Fourth Night of Jessakkuh
Title: Fourth Night of Jessakkuh
Summary: Dean goes to Stanford to spend Hanukkah with Jess and Sam. They're snowed in. Sam has a cold. Jess has a secret.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Wordcount: 1,888.
Author's Note: Sammyverse, part of an 8-part series with one bit a night through the end of Hanukkah. Happy 4th night! My sister and I got a goat. Not for us. For people in Africa.
Night #1
Night #2
Night #3
She's quiet in the car, and Dean's thoughts are bouncing around his head like fucking pinballs.
Eventually, he can't fucking help it. “So you're, uh...”
“Late. Yeah. Eight days.” She breathes out and hoists her feet up on the dashboard. “Fuck.”
“Fuck. Would you...?”
“Keep it? I don't know. Probably. Shit. I can't believe I'm telling you before Sam.”
“Sam doesn't know?”
“He's been kind of busy hacking up his fucking lungs.”
Dean hears something in that that he isn't quite fond of, no.
He says, “Is that it?”
“What?”
“I mean, fuck, Jess. I get that you're young and that's terrifying, and that should be the part that's scaring you-except, I mean, don't, because uncle Dean can babysit on exam days, you know?--but my brother's not too sick for you to date, just for you to spawn with? Don't give me that. Don't do that to him.”
“I can't talk about this with you. Not until I've talked to Sam.”
“Yeah, you need to fucking talk to Sam.”
“He's too sick.”
“No. He's not.”
**
It's like a fucking sign, really, because when they get back, Sam's up off the couch, warming up the brisket Jess made a few days ago. He charges to Jess and wraps his arms around her. Dean puts his hand to Sam's cheek. He's sweaty and warm. Not hot.
“I'm so fucking sorry,” he says. “I can't believe I let you go out there.” He straightens up and swats Dean. “What the hell, man?”
“Yeah, yeah. I rescued her.”
“I'm sorry.” Sam kisses her forehead. “I'm so fucking sorry. You okay? Come on. Dinner's almost done. Come eat.” He grabs them each by a wrist and tugs. “Come on.”
“Hold on.” Dean tugs himself loose and nudges Jess towards Sam. “You two go talk.”
Sam says, “What?”
“I'll finish up dinner. You two talk. Before that fever comes back. Hey. Jess. Don't let me down.”
**
They come out twenty minutes later. Jess has been crying a little but she's smiling now, this tentative, real little thing, and Sam rubs her back while he she eats. They're all quiet, shooting each other these nervous sappy looks like they're on their fucking first date, and Dean's had about enough of this, thanks.
“Maybe Rufus,” Dean says.
Sam looks up at him, frowns. “What?”
“For the baby. Good strong name. Rufus.”
Jess says, “What the fuck kind of name is Rufus?”
“He's a friend of the family,” Sam says. “Not quite someone I'd name a kid after.” But he cracks a smile. “I was thinking more like, you know. Something classic?”
“Christ, you're boring. Like what, John?”
“Uh, yeah, that was definitely on our list...”
“You guys have a list?”
“We've talked about this,” Jess says. She touches her cheek to Sam's shoulder. “We always wanted kids. We're just...young.”
Sam says, “Hey, we don't even know if you're pregnant yet. Don't worry, okay? There's tons of time to talk about this.”
“You've got to have Mary in there somewhere,” Dean says. “If it's a girl.”
“Of course.”
“Or Geraldine. I would make an exception if you'd agree to name her Geraldine.”
“Dean. What the fuck.”
“Or Rasputin. If it's a boy.”
Jess's mouth twitches up. “Chrysanthemum.”
“Chastity,” Dean says.
“Oregano.”
“Now you're just saying words.”
“Herbert.”
“Sherbert.”
Jess giggles.
Sam is smiling along, muffling wheezing behind his hand, and raking his fork through his food. Dean watches him cut everything into small bites and not fucking eat.
Sam isn't okay.
