A/N: Well. I didn't intend for this to come out so late. I started to write it, didn't like what I wrote, restarted, etc. Also, homework came up. Anyway, here was the amazing prompt from Idreamofivan. Note that I abridged it a bit because it was too long to fit in here! :D
First, it is discovered that Sam has some sort of chronic illness. He gets checked out by doctors (much to his displease) and they discover that he has some chronic illness. Once they are able to bring all the levels back to normal, Sam should be able to live a pretty normal life, only getting like a shot or a pill a day. But, since the illness has gone undetected for so long, because Sam's life has been interesting, the situation is now critical and his immune system is destroyed. Dean goes into overprotective mode, they obviously stop hunting until Sam gets better, but Sam is going crazy and while he appreciates Dean's care, his constant reminder about everything he has to and can't do and his overprotectiveness is driving him nuts.
This is set during season 13, after Bring 'Em Back Alive. Pretty much a season 13 AU.
WARNINGS: Spoilers for the recent episode, 3x18. There is also content regarding a chronic illness, so beware of potentially sensitive content.
Please keep in mind that I'm no doctor, so though I tried to keep this all as correct as possible, some details might be tweaked/exaggerated/wrong.
Something was horribly wrong. Sam could feel it in the pit of his stomach - the beginnings of panic that made his chest constrict and heart flip-flop.
He couldn't stop staring in horrific wonder at the tissue he'd just coughed into. Bright red blood was splattered onto the white tissue, innocently shining in the light of the lamp he'd turned on.
He'd gone to bed an hour ago, even though it was only eight at night. Dean was pissed because of what had happened with Gabriel, and Sam didn't have any interest in taking his brother's heat at the moment. Besides, what with trying to open up the rift, he'd hardly gotten more than five hours of sleep at a time for the past week.
The cough was what had woken him up. Sharp and painful, like it was tearing the flesh off of his throat, and it made him jolt awake. He'd thrown on his light, grabbing a tissue to cough into, and that's when he saw - and tasted - the blood.
But this couldn't be happening. He'd stopped doing the Trials years ago. Unless they had some strange after-effect, this blood couldn't be because of that.
At least, Sam hoped with all of his heart that it wasn't because of the Trials.
You should tell Dean, his conscience whispered into his ear, but Sam disregarded that idea immediately. Sure, they were both well aware now that hiding things only led to anger and mistrust, but there was no way in hell Sam was approaching his brother about a cough at the moment. Not after the way he'd heard Dean say "Son of a bitch!" and seen the cold fury in his eyes.
Sam shut off the lamp light, stifling another cough that wanted to come up. He'd deal with this later. Of course, it could be something dangerous and life-threatening, but he found that he didn't care much.
So what if he died? It was a thought he hadn't had since when he'd thought Dean had died taking down Amara. But with Jack gone, his mom gone, and the constant stress of saving everyone, he didn't have the energy. In fact, once the initial surprise at finding the blood on the tissue was gone, Sam found that he didn't much care about whether or not the blood he was coughing up was a health risk. Well, he didn't doubt that it wasn't a health risk. Supernatural or medical, he didn't care.
Sam leaned back down onto his pillow, tasting the metallic blood in his mouth, and closed his eyes.
Seven weeks later
Dean noticed Sam's strange behavior first when they were on a hunt. Seven whole weeks had passed since he'd gotten back to the bunker to find that Sam and Cas had used the rest of Gabriel's friggin' grace, and though he still hadn't gotten over it, it seemed better to hunt and kill instead of sitting on their asses waiting for something to happen. And nothing had happened. Absolutely no damn leads on how to get into the other world, no damn word from Cas, no damn sign of Gabriel, nothing.
They were in Concord, New Hampshire, killing a nest of changelings. It was the first time they'd found changelings in years, and even with the current stress at hand Dean had to admit that it felt good to kill the mother changeling. He'd molotov'ed it with fire while Sam held it down. It was the first hunt in a long time that hadn't gone to hell, and he'd actually enjoyed it, working alongside his brother just like the old times.
They went to a bar afterwards to get a well-deserved meal - they last thing they'd eaten was the burnt toast at the motel. It was moist, floppy, and nothing short of disgusting, and Dean couldn't wait to eat a real meal.
"Classic cheeseburger for me, fries, and a beer," Dean told the waitress, who was short with a brunette pixie-cut. She nodded and turned to Sam.
"Nothing for me, thanks. Actually, just a water," Sam said, smiling at her and handing her the menu.
"Nothing?" Dean asked, wrinkling his nose, once the waitress had left. "Dude. You're such a girl."
Sam shrugged. "I'm not hungry."
And that was when Dean first noticed it - Sam hadn't been eating much lately. Obviously, Sam never ate a lot of food at a time (was it even possible to overeat salad?), but he'd eaten less than usual. An apple here and there for breakfast, half a sandwich - maybe - for lunch, and small salads for dinner. That is, if he ate dinner.
Dean hadn't noticed at first, because he hadn't regulated Sam's meals since he was a kid. But come to think of it, he hadn't seen Sam eat a large meal since… well, since before their mom had gone through the rift.
"Not hungry," Dean repeated, probing. "Why?"
Sam's eyes narrowed instantly, and Dean sipped his beer casually, staring his brother down. It was almost an unspoken staring contest, until Sam's eyes averted.
"I don't know," he said a bit forcefully. "Maybe because burnt changeling ruined my appetite."
That was true, the smell of the burning changeling hadn't been very pleasant. They'd burnt her until her skin was nothing more than ashes.
Dean didn't let Sam's wimpy excuse stop him, though.
"It's never bothered you before," he noted.
"Well, it does now."
"Job getting too tough for you? Want me to light some scented candles next time?" Dean snarked, appreciating the flicker of annoyance cross Sam's face.
"Dean, we're not kids anymore. You don't have to question me."
That was all Dean needed to know that Sam wasn't just "not hungry". He contemplated his younger brother, who was now looking determinedly in the other direction. The more he looked, the more he could feel the old big brother concern in the back of his mind.
Sam was thinner. A small part of him wondered if he was imagining it, but there was no doubt that he'd lost weight. The flannel Sam was wearing had once been tight, but now… it wasn't.
