Sammy Sleeps Alone Tonight
Title: Sammy Sleeps Alone Tonight
Summary: Stanford-era: Dean's prepared for a lot of things when he hears the knock on his door. Sam, with a smile, a duffel bag, and a fever, is not one of them.
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers, bad language.
Wordcount: 4,856
Author's Note: Sammy-verse, so: Dean's POV, Sam has bad asthma, the boys are badasses. I straddle that line again in this one, and I'd love to know what you think of it and what your take is, and I'd be happy to answer any questions about where my head is, if you have them. I write these as an excuse to talk to you, you know? Title is off of "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight" by The Postal Service, which contains these fantastic lines:
You seem so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex
A stranger with your door key, explaining that I'm just visiting
I am finally seeing that I was the one worth leaving
and you can decide for yourself which brother is which in said scenario. Hope you like it! You're pretty.
Sammy Sleeps Alone Tonight
There is a metric fuckton of things that could be knocking on the motel room door at nine in the morning, and none of them is any good. John's not due to be back from Duluth until tomorrow, so the possibilities are the cops who've been nagging them, the fucking skinwalker, and a fucking infinite number of John's friends who could be here to tell Dean that his dad kicked it, so yeah, Dean's a little antsy and seriously hoping John just forgot his fucking machete or something.
He puts down his beer and picks up his gun. The knocking's getting faster and faster.
“Shit.” He opens the door, leaving the chain latched, and shoves the barrel of his gun through the slot.
Then he hears a chuckle and a voice like a fucking blow to the head say, “No, no, don't shoot!”
He was ready for a lot of fucking things, but he was not ready for Sam.
Sam, who he hasn't spoken to since he left for Stanford two months ago with a door slam that that Dean still hears when he's falling asleep and a defeated wave to Dean from the end of the block like he thought it would fucking change anything. Hasn't spoken Sam's name aloud in exactly that long, because John couldn't make it clearer that he has one fucking son now and that's the end of it, and it's just easier to shove it down, shove it down, pile shit on top, and Dean's more than fucking happy to because Sam fucking left him, okay? Dean knew he would get on the phone with Sam, sooner or later. He knew he'd probably (knew he'd dry up and die if he didn't) even see Sam again.
But here he is.
Duffel in hand, scarf around neck. Leaning against the doorway with his head against his arm. Sleepy-smiling with those fucking half-inch deep dimples.
“Hey, Dean.”
“How the . . .” Jesus Christ, Sammy. “How the hell did you . . .”
“I'm a hunter by blood,” Sam says. “I find things.”
Honestly, if not for the breathing, Dean might think he's a shapeshifter, but no one in the fucking world breathes like Sammy. He exhales twice as long as you expect him to, always with at least a bit of a wheeze, never silent (used to drive Dean crazy, used to be Dean's lullaby).
“I traced your credit card,” Sam says. “You guys should really be more careful.” He coughs into his shoulder, and Dean actually fucking flinches because the wheeze is one thing but that cough, it's a fucking jerk, like someone grabbing his fucking shoulder, because he used to hear that cough a hundred fucking times a day and fuck he was sick of it and he knew when to ignore it and when to panic and when to get Sammy some water and now here it is at the fucking doorstep, what the hell, Dean needed a warning or something, Dean needed time to just shove it the fuck down.
“Sam,” Dean says. “I . . . um . . . hey.”
“I just wanted to see you,” Sam says.
“I . . . yeah, I mean . . .come in.”
But Sam takes a small step back. “Is Dad there?”
“No, he's out of state for a few days . . .”
Sam nods. “Okay.” He hoists his bag on his shoulder, slowly, like it weighs a ton (like it's holding a fucking body-that's where Dean's mind goes).
A few steps into the room, he stumbles.
“Whoa whoa whoa.” Dean starts towards him, but Sammy holds up a hand.
“I'm okay. I'm fine. Don't worry.” He shakes his head, fast, and starts digging through his duffel bag. “It's been a long day. You know? Long, weird day. Some . . . lady on the bus, touching my leg, door was beeping a lot . . .”
“Are you drunk?”
“I don't know. Maybe. I haven't had anything to drink today.”
“Then . . . probably not drunk.”
“Not even orange juice. Do you have orange juice?” He's still rummaging in that bag. “Hey look, water. I have water, Dean.”
“Did something . . . Sammy . . .” and Dean's running through every possible supernatural whateverthefuck in his head that could make Sam show up where he isn't supposed to be and acting like this, and of course his brain is going to all the worst case scenarios but then as soon as he says Sammy the kid's head snaps up and then he goes straight to Dean and gives him this massive hug that Dean should really be used to right now after nineteen years with the kid, but they only show up on Very Special Occasions (long hospital stays, head injuries, Sam's fucking birthday because it's my birthday Dad, come on) because neither Dean or John is really into touching, but they're just these bone-crushing, feelings-eating, breath-stealing hugs, and Jesus Christ Sam is a fucking furnace.
“You're sick,” Dean says.
Sam pulls away and nods, swipes at his nose. “Pretty sick.”
Dean puts his hand on Sam's forehead, breathes out. “Shit.”
But of course it fucking figures, right? Sam doesn't talk to them for two months, then he comes and finds him so they can slap a band-aid on him and he can go back to his real life.
“Do you know what you have?” Dean says. “Your breathing's not awful.”
“Yeah. Just took everything. I mean, I . . . ” He shakes his head hard. “I shouldn't have . . . I'm sorry. I can go.”
“Hey. Do you know what you have?”
Sam shakes his head.
“Then you can't do anything until we get you to a doctor.” Because when you have a kid with Sam's lungs, that's what you do, he gets a sniffle and you haul him off to the doctor and you get a name on it and a prescription and John grumbles about copays and Sam slouches in the backseat with his arms around his chest and frowns and wheezes and that's just what you fucking do, no drama, Sam's not a child.
“Come on,” Dean says. “Sooner we get fixed up, sooner you can go back to school.”
