Fic: if I never see your face again (I don't mind)
Title: if I never see your face again (I don't mind)
Author: vicious_trade
Rating: PG13
Summary: Sometimes Sam just gets this look in his eye. Fevers and listlessness and swollen glands are always T-minus twenty-four hours at that point.
Word Count: 6000
Warnings: none
Prompt: The ohsam h/c fic challenge - full prompt inside. Basically Sam refuses to admit that spending half a year with strep throat is a big deal. Dean must convince him otherwise.
Original Prompt: Gen. S4 or after: Sam gets strep in August, prompting much teasing from his brother (Who gets sick in the middle of the summer?). Then it happens again, a little worse, at Thanksgiving, then once more, a lot worse, at Christmas. Dean tries to convice his brother to see a doctor (It's not normal to spend half the year without a voice, Sam.). But Sam shrugs him off and insists they go on with business as usual. Over the next week, he slowly wears down to the point where he whispers everything, randomly sleeps away a few hours every afternoon and barely touches food. A week later, when Sam's stomach forces them to pull over on the interstate and he's still running a high fever, Dean puts his foot down, drives them to an ER where they depressingly ring in another year amongst rowdy drunks who refuse to shut up so Sam can sleep while he gets IV antibiotics into him. Dean, in true Dean form, takes control of the situation. Some rather crude threats are made. Sam's too out of it to care. --Anonymous
Whoever prompted this - thank you for the inspiration! I hope this is what you were looking for.
In the end, Dean tells himself that he should’ve figured it out sooner than he did. It’s not as if Dean hadn’t known instantly that his little brother was coming down with something - hell, he’d probably figured it out well before Sam even had an inkling. After all, he had almost three decades of experience under his belt.
Digging a well-preserved hoodie out of the trunk to add to an already three-layered ensemble was a dead give-away. Especially since it was Indian summer. In Iowa. And Sam had been dozing in the car a little longer every ride, little harder to wake each morning.
Not to mention that sometimes? He just gets this look in his eye. Fevers and listlessness and swollen glands are always T-minus twenty-four hours at that point.
“You’re crazy,” Sam mutters when he shares that with him, but it sounds more like a frog with a stoma.
Dean holds his arms out defiantly, scanning the room. “I’m sorry, did we take a wrong turn and get beamed aboard the mothership? Are you being probed?” He nods to the paper-covered exam table Sam is slumped on. “No, I do believe we’re in a clinic at the moment, dude. Because the guy that just swabbed your funky-ass throat was definitely not Dr. Spock.”
Sam squints at him like he deserves to be studied, but says nothing.
Point taken. Smirking, Dean says, “Admit it, Sam. I called it.”
That earns him a full-fledged glare. “It’s almost like you want me to be sick or something.” Sam states cautiously, blearily knuckling at two red-rimmed, glassy eyes.
“Nope. I’m not that sadistic.” Dean tells him with a smile, tight as it may be. Because Sam doesn’t know just how far off the radar he is on that one. “I just want you to admit that I’m right. And that you suck, ‘cause it’s freakin’ August and just looking at you right now makes my eyeballs hot.” He hooks a finger under the collar of his t-shirt and jerks it a couple times, shaking his head at the pitiful heap of fleece-lining and crossed arms staring back at him.
Sam sniffs indignantly. “It’s just a cold,” he insists, probably for the tenth time that week.
On that note, the balding, beady-eyed doctor that stuck the giant Q-tip in Sam’s mouth comes back into the room. “Well, I’ve sent those cultures down to the lab. We should have the results by the end of the day. Have the receptionist take down your number so we can give you a call.” He pushes his glasses down to the tip of his nose and barely glances at Sam before turning his full attention on Dean. “I’m about ninety-nine percent sure that it’s strep. But, doesn’t hurt to be sure. Either way there will be a prescription for some heavy-duty antibiotics under his name at the pharmacy. When we call, just head down and pick them up. A week or two of rest and medication should knock it right out.”