Sam's face was pale. Maybe it was the lighting in the bar. But his little brother definitely looked almost sickly. There wasn't much color in his face, which also looked thinner.
The rest of the meal was in silence. Sam sat, sipping at his water every so often, but eating nothing more. Dean ate his burger quickly and paid, not bothering to get a second beer like he might have usually.
Their hunt had been far from a bunker, so Dean drove them to a dumpy motel that was on the outskirts of town. He grabbed his duffel out of his bag and through Sam's bag to him, heading to the lobby to get a room like he'd done thousands of times before.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his brother.
There wasn't any more denying it. Sam looked like shit.
"Alright, cut the crap, Sam," Dean said firmly once they'd gotten into the motel room. He gestured with his hands. "What's going on?"
Sam looked up from his laptop, startled, from where he was sitting at the desk. "Nothing's going on."
"Yeah. I said, cut the crap, Sam. You look terrible. You didn't eat anything."
Sam frowned. "The changeling ruined my appetite-"
Dean laughed humorlessly. "Okay, then. How about we spar, then, huh? Just like old times?"
Sam's expression turned sour. "Spar? We haven't done that in years."
"I know," Dean said, waiting to see Sam's reaction.
"I'd just kick your ass," Sam said, still frowning. "I always kick your ass. Shorty," he added, smiling weakly. "I'm fine, Dean. Really."
Dean didn't buy it.
"Alright, Hulk. Just let me know when you're ready to share with the class," Dean said, scowling. He situated himself onto the bed to watch the sports game, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. His too-thin brother. How had he not noticed it before?
Sam coughed loudly and excused himself to the bathroom. Dean's eyes followed him as he shut the door, and he swung himself off of the bed.
"'I'm fine, Dean,'" Dean muttered under his breath, repeating Sam's words. "Fine, my ass."
He waited until the sounds of Sam brushing his teeth ended, then poised himself outside of the bathroom door to wait for his Sasquatch brother to emerge.
The lock clicked and with a squeaky groan the door slid open. Sam came through it and the next second, Dean lunged forward and pinned him against the wall.
"What the hell!" Sam yelled. "Dean!"
Dean pushed him harder against the wall. "Come on, Sam! Fight back!"
Sam struggled under Dean's arms but it was futile. Dean gritted his teeth; pinning Sam was no easy feat.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sam shouted, failing to shove Dean's arms away.
"Proving a point," Dean responded, his voice tight. "Fight back, Sam."
"I'm not doing this," Sam said, relaxing under the pin Dean was holding him under. "I'm not in the mood to spar."
Dean released him. "You're rusty, Sam," he said pointedly. He could see Sam have an internal struggle with his pride.
"No," Sam finally argued, his face clearing and voice assuming the I'm-smarter-than-you-Dean tone. "I don't feel like playing this crap. Get off."
Dean moved away. "Sam, I'm proving a point."
Sam didn't answer.
"What the hell, Sam?! Stop pretending nothing's wrong. Are you sick? Talk to me, dude. You're weak, I can see it. You're not eating. You couldn't even shove me off of you."
"I'm just tired, Dean."
"Bullshit. What's wrong?" Dean said, hardly in the mood to relent. He lowered his tone a bit. "Sammy, we've been through so much shit together that whatever's goin' on with you right now can't be the end of the world. Because we've been through the end of the world, and it ain't this."
Sam's eyes flickered from Dean's face and to the floor. He suddenly pushed past Dean and made his way to the chair, sitting down. "Okay. But, if I tell you, you can't freak out."
"I don't freak out."
"Dean," Sam said, his face etched with seriousness. "You have to promise not to… to panic, or… or to get mad… okay?"
Dean considered his brother. "I'll try not to," he said finally.
Sam cleared his throat. "Okay. So, several weeks ago, I wasn't really feeling right - I won't elaborate - and I ended up going to a doctor. And… he diagnosed me with bronchiectasis."
"Bronchiectasis," Dean repeated. "What the hell is that?"
"It's not that bad," Sam said quickly. "It's a… condition, I guess, where your lungs get damaged and bacteria can easily get it. That means that the passage to the lungs can get infected, or… blocked." His last word ended quietly and he looked down, unable to look at his brother.
"God, Sammy, why didn't you say anything?" Dean asked, sitting down as well and rubbing his hand over his face.
"I didn't want you to worry-"
"Oh, come on, not that shit again-"
"No, listen, Dean. I didn't want you to worry because we've already been working our asses off trying to reach Mom. I wasn't about to slow us down because of a cough."
Dean made eye contact with Sam's anxious gaze at him and tried to not shake his head. "Alright. So, how do we fix this?"
"What?"
"How do we fix this?" Dean reiterated, his voice stone cold. "Because there's no damn way we're going to just do nothing about this-"
"Well, you don't really fix it," Sam said, his voice trailing off. He cleared his throat again. "I mean, there's physical therapy, uh… vaccinations, pills… but it's not really something you cure."
"We do that, then," Dean said firmly. "We're not going to let some lung thingy slow you down."
"But I…" Sam began to say, but then he coughed slightly. "Alright." He looked at Dean uneasily, as though he wasn't sure if he would get mad or not.
"So, this condition is preventing you from eating?" Dean said a minute later once Sam had settled into bed.
"No, I'm just not hungry," Sam said, his voice firmer.
"Yeah. Well, you're eating this," Dean said, throwing him a granola bar that had been in his bag for a couple of weeks. "No buts."
"Dean-"
"Shut up and eat it."
Sam tore the wrapper off angrily and stared at the granola bar with disdain. Dean almost snorted; Sam looked like a petulant child.
It took an hour for Sam to fall asleep. The moment that Dean could hear the heavy, deep breathing of his brother, he silently slipped out of bed and approached Sam's duffel.
Fortunately, Sam's laptop was fully charged, and Dean opened it to find a very bright picture of some sort of vegetation he must have been researching (geek). Squinting, he dimmed the brightness, glancing backwards at Sam, who hadn't twitched at all.
It didn't take long to find a medical page on bronchiectasis. It was in Sam's history. Dean skimmed over the words quickly, each one feeling like an extra piece of lead in his stomach.
Chronic cough. Sam had been coughing lately.