Dean starts to the car but Sam doesn't budge. He plays with the string of his hoodie, looks around the room, lets his eyes linger on Dean's bed. Wheezes out a breath.
“Sam,” Dean says. “You coming?”
Sam startles, nods, follows.
**
Sam runs his hand over the dashboard, fingers the stitching on the leather, cranes his head back to see if his army man in still stuck in the door of the backseat.
He's grown. Two fucking months, and this kid's grown. He might be fucking taller than Dean now, what the fuck. Sick kids aren't supposed to fucking grow.
Sam sneezes into the cuff of his sweatshirt.
“Bless you. Tissues in the glove box, I think.”
Sam opens it up. “Can't believe you're blessing me.”
“It's polite,” Dean says, dryly. “Manners are important.” He's not looking at him.
“You never did it to me.”
“Yeah, well, you sneeze a lot more than most people.”
“But you did it just now . . . ”
“Guess I forgot.”
Sam sneezes again, and Dean doesn't fucking say anything.
They're halfway to the clinic when Sam looks up and gives Dean this sleepy smile. “It's really good to see you, man.”
Dean swallows. “You too, Sammy.”
Because it is. It really fucking is, and Dean had imagined his reunion with Sam and all the feelings it would bring up and how angry and frustrated and fucking disappointed (fucking hurt, okay?) at the kid he would be for this whole fucking mess, and he is all those things, don't get him the fuck wrong, but he's honestly surprised by just how goddamn happy he is to see his damn kid. To see Sam, even if he is sick as a fucking dog, sitting here next to him grinning and squirming around and wheezing and putting his enormous feet on the dashboard, just to fucking see the kid and how he's okay, when Dean's spent the last two months convincing himself that Sam has to be okay because Sam doesn't fucking exist, Sam is on a completely different plane from the whole ideas of okay and not okay and alive and not alive and asthma and not asthma, none of that had anything to do with Sam anymore because Sam doesn't exist, Sam is a song stuck in his head and that is fucking it but then here he is and Dean is just so fucking...just...Sam is just fucking real, he's here, he is just every fucking thing.
Sam is playing with Dean's fucking fingers.
Dean lets him.
He's fucked.
**
The clinic is slow enough that 'asthma and a fever' gets them a first class ticket, and Sam sits on the table and groggily rubs at his eyes and looks for all the world like he's sixteen while the doctor looks down his throat and up his nose and listens to his chest for a really, really long time. Long enough that Sam gets really fucking nervous and mouths It's not pneumonia at Dean, who mouths, I know because he's seen pneumonia on his kid two times too many, and it isn't this.
And Sam doesn't even sound very fucking bad right now. He's wheezing in that Sam way, not the ohfuckSam way, so what the hell's the big deal? The doctor's freaking Sammy out, and then he's going to start wheezing for real and from the look on this doctor's face it would blow his fucking mind, since these little leaky-tire noises Sam's making now apparently interest him.
“How old's the asthma?” the doctor asks Dean, like he's the kid's fucking keeper, but whatever.
“As old as he is, really. Diagnosed when he was three.”
“How severe?” This time the doctor asks Sam, which is nice because his answer's probably more helpful than fucking serious hideous which is Dean's usual response.
“Severe persistent,” Sam says. “And I'm going to tell you all the stuff about it and you're going to check the little box for 'uncontrolled' but I do everything.”
The doctor asks all these moronic questions like is Sam on a daily steroid inhaler (does the kid look fucking dead? Okay, then) and does he have symptoms every day (hi, he's Sam fucking Winchester, nice to meet you) and does it inhibit his physical activity (it fucking does not and yeah, do you want to race the kid? He'll blow your fucking mind) and why is he asking all this when the asthma's not bad right now and then shit, he thinks this is bad. Normal people fucking think this, this goddamn normal, is bad.
Sam nods and shakes his head and gives numbers and dosages and coughs into his fist.
Then Dean realizes it's been a long fucking time since a doctor's cared that much about Sam's lungs when they're not in the process of trying to kill him so he's going to take fucking advantage of the fact and he says, “Hey, Sam, just a second?” and asks with an eyebrow raise and a head tilt if he can talk to the doctor outside.
“Can you fix this?” Dean says.
“It looks like a simple flu. But on top of-”
“No. The asthma. Are you messing with us? No, I know not fix him fix him, but there's got to be something, right? This shit, it's ridiculous, you see people with asthma all the time who aren't freaking drowning in it, and he works so damn hard staying healthy and he's just sitting around at college reading books all day or whatever the hell they do, it's not like he's out doing . . . whatever. And he sounds better to me but if you're still hearing all this crap in his lungs-”
“He's definitely swollen and congested through his chest.”
“There's got to be something,” Dean says. “He'll take it if he's not fucking allergic to it, you just have to give it to him. You have to tell us what it is.”
The doctor looks at him like he feels sorry for them. And you know what? He fucking should. This is bullshit, and now Dean's not around to look after him, so this shit needs to get resolved, because it's not better.
“It's a bad case,” the doctor says. “I got that just from listening to his history. With asthma, it's not always about who takes better care of themselves. All people with asthma aren't on a level playing field. Sam's starting out with a significant handicap.”
Yeah, Dean gets that this is a metaphor, but let's not use the word handicap anywhere near Sam's earshot, all right?
“It sounds like he's still able to do most of what he wants,” the doctor says. “With asthma this severe, that's usually the best we can do. Reducing symptoms to the point where the patient can still live a life around them. But with regards to the chances of symptom-free living . . . we have to be realistic.”
“I'm not asking for symptom-free. Look, I know his lungs. I know them better than my own freaking lungs.”
“He's on a leukotriene receptor?”
Sounds familiar. “Um . . .”
“Montelukast. Singulair”
“Yes. Yeah, he's on that.”
“Zyflo?”
“He's allergic . . .” Fucking threw up blood from that one, $280 dollar prescription swirled in a toilet bowl with a cup of blood, yeah, that was an awesome weekend.
