much gasping and wheezing, and goddamn it to hell, Sam has time to think, maybe he was too late, maybe the mother fucking werewolf had already gotten to Dean and this was going to be it and Jesus, what was he going to do if he hasn't found Dean in time, and fuck it all, he should've never let the two of them fucking separate in the first place -
"Dean!" He isn't thinking, only reacting, and Sam crouches down and pulls Dean into a half-sitting position. "Are you hurt?" He means, Did the werewolf get you, but he can't bring himself to ask that, can barely get himself to think of the possibility. But Dean isn't answering - can't seem to answer since he's - once again, goddamnit - not able to catch his breath, is too busy trying to cough up whatever shit is bogging down his lungs - the same shit that he's been fighting for the last however-many days - weeks - and the most likely culprit as to why Dean hadn't been able to gank this werewolf before Sam showed up and was now forcing Sam to deal with the possibility that Dean might get turned into a goddamn werewolf of all things - well, yeah.
To say Sam's had enough is pretty much an understatement.
"Damn it, Dean," he says, and fuck knows, he wants to be patient, but he's just so - done with this shit, the smoking and the marathon coughing sessions he has to listen to, and the worry and this thing where Dean seems to feel nothing matters as long as it has to do with him - not to mention how exhausted Sam himself is, what with having to listen to Dean hacking and wheezing morning, noon and night and trying to find ways to hide the motherfucking cigarettes that are - at least in Sam's mind - the cause of the current mess they're in. Dean still has yet to answer - he's half-hanging onto Sam, still trying to quit coughing and start talking, but it's like he can't get enough air to do it. "Are you hurt?" Sam asks, one more time.
This time, Dean somehow manages to suck in a breath and get something out besides a gasping wheeze. "The - girl -"
Of course, Sam thinks. He would be worried about that first, even as he's sitting here, practically choking to death. "She's fine, she took off," Sam answers. He has to say it, has to know even as time speeds away from them. "Did it get you?"
Dean goes down on one knee and Sam almost loses his hold, his heart rate ramping up even more than it already is - though how that's possible, Sam doesn't know, he feels like he's about to have a damn stroke as it is - and his racing heart sinks along with Dean, the idea that he's been bitten by a werewolf - a creature Dean should be able to take out in his sleep and would have if he wasn't so fucking sick right now - isn't an option for Sam even though it might very well be the only choice they have in the matter.
But then Dean shakes his head - almost imperceptibly, but enough for Sam to catch it - and pushes Sam aside just before he turns and heaves up - something - onto the ground, and it sounds terrible, like Dean's trying to breathe and puke and cough all at the same time, like his insides are trying to twist their way out of him and he's trying to hold it all in and pretty much failing.
"Jesus. Dean." Sam reaches down to try and pull him up but Dean shakes his head and coughs up one last round of - gunk - before panting, "I'm fine. Just - get my breath."
And Sam will never really know why, why those six simple words suddenly send him over the edge - maybe it's not even the words, he will later realize, when he sets out to try and analyze what overcame him at this moment, maybe it's the bullshit of it all - Dean saying he's fine when it's so very fucking obvious that he's not, that he's so far from fine that it's a joke, that he pretty much put his damn life in jeopardy with how "fine" he is.
And Sam's pretty much had enough.
Of so many things, when he later pulls back and looks at the big picture.
But for right now, this moment, he's just plain-and-simple pissed, annoyed as hell that Dean's lying on the ground, sick as a dog, not because he has a weak constitution, but because he's fucking up his own lungs so that his immune system can't kick whatever this is out on its own, and it's like Ihe doesn't give a shit, would rather smoke some deadly piece of crap that will end up killing him somewhere down the line, one way or another - either slowly and painfully through some awful lung disease or in the blink of an eye - like right now - because smoking and delaying his return to health is more important than being one hundred percent on his game, both physically and mentally.
Sam hauls Dean up with a strength that's pretty much all adrenalin-fueled - likely because he's still not completely convinced that Dean doesn't have some kind of werewolf-related injury and won't be able to calm down until he knows for sure that he doesn't - not caring if he's being rough or not. He's had enough, and this is going to get dealt with one way or another.
