We Sing Our Sam to Sleep
Title: We Sing Our Sam to Sleep
Summary: Dean and Jess have a sick kid. And they have a problem.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through the pilot, haha.
Wordcount: 6,181
Author's Note: Sammyverse as always. I won't tell you exactly when this takes place. You'll figure it out.
---
In the passenger seat, Dean flicks open his switchblade, twirls it around, clicks it closed again. Over and over.
He sees John glancing at him and trying to think of something to say and he's getting this sick fucking pleasure out of it, because he hasn't seen John's I fucked up and don't know what to say face since Sam went storming out of his hospital room a year ago and wow, isn't that a great memory, thanks a fuck ton for that, Dean's brain, where were you four hours ago when you decided to tell some girl-just some fucking girl--that you kill monsters?
So he cuts stray threads off his jeans and doesn't give John any damn help.
But eventually, John says, “She seemed like a nice girl.”
“Yeah.”
"Dean, someday...when we've taken care of that son of a bitch that killed your mother, I'm going to make sure you have everything, you hear me? House in the country, sweetest girl you could imagine."
“Sam too?”
“Sam's heading towards that on his own.”
"Yeah, I know," Dean says, but then he shakes his head a little because fuck this, fuck fucking promises, and he says, "But then what the fuck what, after we've killed it, after I get that girl? I tell her I did what for the first twenty-five years of my life? How the fuck do you even talk to normal people?” He wonders all the time about Sam, his first few weeks of school, adjusting to unpacking all his shit and making small talk and taking care of himself and sleeping in the same bed and putting up posters and sleeping with girls who know his real name and and and Sam. “Sam hasn't told Jess."
John, of course, has nothing to say about that, because what the fuck is there to say? Good for him? What an idiot? What other choice does he have? He's going to have to tell her eventually? It's all true. And it makes Dean proud and nervous and frustrated and worried and glad that there's still a part of Sam's that isn't Jess's and wow isn't that just nice and fucked up?
"I think we're past the point of normal, Dad. I think I'm past the point of fucking anything."
"Don't say that." It's a command.
Don't say that, because then I have to admit that I fucked up.
Dean breathes out and rests his temple against the window and misses curly hair and brown skin and long fingers and he misses Sam.
**
Dean's taking his turn behind the wheel at 2 AM when his phone rings. Or, more accurately, his phone announces, in Sam's voice, "Dean! Pick up your fucking phone!"
It's the best ringtone ever, but it fucking sucks when it's 2 AM on a school night in Sam's timezone, too.
John stirs in the passenger seat, and Dean curses softly and cradles his phone to his ear while he drives.
"Hey,” He says. “Why not sleeping, kid?"
He's wheezing. It's bad, but not call-in-the-middle-of-the-night bad. Especially when he can hear Jess there, talking softly in the background.
"D-Dean?" He has that wavery voice. Okay. Fever.
"Sick, huh? Can I talk to Jess?"
But then Sam's saying, "Dean, Dean, ow, ow, ow help please I don't know" and he's fucking crying.
"Fuck. Sam. Fuck. What hurts? What's wrong?" Dean swallows against a sudden pain in his throat and glances at John, whose eyes are glued to the phone.
He pulls over.
"Sam. Tell me what hurts."
"I c-can't hear you. D-Dean? Are you there? I can't hear you. Dean. Ow. Ow." He sobs once. "Ow."
"Sam, let me talk to Jess," he says, and Sam says ”No no my Dean mine” but then there's scuffling and then Jess's voice, thank fucking God.
"Dean?"
"Jesus. What's wrong with him?"
"Double ear infection. I took him to the clinic this morning but they told him just to take Tylenol...it's fucking killing him. His fever's high and he's dizzy and his lungs are freaking out. He's in so much pain and...his ears look so bad. He's been crying pretty constantly but I think it's just gotten worse. He's like desperately upset right now. I don't know what to do.”
Dean can't remember the last time Sam cried for pain. It's been years. He'll cry when he's stressed or scared or when he just doesn't fucking feel good, but Sam got shot in the fucking stomach once and didn't shed a tear. He stitched himself in motel rooms. He shook and shrugged and breathed through it when Dean held his broken leg still so John could pop his knee back in place.
And now he's a mess from a fever and an ear infection and it's just so normal.
Okay, but even Normal Sam isn't a wimp, so this is clearly horrific.
"He's crying for you," Jess says. "He...I can't get him to stop crying, and I don't know what to do, Dean. Could you--"
"I...let me talk to Sam, okay?"
"He's really not hearing well."
"It's okay."
She talks quietly to Sam, and Dean lowers the phone a little and says, "Infection in both ears, fever, vertigo, asthma attack. It's bad.”
John rubs his hand over his mouth. "I need you, Dean."
"I know, but--" Dean says, and he hears whistling and crying through the phone and he picks it up and holds it to John's ear.
"Sam?" John says, and he's frozen for a second before he swallows and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sammy. Jesus. Calm down, okay? Deep breaths. Oh, God, Sam, please stop crying."
John listens and nods and tells Sammy he'll be okay, and then switches seats with Dean and drives him to a bus station.
**
It's an eight hour bus ride to Palo Alto. It could be a lot worse. It could be so much longer. He tells himself that, over and over.
It could be so much worse. Sam could be farther away. Sam could be in the hospital. John could have refused to let him go. Sam could be alone. Sam could be torn apart by a monster instead of an infection. It could be so, so much worse.
But Sam is crying, and that has a way of making everything else really abstract. There isn't a silver lining to this.
**
Jess calls two hours in and says he's sleeping.
"He's been in and out," she says.
"How bad's the fever?"
"A hundred and three, creeping up.”
"Ugh."
“I'm really sorry, Dean.”
“What?”
“It was just a cold yesterday. I don't know how this-”
“Jess. Don't you ever apologize to me about him.”
**
He calls to check in an hour later and there's panting and ragged moaning in the background, and he says, "Okay, okay, let me talk to him."
"Gonna put you on speaker, okay?" she says. "He tried to call you earlier and the phone against his ear made him scream."
"Shit. Okay."
There's a beep, and then Sam's crying is soft, he knows that, but to Dean it's loud and near and painful, and fuck, this is just not okay.
It's fading in and out, and Dean hears footsteps. He's pacing.
"You've got to have some kind of painkiller," Dean says. "Sammy, you have something?"
"J-just Tylenol."
Non-hunters don't keep the good stuff around, apparently. "Jess, you don't have anything?"
"I...might have Vicodin from when I got my wisdom teeth out."
"He's allergic." Dean bites his lip. "Okay. I have Percocet, he can have that. I'm like five hours out. Does he need an ER?"
"I-I don't know."
"Can he hear me at all?"
"I don't think so. I think he forgot you were...Sam? Hey, Sam? No. He's not looking. Hold on."
He hears her get up and talk softly to him, and the crying stutters and stops. Then there's Sam's voice, shaky as all fuck. "D-Dean?"
"Yeah, buddy, right here. You hear me?"
"Um. Yes."
"That's my boy. You need a hospital, Sammy?"
"Wh-where are you?"
"I'm coming."
"Good. Okay. That's fine then," Sam says, and Dean's chest hurts.
**
An hour after that, Dean starts getting half-gibberish texts from him, and the pain in his chest gets a fuck of a lot sharper every time his phone buzzes with something like cold cnt breathe wnn sleep st test thurs?" because, like, what the fuck, Sammy?
He calls Jess. "Put a sweatshirt on him, and you've got to make him stop texting me, he's breaking my heart, here."
"It's calming him down."
He exhales. "Can you find out what he's saying? Besides that he can't breathe?"
She talks gently to him, and Dean can just picture her stroking his hair and leaning into whichever ear hurts a little less.
Then she's back on the phone and she says, quietly, "I don't think he really knows."
