Sammy's Brazen Overture
Title: Sammy's Brazen Overture
Summary: Sam is always sick for his birthday. It's the Season 3 finale, Sammyverse-style.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through season 3, preferably the beginning of Season 4. Language as always.
Wordcount: 3,827
Author's Note: Sammyverse--asthma Sam, BFF Winchesters. Another Margot and the Nuclear So and So's title, this one from "Mariel's Brazen Overture," and again who knows why.
---
Sam is always sick for his birthday.
It was a running joke when he was a kid, maybe kind of a mean one, but a sick birthday boy was a boy who got coddled within an inch of his life, so it wasn't that mean. Then he got to be a certain age and birthdays stopped being as big a deal, but unless someone was seriously straight-up dying, he'd get to spend the day in the motel room curled up with hot chocolate and the remote control and a bottle of Nyquil, no drama, and that was usually enough of a birthday gift to get the kid through to next year, and how fucking depressing is that, and maybe that's why Dean was a little confused when he called Sam on his twentieth birthday, his first one away from home, and Sam mentioned he was sick, just like always, because Dean thought wait, you're not hunting, so you don't have to be sick, because Dean is an idiot sometimes when Sam is concerned, he knows, he knows.
Sam thought he was getting a cold, but it turned out it was just new and exciting Stanford pollen hitting his chest before his nose, and by the time Dean got out there to see him, on the 7th or something, he was just his usual wheezy self, and he and Dean hustled pool and drank wine on the roof of Sam's dorm and puked on each other's shoes.
**
For his twenty-first birthday, Jess was sick first, Jess and her mild asthma that scared the shit out of Sam whenever it reared its dainty little head (because seriously, Dean loved Jess, but a bad day of breathing for her was a fucking spectacular day for his kid, but he isn't too hard on her because he knows Jess was always aware of it and that made it suck all the more for her) and Sam got himself all fucking worried taking care of her and Dean dragged him out for a drink the night of his birthday while she stayed home and he brought Sam back a coughing, panting mess and Jess and Dean had the first and only fight they ever did, bitching at each other of the state of Sam's lungs while Sam wheezed in-between them and Jesus, you should have seen the look on the kid's face, that was fucking Christmas for Sam. In the morning they opened presents and in the afternoon Sam and Jess were some wheezy sleepy mess of a couple on the couch and Dean covered them with a blanket and kissed their foreheads and left before they woke up again.
**
Sam's twenty-second birthday was while he was on anti-anxiety meds, or more accurately it was on the very last day he was on anti-anxiety meds, because while Jess was making him French toast and Sam hadn't eaten fucking anything Dean grabbed his arm and told him he had hives, and five minutes later they were everywhere, and five minutes after that his blood pressure was tanking in the ER and Sam stayed calm not because he was on anti-anxiety pills but because Sam is a fucking superhero, and Jess clung to everything that moved and Dean wanted to but fucking contained himself because he'd done this before and Jess, thank fucking whoever the hell up there's kept half on eye on Sammy, hadn't, and five hours later they were packed up and home and Dean grilled some steaks and Sam, worn the fuck out and drugged beyond recognition, cried a little on Jess's shoulder, and that was his last birthday with her.
**
They ran themselves ragged for weeks before his 23rd, chasing down four spirits on different corners of the damn country who'd all died in the same earthquake and didn't seem one damn bit happy about the possibility of burning the fuck away individually, so they were breaking every speed limit ever fucking instilled trying to get them all handled before the others wised up and sprung back, and Sam had been running hot for days at that point, not so much with fever as with the useless, parched heat of an engine going dry,and 9 AM on his birthday, when the hunt was finally over, when Dean had plans to take Sam out for pizza and he'd even found a fucking bakery under a hundred miles away that catered to people with angry immune systems like Sammy's that promised they wouldn't peanut poison the kid, so guess where they were supposed to be headed that afternoon, and then Sam got slammed with a fucking hideous asthma attack halfway through brushing his teeth, and they spent most of the day trying to stave off an ER visit and playing Spit. Sam was all better two days later, and they went and got Sam his damn cupcake on the way out of town.
**
On his 24th birthday, Sam took an eight inch blade to the small of his back.
**
“I didn't want to be sick today,” Sam says, softly. “I wanted to be healthy for you one last time.”
Dean replaces the washcloth on Sam's neck. “Yeah, well, if you weren't a fucking pain in the ass, you wouldn't be my kid.”
They're being really sappy today, saying everything. Because why the fucking fucking fucking hell not.
And in a really hideous way, a way Dean doesn't really have the fucking luxury of wallowing in shame about anymore, this is kind of what Dean wanted. A healthy Sam would be raging, screaming, trying any last ditch fucking effort to get them out of this (and they've done the last ditch and the last last ditch and the last last last last last last ditch) but when he's really fucking honest (and if there were ever a time for real fucking honesty) he just wants to take care of Sam one more time.