"Come on." He's got Dean - who Istill/I can't seem to breathe and talk at the same time, for fuck's sake - in a standing position - if he can call it that, what with Dean leaning over, his hands on his knees while he struggles to find a way to breathe like a normal human being. Sam doesn't wait, just starts pulling him toward the car.
"Sam - what the - hell-"
Sam doesn't answer, doesn't say anything until they reach the car, and even then, it's only "give me the keys." He knows how harsh he sounds, how grim, but he's done playing around, and Dean better give him the damn keys without a fight or the gloves are going to come off.
Surprisingly, Dean doesn't protest, doesn't make the least bit of fuss, just hands Sam the keys and slides into the passenger seat without a word. Of course, he's still concentrating on trying to breathe without coughing or puking, and when he seems to have a handle on that, he looks up and sees that Sam's not heading back toward their motel. "What're - you doing, Sam?"
"We're stopping somewhere first," Sam says. And before Dean can say another word - and Sam knows damn well what words are about to come out of Dean's mouth - he cuts him off. "And so help me, Dean, if you give me any shit or ask me to get you some cigarettes, I'll finish the job that werewolf almost started on you."
Dean gapes at him, but doesn't say anything - then again, anything he might have to say is lost in another damn coughing fit.
Not that it matters.
Sometimes - and not very often, but every once in awhile - Dean knows better than to argue with Sam, that Sam can't be fucked with and that it's better to just stay quiet.
And this is one of those times.
/
The ER is virtually empty when Sam and Dean get there, but they're still there a long fucking time, most likely because of all the shit they do once they realize how sick Dean is.
Dean himself is cooperative but pretty much silent, speaking only when spoken to. He isn't hurt anywhere else and Sam relaxes a little when they find that out, but he also knows Dean is quiet because he's pissed now as well, that even though he's here because Sam forced the issue, it's only a matter of the right time and place before Dean gives it right back to him.
But, fuck it. Sam doesn't care. He's just too relieved that Dean's okay to worry about his little temper tantrum at the moment.
And Dean is okay for the most part - the official diagnosis is acute bronchitis with a side of pleurisy of all fucking things, and they come and do all the appropriate things - saline IV once they find out how high Dean's fever is and that he's dehydrated, a nebulizer with something in it that makes Dean cough for nearly twenty minutes straight - but when he's done with it, he's breathing easier than he's breathed in weeks - an injection of some kind of antibiotic to kick start everything. Sam waits in the exam room with him through all of this - and they usually don't do it this way, hang out in the room with each other on those rare occasions they have to visit a clinic or hospital, but today Sam isn't content with sitting in the waiting area, doesn't trust Dean to give them all the pertinent information on how long he's been sick or - worse yet - bolt the first chance he gets.
But there's none of that - Dean complies with everything, even sits through the requisite lecture on smoking cessation without the usual eye-rolling before they hand him his various prescriptions and instructions before turning him loose. And even though Dean appears agreeable, he ignores Sam through the entire process, barely even looks his way. That's fine though, Sam thinks, when they're silently making their way across the parking lot to the car. After all, he's won this round and he can afford to let Dean have his sulk right now.
The relief that Dean's misery is finally being taken care of outweighs any need Sam might have to converse with him right now.
When they reach the car, Dean immediately goes over to the driver's side, holds out his hand and Sam tosses him the keys. They drive without a word, the silence broken only when Dean has to cough, until Dean finds the all-night pharmacy and pulls in. He goes inside by himself and Sam lets him, knows it's pointless to try and do anything with him right now.
He's gone for awhile, and when he gets back he still gives Sam the silent treatment, doesn't even really look at him, just tosses the bag on the seat between them and heads back to the motel.
Sam knows - knows- there's at least one pack of cigarettes stuck in there among all his meds and whatever, but he doesn't say anything and to give Dean credit, he doesn't pull them out and light one up. Whatever he's thinking - and Sam isn't quite sure what that is, though he thinks he has a pretty good idea - he doesn't let on, just dumps the bag of stuff on the table when they're back in the room, ignores the inhaler and the cough syrup, swallows down the antibiotics and ibuprofen, throws his jacket over the back of the chair, sits and unlaces his boots and sinks face first into the bed, not bothering with the covers, and is out within seconds.
