Prompt: Sleepy, feverish Sammy who has to stay awake for some reason.
"En Fuego"
It's been a long time since either one of them slept. The last time Dean crunched the numbers, the total was somewhere around 44 hours, and it's been 8 hours since then. He's too tired to do the math.
But the bitch of a hunt is finished. As soon as they hit a town with a motel, they're stopping and sleeping for three days. Maybe four.
"Would you quit that?" Dean smacks Sam's hand away as he tries to turn the heat up a notch. "If it's warm, I'm going to fall asleep."
Sam grunts. "How much farther?"
"About 17 miles, I think." Sam doesn't respond and Dean feels his eyelids growing heavy. He sits up straighter. "Hey. Talk to me. Keep me awake."
"Okay. I'm tired."
"Can we talk about something other than how tired we are?"
"Okay." Sam yawns. "But I am. Fucking exhausted."
Sam's yawn makes Dean yawn. 16 more miles. "Quit that."
"Sorry." Sam shivers.
Dean glances in his brother's direction. "Are you that cold? It's warm in here."
"Cold. Cold and tired." Another shiver serves as the punctuation to his sentence.
With one hand on the wheel, Dean reaches over and palms Sam's forehead. "You're a little warm. Are you coming down with something?"
"No. I don't think so. Just," he pauses to yawn again, "tired."
"Throat hurt?"
"No."
"Stomach?"
"No."
"Head?"
"No. Just…"
"…tired. I know." 13 more miles. If Sammy's sick, maybe they'll sleep for 5 days. Hell, maybe round up and make it a full week. Dean rubs his eyes. They feel like they're covered in thin layer of sand.
"Y' awake?" Sam asks.
"For now. Keep talking."
"How many more miles?"
"12."
"So fucking tired."
"I know, dude. I know."
They manage to stay awake long enough to make it to a motel. Dean gets a room – he gambles on a new card and pays for two nights up front. When he returns to the car, Sammy is sound asleep in the passenger seat. Figures.
Dean gets both of their bags from the trunk, slinging one over each shoulder, then opens the passenger door. "Hey. Sammy. Come on. Just a little walk, then you can crash on a bed, okay?"
Sam's cheeks look flushed, like his fever's up higher than it was a few minutes ago. "Sleepin' here," Sam slurs without opening his eyes.
"I see that. But you'll thank me tomorrow when your back isn't all fucked up." Dean doesn't add that he needs Sam in the room where he can keep an eye on him and whatever illness he managed to catch. "Come on, Sam. Up."
The sound Sam emits is dangerously close to a whimper, but he opens his eyes and drags himself out of the car. "Jerk," he mumbles.
Even though Dean is exhausted, he smiles. "Bitch." He locks the car and unlocks the motel room. As he puts their bags down, Sam face-plants onto the bed closest to the door. Dean is tempted to do the same, but he can't. Not yet.
He digs out the first aid kit and finds the thermometer. "Hey. Sammy." He sits on the edge of Sam's bed. "Let me check your temperature." Sam blinks twice and opens his mouth. Dean sticks the thermometer under Sam's tongue and presses a hand to his brother's forehead and cheeks. Definitely warmer than before. He needs Tylenol.
Dean almost falls asleep sitting up until the thermometer beeps. 101.6. It takes all the energy Dean has to get up and get three Tylenol and a glass of water. He doesn't have the energy to get Sam to swallow the pills and some water, but he does it anyway. He also tugs off his brother's shoes and pulls the covers to his shoulders. "Sleep, Sammy. You'll feel better when you wake up."
Dean barely manages to toe off his own shoes before collapsing onto the other bed. Then he finally, blissfully, falls asleep.
At first Dean thinks the sound is a jackhammer in the parking lot. He groans and tries to reach for a pillow to cover his ears, but he's too tired. The sound doesn't stop. That's when Dean realizes the sound is too close to be in the parking lot. Whatever it is, it's in the room.
"S'mmy?" He struggles to open his eyes. It's light in the room because he didn't turn the lamp off before crashing. He glances at the clock. He's only been asleep for two hours. Two fucking hours. But that noise. What is that noise?