“He does steroids for flares?”
“Like all the damn time.”
“He could do those more regularly. But of course those have side effects.”
“He knows, he deals.”
The doctor breathes out and looks at Dean and just shit. Holy fucking shit. There's nothing, and Dean's heard it so many fucking times and he just can't, because he's seeing Sam for all of however many hours before he carts the kid back where he came from and he's just trying to get this one fucking thing taken care of, this one thing that this doctor zoned in on after ten fucking seconds with the kid and he must get into these situations at school, people must just sit next to him in class and know, and if it were Dean, if it were fucking Dean . . . there has to be something. It's fucking ridiculous. They've been to fucking hoodoo priestesses who make Sammy breathe stuff that has him coughing too bad to stand for two days and poke him with needles that give him hives like baseballs and Sam totally fabricated a hunt at this hospital with a great asthma center just to fucking get himself there but nothing, fucking nothing, you listen to Dean's kid's lungs and then you tell him nothing? At this point it shouldn't a letdown but it is is, okay, it goddamn is, because now Dean has to go in there and fucking comfort Sammy and tell him it's okay and it's not okay, it will never be okay, and it doesn't matter one fucking bit that the asthma's a zillion years old and Dean should be used to it by now, that fucking Sammy is used to it by now, Dean is never going to get fucking used to it because Sam keeps almost goddamn dying of it and yeah, right now he's okay, right now he's just a fever, but that means Dean has the luxury of freaking the fuck out instead of being too busy holding his fucking kid's hand in a hospital bed so he's going to freak the fuck out, okay?
But he doesn't. He just breathes out because he's tired. He's Sammy-after-an-asthma-attack tired. He can't imagine how much worse it's going to be when he has to ship the broken damn kid back to school and leave him there.
But it's what Sam wants. To go to school. What Sammy wants, Sammy gets, etc, if it's in any way fucking possible for Dean to get it to him (so, unless it's fucking oxygen) and what he's wanted since the day Dean freaking told him about monsters is to get the hell out, and one fucking fever isn't going to change that. So yeah, let's get the kid on his feet, okay?
“When are the symptoms the worst?” the doctor says.
“It's an allergic thing. It always is. He's pretty okay with exercise.” He's been fucking trained for exercise, problem is you can't train a kid not to choke on every fucking mold spore and believe him, they've tried. “Hits the inhaler before and after and he's fine.”
“The wheeze is constant?”
“I've heard him without it. I called the freaking Vatican.”
The doctor gives him a chuckle, then turns serious. “I know this must be hard,” he says. “Chronic illnesses are so tough on families.”
“It shouldn't be a freaking illness. He went to school with all these damn kids who get doctor's notes for gym class and keep an inhaler in the nurse's office, and then Sam . . .”
The doctor nods, all sympathetic and shit, but fucking nodding isn't exactly a prescription he can shove down his kid's throat.
'He can't do this forever,” Dean says. “He just . . . can't.”
“He seems like a tough kid,” the doctor says, and Dean knows he means well but fuck if that isn't exactly what John says whenever Sam asks for a break, says he's a tough fucking kid and doesn't need one, so Dean just can't.
“I'll tell him to keep doing what he's doing,” Dean says. “That's what he's used to hearing. Can you give him something for the flu, at least?”
“Did he have the shot?”
“I don't know. I mean, yes. I wasn't there. I'm sure he did.” It's Sam, he practically boils everything before he touches it.
“How long as he been having symptoms?”
Dean shoves the door open with his feet. “Sammy, how long you been sick?”
Sam mumbles something about nineteen years and great, he's in that mood. (That's Dean's mood, bitch, don't steal.)
“Hey,” Dean says. “Fever. How long?”
“Day and a half. I'm thirsty. Can we get orange juice?”
“Yeah.” He lets the door close. “Day and a half. He's smart, he doesn't screw around with fevers.”
“It's good you brought him in, then. I can give you an antiviral that should help since you caught it early.”
Dean nods.
“I'm sure you know to watch him for an allergic reaction.”
Dean bites his lip because yeah, of course he knows, but he'll watch the kid for all of six hours and then he's on his own. Ugh. Dean will ask one of the Stanford nurses to check in on him. It won't be the first time.
“How long until it kicks in?” Dean says.
“Forty-eight hours from now he should be feeling much better. Asthma symptoms are probably going to linger a little longer.”
“Of course.” He tries to sound matter-of-fact. He tries not to sound bitter. He really does.
The doctor claps him on the shoulder like he's some kind of kid.
Sam looks up all hopefully when they come back in, and that's a fucking kick in the balls, and Dean says, “Hey, so he's giving you an antiviral thing and you'll feel better in a few days. Fever will break and stuff.”
And Sam gives him this enormous fucking smile, because, shit, that was all he expected.
Dean can't. He just can't do this fucking smile.
“Come on,” Dean says. “Let's get you home.” Sam nods hard.
**
They get the prescription filled at the clinic in the basement. Sam has actual school health insurance so they use that. Basements make him cough. He rests his head on Dean's shoulder while they wait for the pharmacist and Dean can't decide what the fuck to do about that.
**
“Missed you,” Sam says, drunkenly, patting the Impala's front seat, and it takes him a minute to realize that Sam is legitimately talking to his car.
“Well, you've got a long visit with her ahead of you.”
“Love it.”
Ugh. “I think we're about six hours out of California. How long was the bus ride?”
Sam shrugs. “Slept.”
“Well, whatever. We'll stop at the motel and grab your shit, then we'll get you back where you belong.” Why the fuck did he bring a duffel, anyway?
Sam looks up. “What?”
“We got your meds, you're not dying, time to get you back.”
Sam takes this deep, wheezy breath and looks down at his lap.
“I . . . okay,” he says.
**
But then they're back at the motel and Sam is looking around the place with this fucking nostalgia, like he grew up here or some bullshit, and Dean says, “Hey, we can get a few hours in before dark.”
