A CHILL IN THE AIR
Chapter 2
Things aren't getting better for our favourite brothers
xxxxx
Sam turned slowly from the window clutching his aching head.
He was prone to headaches, and he knew that each one he suffered had it's own particular signature. The stabbing pains behind the eyes from looking too long at the laptop screen, the throbbing tightness across the crown that radiated down the back of his neck from when he was worried or under pressure and then there was this one; the classic Dean-being-a-moron-induced skewer through the temples.
He flinched, squinting as a sparkling flash of blue erupted across his field of vision.
Great, thanks Dean; a goddamn migraine. That was just the totally crap cherry on this totally crap cake of a day.
He reached into the first aid kit and pulled out a box of aspirins, dry swallowing three of them.
Watching as Dean stood, still muttering darkly to himself and glaring venomously through the window at the icy armageddon which billowed and swirled around them; he laid back on his bed.
"Can you keep the cussing down for a bit?" he murmured; "I got a headache, gonna take a siesta."
That was enough to prompt Dean to tear himself away from the window; first baby's sick, now Sammy. Could this day possibly get any worse?
"'Kay Sammy," he mumbled glumly, "take it easy."
Wandering across the room, Dean squatted down in front of the refrigerator in the hopeful belief that finding something half decent to eat would make this godforsaken shitpile of a day better. He perused the refrigerator's meagre contents at length, following up with a thorough investigation of the contents of the kitchenette cupboards.
Okay, wrong again Winchester; day is out to get you. Period.
xxxxx
It was almost exactly two hours before Sam's eyes fluttered open, and he was immediately relieved to note that the aspirins had done their sterling work; his headache had left the room; good riddance to it.
Blinking blearily he sat up, kneading stiff shoulders. His brow furrowed in puzzled concern as he rubbed a palm across the back of his neck, and felt a slick film of perspiration coating his skin. Still fuddled with sleep he sat staring at his wet palm as he tried to make out whether he was feverish or whether he was just hot; very hot.
Freakin' roasting in fact.
He stood up slowly, and stretched high enough for his fingertips to brush the ceiling, yawning long and wide, then slumped wearily back onto the bed; those same fingertips pulling at the sweat-dampened T shirt which clung clammily to his back.
Behind him a voice spoke up.
"Hey, Florence."
Sam turned with a start. His sleep-muzzed mind had been so distracted trying to work out why he felt like he was simmering over a low heat, he'd all but forgotten Dean was there.
Dean was half sitting, half laying, sprawled on his bed; one hand submerged in a family sized bag of chips, the other clutching a well-thumbed paperback book. Sam couldn't see the title, but judging by the cover picture of a skull with a giant, blood-streaked centipede slithering out from one eye socket, he guessed it wasn't particularly classic high literature.
"Hmmmm, yeah; hi," Sam muttered; scratching his head, still skimming the edge of his deep sleep.
"Headache better?" Dean asked, his matter-of-fact tone doing a poor job in masking his concern.
Sam yawned, stretching again; "yeah, all gone."
"Good, your turn to make the coffee then," Dean replied, returning his attention to his book; "could do with a hot drink."
Sam stared at his brother incredulously.
"Dude, how the hell can you even think about drinking something hot?" he asked; "it's like a freakin' sauna in here."
He wandered over to the thermostat on the wall and grimaced when he saw it was switched to it's highest setting.
His hand moved up to the little dial.
Dean sat up with a jolt; "don't touch it," he snapped; "I jus' cranked it up, it was freakin' freezing in here earlier."
Sam stared open mouthed at him; "well it's not any more," he replied, " I'm sweatin' like a pig here."
Dean's nose wrinkled in disgust. "TMI, dude," he snorted; "must just be you and your disgusting hot, sweaty carcass then, 'cos I'm still friggin' cold."
Sam shook his head in disbelief, and set about making Dean's coffee, stopping off at the refrigerator to retrieve some orange juice.
"Have you eaten?" He asked absently.
"Well," Dean put his book down; "I partook of what culinary delights I could find in our stash, and I found these Cheetos, some bread that only had green fur down one side, and a bit of cheese that smelt like your feet."
"Oh well, at least you've had your Penicillin," Sam replied casually, as he gulped down the deliciously cool juice; "you won't get sick then."
The violent shiver that racked Dean's body seemed to throw that remark back in Sam's face.
Turning back to the kettle as he heard it boil, Sam flinched as another sapphire bright burst of intense blue flickered across the corner of his eye.
He blinked; "crap, perhaps that migraine is still brewing."
He turned with the coffee, only to see Dean sitting on the side of the bed, tugging a hoodie over his head.
"You gotta be joking," he gaped, cringing as he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine.
"S' friggin cold," Dean grumbled as he pulled on the fleece hoodie and burrowed into it, settling back down on the bed and making eager grabby hands towards the hot drink.
"Never mind fussin' over me, what about you?" Dean attempted to turn Sam's focus away from him; "you look a bit flushed; you sure you're not sick?"
"I look 'a bit flushed' because you've got the thermostat turned up to, like, 'earth's core' man; it's about a zillion degrees in here."
Dean rolled his eyes; "stow the smart comments bitch, I reckon you're comin' down with something."
Taking a sip of his coffee, Dean savoured the long, mellow aftertaste of the boiling liquid as he suppressed another shiver.
xxxxx
Night fell.
Sam's watch beeped two o'clock in the morning as he lay in bed, staring through the darkness.
Lost in thought, he squinted through the shadows at the burrowed lump under the quilt on Dean's bed and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. All day, Dean had complained about being cold while Sam had spent the whole day wilting in sub-tropical heat.
He didn't feel like he was coming down with something. His headache from earlier had faded away, and he was pretty sure he felt hot because the room was, well, hot. He was exhibiting no other signs to indicate anything was wrong in any way shape or form.
Dean, on the other hand, had to be coming down with something, Sam was sure of it.
Sitting in temperatures generally associated with darkest Africa, wrapped in a fleece hoodie and two pairs of socks, hugging a hot drink and complaining that you're so cold you can't feel your nose was not the behaviour of a healthy person.
He sighed, wearily running through the contents of the first aid kit in his head. He was pretty sure they'd stocked up on Tylenol and Nyquil in their last stopover. He made a mental note to double check in the morning.
The springs in Dean's bed squeaked as it's occupant shifted, dragging the quilt with him so that he was wrapped even tighter in it, and Sam watched silently through the gloom as Dean stilled with a soft grunt.
Only a few minutes passed before Sam himself began to feel the drag of sleep, and he willingly succumbed. He would need all his energy for what would undoubtedly be a trying couple of days ahead.
A brilliant, glimmering streak of cerulean crackled briefly in front of his darkening eyes before sleep took him.
xxxxx
tbc