Sam kind of weakly tosses his hands, letting them flop uselessly back onto the table and crinkle the paper. The look on his face says, I know the guy’s got, like, trifocals but does he not see me sitting here?
Dean puts on his best I’m-the-brains-of-this-operation look. “So one might say that it’s a good thing we came in to get this checked out?”
“Oh, most definitely,” the doctor says with a serious little brow-furrow and a chastising look in Sam’s direction. “Throat infections are nothing to mess around with. Especially strep bacteria.”
Arms crossed a little tighter, Sam rolls his eyes. “If it even is strep.”
The doctor looks at him pointedly. “It is.”
Sam’s arms cross tighter, posture slumping even further. He’s this ridiculous cross between a moody teenager and an eighty-year-old that’s spent one too many years in the cotton fields. “We’ll see,” he mutters under his breath.
The doctor turns to Dean with a mildly amused little grin. “A hard head makes a soft behind.”
Dean's not quite sure exactly what that means, but it sounds wise, like freakin' Yoda, and that's kind of awesome. Doctors with morals low enough to make fun of patients well within earshot are a rare breed. But because Sam’s being a Major buzz-kill, solute and all, Dean drags his little brother’s snivelling ass out of the clinic before he can embarrass himself (further).
It’s after Sam has stubbornly refused an extra night at the motel and built a nest out of Kleenex, germs, and misery in the passenger seat of the Impala that Dean’s cell phone rings. The conversation is short and to the point.
Sam knuckles blearily at one eye. Kind of looks at him, but either has too much pride or simply refuses to give Dean the satisfaction.
As if that’s going to stop him. Feeling his lips twist into a self-satisfied leer, Dean snaps the phone shut. “Called it.”
He cuts some jack-ass off on the way to the pharmacy just for sport.
“It’s back.”
Sam spares him a glance over the top of a really old, funky-smelling book. “What is?” he asks, voice hushed.
Clucking his tongue in a June Cleaver fashion that leaves him feeling vaguely dirty, Dean waves a finger in the general direction of his brother’s forehead. “The look.”
For a moment Sam stares at him blankly. Then he just rolls his eyes. “You’re seriously challenged.” He returns his attention to reading, index finger trailing lightly over the aged and tiny text.
“Just thought you might want to know - use my powers for good versus evil and all that.” Dean says casually as he leafs through a pile of dusty newspaper articles. It’s annoying though, because his gaze keeps travelling up to peer inconspicuously at his brother. “You could try to head it off...load up on orange juice and herbal shit. I think I read somewhere that ginseng really packs a wallop.”
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t you find it odd that in a hypothetical situation allowing one to have magical powers, all you can come up with is detecting the onset of someone’s imaginary illness? Not to mention unimaginative and, well, a little sad.”
Momentarily offended, Dean scowls. “Fine. Just don’t come whining to me tomorrow when you feel like shit. Because I’ll be doing the I-told-you-so dance on your bed.”
It takes longer than twenty-four hours, but soon enough Sam doesn’t have the voice or the energy to do much of anything, and that includes whining. Their investigation into a poltergeist haunting a railroad in Black Mountain, North Carolina, comes to a grinding halt when Sam wakes up in the morning with a low-grade fever and a throat so sore he can barely open his mouth wide enough for Dean to shine a flashlight in.
Dean squints and angles Sam’s head back a little further, mindful of his brother’s wince. “White stuff has made a miraculous comeback,” he states regretfully, gently releasing Sam’s jaw. “I’d say you’ve got strep. Again. Which has to be some kind of a record.”
“Lucky me.” Sam drops heavily back onto the bed, palm covering his eyes.
Hands on his hips, Dean stands in the middle of the motel room for a long moment, thinking. “Well, we should probably get you back to a doctor. You need drugs to get rid of this thing again.” He does a mental configuration of Cherry street, figuring it’s the only locality of this East Bumblefuck town that’s likely to have a drop-in clinic. Although finding one open on Thanksgiving Day is probably going to take divine intervention.