**
Jess lights the candles tonight, and Sam shakes because his fever's rising.
**
So when Dean wakes up to the middle of the night to heavy footsteps that grab the bottle of Jack from the freezer and then trek their way outside, he gives Sam some time. Despite the fucking frozen air and his shitty lungs and his fever, Dean figures he deserves a goddamn minute to himself.
When that minute turns into forty-five, he climbs into his coat and boots and he's out the door.
Sam's sitting on the hood of his car, head tilted up, bottle glinting in the moonlight. He holds it up when Dean approaches, like he's toasting him.
“We were going to have you jerk off in a cup!” he yells.
“That's maybe my favorite conversation starter ever.” Dean hops up on the car next to him.
“When we we wanted to have kids. We had a whole fucking plan. Adopt, or fucking shoot some of your big healthy spunk up my girlfriend. We were leaning towards that one, but fucking cursed Winchesters, so I wasn't sure.”
“Sam.”
“And now look! Fucking fetus with fucking shitty lungs.”
“You don't know any of that.”
“And how the fuck am I...” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Oh. Sam. Shit.”
“What the fuck am I going to do if I have a sick kid?” Sam says. “I'm going to hate myself forever. I can't do that to a fucking kid. To Jess's goddamn kid. Jesus, Dean, what if I have a sick kid? How the fuck do people handle sick kids?” He's looking at Dean, all crazy and drunk and feverish, and shit, Sam.
“You just do,” Dean says. “You just fucking do, because you love your sick kid so fucking much. That's just how it fucking is.”
“There's monsters out there. If I have to protect Jess and a sick kid...”
“You can do it.”
“I'm this fucking useless wheezy goddamn-”
“Don't you start that shit with me, Sammy. Don't you dare.”
“You say that all the time, but why the fuck not?”
Dean grabs Sam by the chin and makes him look at it. “Because when you were thirteen goddamn years old, you came and rescued my broken-ankled ass and drove me to the fucking hospital during an asthma attack. Because you called your own goddamn ambulance when you were seven fucking years old and told them you needed help. Because you went to fucking college even though Dad begged you not to and told you you were too sick, and guess what, Sam, you're fucking fine most of the time, and you're doing so so well. Because you were the best fucking hunter I've ever met, and you do so much more than anyone thinks you can, and because when you play this poor little asthmatic Sam card it makes me sick to my fucking stomach. You know who gets to say poor sick Sam? Me. I do. And I get to say it because the fact that you're sick breaks my fucking heart, but it breaks my heart because you're my fucking kid, you understand me? Not because you're my sick kid, but because you're you and this is the crap you have to pull around, but you pull it like nobody's goddamn business, and I tease you for it and I talk about it and I don't dance around any fucking subjects because you can take it, Sam. You can take goddamn near anything, and if you had any idea how many more times I've cried in those hospitals than you have, you would make a motion to have me unceremoniously castrated, and then good luck having uncle Dean jerk off for you. You are strong, Sam, and stop making me have to fucking tell you, because sometimes you get so fucking sick that I have a hard time reminding myself that, and I need you to remember, and I tell you this because you can fucking handle it. You're sick, and it makes you a superhero. And it makes you the best fucking kid anyone's ever had.”
Sam drops his forehead to Dean's shoulder and squeezes him within an inch of his life.
**
Everything melts and refreezes overnight, so the streets are icy as hell and Dean almost breaks his fucking leg going out to his car to get the meds he found for Sammy the next morning. Sam's fever is high again and he's sleeping like the dead under a scratchy blanket on the couch, and Jess sits next to him and runs ice cubes over his lips and pets his hair.
“There's no damn food in this house,” Jess says, quietly.
Sam stretches. “What?”
“Hey.” Dean shakes his foot. “You're up.”
“Yeah. Jess. You hungry?”
“There's some cereal, I think.”
Sam shakes his head and gets up, lumbers into the kitchen. They follow behind because fucking sue him, he's been passed out on the couch all goddamn day.