So he'd wanted Sam clingy and comforted and right, that was the proper damn way to end this, and of course the universe grabbed that and twisted it around and gave the kid either bronchitis or pneumonia, he’s not sure, and he’s not going to be around for the diagnosis to find the fuck out. He’s never going to fucking know
Sam shivers and leans into him. Exhausted, he asks Dean, for the tenth time, what day it is.
“It's Thursday,” Dean says, softly. “It's almost your birthday.”
**
Ruby was here earlier, when Sam was delirious. Bobby's on his way down, but he won't make it before midnight. He's going to meet Sammy at the hospital, probably by three or four. Ruby will watch him until then. In-between.
He's doing better now than when she was here. He'd been kicking and mumbling, the wheezing weak and the coughing dry and ineffectual. Dean sat by the bed and she ran her fingers through his hair, just a little.
“He needs a hospital, Dean,” she said.
Dean played with the sheet. “He begged me not to. I'm going to call an ambulance at eleven fifty-nine.”
“I can do it. If you want?”
Dean shook his head. “I want it to be just me and Sam then. You know? That's how he wants it.”
She nodded. “I'll come after.”
“Thanks,” he whispered.
They were quiet for a while, just listening to Sam mumble Latin into his pillow.
“He better not fucking exorcise me,” Ruby said after a minute.
Dean smiled without meaning too.
“I'm sorry, Dean,” she said. “I kind of started liking you after all.”
She rubbed a hand up and down Sam's back as the coughing picked up.
She didn't try to touch his chest.
“Just take care of him,” he said. “Don't let him wither, all right? He's a drama queen. He'll try to be all dramatic about the grieving thing. Don't let him do anything fucking stupid. No deals or anything. All right?”
“I'll keep him safe for you. Until you're out.”
“Ruby…”
She made eye contact. “We’re getting you out, Dean. Sam can do anything.”
“Anything but breathe,” Dean said, quietly.
Ruby sighed and looked down at the kid. “Anything but breathe.”
She hugged Dean, promised to be back just after midnight to drag Dean’s body out back before the ambulance got there, and Dean wanted to say a lot of things, wanted to say please be a good guy or please don’t fuck my brother or please for the mother of fucking God get me out but he just hugged her back because his kid was all limp and prone on the bed and couldn’t hug fucking anyone.
She kissed Sam's forehead before she left, just this little chaste thing, and then she was gone. Dean scooted closer to the bed.
Sam was shivering. Sam had been shivering for a fucking hour at this point while the fever crept steadily up, Dean cupped his hand over his forehead and breathed out.
Sam whimpered a little, and Dean tucked Sammy’s hot head under his chin.
“Safe,” he said to him. “Don’t worry. You’re staying safe.”
**
So it’s just after eight P.M., and the fever’s actually higher now, hovering just above 104, but he’s in this period of lucidity and the cough’s productive again. He’s half-sitting against the headboard, running the hem of his t-shirt between his fingers, watching Dean in the bathroom. He isn’t shivering, so the fever’s holding steady. He’s just watching.
“You doing okay in there?” Dean says.
He nods. His breathing’s soggy, like boots in slush.
“Remember last time I had pneumonia?” he says.
Dean brings back the cup of water, comes and sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “At Stanford.”
“No. Before that.”
“That wouldn’t be the last time, then.”
“Have a fever, gimme a break.”
Dean smiles a little, plays with Sam’s foot through the covers. “When was the last time before that?”
“Seventeen. Jackson Hole.”
“Right. Ugh.”
“Remember you and Dad robbing the hospital?”
Dean nods.
“Why’d you do that? I don’t remember.”
“I’m surprised you remember fucking anything, with how sick you were. And how fucking hot you’re running now.” He scoots closer and just rests his hand against Sam’s forehead while he talks. “They wouldn’t take our insurance. Wouldn’t fucking admit you even though your fucking pathetic life was pretty much flashing before your eyes, so I stayed with you for an hour or two and Dad robbed the hospital and got you IV antibiotics and stuff, came back and slid needles into you, got you all better.”
“I miss Dad.”
“Fuck, me too.”
Sam coughs and Dean keeps the hand on his forehead to hold him up. He’s just really worried. When the fit’s over, he moves up to the headboard and tucks Sam under his arm.
“Touchy,” Sam says, quietly, leaning his hot little forehead all the fuck over Dean’s neck.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I remember you staying with me,” Sam says. “You told me the entire fucking plot of Die Hard. With quotes.”
“You just wanted me to talk. You didn’t give a shit what I said.”
“I do now.”