Sam levers himself up on his elbows. “It’s okay - I’ve got antibiotics in my travel kit. Can you bring them to me?” his voice, already scratchy and wrecked, starts to fade and he has to clear his throat. His face screws up like that was a bad idea. “Please?”
Dean rolls his eyes at the pleasantry and returns from the bathroom a moment later, squinting at a familiar looking cylinder bottle. “You sure these will help?”
“They should. They’re the ones I was taking last time.” Sam reaches out a hand, palm open.
Dean starts. “What? How do you still have some left?” There’s a lesson to be learned here, things he should say and a finger wag for emphasis, he’s sure. But for the moment it’s just out of reach. So he hesitates instead, rolling the bottle between his fingers.
Sam shrugs. “Stopped taking them once I got better.”
Eyes still narrowed, Dean passes off the bottle. He doesn’t quite remember it that way - a miraculous recovery. No, he recalls Sam fatigued and croaky for weeks. Turning the music low in the car, keeping bottles of juice and water at hand to force on his brother with insistent looks and thinly-veiled threats. He remembers dodging phone calls from Bobby and hiding relevant articles in the paper just so they could get some downtime long enough for Sam’s energy to creep back. “Here,” he says.
Taking it, Sam shakes out a capsule or two. “Thank-you.”
He tries for the eye roll again, but fondness wins and somewhere there’s a smile lurking, one he keeps with a funny, warm feeling in his chest, bound to memories of little brothers with wide eyes and manners he doesn’t remember teaching. “You’re welcome. Dork.” Just to save face.
Then Sam is pushing back blankets, pausing only a moment to knead at his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “Let’s go, okay? We need to meet with the conductor’s wife before they start their holiday dinner.”
“What? Dude, it can wait until tomorrow.” Cold November weather plus sick dipwads in ineffectual, lame-ass jackets equals a bad time.
“So another person can get decapitated by a train tonight? I don’t think so.”
Unfortunately, he has a point. Plus Sam is already up, tugging on socks and shoes and a get-‘er-done attitude, so Dean knows there’s going to be very little wiggle room for argument. “Fine,” he huffs, and turns to point an accusing finger just under his brother’s red nose. “But I better get some freakin’ delicious pumpkin pie out of this. Sympathetic-widower-style.”
Turns out they get a whole lot more than that. Turkey with all the fixings, gravy, and an entire pie in well-loved Tupperware containers to take back to the room with them. Sam sleeps through dinner and the parade on TV. When Dean wakes him with a re-heated plate, Sam’s throat is too sore to swallow much more than a few spoonfuls of mashed potatoes.
Dean eats his dinner alone with a healthy side of worry.
The next time Dean sees it - the look - he doesn’t say anything. His reasons are twofold:
First of all, it’s barely a month after the last time Sam turned a corner with this bullshit, and he’s kind of in paralytic disbelief that the kid is sick again. In fact, he watches with quiet caution and hopes like hell that for the first time in his life he’ll be wrong about this.
Secondly he just decides to change tactics. On Christmas Eve he maxes out Earl E. Riser’s credit card at a nearby Wall-Mart. Armed with a list of remedies courtesy of Wikipedia, he plans to load up on all the essentials of illness-prevention before any of this life-sucking bacteria has a chance to get a hold of his brother for a third time. He returns to the motel room with a vitamin C tablets, lemons, herbal supplements, and a couple of other tricks up his sleeve.
He discovers that not only is he too late, but clearly a couple home treatments and some holistic voodoo recommended by a hippy named Windsong are going to have as much effect as a fart in a hurricane; He finds Sam huddled on the floor beside the radiator under the window, wracked with shivers and bathed in sweat.
Dean drops his purchases by the door and hurries to his side. “Shit.” Perched on his knees, he reaches behind him to drag the comforter off his bed, wrapping it tightly around Sam’s quaking shoulders. “That hit faster than I expected.”