**
dzzy
I know buddy hang in there
coming?
yes. 2 hours.
wn pckup grappp?
try that again kiddo. pick up what?
areyu comin?
2 hours. wheres jess?
ll ask wait
if you can ask her then im guessing shes right there
Dean? It's me. Can I give him Nyquil?
not if the cough is wet. hows he doing?
Falling apart at the seams. He's begging for the phone back.
alright.
picup, please?
pick up what, the phone? you want me to call you? Youre not hearing so well
jucce
juice. got it. absolutely.
comin/?
one hour 48 minutes. keep breathing.
**
Two hours and 2 minutes later (fucking line at the grocery store, fucking slow menopausal women who have apparently forgotten that fucking sick kids need their damn grape juice) Dean forces himself not to run from his hot-wired car to Sam and Jess's door. He knocks hard and twists the handle of his grocery bag and scuffs his feet on the welcome mat while he waits.
It takes Jess too fucking long, but then she's ushering him inside and taking his bag and wrapping herself around his neck. "Thank fucking God."
"You're warm. Are you sick?"
"No, I've just been cuddling Sam. Come on--" she says, but then stops, halfway through leading him to the bedroom, because Sam is there, standing in the hallway, eyes and nose red and the heel of his hand pushed into his cheekbone. He's sniffling (like when he was seven and had his first sinus infection and bawled, like when he was eighteen and shocky after he got his tonsils out, like when he was twenty-one and allergic and adorable over the phone) and fuck, his swollen eyes and his gaspy breaths and his fucking shaking chin.
"Sammy Sammy hey," and Dean steps forwards and gets his arms under Sam's because fuck if he's knocking one of Sam's ears by mistake and Sam shrinks to fit him, Sam is all over him, Sam is warm and shaky and he clings to Dean's shoulders and presses his hot fucking forehead against Dean's neck and Dean rests his cheek on the top of Sam's head and mumbles, "It's okay, baby, it's okay"s that neither Sam or Jess can hear and he rubs Sam's unsteady back up and down and listens to Sam's wheezing and the quiet, quiet sounds of his crying. He wraps his arms tighter around Sam and Sam follows suit, fingers digging into Dean's shoulder blades.
"I've got you," Dean whispers. "You're my boy."
**
Percocet makes Sam sleepy but the pain doesn't level off enough to stop pacing, so instead of crashing on the couch with Dean and Jess he's walking anxiously in front of it, pawing at his neck because he's afraid to get too close to his ear. Even from a few feet off, Dean can see how red and swollen they are, and Jesus, Sam hasn't had an ear infection like this since he was a tiny kid, and this is both fucking ears.
He stumbles and catches himself on the coffee table.
"Sam," Dean says. "Dizzy kid. Come lie down."
"I..." Sam pulls anxiously at his neck again.
"He's big," Jess says. "Maybe another pill?"
"He's had two, more's just going to make him even dizzier. Sam. You hearing us, kid? Come lie down."
Jess gets up and takes his hand, tugs him gently to the couch. "Hey. Baby. You finally got both of us. Why aren't you here cuddling?"
Sam allows her to sit him down, then wraps one arm around Jess's and the other around Dean's and shoves his face into Dean's shoulder.
"There's a good kid," Dean says, even though Sam's starting to cry again. "I know it hurts. I know it's really fucking bad."
Jess kisses Sam's shoulder blade.
Dean says, "He has antibiotic drops or something, right?"
"Yeah."
"God, his breathing really is for shit."
She says, "I'll set the neb up. He's got a tight hold on you.”
"Yeah." He shakes his arm free and wraps it around Sam, helping Sam settle into his chest. "Thanks."
"Of course."
Jess goes to the bedroom, and Sam shivers and sniffles against Dean's shirt, but he's a little calmer, resting, maybe. Dean moves his hand to his forehead to check on the fever. He's got to be close to 104. Poor fucking kid.
And Dean doesn't know if the fever is what's causing this, or if it's Sam crying or Sam shaking or Sam wheezing or Sam fucking hurting make it better or if it's Cassie or if it's Jess or who the fuck knows, okay, he doesn't fucking know but he knows that he's holding Sam really really close and Sam is letting him and and fuck, just fuck, okay?
**
"Have t'study," Sam's saying, slurring because they gave him another fucking pill because he was still goddamn crying. "LSAT."
"LSAT's over, baby." Jess kisses his forehead. “Mouthpiece in, okay?”
Sam sits peacefully with the nebulizer for all of thirty seconds before he takes it out and looks at Dean and says, "Y'here t'help me study?"
"Here to get you well. Neb."
Sam sneezes hard and says, "I'm sick?" and Dean rolls his eyes and tucks Sam under his arm.
"Yeah," he says. "Just a little."
"Don't go, okay? M'sick." He wraps both arms around Dean's and plays with his fingers.
"Gets so clingy when he's sick," Jess says, carefully smoothing Sam's hair away from his ear.
"He's clingy always," Dean says.
Sam snuffles into Dean's sleeve and grits his teeth, and Dean whispers, "Shh shh shh Sammy it's okay," and rubs circles on his back.
**
John calls an hour later. "How is he?"
"Jess is sponging him off, trying to get the fever down. It's high, and the pain's bad, but he's stoned on Percocet now."
"How's he breathing?"
"Bad, bad bad bad."
"Shit.”
"I'm bringing him back to the fucking clinic tomorrow and demanding they fucking fix him this time. I haven't seen him cry like this since that poltergeist shattered his wrist. How's the hunt?"
"Just researching. Looks like a whole damn family of spirits."
"Can you...do it on your own?"
"I don't know, Dean."
Dean breathes out. "I...I can't leave him. Not while he's this sick."
"I know. I get it, okay?"
"Yeah."
**
He helps haul a drowsy Sam out of the bath and to bed, where he falls asleep all the fuck over both of them before Dean can get up.
"Um," Dean says.
She shrugs. "It's fine. It's a big bed."
So they share the bed, Sam between them, until well into the morning. Sam's slung over top of him like a fucking electric blanket, and the smell of Jess's shampoo is everywhere (it doesn't make Sam sneeze). It's way too easy to sleep.
**
"Wh-where's Jess?" Sammy asks, in that shaky damn voice, for the fifth time in an hour.
"She's at school. She had a test, remember?"
Sam's hand bounces by his ear again, heading towards it, then freezing when the movement of the air makes the pain rachet up. "M-macromolecules."
"That's right."
"H-helped her study." Sam shivers, again, and that's just enough, okay? They've been waiting for the doctor for twenty fucking minutes, and that's at least eighteen minutes too long for Sam to be shivering on a metal table by himself.
He hops up on the table next to Sam and listens to his shitty goddamn breathing and patiently lets Sam cling to him like one of the monkeys in those scenarios he helped Sam memorize for his pysch class. He's like the monkey that clung to the cloth mom who couldn't really help him.
"God, you're burning up."
Sam nods and does his best to crawl into Dean's jacket.
"Jesus, Sammy, okay. All right." He maneuvers the arm close to Sammy out of its sleeve and loans that half of the coat to Sam, tucking the kid into his side. "Any better?"
Sam nods, hard, but nodding hard fucking hurts him, and then he's crying out and clapping a hand to his ear and then he's flinching and sobbing and oh, Christ, Sammy.
He doesn't have the air for it, so they're these breathless, half-silent, raspy tears, and when Sam did this when he was a kid, Dean would take his face between his hands and whisper, "All better all better all better," but he can't fucking touch Sam's face right now, he's in so much goddamn pain.
So puts one hand on Sam's collarbone and the other on his back and just holds him.
"My poor kid," he says, softly.
Sam pushes his fist into his forehead and tries to stop crying.
"Hey." Dean takes him by the wrist, loosens his hand, and wraps his own around it. "You're sick and confused and you're not getting why it hurts so much. It's okay."