Coughing up blood. Well, damn. No wonder Sam had been afraid to tell him. If he had been reliving symptoms he'd had during the Trials, he must've been pretty freaked out.
Shortness of breath. Chest pain. Dean hadn't noticed either of these. But, if he thought more about it… they'd been on a hunt recently, and Sam had gotten knocked in the chest. It wasn't a very hard hit - both of them had taken many worse hits before - but it had taken Sam out for a couple of minutes. He'd had trouble regaining his breath.
Weight loss. Fatigue.
Dean shut the laptop and returned to Sam's duffel, digging through his laptop case. Usually, they respected each other's privacy, but at the moment Dean felt that Sam had breached this privilege and there was nothing stopping him from finding what he was looking for.
He felt them, finally, and pulled the papers that the doctor had given Sam into the moonlight. He pulled them close to his face to read them without having to turn on a light, and with every word the lead in his stomach seemed to get heavier.
Sam woke up the next day with a sense of dread, and it took him a moment to remember that he'd spilled to Dean. Somehow, it made it a hundred times worse. He could feel Dean looking at him last night like he was weak, and more than anything he hated the feeling of being weak.
Now that Dean knew about the condition, he was determined to keep it minimal. There was no reason for Dean to know how bad it had gotten.
Every time they went on a hunt, his chest hurt like a bitch for the next day. Running especially was painful, and he was so winded by the time he'd finished that every heavy breath in made him wince in pain.
The doctor had given him a list of things to do. Return every four months for a vaccine, take a pill every day, and do physical therapy exercises every day. He'd done a decent job of following those orders.
The doctor had also told him to get plenty of sleep and rest. Sam admittedly hadn't followed those orders. But, in his defense, he reasoned with himself - there was no way that he could have gotten rest, unless he'd told Dean. And until now, he'd promised himself he wouldn't tell Dean and burden his brother with yet another thing to worry about.
Four weeks later
"Hey," Sam said when Dean walked into their motel room with two beers in hand. He accepted the one Dean handed him. "So, I was sorting through local stories, and a couple of towns over there's what looks like a gnome nest."
"Gnomes. Pointy hats, eyes bulging?" Dean confirmed.
"Well, they have sharp claws, too. Apparently, they've been attacking the locals. We should go check it out."
Dean took a sip of his beer, leaning against the counter of the motel table. "How do we kill them?"
"I think iron works," Sam said slowly, scanning the page. "We should decapitate them just to be sure. The lore's a bit sketchy."
"Alright. Let's go gank those sons of bitches," Dean said, picking up his gun and reloading it with ammo.
They were still taking on hunts. Though they'd found a way to open up the rift again, it would be another two weeks before Cas returned to help them (Cas was off in some remote forest attempting to get the ingredient necessary to open the rift). For the time being, it seemed a good idea to do what they did best and take down some monsters.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled in to the back of an abandoned house. The shutters were half-dangling from the house, the porch had collapsed in on itself, and the paint had peeled so much that the original color was unrecognizable. Sam followed Dean to the trunk, where he grabbed his gun and a machete.
"How many are there?" Dean asked, swinging the trunk closed and walking alongside Sam in the warm morning sunshine to the house.
Sam shrugged. "Ten to twelve, I'd guess. They should be easy to taken down, as long as they don't get the drop on you."
Dean nodded. "You take upstairs, I take downstairs?"
"Alright," Sam said, and pushed on the door; it swung open easily. They poised their guns, expecting gnomes to come rushing out at them, but when nothing came they crept inside, Dean slightly in front of Sam.
Sam turned and went up the stairs as Dean continued into the kitchen. Every step underneath him creaked loudly, and he winced.
So much for the element of surprise.
He entered the first bedroom, shining his flashlight in the dark corners of the room. Dust was floating in the air in the beam of his flashlight and he could feel the sticky tangles of cobwebs on his face as he went through the doorway. Wiping his face, he carefully walked across the room and to the closet. Gun at the ready, he turned the knob, and opened up the closet door. The instant that the door was open, something came flying out at him, and it took him a moment to process that he'd found a gnome.
He wrestled with it, keeping its claws away from him, when suddenly the sensation of more gnomes surrounding him made him realize he hadn't just found one gnome; he'd found the heart of the nest.
"DEAN!" he shouted, firing bullets at the gnomes as they attacked him. He stood violently, bucking to get them off and feeling their claws pierce through his shirt.
There were more than ten to twelve, that was for sure. Sam couldn't see anything except for gnomes, and he desperately sprinted away to get away and find a clearer shot. They pursued him, and he found himself running backwards while firing bullets at the creatures. They weren't too fast, fortunately, and then he heard Dean's approaching footsteps.
Together, they fired at the gnomes until every last one had dropped dead to the floor. The house was once more filled with silence as they lowered the guns. Sam could feel the warm trickle of blood on his shirt, and he looked down to see how bad it was.
His flannel had been shredded by the sharp claws of the gnomes, and the skin underneath was flayed and torn. It was relatively shallow, at least, but Sam could already tell that a few of the cuts would need stitches.
"That's going to need stitches," Dean observed, speaking Sam's thoughts. "Let's go back to the motel and I can patch it up."
The moment the words had left his mouth, there was a sudden creak from the bedroom that Sam had found the gnomes in. Too heavy to be the wind, too heavy to be another gnome.
Dean raised his gun again and Sam followed suit, waiting for whatever was about to come through the doorway.
"I thought you said it was just gnomes," Dean whispered to Sam.
"I did!"
"Well, whatever the hell that is, it's not a gnome…" Dean's voice trailed off as an ugly, fat looking gnome came through the doorway. At least, it looked like a gnome, except it was several feet taller and much stronger looking.
Sam started to shoot it but to no prevail; instead, the gnome roared angrily and began to sprint towards them.
"Shit!" Dean yelled, firing his own gun but nothing happened, so they both pulled out their machetes. Sam hacked at the neck of the weirdly large gnome as it came running towards them and was knocked to his feet. The skin of the gnome was so thick that the knife couldn't penetrate it, he realized.
Thick skin. Long legs. Resembled a gnome.
"Dean, it's a goblin!" Sam yelled, fighting to get the goblin off of him while Dean hacked mercilessly at its neck. "We need fire!"