Through heavy-lidded eyes, Sam squints up at him. After a moment he huffs a quiet chortle, face screwing up in pain. “Just once,” he croaks, voice rough and papery-thin, “I’d like you to be wrong about that.”
“You and me both, buddy.” Dean reaches up and feels Sam’s burning forehead with the back of his hand. “You and me both.”
Ten or so minutes later he’s got Sam settled in bed with just about every blanket in the room wrapped around him, but Dean can still see the tremors through all the layers. He kicks the hissing radiator a few times, cursing shitty motels and front desk guys that have better things to do than work on Christmas eve. He fusses with Nyquil and lozenges that they may as well own shares in now for the amount that they’ve bought in the past few months and finally admits defeat.
He settles on the bed beside Sam, tugging the hood over his little brother’s head for added warmth and tucks an arm around his quaking shoulders. “Don’t get any big ideas.” Dean mutters.
He doesn’t have to see Sam to hear the smile. “Big ideas? Unfortunately I’ve seen you naked - my expectations are low, don’t worry.”
“Smart-ass.” Dean rolls his eyes, cinching the too-warm body closer, a rod of pure heat pressed against his side. “Save your voice there, Kathleen Turner. You sound like shit.” It slowly dawns on him how accustomed he’s become to hearing Sam like that, gravelly and hoarse, run down. Thinking about it makes him uneasy.
Beside him Sam shifts, kicks him accidentally in the calf, but keeps quiet like he’s told.
Dean looks down at the furnace nestled under his arm. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting pretty tired of this whole scene, Sammy.” He gives the side of his brother’s head a little pat.
Sam sighs and blinks slowly. Dean reads that as: Um, understatement.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, glancing at the nightstand. “You wanna watch a little boob tube? Maybe that movie with the kid in the bunny suit will be on.” He waves the remote control with his free hand, sporting a grin that’s all show.
Small, sleepy, half-smile in return, but it’s something.
Dean takes it as a win. “Okay, let’s see here.” He clicks around for awhile. There’s just about every Christmas-themed film ever made playing on one channel or another, and for once they get lucky. They come in right when the little dimwit is sticking his tongue to a telephone pole, which just so happens to be Sam’s favourite part.
But when Dean starts laughing, he looks down at an eerily silent Sam to find his chin dipped low, eyes closed, breathing deep and even. Dean sighs and turns down the volume, adjusting the hood on his little brother’s head. “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”
Dean’s present: A car buried in an unexpected snowfall, an in-suite coffee-maker that blows a fuse and cuts all the power to the room, and worst of all? A Sam that’s no better in the morning.
And a partridge in a cumquat tree. Or whatever.
There are weird light sightings at a graveyard in Boone Creek. It’s not much - in fact, Dean is nearly ninety-nine percent sure that it’ll all turn out to be bogus. But after Black Mountain he’d been desperate to find anything within the same state without letting Sam catch wind of his actual plan: Operation Get Sam Better.
By Boxing Day they’ve been at the Hemlock Inn for five days. All they’d gotten were a few sloppy eye-witness accounts and a hastily prepared background to the cemetery itself. Dean is willing to stretch the ‘investigation’ out for a good week or so, at least, and Sam isn’t exactly making it hard for him.
He comes back from questioning the old lady who lives in the cottage across from the churchyard sometime in the late afternoon to find Sam sacked out across the far bed, limbs tangled in blankets and photocopies from the local library, one hand still resting on the keyboard of his laptop. He’s just about to slink in as silently as possible when Sam jerks awake at the gust of cold air.
Immediately his hands are fretting over creased papers. “Sorry.”
Dean winces at the new muffled quality of his brother’s voice. Over the last day or so it had gone from croaky and brittle to muted and weak - like someone had stuffed cotton balls down his throat. “It’s okay - you need sleep.” Dean crosses to the table and tosses down his reporter’s badge, sheds his coat and suit jacket.
“How did it go?” Sam asks, like he’s forcing himself, like he’s reading from a script and there’ll be consequences for a pause.