Teeth, he realizes. Teeth chattering. With a rush of adrenaline, Dean sits up. On the other bed, Sam is shivering and his teeth are clinking together loud enough for Dean to hear.
Dean gets up so fast that his foot gets caught in a blanket. "Sammy?" He reaches for Sam's forehead and flinches. The heat is scorching. "Shit, shit, shit," he mutters, turning on the thermometer.
He pries his brother's lips open. Sam is shivering too much to get the thermometer under his tongue, but at least it's in his mouth. "Sam? Are you with me?" He shakes his brother's shoulder, but Sam's eyes remain closed. He's supposed to be sleeping. They're both supposed to be sleeping. But not like this.
The thermometer beeps. Dean is afraid to look at the display. 104.9. Fuck.
Dean drops the thermometer on the nightstand and sprints into the bathroom. The water from the rusty faucet isn't cold enough. The polar ice cap would not be cold enough. He soaks a washcloth and runs back to Sam's side. He presses the cloth to Sam's forehead and cheeks, over his neck and the bruised skin under his eyes.
Sam stirs and groans. His eyes open, glassy and dull.
"Sammy? Are you awake?"
"D'n?"
Hell with all four letters. Two are all he needs. "Your fever spiked, Sammy. I'm trying to get it down, okay? Can you stay with me?"
"'Kay," Sam says, eyes locked on Dean's.
Dean pulls the blankets away and expects a protest from his brother, but doesn't get one. He lifts the hem of Sam's shirt squeezes the washcloth, running cold water over his stomach and chest. "Sorry it's cold."
"Feels good. 'M hot." Sam kicks the covers further away.
Sure enough, when Dean looks up, Sam's face is covered in sweat. The fever is breaking. Dean breathes a sigh of relief and uses the cloth to wipe sweat away. "How are you feeling? Anything bothering you?"
"Tired."
"Yeah. We only got about two hours of sleep. Your teeth were chattering loud enough to wake me up."
"S'rry." Sam's eyes drift closed.
"Hey. Sammy. Wake up. You're sweating right through that shirt. Can we get you out of it? Cool you off more? Then you can go back to sleep."
Sam doesn't look happy, but he opens his eyes and lets Dean sit him up and tug the shirt over his head. In the bathroom, Dean drops the sweaty shirt and warm cloth on the counter. He soaks a clean cloth. When he gets back to the bed, Sam's eyes are barely open.
"Hot," Sam murmurs.
"I know, man." Dean is doing all he can to wipe down rapidly cooling skin, but it's not fast enough. "Let me check your temperature, okay?"
This time Sam is able to keep the thermometer under his tongue. It beeps, and Dean reads, "100.7. Fuck. You're giving me whiplash."
Sam curls on his side. "So tired."
Dean wipes another bead of sweat from between Sam's shoulder blades. "Sleep, Sammy." He sets the cloth down. By the time he has the sheet pulled up to his brother's chin, Sam is out. Dean tells himself he's too tired to walk all the way to the other bed, but really he wants to be close to Sam. Just in case.
He curls up next to his brother and falls asleep within seconds.
Dean dreams of fire. Coals. Hell. Flame.
When he wakes, Sam is burning.
Dean pulls his brother out of bed and half drags, half carries him to the bathroom. He alternates between "Sammy? Can you hear me?" and "It's okay it's okay it's okay" the whole way. A minute later, he's seated in the tub, holding his brother against his chest, both of them fully clothed. The water is cold, but Dean is still sweating from the heat radiating off Sam's skin.
What's worse is that the cold water doesn't seem to be working. If anything, Sam's skin feels even hotter than when Dean woke up.
"Work with me, here," Dean says, letting the cold water soak them both. "Don't think I won't lug your sorry ass to the hospital."
But Sam stays asleep or unconscious and hot, hot, hot.
"Sammy. Wake up. Let me know your brain isn't boiling in there, huh?" He splashes water on Sam's face and neck, which elicits a weak moan. "That's it, Sammy. Open those eyes."
The response is sluggish, but Sam does, blinking like an owl. Whooo, whooo Dean thinks to himself. Fuck, he is so sleep-deprived. Sleep-deprived, but relieved. Is it wishful thinking, or is Sam already feeling cooler? "How are you doing, Sam? You with me? Firing on all four cylinders?"