He saw Dean's eyes widen and Sam yelled out as the goblin slashed at his already open wounds. Dean tackled the goblin to the floor and Sam scrambled to his feet, pulling Dean up with him as the goblin attempted to flip back onto its feet.
"Go!" Sam yelled, and they tumbled over themselves running to the stairs. The heavy footfalls of the goblin pursued them as they ran out of the house, and one quick glance over his shoulder told Sam that the goblin wasn't more than ten feet behind.
"I'll distract him, you get the flamethrower!" Sam shouted over the wind roaring in their ears as they sprinted to the Impala. Sam came to a stop and whirled around, diving towards the goblin to allow Dean time to get to the flamethrower. He heard the squeak of the trunk being opened as he threw punch after punch at the goblin's ugly face.
His breath hitched in his throat suddenly, and it was a sensation he'd felt many times as of late but never this strongly. He coughed, seeing blood spray on the goblin's face.
The goblin seemed to sense his moment of weakness and fought back, clawing at Sam's face suddenly which was unprotected. Sam cried out as the claws slashed across his cheek; if he'd leaned forward a centimeter more it would have nailed him across his entire face. Sam fell backwards, wheezing as he tried to get his breath back, but it was no use. The goblin leapt on top of him and began to butcher his abdomen, claws shredding his jacket.
A sudden rush of warmth above Sam made him momentarily stop coughing. Flames were licking the goblin's head and he watched it in fascination before realizing he was pinned beneath the goblin.
Before he could have time to try to scramble out from underneath it, Dean's strong hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him away and against the Impala.
"Sammy!" he could hear Dean saying, but he couldn't answer; his breaths were heaving wildly and he struggled to get oxygen into his lungs.
This wasn't the first time he'd had trouble breathing. But this was the first time that he couldn't get his breath back. Sam tried to draw in a breath only to feel a deep rattle in his chest and he began to panic, coughing more violently.
"Hey, hey! Sam, calm down - follow my lead. Sam! Look at me!"
Sam moved his gaze to his brother's concerned face, wheezing.
"Alright. Deep breath in, deep breath out."
In. Out. It seemed so easy. Sam tried to follow Dean's actions, but this wasn't a panic attack; he couldn't breathe. His head was beginning to spin and he grasped at Dean out of fear, something he hadn't done in a long time.
"Sam!" Dean called loudly, but black was beginning to creep into Sam's vision. Fuzzy spots danced in front of his eyes and the noises around him were beginning to muffle, accompanied by a high pitched ringing. His chest heaved again and out shot a massive clump of blood and mucus onto the dirt.
Sweet air rushed into his lungs, and Sam breathed in deeply, feeling his heart rate settle. He leaned against the car, closing his eyes and taking in breaths with relief.
"Sammy! Answer me, dammit!"
Sam opened his eyes. "I'm… I'm fine," he rasped, still gulping the air. "I'm good."
"Like hell you are!" Dean said violently, still gripping Sam's shoulders. "What the hell was that?!"
Sam avoided his brother's eyes. "I just needed to catch my breath," he said, and even to himself his response was ridiculous.
"No. Whatever's going on with you, whatever the bronchiectasis entails, this shouldn't be happening. Let's go. I'll stitch you up."
Sam felt his hand to his chest and it came away with warm blood. "Ow."
"Yeah. Come on." Dean stood up, and after looking at Sam for a moment, offered a hand. Sam gripped it and struggled to his feet, a feat that was much more difficult than he hoped he let on. He coughed again, more blood coming up, and worked his way to the passenger seat of the car.
Dean had no intentions of returning to the motel. Between Sam's cuts on his chest, which were shredded badly and certainly needed medical attention, and the breathing problem he'd just had, they were seeing a doctor.
Even if he had to drag Sam's sickly ass into the building, he was making sure that his little brother got medical attention.
Of course, Sam would object. Fortunately, his brother's eyes were shut, and Dean doubted that he'd notice they weren't going back to the motel room.
He pulled into the parking lot of the urgent care doctor's office in the town they were staying at, easing Baby in as gently as possible so as to not disturb Sam. He'd already planned a cover story: Sam had a rough encounter with a local bear (there had been so many gnome attacks in this town that had been declared bear attacks that Dean doubted they wouldn't believe him), and the attack had caused his bronchiectasis to act up. He'd get the doctors to stitch up Sam, then give him proper treatment for Sam's weird-ass lung condition.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean said once he'd shut off the ignition. Sam opened his eyes and opened up the door; for the first time, Dean saw how ill his brother looked.
He led Sam towards the door and it was only when they were ten feet from entering when Sam realized where they were.
"No way!" he said, immediately turning around. "There's no way in hell I'm going to get seen by a doctor."
"Don't be a bitch. You're going in, and that's final," Dean said, feeling his big brother duties emerge out of instinct.
"I'll stitch them myself," Sam protested. "Dean, we've treated stuff like this hundreds of times-"
"I want the doctor to look at your lungs again," Dean said bluntly. He lowered his voice. "Even if I have to knock you out right here in the parking lot and drag you in, I'll do that. And I'm stronger than you right now, so it wouldn't be very difficult," he added, both as a threat and a stab to Sam's ego. It worked, he noted with satisfaction, as Sam's jaw twitched and he reluctantly followed Dean into the doctor's office.
The secretary took one look at Sam's bleeding chest and abdomen and called the doctor. It didn't take long for her to be ushering them into a room. Sam could feel Dean hovering right next to him in case he were to collapse as they walked to the room, and it pissed him off but he didn't say anything.
"What happened here?" the doctor asked calmly, laying Sam down onto the table and taking out the thread and needle. "Another bear attack?"
"We were hiking," Dean invented, "out in the woods behind town. Sammy - my brother - and I were stopping for water when a huge bear came up from behind us. I got lucky. Sam, on the other hand…"
He spared a glance at Sam, who was watching Dean closely. Listening intently, perhaps, in case they were asked questions and they needed their stories to match.
"Well, we ran, obviously, but Sam has bronchiectasis and he had an attack. It was much worse than usual, so I was wondering if you could take a look at his lungs too once he's stitched up," Dean said as politely as possible. "He couldn't breathe for nearly a full minute. It wasn't until he coughed up blood that he could breathe again."