Sam coughs into his elbow, then sinks down on Dean's bed and holds his head.
Dean keeps his distance. “You okay?”
“I don't know. I think the fever's up.”
Dean sits next to him and puts his hand on Sam's back. You could always feel his fevers there when Sam was a kid. It was easier than trying to go for his forehead, because fever meant hospital and Sam from a really young age figured that out and knew that he fucking hated it. And now here he is telling Dean the fever's up (and it definitely fucking is, Sam's panting and he's got dry heat pouring out of him, hitting Dean like a fucking shower).
“You can sleep in the car,” Dean says, all half-hearted, because he fucking knows what's going to happen, and sure enough Sam looks up at him with those fucking puppy eyes.
“Can I just stay here?” he says. Coughs. “Just for one night? Please?”
He's clinging. Hands on Dean's sleeve clinging.
“Yeah, kid.” Dean rubs his back. “One night.”
**
An hour later, when Sam's teeth are chattering with fever and he's eating ice cubes out of a cup (doing it his fucking self, thanks, Dean's done it before and those aren't exactly memories he'd like to revisit), John calls.
“Situation's taken care of,” John says, which either means he's in public or he's just being vague for the hell of it, which is...whatever. It's Dad. He's not going to get all bent out of shape about it.
Sam mumbles something into his pillow and Dean shushes him.
“Someone there?” John says.
“No, no, just the TV.”
“I'll be getting back sooner than I thought. Tomorrow morning.”
“Uh, okay. I heard about something in Oregon I might be checking out. Bobby's looking into it. He's going to tell me if I should get out there. But I might not be here when you get back.”
The only fucking times he's ever lied to John have been because of Sam. Sam fucking makes him do this.
Sam sneezes and rubs his face and says, “Fuck. Fuck. I shouldn't be here.” He sits up.
Dean puts his hand on his shoulder.
“Son,” John says. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Seriously, everything's fine.”
Sam mouths, about to cough and breathes in slowly.
“Have a safe drive, Dad,” Dean says, and he hangs up just as Sam buries his head in his arms and coughs for a long time.
“Okay, lie back down,” Dean says. “He's gone. Do you want to watch something?”
Sam shakes his head and stands up, starts looking for his stuff.
Dean says, “Don't throw a fucking hissy fit because I didn't tell him you were here.”
“That's not what this is. I'm not...I just shouldn't be here. I'm going to get you in trouble.”
“What was I supposed to do, fucking tell him that you came looking for a nursemaid and you'll be gone before he gets back? What the hell do you think that would have done to him.”
“He doesn't want to see me.”
“Well, what the fuck do you expect, Sam? You left us.”
“I didn't fucking leave you! I went to college! I wanted to go to fucking college and come home on breaks and long weekends like a normal fucking kid with a normal fucking home-”
“You're not really doing this shit again.”
“--and yeah, I wanted to be able to come home when I'm scared out of my fucking mind, but Dad doesn't want to see me, so I'll go. It's fine.”
“You don't know that he doesn't want to see you. I don't know. And you're not sticking around to find out.”
“Then fucking keep me!” Sam yells, and then coughs are pouring out of him, and Dean says, “What?”
Sam sinks to his knees and rests his forehead against the TV cabinet and coughs and coughs and coughs and Dean gets him up and drags him back to the bed, presses Sam's inhaler into his hand. Sam starts shaking it immediately.
“Keep me,” he says, when he's done holding his breath. “Keep me. Just . . . keep me.”
“For . . . what are you talking about? For how long?”
“I don't know! Just...” Sam rubs his chest. “I got scared, okay? I was sick and alone and there's all these fucking tests and papers to write and I just...and everyone's working eighteen hours a day and then sleeping hard the other six and I can't keep up, Dean, I don't sleep fucking hard, I sleep like a fucking asthmatic-”
“Okay. Slow down.” He's talking like Dean's brain, here.
Sam says, “I just...getting sick there was scary. And lonely. And I . . . wanted to be with you while I got better. Not to make you do anything. You can just fucking watch, okay? I mean it. I just want someone here. And I wake up with this fever and my roommate's all freaked out going, 'who the hell is Dean?' because apparently I cried for you in my fucking sleep, so yeah, I traced your fucking credit card, okay?” He pants.
Shit.
Just . . . shit, Sammy.
Dean breathes out and presses his hand against Sam's forehead, keeps it there. Sam leans into it. So hot. Dean takes the cup of ice cubes and slips one into Sam's mouth.
“Stay as long as you need.”
Sam looks down. “Sorry I just . . . came when I'm sick. It doesn't mean . . . I mean, come visit for a weekend, y'know? And I'll be all healthy.”
“I know,” Dean says, because he'll take Sam whatever fucking way he can get him, you know? “Get some sleep.”
Sam sleeps with both hands clutching Dean's arm and Jesus, what the fuck is Dean going to tell John?
**
They end up sleeping in the same bed because Sam is cold.
Dean doesn't want to talk about it.
**
He wakes up to hands rolling him to the other side of the bed, away from Sammy, but he shakes his head and blinks awake and sees nothing.
Sam's asleep and still burning hot, making Dean sweat, and his breaths are catching and crackling. Time for Dean to get up.
There's a washcloth on Sam's forehead that he didn't put there.
He checks the clock-11 AM, Sam was up a lot of the night and it exhausted them-and hears rustling in the bathroom and sees John's pack on his bed. He recognizes the sounds in the bathroom; John's setting up the nebulizer, quietly.
When John comes out, Dean's sitting up, rubbing his eyes. They look at each other and don't say anything.
John breaks the silence. “Why don't you go get some coffee?”
Dean nods a little. “He . . . wants orange juice.”
“There's a diner down the road.”
Dean pulls on a pair of jeans and his jacket while John listens to Sammy breathe. He opens the door and walks to his car. His footsteps echo. He's fucking freezing.
