A/N: Yay! Chapter four of How To Fix a Winchester. This ends this particular sick-fic, though I might do a different variation later on. I would love canon prompts for this story, if anyone has any ideas. My two AU's are both pretty demanding to write, and sometimes it's difficult to get inspiration for this project while holding those other story lines in my head.
Please review if you have a moment, I love hearing from you.
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Not my babies (but seriously- MY. BABIES. Screw with them and I will salt and burn you! jk. Sort of.)
How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Four
"The Unfortunate Thing About Long Nights"
Dean stirred drowsily, opening his eyes slowly.
He didn't remember falling asleep, didn't actually remember where exactly he was.
His head pounding, he stretched out one arm and then another, feeling around hazily.
Okay.
Bed. Definitely a bed.
That was good, he supposed, though why he still had his jeans on in bed was anyone's guess. On top he was down to just his undershirt, but that was enough to make the sheet he was laying under stick to his body, sweat dampening the thin material.
Maybe Sam had undressed him?
Sam was a prude, it would be just like him to only undress half of Dean, but the question remained, why had Dean needed help undressing? And why the holy hell did his head feel like it was going to explode? Did he get stupid drunk last night?
Sam.
Dean's mind circled back around to it's default setting in his confusion. Take-care-of-Sammy-mode.
Where was Sam?
Dean pushed himself up with a painful groan. Finally managing to sit more or less upright, he looked around.
His mind settled a little when he spied his kid slumped at the motel's small table, fast asleep, head pillowed on his arms.
A brown bag was beside him and Dean could smell what he was pretty sure was Chinese takeout, and now it was starting to come back to Dean slowly.
Sam had been tired and hungry, and Dean hadn't wanted to admit it but he had been starting to feel pretty crappy. He must have fallen asleep right after he ordered, and Sam got him in bed, then fell asleep himself. He'd complained about feeling pretty tired, after all.
Forehead scrunched, he studied his brother sleepily. Something was off about this whole picture, but Dean was damned if he could put his finger on it at that moment. His head was pounding in time with his heartbeat, and he could no longer deny he was running a fever. As he peeled off his sweat soaked shirt, a cough made it's way up from deep in his chest, and Dean finally acquiesced.
Okay, dammit.
He was...maybe...possibly...just a tiny bit sick.
Wandering over to the gear, he poked around until he found some aspirin. Tossing back two (he probably needed cold meds instead, but they made him feel like crawling out of his skin, and Dean always felt vulnerable and off-kilter when he had to take them.)
Pulling on a dry shirt, he wandered over to where Sam slept, looking in the bag experimentally as he tried to remember what he ordered.
Apparently he had heeded Sam's plea for vegetables, because he saw beef and broccoli as well as lo mein and egg rolls.
Grabbing an egg roll out of the bag, he took a bite, wincing as his sore throat protested the assualt.
"Sam. Sam. Sammy." Dean chanted tiredly, already resigned to the battle ahead to wake up his sleeping brother. A half asleep Sam was the world's most stubborn, dangerous creature.
If someone were to burst in shooting at that very moment, Dean's brother would awaken instantly, armed and bright eyed and bushy-freaking-tailed.
If a baddie showed up, Sam would be awake and on the attack before the monster even knew what the hell had hit him.
Sam instincts were incredible about that kind of thing, but unfortunately for Dean, they were also spot on, because unless a baddie were to show up, the kid wasn't waking up. Take the monster out of the equation and an over-tired Sam was just six feet, four inches of useless dead weight.
Dean had spent the entirety of Sam's seventeenth year testing Sam's crazy ability to filter out anything unessential, but he'd never tripped him up, even once.
A werewolf walk down the block from their car? Sam's awake.
Dean screaming in Sam's ear as if a banshee was chewing on his intestines? Sam just rolled over.
"Sammy-Sammy-Sammy." Dean continued his chant, now poking at Sam's forehead with one finger as he continued his move-my-sleeping-sasquatch-brother routine.
He was only about a third of the way through, if he remembered the stages correctly, when Sam jerked up suddenly, eyes shooting open, and Dean started looking around instinctively, cause, shit, that wasn't supposed to happen and where was the monster?
"Wha-what?" Sam said, blinking his eyes repeatedly, already leaning forward a little, like a deflating balloon losing air, and Dean prayed for the aspirin to kick in as he shoved Sam back gently, forcing the kid upright in his chair again.
"Eat." Dean kept the command simple, trying to hold on to even one thought at a time in his mind was a little like trying to catch a firefly.