"Yeah." Sam moans again and leans forward, away from Dean.
"Hey. Where are you going? Where's the fire? I'm pretty sure you are the fire."
"I'm hot," Sam says, dipping his forearms and chest into the water pooled in the tub. "You're too hot. Get the fuck away from me."
Unconscious to coherent and pissed in 2.4 seconds flat. Okaaay. At least hot means the fever's breaking again. Confident that Sam can hold himself up, Dean climbs out of the tub, dripping all over the place. Sam uses the extra room to submerge as much of himself as he can in the cool water. Considering he's well over 6 feet tall, it's quite a sight.
"Why'd you put us in here in our clothes?" Sam asks.
"Dude, your fever was around 105 or 106." Dean starts toweling himself off. "If I would have waited another second, we might not be having this conversation right now. How are you feeling?"
"Hot. Tired."
"Themes of the night, apparently. If I go get the thermometer, are you going to drown?"
"Kids can drown in less than 2 inches of water," Sam mumbles around a yawn.
"Good thing I'm a risk-taker." Dean grabs the thermometer, a pair of Sam's boxers, sweats, and a T-shirt. When he returns, Sam is almost asleep in the tub, but not drowning. "Hey. Open up."
Sam lets Dean place the thermometer under his tongue. Dean turns off the water and grabs all the clean towels he can find. When the thermometer beeps, he takes it from Sam's mouth. And stares.
"What?" Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head. "100.3. I can't believe your temp dropped that fast. It's not natural." The second the words are out of his mouth, dread twists Dean's gut. Fuck. It's not natural.
Dean thinks hard. He pulls the stopper from the tub and holds a towel out to his brother. "Come on. We're going for coffee."
"Are you sure it's not just a coincidence?"
"I'm positive, Bobby." Dean paces in the corner of the coffee shop, phone pressed to his ear. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Sam is still awake. "Every time he falls asleep, his fever skyrockets. As soon as he wakes up, it plummets. Not a coincidence."
"You boys been around any witches lately?"
"Our last hunt, as a matter of fact."
"Damn."
Dean can almost hear Bobby pinching the bridge of his nose. "You heard of anything like this before?"
"No, but that don't mean nothin."
When Dean looks at his brother again, he swears under his breath. Sam is still at the same table, coffee cup in hand, but his chin has dropped forward onto his chest. "Hey, hey," Dean snaps, running over and shaking Sam's shoulder. With a gasp, Sam sits up straight and almost knocks over his coffee. "There you go. You gotta stay awake, Sam. I know you're tired." Dean motions to the coffee cup. "You need another refill?"
Sam takes a sip and looks exhausted. "No."
He pats his brother's shoulder. "Keep drinking." He puts the phone back up to his ear and paces a few steps away. "Sorry, Bobby."
"No problem. How's he doing right now?"
"Tired. Fever's holding steady between 100 and 101. Not bad, but enough to make him want to do nothing other than sleep."
"But when he sleeps, his brain boils."
"Therein lies the dilemma."
Bobby sighs. "I'll start looking into it right now. You boys going to be okay?"
Dean glances over his shoulder. Still awake. Such a trooper. "I hope so. We've only slept 3 hours in the past 3 days."
"We'll figure it out. Then you can get some rest."
"Call me if you find anything?"
"Keep that brother of yours awake."
After a gruff goodbye, Dean pockets his phone. "Come on, Sammy. Let's go for a walk."
A walk is a good idea in theory. It's almost impossible to fall asleep while standing and moving. Sam's fever is staying low.
But Dean knows they can't keep walking forever. Sam's footsteps are getting slower, and he's limping from one side to the other, like he can't decide where he hurts.
Dean's exhausted, too. He's tripping over curbs and cracks in the sidewalk and his own two feet. He's seeing double more than he'd like to admit.
They're walking a small loop. From the car and coffee shop, they walk north two blocks, east for three, then south and west, back again. People have probably noticed them, but Dean doesn't trust himself to change up the pattern without getting lost. He's not thinking clearly enough.
