Title: Made of the Same Old Sam
Summary: November 2nd. John gets a phone call. Sam gets a blood test. Sam is 16 and Dean is 20.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through Season 2, no warnings.
Wordcount: 4,442
Author's Note: Sammyverse, title from "Same Old Stuff" by The Feeling. This was an idea I had rolling around for a while.
Dean jerks awake to the sound of John's phone ringing and his mumbled curses as he takes it outside, and he stays awake to watch his little brother fucking writhing on his cot, trying to get air, this fucking kid. He's been off-balance for a few days and the past few nights have been like this, which is why they're all, Sam included, sleeping through it. They're tired, so damn tired. It's pure force of will, and at this point the wheeze is a lullaby, but this...this sounds bad.
He's about to get up and put a hand on his kid when John comes back in with quiet steps, hunter steps, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He heads straight to Sam and gives him this gentle shake on the back, and Dean's expecting, "Hey, take your inhaler," or even "All right, Simba, hospital time," but instead it's a quiet, all-business, "Hey, Sammy, we've got to go meet someone."
Sam's obviously just as confused as Dean is, blinking up at John in between coughs that have him curled up at the waist, holding his knees, fucking begging for air.
Dean sits up. "Dad?"
"Hey. Go back to sleep, Dean."
"If we're doing ER, I'm coming."
"No, no," John says, but then he gives Sam another look and finally seems to notice that the kid's not at his fucking best right now, and he helps Sam sit up and presses the inhaler into his hand. "Here we go. Breathe in nice and deep for me, Sam."
Sam is too fucking dazed to do anything else, but once the hit's settled and he's taken a few semi-decent breaths, he's all fucking suspicious, watching John put on his boots and coat like he thinks he's going to jump the fuck out at him.
Sam looks at Dean and mouths something, and yeah, Dean knows his kid, he gets it on the first try, even with the damn wheezing--November second?
Because it's past midnight, it's November fucking second, and sometimes that means John does some weird shit or takes them to weird places (here's where I met her, here's where we stayed after the fire, here's where we first ohGodDad why would you tell us that) and that's fine, okay, whatever, but one thing is not fine and that's separating Dean from his wheezing sixteen-year-old on today of all days, Christ.
"I'm coming," Dean says.
"Dean..."
"I said I'm coming. C'mere, Sam, wrap up." He tugs Sam up and into his jacket and scarf, and Sam burrows into his hood and keeps looking at Dean with all these fucking questions in his eyes, like he does every goddamn year, like he forgets that Dean was four, Sam, four, and his biggest memory of the day isn't Mom, it's my baby my baby mine.
"You want to piggy-back?"
Sam shakes his head. "Would press on my chest."
"Yeah. C'mere." He glances at John, but he's already halfway out the door, so fuck it, he wraps an arm around Sammy's shoulders and messes up his hair before he tucks his further into his hood.
He's all bundled up, is the thing. Like a baby.
"Where are we going?" Sam says.
"I don't know."
"Why at fucking two AM?"
"Guess we'll see."
"Why did he just want me?"
Yeah, that's the zillion dollar question, Sam. Smart kid.
**
John guides Sam right towards the passenger seat, what the fuck ever, so wheezy kid rides shotgun and even though John's driving in some kind of trance, he has the presence of mind to reach over and give the back of his neck a squeeze every few miles.
"M'fine." Sam tilts his head back into John's hand. "Where are we going?"
Dean could swear he sees John glance back at him.
"Friend of mine wanted to meet you."
"Me?" Sam says.
"Yep."
"In the middle of the night?"
"Just when it worked out. I've been waiting for his call for weeks now. Just a few hours out. You'll make it back in time for school." He says it all fucking gently.
And there's only one reason, one reason fucking ever, that he uses that voice, and Dean can't believe it took him this long to put the pieces together. Middle of the night silent road trips, friends who call at mysterious hours, Sam in the passenger seat? Jesus, John, it's been fucking years, does Dean need to lock himself and his kid in the bathroom again?
"No," Dean says. "No. We're not fucking doing this."
Sam says, "Dean?"
"Dean, everything's fine."
"You're not bringing him to another fucking healer."
"That's not what's going on here," John says, and that is not his honest voice, okay?
Sam is very quiet.
"Hey," Dean says. "Hey, Sam, you don't fucking remember, okay? You got so fucking sick the last time--"
"Dean," John says.