“I know. That’s what I’m really scared of right now. That’s what I’m really fucking scared of, Jesus. Saying the wrong thing to you tonight.”
“I’m so cold.”
“Hmm.” Dean puts his arms around him, just holds him here.
**
“Coedine,” Dean says, adding that one to the list. “Coedine, yeah. So penicillin and all that penicillin crap pretending not to be penicillin, codeine, and your asthma has some feud with ibuprofen. That’s it?”
“Uh, that other antibiotic. Doxy.”
“Right.” He writes down peanuts, shellfish and then starts listing asthma meds and what Sam gets when and what to do if he fucking tries to die on you in such and such way and Sam supervises, one cheek against Dean’s shoulder and the other against a cold washcloth.“We should have done this fucking ages ago,” Dean says.
“Had other things on our minds.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s okay.”
Dean pauses. “I can’t remember what to do for panic attacks. It’s been ages.”
“My head between your hands. Count breaths with me.” He coughs. “Just wait it out.”
“Right. Ugh.”
“I know all this, you know?”
“It’s for Bobby and Ruby. And anyone else.”
“Like who?”
“Find some girl, get married.”
“I don’t want some girl.”
Dean’s chest hurts. “Stop it, Sam.”
“I don’t.” Sam turns so his whole face is on Dean’s arm, now, and he’s fucking hot and sticky and saying, “I don’t, I don’t.”
**
He writes down ways to help Sammy eat and what stupid music he likes and he writes down stuff that isn't important, stuff people don't need to know, like what shoe size he is and how many stitches Dean put in that deep cut on his shoulder and what his pulse is right this damn second. He plucks out one of Sam's hairs and ties it around his finger. He just does things to remember.
**
“Mrs. Whitaker,” Sam says. “That was it.”
“I don't remember this at all.”
“She sucked. Yeah, she thought I was cheating on some math test when the kid fucking next to me was cheating on some math test. Made me clap erasers.” Sam's shivering again, his cheek against Dean's chest. “You weren't in school anymore then.” He sneezes into Dean's shirt and rubs his face against him. Dean thinks he might be falling asleep, and he can't figure out how the hell to feel about that, because the kid obviously needs to fucking sleep but they only have three hours left, you know?
“One of my eighth grade teachers gave me a D on the next math test,” Dean says. “Because I didn't show my work.”
“You're supposed to show your work, Dean.”
“Yeah, I didn't feel like it.” Dean runs his thumb over Sam's forehead. “As long as I do the work, why does she need to fucking see it?”
“You'ree supposed to share.”
“I don't want to share it,” he says.
“Yeah. But you have to.”
“Or what?”
“Or you get Ds.”
“It's mine, though. I don't want to share.” He's getting all fucking worked up, this is ridiculous, but Sam is fucking burning up in there and his breathing's getting worse and they have two hours and fifty six minutes.
“I can't breathe.”
Dean hugs him closer. “I know.”
**
“I want to hold you when it happens,” Sam says.
“No.”
Sam nods. He's kind of weepy now, but Dean can tell it's mostly just the fever, and that underneath Sam's holding up really damn well.
“They might hurt you then,” Dean says.
“No they won't. You know they won't.”
“I don't want you to fucking see it, okay? The ambulance will be coming then, and Ruby will be on her way, and I just want you to lie there and close your eyes and breathe.”
“I'm not going to do that.”
Dean buries his face in Sam's burning hot shoulder and mumbles, “But you're allergic to dogs,” and Sam chuckles a little.
**
At ten, the fever rises a fifth of a degree, and Sam goes from 80% lucid to 90% not in about five minutes, and now he's balled up on his side, whimpering and trembling with coughs, and Dean puts a warm washcloth on Sam's chest and a cool on on the back of his neck and sits by the bed. He doesn't panic. He's just so fucking tired, and in the past hour he's started hallucinating worse than Sammy, and he just wants to curl up next to Sam and never fucking leave, but he's afraid to get on the bed. He's afraid he'll let Sam hold him when it happens.
The truth is he's still fucking trying to protect the kid's psyche, and how fucked up is that, after everything they've been through, after everything he lets Sammy go through? The fact that he has an ounce of innocence left is a cosmic miracle, and does Dean really think that whether or not Sam's is holding his big brother's hand while he's ripped to shreds is really going to determine whether or not he finally loses it all?
“Wanted to leave it under the table,” Sam says, softly, which doesn't mean anything, he's just saying shit.
Dean moves the cool washcloth to Sam's cheek, rubs it back and forth like the fever is a smudge he can scrub away.
“I was trying but I couldn't see that far,” Sam explains.
“Okay.”
“Do you think Dad understands?”
“I do, Sam.”
“What if Ruby's a bad guy?”