Dean shrugs. “Ruth Henderson sits in a rocking chair by the window and sees the lights almost every evening in between Law and Order and CSI Miami. That is, from what she can see behind five foot hedges, a low-hanging willow tree, one hell of a dust and water-stained window, and her own stigmatism in both eyes.”
One corner of Sam’s mouth tilts. “My Cousin Vinny.”
“Your cousin who?”
“Never mind.”
“How’re you feelin’?” Dean stands at the foot of the bed and crosses his arms, vigilantly assessing the damage.
Sam dry-washes his face with a shaky hand and blinks a couple times, like he’s clearing away cobwebs. “Fine. Good.” He starts arranging documents and print-outs in some semblance of order, even though about half are upside down or backwards. “So that leaves...Ramona Casey left on our list. She declined to speak to me when we first arrived, but I think now she...”
“Are you going to be a man about it and willingly see a doctor or am I going to have to choke you out with your own sock and carry your unconscious body there on a homemade Renoir?” He decides to stop beating around the bush.
Sam stares at him blankly. “...I think you mean travois.”
“Trivialities, Sam.” Apparently being cute wasn’t the way to go. “I’m serious. You’ve been sick way too long. It’s time to suck it up and get checked out.” It’s pretty easy to mask fear and crippling concern with irritation and John Winchester impersonations. It’s his go-to cover.
There’s a familiar weary sigh. “Dean, it’s just ...”
“If you say ‘a cold’, so help me God, Sam, I’ll smack you on the head so hard you’ll have to eat through your fly.” Threats are weak, but it’s kind of all he’s got left. If simply asking Sam to go would have worked, they’d be done with this song and dance months ago. “You keep getting sick, your fever is burning more brain cells than you’ve got to spare, you sleep all day, you seem to be growing some kind of new civilization in your mouth...if all you’ve got is a cold, why don’t you have a cough?” The tally on his fingers is going to need a second hand soon.
Sam’s eyes narrow a little and a slowly curled fist comes up close to his lips before he tests out a weak, poorly-rehearsed cough. Which proves immediately to be retarded, because Sam’s eyes slam shut in pain and one hand flies instantly to his throat.
Dean drops to the edge of the mattress. “Jesus, you’re stupid.” He coaxes Sam’s squeezing fingers away before he has a chance to cut off his own air supply, gentle fleeting touches falling on Sam’s face and chest as some kind of distraction. “Did you really think a little live demonstration would help your case? Here, drink some of this, dumbass.” He passes off the ever-present glass of water from the bedside table.
Sam’s breathing is still shallow and measured, but he manages a small sip before pushing the cup away.
His face falls. “That wasn’t enough to drown a zygote, Sam.”
But Sam’s holding firm, and after a few moments of rubbing out still-tensed muscles, Dean gives in with a sigh.
Time passes after that, Dean’s not sure how much. But the tie around his neck gets loosened, and Sam isn’t quite the same rigid ball of pain when he blinks open sleepy eyes and opens his mouth to speak. At first nothing comes out at all, and Dean’s lips thin out in a firm line of concern while he waits.
Sam works his throat quietly for a moment and tries again. What comes out is nothing more than a whisper. “Are you giving me a massage?”
Dean looks down at the hands that seem to have a mind of their own, currently kneading the tight muscles in the younger man's knobby shoulders. He guesses so. “Shut up and be grateful you have such an awesome brother,” he grumbles, shifting until half of his ass is no longer suspended off the bed. “Bet your cousin Vinny wouldn’t do this for you, huh?”
Sam’s giving him that look. That awesome how do you function in society? look that Dean finds so hilarious, it’s worth making an ass out of himself for. Sam keeps shaking his head as if ignorance towards some movie the Karate Kid was in (that’s right, Dean knows things) is pure blasphemy and he wishes to deny knowledge of Dean’s existence, but it makes him feel marginally better, so. Totally worth it.
Even if Sam gets a little too comfortable and passes out half on top of him until Dean’s left arm falls asleep. Stupefying little brothers beats out pins and needles any day of the week.
