Pop Rocks & Coke

[mellaithwen]

Title: Pop Rocks & Coke
Chapters: One-shot
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slight language, and spoilers of the season shown in general
Summary: "It's not the flu, Sammy."

His body was exhausted and he was running himself ragged. All of this, coupled with a burning fever, meant that Dean Winchester was far from being at his best. He had a test in the morning, and no doubt by the weekend his father would be close enough to find their most recent prey and ask for Dean’s assistance in killing it.

And his algebra teacher would have his head on a pike if he failed another test...

Oh the joys of being fourteen.

He knew he couldn’t get out of it. If he went to school, and then showed how ill he was, he might be sent to the nurses office, and given enough harmless medicine to get him through the hour exam, before the teachers would then consider sending him home, and if he stayed home indefinitely, letting his father know how crappy he felt, he either ran the risk of his father’s tough love being expressed and urging him to go anyway, or John would give him the simple answer that if he was too ill for school than he was too ill for the hunt.

“You know, with the symptoms,” Sam said, referring to his brother’s sickness. “Maybe it’s the flu.” His ten year old little brother said at the kitchen table, as Dean hastily prepared the ready meal their father had left, with instructions, the man himself having to stay out late and trusting his eldest to get food into the both of them.

Dean watched him as he happily hummed to himself, flicking through page after page of the medical encyclopaedia his father had bought. Stopping on the page listed Influenza, coupled with a few pictures of the bacteria in cell form, as well as those coupled with the descriptions of the symptoms and how to treat it.

“It’s not the flu, Sammy.” He said with a sniff, he would know, surely, if it was. “Trust me.” But Sam looked completely unconvinced.




 * * *

“Come on.” Dean said, getting out of the car unsteadily, which thankfully Sam didn’t notice. He’d like to think it was the four hour drive away from their last hunt, sitting in the same position for that long that was now making his head spin, but he knew better, even if he’d never admit it. He gritted his teeth and set his jaw against the headache, and walked into the store. The nostalgic music was played softly through the cheap speakers, and the lights glared at them, so did the woman behind the till...

The door’s bell, it seemed, had a delay, because once the brothers had begun searching the aisle’s of the small convenience store, only then did it chime in response to their entrance.

They traipsed around, Dean following after Sam, who was literally acting like a kid in a candy store. Apparently, finally getting his sweet tooth back, once Dean had announced their need for the necessity, Sam had grabbed the basket on their way in, and was staring long and hard at some of the less healthy food. Twinkies, the various Oreos available, and now he had stopped by the sandwich fillings, in containers.

The row stretched on filled with pastes, Salmon, Tuna, Chicken and Ham, Dean cringed at the one telling of its sweet corn filled contents. That was just, wrong. Jams of every kind were all in a row, strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, blueberry, stacked next to the stark luminescent marmalade, and forgotten tubs of Marmite, and the imported goods of Vegemite that he dared not look at.

Sam, was further down the aisle, and Dean hurriedly made his way over, ready to explain that seeing as they rarely ate sandwiches let alone had time to make them, there was really no point in standing there, but then he saw his little brother picking up a jar of jelly. Yes that’s right, a jar filled with the wobbling delight that amused children to no end. Dean hated it, he hated the lack of control you had in keeping it still, and for the same reason, he despised noodles and those ridiculously pointless sticks you were given to eat them with.

“Sam, put the jelly back on the shelf.” He said, in a mock adult tone, as though Sam was merely four years old and could barely even reach the shelf, and Sam played along, displaying his puppy dog eyes, that begged to be allowed this treat. Only, Dean couldn’t be sure if Sam was playing along at all…He looked back into the basket and saw the loaf of thick white bread, and the second container. Peanut Butter.

“Sam...”

“Aw come on, Dean, you can’t say you don’t like PB & J sandwiches!”

“PB & what now?”

“J, Peanut Butter and Jelly...”

“Ew, dude, that’s disgusting! Why would you put them together?”

“Because it tastes nice, what you’re telling me you have never, not even once, tried a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich?”