"Hives like fucking tennis balls, eyes swelled shut, we couldn't even bring him to the fucking hospital, thought we were going to--"
"Dean. Quiet."
Sam still hasn't said anything, damn it, Sam. No.
"This won't fix you," Dean says. "Don't let him talk you into this, Sammy, please."
"I..." Sam says, and Dean is so not prepared for the next thing out of the kid's mouth. "I don't need to be fixed."
John says. "You're absolutely right."
**
They finally stop, after an hour and a half of junky wheezing from Sam and tense, you-better-fucking-believe-this-is-silence silence from John and Dean, somewhere in East Texas. Judging by the shady warehouse they park beside and the rickety stairs leading to the basement, yeah, nice upstanding citizen you have as a friend here, John.
"Asthma kid in a moldy basement," Dean says. "Yeah, this is a fantastic idea."
"Why you all clingy?" Sam says, too softly for John to hear.
"November fucking second." It's enough.
"Oh," Sam says, and he tucks himself under Dean's arm. "Yours."
"You're damn right."
A door at the end of the hallway opens but stays latched, and John talks softly to someone through the gap. Sam makes a face at Dean to make him smile and then hops from foot to foot, hands in his pockets.
The door closes and then opens again, fully this time, and a guy taller than Dad squints down at them from behind a pair of stupid-looking glasses, like the kind they make you wear in Chemistry class. Except this isn't fucking Chemistry class, which explains why Sam takes a small step behind Dean and Dean stares this dick right the hell down because no you and your science are not coming near Sam, haha, no.
"Not a healer," John says. "Just a friend. Arnold." He reaches over and messes up Sam's hair, and Sam tries to smile.
"Hey there, Sam," Arnold says, in a voice like he thinks Sam is twelve or some shit. "Let me get a look at you."
Sam lets himself get tugged forwards and into the room, and John and Dean are right the fuck behind, thanks. Dean keeps his eyes on his kid as Arnold nods him into a chair and says, without turning away, "If this hurts him--"
John squeezes his nose. "You're giving me a fucking headache."
"If you hurt him--"
"I'm just going to be taking some blood," Arnold says. "Just a bit."
Sam frowns and pulls his arm away. "What?"
"Yeah, no, that's his blood, thanks."
John says, "Goddamn it, Dean, could you just let--"
"What the fuck is going on?" Sam says.
"Sammy. Hey. Ice cream after, okay?"
"I'm not fucking five."
"He's just running some tests. He's going to see if there's anything we can do for you, okay, buddy? Not to hurt you, just make you more comfortable."
"I'm..." Sam says, presumably about to go to comfortable except with that wheeze in his chest he is so, so not.
"We won't be giving you anything without your permission, Sammer. These are just tests."
Sam looks at John for a long time, then takes a deep breath. "I get to stay at this school through prom. And I mean a lot of ice cream, Dad."
"You got it."
Sam uncurls his arm and offers it. "All right."
**
So Sam is a hunter. Sam is a really fucking good hunter, and Dean knows it isn't his, yeah, relative fondness for the little shit clouding his judgement here because he's seen hunters twice their age raise an eyebrow when they see the kid plug a spirit full of salt so smoothly you didn't see him draw his damn weapon or take off running at a speed that shouldn't be possible for a sixteen-year-old without the world's shittiest pair of lungs. And yeah, it's not like he's missed the way John watches him, that look in his eyes like he's wondering how the fuck Sam got to be this strong, what exactly the kid is made of.
Sam's a fucking hunter. He doesn't cry for broken ankles or home-stitched gashes. He doesn't bat an eye at sprains and dislocations and black bruises up and down his sides. He once sat through a concussion that shot his pupils wide and left him breathless and gray without a fucking tear, without a fucking whimper, just sat there and held the ice pack in place and rocked himself a little and threw up when the trashcan was nearby. Asthma attacks are par for the course, allergic reactions are shrug-worthy (except when they're fucking not but they're not going to talk about that), and needlesticks are definitely, definitely not worth a fucking blink.
So you're going to have to trust Dean that Sam isn't one to get all woozy from having a little blood drawn, okay?
And you're going to have to trust him that if his kid here is listing to the side and taking these slow, heavy blinks, you've taken too much fucking blood.
Dean's been standing here watching like a good little soldier, okay, but no, fuck this, but it's John who steps in, John who says, "Hey. You don't think that's enough?"
Arnold looks up at him. "You want to be sure?"