"What?" Sam said, blinking again, and Dean frowned as that feeling of missing-something swept over him.
"Eat. No headache." Dean's words were half-slurred with exhaustion, he was still burning up, the air in the room felt cold against his hot skin, though he noticed Sam had the heater cranked up.
"F-o-o-d." Dean drew the word out slowly, as he tiredly pushed the container of beef and broccoli over to his sleep-drunk brother.
Sam looked at it bemusedly, like Dean had just handed him a coconut or something and told him to chow down.
Using one finger to scoot a pair of chopsticks over to his brother, Dean leaned back and picked up his own half-heartedly, determined to eat at least a little so the aspirin didn't eat it's way through the lining of his stomach.
Sam studied the chopsticks like they were a physics equation, and Dean snorted in tired amusement. Sam finally reached out and picked up a plastic fork from the table, fingers clumsy as he opened the plastic lid on the container of food.
"What are you doing?" Dean muttered, food halfway to his mouth.
Sam paused, the fork held in mid air, looking really confused now.
"Did...you want the beef and broccoli?" He finally asked, and Dean wondered if Sam was actually now sleep-talking and sleep-eating, because the kid was obviously not operating on his normal level.
"You've used chopsticks since you were six, Sammy." Dean chided gently, slumping in his seat a little more. "You taught me, kiddo, remember?" And it was true. Dad had taken them to an amazing hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant on the west coast that year, and Sam had been fascinated by the older gentleman in the back using chopsticks.
John had chided Sam for interrupting the man's meal, but Sam's unerring knack for walking into complete strangers good graces had held true, and soon Sam was sitting contentedly beside the man, an uncomfortable Dean hovering as the man's fingers had shaped Sam's much smaller ones around the chop sticks. Dean hadn't liked a stranger being so close to his kid, but the delight on Sammy's face soon had a reluctant Dean sitting across the table from them, as it became Sam's turn to shape Dean's fingers on the utensils.
It had become a thing, between the two of them, to always use chopsticks whenever they ate Chinese food, and Dean hadn't thought about the unconscious ritual in years, until Sam had unwittingly broken tradition.
"Huh." Sam said, blinking some more, and Dean's brow creased again. Forcing back the cough that was trying to climb back up his throat again, he waved at Sam to continue eating however he wanted. Dean was feeling too crappy to worry about chopsticks, and Sam was obviously no where near awake.
Sam shook his head again, listing halfway to one side, before straightening again and taking a slow bite. He managed maybe half a dozen more before his hand dropped to his lap, still clutching his fork.
"Sleep, Sam." Dean mumbled, more than ready for his own bed, but a half awake Sam would hapily walk-fall down a flight of stairs and the kid was too damn heavy to lift off the floor. Smothering another cough, he pushed off slowly, giving himself a moment as the room didn't seem entirely happy staying level. Finally he walked the two steps over to Sam, dropping a heavy hand to Sam's shoulders, but Sam didn't even react, and Dean nodded to himself.
Sam. Bed.
Then Dean. Bed.
Good plan.
"Come on, kiddo, time for bed." He said, slipping into the terminology of their youth in his tired daze.
Sam looked at him blankly for a moment. "You're sick." He said, scrunching up his nose and Dean couldn't help but laugh, even though it turned into a cough at the end.
"Yeah. Maybe just a little. And you're so tired you won't even remember my admitting it tomorrow." Dean chuckled some more, but Sam's frown deepened a little.
"You should take some medicine." He said solemnly, and Dean just nodded, willing the kid into bed so he could crawl into his own and die in peace.
"Already did." He soothed, knowing a tired Sam could fixate on small details, and wanting to avoid the hassle.
"Cold medicine. Not aspirin." Sam elaborated, as he pushed up unsteadily, and Dean reached out without thinking to steady him. The act nearly unbalanced them both, and Dean was pretty much done with this whole ridiculous thing.
"Sleep, Sam." He ordered firmly, and thankfully, this time Sam just nodded. Dean turned to check the salt lines,verifying Sam had laid them correctly. He knew Sam would never have fallen asleep without doing it, but it was a lifetime old habit, and Dean knew he'd probably never break it.
Satisfied, he turned around, only to scowl at the sight before him.
Sam was in the wrong goddamned bed.
Fuck.
"Sam." Dean said crossly, and cursed the fact that Sam was already laying down. Dean might very well have to drag him to the other bed, but he damn well would if he had to. Dean slept closest to the door, and closest to the window.