"Please, Dean," Sam says when they get to the car on their 10th or 20th loop. "I'm so tired."
Maybe there are tears in Sam's eyes, or maybe they're just bloodshot from the lack of sleep, but the sight breaks Dean's heart either way. They stop walking. Dean sways on his feet. But he gets an idea. "Okay, Sammy. Okay. But we gotta make one stop first."
By the time they hit the store and return to the motel, Sam is crying. He's trying to hide it, keeping his head down and his sniffles quiet, but misery is dripping off him in waves.
Inside the motel room, Dean sets the bags on the nightstand. "All right, Sammy. Bed."
"I can sleep?" He sounds like a kid who still believes in Santa. He crawls between the sheets. "How?"
Dean digs through one of the bags for the overpriced ear thermometer. He tears open the packaging and holds the thermometer up. "While you're sleeping, I'm going to keep an eye on your temperature. I'll let you sleep until you hit 104. Then I'll wake you up until you cool down. Sound good?"
Sam's eyes are already closed. "Mmhmm."
Dean grabs a chemical cold pack from the bag. The pharmacy cashier gave him a funny look when he purchased every single cold pack in the store. If he wasn't sleep-deprived, he might have ignored her instead of telling her to fuck off. Oh well. He's not even sure if the cold packs will help, but at this point not much can hurt. Maybe they'll slow the temp increase. Give Sam a few extra minutes of sleep. It's worth a shot.
Dean twists the bag until it snaps. Instantly, it's cold against his fingers. He places the pack behind Sam's neck, and Sam groans. "Too cold?"
"No." He yawns. "'s good."
"Okay. Sleep, Sammy. I'll be right here."
Within seconds, Sam's breathing is deep and even.
Dean sticks the thermometer in Sam's ear to get a baseline reading. Sam doesn't flinch. The results go in a neat line on motel stationary.
11:35 – 100.4
Now he just has to keep himself awake. He does sit ups and pushups and tries not to think about how disgusting the motel carpet is.
11:47 – 100.9
He stands at the motel's small desk while he cleans out and organizes his duffle bag. It's been a while.
11:56 – 101.4
The switch on the lamp in the corner of the room isn't working. He unplugs the lamp, takes it apart, finds the problem, and puts it back together. It works.
12:07 – 102.0
He reads the manual that comes with the thermometer. Not intended for oral or rectal use. Go figure. He flips the cold pack over and puts it on Sam's too-hot forehead.
12:15 – 102.7
He splashes cold water on his own face. He checks his phone a thousand and one times to see if Bobby has called.
12:25 – 103.4
He daydreams about being asleep.
12:31 – 103.9
12:32 – 103.9
12:33 – 104.1
"Sam. Sammy. Time to wake up."
Sam groans and fights weakly against Dean and an upright position.
"Sorry, man. I know it sucks." One arm holding Sam up, Dean uses the other hand to grab a Tylenol and a bottle of water. "Open those eyes. I need you to take Tylenol. Drink some water."
It takes a minute, but Sam's eyes do open. He swallows the Tylenol and water and leans heavily against his brother's arm. He stays awake.
It only takes a minute or two for Sam to kick off the sheet and start sweating. Dean snaps two more cold packs and places one under both of Sam's arm pits.
12:40 – 103.3
"Did you sleep good?" Dean asks, wiping sweat away with a washcloth.
"Not long enough."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"I'm hot."
12:48 – 102.3
Sam's eyes are starting to droop. Dean squeezes his brother's arm too hard. "No sleeping. Fever's not low enough yet."
Sam struggles to sit up straighter. "I'm trying so hard."
"I know you are."
A bead of sweat drips down onto Sam's eyelashes. He blinks it away. "Remember when you had that fever? High school. When you thought the ceiling was caving in?"
Dean puts the water bottle to Sam's lips. "No. Can't say I remember that."
Sam swallows. "I do."
They're quiet for a minute. "Sam? Is the ceiling caving in?"
Sam doesn't look up. "It already has."
12:55 – 101.1
"Almost there," Dean promises. "Then you can go back to sleep."
"Bobby find anything?"
