Hiya! This is my first Supernatural fic, so, umm…yeah. It's probably not the best. I'm sure I got the characters all wrong and screwed up my verb tenses or something. Anyway, this popped into my head a few hours ago and refuses to leave—I'm sure you know how that goes. So, without further ado, I give you…whatever this is. Bye!
LineBreakSamXDemonBlood+DeanXHell=ApocalypseLineBreak
Sam sniffled. Dean suppressed a groan. Not again. Sam had been a coughing-sneezing-wheezing-dripping pile of snot for the past week, and it was starting to get on his nerves. He knew he was being a callous jerk about it, but really, it'd been a rough week. On the whole, though, he thought he'd done pretty well.
Hell, it had been Dean who'd realized Sam was sick in the first place. He'd noticed that Sam's sheets were still set on straight, a sure sign that something was up—not a night went by that either of them slept soundly. He'd seen Sam fumble while flipping open his wallet to flash his phony FBI id, something they'd done so many times it was effortless, every bit as natural as shaking hands. He'd watched with mild concern as his little brother leaned against the shovel to catch his breath after only fifteen minutes of digging on a routine salt-and-burn—sure, gravedigging was no walk in the park, but Sam had been wielding a shovel like a pro since he was eight. Dean had noted the exceptional paleness and excessive sweating, and frowned at the slight hitch he heard in his brother's breathing. When Sam started getting lethargic, he'd decided that enough was enough and pulled into the next hotel they came across. He had been expecting an arguement—usually his brother spent days stubbornly maintaining that he was fine, only admitting weakness when he could no longer stand upright—but this time, Sam seemed to have decided that since Dean already knew he was sick, there was no point in pretending. Well, that, or by then he was just too sick to care
He'd gone out and bought the essentials: Tylenol, cough drops, Sam's favorite girly lemon tea, orange juice, Kleenex, and grape flavored popsicles. Dean had prepared several bowls of chicken noodle soup, kept the fever under control by alternating cold showers and thick blankets, put on Sam's favorite reality show, and generally played nursemaid to Sam for an entire week. In his opinion, he'd gone above and beyond the call of duty. He was entitled to a little bit of selfishness…right?
Dean sighed quietly. Sam…I swear…if you don't get better soon I'm gonna kill you myself.
He drove on, cruising down a long, winding road to the middle of nowhere—and their next job. The silence was broken by a shuddering gasp. Sam was awake.
Three…
The shuddering gasp turned into a weak sort of wheeze.
Two…
The wheezing became a raspy growl.
One.
Sam broke into a harsh coughing fit. Dean grimaced. He glanced over his shoulder. "You all right back there, Sammy?" he asked, trying to appear unconcerned.
Sam's face was a brilliant shade of red and he was still coughing, but he nodded.
"You need some water?"
Sam nodded again.
Dean reached over and rummaged through the bag that lay open in the passenger's seat. His hand found the water bottle and he opened it with shaking hands before passing it back to Sam, who accepted it wordlessly.
There were a few more minutes of silence, and then, for what felt like the millionth time in the past week, Sam sniffled. And again. And again. And again. And then his breath hitched. And then he sneezed. Once. Twice. Three times. Sam sniffled again. "D-Dea?"
Dean sighed. "Yeah, Sam?"
"Need a tissue."
"Sure thing, Sammy." He rummaged through the bag again. He started to pull one out, but then thought better of it and tossed the whole thing back. "Here ya go."
A loud and rather disgusting round of nose blowing ensued, in which Dean tried and failed to focus on something else, anything but the germy snot fest in the back seat. He glanced in the mirror just in time to see Sam drop his disgusting, slimy, snotty tissue on the floor of his beloved Impala. Dean was extremely tempted to yell at him, but, with a level of self-control he didn't know he possessed, he clamped his mouth shut and settled for clawing the steering wheel and glaring at the road in front of him. Okay, ow. That hurt. Note to self—don't do that again.