Sam was now glaring at Dean, his expression obviously reading "Thanks for sparing the details, dick", but Dean didn't care.
The doctor numbed Sam's chest, and Dean could see his brother visibly relax with the numbing.
"How long have you had bronchiectasis?" the doctor asked, skillfully weaving the needle in and out of the torn skin. Sam was paling, Dean could see it, so he answered for his brother.
"A couple of months since he was diagnosed," Dean said, "but it's gotten bad, so he's probably had it for longer."
Sam was definitely glaring at him now with one of his pissiest expressions. Dean ignored him.
"I was hoping he could have another x-ray, and maybe some stronger medication? It's really doing a number on him," he added, smirking at Sam's irritated reaction to his words.
"If he had trouble breathing for an entire minute, then I'd definitely like to take a look at those lungs," the doctor agreed. "Sam, how are you doing?"
"Good," Sam replied through clenched teeth. "Had worse."
"Almost done. You're lucky; these weren't as deep as they could have been," the doctor said, setting the needle down and putting a few butterfly bandages across the rogue scratches.
"So what about his lungs?" Dean asked.
The doctor pulled a stethoscope off of the wall. "I'd like to have a listen first," he said. "Sam, can you sit up for me?"
Sam carefully sat up, wrinkling his nose at the pain that likely came with sitting up. Dean watched from his chair in the corner, fully aware that his brother was annoyed that he was still there.
"The stitches should hold well, but you should take it easy for the next few weeks," the doctor added. "That means no more hiking. I wouldn't recommend twisting very much either; turn around if you need to look behind you and bend with your legs, not your stomach, if you need to pick something up."
Sam nodded. The doctor placed his stethoscope on Sam's chest and had him breathe several times, then on his back.
"There's definitely blockage in there," the doctor confirmed, removing the stethoscope. "I'm going to run some pulmonary function tests, Sam."
Sam's eyes met Dean for a brief second before he returned to the doctor's gaze. "Alright. Yeah," he agreed.
The doctor had Sam breathe into a tube (which definitely made Dean uncomfortable, seeing his brother using a machine like that) to measure how quickly his breaths could go, and how deeply. He measured Sam's lung volume, diffusion capacity, and a whole list of other things that Dean couldn't have remembered if he tried.
"Here's my opinion," the doctor said thirty minutes later, returning to their room with graphs. "Sam, if we had caught this sooner, then it wouldn't be nearly as damaged, but your lungs have been exposed to what seems to be vigorous exercise and impact. Are you generally active?"
Again, Sam's eyes flickered to Dean. "Yeah, my brother and I do a lot of hiking."
"I think that's the problem. You said that this was diagnosed a few months ago?"
"Yes."
"Have you been participating in strenuous activities since then?" the doctor asked, scribbling on the clipboard. "Or have you been getting rest alongside the physical therapy."
"Well, I mean… I've been moving a bit," Sam said, straightening slightly.
"There's the problem. Your lungs have been suffering from the excessive movement, and I'm afraid you've done quite a number on them. The passage to your lungs has been widened, thus allowing bacteria to enter easily."
"What should he be doing? Alongside the pills and vaccines?" Dean interrupted, leaning forward.
"Rest. Like I said before, no more hiking. Your lungs need a chance to recover, so I'd recommend taking it easy for the next week before doing even simple activities like vacuuming or washing the dishes again. Right now, your lungs are extremely fragile after what seems to be a collapse in your breathing after the bear encounter. Drink plenty of fluids, get plenty of sleep, and after a week you can start returning to normal activities, so long as they don't include any exercise or excessive movement. Otherwise, you could permanently injure your breathing, and more advanced measure will need to be taken to assist your lungs."
Dean stood. "Alright. Anything else? Or are we good to go?"
The doctor put his clipboard down. "I'd say that's it. Don't skip any meals, drink water, get sleep. You're prone to infection, because the passage to your lungs is so open at the moment, so make sure you wash your hands often, avoid crowds, and eat well. That means no sodas and burgers. Even a low-grade fever could be detrimental at the moment, until your immune system can build again as your lungs improve. You need your immune system as strong as it can be."
Dean snorted. "The food won't be a problem. He's practically a rabbit as it is."
Sam threw Dean a dirty look as he carefully stood up, thanked the doctor, and followed Dean out of the door to exit the hospital.
Sam woke up when he felt the Impala's engine shut off. He lifted his head up, rubbing a kink out of his neck from the position he'd been sleeping in. They were back at the bunker, and it was dark out.
"How long was I out?" he asked, yawning and rubbing his eyes to get the blur out of them.
"Seven hours," Dean said, throwing the car door open and getting out slowly. "Figured we'd just drive straight back. Didn't feel like paying for another motel.
"I could've driven!" Sam said, guilt and anger immediately wracking him. "Dean, you could've fallen asleep at the wheel!"
"I was fine," Dean snapped, brushing it off. "But I do want to go to bed, so let's get a move on." He waited for Sam to slowly get out of the car.
Sam moved as quickly as possible, but he could feel his chest stabbing with pain with every movement. It was as though the lack of ability to breathe he'd had with the goblin on top of him had taken a final toll on his already unstable lungs, and he struggled for breath after standing. Dean seemed to notice his labored breathing and instantly softened.
"You alright?"
"I'm fine," Sam responded automatically, stretching once he was out of the car. That wasn't a good idea; the stitches on his abdomen cried out in protest and his hands immediately flew down to them.
"Did you take your medicine?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes.
Sam bit his lip. "No. Not yet."
"Well, take it as soon as we get inside," Dean commanded forcefully, opening the bunker door and turning on the light. Sam obeyed and poured himself a glass of water to take with the pill. He could hear Dean close behind him, and without looking at his brother he turned to go to the Men of Letters library. He didn't have any interest at the moment in chatting, especially when Dean thought of him as weak.
To his relief, Dean didn't pester him, but instead went by him and into the kitchen. Sam found an old dusty book on Mediterranean monsters and settled into the plush armchair, thumbing through the pages with slight interest.
The smell of chicken noodle soup slowly drifted into the library. Sam couldn't help but smile at it, knowing perfectly well what Dean was up to. Chicken noodle soup had always been their go-to as kids when their dad hadn't been back for a long time, or if they'd gotten injured on a hunt. A comfort food, Sam supposed.
