Hot.
Sam was hot and sweating and shivering, sitting on the couch, melting into the cushions. The pain in his neck was digging down into his shoulders and blossoming up into his skull, and he realized too late that the painkillers he'd taken twenty minutes ago weren't up to the challenge of his misery.
He hadn't told anybody how bad he was feeling, he didn't want to bother them. Bobby had gone out right after breakfast and wasn't due back until nearly midnight. Dean was headed out for town to pick up some car parts he'd ordered. Sam was wondering if he could get upstairs to his heavy duty painkillers without losing his head or his breakfast.
Honestly, Sam hadn't told them how bad he was feeling because he figured he was starting his detox a second time and didn't want to end up in the panic room again. Hell Take 2 would be so much easier to suffer if he could suffer it in a real bed with actual pillows and a bathroom just down the hall. At least thank God this didn't feel as bad as the last time. No hallucinations, at least not yet. Thank God.
He dug his knuckles into his temples, hoping that would relieve at least some of the agony in his brain. If he could get to the point where he could at least stay upright and maybe even walk, he'd go upstairs, take some more painkillers, have a shower, crawl into bed and pray to die.
"Sammy?"
Sam actually gasped when he opened his eyes and saw Dean crouched in front of him.
"Thought you goin' t'store?" He mumbled around the red hot poker behind his eyes.
"Like I'd leave you alone when you're like this. Why didn't you tell me how bad it was?" Dean felt Sam's forehead and looked close at him.
"Didn't want -." Sam stopped himself.'Didn't want to bother you' he wanted to say. He had to say that, he couldn't tell Dean the truth.
"You didn't want what?"
Then he remembered all at once what lying to Dean had gotten him all this past year.
"Didn't wanna get locked up again."
"You think I'd -?" Dean answered immediately, but stopped mid-sentence. "Yeah. Why wouldn't you think that?" He sat on the couch next to Sam. "That was to keep you from running away. Which you did if you remember, first chance you got. You're not running away now. So you're not going back in there."
Sam didn't answer that. When he got bad enough, they'd put him back in there for his own good. And he wouldn't blame them.
"Sam." It sounded like a warning. Dean must be reading his face.
"Just wanna take painkillers and lie down. Head's gonna fall off."
"Where are they?"
"Backpack."
"Okay. Couch or bed?"
"Couch."
"All right. C'mon. Lay down."
Dean helped him stretch out and said "I'll be right back," and brought back a blanket and pillow and Sam's backpack. Sam felt like his head was going to snap off at his neck and the heat chilling his bones was cranking up in intensity. It probably wouldn't be long anyway before they put him back in the panic room.
"All right, where's your stash?" Dean asked after he set Sam up with the pillow and blanket. He lifted Sam's backpack onto the desk and rifled through it for the really good painkillers. When he found them he tossed out two and offered them to Sam.
"I'll get you some water."
"'Kay."
When Dean brought him the water, Sam took his pills and handed the glass back. Dean felt his forehead again.
"Hey Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Maybe - just y'know - maybe I should be in - back in -."
"I already told you - you're not going back in there."
"Okay." Sam was too tired and miserable to argue. They'd put him back in there when they had to. And he wouldn't blame them.
"Sam." Dean said, sounding again like he was warning him. Then he sighed, but his voice was still stern. "Sleep. No more talk about going back into the panic room. You hear me?"
"Yeah."
Sam slid down into the couch. The pillow felt cool against his face and the blanket eased the chills shuddering through him.
"I'll check on you later." Dean said.
"Yeah."
When the painkillers started kicking in and the pain shooting up his spine out the top of his head started easing, Sam started dozing. The room was quiet, no traffic, no lawnmowers, no sound through thin walls of conjugating couples or screaming babies, no worries about what might be crawling out the mattress and up the sheets. Everything was clean and quiet and safe. He could rest.
Dean came back in a few times. Sometimes Sam was aware of it, sometimes he wasn't. One time he woke up briefly when Dean pulled his boots off. Another time he woke up to find that Dean had put cold washcloths on his forehead and around his neck.
"Sam?" and then suddenly Dean was just there again, bending over him, holding the glass of water and more pills. "C'mon. Time for more medicine. We gotta keep your fever down. Sam? C'mon, this'll take half a second then you can go back to sleep. Sammy, work with me here. Open up."