He digs through the fridge and takes out containers and opens baggies and checks expiration dates and says, “Okay, I got this.”
She kisses the back of his neck. “Baby. You're so fucking hot.”
He grins at her.
“Every damn fever,” Jess says. “Every fucking fever you make that joke. It's old, you know?”
“I don't make it. I just point it out.” He kisses her and scoots her out of the way. “Come on. I'll make something.”
By the look on Jess's face, this is a first for her, watching Sam make something out of nothing, but when they were kids, this was Sam's fucking job. They'd buy groceries every few stops and keep what they could and stick it in the mini fridge, and they'd get home bruised and bloody from a hunt and Sam would make fridge-dump omelettes or fridge-dump sandwiches or fridge-dump soup, whatever the fuck he could with whatever the fuck they had, and even if it was kind of weird and gross it was warm and comforting and made, just for them, and it was just one of the twenty hundred ways that Sam does love.
Sam makes fridge-dump pasta and it's fucking fantastic, and Jess says, “Hey, maybe-baby in there. Dad can cook.”
**
Sam loses his voice halfway through the Hanukkah blessing, and he's frustrated and embarrassed and so fucking tired of being sick.
“Presents tonight,” Jess says, and she tosses Sam a hat and Dean a pair of gloves that she crocheted. They put them on and all fall asleep on the couch together, like puppies, but Dean wakes up and Jess is curled up around a pillow and Sam is gone.
He's putting down salt on the windows of his room. “Whoa,” Dean said. “Hey. Did you hear something?”
“Fucking monsters,” he says. “Fucking monsters aren't getting to my kid.”
“Oh. Sammy. Come on. Back to sleep.”
And then Sam coughs, and it's wet and heavy and shit that sounds bad.
“Fucking monster,” Sam says, hitting his chest with the heel of his hand. “Don't get to my kid,” and Dean realizes that no little speech is going to make this better, so Dean just sits next to him on his bed and rubs his back and watches him shake with coughs.
Summary: Dean goes to Stanford to spend Hanukkah with Jess and Sam. They're snowed in. Sam has a cold. Jess has a secret.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Wordcount: 1,888.
Author's Note: Sammyverse, part of an 8-part series with one bit a night through the end of Hanukkah. Happy 4th night! My sister and I got a goat. Not for us. For people in Africa.
Night #1
Night #2
Night #3
She's quiet in the car, and Dean's thoughts are bouncing around his head like fucking pinballs.
Eventually, he can't fucking help it. “So you're, uh...”
“Late. Yeah. Eight days.” She breathes out and hoists her feet up on the dashboard. “Fuck.”
“Fuck. Would you...?”
“Keep it? I don't know. Probably. Shit. I can't believe I'm telling you before Sam.”
“Sam doesn't know?”
“He's been kind of busy hacking up his fucking lungs.”
Dean hears something in that that he isn't quite fond of, no.
He says, “Is that it?”
“What?”
“I mean, fuck, Jess. I get that you're young and that's terrifying, and that should be the part that's scaring you-except, I mean, don't, because uncle Dean can babysit on exam days, you know?--but my brother's not too sick for you to date, just for you to spawn with? Don't give me that. Don't do that to him.”
“I can't talk about this with you. Not until I've talked to Sam.”
“Yeah, you need to fucking talk to Sam.”
“He's too sick.”
“No. He's not.”
**
It's like a fucking sign, really, because when they get back, Sam's up off the couch, warming up the brisket Jess made a few days ago. He charges to Jess and wraps his arms around her. Dean puts his hand to Sam's cheek. He's sweaty and warm. Not hot.
“I'm so fucking sorry,” he says. “I can't believe I let you go out there.” He straightens up and swats Dean. “What the hell, man?”
“Yeah, yeah. I rescued her.”
“I'm sorry.” Sam kisses her forehead. “I'm so fucking sorry. You okay? Come on. Dinner's almost done. Come eat.” He grabs them each by a wrist and tugs. “Come on.”