He wonders if Sam is going to ask for him in his sleep.
Summary: Stanford-era: Dean's prepared for a lot of things when he hears the knock on his door. Sam, with a smile, a duffel bag, and a fever, is not one of them.
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers, bad language.
Wordcount: 4,856
Author's Note: Sammy-verse, so: Dean's POV, Sam has bad asthma, the boys are badasses. I straddle that line again in this one, and I'd love to know what you think of it and what your take is, and I'd be happy to answer any questions about where my head is, if you have them. I write these as an excuse to talk to you, you know? Title is off of "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight" by The Postal Service, which contains these fantastic lines:
You seem so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex
A stranger with your door key, explaining that I'm just visiting
I am finally seeing that I was the one worth leaving
and you can decide for yourself which brother is which in said scenario. Hope you like it! You're pretty.
Sammy Sleeps Alone Tonight
There is a metric fuckton of things that could be knocking on the motel room door at nine in the morning, and none of them is any good. John's not due to be back from Duluth until tomorrow, so the possibilities are the cops who've been nagging them, the fucking skinwalker, and a fucking infinite number of John's friends who could be here to tell Dean that his dad kicked it, so yeah, Dean's a little antsy and seriously hoping John just forgot his fucking machete or something.
He puts down his beer and picks up his gun. The knocking's getting faster and faster.
“Shit.” He opens the door, leaving the chain latched, and shoves the barrel of his gun through the slot.
Then he hears a chuckle and a voice like a fucking blow to the head say, “No, no, don't shoot!”
He was ready for a lot of fucking things, but he was not ready for Sam.
Sam, who he hasn't spoken to since he left for Stanford two months ago with a door slam that that Dean still hears when he's falling asleep and a defeated wave to Dean from the end of the block like he thought it would fucking change anything. Hasn't spoken Sam's name aloud in exactly that long, because John couldn't make it clearer that he has one fucking son now and that's the end of it, and it's just easier to shove it down, shove it down, pile shit on top, and Dean's more than fucking happy to because Sam fucking left him, okay? Dean knew he would get on the phone with Sam, sooner or later. He knew he'd probably (knew he'd dry up and die if he didn't) even see Sam again.
But here he is.
Duffel in hand, scarf around neck. Leaning against the doorway with his head against his arm. Sleepy-smiling with those fucking half-inch deep dimples.
“Hey, Dean.”
“How the . . .” Jesus Christ, Sammy. “How the hell did you . . .”
“I'm a hunter by blood,” Sam says. “I find things.”
Honestly, if not for the breathing, Dean might think he's a shapeshifter, but no one in the fucking world breathes like Sammy. He exhales twice as long as you expect him to, always with at least a bit of a wheeze, never silent (used to drive Dean crazy, used to be Dean's lullaby).
“I traced your credit card,” Sam says. “You guys should really be more careful.” He coughs into his shoulder, and Dean actually fucking flinches because the wheeze is one thing but that cough, it's a fucking jerk, like someone grabbing his fucking shoulder, because he used to hear that cough a hundred fucking times a day and fuck he was sick of it and he knew when to ignore it and when to panic and when to get Sammy some water and now here it is at the fucking doorstep, what the hell, Dean needed a warning or something, Dean needed time to just shove it the fuck down.
“Sam,” Dean says. “I . . . um . . . hey.”
“I just wanted to see you,” Sam says.
“I . . . yeah, I mean . . .come in.”
But Sam takes a small step back. “Is Dad there?”
“No, he's out of state for a few days . . .”
Sam nods. “Okay.” He hoists his bag on his shoulder, slowly, like it weighs a ton (like it's holding a fucking body-that's where Dean's mind goes).
A few steps into the room, he stumbles.
“Whoa whoa whoa.” Dean starts towards him, but Sammy holds up a hand.
“I'm okay. I'm fine. Don't worry.” He shakes his head, fast, and starts digging through his duffel bag. “It's been a long day. You know? Long, weird day. Some . . . lady on the bus, touching my leg, door was beeping a lot . . .”
“Are you drunk?”
“I don't know. Maybe. I haven't had anything to drink today.”
“Then . . . probably not drunk.”
“Not even orange juice. Do you have orange juice?” He's still rummaging in that bag. “Hey look, water. I have water, Dean.”
“Did something . . . Sammy . . .” and Dean's running through every possible supernatural whateverthefuck in his head that could make Sam show up where he isn't supposed to be and acting like this, and of course his brain is going to all the worst case scenarios but then as soon as he says Sammy the kid's head snaps up and then he goes straight to Dean and gives him this massive hug that Dean should really be used to right now after nineteen years with the kid, but they only show up on Very Special Occasions (long hospital stays, head injuries, Sam's fucking birthday because it's my birthday Dad, come on) because neither Dean or John is really into touching, but they're just these bone-crushing, feelings-eating, breath-stealing hugs, and Jesus Christ Sam is a fucking furnace.
“You're sick,” Dean says.
Sam pulls away and nods, swipes at his nose. “Pretty sick.”
Dean puts his hand on Sam's forehead, breathes out. “Shit.”
But of course it fucking figures, right? Sam doesn't talk to them for two months, then he comes and finds him so they can slap a band-aid on him and he can go back to his real life.
“Do you know what you have?” Dean says. “Your breathing's not awful.”
“Yeah. Just took everything. I mean, I . . . ” He shakes his head hard. “I shouldn't have . . . I'm sorry. I can go.”
“Hey. Do you know what you have?”
Sam shakes his head.
“Then you can't do anything until we get you to a doctor.” Because when you have a kid with Sam's lungs, that's what you do, he gets a sniffle and you haul him off to the doctor and you get a name on it and a prescription and John grumbles about copays and Sam slouches in the backseat with his arms around his chest and frowns and wheezes and that's just what you fucking do, no drama, Sam's not a child.
“Come on,” Dean says. “Sooner we get fixed up, sooner you can go back to school.”