Easier to do what he was told than try to do it on his own, Sam opened his mouth for the pills then let Dean ease him up enough to drink enough water to swallow them.
"All right. Back to sleep." Dean eased Sam back down. Sam thought he'd leave, but he stayed there another minute, looking at Sam. Checking probably how bad the detox was getting.
"Your muscles hurt Sam?"
"Yeah. All over. Feel like I got run over by a truck."
"Throat hurt?"
"No. A little. Maybe. Why?"
"You're tired."
"Yeah. Dead tired."
Dean didn't ask anything else, just continued to consider Sam.
"Dean? S'matter?"
Calculating probably when he'd have to lock Sam away again.
"Nothing. Go back to sleep Sammy. We need to keep your fever down."
Sam nodded and thought he shrugged and wished he had the energy to turn the pillow over to its cooler side. Dean should get him back in the panic room while he might still be able to walk mostly on his own.
The thought of the cooler side of the pillow nagged at Sam and he finally couldn't resist it. He pushed himself up on weak arms but couldn't lift one hand and still hold himself up, and couldn't lower himself gently back down.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dean was still there.
"Hot. Pillow. Want - turn - the pillow."
"Okay, ask me next time. Here..." Dean flipped the pillow and kept Sam from just falling back into it. Yep that cooler side was heaven. Or maybe as close to it as Sam could ever expect to get. And then Dean set the cold washcloths on Sam's neck and forehead again. Oh yeah.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"What're you doing?"
"Taking care of my pain in the ass little brother."
"I mean - I mean -." He meant, how could he get Dean to stay with him without actually being a pain in the ass little brother?
"I was gonna do some research." Dean said, pointing to the computer on the desk next to the couch. Apparently getting the idea what Sam was asking. "If it won't bother you."
"No, it won't bother me. Go 'head."
"Okay."
Sam fell back to sleep listening to Dean boot up the computer and start some furious typing. He swam into fuzzy wakefulness, he couldn't be sure how much later, and heard Dean almost whispering to somebody. Bobby. They had to be talking on the phone.
"That's what I found on the web." Dean was saying. "I mean - maybe it's not, but do we want to take that chance? Can we take that chance? His fever's not going down... I don't know... No I didn't take his temperature... Bobby - I don't need a thermometer to tell me Sammy's got a fever. You shoulda seen him, he looked like somebody was driving a spike into his head. No, I didn't tell him. I don't want to worry him." He sighed then like he was coming to a distasteful decision. "I think I have to. I hate to even consider it, but if he doesn't start getting better... You're heading back now? Okay, I'll wait for you then. Thanks."
He hung up and Sam heard him sigh again.
"Dean?"
"Sammy - you awake?" Dean sounded surprised. Probably didn't want Sam to know the plan until it was too late. Like last time. "How're you feeling?"
"I can walk."
"Y'gotta use the bathroom?"
"Downstairs. You don't gotta wait for Bobby. I can walk downstairs."
"Sam -."
"It's okay Dean. I won't give you any trouble."
"Sam." Dean got that snarl on his face that usually meant death for whoever it was directed at. He slammed himself away from the desk and out of the library and Sam heard him pound down the stairs into the basement.
Was he mad that Sam found out the plan? He said he wouldn't fight it. Why was Dean mad?
He heard the squeak of the panic room door then a storm of other noise he couldn't quite place. Squeaks and scrapes and crashes, and Dean cursing like the commotion he was making wasn't enough all on its own. What was he doing?
Slowly, Sam pushed himself up out of his pillow, pulled the blanket out of the way, shoved himself to his feet and dragged himself to the basement stairs. His legs trembled, his body ached, his head pounded, everything that was hot before was cold now and more sweat than he thought he could have in him for as thirsty as he felt was making his clothes stick to his body in all kinds of places.
Maybe the last detox wasn't so bad after all.
The commotion kept up as Sam clung to the railing and willed his legs to support him down the stairs. He was lightheaded by the time he got to the bottom.
"Dean?"
"There." Dean stomped up to Sam. He was flushed, sweating, out of breath. And apparently still pissed. "There - does that convince you? Because I don't know how else to."