Sam began coughing again. Loud, harsh, hack-up-a-lung type of coughing. Dean suppressed a groan. Shut up, Sam. He had a god-awful headache, had had one for the past forty miles or so, and Sam's coughing was not helping. When at last the coughing fit had passed, Sam began sniffling again. Dean suppressed another groan. Cut it out, Sam.
There was another brief period of silence, blessed silence, and Dean hoped rather than thought that Sam had gone back to sleep. But, like all great and wondrous things, it did not last.
"Dean?" Sam rasped.
The man in question sighed quietly. Dammit. "Yeah?"
"Why'd you turn off the radio?" he asked, his tone vaguely suspicious.
"Hmm? Oh. Ah, cos you were asleep. Didn't want to wake you." Dean lied casually. "Why? You want me to turn it back on?" Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.
Sam considered this fuzzily for a moment. "Yeah."
Dean whimpered internally. "Okay. What station?"
"Doesn't matter."
Dean turned the radio to some pansy-ass country station. There. Sam would like that.
"What, no Metallica?"
Dean shrugged. "Want me to turn it off?"
Sam shook his head. "Nah, this is fine."
They drove on. Sam lay sprawled out across the back seat, and Dean was hunched over the steering wheel, his face twisted in a pained grimace. He longed to reach over and turn off the radio, but he knew that if he did, Sam would know something was up. And of course, Sam, being Sam, would blow it out of proportion and either start nagging at Dean that he needed to take better care of himself…or worry himself straight into a hospital. Neither one of those was very desirable at the moment, so Dean felt it best to just sit tight and keep his mouth shut.
Approximately one nap and thirty-seven miles later, Sam was breathing somewhat easier and sitting up in his seat.
"Hey, man. There's a diner up ahead. Wanna pull in and grab something to eat?"
Sam nodded tiredly. "Okay."
They parked and walked inside. It was a fairly nice-looking place, if a bit small. Probably family-owned. But that was good because, paradoxically, the family-owned diners tended to have higher health standards than the most of the other places they'd been. And it seemed that this was true here at least, for the place was spotless. They were seated immediately. Sam ordered some kind of healthy soup-thing with biscuits, and Dean ordered a steak with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy and a plate full of fried chicken and onion rings. Sam looked askance at him. He shrugged. He hadn't eaten much during the last week—he'd been too busy taking care of Sam—and he hadn't eaten anything at all for the past two days, on account of Sam's fever had been through the roof, but Dean sure as hell wasn't about to tell him that.
"What? I didn't get the chance to stop for breakfast." Or dinner. Or lunch.
The waitress arrived with their food. "Can I get you anything else, boys?" she asked, eyeing Dean appreciatively.
"No, I'm good." Sam replied.
"And you?" she asked, turning to Dean.
Dean started. "Huh? Uh, what'd you say?"
The woman looked faintly annoyed. "I said, can I get you anything else?"
"Hmm? Oh. Uh, no thanks. I'm good."
"All right. Well, I'll be out back. Holler if you change your mind."
He nodded distractedly, and she walked away.
Sam said nothing, but raised an eyebrow at him questioningly. Confused, Dean shot him a what the hell did I do now? look and then turned to his plate. He had finished the steak and was halfway through the mashed potatoes when he realized he wasn't all that hungry anymore. He dropped his knife and fork with a soft clatter, but desperately wished he hadn't when Sam looked at him inquiringly.
"Not hungry." he said shortly, hoping against hope that Sam wouldn't press the issue.
Sam narrowed his eyebrows. He held his breath, prepared for an interrogation, but let it out in a relieved and inaudible sigh when Sam only sneezed.
"Guh…Dean?" Sam pleaded.
Dean handed him a fistful of napkins. "Here."
Another disgusting snotfest, then, "Thanks."
"Welcome, Sammy."
"It's Sam."