“No, dude,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “It’s like one of those things you hear about, but aren’t stupid enough to try, like pop rocks and coke or something.”

“That’s just an urban legend, Dean.” Sam said, patronisingly, and Dean scoffed.

“So is Bloody Mary and Hookman, asshole.” Dean said, hissing.

“Okay then, if you try the sandwich, I’ll try the pop rocks.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said it was something you’re not stupid enough to do, it wasn’t a challenge.”

“You really believe that kid, Mikey, died?”

“No, but I do not want to tell Dad your stomach exploded just so I’d eat a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich.”

“My stomach is not going to explode if I eat the pop rocks, and a take a swig of cola.”

“Yeah, and there’s no such thing as ghosts, but you go tell that Casper and his pissy little friends.”

The clerk was looking at them with a suspicious glare, and Dean flashed the old woman a smile, before steering his brother toward the counter, ignoring the presence of the jelly in the basket as he grabbed a large pack of Peanut M&M’s and walked out, letting his brother know just who was paying. Sam looked up, ready to smile away any embarrassment, but the frail woman was still glaring, and Sam forgot any attempts to be polite, and simply waited for the total to ring up, and paid the woman, bagging the contents of his shop while leaving to escape the evil eyes shooting his way.

He opened the door, and the cold hit him hard. Though the snow was light, the wind was gushing it toward him with a force, but he could see the Impala parked in front of him, and he could see Dean in the passenger seat, squeezing the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed and his forehead creased as though in pain. The bell finally chimed above the door, and Dean looked up, alert at the noise, and pretended not to see Sam’s concern as he got into the driver’s side, choosing instead to rummage inside of the bag and take his candy, shoving the bag into his pocket saving them for later.

* * *


“What’s up?” His father asked, after coming home to see both of his son’s already eating their dinner in silence. Sam still peering over the large book every now and again, while Dean seemed more preoccupied with pushing his palms into his temples and scrunching up his nose to ward off yet another sneeze.

 

“Dean has the flu.” Sam said innocently, before returning to pouring over the book, ignoring his brother’s glare now being shot his way.

“Dean? The flu?” John asked, putting his large hand on his son’s forehead, and looking grim. “Your temp’s pretty high. How you feeling?” He asked, as 
though his son was putting on a brave face, and as much as Dean secretly relished in the attention and concern, it bugged him all the same.

“It’s not the flu.” He said simply, shrugging, and going back to his half revision of x and y and leaving his unfinished dinner. But the fact that his eldest son, who was far from stupid, but still hated school, was revising only made John Winchester more concerned for the boy’s health.

They had been driving around for quite some time, and though some may have described it as aimless, anyone with a good view of the inhabitants would see a driver, focusing carefully, leaning forward somewhat in an attempt to get a better view of the dark road, and a passenger pouring over a map, while both stomachs growled, though only the passenger wanted to give in to his hunger. The bread, and fillings had been eaten as breakfast, lunch and dinner, and Sam had told himself that the only reason Dean wasn’t eating was because of his hatred for the strange mixture in the sandwich, and that munching on his M&M’s every now and again was more than enough, but even they had run out. 


“Dean...” He said simply, almost in a whiny tone that proved to any passer by hearing it, that it was obvious the younger man had been nagging his older brother for quite some time.

“Fine, we’ll stop soon, okay?” The answer was short and the tone clipped, but it left Sam with a grin on his face as he leaned back into the chair, letting the aches and pains of his body fade away at the prospect of finally eating something.

“You get the food, I’ll go grab us a table.” Dean said, though Sam knew better. The best thing about small restaurants like this was how easy it was to avoid payment. There was a till at the entrance, followed by a large queue, but the toilets were right next to the exit, and simply ducking in for a moment, and re-emerging was enough to stop anyone who was suspicious. You could then find yourself a seat, and wait for your partner to return, having managed to grab two plates instead of one for the buffet. Okay, so strictly speaking it was stealing, but to Dean twelve dollars was far too much to be spending for the both of them to eat, and sure, maybe it wasn’t avoiding payment completely, but it saved a good six dollars on his part at least that might be needed in the future.