He gestured to the panic room and Sam took the couple of steps he needed to get a clear view of it. The door was wide open and the room was crammed full of everything that used to be in it, everything that Bobby had cleared out to make it safe for Sam to be locked in. The chair and desk and file cabinets and everything weren't arranged in any kind of way, just shoved in where it looked like anything would fit. Only the cot and bucket and pitcher of water weren't there. They were scattered across the basement floor like a fury had sent them flying.
Sam finally did understand – he wasn't going back in the panic room. He really wasn't getting locked up again.
The air suddenly swam around him, filled with black dots dancing on bursts of hot air.
"Dean?"
"What?"
"Dean?"
"What?"
"I think I'm gonna pass out."
"What? No. Here, c'mere." He took Sam's arm, held him up and guided him to the bottom stair. His anger was gone. "C'mon, put your head down, c'mon. No passing out down here. I'll never get you back up the stairs."
Sam did what Dean told him, leaning forward to rest his head in his arms on his knees and waited for the dizziness to pass. Dean crouched in front of him.
"What the hell you think you're doing anyway, coming down these stairs? I told you you weren't going back in there."
"I heard you." Sam said into his arms. "Talking to Bobby."
"You didn't hear me say you were going back in that room."
"You said - I heard you say -." Sam sat back, wanting to see Dean's face. "You said you were gonna wait for Bobby to come back."
"Yeah - to take you to the hospital. Dude -." He took a deep breath like he was about to tell Sam something unpleasant. "I think you might have swine flu."
Sam stared at Dean and wait for the smirk, the laugh, the wink that meant Dean was only being a smart ass. But he got nothing. Dean was serious. He seriously thought Sam had swine flu. Sam reacted the only way he could.
He burst out laughing. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes.
"Well I'm glad you think it's funny Sam. Unfortunately, the World Health Organization does not agree with you."
"Dean - c'mon." Sam wiped at his eyes and pushed his sweat stuck hair off his forehead. "How can that not be funny? Heaven, hell, angels, demons, Armageddon snapping at our heels and I have swine flu? Where's the karma in that?"
"Sammy - people are dying of this. People who shouldn't be dying. I'm not taking chances." Dean put his hand on Sam's forehead and let out a breath of relief. "Your fever broke."
"And you didn't even need a thermometer."
"When have I ever? C'mon. Can you stand? Let's haul your sorry ass back up to the couch." He hooked an arm under Sam's and propelled him to his feet with a groan. "I swear you're making me old before my time."
The trek up was as long and enervating as the trek down had been and by the time Dean set him back on the couch, Sam was too tired to even lay down.
"You look like you went through a car wash." Dean said. "Maybe you should take a shower."
"I'd never be able to stand that long."
"I could give you a sponge bath."
"Don't even think about it."
"It wouldn't be the first time."
"It would be the last time."
Dean laughed and turned to Sam's backpack, on the floor next to the desk.
"You should put on a dry shirt anyway." He pulled out a shirt and t-shirt and tossed them to Sam. "Unless you want me to help you?"
"Thanks, I'll manage."
He almost didn't manage but he at least had the clean t-shirt on by the time Dean came back in with more pills and more water. He took the medicine and drank all the water and let Dean help him pull his long sleeved shirt on.
"All right, lay down, and do me a favor will you? Look sick when Bobby comes in. He's coming back early and I don't want him to think I made him turn around for no good reason."
"Yeah." Sam agreed as he settled back into the pillow. "Chicken."
"Swine." Dean muttered in reply and tossed the blanket over him.
"Hey Dean?"
"Yeah?"
A 'thanks' as deep as the Grand Canyon and twice as eternal waited impatiently on the tip of Sam's tongue. Thanks for taking care of me, thanks for not putting me in the panic room this time, even thanks for putting me in there the first time. But Dean didn't like 'thanks' like that from Sam. He always seemed to find a way to deflect it.
"Turn my pillow for me?"
"Yeah."
Dean turned the pillow and felt Sam's forehead and tucked the blanket in a little more securely and Sam thought that if the World Health Organization could ever find a way to bottle Dean, nobody would die of anything again.
"Thanks."
"Sure thing Sammy."
The End