Dean scoffed. "Really? Cos you didn't seem to mind me callin' you Sammy when I was makin' you soup and tea and takin' care of your pansy ass."
"That doesn't count… I was sick, Dean—couldn't help it. Too tired to argue."
Dean knew that wasn't true, but he didn't feel like arguing the point, so he let the matter drop. He pushed his mashed potatoes around his plate, but stopped when he felt Sam's eyes on him. Damn. Stupid geek boy was getting suspicious.
Dean turned back to his plate and, his appetite gone, slowly finished the rest of the potatoes. Then he called the waitress over to their table. He paid for the meal and pocketed the whatever it was she handed back to him with his change. Just as she turned to walk away, Dean called her back.
"Yes?" she said, a wide smile stretched across her face. "What is it?"
"Y'got any plastic bags or anything? Maybe a cardboard box?"
Her radiant smile faltered for a moment, but then it was back and she was nodding. "Yeah, just in the back. Want me to get one for you?"
"That'd be awesome. Thanks."
Dean turned around. "Need a box so we can grab these an take 'em with us—somethin' for down the road, y'know? This way we won't have to stop for dinner and we can drive on through the night if we have to. " he said in response to Sam's unasked question.
When the waitress returned with a cardboard to-go box, he took it from her and proceeded to load it with fried chicken. He nodded his thanks, then headed back out to the car.
Dean sank into the driver's seat of the Impala as Sam clambered into the back.
"Where we headed?" Sam asked.
"Way over to Klammoth Falls, Oregon."
"What're we up against?"
"Ah, I dunno yet." Dean lied vaguely, closing his eyes and running a hand down his face slowly. His headache hadn't exactly gone away, but it had died down a bit and now it was back—with a vengeance. "Could be a spirit…a demonic possession, maybe…I dunno. Somethin' funky's goin' on down there, that's for sure."
"How so?"
"What d'you mean, 'how so'?" Dean asked, annoyed. Couldn't Sam just leave well enough alone?
"Uh…I mean, what's going on over there? What made you think there might be a job?"
"Does it really matter?"
"Uh, yeah, Dean. It kind of does. So are you going to tell me or not?"
"Why the hell do you even care, Sam?" Dean said wearily. "It's not like you're gonna do anything to help."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means shut the hell up and go back to sleep so you can get better already, cos just now, you're no good to me. Y'got a fever burning you up from the inside out and you just about trip over your own feet every time you stand up. And then there's the fact that you've got a cough that could damn near wake the dead—Sam, how the fuckin hell are we supposed to get anything done with you like this? Hell, we might as well just skip the damn hunt!"
"Dean, I…" Sam trailed off.
Dean growled in frustration and gripped the steering wheel tight. A few minutes later, he glanced over his shoulder at Sam and found him staring at the floor with an expression of such bewildered hurt that Dean could have killed himself.
"Shit." he said, realizing immediately how Sam must have taken his words. Sam, I—"
"Shut up, Dean." Sam said quietly.
Dean glanced back again, and was shocked to see that the bewildered hurt had been replaced with an expression of what could only be described as pure loathing.
"Sam, I didn't mean it like that! "
Sam snorted, but gave no other indication that he had heard.
"Sam." Dean pleaded. "I swear, I swear I didn't mean it like that! I'm—Look, I haven't exactly been sleeping all that well lately—"
"And I suppose that's all my fault, right, Dean?"
"What? No! Sam, Sam, I just…I wasn't thinking, all right? Can't we just forget about it?"
"No, Dean, I won't forget this."
"Sammy, please, I—"
"Don't you 'Sammy' me! It's Sam!" Sam hissed.
Dean heard the distinct tone of finality in his little brother's voice and knew that further argument would inevitably result in Sam demanding to be let out of the car—and if Sam got out of the car he'd wind up walking along the side of the road for hours because no one ever drove down this road and if he walked along the side of the road for hours in the freezing cold he'd get sicker than he already was and then he'd die and there was no way in hell Dean was going to let that happen again. So he kept his mouth shut.