"I want you to stop bleeding my kid."
"All right, all right."
He yanks the needle unceremoniously out of Sam's vein and Sam doesn't flinch, just wraps his thumb around the puncture wound and presses hard. John digs around his pockets while Arnold disappears to play with his little vials and Dean gets Sam's arm up over his head.
"There we go," John says. "Look what I found." He holds something out to Sam, some piece of candy. "Feeling a little dizzy?"
Sam's fingers shake around the wrapper. "H-he took a lot."
"I know. I'm sorry. I didn't know it would be that much."
Except that isn't what Sam needs, thanks, he doesn't need apologies, he needs to know how he's going to fucking feel better, so Dean drops to a squat next to his chair and says, "Gobble that up, and we'll stop and get you a huge breakfast before school, how about that? Orange juice, bacon, French toast?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. You breathing okay? Let me hear."
"Dad. The fuck was that?" But Sam's still looking at Dean, like he thinks he's the one with the fucking answers.
"I told you, Sam."
"He fucking drained me."
"John?" Arnold calls from somewhere down the hall. "Think you might want to take a look."
"All right."
"I can't breathe, Dad," Sam says, all fucking softly.
"Shit. Okay. Dean, get him to the car?"
"I can get myself to the fucking--" Sam starts, and then he stands up way too fast and grab's Dean's shoulder with both hands to stay on his feet so yeah, convincing, Sam, A Plus work as always, this is why you got a C in Drama class, shitty actor. (He got a C in Drama class because he was up all night wheezing and fell asleep during his midterm which was just naming the parts of the fucking stage, you think Sam didn't know the fucking answers, and he called Dean all panicking and still fucking wheezing and Dean was in the car about to go down to the high school and chew the teacher the fuck out because no you do not take off points when Dean's kid isn't feeling well, you send him to the fucking nurse, you like drama so much let's see how much you like when Dean dramas all over your face but then John called and said they had to pack up so they left but the C stayed. Anyway.)
Sam leans on Dean's shoulder on their way out to the car, mumbling to himself about putting jelly on his French toast when no Sam you will not that is disgusting, and then he says, "I don't get it. What does this have to do with Mom?"
Dean will never, ever get used to the way Sam says 'Mom.'
Like it's a name from one of his stupid fantasy books, one of the long complicated names with apostrophes and not enough vowels that he's read a hundred times but never had to pronounce out loud until he's telling Dean the entire plot when Dean really does not care, Sam.
'Mom,' Sam.
Just 'Mom.'
It was Dean's first fucking word. (One guess what Sam's was. Remember the fucking mine part of November 2nd? We'll take the check please.)
"I don't know, kiddo." He loads Sam into the backseat and climbs in next to him. "He said he was just waiting on that call and it came tonight. Maybe that's the truth. Just a coincidence."
"When is anything ever really just a coincidence?"
"Tonight. Okay? Come on, Victorian aristocrat with her corset on too tight, lay that woozy head down."
"Can't fucking breathe."
"That'd be what I was alluding to, yeah. Neb when we get back."
"Won't have time before school."
"Okay, then inhaler and deep breaths now. Stop being ornery."
"Hey. I almost died."
"I'm pretty sure that's not what happened."
"You don't know."
"Did I almost kill him?"
"Who?"
"Anyone."
"No."
"Then you must not have almost died. November fucking second, Sammy. Not a good day to forget the rules."
"Sorry."
"Not forgiven. Go to sleep."
"You're my favorite."
"Sleep."
"Caribou."
"You're ugly when you don't sleep."
Sam laughs into the leather.
**
John's out a few minutes later, and for once he doesn't make some comment about how he's not a damn chauffeur and Dean you better get your ass up the front seat, no, he actually looks back, sees Sam's feet all the fuck over Dean's lap, and nods with something that looks suspiciously like approval.
Probably just grateful it's not his head. Whatever.
"He asleep?"
"Yeah."
They pull back onto the main road, and Dean watches the warehouse get smaller and smaller. "Dad?"
"Yeah, sport."
"Is something wrong with Sammy?"
"What?"
"He...is he sick?"
"He's...well. Sam."
"Sicker than normal, I mean."
"Has he seemed any different to you?"
That fucking voice, and Dean's heart spits out beats like a machine gun.
"What?"
"I don't know, Dean." But he does know. he does. "He shot up out of nowhere, he's got that temper, his breathing's in the toilet--"
"It's fucking hormones, he's sixteen."