Sam is tired himself, more than ready to climb into the other bed and sleep for hours, but he's also keyed up, knows he won't be able to settle in just yet, so he fucks around for awhile, tries to slow himself down a little. He cleans some shit up and then showers, moving around with as little noise as possible so he doesn't wake Dean - not that he thinks anything could wake Dean right now - and just when he thinks he's standing by Dean's bed getting ready to click off the light, Sam is struck by how amazingly vulnerable and incredibly worn Dean looks right at this moment, and once more that nameless - thing - is back, that feeling that Sam can't put words too, and, as tired as he is, he knows it's going to be awhile before sleep will come to him.
/
The light filtering into the room is all fucked up when Sam awakens, and he can't tell what time of day it is, even after he looks at his watch. He can't believe he's been asleep for almost eight hours straight, but it would seem that's the case.
Dean's bed is empty - in fact, Dean is nowhere to be seen and while this is likely a good sign, Sam is hardly encouraged. He looks out the window and sure enough, there's Dean at the picnic table, cigarette in hand. Sam sighs, and pulls on his jacket but really, the anger - or frustration - or fear - or whatever it was he was running on last night - is gone, and he knows, when he joins him, there's no fight left in him.
Dean's hair is damp, like he's just gotten out of the shower, and there's actually some color in his face, even though the circles around his eyes are still dark. "Hey," he says, when Sam gets near. His voice is still thick with congestion, but it's stronger than it's been for a long time.
"You feeling any better?" Sam asks, cautiously. He can tell Dean's irritation with him has already moved past last night - getting some unbroken sleep and feeling even a little better will do that.
Dean shrugs as Sam slides onto the seat next to him, takes a sip from a cup of coffee he got somewhere and another drag from his cigarette. "I feel like I got some sleep," he says, and then turns away from Sam to cough - but even that's different, like the wheezing is less pronounced and everything's loosening up and he's not having to work so hard to just fucking breathe. When he's done coughing, he pulls a wad of toilet paper out of his jacket and blows his nose before looking at Sam. "You want to tell me what's been going on the last few days?"
Shit. Damn it. "As in - " It's a piss poor way to stall for time, but it's all Sam's got.
"As in, 'why you've felt this driving need to take and get rid of my cigarettes every chance you've had,' Dean says, and Sam flushes a little because here he'd been thinking he'd been so slick and of course, Dean had been onto him - Sam should've figured nothing gets by Dean, not even when he's sick.
"Why do you think?" Sam asks. He nods his head toward the smoke in Dean's hand. "Those things are going to end up killing you."
"Something or other's going to end up killing me," Dean says. He flicks the ash and takes another drag. "So, I don't know if I buy that."
It's true. They've been down this road before, talked about how they'd be lucky to live past thirty, and if that happened, how they definitely wouldn't make it to forty. How they're going to go out hard and fast, how they don't have the time or the reasons to sweat the small stuff. Dean knows Sam doesn't like the smoking - never has, not since Dean picked up his first cigarette. And for all the nagging and eye-rolling and trying to get Dean to at least cut back, Sam had thought he'd made his peace with it, with Dean's cigarette addiction.
Though apparently not.
Sam doesn't say anything because - what's to say? Nothing's going to change and really, why should it? If Dean wants to kill himself this way, what difference does it make? In the end, something's going to take him anyway, and probably in a horrible, painful manner. The chances of him living long enough to get some lung disease are about as good as them winning the lottery.
Yet that nameless thing creeps in yet again, that feeling Sam can't quite get at, that thing that's all bound up with seeing Dean sick and miserable and how there's been so much fucking misery in his life that can't be avoided and that trying to prevent any additional crap is the least Sam can do and - ah, fuck it, Sam thinks. This is bullshit.
"Just trying to keep you from getting any sicker," Sam mutters. "Is that a fucking crime now?"
Dean stubs the butt out, grabs the pack off the table and gets to his feet. "Not your job, Sam," he says, and his hand brushes against Sam's shoulder, rests there just long enough for Sam to know it's deliberate. "To keep bad things from happening to me. It never has been." He picks up the coffee cup, drains the last of it. "You coming?"
