“Dean…” Sam says softly, tiredly. “I think I’m getting sick.”
“Need the trash can?” Dean turns, wondering where one might be. Under the desk? In the bathroom? Should he drop to his knees and crawl around feeling for one?
“Need the Kleenex.”
“Oh.” And then it all makes sense. “Oh, Sam. It’s gotta be hurting when you sneeze.”
“It really does. I’m trying to keep ‘em quiet, but the sinus pressure and my body shaking violently each time…”
“Okay.” Dean’s brain is trying to keep up with this new information. Sam sick, he can deal with. Sam with a head-splitting migraine, he can deal with. But the two together? He’s never dealt with that before. He’s not even sure of what to do. “Kleenex?”
“Yes please.”
It’s not much, but it’s a start. Dean feels around for his duffle bag and takes it into the bathroom. He closes the bathroom door, stuffs a towel at the crack beneath the door, and turns on the light. There’s a box of tissues in the far corner of the counter. And, in the light, he can go through his duffle to find the right cold medicine. Sam can’t take Tylenol on top of the pain killers Dean already gave him for the migraine—pain killers that don’t seem to be helping much at all. But he’s got some cold medicine that can be taken at the same time. Maybe, if he pumps decongestants into Sam early enough into this cold, it won’t be so bad?
Dean turns off the light and emerges from the bathroom.
“H’Tshhhhhh! Hehhshhhoo! Her-AHShooo! AHHHHH!” Sam yells in agony. Apparently not holding back his sneezes is every bit as painful.
Also, apparently, Sam’s already hit the sneezy stage of his cold. Which means he’s been feeling this coming on for at least a day and managed to hide that from Dean. No wonder he asked for ice water. Sam’s throat must be sore and raw already.
With a sigh, Dean bumps into and then sits down on the edge of the bed. Sam’s not in any state to figure out what he needs; that’s usually Dean’s job. But Dean doesn’t have any ideas and can’t even see his brother. He reaches out until he feels something solid. An arm? A leg? A wrist. Then a hand. He grips it tight and Sam squeezes hard. Dean feels the desperation through that grip and knows he’s not going to let go any time soon. “It’s okay,” Dean whispers. “We’ll figure this out. Where’s that cold compress?”
Sam whimpers. Dean climbs onto the bed. It takes a while for them to get settled back down. When they finally do, it’s a new arrangement. Sam’s flat on his back with Dean holding the compress to his forehead. Dean’s other arm is threaded under Sam’s neck, on top of the mattress, resting against Sam’s shoulders. He still grips Sam’s hand. And when Sam has to sneeze, Sam squeezes Dean’s hand back instead of panicking. Dean sets the compress aside, presses a tissue into Sam’s hand, and then braces for them both.
“huh-Choo! HehptSHOO!”
Silence follows. Dean doesn’t bless him, because Dean doesn’t believe in all that bullshit. He just holds Sam tight and puts the compress back on to help numb the searing pain that grips at Sam until it dies back down. Sam hisses and gasps against the pain, twisting and turning his body as if he can wring the migraine right out, as if moving might shake the pain loose.
The stabbing pain passes, and Sam relaxes back into his brother. But Dean doesn’t relax even a little until he hears Sam’s breaths slow again. The room is pitch black; he can’t even see his hand in front of his face. But he can hear Sam, and he can hear enough to know his brother’s okay until the next sneeze comes. In the darkness, Dean loses all sense of time. Hours might have passed. It might be the next day for all he knows. Even after Sam mercifully falls asleep, Dean stays up, stays vigilant.
FILLED: Vigilance (2/2)
“Need the trash can?” Dean turns, wondering where one might be. Under the desk? In the bathroom? Should he drop to his knees and crawl around feeling for one?
“Need the Kleenex.”
“Oh.” And then it all makes sense. “Oh, Sam. It’s gotta be hurting when you sneeze.”
“It really does. I’m trying to keep ‘em quiet, but the sinus pressure and my body shaking violently each time…”
“Okay.” Dean’s brain is trying to keep up with this new information. Sam sick, he can deal with. Sam with a head-splitting migraine, he can deal with. But the two together? He’s never dealt with that before. He’s not even sure of what to do. “Kleenex?”
“Yes please.”
It’s not much, but it’s a start. Dean feels around for his duffle bag and takes it into the bathroom. He closes the bathroom door, stuffs a towel at the crack beneath the door, and turns on the light. There’s a box of tissues in the far corner of the counter. And, in the light, he can go through his duffle to find the right cold medicine. Sam can’t take Tylenol on top of the pain killers Dean already gave him for the migraine—pain killers that don’t seem to be helping much at all. But he’s got some cold medicine that can be taken at the same time. Maybe, if he pumps decongestants into Sam early enough into this cold, it won’t be so bad?
Dean turns off the light and emerges from the bathroom.
“H’Tshhhhhh! Hehhshhhoo! Her-AHShooo! AHHHHH!” Sam yells in agony. Apparently not holding back his sneezes is every bit as painful.
Also, apparently, Sam’s already hit the sneezy stage of his cold. Which means he’s been feeling this coming on for at least a day and managed to hide that from Dean. No wonder he asked for ice water. Sam’s throat must be sore and raw already.
With a sigh, Dean bumps into and then sits down on the edge of the bed. Sam’s not in any state to figure out what he needs; that’s usually Dean’s job. But Dean doesn’t have any ideas and can’t even see his brother. He reaches out until he feels something solid. An arm? A leg? A wrist. Then a hand. He grips it tight and Sam squeezes hard. Dean feels the desperation through that grip and knows he’s not going to let go any time soon. “It’s okay,” Dean whispers. “We’ll figure this out. Where’s that cold compress?”
Sam whimpers. Dean climbs onto the bed. It takes a while for them to get settled back down. When they finally do, it’s a new arrangement. Sam’s flat on his back with Dean holding the compress to his forehead. Dean’s other arm is threaded under Sam’s neck, on top of the mattress, resting against Sam’s shoulders. He still grips Sam’s hand. And when Sam has to sneeze, Sam squeezes Dean’s hand back instead of panicking. Dean sets the compress aside, presses a tissue into Sam’s hand, and then braces for them both.
“huh-Choo! HehptSHOO!”
Silence follows. Dean doesn’t bless him, because Dean doesn’t believe in all that bullshit. He just holds Sam tight and puts the compress back on to help numb the searing pain that grips at Sam until it dies back down. Sam hisses and gasps against the pain, twisting and turning his body as if he can wring the migraine right out, as if moving might shake the pain loose.
The stabbing pain passes, and Sam relaxes back into his brother. But Dean doesn’t relax even a little until he hears Sam’s breaths slow again. The room is pitch black; he can’t even see his hand in front of his face. But he can hear Sam, and he can hear enough to know his brother’s okay until the next sneeze comes. In the darkness, Dean loses all sense of time. Hours might have passed. It might be the next day for all he knows. Even after Sam mercifully falls asleep, Dean stays up, stays vigilant.