Every night. Every time.
Period.
"Sammy!" He raised his voice as much as his sore throat would allow, and again Sam surprised him by jerking up, looking around in disorientation.
"What's wrong?" He mumbled, swaying again, and Deam was caught by the sudden understanding of exactly what had been bugging him through their entire meal, short though it was.
Sam had put on his sick hoodie.
"Dude. You're sick!" Dean accused self-righteously, brows lowered like thunderclouds, and Sam looked at him helplessly.
"I'm tired." Sam replied, swaying a little where he sat, and Dean reached for him instinctively.
"You're wearing your sick hoodie." Dean said, lips pursed, and Sam shook his head tiredly.
"Burned in the fire." He muttered, eyes a little unfocused.
"And then I bought you three new ones, and that's the one you hate, but you didn't want to tell me, so you only put it on when you feel like crap."
"Oh.." Sam said, nodding like Dean's words made perfect sense to him. "Yeah."
Dean cursed again, because Sam really was pretty damn out of it if he just admitted to being sick. A little sore throat? Pop a cough drop and kill the baddie. Sprained wrist? Wrap the fucker and torch the baddie.
And so on and so on.
"How many layers are you even wearing?" Dean asked, muscles aching and head screaming at him to lay down, but a sick Sam was top priority.
For Dean to admit to feeling sick the way he had earlier meant he felt god-awful. For Sam to admit it, he probably needed antibiotics and fluids and pain killers and a hot nurse with a shit ton of ice.
Because Sammy didn't get sick.
Dean's kid got really, incredibly, stupidly sick, with things that Dean had never even heard of, like pleurisy and scarlet fever.
"S'cold." Sam mumbled, and Dean reached out for his forehead, jerking his hand back at the heat he could feel even on top of his own fever.
He helped Sam over to the right bed, and got him settled, wrestling off three of Sam's layers with the promise of giving him both blankets.
"Didn't want to tell you." Sam mumbled, and Dean had to lean closer to hear him.
"How come, Sammy?" He asked, voice gentle now that he understood Sam's exhaustion and confusion.
"Cause you take care of me and not you." Sam finished sleepily, and Dean felt his heart swell as he realized that Sam had probably felt bad for a while now, but had let Dean sleep so he could start on his own healing process.
"Big brother prerogative, kiddo." He scolded affectionately, pushing Sam's hair off his forehead, frowning again at the heat.
He walked painfully over to the fist aid kit and dug around for some medicine for Sam, and a handful of the day time pills for himself. They wrecked havoc on his system, like a hit of speed, Dean wouldn't sleep for hours once he took them, but that was what Dean needed, because Sam had spiked sudden high fevers like this only a handful of times before, but on two of those occasions, John had bundled Sam into an ER.
Sam swallowed the pills obediently enough, and Dean wondered why the hell he'd taken so long to catch on, because Sam had never been a particularly obedient kid.
But he was Dean's kid none the less.
Settling down to watch an already sleeping Sam, Dean crossed his legs on Sam's bed, tossing back the pills.
It was gonna be a long night.
Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural
Sam hadn't wanted to tell Dean so soon, but the words had sort of tumbled out all on their own. Sam had awoken at the table, and the cold was still there, burrowing into his bones, swimming in his veins, replacing his blood with ice and coating his limbs with concrete, every movement too hard, too slow. His thoughts swam randomly around in his head, and he couldn't have repeated a third of what Dean had said to him for a million dollars cash.
He had wanted to avoid telling Dean at least a little longer, because Dean was nowhere near being better yet, but his body wasn't cooperating.
His chest ached, and his head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds now, instead of a mere hundred.
Dean's observation about Sam's hoodie preferences had been enough to discombobulate Sam completely, and he surrendered to the inevitably of his brother catching on to his illness.
At least Dean had gotten a few hours sleep and taken some medicine.
Deciding to be happy with small victories, he relented, laying down on the (farthest from the window) bed, looking up at his brother like he had a dozen other times when he was sick.
Dean was pulling up a chair, and Sam took the opportunity to study his face, trying to ascertain if he thought Dean really had taken some medicine.
Dean did look a little better, still miserable, but the lines of pain on his forehead had softened some, and that was a good sign.
Satisfied, he let his eyes drift closed, knowing that Dean wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon.
Dean would sit vigil until Sam was better, because Dean took care of Sam just like Sam took care of Dean.
That was what it meant to be a Winchester.