It’s a few days later when things really start to go pear-shaped. How many, Dean’s not exactly sure. Everything had slowed to smaller increments, units of time that came in between the long periods Sam spent asleep. An hour here and there for some half-assed, dubious attempts at research and case discussion. Twenty minutes of staring at the TV before heavy eyelids won over. Five for syrups and water to be coaxed down an alarmingly swollen throat because Sam flat out couldn’t handle pills anymore.
For Dean, everything in between meant too much time for doubt and nail-biting worry.
Staying stationary became pointless pretty quick, since Sam wasn’t getting any better and the case turned out to be bullshit, as predicted. Dean was willing to pull Oscar-worthy performances to keep the original plan in motion, but he drew the line at swamp gases creating phosphorescent lights. Eventually the validity of the credit card they’d been charging the room to made the decision for them. Time to move on.
Dean cast a glance in the direction of the passenger seat. They’d been on the road for an hour or so and even though Sam was facing away from him, head resting on a stolen motel pillow, he could tell his brother wasn’t asleep. “You alive over there?”
A slow nod.
Clenching the wheel, Dean sighed. “We’ll stop soon. Find somewhere to eat.” Another look to the right. His neck was getting sore. “You hungry?” It was a safe bet what the answer would be.
Sam’s head shake didn’t disappoint.
Helplessness was a feeling Dean didn’t handle well. It started up an itch at the back of his neck that made him fidget. He reached for the knob on the stereo and fiddled with the stations, switching from cassette to radio and back again. Volume low, voices crooning, but it did nothing to settle his nerves. He sniffed, chewing on his lip as stared out at the near-empty highway, thinking that maybe those last few cups of coffee had been a bad idea...
Suddenly Sam was facing forward, face pale and mouth set in a thin line. “Dean, pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull over. Please.” The whisper was hoarse and barely loud enough to be heard over the engine of the car, but Dean could still pick up on the urgency. He did as told, a bad feeling in his gut.
Apparently it was mutual because the moment the Impala’s tires hit road-side gravel, Sam had the door open. He hardly moved from his seat, just hung half-way out the passenger side to gag and choke out bile and the few mouthfuls of Gatorade Dean had forced on him before they left town.
Sam was still dry-heaving when Dean got around the car, and judging by the shaky, white-knuckled grip he had on the seat and door handle, precariously close to face-planting on the ground. Dean risked the trajectory and inserted himself in the flight path, squatting down in front of Sam and holding him by both shoulders. “Easy, Sammy. Breathe now, okay?”
He could feel the tremors running through the tightly-wound body. A hand on Sam’s midsection told him that Sam’s stomach wasn’t quite so convinced that it was done yet. “Come on, buddy. You’ve got nothing left.” Despite his best efforts, little other than Nyquil and orange juice had made it past Sam’s lips in days. “Breathe through it, Sam. You’re alright.”
Eventually the heaving stopped and Dean took stock; Sam’s face was nearly grey and pinched with pain, throat working soundlessly. Eyes glazed with fever blinked at him, begging for relief. It didn’t take more than a second to make the decision.
“That’s it.” Dean growled, mostly at himself, and hey, the universe, before tucking Sam’s mile-long legs back into the car and readjusting the flat, starch-scratchy pillow under his brother’s cheek. “Hospital.”
The sheer fact that Sam made no objections was confirmation enough that it was a conclusion he should have come to a long time ago.
Triage is a long and painful process. For whatever reason, the wait on a Friday night post Christmas was a long one, hours spent in uncomfortable chairs surrounded by feedback-laced intercom announcements, tinsel moulting slivers of silver on dingy carpet, and crying babies. Dean sits with Sam’s head pillowed on his lap until his legs go numb, and then awhile after that, trying to keep him sheltered under his jacket and calm enough to hopefully fall asleep.
No such luck. As if the din and bustle of a busy ER wasn't noisy enough, there’s a group of five or six loud-mouthed collegiate-looking assholes a few chairs down that seem to love the sound of their own voices. It’s grating on his last nerve. He can’t imagine what it’s doing to Sam.