"--he's distracted lately, having those nightmares..."
"What were you testing him for?"
"Dean. Nothing."
"Don't fucking tell me nothing."
And then the car's jerked into the shoulder and stopped dead, and John's turning around and fixing him with the hardest glare in Dean can remember.
"I'm your father," he says. "And I'm telling you nothing. Listen to me, Dean. Are you listening?"
"Yessir."
"This never happened. Tonight never happened. You mention this to no one, you understand me? Not to Bobby. Not to Jim. I don't even want you talking about it with Sam. You understand?"
It's kind of adorable how John thinks he has any damn say over what Dean talks about with Sam, but still Dean gives a little nod. "Yessir."
"Good." John looks at him for a few more seconds before he turns and starts the car up again.
"Just tell me one thing?"
"Dean."
Dean looks down at this cold enormous feet on his lap, at his little brother wheezing hard into the the dirty backseat blanket. "Is he okay?"
"God, yeah. He's fine."
"Fuck. Thank you."
**
They get a big breakfast in Sam, and he's dizzy still but much better, though that wheeze is doing its best to prove otherwise, but whatever, wicked witch of the chest, you have no power here, no one is impressed, etc. etc.
He shovels eggs into his mouth and leans against John's shoulder, breathing all shallow into his hands to try to muffle the noise, and Dean finds his foot under the table and traps it between his.
John keeps looking at Sam all worried, and he's all over the kid like he's really damn hurt, pushing coffee cups and glasses of orange juice on him and watching him eat like he's never seen it before. He looks goddamn scared, like he thinks Sam's going to drop dead, and one, that's nice and all, but Sam's fine, and two, maybe you should have worried before you dragged him into some nasty-ass warehouse and sucked his blood?
"How you feelin', Sammy?" he asks while the kid polishes off his eggs.
"I'm okay. Are you going to tell me what that was or not?"
John sighs and wipes his napkin over his lips. "Not today, Sam."
Sam takes a half a second to get it (November 2nd, November 2nd, it will never, ever really mean anything to Sam) before he looks away and slumps a little in the shoulders. "Sure, Dad. Sorry."
"We have any plans today, sir?" Dean says, nudging the rest of his bacon to Sam (and he really wanted that bacon, okay? But Sammy's still all shaky and Dean likes him).
"Drop Sammy off, haul you back to the motel. Rufus needs us to look something up. He--of course--dove into a hunt with no fucking clue what he's after. I got an old book of Bobby's that might help, should go fast with the two of us."
That doesn't sound like it has anything the fuck all to do with Mary.
So...fine.
Whatever. It's John's day.
"All right."
(Except then he goes and squeezes out a few tears in the bathroom, yeah, whatever, fuck you. It's eight AM and it's already been a tough day and he can smell the fucking fire.)
**
They drop Sam up at school, and yeah, maybe Dean climbs out to straighten Sam's hat and make sure his scarf's wound tightly enough. Kid's been sick.
And it's been a tough day.
"Take it easy today, okay?" He ruffles Sam's hair through his hat. "Stay warm."
"Take care of Dad."
"Yeah."
"Is. Um."
"Speak."
"Is he mad at me?"
"What?"
"He's being all...quiet, like after I have a fucking temper tantrum. Did I have a fucking temper tantrum and forget?"
"Not unless we're getting temper tantrum and asthma attack confused."
"Seriously, did I--"
"Hey. Worrier. Stop."
"Worrier warrior."
"Sure. Everything's fine. He probably just feels bad about snatching all your blood."
Sam rubs the back of his neck. "You think..."
No, they're not talking about this now, not when John's fucking watching them. "I think they're going to run your blood through something and go WHOA BITCH HAS ASTHMA and then try to force you to take some whateverthefuck which we'll promptly throw away because you doesn't need a fucking miracle cure, do you?"
"No. Being needy is part of my charm."
"Exactly."
He hitches his backpack up on his shoulder. "All right."
"God, that wheeze."
"I know. I'm keeping track. I'll call if it gets bad."
"We're picking you up. Don't fucking walk home in this weather."
"All right, all right. You."
"What the fuck? You don't get to pull out all the fucking affection when you're just going to school."
"It's one word."
"No fucking affection and that's final." He wraps Sam's scarf one more time and tucks it into his collar. "Okay. Warm."
"You're so full of shit, Dean."
