FIC - Sick
Title: Sick
pairing: Dean/Sam
rating: R
a/n: response to this prompt in dante_s_hell’s comment-fic meme: Whenever Sam gets sick or doesn't feel good, he finds comfort in wearing Dean's clothes. Even if they're a little small on him. I really hope this is somewhere close to what you were looking for
summary: Dean knows exactly what Sam’s doing, but he doesn’t say anything.
It had started two days ago, with just the occasional cough or sniffle coming from the Impala’s passenger seat. It was getting to be spring, and Sam said he was probably having an allergic reaction to pollen or spores or some other shit that was in the air as we traveled through North and South Carolina.
By the next night, I knew he was blowing smoke, because the coughing and sneezing had gotten worse, we were 800 miles farther north, and even I knew that whatever was blooming in the deep South was very unlikely to be blooming north of Scranton, where I’d insisted we’d stop for the night. Plus, there was this constant sheen of sweat he kept wiping from his brow. Far be it from me to make a criticism of my baby, but her 40 year old heating system wouldn’t be causing him to sweat in northern Pennsylvania in March. His protests of not being sick, the dumbass, had gotten weaker as the hours passed.
I checked us in to the Super 8 outside of town, unloaded our gear and told him to take a shower while I went out for food. Obviously, I’d also be making a stop at a CVS or a Rite-Aid or whatever the hell drugstore I could find.
Wandering to the back of the chain drugstore, I found generic Ny-Quil and some Vicks (big baby, he almost never got sick, but when he did, nothing made him feel better than having Vicks rubbed onto his chest like a freaking kid), and some real fruit juice since I knew he’d be pissy about drinking Gatorade. If we had the extra money, I’d have bought him a bottle of Pedialyte just to see the righteously indignant bitchface that would have resulted (it had always been one of my favorites).
When that was all taken care of, I got us some takeout. He’d bitch about the soup but too fucking bad, he’d eat what I brought him or he could just be hungry. All right, fine, the truth was he’d eat the soup even if I had to make him all kinds of promises and kiss him 27 times on that one spot there at the corner of his jaw that made him turn to Jell-O (hey, maybe I should have gotten him some Jell-O at the drugstore), or do a tap dance or stand on my fucking head, but whatever the hell I had to do, I’d get him to eat it, and drink some juice, and take the medicine. But if he had a fever, he wasn’t getting any action tonight. He could be a persuasive son of a bitch when he was trying to get into my pants - not that it really took all that much work most of the time - but fuck if I was going to catch his cooties, not even for one of his Olympic gold medal caliber blow jobs.
I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised when I got back. It looked ridiculous, but it happened every fucking time. Sam didn’t feel well, and he had unfettered access to my duffle. I unlocked the door, precariously balancing the drugstore bag and the takeout, and walked in to take in the sight of my baby brother passed out on the bed farthest from the door. My bag was lying open on the floor, and he was sprawled out on top of the covers wearing my clothes. Only pieces that hadn’t been washed since the last time I’d worn them. Sweatpants that ended four inches north of his ankle, a worn Motorhead t-shirt that was ridiculously tight across his broad chest and shoulders, and one of my flannel overshirts wrapped up in his arms like a teddy bear.
The thing is, he’d been doing this since he was a kid. And yeah, now he wasn’t a kid anymore, but there was something about knowing that wrapping himself in clothes that smelled like me made him feel better that made my heart want to break into a million pieces and honest to God, I’d never even made fun of him for it, not even after he got better again. It made me feel…fuck, I don’t know, like maybe I’d gotten it right, maybe I’d taken care of him the way I was supposed to if being surrounded by things that were mine made him feel comforted.