Dean looks down at his brother. Feels sluggish eyelashes blink tiredly against the fabric of his jeans. “Hey,” he says softly.
Sam’s on his side facing away from him and only turns slightly, his eyes doing most of the movement.
“You okay?” he asks, feeling clunky and stupid.
Somehow, Sam offers up a tiny smile.
Something tender pulls at Dean’s heartstrings, making his throat ache in a way that has nothing to do with the contagion threat he’s currently got drooling on his lap. Dean grins back warmly, foolishly put at ease in a way that only knowing Sam is warm and safe can do.
Then there’s a series of bangs and his attention is drawn back to the jocks, now across the room and currently kicking at a dilapidated vending machine. Irritation mutates into something else as Dean jerks in surprise at the noise. One of Sam’s hands clutches at his kneecap, jostled back into alertness. “Sorry, Sammy.” Dean murmurs, resting an apologetic hand lightly across the tousled brown locks.
There’s a long time after that where Dean wonders if he made the right call in bringing his brother here. Three hours of waiting will do that, and then two more afterwards in a crowded first aid room with sick people coughing Malaria everywhere or God knows what, watching Sam deteriorate before his eyes, all before he even gets seen by a doctor.
But then that moment finally comes, and everything changes. One look at Sam’s throat and he’s got the whole emergency room falling over themselves to get him into a bed and run every test under the sun. Scary terms like “antibiotic-resistant” and “superbug” are thrown around, which seem to be the magic words, because after that, no one fucks around.
Everyone, with the exception of Dean, calms down once they’ve got an IV going in Sam’s arm. “You made the right call,” a cheerful but tired-looking female resident assures them. “The infection has definitely taken hold. Run of the mill penicillin wouldn’t be able to knock this out. If you’d left it any longer, this would be a different conversation.”
Dean glances at Sam, half out of it on drugs, fever, and exhaustion. “But he’s going to be okay?” He asks, desperate to loosen the knot of fear in his belly.
The doctor nods. “We’ll monitor him closely over the next few hours, but yes. The meds should start taking effect soon and he’ll be able to go home.” She smiles and clicks her pen for emphasis, checking her wristwatch. “I’ll want him to come back in for a few more IV treatments to be sure, but he should be on the mend by morning. Good way to start off the New Year.”
“New Year?” Dean asks, confused.
She rolls her eyes resignedly. “Yep. I always get the good shifts.” Sarcasm drips from her voice as she backs away from the gurney. “Drunks and idiots who shoot their buddies with firecrackers. Sometimes both.” A nod over her shoulder.
Dean follows her line of sight to morons one through five from the waiting room surrounding the next bed over, the ringleader of which with surgical dressing covering one hand.
“Joy.” Dean growls, looking back at his brother.
“Well, Happy New Year anyway.” the doctor says before retreating, closing the curtained partition for some semblance of privacy.
Still slightly dumbfounded, Dean manages a “you too,” after her. A quick check of the date on his cell phone confirms it - December 31st, and just under an hour before midnight, to boot. Scrubbing a hand down his face, Dean takes a seat at Sam’s bedside. “Dude. You really know how to party.”
He says it quietly, but Sam’s eyes blink open anyway. “Heard that,” he whispers.
“Good. I meant you to.” Dean smiles, studying the contents of the several bags hanging from the pole above the bed. “Maybe we can swap one of these out for champagne or something.”
Snuffling quietly, Sam’s eyes droop closed again. “Air bubbles. They’d kill me.” He points out.
Dean grins. “Geek and a party pooper. Whatever. You just enjoy your morphine over there, Robert Downey,” He smoothes the scratchy blanket up over Sam’s chest and leaves his hand there, feeling the too-prominent ribs expand with each breath. “I’ll be the designated driver.”