Dean focused on the road in front of him and tried to ignore the white-hot pain searing through his skull. The road in front of him became dangerously blurry as hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and threatened to spill over onto his cheeks. He blinked them back furiously and tried once again to focus on something else. It was no use. Trying to ignore the stupid headache was about as effective as trying to ward off a vengeful spirit with cayenne pepper. Equally as impossible to ignore was the way Sam had shifted himself sideways in his seat and was now staring pointedly out the passenger's side window.
Guilt of immeasurable proportions flooded him and Dean had the strong urge to hit himself over the head with a shovel. Sam had asked a perfectly reasonable question, and, instead of answering, he'd all but ripped his head off. Sam must hate him right now, cos he sure as hell hated himself.
About an hour later the sky started growing dark. Storm clouds gathered overhead and suddenly it was pouring. He still had a headache, the incessant drumming of raindrops on the roof of the car was slowly driving him insane, he was dead tired, and Sam still refused to speak to him. Life couldn't get any worse.
Murphy's Law—Anything that can go wrong can and will go wrong—takes effect. Dean's head was killing him and he was so. fucking. tired. The world was getting kinda fuzzy around the edges and he had to blink hard a few times to stay awake. The world slipped in and out of focus and he slipped out of the lane.
"Dean!" Sam shouted. "Pay attention!"
"Huh?" Dean mumbled, shaking himself awake. "Shit!" He swerved to avoid a tree and slammed hard on the brakes.
"Dean!"
"Yeah?" he muttered, closing his eyes.
"What the hell was that?"
"Nothin'."
"Nothing? That didn't look like nothing, Dean. What the hell is going on?"
"I told you, Sammy, nothing. I just drifted off for a second, okay? No big deal."
"Drifted off…? Since when do you fall asleep at the wheel?"
"Since I haven't slept in three days, dumbass! Look, I'm awake now, so cool it, okay? Let's just forget about it."
"Right. I forgot. This is my fault. I kept you up all night with my stupid coughing."
"I never said that!"
"No, but you thought it."
"Sam!" Dean said. "You don't understand. I didn't mean it like that. I wasn't—"
"Oh really?" Sam snapped. "Then tell me, how did you mean it, Dean? Cause from where I'm standing, there's only one thing you could have meant, and believe me, you got your point across just fine."
"Sam, I…"
"You what? You what, Dean? You're sorry? Sorry doesn't cut it."
Dean had nothing to say to that.
Sam sighed. "Get out, Dean."
"Wh-what?" Dean spluttered, aghast. "Why?"
"I'm driving."
He opened his mouth to protest, but what came out instead was, "Yeah, okay."
Dean opened the door and climbed out of the car. He stood up straight and had to lean against the side of the Impala for support as his head swam one way and the world went the other. He stumbled over to the other side of the car, opened the rear passenger's- side door with trembling hands, and collapsed into the seat just as his knees gave way. He glanced up into the front seat and was mostly relieved that Sam hadn't noticed anything.
He leaned back against the shiny black seats of his precious car and closed his eyes. He debated whether or not he should try to get some sleep, but in the end decided he needed to stay awake in case Sam needed anything…
Dean's eyes flew open and he sat up straight. When the hell had he fallen asleep? He checked the clock and then breathed a sigh of relief. He'd only been out about fifteen minutes. He sneaked a peek at Sam. He seemed to be okay. He wasn't coughing so much anymore and he wasn't sniffling every ten seconds. Unfortunately, Dean noted, he was still pale, he was still breathing kinda funny, and he still had the haggard look of one who has gotten into a fight with a tree and lost. Repeatedly.