"DNA," he mumbles.
"What?"
"DNA. 's a macromolecule."
"Oh. Okay."
"Plastic," Sam says, and then he's crying again.
**
The doctor has to shine his little light in Sam's ears, and the pain and vertigo hit so badly that Sam's now throwing up in the doctor's pretty little white trashcan, so thanks for that, doctor. Dean really doesn't give a shit that he's appropriately sympathetic, and he brushes his thumb back and forth across the back of Sam's burning hot neck.
"We can give him oral antibiotics," the doctor says.
"It's got to be doxycycline because he's allergic to, like, everything."
"That'll be fine. And I can prescribe some ear drops to help with the pain. But it's going to be rough for a couple of days no matter what we do. Sam, can I get you some water?"
Sam pants. "Thank you."
"Of course. I'll be right back."
Dean cleans Sam up with a tissue or two and says, "I just want to put your fucking head on my shoulder."
Sam nods miserably. His eyes are completely focused on Dean's mouth, watching his lips form the words.
"Remember that time we couldn't hear?" Dean says. "After that witch."
"Uh-huh."
"We did okay then."
"That didn't hurt." He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck and draws his knees to his chest.
"We're going to fix it, Sammy. Deep breaths."
Sam tries, but the wheezing's really fucking brutal.
"Neb as soon as we get home," Dean says.
"Yeah?"
"I promise."
"Okay," Sam says, and then coughs until he's so dizzy he has to lie down.
**
Slowly, way too fucking slowly, Sam gets better.
He goes to a class every once in a while but spends most of his time napping flat on his back with his head on Dean's lap while Jess rushes around between work and exams and helping Dean do Sam's homework for him because you're a fucking senior, Sam, it can wait, go to sleep. Sometimes he rolls over, forehead pressed into Dean's knee, so Dean can rub at his back for a while. It makes him cough, but what the fuck doesn't right now, you know?
Even for sick Sam, he's clingy, following Dean to the kitchen when he goes for juice (Sammy) or beer Dean) and attaching himself to Dean's sleeve whenever they're sitting down, and that's how Dean knows that, despite the dropping fever and the tears that have all but dried up, Sam is still feeling really, really crappy. He's still dizzy, and the wheeze isn't going anywhere. (Dean lies on the couch at night and tries not to listen to that whistle and to Jess's voice and Jess's kisses through the walls. Tries not to picture her mouth on Dean's boy. Fuck.)
**
"Why so sad, Dean?" Sam asks quietly.
"My little brother's sick."
"Uh-uh."
Dean plays with Sam's hair and doesn't know what to say so he thinks say something true so he tells him about Cassie and says, "I don't believe in anything anymore."
"I believe in God," Sammy says.
"Yeah, I know, kid. And I believe in you." He rubs his knuckle against Sam's temple. "But I meant things we could really have."
"Oh."
He presses a kiss to Sam's warm forehead.
**
The world didn't stop while Sammy was sick and there was a lot of his homework that GED Dean and Chemistry major Jess could not suss out which means Sam's now spending hours sprawled out at the coffee table highlighting play texts and cross-referencing something or other when John calls. His fever's barely above a hundred at this point and Jess has stopped worrying about leaving him to go class (though, Christ, that wheeze, that fucking wheeze).
John's breathing almost as hard as the kid here. "How's Sam?"
"Getting better."
"Hey, Dad," Sam says quietly.
"Sam says hi."
"I need you here. How soon can you be in Jericho?”
“I...” He closes his eyes and tries to focus on a map and nothing the fuck else. “How far's that from Sacramento?”
“An hour.”
“Then three from here. Why are you in California?”
“I don't have time to explain. I need you here now.”
God, that sounds intense, sounds important (sounds like a fucking good way to burn off...all of this, burn it off like a fucking fever).
Dean looks at Sam and his big eyes on the floor (Sam and his goddamn eyes).
"Yeah," Dean says. "I'll be there soon."
**
"You're just leaving?" Sam's standing by the door like he thinks he can fucking block Dean, nice try, wheezy. "You're not even going to say goodbye to Jess?"
"I'll email her."
"Damn it!"
"Sam, don't, okay? Dad needs help."
"I'm sick."
"You're always fucking sick," and Dean's saying it to be an asshole and that's really against the fucking rules.
"You know what I mean."
"You're getting better."
"I feel like crap--"
Dean crams his coat into his bag. "You have Jess."
"I want you too."
Dean's vision burns orange and he drops his bag to the floor.
"Well, you fucking can't, okay?"
“What?”
“No, you selfish bastard, you can't have both of us. Do you know how fucking lucky you are to have one of us? Do you know how many people would fucking kill for that? Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, you get an ear infection and two goddamn people stop their fucking worlds for you, you spoiled goddamn brat, Dad's calling worrying about you, you think he does that when I'm sick? You think anyone does that when I'm sick?"
"I do."
"You have a fucking girlfriend!" and the words are out before Dean even thinks about them, well fucking done, well done.
But Sam doesn't stop to let them rest. "Don't you dare fucking make that what this is about! Don't you fucking...this is about us as a fucking family, this is about you choosing fucking hunting and Dad's fucking plan over me, and you always say you're not going to and then you always fucking bail, you know Jess wanted to get a two-bedroom apartment? Jess wanted you to stay?" Sam can't breathe, Jesus Christ. "You think I didn't want that more than anything in the whole fucking world? But I'm not going to pay an extra God the fuck knows how much just to have my chest hurt every time I walk past the empty room because you will never fucking stay, do you have any concept of how happy you would be? We love you beyond your wildest fucking dreams so fuck you so fucking much, Dean, fuck you, because you will keep making excuses because you don't think I'm worth it and you don't want to deal with me and the fact that Dad thinks I'm fucking you has goddamn nothing to do with it!"
Sam stands there, fucking gasping for breath, and there's nothing in the whole world for him right now but this hideous lack of oxygen, which means he has no fucking clue that Jess is right behind him, and that she's staring at Dean.
And that she's backing right the fuck out the door.
**
Okay.
One thing at a time.
First, big brother has to get this kid breathing, so he watches the door slide shut behind Jess (Sammy is breathing too hard to hear) and then goes to him and puts a hand on the back of his head and says, "Okay okay okay," and gets Sam to his room as fast as he fucking can, before his body figures out that it doesn't have any goddamn air for moving around. Sam's agitated as all fuck, clinging to Dean with one hand and tugging at his shirt with the other and you were about to leave him like this.
"Shhh shhhh." Dean sets up the nebulizer and gives Sam rough rubs, wake-the-fuck-up-lungs rubs, up and down his back. "It's okay it's okay," he says softly. "Just one more minute, Sammy, almost done."
He's upset. Kid did not need a goddamn asthma attack right now, and he's not taking it well. He's fisting his hair and leaning over his knees and squeezing out these ragged bits of breath.
"Here we go." Dean shoves the mouthpiece at him and quickly moves behind him so he can get both hands on Sam's back (because otherwise he's going to try to touch his chest and that's not fucking okay). He wraps one hand around Sam's waist to hold him still and pushes his opposite thumb between Sam's shoulder blades.
Touching Sam isn't awkward, even after that.
That's never what this was about.
The fact that he knows exactly where to put his hands, the fact that forty-five seconds after a fight Sam's leaning back into Dean and clinging to his t-shirt? That Sam's hair is as soft as when he was a fucking baby?
It's muscle memory, it's memory, and that's what this is about.
Because this is what's lasted, this is the one fucking thing in Dean's life that isn't fractured scarred dislocated sullen buried burned dead, Sam is whistling lungs and new life and beautiful girl and a whole fucking three part harmony of a boy alive and fuck, fuck, because he raised Sam better than this shit that he piles on him and and he spoiled him and built him and he wishes he didn't. And what kind of a fucking brother wishes his kid didn't expect people to love him?