“You'll know what to do.”
“Maybe Caleb's in heaven.”
“Maybe, yeah.”
“Maybe you'll get to be with Dad.”
It's not as if Dean hasn't thought about that, you know? “I hope so.”
“Everything was fighting over the sheep.”
Dean's smiling a little. He can't help it.
“I thought they'd never stop,” Sam says.
“But they did?”
“The sheep said, there's plenty of me, there is so much of sheep in the whole world. It unraveled into colors and I gave my favorite part to you.”
Dean kisses his forehead.
**
Breathing gets rough, and Sam wants fresh air, so Dean tucks himself under Sam's arm and hauls him out to the parking lot. He thinks about getting them on the hood of the car, but he can just picture fucking feverish Sam keeling to one side and falling off and fracturing his damn skull, so instead they just sit by the vending machines and Sam breathes a little better in the night air.
Dean tilts his head back and looks at the stars, twists that strand of Sam's hair around his finger.
“You have to keep a look out,” Sam says. His voice is still vague with fever.
“All right.”
“For a sign.” Sam rubs his face. “Before I get you out, I'm going to send you a sign.”
Dean gently knocks his hands away from his face. “Okay.”
“So don't forget to keep a look out. And fucking pay attention to the sign, okay?”
“You got it.” Dean swallows and swallows and swallows and Sam coughs, deep and rumbling, his head tipped back against the wall.
**
“I promised I wouldn't die in your arms,” Sam whispers.
Sam's shivering in bed.
It's eleven-thirty.
“I promised you that. And then I did,” Sam's saying, and Dean doesn't know if this is the fever talking or if the kid honestly hadn't realized until now that yeah, he died in Dean's fucking arms, just like he always threatened he would, but it wasn't even the asthma that took Sammy away from him, and it isn't this time, either, and they've spent twenty-four (twenty-five) years afraid of Sam's lungs and now it's this bullshit that's separating them, bullshit they can't protect him from, just like this fucking fever.
“My sick kid,” Dean whispers. “My fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking sick kid.”
“I'm sorry,” Sam whispers.
“You don't have to be.”
“If I hadn't had asthma, maybe could have fought Jake off, y'know? None of this would have happened.”
“You want to hear something sad?”
Sam nods, fuck this kid.
“If...and this is just representative of the bullshit of our lives, and you know, you fucking know, that I would have been crazy about you no matter what because you're annoying and clingy and the most fucking fantastic thing out there, but the fact of the matter is Dad shoved us together and Dad couldn't pull us apart and you've spent way too many fucking nights wheezing all over me and just...Sammy. Sammykid. If you hadn't had asthma, you might not be my best friend in the fucking world, and that's not even the bullshit of our lives, anymore, that's just reality, and you have been the best fucking sidekick. Okay?”
“You're the sidekick.”
Shit. Shit, maybe he's right.
And he feels like crying, because holy shit, maybe Sam will be okay. Sidekicks get killed off all the time.
“I am so proud of you,” Dean says. “I'm just so fucking goddamn proud of you.”
“I'll be okay.”
Dean nods a little.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can. Because you're a fucking superhero. Just...work hard, okay?”
Sam nods.
“And just...do whatever it takes. To stay alive. To stay you. Promise.”
“I'm going to hold you when it happens.”
“Sam. Shut. Up.”
“I'm going to hold you and you're going to be fucking dying so good luck stopping me,” and then Sam's fucking bawling, shit, shit shit shit shit shit shit, and he's clinging and telling Dean he loves him and Dean kind of shuts down and he's okay with that. His mind goes blank except for the smell of Sammy's fever all over him and Sam's sweaty cheek against his and if he gripped Sammy any harder he would break.
Sammy does not break.
**
At 11:58, the howling is deafening and Sam's all sneezy from the hellhounds circling that he can't even fucking see and Dean is crying on the phone to an ambulance, my kid's sick, my kid's sick, my kid's sick.
He sees Ruby appear right as the first claw hits his stomach and he screams and Sam screams and Ruby cups the back of Sam's head, strokes his hair, tries to fucking soothe him and Dean hears sirens and growling and he is slit open and Sam, Sam holds him the whole time, damn it Sam, damn it, he presses his lips above Sam's ear and he holds on, and he is close enough so that the last thing he hears is Sam's scratchy breathing and that's the only part Dean wants to talk about, okay?
**
Okay.
He'll talk about one more thing.
He'll talk about four months later, peeling the skin off of bodies, tendons and bone between his teeth, and fucking Meg shows up a-fucking-gain, looking beat up and fucked over from her latest trip up north, and she puts her hands on the body he's stripping and mumbles, “This is a sign.”
He glances at Alastair, who has his hands all over the new kid. “What?”