"In awhile," Sam says. "I'm gonna go grab some food." He isn't really in the mood to eat, but Dean should have something.
Not to mention, he might just need a minute or two to process that last statement of Dean's, and put it somewhere that Sam can live with, at least right now.
But by the time Sam gets back to the room, Dean's lying on the bed, kind of propped on his back, some shit daytime tv blaring. Sam sets the bags down, and quietly goes about putting everything away. "I got you some soup," he says, holding it up for Dean to see. "And some other stuff. You want some?"
"In awhile, maybe," Dean says, his voice thick and low. "All that sleep I had and I'm still tired," he grumbles, like it's a personal affront to need a lot of sleep when fighting a lower respiratory infection. "I can hardly keep my eyes open."
"Go back to sleep," Sam says. "You need it. Besides, we've got nothing going on."
"Maybe for a little bit," Dean says, and then he's out, his breathing evening out into a rattling, congested snore, the remote sliding from his grasp onto the floor. To see Dean give into sleep so easily is unheard of, but Sam guesses it's going to be this way for awhile, given how sick he's been, how it's going to take some time for him to get back to full strength.
Not your job, Sam. To keep bad things from happening to me.
Everything is a little unnerving, all this sickness and the weirdness between them and to pull his shit together, Sam does what he knows best - gets on the damn computer. He's looking up chronic bronchitis in cigarette smokers - and feeling more than slightly nauseous at the more than alarming information about it - when he hears Dean moving around in the bed. Sam glances over - he's just shifting position, not even awake, but he starts coughing, a deep, wet rumbling that sounds like he's drowning in his own lung crap, and it sounds fucking wretched so Sam gets up and goes over to him. "Dean."
Dean doesn't answer, but his eyes open in an instant, and he lifts his head from the pillow and reaches for his gun, even as he's choking, an instinct as ingrained in him as breathing. Or, as in this case, not-breathing, at least not very well. "It's okay," Sam says, hastily, even though he isn't sure if it is or not, seeing as Dean hasn't actually stopped coughing yet, and he tries to keep the rising alarm out of his voice. "Sit up for a minute."
"The - fuck -" Dean manages to get out, but he does what Sam suggests - or at least a reasonable facsimile of it - and sort of rolls himself onto his side and tries to get it together. He Idoes/I manage to dial all the hacking down and take a few breaths before lying back and closing his eyes again.
"Maybe you should take some more meds," Sam says. "You need something to drink?"
"In a minute," Dean says, but he keeps his eyes closed. "It's freezing in here."
Not your job, Sam. To keep bad things from happening to me.
Okay, maybe not. Maybe fucking not. Maybe it's futile and a waste of time to throw away Dean's cigarettes - or hell, even his whiskey, which Sam's been tempted to do on more than one occasion, or try and get him to eat something healthy once in awhile. Maybe Sam hasn't been able to make a dent in any of Dean's mental pain - Sam couldn't do an thing when Dean grieved for John, couldn't keep him from going to Hell and has been virtually ineffective at stopping the aftermath of all that - has probably compounded everything, if Sam has the balls to be honest with himself about it. And maybe Dean is right, and there's nothing Sam can do to stop the inevitable when it comes - the shit that's going to happen, the pain that Dean's going to have to go through - maybe Sam's hands are tied.
But that doesn't mean he can't maybe ease it a little.
He'll do what he can, what Dean will allow. Bring him more meds, tuck the blankets around him until the shivering lets up, make sure he drinks enough water when the fever starts to break. Quietly get up in the dark of the night and roll Dean to his side when he's in the middle of a coughing fit and he's too exhausted to wake up and turn on his own. Carefully brush his thumb across Dean's warm forehead, brush aside the damp strands of his hair. None of this seem like much - nothing at all, really, in the grand scheme of things, especially when Sam compares it to everything Dean's ever done for him. But if this is all Sam can give him, all Dean will accept, then Sam is damn well going to make sure Dean gets the little bit Sam can give.
He deserves at least that much.