Dean starts to the car but Sam doesn't budge. He plays with the string of his hoodie, looks around the room, lets his eyes linger on Dean's bed. Wheezes out a breath.
“Sam,” Dean says. “You coming?”
Sam startles, nods, follows.
**
Sam runs his hand over the dashboard, fingers the stitching on the leather, cranes his head back to see if his army man in still stuck in the door of the backseat.
He's grown. Two fucking months, and this kid's grown. He might be fucking taller than Dean now, what the fuck. Sick kids aren't supposed to fucking grow.
Sam sneezes into the cuff of his sweatshirt.
“Bless you. Tissues in the glove box, I think.”
Sam opens it up. “Can't believe you're blessing me.”
“It's polite,” Dean says, dryly. “Manners are important.” He's not looking at him.
“You never did it to me.”
“Yeah, well, you sneeze a lot more than most people.”
“But you did it just now . . . ”
“Guess I forgot.”
Sam sneezes again, and Dean doesn't fucking say anything.
They're halfway to the clinic when Sam looks up and gives Dean this sleepy smile. “It's really good to see you, man.”
Dean swallows. “You too, Sammy.”
Because it is. It really fucking is, and Dean had imagined his reunion with Sam and all the feelings it would bring up and how angry and frustrated and fucking disappointed (fucking hurt, okay?) at the kid he would be for this whole fucking mess, and he is all those things, don't get him the fuck wrong, but he's honestly surprised by just how goddamn happy he is to see his damn kid. To see Sam, even if he is sick as a fucking dog, sitting here next to him grinning and squirming around and wheezing and putting his enormous feet on the dashboard, just to fucking see the kid and how he's okay, when Dean's spent the last two months convincing himself that Sam has to be okay because Sam doesn't fucking exist, Sam is on a completely different plane from the whole ideas of okay and not okay and alive and not alive and asthma and not asthma, none of that had anything to do with Sam anymore because Sam doesn't exist, Sam is a song stuck in his head and that is fucking it but then here he is and Dean is just so fucking...just...Sam is just fucking real, he's here, he is just every fucking thing.
Sam is playing with Dean's fucking fingers.
Dean lets him.
He's fucked.
**
The clinic is slow enough that 'asthma and a fever' gets them a first class ticket, and Sam sits on the table and groggily rubs at his eyes and looks for all the world like he's sixteen while the doctor looks down his throat and up his nose and listens to his chest for a really, really long time. Long enough that Sam gets really fucking nervous and mouths It's not pneumonia at Dean, who mouths, I know because he's seen pneumonia on his kid two times too many, and it isn't this.
And Sam doesn't even sound very fucking bad right now. He's wheezing in that Sam way, not the ohfuckSam way, so what the hell's the big deal? The doctor's freaking Sammy out, and then he's going to start wheezing for real and from the look on this doctor's face it would blow his fucking mind, since these little leaky-tire noises Sam's making now apparently interest him.
“How old's the asthma?” the doctor asks Dean, like he's the kid's fucking keeper, but whatever.
“As old as he is, really. Diagnosed when he was three.”
“How severe?” This time the doctor asks Sam, which is nice because his answer's probably more helpful than fucking serious hideous which is Dean's usual response.
“Severe persistent,” Sam says. “And I'm going to tell you all the stuff about it and you're going to check the little box for 'uncontrolled' but I do everything.”
The doctor asks all these moronic questions like is Sam on a daily steroid inhaler (does the kid look fucking dead? Okay, then) and does he have symptoms every day (hi, he's Sam fucking Winchester, nice to meet you) and does it inhibit his physical activity (it fucking does not and yeah, do you want to race the kid? He'll blow your fucking mind) and why is he asking all this when the asthma's not bad right now and then shit, he thinks this is bad. Normal people fucking think this, this goddamn normal, is bad.
Sam nods and shakes his head and gives numbers and dosages and coughs into his fist.
Then Dean realizes it's been a long fucking time since a doctor's cared that much about Sam's lungs when they're not in the process of trying to kill him so he's going to take fucking advantage of the fact and he says, “Hey, Sam, just a second?” and asks with an eyebrow raise and a head tilt if he can talk to the doctor outside.
“Can you fix this?” Dean says.
“It looks like a simple flu. But on top of-”
“No. The asthma. Are you messing with us? No, I know not fix him fix him, but there's got to be something, right? This shit, it's ridiculous, you see people with asthma all the time who aren't freaking drowning in it, and he works so damn hard staying healthy and he's just sitting around at college reading books all day or whatever the hell they do, it's not like he's out doing . . . whatever. And he sounds better to me but if you're still hearing all this crap in his lungs-”
“He's definitely swollen and congested through his chest.”
“There's got to be something,” Dean says. “He'll take it if he's not fucking allergic to it, you just have to give it to him. You have to tell us what it is.”
The doctor looks at him like he feels sorry for them. And you know what? He fucking should. This is bullshit, and now Dean's not around to look after him, so this shit needs to get resolved, because it's not better.
“It's a bad case,” the doctor says. “I got that just from listening to his history. With asthma, it's not always about who takes better care of themselves. All people with asthma aren't on a level playing field. Sam's starting out with a significant handicap.”
Yeah, Dean gets that this is a metaphor, but let's not use the word handicap anywhere near Sam's earshot, all right?
“It sounds like he's still able to do most of what he wants,” the doctor says. “With asthma this severe, that's usually the best we can do. Reducing symptoms to the point where the patient can still live a life around them. But with regards to the chances of symptom-free living . . . we have to be realistic.”
“I'm not asking for symptom-free. Look, I know his lungs. I know them better than my own freaking lungs.”
“He's on a leukotriene receptor?”
Sounds familiar. “Um . . .”
“Montelukast. Singulair”
“Yes. Yeah, he's on that.”
“Zyflo?”
“He's allergic . . .” Fucking threw up blood from that one, $280 dollar prescription swirled in a toilet bowl with a cup of blood, yeah, that was an awesome weekend.