Dean found a booth, near the back of the room, falling back into his habits of being close to the exits at all time, and behind him, was just that, the fire exit. He waited patiently, in no hurry to eat, drumming his fingers on the table, ignoring the pounding headache that had once again made itself known by thumping against his temples with no mercy. God he felt like crap. Crap warmed up and ready to order.

He wouldn’t tell Sammy. He couldn’t put his brother through that again, especially seeing that the younger brother would only ask why he had taken so long to tell him, and Dean would reply with something amusing, when really, he just didn’t like Sam seeing him vulnerable. He was the big brother, and rarely did he allow himself to be ill. Especially when he had used up a lot of his sick-cards as he lay in hospital, dying.

It snarled for a moment, or grinned, which Dean wasn’t sure, then span around staring deep into Dean, picking out his insecurities and shining on them with a bright light, but at the same time ensuring his heart was shrouded in darkness, blood pumped in his head, thumping in his own ears and his breath quickened. A tendril of black came towards him, and then a finger, touching him for less than a second, keeping eye contact, still staring, always staring. The touch left him cold, shivering, alone on his knees. The hand was pressed against his face, its old man’s head tilted as though almost sad to e

“Woah.” He said, snapping out of his stupor. Well that was new. He had been healed months ago, and since, had received no problems, but this waking nightmare seemed to jolt him as he waited for Sam to return.

“You could have moved away.” A voice taunted in the back of his head, and it took all of his restraint to not hit himself in an attempt to be rid of the nag. He hated himself when he was ill, as if the symptoms weren't enough, his body would automatically berate him for every wrong, or right decision made. Yes he could have, and maybe a part of him had wanted to die if only Layla would live and rid him of his guilt, but then Sam came into view and Dean noticed that both of his plates were full, and he rolled his eyes. The idiot was trying to get them caught.

“Dude, you’re supposed to hide the other plate.”

“Who said this was for you?” He said, with a chuckle, indicating the plate covered in various pizzas, and pulling the healthier option toward himself. “Besides, no one can see us back here, and there aren’t any waiters, so...” Sam shrugged in response to his brother’s annoyance.

“Oh come on Dean, it’s your favourite!” Sam said, earning a confused glare from Dean as the minutes ticked by and still Dean ate nothing.

“I don’t have a favourite.”

“Sure you do. It’s covered in grease, isn’t it?” Sam laughed, trying to keep the tone of the night pleasant, and though Dean knew he meant well he couldn’t help but grimace, Sam wasn’t exactly helping the nausea creeping up on Dean, nor was he convincing the elder man to eat.

“You want a drink?” Sam asked, with a mouth full of pizza that he had borrowed from Dean, gulping it down, and nudging his head in the direction of the small drinks machine. Dean nodded, forcing himself to smile as Sam slipped out of the booth, and headed for the small queue forming for refreshments.

Dean sighed, holding his head in his hands as he looked down at the food on the plastic plate, his elbows resting on the table. God he hated being ill.

“Dean, are you okay, man?” Sam asked, finally having enough of his brother pinching his nose, and closing his eyes without explaining himself.

“Quit mothering me, Sam, I’m not a kid.”

“Don’t avoid the question.”

“Don’t stare.”

“I’m not staring.”

“Yes, you are Sam, jeez; I’m not made of glass. I won’t break!”

“A few months ago, you were given a couple of weeks to live, Dean, I think I’m allowed to be a little worried about you.” Sam hissed, leaning in to keep the exchange between them alone, and Sam wondered if his brother knew of his own thoughts relating to that week not too long ago.

“I’m fine, Sam.” Dean growled, though the anger was doing nothing to help his headache. “Let it go!”

“You know, with the symptoms,” Dean recognised the sentence from an earlier time. “Maybe it’s the fl-.” Sam never finished, Dean glared and Sam flinched. If looks could kill, Sam would be dead, buried and haunting his brother by now, no doubt whispering, in a ghostly tone It’s the flu…

Dean picked at his food once more, while Sam finished his, and hastily, they made their exit, without being seen by anyone who would be likely to ask for payment.