Once satisfied that Sam was okay, he gave himself a quick once-over. His headache was still there, though reduced to a dull ache. His entire body now seemed unnaturally heavy, as though someone had filled it with lead while he slept, his clothes were sticky with sweat, and his stomach…
Dean groaned internally and curled in on himself. He didn't have time for this. Sam was still sick. He pointedly ignored the little voice inside his head that whispered that he wasn't exactly on the top of his game either. He already knew that. Dean had been feeling a bit off for the past couple of days, but hadn't said anything because Sam had needed him. Hell, Sam still needed him. He might not be coughing anymore, but he was still bleary-eyed and feverish and there was no way in hell he'd survive those vampires up in Klammoth.
Sam turned the corner sharply and Dean's stomach flip-flopped. He swallowed hard. Dean closed his eyes and attempted to ignore his churning insides. Failing that, he tried to strike up a conversation.
"So, uh, Sam, where are we?"
No answer.
"You still mad at me?"
No answer.
"I'll take that as a yes. Well, umm, we've got a possible vampire infestation. Looks pretty routine—slip in, chop off a couple dozen heads, and leave town 'fore anybody notices. Say, what do you wanna be this time? CDC, CIA, U.S. Marshall, or the old fail-safe, FBI?"
No answer.
"FBI it is."
Dean leaned forward and grabbed the bag from the front seat. He rifled through it for a moment and then pulled out a stack of fake ids.
"So, you wanna be Agent Norbert Nelson, Patrick Tarr, Barnabas Lefant, or Larry K. Bulgi?"
No answer.
"Okay, then, you be Agent Nelson and I'll be Lefant."
No answer.
"What, you wanna be Lefant? We can switch."
No answer.
Dean sighed. "What do I gotta do to make it up to you, Sammy?"
No answer. Then, "Just shut up, Dean. I'm sick, I'm tired, and I don't want to listen to your bullshit."
"Okay." Dean said quietly. He had no right to be upset. Why should he expect Sam to forgive him so quickly? Sam was right. He'd been an ass. He'd spoken without thinking, and triggered one of Sam's more shrink-worthy problems—his inferiority complex. And, of course, that had triggered the onset of his second psychological abnormality—his superiority complex. Dean used to think it was impossible for one person to have both, but then that was Sam for you. He never did fit into any category you tried to shove him in. In fact, sometimes Dean thought he went out of his way to be different, to be separate from everybody else, but he knew that wasn't the case—College had proved that. Sam was just a hunter. It was like a law—you couldn't live that lifestyle without being different, and certainly not without having some serious mental issues. For a second Dean wondered what his own were, but then decided he'd probably be better off not knowing.
Sam would forgive him eventually, he knew that much. He always did, sooner or later—and it was usually later. But Dean also knew that Sam would never forget. He'd never forget what had been said, and he'd make sure Dean knew it. Because that was how Sam was. He always reluctantly forgave family, but he never forgot anything said in the midst of an argument. Sam remembered every disapproving thing anyone had ever said to him. Every last insult, every last criticism, every last negative word was seared into his brain…and yet, praise slipped from his memory faster than a vampire confronted with dead man's blood. It sucked ass, but that was just the way his little brother's mind worked. He wouldn't, couldn't, forgive Dean tonight, even if he wanted to. No, Sam would need time. Dean supposed he could give him that. If that was what Sam needed, he would be happy to oblige.
Dean was shaken from his thoughts by a particularly nasty jolt. He had no idea what had made Sam swerve like that before coming to such an abrupt halt, nor did he particularly care—for when the car had swerved it had taken his stomach along for the ride. His stomach lurched and he had to breathe deeply to keep from losing it all over the floor of his car. He stole a look at Sam. He was still scowling at the road and hadn't noticed Dean's slip-up. Good.
Dean sighed tiredly and closed his eyes. He wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer. His stomach was roiling and this goddamn winding road was not helping matters. He'd have to get Sam to pull into a motel. There was no way Sam was going to stop early, so he'd have to hold out until about eleven-thirty. Dean checked the clock. It was only two-fifteen. Well shit.
