When Sam jerked awake, the stale taste of Dean's panic in his mouth, it took him a little to find out where they were. He gulped in some air, pressed the heels of his hands into the sockets of his eyes and forced himself to calm down. It was just one of Dean's dreams. Dean was in the hospital. Dean had caught that bullet.
There really was a catch to dream catchers. The dreams had to go somewhere after all; the person who used them got the dreams of the person they protected. He'd been prepared for weird dreams when he'd put that dream catcher under Dean's bed, maybe dreams of Godzilla vs. Mothra mixed with Baywatch and Metallica singing in the background, things like that.
It turned out that Dean's dreams were closer to horrifying or bloodcurdling, or any other word that Sam thought had long lost meaning for him. Mostly they were about losing people, more precisely losing him or Dad. The versions of losing him kept changing, each a variant of Dean finally failing to protect him. Dad's demise stood out in sharp relief, marking the abyss Dean was privily staring down.
Sam could always try to keep the nightmares away, but he couldn't really help Dean recover. Beads of sweat had spread on Dean's forehead and Sam involuntarily thought of the time he'd infected Dean with chickenpox.
From the looks of it, Dean was working up a fever. Sam swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to straighten his back but was rewarded with a sharp pang in his left shoulder. He grunted, carefully lifted his shoulders, shrugged gingerly, and reached over to feel Dean's cheeks. Dean was radiating with heat.
"Best to let him sleep as long as he can, won't be pretty when he wakes up, kiddo," a deep voice immediately commented.
Sam saw himself looking up, way up, to John looming over his older brother. "So he's not having breakfast with us, Daddy?"
John grinned. "We'll be lucky if he makes it to dinner, Sammy. Now, you gotta let your brother sleep, but how 'bout we both get the Impala back in shape and get some new books for you? We could get your brother some ice cream while we're at it, maybe some pie, too."
Sam had nodded, trying to mimic his father's solemn expression. "Can I drive?"
John laughed one of his deep, rumbling laughs, and the hand on Sam's shoulder crept up to ruffle his hair. "I told you Sammy, not before you turn nine(A1)."
Face sunken with disappointment, he'd left the room without another word. Dad had let him steer, though. He'd let Sam drive the car all the way back from the outskirts of town to where their cabin was.
...
Sam shook his head against the memory and glanced over at Dean, wearing the same innocent expression as he had back then, sleeping the deep sleep of the just. Or the deep sleep of incredible morons who'd rather catch a cold than go back to their room before the sun set.
+#+
When Dean woke up Sam was eyeballing him with the same scrutiny he usually gave weird old books or his own fingernails when he didn't want to talk. He felt kind of hot. More like really, really hot. So he was running a fever. Maybe Sam didn't know yet.
"What gives, McBroody?"
Sam cleared his throat and for once was happy that he'd never been able to hide his discontent as well as Dean.
"Why didn't you wake me up earlier? You're stupid, you know that?"
Dean kicked down the comforter and ran a tired hand over his face before sitting up. "It wasn't that cold Sam. You try being in this goddamn room 24/7 and see how you like it."
Sam lifted his chin in that stubborn way he so strongly denied having inherited from Dad and sneered. Dean's eyes widened with understanding.
After all, Sam hadn't been away for more than half an hour at a time, and whereas Dean had a bed, Sam was sleeping in that crappy chair. In fact, Sam seemed glued to his side as if they were Siamese twins (and no, he wasn't ever going to call it conjoined twins).
Sam just stared back at him, eyes boring into him like they wanted to tear him apart.
"Quit ogling me, pervert," Dean tried, sounding unconvincing even to himself.
He swung his legs off the bed and flexed his muscles, ignoring Sam for the moment. Maybe he really should have woken him up earlier; it was just that he wasn't used to hanging around places this ugly for this long.
Knowing that he could've met Cassie last weekend didn't exactly make things any better. If he could get Sam out of his hair for an hour or two, he might be able to get his head around a few things, like how to convince Sam they needed to leave. Yesterday.
"Sammy, can you get me something to drink?"
Sam scrambled to his feet, looking like he couldn't get away fast enough.
+#+
+#+
(A1) John Winchester's Journal, page 165 (May 2)