He got up and ambled into the kitchen, sliding onto the bar stool while Dean stirred the soup. For a small moment, he thought his brother had made it himself, then he saw the opened can of Campbell's soup by the sink.
The sounds of soup bubbling in the sink were interrupted by Sam's phone ringing. He pulled it out and glanced at the name.
"It's Jody," he said, surprised. Dean turned the heat of the stove down and joined Sam by the counter as Sam accepted the call and put it on speaker.
"Hey, Jody," Sam said. "How are you?"
"Been better. You two boys doin' okay?"
"We're doing great," Dean cut in. "What's up?"
"I hate to ask this of you. I know you've been busy, but there's a werewolf a few towns over from your place, I think. Police are calling it a serial killer, but I don't think it is. Thought you might want to tackle it."
"Ah, that's tempting, Jody," Dean said, "but we're going to have to opt out. Sam's sick."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Sam," Jody said. "Hope you feel better."
Sam glared at Dean, feeling irritated that Jody now knew. "Thanks, Jody," he said, keeping his voice cheerful.
"I could still help out, though," Dean said, reconsidering. "If it's just one werewolf."
"Dean, you're not going alone," Sam said, exasperated. "I'm fine. I can come."
"There's no way in hell you're coming-"
"How about I find someone to help you out, Dean? Sam can rest and you don't have to go alone," Jody intervened.
"I don't need rest," Sam began petulantly, but Dean interrupted again.
"That'd be great, Jody. Let me know who you find, and I'll contact them."
"Alright. Talk to you boys later," Jody said, and after they responded, Sam closed the phone call.
"I can come on a damn werewolf hunt, Dean," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "I don't need to run or anything, all I need are silver bullets and I'm good to help."
"Okay. So when a werewolf comes sprinting after you, what are you going to do? Choke over your own breath at it?" Dean replied. "No way, dude. You're on the bench for the next few weeks."
Sam steeled himself. "I get that you're trying to help me. I really do. But you don't need to act like my parent. I can make choices on my own."
"You'd be making stupid choices, Sam. Come on! The doctor just said that you need rest, and sleep, and food. That does not mean 'hunting a werewolf'. Got it?"
"No. I'm fine with resting, but I don't need you to tell me to do it. Got it?" Sam said, throwing Dean's words back at him. He wasn't sure why he was being so argumentative with his brother, but at the moment the fact that he had to sit out on an easy hunt was pissing him off.
"How about I'll let you do all of the research?" Dean offered. "You can get your nerd on while I do the hunting. Deal?"
Sam didn't answer, but it did sound better than nothing. Research was enjoyable. He reached for his laptop, which he usually kept on the table, but remembered he'd left it in the car.
"I'll be right back," he muttered, swinging his legs off of the chair.
"Where are you going?" Dean inquired instantly. Sam exhaled, trying to not let Dean's protectiveness bother him.
"Just to the car, to grab my laptop. Not everything is a huge deal," Sam said, stalking away from the table.
"I'll get it," Dean said immediately. "You man the soup."
"I can get my laptop," Sam argued, seeing through Dean instantly. "I'm not an invalid. I can still walk."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "You had to go to the hospital today because you couldn't breathe. You have stitches because you were clawed up by a gnome. You're not moving around the whole place."
Sam rubbed his hands over his face. "Dammit, Dean! Stop treating me like I'm made of glass!"
"I'll stop treating you like glass if you can sit your ass down and rest!" Dean fought back. He stared Sam down, waiting for him to move. "You know what this reminds me of?"
Sam didn't answer.
"Remember when you broke your leg on that ghost hunt back in Burlington? You were fifteen?"
Again, Sam didn't answer, understanding perfectly well what Dean was about to say.
"You were a bitch that whole week that you had to rest. I remember you nearly drove Dad nuts. You're not a teenager anymore, Sam, so cut the crap. I'm getting your laptop." Dean walked away from Sam, leaving him standing there scowling.
He watched Dean's retreating back for a moment before whirling around and returning to his bedroom.
Pissed as he was, it hadn't been a good idea to shout that much and even walk that quickly back to his room. He could feel it in his breaths; they were shortening and more labored. He breathed in deeply, attempting to get airflow in, and could feel panic coming on as no air came.
Breathe, Sam. It's not that difficult, he told himself, but it was like standing in a hot, steamy shower with little air pockets. No matter how much breath he drew in, there was hardly any oxygen making it down to his lungs.
Oh, come on. Not again, he thought desperately as his head began to feel light. He coughed violently, hoping that the blood and mucus would come up and clear his airway.
"Sam?"
Suddenly Dean was next to him, offering words of reassurance as he struggled to get air. He coughed again, so hard that he thought his throat might tear, and nearly collapsed with relief when the blood came up and he could feel air coming back in.
"I'm leaving for the hunt," Dean told Sam the next day, swinging the Impala's keys in his hand. "You good?"
"Fine," Sam repeated.
"Don't forget your meds."
"I won't."
"There's leftover chicken noodle soup for lunch."
"Dean, I'm an adult. I can take care of myself," Sam said stubbornly, holding his hand onto the door to close it. "Go. Have fun."
Dean watched Sam closely for a moment, noting the dark bags under his eyes, then nodded. "Don't have too much fun without me." With that, he got into the Impala and turned the car on.
He was meeting Claire and Donna at the local diner. Jody had called them both, deciding that she'd rather have more than two on the case, and Dean wasn't complaining. He hadn't seen Claire and Donna since they'd saved him and Sam from The Bad Place, and that had been months ago.
"Hey, stranger," Dean said, smiling, when he saw Claire at a nearby table. "How're you doing, kid?"
"Pretty good," Claire responded, sliding in a bit. "Donna's getting here in thirty minutes. She just texted me."
"This hunt'll be easy, working with two of the best hunters I know," Dean said, looking down at the menu and feeling more positive than he had in weeks. "This'll go well."
"So, we got a werewolf, Jody said?"
"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "Sam looked into it last night. It's a kidnapping werewolf, apparently. There are twenty-three different people missing from this town and the surrounding towns, all within five months. From what Sam could tell, the werewolf likes to make his food last. Chews on their flesh for several days before eating their heart and killing them."