"Not yet." Sam blinks too long. Dean wants nothing more than to let his brother fall asleep. What he wants and needs are never the same thing. Except sleep. He both wants and needs sleep. But he can't have it. "Eyes open, man."
The struggle to pull eyelids apart is obvious. "How long did it take?"
"For your fever to get to 104? Almost an hour."
"You could sleep, too. Set an alarm. Wake me then."
It's tempting. It's so fucking tempting. "I don't know…"
"An hour, Dean. I won't get that bad in an hour. You need sleep."
1:03 – 100.1
Dean replaces the cold packs, sets the alarm on his phone, and crawls in bed next to his brother.
The first hour goes smoothly. Dean's alarm goes off just before 2:00. He groggily check's Sam's fever, wakes him, and works him through cold packs and sweat as his temperature drops. Then he sets his alarm again.
This could work. Sleeping an hour at a time isn't ideal, but it's sleep. Once Dean has 4 or 5 hours in him, he might be awake enough to help Bobby with the research. Figure this thing out.
Dean clings to this glimmer of hope as he falls asleep.
Something is wrong.
First, it feels like he's been asleep a hell of a lot longer than an hour. Second, he's covered in sweat and so fucking hot.
Dean wishes (he prays) that the motel is on fire. That the blistering heat to his left is flame and embers that can be put out.
But when he turns on the lamp, it's not fire. It's Sam.
"Sam?" Dean yells, jumping out of bed. "Wake up!" He grabs Sam and tugs him into a seated position, but he just lolls against Dean's shoulder. "Fuck," Dean whispers, tugging Sam's shirt over his head. He lays his brother down again, activates a cold pack, and places it behind Sam's neck. When he tries to activate another, he squeezes so hard the bag explodes, chemicals soaking Dean's shirt and the nightstand and the carpet. "Damn it. Sam? Sammy? Wake up!"
He tries again and manages to get cold packs in Sam's armpits and against his forehead, but Sam doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Doesn't move.
Dean's hands shake as he sticks the thermometer in Sam's ear. When it beeps, he's can't look at the display. It's bad, he knows it's bad. He braces himself and counts like he did when he was a kid, before pulling off a Band-Aid or jumping into a pool of cold water. One, two, three.
107.4.
Dean cries out. Why the fuck is there a thermometer that gives numbers that high? Why doesn't it just say DEAD?
"Sammy, please," Dean begs. Sam's skin is flushed, sunburned from the inside out. Maroon. Ruby. Scarlet. These colors should be in the 64-pack of Crayola crayons, not on his brother's face and chest and the tips of his ears.
Dean tugs off his brother's pants. More cold packs. Under each kneecap and against his groin and god, Sam, please wake up and bitch about that.
Hands still shaking, Dean calls Bobby. "He won't wake up," Dean cries, too fast and too loud.
"Dean? What happened? What's wrong?"
"I fell asleep and my alarm didn't go off and Sam's fever is 107.4 and he won't wake up. I can't fucking get him to wake up."
"Okay, slow down, boy," Bobby says. "Panicking aint going to help either one of you. You got him in ice?"
Dean nods. "Yeah. Cold packs. Seven of them."
"Good. How's his pulse?"
When Dean puts his fingers on Sam's neck, it takes a minute for him to think about anything other than hot burning scorching hot but then the finds Sam's pulse and counts. "Fast. 115."
"What about his breathing? He breathing okay?"
"That's fast, too. But yeah. He's breathing."
"Good. I assume you don't want to take him to the hospital?"
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "They won't be able to do anything for him. Tell me you're finding something, Bobby."
"I'm close, boy. Really close. Keep trying to wake him. Get him as cool as you can. I'll call you as soon as I have an answer."
"I will. I will. But hurry. Please."
After they hang up, Dean shakes Sam's shoulder. Slaps his cheek. Hard. Screams Sammy's name so loud it hurts his throat.
Nothing.
He sticks the thermometer in Sam's ear. 107.7. He looks at his phone. Sam was asleep for over three hours. The alarm is still set. Dean confused a.m. and p.m. Instead of setting the alarm for 1 hour later, he set it for 13 hours later.
