Prompt: It's nighttime and Sam's running a high fever but he just wants to sleep. His head hurts and his muscles have all been cramping up and he can't stop shivering and he just hurts. A lot. But he's sleeping, on and off. Dean's trying to, but Sam keeps waking him up with these time gasps and whimpers of pain in his sleep and it's killing Dean.

"Sounds"

Nails on a chalkboard. Microphone feedback. Babies crying. A dentist's drill.

Dean would take an entire symphony of these instruments over the sound of Sammy's pain.


"Everything hurts," Sam said when it was afternoon and the fever was only 100.4.

"What's everything?"

Sam pressed his forehead against the window. "Head. Back. Toes. Hair. Pancreas."

"Pancreas?"

"Pancreas."

"Everything."

"Everything."


By evening, the fever was 101.3 with shivers that made Dean think he should go ahead and round that number up. "How are your fingernails?"

"Hurt," Sam said through chattering teeth.

"Sternum?"

"Hurts."

Dean pulled the blankets one inch higher on Sammy's shoulders. "What can I do?"

"More Tylenol?"

"Does your liver hurt?"

"Yes."

"Probably not a good idea, then."

When Dean patted Sam's arm, he cried out like the bone had been shattered.


By nightfall, Dean was forgoing regular Tylenol and going straight for the combination with codeine. Sam was crying and the fever was only at 103 when Dean let himself round down.

"What hurts most?"

"My head," Sam moaned. "My hamstrings. My heels."

"The fever is making you hurt. You'll feel better once it breaks. You should sleep."

"Hurts too much to sleep."

Dean held the cool cloth to Sam's forehead as if he was holding shards of glass.


The last temperature reading Dean got before the thermometer hurt Sam's mouth was 105.1 at 1:05 a.m.

The clock mocked him.

"Sleep, Sammy," Dean pleaded.

Through his tears, Sam started naming body parts that did not exist.


The moment Sam fell asleep was sudden. He was mid-sob when his eyes closed. Tears stopped. Breathing evened out.

Dean sat statue still until he was sure he wasn't going to break the spell. Then he crawled into his own bed, turned off the lamp, and fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.


The gasp lifted Dean right off the mattress.

"Sammy?" He knocked the lamp over, but in the crooked light he saw Sammy moaning in his sleep.

Dean's hands hovered inches above his brother. Sam stopped moaning and slept.

Dean righted the lamp on the way back to bed.


The pattern continued. Dean would sleep. Sometimes for seven minutes. Sometimes for twelve. Sometimes three.

But then Sam would gasp or moan and Dean's Older Brother Gene would kick out a shot of adrenaline, reminding him that Sammy was sick and hurting and there was nothing he could do about it.

The pillow shoved over his head made things quiet. So quiet that he could hear a voice calling "Dean?" even when it was his own imagination.

Dean tossed the pillow on the ground.


At 3:46 a.m., Sam's moan bypassed Dean's ears and brain and went straight to his heart. He was across the room in seconds, pulling his blistering brother into his arms.

"Sammy. Sammy, please. You gotta wake up, okay?"

Sam woke and flinched and spilled silent tears that were louder than sirens.


The sun was rising before Dean heard the sounds of a breaking fever.

Soft breathing. Tolerated touches. Beads of sweat dripping down cooling skin.

The sounds made up the song Dean played on repeat in his dreams.