“Hold on.” Dean tugs himself loose and nudges Jess towards Sam. “You two go talk.”
Sam says, “What?”
“I'll finish up dinner. You two talk. Before that fever comes back. Hey. Jess. Don't let me down.”
**
They come out twenty minutes later. Jess has been crying a little but she's smiling now, this tentative, real little thing, and Sam rubs her back while he she eats. They're all quiet, shooting each other these nervous sappy looks like they're on their fucking first date, and Dean's had about enough of this, thanks.
“Maybe Rufus,” Dean says.
Sam looks up at him, frowns. “What?”
“For the baby. Good strong name. Rufus.”
Jess says, “What the fuck kind of name is Rufus?”
“He's a friend of the family,” Sam says. “Not quite someone I'd name a kid after.” But he cracks a smile. “I was thinking more like, you know. Something classic?”
“Christ, you're boring. Like what, John?”
“Uh, yeah, that was definitely on our list...”
“You guys have a list?”
“We've talked about this,” Jess says. She touches her cheek to Sam's shoulder. “We always wanted kids. We're just...young.”
Sam says, “Hey, we don't even know if you're pregnant yet. Don't worry, okay? There's tons of time to talk about this.”
“You've got to have Mary in there somewhere,” Dean says. “If it's a girl.”
“Of course.”
“Or Geraldine. I would make an exception if you'd agree to name her Geraldine.”
“Dean. What the fuck.”
“Or Rasputin. If it's a boy.”
Jess's mouth twitches up. “Chrysanthemum.”
“Chastity,” Dean says.
“Oregano.”
“Now you're just saying words.”
“Herbert.”
“Sherbert.”
Jess giggles.
Sam is smiling along, muffling wheezing behind his hand, and raking his fork through his food. Dean watches him cut everything into small bites and not fucking eat.
Sam isn't okay.
**
Jess lights the candles tonight, and Sam shakes because his fever's rising.
**
So when Dean wakes up to the middle of the night to heavy footsteps that grab the bottle of Jack from the freezer and then trek their way outside, he gives Sam some time. Despite the fucking frozen air and his shitty lungs and his fever, Dean figures he deserves a goddamn minute to himself.
When that minute turns into forty-five, he climbs into his coat and boots and he's out the door.
Sam's sitting on the hood of his car, head tilted up, bottle glinting in the moonlight. He holds it up when Dean approaches, like he's toasting him.
“We were going to have you jerk off in a cup!” he yells.
“That's maybe my favorite conversation starter ever.” Dean hops up on the car next to him.
“When we we wanted to have kids. We had a whole fucking plan. Adopt, or fucking shoot some of your big healthy spunk up my girlfriend. We were leaning towards that one, but fucking cursed Winchesters, so I wasn't sure.”
“Sam.”
“And now look! Fucking fetus with fucking shitty lungs.”
“You don't know any of that.”
“And how the fuck am I...” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Oh. Sam. Shit.”
“What the fuck am I going to do if I have a sick kid?” Sam says. “I'm going to hate myself forever. I can't do that to a fucking kid. To Jess's goddamn kid. Jesus, Dean, what if I have a sick kid? How the fuck do people handle sick kids?” He's looking at Dean, all crazy and drunk and feverish, and shit, Sam.
“You just do,” Dean says. “You just fucking do, because you love your sick kid so fucking much. That's just how it fucking is.”
“There's monsters out there. If I have to protect Jess and a sick kid...”
“You can do it.”
“I'm this fucking useless wheezy goddamn-”
“Don't you start that shit with me, Sammy. Don't you dare.”
“You say that all the time, but why the fuck not?”