Days later, they had found their new hunt, and were simply waiting on the opportune moment to set off once more. Having been working hard for so many hours, neither had eaten, and soon the grumbling from his brother and the occasional glance was getting on Dean’s nerves. He got up, and announced his mission to the closest store he could find, despite the very late hour.

“Wait, I’ll come with you.” Sam said, getting up, heading for his jacket, but Dean shook his head.

“No Sam, last time you almost bought the entire store.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but otherwise didn’t mind, opening up his computer and typing furiously once more, and Dean opened the door, trying his best not to slam it in ill frustration, instead, closing it carefully and standing still for a moment, letting the cold hit him, and cool his burning, flushed skin.

* * *


John sighed, and stood behind his youngest son, looking over the page, and rolling his eyes at seeing the page listed clearly as ‘Influenza’. Sam wouldn’t be letting this go anytime soon.

 

“Look Dad,” Sam said, pointing to the list of symptoms before reading them out to annoy Dean. “Fever, chest dis-dis-

“Discomfort.” John corrected for him, and motioned to carry on.

“Stuffy nose, aches and pains, headaches, sneezing...”

“Extreme exhaustion.” John read out, looking over to his eldest once again who was pointedly ignoring them, but John could see the boys breathing was worsening as he tried to take in deep breaths without his family noticing, sitting awkwardly on the chair against the table as though he were indeed in pain, and the fist that didn’t hold a pen was close to the edge of the table, curled up, with his chest leaning on it...

“Sore throat, cough, tiredness, and weakness.” Sam smiled, “See, Dean has the flu!”

John patted his son’s shoulder, and Sam left the kitchen. John took up the seat opposite Dean. “There’s nothing wrong with being ill, kiddo.” Dean looked up at his father, having enough. “It’s not the flu!” He shouted as he shot up from his chair, but the sudden movement made him dizzy and before he knew what was happening he was falling to the floor, the air whooshing up past him bringing on cough after cough after cough. As he saw his son sway, John darted forward and grabbed him just as the coughs were making the boy double over.

Ragged breaths taken in-between were hidden by an intense wheezing, and John was concerned with how easily his oldest child fell into his arms. The more he coughed, the weaker he became. John smoothed his boy’s hair as he adjusted him, so that he had his back to his father, allowing John to hold on to Dean’s chest, to try and make it easier for him to breathe. When John looked up, Sam was waiting in the doorway, eyes wide and scared, but he didn’t dare say a word that would draw his father’s attention away from his older brother.

“Sam, when did he start getting ill?” John asked, aware that Sam would have noticed.

“This morning, but it wasn’t that bad.”

John nodded; no doubt one of Dean’s friends had the virus two days ago and had passed it on to his son. But Dean had gone at least a day with it festering inside of him, going untreated and that worried him especially seeing how bad it had gotten so far. The coughs receded somewhat and John put his hand on Dean’s forehead again. The boy leaned in to the touch, so cold in comparison to his burning skin.

He took his son in his arms and took him upstairs to his room. They had to try and beat this without hospitals, they just couldn’t afford the bills right now.

“Sammy, get the big bottle of water from the fridge, okay?” He said to his son as he passed and continued up the stairs. He heard the fridge door squeak as it was opened and heard the clattering of the shelf as the heavy bottle was taken out. Carefully, he balanced Dean against him for a moment, swiping the last remnants of clothes off of his son’s bed, and laying him down. Dean was awake, but it was fair to say somewhat out of it. He mumbled something under his breath, and John smiled as if he knew what indeed his son had told him now.

He took the bottle from his youngest, and filled the glass that was on Dean’s bedside table to the rim with water. He had to make sure Dean was fully hydrated, and that he got plenty of rest before he would leave him in Sam’s care, forge the prescription-the pad borrowed from another doctor-and use his many fake stories as to why he hadn’t had time to fill out the prescription while in the appropriate state. The only honesty would be in his haggard face that showed the worry there. He would get his son the antiviral medicine, knowing that any hospital trip would ask for more, insist on an IV and tests that cost money, when this medicine was cheaper than the lot. He was sure it had been less than 48 hours, the common countdown time when the antiviral should be taken to avoid the condition worsening.