"Ew."
"Tell me about it," Dean agreed.
Sam was reading in bed when his phone alert went off. He didn't recognize the number and opened it, scanning the message.
Need help borrowing someone's phone not much time come 34 Lebanon St
Within an instant Sam was out of bed, throwing his jacket on. He took off down the hall, grabbing his gun and the silver bullets as quickly as possible.
"Come on," Sam growled as he fumbled for the keys for the Men of Letters car.
Of course, it could be a trap, a voice whispered in the back of his mind as he hurried out of the bunker and to the car. It might not be Dean.
But too many times had they been in trouble on hunts for it to seem unrealistic that Dean was actually in trouble. Already a number of scenarios were running through his mind, between Dean lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor or having been bitten by the werewolf.
34 Lebanon Street was only ten minutes away. Sam drove at least thirty higher than the speed limit, and when he arrived he got out of the car quickly, aiming his gun for anything that moved.
"Dean?" he called cautiously to the empty building.
Again, the voice in the back of his mind reminded him that it could be a trap. Sam spun around, checking behind him, and pulled out his phone to try calling Dean.
I should've tried calling him on the way here, Sam realized, holding the phone to his ear and praying that his brother would answer. Idiot. Terrible mistake.
"Hello?" came Dean's voice, calm and clearly not in trouble.
Well, shit.
Sam immediately turned around, hurrying back towards the car. "Dean? Something's out for us. I just got a text from-"
He grunted, something heavy having slammed into his head. He fell to his knees, the phone dropping from his hand.
"34-" he tried to shout into the phone, before the heavy object hit his head again and spots danced before his eyes. A man standing above him was the last thing he saw through darkened, blurry vision before the tunnel swallowed him altogether.
Dean opened up Sam's GPS faster than he ever had before. The second that the call had abruptly ended, the moment that he was aware his little brother - his sick little brother - had been ambushed, he'd located Sam's phone.
"I know where the werewolf is," Dean told Donna and Claire, closing his phone. "Let's go."
"Wait - how?" Donna asked, hurrying alongside him.
"Sam! He's been taken," Dean snapped, lengthening his stride. "We've got to move. Now!" he barked, getting into the front seat of Baby and turning the engine on. "The werewolf's not in this town anymore, he's in Lebanon."
"How far are we from Lebanon?" Claire asked, buckling her seat belt as Dean drove the Impala wildly out of the parking lot.
"A bit over an hour," Dean said, gritting his teeth. "If I drive quickly."
Sam woke up to darkness. His breaths were coming in shaky wheezes, and it his first thought was that he didn't want his airway to close again.
He was laying on cement. Cold, hard cement. There was a dripping sound in the background, along with the snuffles of someone crying.
"Hello?" Sam asked, and he picked up on the distinct acoustics of his voice - it sounded like he was underground. That would explain the lack of lighting.
"Hello?" someone responded, a woman. "Help me! Please, help me!"
"Uh, okay, okay - just calm down," Sam said, rubbing the back of his head where he could feel a large lump. Whatever had nailed the back of his head hadn't been very soft. "What's your name?"
"Angela," came the soft reply. "Help me."
"What's… what's going on here?" Sam asked, feeling dazed. His fingers grazed over the welt on the back of his head. "Ow."
"There's a man. He's hurting us," Angela whispered. "There's blood. So much blood. I'm bleeding."
"Man?" Sam said, closing his eyes to aleve the pain. He breathed in heavily, barely able to get enough oxygen to be satisfied. "What man?"
"Flesh-eater," the woman said with a whimper. "He comes and cuts off skin, and eats it. There was another girl before me. He ate her, and then killed her, and now he's started on me. It hurts."
"You're going to be okay," Sam said automatically, but he doubted that was true. The most he could hope for was that Dean was able to find him with the GPS, assuming that his kidnapper hadn't deactivated it already.
"He's coming," the woman suddenly whispered. The sound of heavy footsteps was followed by the squeak of a metal door, and it was only then that Sam realized he was locked in a cage. The woman's screams echoed around them along with the terrible sounds of the man chewing food - or what was the woman's flesh. The screams stopped after five minutes, and were replaced with the crying of the woman as the footsteps receded.
"Are you okay?" Sam whispered when the silence had resumed.
"N-no!" the woman choked out.
Sam groped the floor, feeling for anything that could work as a lock pick. All he found was cement. He coughed suddenly, and with the cough his airway was blocked. His breath caught in his throat and he gasped, like a fish out of water, gripping at his throat while coughing heavily. Yet when he tried to draw in another breath, nothing came in.
"Sir, you're going to have to take the detour. The bridge is out," the nasally man said into Dean's window as he came to an abrupt stop at the sight of construction.
"Let me through, dammit! It's important!" Dean yelled at the scrawny man.
"I'm sorry, that's really not possible," the man said. "You'll have to go around the other way."
Dean shifted the car into reverse and slammed on the gas, spinning the car around dangerously fast.
"Dean, slow down," Donna finally shouted from the backseat.
"Sam's been attacked!" Dean retorted, not easing on the gas at all.
"You're going to get us killed, and we're no good to your brother then!" Donna said, and rested her hand on his shoulder. "We're going to save Sam. This werewolf waits days before killing, doesn't he? Sam's only been gone for about an hour."
Dean gritted his teeth and slowed down. "Donna, he's sick. He might not be breathing-"
He stopped short, the image of Sam spasming in some psycho werewolf's basement because he couldn't draw in a breath too disturbing to think about.
It took Sam a full minute to regain his breath. He curled into a ball on the cement floor, shivering. He could feel his heart racing and tried to calm himself.
This has happened before, stupid. Don't fall to pieces.
It was like drowning. Drowning for a full minute before being able to reach the surface.
He wasn't sure how long he was on the floor, but it hadn't been long before the sound of a car screeching above him caught his attention. There was no doubt that it was the Impala; the sound was so familiar to him.
He immediately pounded on the top of the cage. "DEAN! I'm down here!"
The shout made him cough again and he bent over, hacking for what seemed ten minutes. The sound of gunfire made him freeze in anticipation, and he didn't dare move until the bullets stopped.