Sam was supposed to just be Dean's thing.
And he was supposed to be too fucking young for any of this to be real in Dean's head.
Damn it, Sam, why did you have to grow up stay big and real and in love and scary and beautiful? Not a good kid.
**
Sam's fast asleep, and Dean ducks into the living room and calls John. He doesn't pick up, so Dean leaves a message telling him Sam's flaring and he has to stay for a few more hours until Jess gets home from work.
And then he needs a fucking cigarette, and there's Jess leaning against his stolen car, arms crossed.
He's surprised to see her.
He has no idea what the fuck to say. So he says something true.
"My dad is crazy."
She runs her hand through her hair. "I'd always kind of gotten that impression, yeah."
"He's jealous that Sam likes me more and he takes it out in ridiculous ways. You've...heard what I call Sam. It's a problem, yeah. It's a big fucking problem for Dad."
"You guys are close." She shoves her hands into her pockets. "I get it. And I always thought it was sweet, because Sam has such a hard time with your dad. He gets so fucking upset about it. So the fact that he has you...it's important. Do you know how much he worries about you? You're off...yeah, taking pictures, you think I buy that crap? I don't know what the fuck you're doing, Dean, but it scares the shit out of Sam. All we ever wanted was for you to be safe."
He looks down. "I know."
"And this is the kind of shit your dad uses against you? What, to keep you away from Sam?"
"Jess..."
She locks eyes with him. "You tell me there's nothing between you and Sam, and I'll believe you."
"There's nothing between me and Sam." Now say something that isn't a lie. "You can ask him. There's nothing there."
Sam is pure and perfect and giving his big brother a hug when he's sick, fuck you, very much, Dean.
She says, "It's not like I wouldn't have noticed if you guys were...when I left the fucking house, you know? Sam can't even hide my fucking birthday presents.”
"This...isn't something Dad ever accused us of. It's not anything to do with anything. It's Sam reading into some looks Dad's given us, I don't know, or some snide goddamn remarks he's made when Sam wasn't paying attention or when Sam wasn't goddamn breathing and he wanted me and not Dad. This is Sam being dramatic."
"So this is coming from Sam?"
"No. God. Trust me, the last place this is coming from is Sam."
"So what is it?”
"I can't fucking keep up with this conversation, Jess! I'm not smart like you, okay? I'm just...I'm not smart like you or like Sam, and I don't walk around fucking analyzing shit, okay?" Say something that isn't a lie. "My dad will make up anything to try to explain me and Sam, and he'll simplify that down, and maybe he's said stuff to Sam when I wasn't there, I don't know. Sam scares the shit out of Dad. He's strong and stubborn and exactly fucking like him and it scares him to death because Dad didn't have a me, Dad's never fucking had a me because he passed me off to Sam the second the kid was born and if you think I'm the only one raising someone here you're out of your fucking mind, and he doesn't know what the fuck's going to become of his little clone-Sammy when I'm there to throw a wrench in or whatever the fuck. He just wants Sam to be okay. That's the fucking dream for him, and he fell to fucking pieces when Mom died and he looks at Sam with the same fucking determination and intensity and fucking dimples and he thinks if anything ever happened to Dean and he looks at me and thinks Sam is sick and if Dean loses him I will lose everything and if Sam loses Dean he will stop breathing and he doesn't want me to fuck him up. But you look at me, Jess, look at me right now, and tell me if you believe I'm fucking Sam up."
Jess looks away and breathes out.
"Your dad really sounds like an asshole."
"He...doesn't know how else to be."
"Why do you leave?"
"What?"
Why do you leave us? Why do you go back to your dad?" She's looking at him again. "He accuses you of these horrible fucking things and makes you feel shitty about yourself, so why the hell do you leave...leave your kid and go back to him?"
Because the world needs saving.
Because Mom Mom Mom Mom.
Because oh my God what if something happens to Sam I can't I can't I can't see it.
Because I'll fuck Sam up.
"It's not that simple," Dean says.
"Maybe it can be. For you and Sam. Maybe stop overanalyzing--yeah, don't give me that shit about not analyzing-and get an apartment next door or some shit. You want to prove to me you're not fucking Sam up? Fucking prove it."
"I need to talk to Sam."
"Yeah. You really do. Give me your keys, I'll go for a drive. What the fuck care is this?”
He tosses them to her and doesn't answer. "Hey," he says, while she's unlocking the door. "We're cool, right?"
"I don't know. Just...talk to Sam. And just...he's sick, okay? Don't let him know anything's wrong.”
“How the fuck can you want me?”
She stops. “What?”
“You hear...that, and you still want me in your house? Why the fuck aren't you running the hell away? Jesus, if I could run away from us-” "
“Dean. Breathe.”
He rubs his hand over his mouth.
“I'm sorry,” he says, quietly, and she pounces right on that.
“Don't you ever apologize to me about him,” she says.
Dean breathes out.
“Just be here,” Jess says, softly. “Be here so we can love you. Be here so I know I'm not a fucking consolation prize, Christ.”
God, how could she ever think that?
Jess, you're the light at the end of the tunnel.
Jess, you are the dream.
(We love you for loving him, Jess.)
**
"I'm sorry," Sam says, an hour later, voice still raspy.
"Don't worry about it."
"This is the part where you say you're sorry too."
Dean sits cross-legged in front of him on the bed and grips Sam's feet.
"How about if I say, 'you weren't wrong?'"
Sam looks up at him.
"Except...you kind of were. Hear me out, all right? I haven't been choosing hunting over you. I've been choosing...not fucking fighting with Dad over you."
Sam looks down and nods.
"And that is such total and complete fucking bullshit."
He raises his head.
Dean moves around next to Sam and sits next to him on the pillows. "Don't laugh, okay?"
"I can't breathe enough to laugh."
"I used to think about hunting with you and Jess. About the three of us working as some kind of team, and then you and Jess would have your kid--" Sam gets a squeeze on the shoulder whenever this comes up, always "--and we'd raise her to be some badass blond asthmatic whatever and she'd kill monsters after preschool and we'd keep her ridiculously safe and love the hell out of her. That was the dream."
"I like that."
"You know what I dream about now?"
Sam shakes his head and plays with the hem of Dean's shirt.
Dean breathes out.
Say something true.
"I dream about having dinner ready when you and Jess get home from school. Helping you study. Covering her shifts so she can stay home with you when you're not feeling good. Renting shitty movies. And you and Jess would have your badass blonde asthmatic kid and she'd drink juice and take a nap and sing songs about the alphabet after preschool. And we'd keep her ridiculously safe and love the hell out her. And Jess and I would just love the hell out of you."
"Out of you," Sam says, quietly, still looking down at his hands.
Dean lifts his chin up. "I'm going to talk to Dad. I'm out."
"What?"
"I mean it. I already talked to Jess. I need to finish up this job with him, but give me a few weeks, I'll find the right time, I'll break the news. Hell, maybe the both of us getting out will convince him to throw in the towel, I don't know. But this...this isn't working. I miss you too fucking much and you--" he pokes Sam in the side "--clearly don't understand what's going on here, so let me read the paper while you fuck your girlfriend and maybe it'll get through your ridiculously thick skull that I'm here to help, okay?"
"I always knew that, Dean."
"Well. Yeah. Maybe I'll learn."
Sam wraps his arms around him and settles his cheek against Dean's chest. Stupid fucking kid.
"My big brother's going to stay," Sam says. "We're going to be happy forever."
Dean rests his chin on top of Sam's head and tries not to think about the glimmer of distrust in Jess's eyes, how John will break down, how Sam's hair smells.
Think about something true.
Think about the most fantastic fucking thing in your life and squeeze the hell out of it.