**
The second they're back at the motel, John shuts down. He slaps a book in front of Dean and gets on the laptop, scowly and quiet, and Dean tries to break the silence with a comment on Sam's wheeze because that's usually the safest topic imaginable but John fixes him with such a glare when he says Sam's name that Dean actually fucking cowers in his chair.
Ooookay, so he is mad at him. The hell? Sam didn't fucking do anything. He hasn't even pissed on whatever healer crap John and Arnold came up with, not yet.
But whatever, there's no point poking at the issue, everyone and their brother knows Dean's is Team Sam, blah blah, so he hunkers down with his book and reads through the printouts of Rufus's emails and just when he says, "Okay, I think I have something--" John's cell phone rings.
He snatches it up like it might have bitten them if it kept going. "Winchester. Arnold?...All right. Who? Who the fuck...just throw it out. Why are you calling?...There's nothing to...the fuck do you mean, report? Register? If you do anything without...Yeah. All right. I'll come. We'll talk."
He shuts his phone and puts it in his pocket. "Get in touch with Rufus, let him know what you found."
"Dad?"
"I'll be back in a few hours." He slides his gun into his belt. "There's something I need to take care of."
**
Dean won't lie.
He's kind of afraid when his phone rings.
Turns out it's just Sam.
God bless Sam sometimes, man.
"What up, wheezy."
"Wheezing. Wheezing is up."
"I can hear that. You okay?"
"They're sending me home."
"Against your will?"
"Not exactly."
"Aw, kid."
"Come get me?"
"Yeah, uh, Dad has the car. He had to do a thing. I can walk to you and we can grab a bus."
"Mmm. Okay."
"Hey. You all right?"
"Uncomfortable."
"All right. I'll be there soon."
Dean's halfway there when his phone rings again, and damn it, Sam, you better not be dying over there, but no, this time it's John, asking if he got in touch with Rufus.
"Yeah, I did. Um, is everything okay?"
"Fine. Everything's fine. I'm on my way back. Twenty miles out."
"Can you do a detour? We have a fallen soldier situation."
"Yeah? Shit."
"He's fine, just go get him?"
"Yeah."
"Wait, swing by and grab me on your way, I'm shivering in the fucking snow here."
"All right. I'll hurry."
It's not until after he hangs up that he realizes John didn't question anything. Didn't want to know the details of his talk with Rufus. Didn't ask if Sam really needed to come home. Didn't ask Dean to be somewhere more specific than "in the fucking snow."
November fucking second.
John.
**
John goes into the office to collect their little lamb because apparently they need a parent to sign off on the fact that a fucking sixteen-year-old isn't being taken off campus against his will, and hahaha if you've ever tried to make Sam take a fucking shower against his will you'd have some idea of how hilarious that is. Little bull, more like.
John guides him back to the car with a hand on the back of his head and Dean can tell before the door's even opened that Sammy really is worse. He has a different way of walking when he can't catch his breath, and the small smile he gives Dean when he crawls into the backseat comes with this pathetic little whistle behind his teeth.
John starts the car, and Dean finally fucking notices the new splash of blood on the cuff of his jacket.
He looks at his coughing kid in the backseat and very much does not ask questions.
**
John tucks Sam into bed and wraps a blanket around his shoulders and doesn't say anything when Sam looks at him all confused, with that same baffled, slightly-panicked expression he gives Dean whenever Dean fucks up and kisses him on the forehead or whatever--am I dying?
He just says, "Stay warm, Sammy," and sits down on the bed next to him while Dean sets up the neb. He tucks Sam under his arm and kisses the top of his head.
It's November fucking second. John gets to cuddle the little one.
Sam seems to figure that out fairly quickly, and he relaxes and burrows into John's jacket, still breathing in this wheezy little sighs.
"Not feeling great, huh?"
Sam shrugs a little and then nods, cheek still pressed to John's chest.
"Poor fucking sick kid."
"Did. Um. Did you hear from Arnold?"
John pauses. "Yeah, I did."
"Are we going to do something?"
"What?"
"To make me...to make me more comfortable." Sam clears his throat and shifts some. "I'd be willing to talk about it, y'know?"
"Not negotiable," Dean says.
"Dean, shhh," Sam says, and he says like he's fucking soothing Dean, ugh, Sam. "Dad?"
John palms the back of Sam's head and is quiet for a minute.
"No, baby," he eventually says, softly, into Sam's hair. "No, we're not going to do anything."