Despite the mint-green divider draped around the bed, hospital clamour goes on at a fever-pitch around them. He picks out several sets of sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor as nursing staff shuffle between patients. Somewhere to the left a young girl is crying while a doctor pokes and prods her broken arm. And through it all, the creeps just on the other side of the curtain can’t seem to keep their rowdiness to a dull roar.
When ten minutes later Sam’s still blinking sluggishly at the ceiling Dean heaves a frustrated sigh. “This place should come with earplugs, huh?” He can’t really muster up a heartfelt smile, but he leans closer to the bed and brushes back a few stray hairs from Sam’s forehead. The creases of stubborn little brothers who refuse to go to bed when they’re told slowly start to fade. This time when his eyes close they stay that way. “That’s it. Just tune it out, Sammy.” Dean keeps up the light motion, his voice lowered to a quiet rumble.
“Holy shit! What an asshole, man. I totally would have gotten a thousand hits off YouTube if that pussy hadn’t dropped the camera.”
The voice is most like attached to the errant hand that punches through the cotton partition, clacking the plastic curtain rings together with a screech. When Sam flinches awake, it’s pretty much all over.
“Alright.” Dean growls, rising from his chair.
“Dean,” Sam whispers, watching him.
Dean places a hand briefly on his sibling’s head before stepping away and yanking back the divider. “Excuse me,” he says tightly, fake smile plastered on his face. Five sets of bleary, half-interested eyes fall on him. “But my little brother here is trying to get some rest. So please - watch your fuckin’ language.”
The guy with the so-called injury eyes him up. “Relax, buddy. It’s New Year’s.”
“Well in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in a hospital. Some people here are actually sick or hurt. Maybe you guys want to take the party outside? Blow off a few more limbs while you're at it?”
“I’ve got a better idea. Why doesn’t your little brother blow me, okay jerk-off?” The guy looks past Dean to Sam and winks.
Sam probably says something at that point, or tries to, but it’s already too late. Next thing Dean knows he’s pushed a couple of dopey-eyed douche bags out of his way and is leaning over the bed. He makes sure to look the Dick-less Wonder square in the eye while he squeezes the hand bound in bandages and gauze with unforgiving strength. “Listen buddy. Either you and your friends pipe down or find another hospital, because if I hear you fuckwads so much as breathe from the other side of that curtain? Dick Clark’s won’t be the only ball coming down at midnight.” Suddenly the dangerous snarl in his voice is the only sound in the room. “Got it?”
The desired response is immediate. “Got it! Got it.” The guy gasps, writhing in pain.
It’s a small victory, but a worthwhile one. Once the partition in back up the room audibly settles down and Dean returns to his brother, finding a curious look on his face. “What?”
Beneath a haze of painkillers, Sam smirks at him. “Nothing.” He whispers, eyes closing. “I just knew you were going to do that. Before you did.”
Dean reclaims his seat. “Oh yeah? How?” He asks absently, more interested in how Sam’s features are slackening, the tension finally leeching from his limbs.
“I don’t know,” Sam replies wistfully, face turned slightly towards him. A smile curls his lips. “You just get this...look.”
After a beat Dean can’t help but laugh, reaching up to pat his brother’s forearm. “Touché, Sammy.” He pulls himself closer to the bed, grinning. “Just don’t forget: with great power comes great responsibility.” He drawls, squeezing Sam’s wrist and then leaving his hand there.
Eyes still closed, Sam lets out one last amused sigh. “Can’t believe you just said that.”
Except yeah, he totally did. “Sleep, Sam.” Dean tells him, and a few moments later Sam complies. Dean manages to find a switch for the lamp beside the bed and turns it off, cocooning the room in soft light that sends shadows across the wall from the flurry of activity behind the curtain. But the hush that follows is enough to listen to Sam breathe. So Dean relaxes, toes off his boots and rests his feet on the end of matress.
When midnight rolls around and the ball drops (just the one, mind you) Dean rings in the New Year with a hot cup of coffee from the nurse's station and a pain-in-the-ass little brother sleeping peacefully at his side and finds it difficult to wish for anything more.
The end.