Sam turned the radio up. A gentle melody emanated from the speakers and Dean was surprised to see a faint smile on his brother's face. Sam's eyes were clouded, as though his thoughts were elsewhere, and he looked pensive. Tired. Jaded. Sad. Granted, Sam was Sam, and this could be nothing more than his usual Sam-angst, but somehow Dean didn't think so. Sam had been rather quiet all week, but he'd thought it was just because he was sick. Thinking back, Dean remembered that Sam had also been rather pensive and clingy and demanding and fragile-looking. Again, he hadn't thought much of it—Sam was usually like that when he was sick. Dean frowned, remembering the frequency and intensity of Sam's nightmares. He'd been worried, since usually when Sam was sick he didn't have any dreams at all and just passed out, exhausted, but had chalked it up to the high fever. Maybe there was something else going on…? But what? And why hadn't Sam confided in him? Dean wondered at that, but his musings were cut short when a wave of dizziness and heat washed over him and he found himself feeling overwhelmingly nauseous.
Dean breathed deeply, willing the sickness to pass, but it didn't help. The world shifted in and out of focus and suddenly he became aware of just how hot it was in the backseat. He clamped his mouth shut and swallowed hard. It was no use. He couldn't wait til eleven-thirty. Hell, he didn't think he could wait five minutes, much less seven hours. He was going to have to get Sam to pull over. He'd say he was carsick or something. Or maybe he'd tell him he had to pee and stumble off into the woods. Yes, that was it. Sam'd never have to know. And Dean could keep on pretending he was fine until Sam made a full recovery, and if he himself wasn't better by then, he'd tell Sam he wasn't feeling well.
Satisfied with his plan, Dean cleared his throat. "S-Sam?"
No answer.
"Sammy?"
No answer.
"Sammy, could ya," he swallowed hard. "C-could ya pull over, please?"
No answer.
"Sam. Sam. Sammy, please. Could ya pull over, just for a second?"
No answer.
"Dammit, Sammy, come on! I said I was sorry, now can you please pull over?"
No answer.
"Uh, god." Dean mumbled. "Sam."
No answer.
"Sam…" Dean pleaded. "Pull over. Now!"
No answer.
"Sam…Sammm…Please…'M gonna…Sammm…"
No answer.
"Sammm…'M serious…'m gonna hurl."
No answer.
"S'mmy…p'll ov'r …'m unna be sikk." Dean slurred.
No answer.
Dean tried to call out again but couldn't. Instead, his stomach clenched and he lurched forward and threw up—all over his shoes and the floor of his precious Impala.
"Dean?" Sam turned to look over his shoulder. "What the hell are you—Shit! Dean!"
Sam pulled over on the side of the road and scrambled out of the car. Dean sat hunched over on the seat. His eyes were closed, his breathing was labored and uneven, and he felt like shit. No, scratch that, he felt worse than shit. He felt like shit that had been scraped thin over a piece of toast and then dropped in a sewer and set on fire. Dean became aware of trembling hands removing his seatbelt and trying to get him out of the car.
Sam.
He waved an arm at him limply. "G'way. Stoppit. 'M fine."
Sam snorted and grasped him by the shoulders. Dean tried to shove him off, but he was so tired and dammit, Sam was bigger than he was! Sam hauled him out of the car and onto the grass. The movement proved to be too much for his battered stomach and he lurched forward on his hands and knees, retching violently. When he had finished, he stayed there, panting heavily. Another wave of nausea rolled over him and he pitched forward again with a sort of strangled moan and heaved. Thick strings of saliva dripped from his gaping mouth and he didn't have the energy to wipe them away, or even to spit them out.
"You all right there, Dean?" Sam asked, his voice echoing as if from far away.
"Y-yeah." he lied shakily. "'M fine. Just a little carsi-sick is all."
"Carsick?" Sam repeated skeptically. "Really, Dean? You haven't been carsick a day in your life."