"Deeeean, stop, I can't breeeeeathe."
Summary: Dean and Jess have a sick kid. And they have a problem.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through the pilot, haha.
Wordcount: 6,181
Author's Note: Sammyverse as always. I won't tell you exactly when this takes place. You'll figure it out.
---
In the passenger seat, Dean flicks open his switchblade, twirls it around, clicks it closed again. Over and over.
He sees John glancing at him and trying to think of something to say and he's getting this sick fucking pleasure out of it, because he hasn't seen John's I fucked up and don't know what to say face since Sam went storming out of his hospital room a year ago and wow, isn't that a great memory, thanks a fuck ton for that, Dean's brain, where were you four hours ago when you decided to tell some girl-just some fucking girl--that you kill monsters?
So he cuts stray threads off his jeans and doesn't give John any damn help.
But eventually, John says, “She seemed like a nice girl.”
“Yeah.”
"Dean, someday...when we've taken care of that son of a bitch that killed your mother, I'm going to make sure you have everything, you hear me? House in the country, sweetest girl you could imagine."
“Sam too?”
“Sam's heading towards that on his own.”
"Yeah, I know," Dean says, but then he shakes his head a little because fuck this, fuck fucking promises, and he says, "But then what the fuck what, after we've killed it, after I get that girl? I tell her I did what for the first twenty-five years of my life? How the fuck do you even talk to normal people?” He wonders all the time about Sam, his first few weeks of school, adjusting to unpacking all his shit and making small talk and taking care of himself and sleeping in the same bed and putting up posters and sleeping with girls who know his real name and and and Sam. “Sam hasn't told Jess."
John, of course, has nothing to say about that, because what the fuck is there to say? Good for him? What an idiot? What other choice does he have? He's going to have to tell her eventually? It's all true. And it makes Dean proud and nervous and frustrated and worried and glad that there's still a part of Sam's that isn't Jess's and wow isn't that just nice and fucked up?
"I think we're past the point of normal, Dad. I think I'm past the point of fucking anything."
"Don't say that." It's a command.
Don't say that, because then I have to admit that I fucked up.
Dean breathes out and rests his temple against the window and misses curly hair and brown skin and long fingers and he misses Sam.
**
Dean's taking his turn behind the wheel at 2 AM when his phone rings. Or, more accurately, his phone announces, in Sam's voice, "Dean! Pick up your fucking phone!"
It's the best ringtone ever, but it fucking sucks when it's 2 AM on a school night in Sam's timezone, too.
John stirs in the passenger seat, and Dean curses softly and cradles his phone to his ear while he drives.
"Hey,” He says. “Why not sleeping, kid?"
He's wheezing. It's bad, but not call-in-the-middle-of-the-night bad. Especially when he can hear Jess there, talking softly in the background.
"D-Dean?" He has that wavery voice. Okay. Fever.
"Sick, huh? Can I talk to Jess?"
But then Sam's saying, "Dean, Dean, ow, ow, ow help please I don't know" and he's fucking crying.
"Fuck. Sam. Fuck. What hurts? What's wrong?" Dean swallows against a sudden pain in his throat and glances at John, whose eyes are glued to the phone.
He pulls over.
"Sam. Tell me what hurts."
"I c-can't hear you. D-Dean? Are you there? I can't hear you. Dean. Ow. Ow." He sobs once. "Ow."
"Sam, let me talk to Jess," he says, and Sam says ”No no my Dean mine” but then there's scuffling and then Jess's voice, thank fucking God.
"Dean?"
"Jesus. What's wrong with him?"
"Double ear infection. I took him to the clinic this morning but they told him just to take Tylenol...it's fucking killing him. His fever's high and he's dizzy and his lungs are freaking out. He's in so much pain and...his ears look so bad. He's been crying pretty constantly but I think it's just gotten worse. He's like desperately upset right now. I don't know what to do.”
Dean can't remember the last time Sam cried for pain. It's been years. He'll cry when he's stressed or scared or when he just doesn't fucking feel good, but Sam got shot in the fucking stomach once and didn't shed a tear. He stitched himself in motel rooms. He shook and shrugged and breathed through it when Dean held his broken leg still so John could pop his knee back in place.
And now he's a mess from a fever and an ear infection and it's just so normal.
Okay, but even Normal Sam isn't a wimp, so this is clearly horrific.
"He's crying for you," Jess says. "He...I can't get him to stop crying, and I don't know what to do, Dean. Could you--"
"I...let me talk to Sam, okay?"
"He's really not hearing well."
"It's okay."
She talks quietly to Sam, and Dean lowers the phone a little and says, "Infection in both ears, fever, vertigo, asthma attack. It's bad.”
John rubs his hand over his mouth. "I need you, Dean."
"I know, but--" Dean says, and he hears whistling and crying through the phone and he picks it up and holds it to John's ear.
"Sam?" John says, and he's frozen for a second before he swallows and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sammy. Jesus. Calm down, okay? Deep breaths. Oh, God, Sam, please stop crying."
John listens and nods and tells Sammy he'll be okay, and then switches seats with Dean and drives him to a bus station.
**
It's an eight hour bus ride to Palo Alto. It could be a lot worse. It could be so much longer. He tells himself that, over and over.
It could be so much worse. Sam could be farther away. Sam could be in the hospital. John could have refused to let him go. Sam could be alone. Sam could be torn apart by a monster instead of an infection. It could be so, so much worse.
But Sam is crying, and that has a way of making everything else really abstract. There isn't a silver lining to this.
**
Jess calls two hours in and says he's sleeping.
"He's been in and out," she says.
"How bad's the fever?"
"A hundred and three, creeping up.”
"Ugh."
“I'm really sorry, Dean.”
“What?”
“It was just a cold yesterday. I don't know how this-”
“Jess. Don't you ever apologize to me about him.”
**
He calls to check in an hour later and there's panting and ragged moaning in the background, and he says, "Okay, okay, let me talk to him."
"Gonna put you on speaker, okay?" she says. "He tried to call you earlier and the phone against his ear made him scream."
"Shit. Okay."
There's a beep, and then Sam's crying is soft, he knows that, but to Dean it's loud and near and painful, and fuck, this is just not okay.
It's fading in and out, and Dean hears footsteps. He's pacing.
"You've got to have some kind of painkiller," Dean says. "Sammy, you have something?"
"J-just Tylenol."
Non-hunters don't keep the good stuff around, apparently. "Jess, you don't have anything?"
"I...might have Vicodin from when I got my wisdom teeth out."
"He's allergic." Dean bites his lip. "Okay. I have Percocet, he can have that. I'm like five hours out. Does he need an ER?"
"I-I don't know."
"Can he hear me at all?"
"I don't think so. I think he forgot you were...Sam? Hey, Sam? No. He's not looking. Hold on."
He hears her get up and talk softly to him, and the crying stutters and stops. Then there's Sam's voice, shaky as all fuck. "D-Dean?"
"Yeah, buddy, right here. You hear me?"
"Um. Yes."
"That's my boy. You need a hospital, Sammy?"
"Wh-where are you?"
"I'm coming."
"Good. Okay. That's fine then," Sam says, and Dean's chest hurts.
**
An hour after that, Dean starts getting half-gibberish texts from him, and the pain in his chest gets a fuck of a lot sharper every time his phone buzzes with something like cold cnt breathe wnn sleep st test thurs?" because, like, what the fuck, Sammy?
He calls Jess. "Put a sweatshirt on him, and you've got to make him stop texting me, he's breaking my heart, here."
"It's calming him down."
He exhales. "Can you find out what he's saying? Besides that he can't breathe?"
She talks gently to him, and Dean can just picture her stroking his hair and leaning into whichever ear hurts a little less.
Then she's back on the phone and she says, quietly, "I don't think he really knows."