Dean grabs Sam by the chin and makes him look at it. “Because when you were thirteen goddamn years old, you came and rescued my broken-ankled ass and drove me to the fucking hospital during an asthma attack. Because you called your own goddamn ambulance when you were seven fucking years old and told them you needed help. Because you went to fucking college even though Dad begged you not to and told you you were too sick, and guess what, Sam, you're fucking fine most of the time, and you're doing so so well. Because you were the best fucking hunter I've ever met, and you do so much more than anyone thinks you can, and because when you play this poor little asthmatic Sam card it makes me sick to my fucking stomach. You know who gets to say poor sick Sam? Me. I do. And I get to say it because the fact that you're sick breaks my fucking heart, but it breaks my heart because you're my fucking kid, you understand me? Not because you're my sick kid, but because you're you and this is the crap you have to pull around, but you pull it like nobody's goddamn business, and I tease you for it and I talk about it and I don't dance around any fucking subjects because you can take it, Sam. You can take goddamn near anything, and if you had any idea how many more times I've cried in those hospitals than you have, you would make a motion to have me unceremoniously castrated, and then good luck having uncle Dean jerk off for you. You are strong, Sam, and stop making me have to fucking tell you, because sometimes you get so fucking sick that I have a hard time reminding myself that, and I need you to remember, and I tell you this because you can fucking handle it. You're sick, and it makes you a superhero. And it makes you the best fucking kid anyone's ever had.”
Sam drops his forehead to Dean's shoulder and squeezes him within an inch of his life.
**
Everything melts and refreezes overnight, so the streets are icy as hell and Dean almost breaks his fucking leg going out to his car to get the meds he found for Sammy the next morning. Sam's fever is high again and he's sleeping like the dead under a scratchy blanket on the couch, and Jess sits next to him and runs ice cubes over his lips and pets his hair.
“There's no damn food in this house,” Jess says, quietly.
Sam stretches. “What?”
“Hey.” Dean shakes his foot. “You're up.”
“Yeah. Jess. You hungry?”
“There's some cereal, I think.”
Sam shakes his head and gets up, lumbers into the kitchen. They follow behind because fucking sue him, he's been passed out on the couch all goddamn day.
He digs through the fridge and takes out containers and opens baggies and checks expiration dates and says, “Okay, I got this.”
She kisses the back of his neck. “Baby. You're so fucking hot.”
He grins at her.
“Every damn fever,” Jess says. “Every fucking fever you make that joke. It's old, you know?”
“I don't make it. I just point it out.” He kisses her and scoots her out of the way. “Come on. I'll make something.”
By the look on Jess's face, this is a first for her, watching Sam make something out of nothing, but when they were kids, this was Sam's fucking job. They'd buy groceries every few stops and keep what they could and stick it in the mini fridge, and they'd get home bruised and bloody from a hunt and Sam would make fridge-dump omelettes or fridge-dump sandwiches or fridge-dump soup, whatever the fuck he could with whatever the fuck they had, and even if it was kind of weird and gross it was warm and comforting and made, just for them, and it was just one of the twenty hundred ways that Sam does love.
Sam makes fridge-dump pasta and it's fucking fantastic, and Jess says, “Hey, maybe-baby in there. Dad can cook.”
**
Sam loses his voice halfway through the Hanukkah blessing, and he's frustrated and embarrassed and so fucking tired of being sick.
“Presents tonight,” Jess says, and she tosses Sam a hat and Dean a pair of gloves that she crocheted. They put them on and all fall asleep on the couch together, like puppies, but Dean wakes up and Jess is curled up around a pillow and Sam is gone.
He's putting down salt on the windows of his room. “Whoa,” Dean said. “Hey. Did you hear something?”
“Fucking monsters,” he says. “Fucking monsters aren't getting to my kid.”
“Oh. Sammy. Come on. Back to sleep.”
And then Sam coughs, and it's wet and heavy and shit that sounds bad.
“Fucking monster,” Sam says, hitting his chest with the heel of his hand. “Don't get to my kid,” and Dean realizes that no little speech is going to make this better, so Dean just sits next to him on his bed and rubs his back and watches him shake with coughs.