"F-first time for everything, right Sam? 'Sides, this road is a pain in the ass."
Dean closed his eyes and prayed to whatever God was listening that Sam would be dense enough to believe him.
"I…don't believe you." Sam said it uncertainly, almost like a question.
Dammit. Ah well. He hadn't been expecting it to work anyway.
"Well, then it's food poisoning."
Sam shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think so, Dean. That was the nicest place we've been to since that time you won that poker game at that casino in Vermont…You—"
Dean paled and lurched forward again as he retched noisily. When he finished he collapsed on the ground, utterly spent.
"Dean?" Sam said worriedly.
"What?" Dean croaked.
"Are you okay?"
"Well," he rasped. "I'm not dead, so, yeah, I think I'm all right."
Sam studied him for a moment before nodding slowly. "C'mon. Let's get you in the car."
Dean tried to get stand up, but his head spun and he collapsed again. Sam moved as though to help him up, but he shook his head, then winced as the movement made his ears ring. He waited a few minutes, until he was absolutely certain he could move without disturbing his stomach, then tried again. And fell flat on his butt. Embarrassed, he turned to Sam. "Uh, S'mmy?"
"Yeah?"
"Could ya, uh, give me a little help here?"
Sam nodded. Dean saw the fear and uncertainty in his eyes, and tried to sit up a little straighter. Sam pulled him to his feet, and he nodded his thanks. He staggered over to the car and lay down in the back seat.
"Hey, S'mmy?" Dean said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Can you get me a towel?"
"Sure thing, Dean."
Sam returned with the towel in question. Dean took it with a hoarse "Thanks", and hauled himself back out of the car. He held the towel above his head and stood there in the rain like a dork for a few minutes (Sam looked on with a bewildered expression on his face) before he lowered it and walked back to the car. He knelt down with the now sopping wet towel and proceeded to scrub out the floor the Impala. When he had finished, he rolled the towel into a ball and tossed it far, far away. Then he clambered back inside and sat down.
"Okay, let's go."
Sam stared at him in fuzzy amazement for a moment or two before shaking himself and climbing into the driver's seat.
Dean relaxed and slumped against the door. He was tired and he still felt like shit, but at least now he didn't have to work quite so hard to maintain the appearance of normalcy. Sam was still a little out of it, but he was breathing fine and his nose had cleared up and Dean could tell that he'd be fine by morning. Everything was all right now. He sighed, content despite the pounding headache and bad taste in his mouth. A few minutes passed in this peaceful, contented silence, before the inevitable happened.
Sam sighed. "Dean…"
"What?"
"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"
"Cos I'm not."
"Dean." Sam said pointedly.
"Sam." Dean said seriously.
"Cut it out, Dean. Answer me." Sam demanded. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"
"Well I tried, didn't I? Kept asking you to pull over. You weren't listening."
"I…" Sam broke off. "That's not the point. Why didn't you tell me when you first started feeling bad?"
"I did." Dean lied. "I was fine until just a little while ago."
"No, you weren't. Dean, have you seen yourself lately? You look awful!"
"Well, gee, thanks, Sam."
"Dean, I mean it. You look like you got in a fight with a waterfall and lost."
"Yeah, well, you try hurling your guts up on the side of the road for half an hour in a rainstorm, and we'll see how great you look afterwards."
"Dean, you and I both know you've been sick for a while. So tell me, why didn't you say anything?"
"Because, Sam, you were worse off than I was! You couldn't go two minutes without hacking up a lung, your fever was through the roof, and you couldn't even take a shower by yourself! What could you have done to help?"
Sam fell silent. Then, "Fine. But why didn't you at least get some rest or take some medicine or something? And don't tell me you did, Dean, because there's no way you'd still be this bad after a round of Tylenol and a good night's rest."
"Because, Sam. You were sick. I had to take care of you."
"And you couldn't take care of yourself too?"