“This. Is. A. Sign.”
Summary: Sam is always sick for his birthday. It's the Season 3 finale, Sammyverse-style.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through season 3, preferably the beginning of Season 4. Language as always.
Wordcount: 3,827
Author's Note: Sammyverse--asthma Sam, BFF Winchesters. Another Margot and the Nuclear So and So's title, this one from "Mariel's Brazen Overture," and again who knows why.
---
Sam is always sick for his birthday.
It was a running joke when he was a kid, maybe kind of a mean one, but a sick birthday boy was a boy who got coddled within an inch of his life, so it wasn't that mean. Then he got to be a certain age and birthdays stopped being as big a deal, but unless someone was seriously straight-up dying, he'd get to spend the day in the motel room curled up with hot chocolate and the remote control and a bottle of Nyquil, no drama, and that was usually enough of a birthday gift to get the kid through to next year, and how fucking depressing is that, and maybe that's why Dean was a little confused when he called Sam on his twentieth birthday, his first one away from home, and Sam mentioned he was sick, just like always, because Dean thought wait, you're not hunting, so you don't have to be sick, because Dean is an idiot sometimes when Sam is concerned, he knows, he knows.
Sam thought he was getting a cold, but it turned out it was just new and exciting Stanford pollen hitting his chest before his nose, and by the time Dean got out there to see him, on the 7th or something, he was just his usual wheezy self, and he and Dean hustled pool and drank wine on the roof of Sam's dorm and puked on each other's shoes.
**
For his twenty-first birthday, Jess was sick first, Jess and her mild asthma that scared the shit out of Sam whenever it reared its dainty little head (because seriously, Dean loved Jess, but a bad day of breathing for her was a fucking spectacular day for his kid, but he isn't too hard on her because he knows Jess was always aware of it and that made it suck all the more for her) and Sam got himself all fucking worried taking care of her and Dean dragged him out for a drink the night of his birthday while she stayed home and he brought Sam back a coughing, panting mess and Jess and Dean had the first and only fight they ever did, bitching at each other of the state of Sam's lungs while Sam wheezed in-between them and Jesus, you should have seen the look on the kid's face, that was fucking Christmas for Sam. In the morning they opened presents and in the afternoon Sam and Jess were some wheezy sleepy mess of a couple on the couch and Dean covered them with a blanket and kissed their foreheads and left before they woke up again.
**
Sam's twenty-second birthday was while he was on anti-anxiety meds, or more accurately it was on the very last day he was on anti-anxiety meds, because while Jess was making him French toast and Sam hadn't eaten fucking anything Dean grabbed his arm and told him he had hives, and five minutes later they were everywhere, and five minutes after that his blood pressure was tanking in the ER and Sam stayed calm not because he was on anti-anxiety pills but because Sam is a fucking superhero, and Jess clung to everything that moved and Dean wanted to but fucking contained himself because he'd done this before and Jess, thank fucking whoever the hell up there's kept half on eye on Sammy, hadn't, and five hours later they were packed up and home and Dean grilled some steaks and Sam, worn the fuck out and drugged beyond recognition, cried a little on Jess's shoulder, and that was his last birthday with her.
**
They ran themselves ragged for weeks before his 23rd, chasing down four spirits on different corners of the damn country who'd all died in the same earthquake and didn't seem one damn bit happy about the possibility of burning the fuck away individually, so they were breaking every speed limit ever fucking instilled trying to get them all handled before the others wised up and sprung back, and Sam had been running hot for days at that point, not so much with fever as with the useless, parched heat of an engine going dry,and 9 AM on his birthday, when the hunt was finally over, when Dean had plans to take Sam out for pizza and he'd even found a fucking bakery under a hundred miles away that catered to people with angry immune systems like Sammy's that promised they wouldn't peanut poison the kid, so guess where they were supposed to be headed that afternoon, and then Sam got slammed with a fucking hideous asthma attack halfway through brushing his teeth, and they spent most of the day trying to stave off an ER visit and playing Spit. Sam was all better two days later, and they went and got Sam his damn cupcake on the way out of town.
**
On his 24th birthday, Sam took an eight inch blade to the small of his back.
**
“I didn't want to be sick today,” Sam says, softly. “I wanted to be healthy for you one last time.”
Dean replaces the washcloth on Sam's neck. “Yeah, well, if you weren't a fucking pain in the ass, you wouldn't be my kid.”
They're being really sappy today, saying everything. Because why the fucking fucking fucking hell not.
And in a really hideous way, a way Dean doesn't really have the fucking luxury of wallowing in shame about anymore, this is kind of what Dean wanted. A healthy Sam would be raging, screaming, trying any last ditch fucking effort to get them out of this (and they've done the last ditch and the last last ditch and the last last last last last last ditch) but when he's really fucking honest (and if there were ever a time for real fucking honesty) he just wants to take care of Sam one more time.
