DEPRIVATION
Chapter 2
It's been a long, long day ...
xxxxx
The door to room 13 swung open with a pained squeak, and Sam groped through the darkness to find a light switch.
A single, lonely lightbulb sputtered into life, putting it's entire 50 watts to work illuminating a room which quite frankly wasn't worth the effort. Sam's initial thought was that the room had looked better without it.
"C'mon Dean, let's just hunker down tonight," he groaned, guiding his sick brother into the room, "Once I've grabbed a few hours shuteye, I'll be fit enough to drive us somewhere in the morning where's there's no friggin' cactuses and plenty of decent motel rooms," he muttered, "we can rest up then until you feel better."
"M'fine," mumbled Dean, decanting himself with a rattly huff on the end of the bed and searching his pockets for a tissue. Finding none, he wiped his nose on the back of his hand and began a protracted exercise in removing his boots.
Sam realised that 'big brother privilege' had clearly been invoked and the bed had been claimed without a shot being fired. He looked down on his brother, still fumbling clumsily with his bootlaces, a wet cough accompanying each heave of his bent back, and he reluctantly accepted that, as tired as he was, Dean needed a warm bed more than he did.
The 'couch' was situated at the foot of the bed and Sam visibly wilted when he saw it; it was little more than a wide armchair. There was no way someone of his dimensions could spend any time comfortably horizontal on it, unless they had limbs hanging over every corner, or were doubled up like some kind of contortionist.
"Where *hack* you sleepin' dude?" A voice drifted up from the bed where Dean was currently shucking his overshirt. He let loose three violent sneezes and looked up at Sam through teary eyes as he wiped his glistening red nose on the back of his hand again.
"Uh," Sam looked again at the couch, then at the carpet; it was difficult to see where the stains stopped and the pattern started.
He briefly examined his options and realised that none of them were particularly attractive; he could spend the night doubled up on the little couch and probably lose the use of his legs for a week; he could spend the night on the floor among whatever mysterious specimens were lying dormant and ready to evolve into new and terrible life forms in those strange stains, or he could share a bed with the feverish, irritable, and infectious fountain of bodily fluids that was masquerading as his brother. Always assuming, of course, that said feverish, irritable and infectious fountain of bodily fluids wouldn't punch his lights out for doing so.
Dean blinked owlishly, knuckling his chest as he stifled a cough; "it *snuck* ain't a difficult *hack-ack* question, geek boy."
Sam sighed, "on the couch I guess," he replied weakly.
Dean began to pull his T shirt off over his head, a muffled curse attracting Sam's attention as the damp material clung to his clammy skin. He squirmed and tugged, eventually managing, with Sam's able assistance, to extract himself.
He flopped breathlessly back onto the bed, flat on his back, feet still firmly planted on the floor, arms outstretched; his gluey breathing clearly audible, even from the other side of the room.
"You need some meds bro?" Sam asked around a yawn, rummaging in his duffel for the Tylenol.
Silence.
Sam crept across to the motionless, spreadeagled body on the bed.
A soft snore rose up to greet him.
He rolled his weary eyes, "jerk!" he muttered with a shake of the head.
Xxxxx
Over the following ten minutes Sam battled, despite his crushing fatigue, to work Dean out of his jeans, tug the bedclothes out from underneath him, and manoeuvre him into the bed. All the while Dean slept like a baby; a baby warthog, judging by the continuous snorting and snuffling, but a baby nonetheless.
Eventually, satisfied that his brother was comfortable, Sam pulled the blankets up over Dean's shoulder, and stood watching him as he slept soundly; a picture of tranquility.
Sam remained concerned by Dean's temperature. As he had manhandled Dean into the bed, he couldn't help but feel how clammy and warm he was, a feverish flush in evidence across his face and chest, and Sam knew if this didn't improve overnight, he would have another battle to fight tomorrow; the 'Dean, you need to see a doctor' battle. Right now, however, Sam was fighting his own battle; a battle to stay awake; he was so weary, so tired, he was seeing double, and even that stupid little couch was starting to look welcoming.
He took one moment to make a final check, bending over his brother's face, laying a cool palm across his forehead when Dean gave a sudden violent jerk;
... HAAA...HAAAAASSSSTTTSSCCHOOOO …
He flopped bonelessly back into the bed, his peaceful slumber seemingly uninterrupted, leaving his shellshocked brother standing over him blinking a spray of spit out of his eyes.
Xxxxx
Finally, on the verge of unconsciousness, Sam lowered himself down onto the couch;
He tried to curl up so that his whole body was supported by the cushions.
Fidgeting and shifting miserably, he was aware of the springs creaking with every move, expecting a tirade of abuse from the other side of the room for making so much noise at any moment.
His knees were in his armpits, his elbows tucked in between his knees. He lay there for all of five minutes his limbs all bent and folded up like a praying mantis, but he knew he couldn't stay like that; he was already losing the feeling in his feet.
He rolled onto his back, hesitating as the springs protested again, this time he hung his legs over the far arm of the couch.
That was even worse; a whole night of that and he'd most likely never walk again.
He dropped a heavy arm across his closed eyes and sighed.
The contented snores of his brother taunted him as he shuffled clumsily round, arranging and rearranging his limbs into every position he could think of to try to find some comfort before finally realising that he was wasting his time.
He sat up, his head dropping into his cupped hands. There was no way he was gonna to be able to sleep sitting on that couch; he'd been sitting in the Impala for sixteen hours; his poor back already felt like he'd been run over by a truck.
He looked up as Dean shifted, rolling onto his belly with a breathy snort and a bare arm dropped limply off the side of the bed.
"Screw this!" Sam thought. He stood up, arching his back into a pained, but satisfying stretch, blinking against the grinding headache which was settling in behind his desperately tired eyes. "I'm getting in that bed; if Dean doesn't like it, he can either shove me out or smack me one in the morning."
He pulled up the blankets and slid beneath them as delicately as a man his size could. Dean was completely and lavishly sparked and didn't appear to have been disturbed at all by the sudden sinking of the mattress. Propping himself up on his elbows, Sam turned towards the hump under the blankets next to him. "Heck," he dared to think, "Dean's so out of it with the cold and all the Tylenol he's been popping though the day, if I wake up before him, he might not ever know …"
Allowing his head to sink into the pillow, Sam settled down, closing his eyes, a broad smile crossing his face as he succumbed to the long overdue and utterly, utterly delicious pull of sleep.
Xxxxx
Oh, Sam doesn't get off that lightly … tbc