Timing's Everything (SPN fic)

[Sawyer]

Following Anilkex's trend of going through LJ and finding things that I never realized that I forgot to crosspost here... so have something from TG's meme that I wrote back in April!

Filled for the prompt: "So drunk people are more honest, yes? What about people who are already loopy on cold meds who then get drunk at a college party and begin to text a certain older brother how shitty they feel. bonus points if Sam wakes up with Dean sleeping next to him or if Dean is already in the area to check on him and pulls him out of the party to take care of him even though there are drunk/ horny girls coming out of the woodwork."

-

-

“Here, I want you to take some of this; it should help a little. Nobody’s going to talk to you if you sound like you’ve got the plague.”

“You’re so compassionate. My own Florence Nightingale.”

“That’s right!” Jess grins as she pours a dose of the syrup into a small plastic cup. She offers Sam a smile as she hands over the medicine, wincing when he holds up a finger and turns away to cough. “Seriously, you still sound terrible. Are you sure you’re okay to go out?”

Sam nods his head yes and knocks back the medicine like a shot. “I barely have a fever,” he reports, “and I don’t have a headache right now. It’s mostly just…” he furrows his eyebrows, clears his throat. “Uh. Just congestion, I think.”

Jess doesn’t look any less concerned, but she still reaches for her coat. “I wish I didn’t have to work,” she says, grabbing hold of Sam’s forearm and squeezing. “I’ll come over and take care of you right after my shift, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Sam tells her, but he’s smiling. No, she doesn't have to, but they both know that she will.

“Don’t you start!” Jess reprimands. She barely has to crane her neck when she kisses him on the cheek. Quickly, comfortingly, she runs her fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. “I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”

-

The party is definitely, definitely louder than Sam thought it was going to be. It’s some sort of house show being hosted close to campus, and he wouldn’t have gone if more than half of his friends hadn’t been urging him, advocating for the talent of the closing band. It’s crowded inside, dozens of college students standing shoulder to shoulder, and Sam’s awkwardly towering over all of them.

“Hey, you made it!” Apparently Mike sees Sam before Sam sees him, because Sam’s being clapped on the shoulder and turned around to face his friend. Mike's got a drink in each hand, one of which he’s handing over to Sam before he can decline. “How you doin’, man?”

Sam grins, accepting the red solo cup. “Not too bad,” he answers easily, having to project his voice to be heard over the loud music. “What’s in this?” He’d sniff the drink to find out, but knows that on this occasion it wouldn’t do any good. He hasn’t been able to smell anything for days.

Mike tightens his grip on Sam’s shoulder and leans in close. “Portuguese moonshine, dude. It’s safe, I’ve already had some. Just try it.”

Sam does. It’s strong and it burns, and he guesses that his discomfort must be showing in his expression when Mike huffs out a laugh.

“You’ll start feelin’ it in a second,” he warns. “Follow me. The rest of the group’s just down this way.”

He sips at the drink as Mike leads him down the hall to what Sam assumes is the living room, although it’s poorly lit and the couches look like they’re falling apart. There are a couple of amps and a microphone set up in the corner for when the bands start playing, and a couple people are standing around a plastic table covered in bottles of liquor, helping themselves to the assortment.

“Sam Winchester!” calls one of them, abandoning her drink to go and greet him. He’s seen her around but he vaguely remembers her, not sure if they’ve ever said more than a couple words to each other.

“I’m Lauren. I think you’re in my psych lecture,” she tells him, and her delicate voice sounds shrill over the blaring music. “Sorry it’s so loud! Makes it really hard to talk. Can I make you a drink?”

Sam has to lean down so that he can hear her better, and maybe he moves too quickly because out of nowhere he’s starting to feel lightheaded. “I’m okay,” he says anyway, raising the cup that Mike had just given him.

“What is it?” Lauren asks, standing on her toes to peer into the glass. “Oh my god, ew, is that the moonshine? You don’t have to drink that. Seriously, it’s so bad. Let me get you something else.”

Sam blinks as she takes the cup from him (it’s fine, he was almost finished with it anyway) and trails behind her over to the table, greeting the rest of his friends on the way there. The loud music combined with the pressure in his sinuses has already given him a headache, and he doesn’t suspect that it’ll ease up any time soon.

“Here! Try this instead.” Lauren hands him a new red cup, this time full of something fizzy. He can’t taste it when he takes a sip, but he can feel a sort of hollow sweetness right before the warmth of the alcohol hits him.

-

A few beers and a full set list later and Band Number One is starting to pack up so that the second act can go on. Sam can’t tell if he liked them or not. The music was a lot different from what he had grown up listening to.

He’s leaning against the wall in a daze when someone says, “Aww, Sam! Do your cheeks always get this red when you drink?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Sam says without thinking, and it feels like the words are just spilling out of him. “Probably just. Probably just a fever.”