He complimented Dean as he took yet another mouthful of water from the glass, his head falling back against the pillows in exhaustion. He stepped out for a moment to get a few pain killers from the bathroom cabinet, as well as soaking a flannel in freezing water. He put the compress to Dean’s head, hoping it would be enough to bring down the fever and once again cajoled the boy into sitting up, taking the pills, and drinking the much needed liquids.

* * *

“Marshmallows?” Sam cried, incredulous. “You went out for food and that’s all you’ve got!”

Dean ignored the jibe and simply slid into the chair next to the window.

“What? You like them don’t you?”

Sam groaned, ready to nag his brother to death when Dean continued.

“The place was closing up, dude, you’re lucky I got anything!” He said, tossing a pack towards Sam who caught it, still glaring at his brother. He looked at the packet for a moment, fighting the urge to grin. The packet was red, with a clear front to allow the buyer to see their purchase.

“Besides they’re not just any marshmallows, Sam.”

Dean smiled appreciatively, and his eyes seemed to light up momentarily at his brother’s slight chuckle. The things had been quite a find. Still within their long winded sell by date, and much cheaper due to them not having sold in the correct season. That being Christmas.

They were indeed, special, Sam noted. They weren’t cubes or circles, but set to look like something. The base was half a ball, with its bottom flat, while on top of the rounded side was another circle, with three black spots on its front.

Two eyes and a mouth.

Sam popped one in his mouth, chewing on the fluffy, sticky texture. Snorting once more at the tag-line at the base of the pack; ‘They melt in your mouth, not in your garden’ He would have pointed this out to his brother, but one look, and he decided not to. Dean was no longer sitting down; instead he was standing, staring out of the window, his own snowmen marshmallows unopened still on the table.

“Dean?”

For a moment, the older Winchester considered ignoring Sam. To just stare at the dark night in front of their motel, at the fading lights in the distance in reds and yellows. He couldn’t. Every time he and Sammy fought, he could never keep his word “I’m not speaking to you, Sammy.” And the younger brother, no matter how old, would laugh to himself, pointing out, to Dean’s annoyance, that he had just talked to him in default.

This was no different, and what was worse was the fact that Sam was completely in the dark, and no Christmas lights, no matter how old, It’s February for god’s sake would let him see the truth. He had put his brother through hell the past few weeks, he had been given a best before date, and as he tried to cling on to life and accept it, Sam had refused, and hell, maybe that was for the best, only, Dean knew this was some kind of twisted karma. He had cheated Death, so now Virus was out to get him. Maybe he should let Sam see he was ill. But, no. That was show far too much vulnerability on his part, not to mention stupidity.



* * *

Little Sam watched his brother carefully, having practically memorized all of the book’s tips on helping those with the virus. Having read every word, and made sure he understood perfectly, checking his brothers temperature, happy to see that it had lessened somewhat, and making sure Dean drank the water his father had left.

 

He had to go back to work, he had already taken the worst two days off, but as the flu was slowly dying down, John knew he could take off no more days. He had been prepared to apologise, feeling bad for any stern orders during any illnesses, but Dean had nodded, he had understood perfectly, and in truth, he didn’t know if Sam even noticed he was gone. He had left instructions, and made sure his youngest understood, and carried them out. He had left the boy in charge, and he had risen to the occasion magnificently.

In truth, when he did return from work, it took a lot to get Sam to leave the room, to make sure his work was done, and to rest himself. He had called up both schools, telling Dean’s of the flu and the importance was quickly understood, and explaining to Sam’s that he didn’t want to risk any more children getting infected, and so, he thought it best to keep Sam home too. Neither knew that John wouldn’t be present, and thankfully, neither suspected either. The doors were locked, and Sam could use a shot-gun should any ghouls or ghosts attack. But the salt he had doused the outside perimeter in should prevent that anyway, it was more for precaution than anything else, that he left the weapons in accessible places for his children.