Dean drops to his knees and lands in the spilled cold pack chemicals and cries.
The ear thermometer is in a thousand pieces. Dean threw it on the ground after the reading hit 108 and stomped on it until the pieces became one with the carpet. After all, the point of buying the ear thermometer was to allow Sam to sleep. Seems stupid now.
He's stopped trying to wake Sam. He knows his brother will wake when the curse is broken, or he'll die. Whichever comes first. No amount of shaking and slapping and yelling is going to change that. Not at 108 degrees.
Dean replaces warm cold packs. He sponges water over Sam's fiery skin. He prays. He waits.
It happens unceremoniously. Dean is pacing from the window to Sam's bed and back again when he notices Sam's breathing is a little slower. At first he panics, thinking this is it, he's dying, but then he gets a hand on Sam's chest. It's cooler.
"Sammy? Can you hear me?"
Sweat pours from Sam's pores and soaks the sheets. Dean wipes away as much as he can, trying to speed the process as the fever breaks.
Eventually, the sweating slows and stops. Skin that was flushed is now a healthy peach-pink. Sam's breathing and pulse are normal. Dean slips the thermometer under Sam's tongue. It beeps and Dean almost collapses with relief. 98.6. Perfect.
Dean's cell goes off. He answers on the second ring. "Bobby?"
"How's Sam?"
"His fever broke. Temperature's normal. Pulse and breathing are good."
"Damn, it's good to hear that. Wasn't sure it was going to work."
Dean presses his palm to his eye. "But…Bobby? He…Sam hasn't woken up yet."
The pause is a few seconds longer than Dean would like, but Bobby says, "He's been through a lot. Let him sleep. Who knows…"
He doesn't need to finish. Dean gets it. Even though the fever was supernatural, it might have natural consequences.
"Okay. I'll let him sleep."
"Call me when he wakes up?"
"I will. Thanks for your help, Bobby."
Bobby's muttering something about an ass-saving fee as he hangs up the phone.
Dean checks Sam's temperature one more time. Still normal. He removes the cold packs, covers Sam with a sheet, and smoothes sweaty bangs away from Sam's forehead. He starts cleaning up the room: gathering used towels and washcloths, picking the biggest of the ear thermometer pieces out of the carpet.
The next time he looks up, Sam's eyes are open. Dean drops everything and rushes to his brother's side. "Sammy? Are you with me?"
Sam stretches. Winces. Sighs. "What happened?"
Dean breathes a sigh of relief. Sam's brain isn't completely fried. "I fell asleep for too long. Your temperature got up to 108. But Bobby took care of it for us. How are you feeling?"
"Tired."
"Yeah. But besides that. You good? You know what year it is and who I am and all that?"
"It's 1998 and you're one of the Hanson brothers, right?"
"Dude. I'm one of the Hanson brothers? Have you seen your hair lately?"
"Hey. I use way less product than you. In a 'who's manlier' contest, I'll win every time. Look at you. You're about to cry over there."
As much as Dean wants to argue, he can't. He swallows hard. "Thought I was going to lose you, Sammy."
The words hang heavy in the air. After a while, Sam nods. "But you didn't. I'm okay, Dean. I'm fine."
Dean swallows again and nods. "I gotta go call Bobby. Tell him you're okay. Why don't you get some sleep?"
Sam rolls onto his side, facing Dean. He yawns. "Thank him from me."
The call is quick. Now that the adrenaline is gone, Dean isn't sure how much longer he can stay awake. When he says goodbye and returns to the room, Sam is asleep. Dean eyes the empty bed for no longer than a second, bypassing it in favor of the small space in bed next to Sam.
He turns off the lamp and lies down quietly. Though exhaustion is tugging at his brain, he can't sleep yet. He reaches out and smoothes a hand over Sam's forehead. Cool. Healthy. Normal.
"How long are you going to do that?" Sam mumbles sleepily.
"What?"
"Checking for a fever while I'm asleep. How many days are you going to do that?"
Dean smiles into the darkness. "Forever." Because he can. Because his brother is alive and warm but not hot and perfect.
"Such a girl," Sam whispers.
"Sleep, Samantha."
And they do.