“He does steroids for flares?”
“Like all the damn time.”
“He could do those more regularly. But of course those have side effects.”
“He knows, he deals.”
The doctor breathes out and looks at Dean and just shit. Holy fucking shit. There's nothing, and Dean's heard it so many fucking times and he just can't, because he's seeing Sam for all of however many hours before he carts the kid back where he came from and he's just trying to get this one fucking thing taken care of, this one thing that this doctor zoned in on after ten fucking seconds with the kid and he must get into these situations at school, people must just sit next to him in class and know, and if it were Dean, if it were fucking Dean . . . there has to be something. It's fucking ridiculous. They've been to fucking hoodoo priestesses who make Sammy breathe stuff that has him coughing too bad to stand for two days and poke him with needles that give him hives like baseballs and Sam totally fabricated a hunt at this hospital with a great asthma center just to fucking get himself there but nothing, fucking nothing, you listen to Dean's kid's lungs and then you tell him nothing? At this point it shouldn't a letdown but it is is, okay, it goddamn is, because now Dean has to go in there and fucking comfort Sammy and tell him it's okay and it's not okay, it will never be okay, and it doesn't matter one fucking bit that the asthma's a zillion years old and Dean should be used to it by now, that fucking Sammy is used to it by now, Dean is never going to get fucking used to it because Sam keeps almost goddamn dying of it and yeah, right now he's okay, right now he's just a fever, but that means Dean has the luxury of freaking the fuck out instead of being too busy holding his fucking kid's hand in a hospital bed so he's going to freak the fuck out, okay?
But he doesn't. He just breathes out because he's tired. He's Sammy-after-an-asthma-attack tired. He can't imagine how much worse it's going to be when he has to ship the broken damn kid back to school and leave him there.
But it's what Sam wants. To go to school. What Sammy wants, Sammy gets, etc, if it's in any way fucking possible for Dean to get it to him (so, unless it's fucking oxygen) and what he's wanted since the day Dean freaking told him about monsters is to get the hell out, and one fucking fever isn't going to change that. So yeah, let's get the kid on his feet, okay?
“When are the symptoms the worst?” the doctor says.
“It's an allergic thing. It always is. He's pretty okay with exercise.” He's been fucking trained for exercise, problem is you can't train a kid not to choke on every fucking mold spore and believe him, they've tried. “Hits the inhaler before and after and he's fine.”
“The wheeze is constant?”
“I've heard him without it. I called the freaking Vatican.”
The doctor gives him a chuckle, then turns serious. “I know this must be hard,” he says. “Chronic illnesses are so tough on families.”
“It shouldn't be a freaking illness. He went to school with all these damn kids who get doctor's notes for gym class and keep an inhaler in the nurse's office, and then Sam . . .”
The doctor nods, all sympathetic and shit, but fucking nodding isn't exactly a prescription he can shove down his kid's throat.
'He can't do this forever,” Dean says. “He just . . . can't.”
“He seems like a tough kid,” the doctor says, and Dean knows he means well but fuck if that isn't exactly what John says whenever Sam asks for a break, says he's a tough fucking kid and doesn't need one, so Dean just can't.
“I'll tell him to keep doing what he's doing,” Dean says. “That's what he's used to hearing. Can you give him something for the flu, at least?”
“Did he have the shot?”
“I don't know. I mean, yes. I wasn't there. I'm sure he did.” It's Sam, he practically boils everything before he touches it.
“How long as he been having symptoms?”
Dean shoves the door open with his feet. “Sammy, how long you been sick?”
Sam mumbles something about nineteen years and great, he's in that mood. (That's Dean's mood, bitch, don't steal.)
“Hey,” Dean says. “Fever. How long?”
“Day and a half. I'm thirsty. Can we get orange juice?”
“Yeah.” He lets the door close. “Day and a half. He's smart, he doesn't screw around with fevers.”
“It's good you brought him in, then. I can give you an antiviral that should help since you caught it early.”
Dean nods.
“I'm sure you know to watch him for an allergic reaction.”
Dean bites his lip because yeah, of course he knows, but he'll watch the kid for all of six hours and then he's on his own. Ugh. Dean will ask one of the Stanford nurses to check in on him. It won't be the first time.
“How long until it kicks in?” Dean says.
“Forty-eight hours from now he should be feeling much better. Asthma symptoms are probably going to linger a little longer.”
“Of course.” He tries to sound matter-of-fact. He tries not to sound bitter. He really does.
The doctor claps him on the shoulder like he's some kind of kid.
Sam looks up all hopefully when they come back in, and that's a fucking kick in the balls, and Dean says, “Hey, so he's giving you an antiviral thing and you'll feel better in a few days. Fever will break and stuff.”
And Sam gives him this enormous fucking smile, because, shit, that was all he expected.
Dean can't. He just can't do this fucking smile.
“Come on,” Dean says. “Let's get you home.” Sam nods hard.
**
They get the prescription filled at the clinic in the basement. Sam has actual school health insurance so they use that. Basements make him cough. He rests his head on Dean's shoulder while they wait for the pharmacist and Dean can't decide what the fuck to do about that.
**
“Missed you,” Sam says, drunkenly, patting the Impala's front seat, and it takes him a minute to realize that Sam is legitimately talking to his car.
“Well, you've got a long visit with her ahead of you.”
“Love it.”
Ugh. “I think we're about six hours out of California. How long was the bus ride?”
Sam shrugs. “Slept.”
“Well, whatever. We'll stop at the motel and grab your shit, then we'll get you back where you belong.” Why the fuck did he bring a duffel, anyway?
Sam looks up. “What?”
“We got your meds, you're not dying, time to get you back.”
Sam takes this deep, wheezy breath and looks down at his lap.
“I . . . okay,” he says.
**
But then they're back at the motel and Sam is looking around the place with this fucking nostalgia, like he grew up here or some bullshit, and Dean says, “Hey, we can get a few hours in before dark.”