**
dzzy
I know buddy hang in there
coming?
yes. 2 hours.
wn pckup grappp?
try that again kiddo. pick up what?
areyu comin?
2 hours. wheres jess?
ll ask wait
if you can ask her then im guessing shes right there
Dean? It's me. Can I give him Nyquil?
not if the cough is wet. hows he doing?
Falling apart at the seams. He's begging for the phone back.
alright.
picup, please?
pick up what, the phone? you want me to call you? Youre not hearing so well
jucce
juice. got it. absolutely.
comin/?
one hour 48 minutes. keep breathing.
**
Two hours and 2 minutes later (fucking line at the grocery store, fucking slow menopausal women who have apparently forgotten that fucking sick kids need their damn grape juice) Dean forces himself not to run from his hot-wired car to Sam and Jess's door. He knocks hard and twists the handle of his grocery bag and scuffs his feet on the welcome mat while he waits.
It takes Jess too fucking long, but then she's ushering him inside and taking his bag and wrapping herself around his neck. "Thank fucking God."
"You're warm. Are you sick?"
"No, I've just been cuddling Sam. Come on--" she says, but then stops, halfway through leading him to the bedroom, because Sam is there, standing in the hallway, eyes and nose red and the heel of his hand pushed into his cheekbone. He's sniffling (like when he was seven and had his first sinus infection and bawled, like when he was eighteen and shocky after he got his tonsils out, like when he was twenty-one and allergic and adorable over the phone) and fuck, his swollen eyes and his gaspy breaths and his fucking shaking chin.
"Sammy Sammy hey," and Dean steps forwards and gets his arms under Sam's because fuck if he's knocking one of Sam's ears by mistake and Sam shrinks to fit him, Sam is all over him, Sam is warm and shaky and he clings to Dean's shoulders and presses his hot fucking forehead against Dean's neck and Dean rests his cheek on the top of Sam's head and mumbles, "It's okay, baby, it's okay"s that neither Sam or Jess can hear and he rubs Sam's unsteady back up and down and listens to Sam's wheezing and the quiet, quiet sounds of his crying. He wraps his arms tighter around Sam and Sam follows suit, fingers digging into Dean's shoulder blades.
"I've got you," Dean whispers. "You're my boy."
**
Percocet makes Sam sleepy but the pain doesn't level off enough to stop pacing, so instead of crashing on the couch with Dean and Jess he's walking anxiously in front of it, pawing at his neck because he's afraid to get too close to his ear. Even from a few feet off, Dean can see how red and swollen they are, and Jesus, Sam hasn't had an ear infection like this since he was a tiny kid, and this is both fucking ears.
He stumbles and catches himself on the coffee table.
"Sam," Dean says. "Dizzy kid. Come lie down."
"I..." Sam pulls anxiously at his neck again.
"He's big," Jess says. "Maybe another pill?"
"He's had two, more's just going to make him even dizzier. Sam. You hearing us, kid? Come lie down."
Jess gets up and takes his hand, tugs him gently to the couch. "Hey. Baby. You finally got both of us. Why aren't you here cuddling?"
Sam allows her to sit him down, then wraps one arm around Jess's and the other around Dean's and shoves his face into Dean's shoulder.
"There's a good kid," Dean says, even though Sam's starting to cry again. "I know it hurts. I know it's really fucking bad."
Jess kisses Sam's shoulder blade.
Dean says, "He has antibiotic drops or something, right?"
"Yeah."
"God, his breathing really is for shit."
She says, "I'll set the neb up. He's got a tight hold on you.”
"Yeah." He shakes his arm free and wraps it around Sam, helping Sam settle into his chest. "Thanks."
"Of course."
Jess goes to the bedroom, and Sam shivers and sniffles against Dean's shirt, but he's a little calmer, resting, maybe. Dean moves his hand to his forehead to check on the fever. He's got to be close to 104. Poor fucking kid.
And Dean doesn't know if the fever is what's causing this, or if it's Sam crying or Sam shaking or Sam wheezing or Sam fucking hurting make it better or if it's Cassie or if it's Jess or who the fuck knows, okay, he doesn't fucking know but he knows that he's holding Sam really really close and Sam is letting him and and fuck, just fuck, okay?
**
"Have t'study," Sam's saying, slurring because they gave him another fucking pill because he was still goddamn crying. "LSAT."
"LSAT's over, baby." Jess kisses his forehead. “Mouthpiece in, okay?”
Sam sits peacefully with the nebulizer for all of thirty seconds before he takes it out and looks at Dean and says, "Y'here t'help me study?"
"Here to get you well. Neb."
Sam sneezes hard and says, "I'm sick?" and Dean rolls his eyes and tucks Sam under his arm.
"Yeah," he says. "Just a little."
"Don't go, okay? M'sick." He wraps both arms around Dean's and plays with his fingers.
"Gets so clingy when he's sick," Jess says, carefully smoothing Sam's hair away from his ear.
"He's clingy always," Dean says.
Sam snuffles into Dean's sleeve and grits his teeth, and Dean whispers, "Shh shh shh Sammy it's okay," and rubs circles on his back.
**
John calls an hour later. "How is he?"
"Jess is sponging him off, trying to get the fever down. It's high, and the pain's bad, but he's stoned on Percocet now."
"How's he breathing?"
"Bad, bad bad bad."
"Shit.”
"I'm bringing him back to the fucking clinic tomorrow and demanding they fucking fix him this time. I haven't seen him cry like this since that poltergeist shattered his wrist. How's the hunt?"
"Just researching. Looks like a whole damn family of spirits."
"Can you...do it on your own?"
"I don't know, Dean."
Dean breathes out. "I...I can't leave him. Not while he's this sick."
"I know. I get it, okay?"
"Yeah."
**
He helps haul a drowsy Sam out of the bath and to bed, where he falls asleep all the fuck over both of them before Dean can get up.
"Um," Dean says.
She shrugs. "It's fine. It's a big bed."
So they share the bed, Sam between them, until well into the morning. Sam's slung over top of him like a fucking electric blanket, and the smell of Jess's shampoo is everywhere (it doesn't make Sam sneeze). It's way too easy to sleep.
**
"Wh-where's Jess?" Sammy asks, in that shaky damn voice, for the fifth time in an hour.
"She's at school. She had a test, remember?"
Sam's hand bounces by his ear again, heading towards it, then freezing when the movement of the air makes the pain rachet up. "M-macromolecules."
"That's right."
"H-helped her study." Sam shivers, again, and that's just enough, okay? They've been waiting for the doctor for twenty fucking minutes, and that's at least eighteen minutes too long for Sam to be shivering on a metal table by himself.
He hops up on the table next to Sam and listens to his shitty goddamn breathing and patiently lets Sam cling to him like one of the monkeys in those scenarios he helped Sam memorize for his pysch class. He's like the monkey that clung to the cloth mom who couldn't really help him.
"God, you're burning up."
Sam nods and does his best to crawl into Dean's jacket.
"Jesus, Sammy, okay. All right." He maneuvers the arm close to Sammy out of its sleeve and loans that half of the coat to Sam, tucking the kid into his side. "Any better?"
Sam nods, hard, but nodding hard fucking hurts him, and then he's crying out and clapping a hand to his ear and then he's flinching and sobbing and oh, Christ, Sammy.
He doesn't have the air for it, so they're these breathless, half-silent, raspy tears, and when Sam did this when he was a kid, Dean would take his face between his hands and whisper, "All better all better all better," but he can't fucking touch Sam's face right now, he's in so much goddamn pain.
So puts one hand on Sam's collarbone and the other on his back and just holds him.
"My poor kid," he says, softly.
Sam pushes his fist into his forehead and tries to stop crying.
"Hey." Dean takes him by the wrist, loosens his hand, and wraps his own around it. "You're sick and confused and you're not getting why it hurts so much. It's okay."