Some would call it dangerous, after all, according to the labels, children couldn’t even be trusted with plastic bags, but John more than trusted his boys. Only once had he been reminded of how young his children were, when Dean was nine, and he had simply been unable to pull the trigger. He had shouted then, and regretted it later, and made sure he was more patient with Sammy.

Every morning when he set off for work, he would remind himself that Dean was getting better, and every morning he would hang the protection pendant in the doorframe outside, every morning he would whisper a prayer, and beg for his son’s protection, and every morning he would apologise to the skies for this life he’d been given.

  
* * *

He was sweating; he could feel it on his forehead, in his hair, on his hands. His stomach was cramping, and he felt weaker than usual. He put it down to the drowsiness of sleep, but when he swung his legs over the bed and de-tangled himself from the bed clothes, the dizzy spell that hit him had nothing to do with sleep. Or lack there of.

 

Maybe it was the marshmallows

An optimistic part of him thought, but the cynical, know-it-all side of Dean Winchester was far stronger.

You know it wasn’t the god-damn marshmallows, you idiot!

His head pounded viciously, banging against his temples, and gritting his teeth together didn’t seem to help. A wave of nausea rose up and he suddenly realised the need to rush to the bathroom. He pushed himself up, intending to stumble as far as possible, but his legs collapsed beneath him, his ankles giving way until he was on his knees. The sudden change from standing to sitting, or rather lying, was making his head spin.

He didn’t dare groan, or even move his lips, not looking forward to the inevitable puking that was bound to take place in the very near future. He began crawling on the rough carpet, leaving a red burn on his knees as he drug himself across the room, gritting his teeth still and keeping focused on moving as quickly as his body would allow without relieving the contents of his stomach before he was ready. He felt the relief both inside and out as he reached his destination and his knees pressed down onto the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, soothing them after the carpet burns, the tingling sensation spreading through his legs, but still not cold enough to cool his fever.

He was feverish.

This is so not good. He thought to himself as he fumbled around on the ground, unable to see anything in the darkness. He put his hands out for a moment and felt the basin of the toilet. He used it to pull himself closer and plunged his head at the hole, before the retching consumed him and he shook from the effort. The sound was horrible, and incredibly loud, so much so that it didn’t surprise him when the lights above him flicked on, the whirring of the bathroom fan erupted into life, and the bathroom was suddenly far too bright for his liking.

“Dean?” A groggy, half asleep voice called out before it was replaced by a much more concerned tone. “Dean!”

The elder ignored him, choosing instead to leave his throat hoarse as bile rose up inside of him, followed by anything he had eaten recently. He felt a hand on his back, the same hands then moving to hold his shoulders steady, as Sam knelt next to Dean and waited patiently, until the arduous process of expelling his insides was over. He groaned painfully as he fell backwards into his brother’s arms and Sam leant them both against the bathtub.

Dean shuddered involuntarily as he still had the disgusting taste in his mouth, Sam sat up carefully, trying not to jar Dean too much as he continue to shiver, as he reached for the tap, his taller frame, and less slumped position allowing him to grab the glass on the side and place it under the tap, waiting until it was almost full before bringing it back to his brother’s lips, not caring that the water still ran from the faucet.

At first Dean tried to jerk away, the thought of opening his mouth bringing up the fear that he might be sick again, and though it wasn’t a crippling terror, the kind that snaked through your veins and rooted you to the spot, it was still enough to make him tilt his head to the side.

Sam was having none of it; he gently held his brother’s face, pushing him back towards the glass, and letting out a breath when Dean finally gave in and let the cold water trickle down his burning throat. He relished in the relief for a moment, careful ensuring he didn’t gulp too quickly and choke. Leaning his brother against the wall, he moved quickly, making sure his brother’s bed was empty save for the sheets, and flicking the switch to the kettle. He then came back into the bathroom and slowly began to lift Dean off of the tiles. The oldest Winchester moaned, much preferring the cool bathroom, and for the spinning to stop, stop, stop.