Sam coughs into his elbow, then sinks down on Dean's bed and holds his head.
Dean keeps his distance. “You okay?”
“I don't know. I think the fever's up.”
Dean sits next to him and puts his hand on Sam's back. You could always feel his fevers there when Sam was a kid. It was easier than trying to go for his forehead, because fever meant hospital and Sam from a really young age figured that out and knew that he fucking hated it. And now here he is telling Dean the fever's up (and it definitely fucking is, Sam's panting and he's got dry heat pouring out of him, hitting Dean like a fucking shower).
“You can sleep in the car,” Dean says, all half-hearted, because he fucking knows what's going to happen, and sure enough Sam looks up at him with those fucking puppy eyes.
“Can I just stay here?” he says. Coughs. “Just for one night? Please?”
He's clinging. Hands on Dean's sleeve clinging.
“Yeah, kid.” Dean rubs his back. “One night.”
**
An hour later, when Sam's teeth are chattering with fever and he's eating ice cubes out of a cup (doing it his fucking self, thanks, Dean's done it before and those aren't exactly memories he'd like to revisit), John calls.
“Situation's taken care of,” John says, which either means he's in public or he's just being vague for the hell of it, which is...whatever. It's Dad. He's not going to get all bent out of shape about it.
Sam mumbles something into his pillow and Dean shushes him.
“Someone there?” John says.
“No, no, just the TV.”
“I'll be getting back sooner than I thought. Tomorrow morning.”
“Uh, okay. I heard about something in Oregon I might be checking out. Bobby's looking into it. He's going to tell me if I should get out there. But I might not be here when you get back.”
The only fucking times he's ever lied to John have been because of Sam. Sam fucking makes him do this.
Sam sneezes and rubs his face and says, “Fuck. Fuck. I shouldn't be here.” He sits up.
Dean puts his hand on his shoulder.
“Son,” John says. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Seriously, everything's fine.”
Sam mouths, about to cough and breathes in slowly.
“Have a safe drive, Dad,” Dean says, and he hangs up just as Sam buries his head in his arms and coughs for a long time.
“Okay, lie back down,” Dean says. “He's gone. Do you want to watch something?”
Sam shakes his head and stands up, starts looking for his stuff.
Dean says, “Don't throw a fucking hissy fit because I didn't tell him you were here.”
“That's not what this is. I'm not...I just shouldn't be here. I'm going to get you in trouble.”
“What was I supposed to do, fucking tell him that you came looking for a nursemaid and you'll be gone before he gets back? What the hell do you think that would have done to him.”
“He doesn't want to see me.”
“Well, what the fuck do you expect, Sam? You left us.”
“I didn't fucking leave you! I went to college! I wanted to go to fucking college and come home on breaks and long weekends like a normal fucking kid with a normal fucking home-”
“You're not really doing this shit again.”
“--and yeah, I wanted to be able to come home when I'm scared out of my fucking mind, but Dad doesn't want to see me, so I'll go. It's fine.”
“You don't know that he doesn't want to see you. I don't know. And you're not sticking around to find out.”
“Then fucking keep me!” Sam yells, and then coughs are pouring out of him, and Dean says, “What?”
Sam sinks to his knees and rests his forehead against the TV cabinet and coughs and coughs and coughs and Dean gets him up and drags him back to the bed, presses Sam's inhaler into his hand. Sam starts shaking it immediately.
“Keep me,” he says, when he's done holding his breath. “Keep me. Just . . . keep me.”
“For . . . what are you talking about? For how long?”
“I don't know! Just...” Sam rubs his chest. “I got scared, okay? I was sick and alone and there's all these fucking tests and papers to write and I just...and everyone's working eighteen hours a day and then sleeping hard the other six and I can't keep up, Dean, I don't sleep fucking hard, I sleep like a fucking asthmatic-”
“Okay. Slow down.” He's talking like Dean's brain, here.
Sam says, “I just...getting sick there was scary. And lonely. And I . . . wanted to be with you while I got better. Not to make you do anything. You can just fucking watch, okay? I mean it. I just want someone here. And I wake up with this fever and my roommate's all freaked out going, 'who the hell is Dean?' because apparently I cried for you in my fucking sleep, so yeah, I traced your fucking credit card, okay?” He pants.
Shit.
Just . . . shit, Sammy.
Dean breathes out and presses his hand against Sam's forehead, keeps it there. Sam leans into it. So hot. Dean takes the cup of ice cubes and slips one into Sam's mouth.
“Stay as long as you need.”
Sam looks down. “Sorry I just . . . came when I'm sick. It doesn't mean . . . I mean, come visit for a weekend, y'know? And I'll be all healthy.”
“I know,” Dean says, because he'll take Sam whatever fucking way he can get him, you know? “Get some sleep.”
Sam sleeps with both hands clutching Dean's arm and Jesus, what the fuck is Dean going to tell John?
**
They end up sleeping in the same bed because Sam is cold.
Dean doesn't want to talk about it.
**
He wakes up to hands rolling him to the other side of the bed, away from Sammy, but he shakes his head and blinks awake and sees nothing.
Sam's asleep and still burning hot, making Dean sweat, and his breaths are catching and crackling. Time for Dean to get up.
There's a washcloth on Sam's forehead that he didn't put there.
He checks the clock-11 AM, Sam was up a lot of the night and it exhausted them-and hears rustling in the bathroom and sees John's pack on his bed. He recognizes the sounds in the bathroom; John's setting up the nebulizer, quietly.
When John comes out, Dean's sitting up, rubbing his eyes. They look at each other and don't say anything.
John breaks the silence. “Why don't you go get some coffee?”
Dean nods a little. “He . . . wants orange juice.”
“There's a diner down the road.”
Dean pulls on a pair of jeans and his jacket while John listens to Sammy breathe. He opens the door and walks to his car. His footsteps echo. He's fucking freezing.
He wonders if Sam is going to ask for him in his sleep.