In a few minutes, I’d have to wake him and give him medicine and make him eat, but I gave myself a little bit of time to just take in the sight of him, feeling as comfortable and safe wrapped in my clothes as he felt when he was wrapped up in me. There’s a slight possibility that I might also have developed an allergy to something because my eyes got kind of stingy-feeling and a little watery.
pairing: Dean/Sam
rating: R
a/n: response to this prompt in dante_s_hell’s comment-fic meme: Whenever Sam gets sick or doesn't feel good, he finds comfort in wearing Dean's clothes. Even if they're a little small on him. I really hope this is somewhere close to what you were looking for
summary: Dean knows exactly what Sam’s doing, but he doesn’t say anything.
It had started two days ago, with just the occasional cough or sniffle coming from the Impala’s passenger seat. It was getting to be spring, and Sam said he was probably having an allergic reaction to pollen or spores or some other shit that was in the air as we traveled through North and South Carolina.
By the next night, I knew he was blowing smoke, because the coughing and sneezing had gotten worse, we were 800 miles farther north, and even I knew that whatever was blooming in the deep South was very unlikely to be blooming north of Scranton, where I’d insisted we’d stop for the night. Plus, there was this constant sheen of sweat he kept wiping from his brow. Far be it from me to make a criticism of my baby, but her 40 year old heating system wouldn’t be causing him to sweat in northern Pennsylvania in March. His protests of not being sick, the dumbass, had gotten weaker as the hours passed.
I checked us in to the Super 8 outside of town, unloaded our gear and told him to take a shower while I went out for food. Obviously, I’d also be making a stop at a CVS or a Rite-Aid or whatever the hell drugstore I could find.
Wandering to the back of the chain drugstore, I found generic Ny-Quil and some Vicks (big baby, he almost never got sick, but when he did, nothing made him feel better than having Vicks rubbed onto his chest like a freaking kid), and some real fruit juice since I knew he’d be pissy about drinking Gatorade. If we had the extra money, I’d have bought him a bottle of Pedialyte just to see the righteously indignant bitchface that would have resulted (it had always been one of my favorites).
When that was all taken care of, I got us some takeout. He’d bitch about the soup but too fucking bad, he’d eat what I brought him or he could just be hungry. All right, fine, the truth was he’d eat the soup even if I had to make him all kinds of promises and kiss him 27 times on that one spot there at the corner of his jaw that made him turn to Jell-O (hey, maybe I should have gotten him some Jell-O at the drugstore), or do a tap dance or stand on my fucking head, but whatever the hell I had to do, I’d get him to eat it, and drink some juice, and take the medicine. But if he had a fever, he wasn’t getting any action tonight. He could be a persuasive son of a bitch when he was trying to get into my pants - not that it really took all that much work most of the time - but fuck if I was going to catch his cooties, not even for one of his Olympic gold medal caliber blow jobs.
I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised when I got back. It looked ridiculous, but it happened every fucking time. Sam didn’t feel well, and he had unfettered access to my duffle. I unlocked the door, precariously balancing the drugstore bag and the takeout, and walked in to take in the sight of my baby brother passed out on the bed farthest from the door. My bag was lying open on the floor, and he was sprawled out on top of the covers wearing my clothes. Only pieces that hadn’t been washed since the last time I’d worn them. Sweatpants that ended four inches north of his ankle, a worn Motorhead t-shirt that was ridiculously tight across his broad chest and shoulders, and one of my flannel overshirts wrapped up in his arms like a teddy bear.
The thing is, he’d been doing this since he was a kid. And yeah, now he wasn’t a kid anymore, but there was something about knowing that wrapping himself in clothes that smelled like me made him feel better that made my heart want to break into a million pieces and honest to God, I’d never even made fun of him for it, not even after he got better again. It made me feel…fuck, I don’t know, like maybe I’d gotten it right, maybe I’d taken care of him the way I was supposed to if being surrounded by things that were mine made him feel comforted.
In a few minutes, I’d have to wake him and give him medicine and make him eat, but I gave myself a little bit of time to just take in the sight of him, feeling as comfortable and safe wrapped in my clothes as he felt when he was wrapped up in me. There’s a slight possibility that I might also have developed an allergy to something because my eyes got kind of stingy-feeling and a little watery.