Once he was semi standing, Sam wrapped an arm around his shoulders, his back bent somewhat as he pulled Dean the rest of the way, taking the majority of the weight, and practically dragged him back over to the carpeted area of their room, and carefully dropping him down onto his bed. Once he was down, Dean began to cough once more, and Sam pulled him up into a seating position and piled pillows behind him to keep him that way, the position alleviating the pressure on his chest, allowing him to breathe, even if it was coupled with wheezing.

The kettle screeched, and Sam grabbed one of the complimentary mugs, and poured the boiling water in. He put it to Dean’s mouth, assuring him that it would help the congestion in his chest, he held Dean’s head all the while, and making sure he wouldn’t choke just as he had done in the bathroom with the cold liquid. He was right, it was the flu, and he made a mental note to have a go at his brother once he was better. The last time he had had the flu he had been stuck in bed for days, and his father was constantly checking Sam over to ensure he too hadn’t caught the virus. It had been annoying to say the least, and he didn’t like Dean’s friends turning up in the days where he was bedridden, some with work, others with simple well-wishes, all of them making Sam jealous. Though he had his own friends, he still prided himself on being Dean’s best friend, and seeing others worry about him, for the first time in his life, made him worry.

Four days, Dean had been ordered to stay in bed.

Four days, Sam stayed home from school and helped take care of Dean.

Three days went by, before Dean even got out of bed without help.

Two days his father had stayed home from work before knowing they couldn’t afford any longer.

One whole day, a Friday, Dean had been feeling much better, and strong enough to sit up with his brother and talk and Sam had relished every second, even happier when his father had brought home vanilla ice cream to help with Dean’s sore throat, and a reward to Sam for being such a good brother. No matter how little.

The choke and gargle brought Sam back to the present as he took the glass away and grabbed the cold compress he had prepared. Just like last time he would take care of his brother.

“Why didn’t you just say you were ill?”

“And miss all of this?” He croaked out, swallowing a cough. He caught Sam’s worry in the eyes and groaned. “I’m fine, Sammy, quit worrying. I’ll be up and about in no time.” He took another breath, enough to finish. “And then we can head out to Arizona.”

But instead of Sam continuing the argument that they could no doubt drag on for days, he shook his head.

“No, no hunting until you’re better.” He said sternly, and Dean’s face was the epitome of “What the hell?”

“I mean it.” It was hard to keep his own amusement at bay at playing the parent in their twisted relationship. “Look, the sooner you get to sleep, the sooner you can get better.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but Sam knew he had won, or rather, exhaustion had, when his brother complied and leaned further into the pillows, his eyes drooping. Sam watched him for a while, ready at hand should another coughing fit, or need to puke come over his brother.

But it didn’t, and Dean slept soundly, save for the occasional wheeze. The younger Winchester let his thoughts mull over the last time this had happened, and he knew, sadly enough, that they were far too old to get given ice cream for all that they had done. And been through. Hell, if he was honest, that was probably the last taste of normalcy they had really had before his own teenage years had brought with it the hatred of his life, and father, and John immersed himself ever more so into the hunt, dragging Dean down with him. He lay down on the bed, letting his own slumber have its way. He remembered how scared he had been left in charge, though his tasks were simple, it meant so much more that he was trusted to do them. Make sure he drinks plenty of water, try and get him to eat a little bit all the time. Be nice. Take care of him.

And he remembered that Friday, when Dean had been sitting downstairs, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders, and a red nose still present, but otherwise much better. He remembered watching cartoons on the small television. He remembered his own timid voice asking if he had accomplished all that had been asked of him. And as he drifted off to sleep indefinitely, he remembered his father’s words clear as day.

“You did good, kiddo.” He said ruffling the boy’s hair. “You did real good.”

- Fin

What did you think? Please comment :)

Comments

[sacrilicious.livejournal.com]

Awwww. I just adored this. I love it when we get to see Sam take care of Dean for once.

[mellaithwen]

Plus Dean angst is always a good thing :D