So he'd wanted Sam clingy and comforted and right, that was the proper damn way to end this, and of course the universe grabbed that and twisted it around and gave the kid either bronchitis or pneumonia, he’s not sure, and he’s not going to be around for the diagnosis to find the fuck out. He’s never going to fucking know
Sam shivers and leans into him. Exhausted, he asks Dean, for the tenth time, what day it is.
“It's Thursday,” Dean says, softly. “It's almost your birthday.”
**
Ruby was here earlier, when Sam was delirious. Bobby's on his way down, but he won't make it before midnight. He's going to meet Sammy at the hospital, probably by three or four. Ruby will watch him until then. In-between.
He's doing better now than when she was here. He'd been kicking and mumbling, the wheezing weak and the coughing dry and ineffectual. Dean sat by the bed and she ran her fingers through his hair, just a little.
“He needs a hospital, Dean,” she said.
Dean played with the sheet. “He begged me not to. I'm going to call an ambulance at eleven fifty-nine.”
“I can do it. If you want?”
Dean shook his head. “I want it to be just me and Sam then. You know? That's how he wants it.”
She nodded. “I'll come after.”
“Thanks,” he whispered.
They were quiet for a while, just listening to Sam mumble Latin into his pillow.
“He better not fucking exorcise me,” Ruby said after a minute.
Dean smiled without meaning too.
“I'm sorry, Dean,” she said. “I kind of started liking you after all.”
She rubbed a hand up and down Sam's back as the coughing picked up.
She didn't try to touch his chest.
“Just take care of him,” he said. “Don't let him wither, all right? He's a drama queen. He'll try to be all dramatic about the grieving thing. Don't let him do anything fucking stupid. No deals or anything. All right?”
“I'll keep him safe for you. Until you're out.”
“Ruby…”
She made eye contact. “We’re getting you out, Dean. Sam can do anything.”
“Anything but breathe,” Dean said, quietly.
Ruby sighed and looked down at the kid. “Anything but breathe.”
She hugged Dean, promised to be back just after midnight to drag Dean’s body out back before the ambulance got there, and Dean wanted to say a lot of things, wanted to say please be a good guy or please don’t fuck my brother or please for the mother of fucking God get me out but he just hugged her back because his kid was all limp and prone on the bed and couldn’t hug fucking anyone.
She kissed Sam's forehead before she left, just this little chaste thing, and then she was gone. Dean scooted closer to the bed.
Sam was shivering. Sam had been shivering for a fucking hour at this point while the fever crept steadily up, Dean cupped his hand over his forehead and breathed out.
Sam whimpered a little, and Dean tucked Sammy’s hot head under his chin.
“Safe,” he said to him. “Don’t worry. You’re staying safe.”
**
So it’s just after eight P.M., and the fever’s actually higher now, hovering just above 104, but he’s in this period of lucidity and the cough’s productive again. He’s half-sitting against the headboard, running the hem of his t-shirt between his fingers, watching Dean in the bathroom. He isn’t shivering, so the fever’s holding steady. He’s just watching.
“You doing okay in there?” Dean says.
He nods. His breathing’s soggy, like boots in slush.
“Remember last time I had pneumonia?” he says.
Dean brings back the cup of water, comes and sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “At Stanford.”
“No. Before that.”
“That wouldn’t be the last time, then.”
“Have a fever, gimme a break.”
Dean smiles a little, plays with Sam’s foot through the covers. “When was the last time before that?”
“Seventeen. Jackson Hole.”
“Right. Ugh.”
“Remember you and Dad robbing the hospital?”
Dean nods.
“Why’d you do that? I don’t remember.”
“I’m surprised you remember fucking anything, with how sick you were. And how fucking hot you’re running now.” He scoots closer and just rests his hand against Sam’s forehead while he talks. “They wouldn’t take our insurance. Wouldn’t fucking admit you even though your fucking pathetic life was pretty much flashing before your eyes, so I stayed with you for an hour or two and Dad robbed the hospital and got you IV antibiotics and stuff, came back and slid needles into you, got you all better.”
“I miss Dad.”
“Fuck, me too.”
Sam coughs and Dean keeps the hand on his forehead to hold him up. He’s just really worried. When the fit’s over, he moves up to the headboard and tucks Sam under his arm.
“Touchy,” Sam says, quietly, leaning his hot little forehead all the fuck over Dean’s neck.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I remember you staying with me,” Sam says. “You told me the entire fucking plot of Die Hard. With quotes.”
“You just wanted me to talk. You didn’t give a shit what I said.”
“I do now.”