"Dean?" he called again, quieter this time.
"Sam! Where are you?"
Relief flooded through Sam's body. "I'm down here-" he began to shout back, but the yell did not cooperate with his already damaged lungs, and he fell to the ground with coughs.
Sam could feel his eyes watering, and could hear Dean shouting and asking where exactly he was, but all that was going through his mind was I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe-
Until sunlight streamed in. Sam squinted, coughing as spots began swirling in his vision again. He spat a wad of blood out and felt air come back in.
Oh, God. Please don't let that happen again, Sam prayed, his eyes burning with the exertion.
"Sam!"
Sam hadn't noticed until then that Dean had bust in through what seemed to be a trapdoor and was running over to him. He nimbly picked the lock and crouched at Sam's side.
"You alright? Did he hurt you?" Dean demanded, making eye contact with Sam.
"No… I'm fine, I'm fine," Sam said, repeating himself almost to make sure.
"You sure?"
"The woman over there," Sam managed. "She needs help." He struggled to his feet, swaying. "Ow."
"What is it?" Dean asked him.
"Head. Knocked me out," Sam said, clutching the wall so as to not fall. "Oh. Hi… Claire?"
"Yep," Claire said, having just come through the trapdoor. "Donna and I will help that woman, Dean. You can get Sam out."
"Thanks," Dean told her, and gripped Sam's arm. "Let's get out of here."
"I can walk!" Sam protested, stumbling forward. "I wasn't here for long, and he didn't even hurt me-"
"Yeah, but he gave you a hell of a concussion, I'm guessing."
Sam didn't argue with that; his vision was beginning to double and a headache was pounding in his temples. He let Dean lead him out of the trapdoor and into the sun where the Impala was waiting, sun glinting off of the black hood of the car.
It only took six hours for their lives to go to crap again.
They'd gotten back to the bunker and had a celebratory lunch; the werewolf was dead, and they'd gotten the other woman out of the underground lair and to a hospital. Sam was adamant that he was fine aside from the concussion, but Dean wasn't quite ready to let him return to normal activities.
They were sitting around the counter; him, Sam, and Claire. Donna was working by the oven making a casserole, something Dean was greatly looking forward to - food that wasn't made by him or microwaveable.
"Meds, Sam," Dean said suddenly, glancing at his watch. One look at his brother told him that Sam wasn't pleased with the mothering, but he ignored the look and slid the bottle of pills over.
"How long does it take for your lungs to improve?" Claire asked, leaning forward.
"In about a week I'll start hunting again," Sam said, averting Dean's gaze. Until his brother stopped coughing up mucus and started to be able to run without having a no-breathing fit, Dean wasn't letting Sam hunt a spider.
"I could stick around and help out for a bit," Donna offered from the kitchen.
"Ah, no, that's alright, Donna," Sam responded, smiling. "I'm-"
His answer was cut off by a sudden fit of coughing. Donna stopped what she was doing to come to his side, and despite his concern for his brother, Dean couldn't help but smirk at Sam, whose cheeks were turning red.
"I'm fine," Sam managed as soon as he was done coughing.
"That's a terrible cough!" Donna said, frowning. "I can stay and help out longer-"
"No, really," Sam said, a bit more strongly. "I'm good. We're good." He forced a smile. "How's Alex? And Patience?"
"Alex is still working at the doctor's office," Claire answered. "And Patience has started going to school. Neither of them are that into hunting, but they're willing to help out every so often." She looked to Sam suddenly, and her forehead creased. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," Sam said again, and Dean noticed the red in his cheeks was still there.
He'd assumed Sam was blushing, but…
"How are you feeling?" Dean asked. "And don't just say fine."
"I'm fine, Dean, really," Sam assured him.
"Then let me feel your temperature," Dean said, perfectly aware of how mortified Sam would be. Donna and Claire watched the conversation with apparent interest mixed with concern.
"No way - Dean, stop-" Sam said, warning in his eyes. "I said that I'm fine."
"Then you should be fine with me feeling your forehead, dumbass-" Dean started to say, and cleared his throat, glancing at Donna and Claire. "Uh, sorry."
"No worries," Donna responded, looking slightly amused. "Sam, he's right. You don't look so good right now."
"I'm fine, okay?" Sam said firmly. "If I don't feel well, I'll let you know."
"Don't be such a baby," Claire interrupted, getting up quickly and placing her hand against Sam's forehead. Sam pulled away but didn't slap her hand away as Dean knew he would have done if it was Dean's hand.
"You have a fever," Claire confirmed.
"Dammit, Sam, you're supposed to stay healthy," Dean cursed. "How the hell did this happen? Did you pick something up in that werewolf's underground cave?"
"How would I know?" Sam said, embarrassment etched into his face. "It's not my fault, the doctor said that it would be easy to pick up an infection."
"Well, I won't leave until you're better," Donna said, taking the casserole out of the oven. "Do you want some water, Sam?"
"I can get it-"
"No, no, I can," Donna said, moving to the fridge for a bottle.
Sam's expression looked very sullen.
Claire was fascinated by Sam and Dean. Sure, Sam was denying that he wasn't feeling well, and was refusing everything that Dean was trying to help him with, but the trust between the two brothers was obviously there. Sam clearly disliked the attention Dean was giving him, but it wasn't because he was wary of it… he'd grown up with it.
Dean's concern for his brother was equally amazing to watch. Claire hadn't ever seen someone be so caring towards a sibling, and she found herself wishing she and Alex had developed a bond like that.
They went to bed near midnight, Dean forcing Sam to take his medicine again.
On sudden impulse, Claire pulled out her phone, and texted Alex.
Hey. If you're not up to anything, want to go out to lunch with Jody tomorrow?
Alex's response came quickly.
I'd love to.
Claire laid back onto her pillow, smiling. The world would be a better place, she decided, if more people had a bond like Sam and Dean's.
So. Abrupt, corny, stupid, terrible ending. But it was by far the longest chapter I've ever written and I needed it to end, and a couple paragraphs ago there was no end in sight. So I improvised. Also, this was so long that I didn't proofread (oops) so forgive me for the typos that were more than likely in here.
Hope you enjoyed it, and I hope it satisfied your prompt, Idreamofivan! Thanks!