Suddenly they’re all looking at him and he feels crowded. Oh, god. Why did he say that? He’d been doing fine so far, coughing inconspicuously while everyone was focused on the music, retreating to the bathroom to blow his nose.

“Hey, man, maybe you should sit down.”

One of his friends is shepherding him over to the couch, asking if he’s okay.

“I’m fine I’m fine I’m just. I’m okay.” Sam sinks back into the couch, and it’s weird because he doesn’t even feel Fully Drunk. Sure, the loose words and dizziness make sense, but he’s also uncomfortably sleepy and stimulated at the same time. His head’s heavy but his body’s light, and everything looks like it’s all blended together. “Hey, man,” he calls. “You’re a… good friend, man. Sorry. Thanks. Thanks, man.”

“Oh, dude,” his buddy laughs, and Sam admires his joy. “You are wasted. Just chill out over here for a little while, okay?”

Sam nods and then grimaces because his head’s actually killing him. There’s this Magic Pill that Dean used to always give him during particularly bad migraines, but Sam never got the name.

He blinks at his phone, confused because it’s right there in his open palm even though he doesn’t remember pulling it out of his pocket. Must be a sign.

Compose New Message.

Dean

Doing great, Winchester. That’s four letters. Way more than enough. Dean will know what he wants.

Sam hits the send key.

Not a lot of time passes – probably not even a full minute – before Dean texts back: What’s up college boy?

Sam types, Dude i have such a cough what do I

He squints, fumbling with the buttons. Why are they so small? It feels like he’s using a child’s phone.

Shit, did he just press send? Did he forget to mention the headache? What did that message say again?

He doesn’t have to bother navigating his phone’s complicated interface to find out because Dean responds quickly.

generic Robitussin. You okay?

Sober Sam would have told Dean that he’s fine. Actually, Sober Sam wouldn’t have texted Dean in the first place, wouldn’t worry him just because of a stupid cold. But Sam isn’t sober, so instead he types: Im a fever

And in a follow-up text: Just come here you would like it there are a lot of girls at least 10

Dean won’t be able to resist. He’s got this one in the bag.

You sick Sammy? Where are you?

Sam can’t be bothered to recall the address. The music house just come

Dean replies, Kid can you get me an address?

Ye, Sam texts back, the one with cars in front dean my heads killin me

Suddenly, Sam remembers. Dean’s probably halfway across the country at the closest. Probably on a hunt with Dad, probably saving people with no time for—

Hang tight, okay? I’m on my way

-

Leave it to Sammy Lightweight Winchester to get totally hammered when he’s already down for the count. If Dean knows his brother – and he does, like the back of his fucking hand or whatever – he’ll bet that the kid’ll be knocked out cold in less than a couple hours.

And hopefully sleep off both the virus and the hangover, but hey, when has either of them they ever been that lucky?

As luck would have it, actually, Dean was planning to check up on Sam anyway and was only 20 miles east of Stanford when he’d gotten his little brother’s message. Hey, if Sam had to pick a time to be sick at a house party, at least it happened to be tonight.

The house doesn’t turn out to be hard to find – Sam’s “cars in front” detail had actually proven helpful with the addition of a blaring pop punk baseline. Gross. No wonder Sam has a headache.

He barrels through the crowd of high-achieving twentysomethings in search of his kid, scanning room after room and purposefully (damn it) avoiding the gazes of intoxicated college girls.

“Hey, have you seen a guy about yay-high?” Dean finally asks one of them, holding his hand a couple inches above his head for reference. “Long brown hair, rosy cheeks?”

The girl shakes her head at first, straight blonde hair swishing around her face as she does so. Damn, if Sam wasn’t sick then Dean would just love to—

“Oh! Oh my god, yeah, actually, I think so!” she interrupts, her face lighting up with the realization. “Go down the hall to the living room, just follow the music! I think I saw him on the couch a little while ago. Not sure if he’s still there though!”

“Thanks,” Dean grins, looking her up and down once more before he turns to leave. Christ, this party is loud, and he could swear that it actually feels humid from the high concentration of sweat in the air.

And is that cigarette smoke? God. He needs to get Sammy out of here pronto. This place would be murder on his lungs if he were healthy, and Dean doesn’t want to imagine the consequences of it at this stage.

Finally! At least he’d had the decency not to move from the couch, and Dean recognizes his brother’s drunk-posture, all sprawled and sinking into the furniture.

Dean weaves his way past the group of people blocking the liquor table and into Sam’s circle, patting his brother on the shoulder once he gets there. “Hey.”

Sam makes direct eye contact and at first his expression is purely confused. Fever delirium, Dean assumes, but then Sam’s entire face lights up, bright eyes and all.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, and shit, he sounds horrible, all wheezy and croaky and congested. Classic Sam. “What are you doing here?”

Dean gestures to the phone in Sam’s hand. “You texted me, remember?”