“I know. That’s what I’m really scared of right now. That’s what I’m really fucking scared of, Jesus. Saying the wrong thing to you tonight.”
“I’m so cold.”
“Hmm.” Dean puts his arms around him, just holds him here.
**
“Coedine,” Dean says, adding that one to the list. “Coedine, yeah. So penicillin and all that penicillin crap pretending not to be penicillin, codeine, and your asthma has some feud with ibuprofen. That’s it?”
“Uh, that other antibiotic. Doxy.”
“Right.” He writes down peanuts, shellfish and then starts listing asthma meds and what Sam gets when and what to do if he fucking tries to die on you in such and such way and Sam supervises, one cheek against Dean’s shoulder and the other against a cold washcloth.“We should have done this fucking ages ago,” Dean says.
“Had other things on our minds.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s okay.”
Dean pauses. “I can’t remember what to do for panic attacks. It’s been ages.”
“My head between your hands. Count breaths with me.” He coughs. “Just wait it out.”
“Right. Ugh.”
“I know all this, you know?”
“It’s for Bobby and Ruby. And anyone else.”
“Like who?”
“Find some girl, get married.”
“I don’t want some girl.”
Dean’s chest hurts. “Stop it, Sam.”
“I don’t.” Sam turns so his whole face is on Dean’s arm, now, and he’s fucking hot and sticky and saying, “I don’t, I don’t.”
**
He writes down ways to help Sammy eat and what stupid music he likes and he writes down stuff that isn't important, stuff people don't need to know, like what shoe size he is and how many stitches Dean put in that deep cut on his shoulder and what his pulse is right this damn second. He plucks out one of Sam's hairs and ties it around his finger. He just does things to remember.
**
“Mrs. Whitaker,” Sam says. “That was it.”
“I don't remember this at all.”
“She sucked. Yeah, she thought I was cheating on some math test when the kid fucking next to me was cheating on some math test. Made me clap erasers.” Sam's shivering again, his cheek against Dean's chest. “You weren't in school anymore then.” He sneezes into Dean's shirt and rubs his face against him. Dean thinks he might be falling asleep, and he can't figure out how the hell to feel about that, because the kid obviously needs to fucking sleep but they only have three hours left, you know?
“One of my eighth grade teachers gave me a D on the next math test,” Dean says. “Because I didn't show my work.”
“You're supposed to show your work, Dean.”
“Yeah, I didn't feel like it.” Dean runs his thumb over Sam's forehead. “As long as I do the work, why does she need to fucking see it?”
“You'ree supposed to share.”
“I don't want to share it,” he says.
“Yeah. But you have to.”
“Or what?”
“Or you get Ds.”
“It's mine, though. I don't want to share.” He's getting all fucking worked up, this is ridiculous, but Sam is fucking burning up in there and his breathing's getting worse and they have two hours and fifty six minutes.
“I can't breathe.”
Dean hugs him closer. “I know.”
**
“I want to hold you when it happens,” Sam says.
“No.”
Sam nods. He's kind of weepy now, but Dean can tell it's mostly just the fever, and that underneath Sam's holding up really damn well.
“They might hurt you then,” Dean says.
“No they won't. You know they won't.”
“I don't want you to fucking see it, okay? The ambulance will be coming then, and Ruby will be on her way, and I just want you to lie there and close your eyes and breathe.”
“I'm not going to do that.”
Dean buries his face in Sam's burning hot shoulder and mumbles, “But you're allergic to dogs,” and Sam chuckles a little.
**
At ten, the fever rises a fifth of a degree, and Sam goes from 80% lucid to 90% not in about five minutes, and now he's balled up on his side, whimpering and trembling with coughs, and Dean puts a warm washcloth on Sam's chest and a cool on on the back of his neck and sits by the bed. He doesn't panic. He's just so fucking tired, and in the past hour he's started hallucinating worse than Sammy, and he just wants to curl up next to Sam and never fucking leave, but he's afraid to get on the bed. He's afraid he'll let Sam hold him when it happens.
The truth is he's still fucking trying to protect the kid's psyche, and how fucked up is that, after everything they've been through, after everything he lets Sammy go through? The fact that he has an ounce of innocence left is a cosmic miracle, and does Dean really think that whether or not Sam's is holding his big brother's hand while he's ripped to shreds is really going to determine whether or not he finally loses it all?
“Wanted to leave it under the table,” Sam says, softly, which doesn't mean anything, he's just saying shit.
Dean moves the cool washcloth to Sam's cheek, rubs it back and forth like the fever is a smudge he can scrub away.
“I was trying but I couldn't see that far,” Sam explains.
“Okay.”
“Do you think Dad understands?”
“I do, Sam.”
“What if Ruby's a bad guy?”
“You'll know what to do.”