"No."
"Dean."
"I don't think you get it, Sam." Dean interrupted, running a hand over his face tiredly. "You were sick. I had to take care of you first. Look, I'm fine now, so can you just drop it?"
"No, I don't want to drop it! Why didn't you at least get some sleep?"
"I couldn't."
"What, because of my coughing? You could have taken some sleeping pills or booked another room or something!"
"No, I couldn't've."
"Well why the hell not?"
"Cause I didn't want to Sam!" Dean yelled hoarsely. He closed his eyes and continued in a softer tone, one that (unfortunately) betrayed his weariness. "Didn't wanna sleep. You were sick. Couldn't sleep, Sammy. Had to stay awake to make sure you didn't hurt yourself cos you were having nightmares and shit. Had to make sure you kept breathin' cos your lungs were all shot to hell. Had to get you up and in the shower cos your damn fever was too high. Had to keep watch and make sure nothin' happened to the salt lines, make sure nothin' got in and screwed you up worse than you already were. Couldn't sleep, Sammy, even if I wanted to. Couldn't take no meds neither, cos we were almost out and you needed 'em more than I did."
"…" Sam gazed at him with an expression so convoluted that it made Dean's head hurt just looking at him. He picked out confusion, wonder, anger, guilt, and pain. Dean frowned, instantly realizing what Sam must be thinking.
"No, Sammy."
"Dean, I—"
"I said no! Look, this was my choice. Cut yourself some slack, okay?"
"But Dean, I—"
"Sam! No! Look, if you wanna tell me all about how this is all your fault and you should have noticed and blah blah blah, that's fine by me. By all means, go ahead. But right now I feel like shit, so how's about you take pity on me and we just skip to the end where you acknowledge that I'm right and you're wrong? C'mon, Sammy, you owe me. Especially after that shower. God, I think I'm scarred for life." he chuckled weakly.
"…"
"Aww, c'mon, Sammy. Just let it go. It's all over now anyway. You're finally back on your feet and I'm good to go, so what's there left to worry about, huh?"
Sam stared at him skeptically.
Dean stared back in confusion. "What? I'm alive, aren't I?"
"…"
"Quit starin' at me, Sam. I keep tellin' ya, I don't swing that way."
Dean saw the ghost of a smile cross his brother's lips.
"Go to sleep, Dean. You said it yourself, I'm back on my feet. I'll stop at the nearest hotel and we'll hole up there till you're back on yours. Then what d'you say we head up to Klammoth and slaughter us some vampires?"
Dean smiled tiredly. "Sounds like a plan."
He took off his seatbelt and spread out across the back seat. For several minutes he lay there and listened to the rain fall on the roof of the car. Funny, but the loud, constant hammering sound no longer bothered him. It was actually kind of nice. He felt himself slowly drifting off, and through the foggy haze of sleep he heard Sam singing softly, and, he thought, sadly. It was the song from before, the soft, sweet one. Dean's last thought before he sank into his regular nightmares was that while Sam's health had improved, something in him was still broken, and this time he had neither the knowledge nor the skills to fix it.
LineBreakSamXDemonBlood+DeanXHell=ApocalypseLineBreak
Umm, yeah. This didn't come out at all like I'd planned. I ended it on kind of a melancholy note, which wasn't at all what I had wanted, but the story wanted to end there. I tried to change the last line about a dozen times, to make it a little more optimistic, but then I gave up. Now, re-reading it, I think it kind of fits, you know? Ah well. I guess it turned out okay. Don't get me wrong, I'm still pretty sure I screwed up all that stuff I said I would and more, but I think it turned out okay. Of course, I wrote it, so of course I'm a little biased, but that's why I need you guys to review. Please? Oh, and I'm thinking about adding a second chapter to the story—A rewrite in Sam's point of view. What do you think? Again, REVIEW PLEASE!
Ja ne!
KatrinaCrystal