“I don’t…” Sam begins, but then nods solemnly. “Oh I did. Yeah, uh. Uh, sorry.”

He’s so out of it, Dean can tell, but Sam isn’t going to respond to being bossed around. “You wanna get out of here?” he prompts. “The music sucks, man.”

“Knew you were gonna say that,” Sam mumbles. He struggles trying to stand up and Dean’s about to help him when he manages to get to his feet. “Okay,” Sam says. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Dean watches Sam say goodbye to his friends and waves offhandedly (“nice to meet you”, et cetera) when Sam stumbles over his words trying to introduce him. Yeah, maybe another time.

He walks behind his brother, ready to catch him if he trips, but surprisingly Sam does okay during the walk to the car. He pauses to cough a couple times, apparently unable to do so while he’s in motion, and Dean can hear the rumble in Sam's chest even over the house’s obnoxious speakers.

“You take anything for that?” he asks as they walk to the car.

“Uhh. Some NyQuil…” Sam says, sounding confused and unsure and a little sheepish. He stops to cough again as he opens the car door and slides inside.

“Doesn’t sound like it’s working,” Dean comments. “I picked up some meds on the way here, but I think you’re gonna have to wait to take them. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to mix alcohol with cold medicine? How much did you drink, anyway?”

“A few,” Sam answers vaguely. “Stuff from my friends, I dunno.”

And Dean really wants to let him have it, lecture him on how dangerous it is to just go around accepting drink after drink at a party that big, but he doubts that Sam would even remember, so Dean doesn’t waste his breath.

The drive back to Sam’s apartment is just slightly under four minutes long, and as Dean parks on the street, Sam says, “Hey. Hey! How do you know where I live? Dean?”

He’s speaking loudly, but the words sound mumbled and his stuffy nose makes him even harder to understand.

“Lucky guess,” Dean grunts. He steps out of the car and walks over to the passenger side, sliding Sam’s arm around his own shoulder so that he can support him during the walk upstairs. Why a second floor apartment, huh, Sammy?

It’s a tiny place, barely furnished and with just one bedroom and a shower that never seems to have enough hot water (a detail that Sam had spilled to him last time they talked, two months one week and four days ago).

“Why don’t you get into bed, okay kiddo?” Dean suggests. He doesn’t like the way Sam sways after unlocking the door, and he’s uncomfortable not being able to completely decipher drunken symptoms from feverish symptoms – they’re similar, both leaving Sam out of his mind and disoriented.

“I’m an adult,” Sam corrects, sounding so matter-of-fact and ironically childlike, but he walks through the doorway into his bedroom anyhow. “Got my own… apartment…”

“Yep,” Dean agrees, setting down a plastic grocery bag of medications on Sam’s nightstand. “You’re a regular Average Joe, just like you’ve always wanted.”

Sam doesn’t waste time changing his clothes and is already burrowed underneath his sheets and comforter, staring at Dean with wide eyes. “Regular Average…” he drawls breathily. “Still miss you, Dean. Dad too.”

Well god damn if that didn’t just break Dean’s heart. He definitely hadn’t come into California prepared for this, which, looking back was pretty unwise given Sam's tendency to pull conversations in an emotional direction like a freaking girl.

“It’s okay, Sammy.” He gives his brother’s shoulder a firm squeeze and pulls a bottle of Gatorade out of the bag. “Hey, take a couple sips of this stuff for me, all right?”

Sam blinks hard. “Medicine?”

“Nah, think we’ll give your liver a break for a little while. Just Gatorade for now.” Dean unscrews the cap and gingerly wraps Sam’s fingers around the bottle.

He peeks through the doorway while Sam is drinking, trying to gauge whether his couch will be adequate to crash on tonight. It’s definitely used, probably thrifted, with several tears that have exposed the white fluffy stuffing inside. He’s definitely had to deal with worse.

“Okay,” Sam says finally as he sets the now half-empty bottle down on his nightstand with purpose. He gestures to the unoccupied side of his bed. “Come. Come on.”

“It’s cool, man, I can just crash on the couch—”

“No, no no no it’s cool.” Drunk Sam always does this, yanks a word or two from Dean's speech and places it into his own responses. He slides back down in his bed, closes his eyes. “It’s cool. It’s so cool. Dean would you just.”

So Dean does. And the bed’s a little too small and his brother’s a little too warm, but for now? They’ll sleep.

[Bobsuperawesome]

Awwwww!!! Omigosh, so cuuuuute!!!!!

[kendisima]

Too adorable. That little "would you just" at the end made me so happy love this one, thanks for posting it!

[Shark-hunter]

Awwwww !! This is so adorable... drunk sammy is so freaking cute !!

[AngelEyes]

Love it!

[Pyrus_Fangmon]

Oh lawdy. Drunken Sam mixed with sickness? A caring Dean? This is too much.

The characters are spot on, and Sam's drunken words are just adorable.