“Maybe Caleb's in heaven.”
“Maybe, yeah.”
“Maybe you'll get to be with Dad.”
It's not as if Dean hasn't thought about that, you know? “I hope so.”
“Everything was fighting over the sheep.”
Dean's smiling a little. He can't help it.
“I thought they'd never stop,” Sam says.
“But they did?”
“The sheep said, there's plenty of me, there is so much of sheep in the whole world. It unraveled into colors and I gave my favorite part to you.”
Dean kisses his forehead.
**
Breathing gets rough, and Sam wants fresh air, so Dean tucks himself under Sam's arm and hauls him out to the parking lot. He thinks about getting them on the hood of the car, but he can just picture fucking feverish Sam keeling to one side and falling off and fracturing his damn skull, so instead they just sit by the vending machines and Sam breathes a little better in the night air.
Dean tilts his head back and looks at the stars, twists that strand of Sam's hair around his finger.
“You have to keep a look out,” Sam says. His voice is still vague with fever.
“All right.”
“For a sign.” Sam rubs his face. “Before I get you out, I'm going to send you a sign.”
Dean gently knocks his hands away from his face. “Okay.”
“So don't forget to keep a look out. And fucking pay attention to the sign, okay?”
“You got it.” Dean swallows and swallows and swallows and Sam coughs, deep and rumbling, his head tipped back against the wall.
**
“I promised I wouldn't die in your arms,” Sam whispers.
Sam's shivering in bed.
It's eleven-thirty.
“I promised you that. And then I did,” Sam's saying, and Dean doesn't know if this is the fever talking or if the kid honestly hadn't realized until now that yeah, he died in Dean's fucking arms, just like he always threatened he would, but it wasn't even the asthma that took Sammy away from him, and it isn't this time, either, and they've spent twenty-four (twenty-five) years afraid of Sam's lungs and now it's this bullshit that's separating them, bullshit they can't protect him from, just like this fucking fever.
“My sick kid,” Dean whispers. “My fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking sick kid.”
“I'm sorry,” Sam whispers.
“You don't have to be.”
“If I hadn't had asthma, maybe could have fought Jake off, y'know? None of this would have happened.”
“You want to hear something sad?”
Sam nods, fuck this kid.
“If...and this is just representative of the bullshit of our lives, and you know, you fucking know, that I would have been crazy about you no matter what because you're annoying and clingy and the most fucking fantastic thing out there, but the fact of the matter is Dad shoved us together and Dad couldn't pull us apart and you've spent way too many fucking nights wheezing all over me and just...Sammy. Sammykid. If you hadn't had asthma, you might not be my best friend in the fucking world, and that's not even the bullshit of our lives, anymore, that's just reality, and you have been the best fucking sidekick. Okay?”
“You're the sidekick.”
Shit. Shit, maybe he's right.
And he feels like crying, because holy shit, maybe Sam will be okay. Sidekicks get killed off all the time.
“I am so proud of you,” Dean says. “I'm just so fucking goddamn proud of you.”
“I'll be okay.”
Dean nods a little.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can. Because you're a fucking superhero. Just...work hard, okay?”
Sam nods.
“And just...do whatever it takes. To stay alive. To stay you. Promise.”
“I'm going to hold you when it happens.”
“Sam. Shut. Up.”
“I'm going to hold you and you're going to be fucking dying so good luck stopping me,” and then Sam's fucking bawling, shit, shit shit shit shit shit shit, and he's clinging and telling Dean he loves him and Dean kind of shuts down and he's okay with that. His mind goes blank except for the smell of Sammy's fever all over him and Sam's sweaty cheek against his and if he gripped Sammy any harder he would break.
Sammy does not break.
**
At 11:58, the howling is deafening and Sam's all sneezy from the hellhounds circling that he can't even fucking see and Dean is crying on the phone to an ambulance, my kid's sick, my kid's sick, my kid's sick.
He sees Ruby appear right as the first claw hits his stomach and he screams and Sam screams and Ruby cups the back of Sam's head, strokes his hair, tries to fucking soothe him and Dean hears sirens and growling and he is slit open and Sam, Sam holds him the whole time, damn it Sam, damn it, he presses his lips above Sam's ear and he holds on, and he is close enough so that the last thing he hears is Sam's scratchy breathing and that's the only part Dean wants to talk about, okay?
**
Okay.
He'll talk about one more thing.
He'll talk about four months later, peeling the skin off of bodies, tendons and bone between his teeth, and fucking Meg shows up a-fucking-gain, looking beat up and fucked over from her latest trip up north, and she puts her hands on the body he's stripping and mumbles, “This is a sign.”
He glances at Alastair, who has his hands all over the new kid. “What?”
“This. Is. A. Sign.”