"DNA," he mumbles.
"What?"
"DNA. 's a macromolecule."
"Oh. Okay."
"Plastic," Sam says, and then he's crying again.
**
The doctor has to shine his little light in Sam's ears, and the pain and vertigo hit so badly that Sam's now throwing up in the doctor's pretty little white trashcan, so thanks for that, doctor. Dean really doesn't give a shit that he's appropriately sympathetic, and he brushes his thumb back and forth across the back of Sam's burning hot neck.
"We can give him oral antibiotics," the doctor says.
"It's got to be doxycycline because he's allergic to, like, everything."
"That'll be fine. And I can prescribe some ear drops to help with the pain. But it's going to be rough for a couple of days no matter what we do. Sam, can I get you some water?"
Sam pants. "Thank you."
"Of course. I'll be right back."
Dean cleans Sam up with a tissue or two and says, "I just want to put your fucking head on my shoulder."
Sam nods miserably. His eyes are completely focused on Dean's mouth, watching his lips form the words.
"Remember that time we couldn't hear?" Dean says. "After that witch."
"Uh-huh."
"We did okay then."
"That didn't hurt." He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck and draws his knees to his chest.
"We're going to fix it, Sammy. Deep breaths."
Sam tries, but the wheezing's really fucking brutal.
"Neb as soon as we get home," Dean says.
"Yeah?"
"I promise."
"Okay," Sam says, and then coughs until he's so dizzy he has to lie down.
**
Slowly, way too fucking slowly, Sam gets better.
He goes to a class every once in a while but spends most of his time napping flat on his back with his head on Dean's lap while Jess rushes around between work and exams and helping Dean do Sam's homework for him because you're a fucking senior, Sam, it can wait, go to sleep. Sometimes he rolls over, forehead pressed into Dean's knee, so Dean can rub at his back for a while. It makes him cough, but what the fuck doesn't right now, you know?
Even for sick Sam, he's clingy, following Dean to the kitchen when he goes for juice (Sammy) or beer Dean) and attaching himself to Dean's sleeve whenever they're sitting down, and that's how Dean knows that, despite the dropping fever and the tears that have all but dried up, Sam is still feeling really, really crappy. He's still dizzy, and the wheeze isn't going anywhere. (Dean lies on the couch at night and tries not to listen to that whistle and to Jess's voice and Jess's kisses through the walls. Tries not to picture her mouth on Dean's boy. Fuck.)
**
"Why so sad, Dean?" Sam asks quietly.
"My little brother's sick."
"Uh-uh."
Dean plays with Sam's hair and doesn't know what to say so he thinks say something true so he tells him about Cassie and says, "I don't believe in anything anymore."
"I believe in God," Sammy says.
"Yeah, I know, kid. And I believe in you." He rubs his knuckle against Sam's temple. "But I meant things we could really have."
"Oh."
He presses a kiss to Sam's warm forehead.
**
The world didn't stop while Sammy was sick and there was a lot of his homework that GED Dean and Chemistry major Jess could not suss out which means Sam's now spending hours sprawled out at the coffee table highlighting play texts and cross-referencing something or other when John calls. His fever's barely above a hundred at this point and Jess has stopped worrying about leaving him to go class (though, Christ, that wheeze, that fucking wheeze).
John's breathing almost as hard as the kid here. "How's Sam?"
"Getting better."
"Hey, Dad," Sam says quietly.
"Sam says hi."
"I need you here. How soon can you be in Jericho?”
“I...” He closes his eyes and tries to focus on a map and nothing the fuck else. “How far's that from Sacramento?”
“An hour.”
“Then three from here. Why are you in California?”
“I don't have time to explain. I need you here now.”
God, that sounds intense, sounds important (sounds like a fucking good way to burn off...all of this, burn it off like a fucking fever).
Dean looks at Sam and his big eyes on the floor (Sam and his goddamn eyes).
"Yeah," Dean says. "I'll be there soon."
**
"You're just leaving?" Sam's standing by the door like he thinks he can fucking block Dean, nice try, wheezy. "You're not even going to say goodbye to Jess?"
"I'll email her."
"Damn it!"
"Sam, don't, okay? Dad needs help."
"I'm sick."
"You're always fucking sick," and Dean's saying it to be an asshole and that's really against the fucking rules.
"You know what I mean."
"You're getting better."
"I feel like crap--"
Dean crams his coat into his bag. "You have Jess."
"I want you too."
Dean's vision burns orange and he drops his bag to the floor.
"Well, you fucking can't, okay?"
“What?”
“No, you selfish bastard, you can't have both of us. Do you know how fucking lucky you are to have one of us? Do you know how many people would fucking kill for that? Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, you get an ear infection and two goddamn people stop their fucking worlds for you, you spoiled goddamn brat, Dad's calling worrying about you, you think he does that when I'm sick? You think anyone does that when I'm sick?"
"I do."
"You have a fucking girlfriend!" and the words are out before Dean even thinks about them, well fucking done, well done.
But Sam doesn't stop to let them rest. "Don't you dare fucking make that what this is about! Don't you fucking...this is about us as a fucking family, this is about you choosing fucking hunting and Dad's fucking plan over me, and you always say you're not going to and then you always fucking bail, you know Jess wanted to get a two-bedroom apartment? Jess wanted you to stay?" Sam can't breathe, Jesus Christ. "You think I didn't want that more than anything in the whole fucking world? But I'm not going to pay an extra God the fuck knows how much just to have my chest hurt every time I walk past the empty room because you will never fucking stay, do you have any concept of how happy you would be? We love you beyond your wildest fucking dreams so fuck you so fucking much, Dean, fuck you, because you will keep making excuses because you don't think I'm worth it and you don't want to deal with me and the fact that Dad thinks I'm fucking you has goddamn nothing to do with it!"
Sam stands there, fucking gasping for breath, and there's nothing in the whole world for him right now but this hideous lack of oxygen, which means he has no fucking clue that Jess is right behind him, and that she's staring at Dean.
And that she's backing right the fuck out the door.
**
Okay.
One thing at a time.
First, big brother has to get this kid breathing, so he watches the door slide shut behind Jess (Sammy is breathing too hard to hear) and then goes to him and puts a hand on the back of his head and says, "Okay okay okay," and gets Sam to his room as fast as he fucking can, before his body figures out that it doesn't have any goddamn air for moving around. Sam's agitated as all fuck, clinging to Dean with one hand and tugging at his shirt with the other and you were about to leave him like this.
"Shhh shhhh." Dean sets up the nebulizer and gives Sam rough rubs, wake-the-fuck-up-lungs rubs, up and down his back. "It's okay it's okay," he says softly. "Just one more minute, Sammy, almost done."
He's upset. Kid did not need a goddamn asthma attack right now, and he's not taking it well. He's fisting his hair and leaning over his knees and squeezing out these ragged bits of breath.
"Here we go." Dean shoves the mouthpiece at him and quickly moves behind him so he can get both hands on Sam's back (because otherwise he's going to try to touch his chest and that's not fucking okay). He wraps one hand around Sam's waist to hold him still and pushes his opposite thumb between Sam's shoulder blades.
Touching Sam isn't awkward, even after that.
That's never what this was about.
The fact that he knows exactly where to put his hands, the fact that forty-five seconds after a fight Sam's leaning back into Dean and clinging to his t-shirt? That Sam's hair is as soft as when he was a fucking baby?
It's muscle memory, it's memory, and that's what this is about.
Because this is what's lasted, this is the one fucking thing in Dean's life that isn't fractured scarred dislocated sullen buried burned dead, Sam is whistling lungs and new life and beautiful girl and a whole fucking three part harmony of a boy alive and fuck, fuck, because he raised Sam better than this shit that he piles on him and and he spoiled him and built him and he wishes he didn't. And what kind of a fucking brother wishes his kid didn't expect people to love him?
Sam was supposed to just be Dean's thing.
And he was supposed to be too fucking young for any of this to be real in Dean's head.
Damn it, Sam, why did you have to grow up stay big and real and in love and scary and beautiful? Not a good kid.
**
Sam's fast asleep, and Dean ducks into the living room and calls John. He doesn't pick up, so Dean leaves a message telling him Sam's flaring and he has to stay for a few more hours until Jess gets home from work.
And then he needs a fucking cigarette, and there's Jess leaning against his stolen car, arms crossed.
He's surprised to see her.
He has no idea what the fuck to say. So he says something true.
"My dad is crazy."
She runs her hand through her hair. "I'd always kind of gotten that impression, yeah."
"He's jealous that Sam likes me more and he takes it out in ridiculous ways. You've...heard what I call Sam. It's a problem, yeah. It's a big fucking problem for Dad."
"You guys are close." She shoves her hands into her pockets. "I get it. And I always thought it was sweet, because Sam has such a hard time with your dad. He gets so fucking upset about it. So the fact that he has you...it's important. Do you know how much he worries about you? You're off...yeah, taking pictures, you think I buy that crap? I don't know what the fuck you're doing, Dean, but it scares the shit out of Sam. All we ever wanted was for you to be safe."
He looks down. "I know."
"And this is the kind of shit your dad uses against you? What, to keep you away from Sam?"
"Jess..."
She locks eyes with him. "You tell me there's nothing between you and Sam, and I'll believe you."
"There's nothing between me and Sam." Now say something that isn't a lie. "You can ask him. There's nothing there."
Sam is pure and perfect and giving his big brother a hug when he's sick, fuck you, very much, Dean.
She says, "It's not like I wouldn't have noticed if you guys were...when I left the fucking house, you know? Sam can't even hide my fucking birthday presents.”
"This...isn't something Dad ever accused us of. It's not anything to do with anything. It's Sam reading into some looks Dad's given us, I don't know, or some snide goddamn remarks he's made when Sam wasn't paying attention or when Sam wasn't goddamn breathing and he wanted me and not Dad. This is Sam being dramatic."
"So this is coming from Sam?"
"No. God. Trust me, the last place this is coming from is Sam."
"So what is it?”
"I can't fucking keep up with this conversation, Jess! I'm not smart like you, okay? I'm just...I'm not smart like you or like Sam, and I don't walk around fucking analyzing shit, okay?" Say something that isn't a lie. "My dad will make up anything to try to explain me and Sam, and he'll simplify that down, and maybe he's said stuff to Sam when I wasn't there, I don't know. Sam scares the shit out of Dad. He's strong and stubborn and exactly fucking like him and it scares him to death because Dad didn't have a me, Dad's never fucking had a me because he passed me off to Sam the second the kid was born and if you think I'm the only one raising someone here you're out of your fucking mind, and he doesn't know what the fuck's going to become of his little clone-Sammy when I'm there to throw a wrench in or whatever the fuck. He just wants Sam to be okay. That's the fucking dream for him, and he fell to fucking pieces when Mom died and he looks at Sam with the same fucking determination and intensity and fucking dimples and he thinks if anything ever happened to Dean and he looks at me and thinks Sam is sick and if Dean loses him I will lose everything and if Sam loses Dean he will stop breathing and he doesn't want me to fuck him up. But you look at me, Jess, look at me right now, and tell me if you believe I'm fucking Sam up."
Jess looks away and breathes out.
"Your dad really sounds like an asshole."
"He...doesn't know how else to be."
"Why do you leave?"
"What?"
Why do you leave us? Why do you go back to your dad?" She's looking at him again. "He accuses you of these horrible fucking things and makes you feel shitty about yourself, so why the hell do you leave...leave your kid and go back to him?"
Because the world needs saving.
Because Mom Mom Mom Mom.
Because oh my God what if something happens to Sam I can't I can't I can't see it.
Because I'll fuck Sam up.
"It's not that simple," Dean says.
"Maybe it can be. For you and Sam. Maybe stop overanalyzing--yeah, don't give me that shit about not analyzing-and get an apartment next door or some shit. You want to prove to me you're not fucking Sam up? Fucking prove it."
"I need to talk to Sam."
"Yeah. You really do. Give me your keys, I'll go for a drive. What the fuck care is this?”
He tosses them to her and doesn't answer. "Hey," he says, while she's unlocking the door. "We're cool, right?"
"I don't know. Just...talk to Sam. And just...he's sick, okay? Don't let him know anything's wrong.”
“How the fuck can you want me?”
She stops. “What?”
“You hear...that, and you still want me in your house? Why the fuck aren't you running the hell away? Jesus, if I could run away from us-” "
“Dean. Breathe.”
He rubs his hand over his mouth.
“I'm sorry,” he says, quietly, and she pounces right on that.
“Don't you ever apologize to me about him,” she says.
Dean breathes out.
“Just be here,” Jess says, softly. “Be here so we can love you. Be here so I know I'm not a fucking consolation prize, Christ.”
God, how could she ever think that?
Jess, you're the light at the end of the tunnel.
Jess, you are the dream.
(We love you for loving him, Jess.)
**
"I'm sorry," Sam says, an hour later, voice still raspy.
"Don't worry about it."
"This is the part where you say you're sorry too."
Dean sits cross-legged in front of him on the bed and grips Sam's feet.
"How about if I say, 'you weren't wrong?'"
Sam looks up at him.
"Except...you kind of were. Hear me out, all right? I haven't been choosing hunting over you. I've been choosing...not fucking fighting with Dad over you."
Sam looks down and nods.
"And that is such total and complete fucking bullshit."
He raises his head.
Dean moves around next to Sam and sits next to him on the pillows. "Don't laugh, okay?"
"I can't breathe enough to laugh."
"I used to think about hunting with you and Jess. About the three of us working as some kind of team, and then you and Jess would have your kid--" Sam gets a squeeze on the shoulder whenever this comes up, always "--and we'd raise her to be some badass blond asthmatic whatever and she'd kill monsters after preschool and we'd keep her ridiculously safe and love the hell out of her. That was the dream."
"I like that."
"You know what I dream about now?"
Sam shakes his head and plays with the hem of Dean's shirt.
Dean breathes out.
Say something true.
"I dream about having dinner ready when you and Jess get home from school. Helping you study. Covering her shifts so she can stay home with you when you're not feeling good. Renting shitty movies. And you and Jess would have your badass blonde asthmatic kid and she'd drink juice and take a nap and sing songs about the alphabet after preschool. And we'd keep her ridiculously safe and love the hell out her. And Jess and I would just love the hell out of you."
"Out of you," Sam says, quietly, still looking down at his hands.
Dean lifts his chin up. "I'm going to talk to Dad. I'm out."
"What?"
"I mean it. I already talked to Jess. I need to finish up this job with him, but give me a few weeks, I'll find the right time, I'll break the news. Hell, maybe the both of us getting out will convince him to throw in the towel, I don't know. But this...this isn't working. I miss you too fucking much and you--" he pokes Sam in the side "--clearly don't understand what's going on here, so let me read the paper while you fuck your girlfriend and maybe it'll get through your ridiculously thick skull that I'm here to help, okay?"
"I always knew that, Dean."
"Well. Yeah. Maybe I'll learn."
Sam wraps his arms around him and settles his cheek against Dean's chest. Stupid fucking kid.
"My big brother's going to stay," Sam says. "We're going to be happy forever."
Dean rests his chin on top of Sam's head and tries not to think about the glimmer of distrust in Jess's eyes, how John will break down, how Sam's hair smells.
Think about something true.
Think about the most fantastic fucking thing in your life and squeeze the hell out of it.
"Deeeean, stop, I can't breeeeeathe."