And to Both a Good Night (Supernatural, Sam)

[sierraplaid]

Title: And to Both a Good Night

Fandom: Supernatural

Characters: Sam, Dean (gen)

Summary: Sam’s sick for Christmas. The boys have a hunter’s holiday, but a better day after.

Time frame: Bunker era

Warnings: shmoop

AN: So I waaay overshot Christmas, but maybe better late than never?

And to Both a Good Night

The Impala turns down a neighborhood street aglow with Christmas cheer. From one end of the long block to the other every tree, roofline, and fencepost in sight is tastefully festive, decked in a thousand points of colorful light that glisten and reflect on rain-slicked manicured lawns and sloping flagstone driveways. It’s late, past bedtime, and good people have long since turned in to their safe, warm beds, pleasantly worn out with celebrating, smelling faintly of wood smoke.

The street spits out behind the houses into a pitch black open field, curves to track along a rivulet swollen and overflowing with the December rains, flooding the road in places with an inch of muddy water. It’s not long before the Impala noses through an ancient stand of dripping cypress and under the wrought-iron arch of the cemetery gate.

The heap of grave dirt piles steadily higher. Sam stands nearby shivering and sniffling with hands crammed into his pockets and flashlight braced under his arm. Dean’s one foot down, two, three feet deep, hot breath steaming out in front of him. When Sam offers to spell him Dean steps out of the grave, massaging stiff wrists through his gloves, and in the beam of the flashlight Sam digs them down another eighteen inches, the shovel growing heavier as the storm picks up and the dirt turns to mud, rain streaming off his bent shoulders and trickling icily down the nape of his neck. He sneezes, planting the shovel into the earth and pausing to wipe his wet nose on his wet jacket. Twenty inches, twenty-four. Dean tags back in and the sky starts to pour.

Soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, Sam and Dean stand back from the flames licking up from the grave and watch as they blaze, then gutter, then flicker out. A few minutes of numb-fingered backfilling, a short, squelchy hike to the car, and then Dean’s delivering the ultimatum that nobody gets in until they’ve changed their full set of clothes. Boots, socks—off. Jackets, jeans, shirts—they peel out of wet everything, hurry into dry everything, climb in the car, and then they’re splashing through potholes, winding out through the slumbering neighborhood, pulling onto the empty interstate, and speeding bunker-bound.

The heater blasts and the windows fog. Dean stifles a yawn and Sam’s head starts to droop. So Christmas draws to a close, as many have before, with Dean driving into the night and a sick little brother sleeping shotgun.

***

Sam’s recovering the next day in the war room with a dose of prescription whiskey and a book, the bunker temporarily his own after Dean jangled his keys at Sam on his way out the door. Dean’s been coming and going all day, keeping tabs in between taking the Impala to run errands and puttering around the bunker sorting out odd chores—replacing burned-out bulbs in the hallways, energetically vacuuming circles around an irritated little brother who is trying to read, making order out of chaos in the kitchen. Sam was sick before last night’s hunt and he fully expected he’d wake up this morning worse from the exposure and exertion. But he wasn’t expecting to feel this much worse.

“h-h-h-hRXUSHoo, hh… huh-IXCHSHhoo!”

It’s the fever, mainly. The sore throat and the sneezing are the same as before, the congestion is just as bad, but the fever’s new and feels like it might be pretty high and it came on fast. He can tell it’s messing with him, making him short-tempered and impatient, but he’s caught in this vicious feedback loop where he’s too grouchy to care that he’s being grouchy. Already today he’s snarled at the shower that begrudgingly yielded no more than tepid water, the provokingly idiosyncratic coffee maker, and his goddamn nosy brother who had the nerve to ask how he was feeling. Sam hasn’t let him get within ten feet all day without yelling at him to back off, so the fever will be a nice belated Christmas surprise for Dean when he finally finds out about it. For now, as far as he knows, Sam’s just being a monster pain in the ass over a trifling head cold.

“huhXCHSHhh, …huhEHRXSHoo!”

Sam sighs stuffily and massages the bridge of his nose. All of him feels awful, overheated and weak, and all he wants is to say the hell with dignity and give up and go back to bed, whiskey and tissue box in tow, to hibernate until this blows over. It’s not like there’s a case. No reason to be awake, really. He’s beginning to forget why it ever seemed like a good idea to get up this morning in the first place.

He has just glumly admitted to himself that, far from being trifling, this is definitely the flu when Dean bursts through the bunker door and clatters halfway down the stairs before coming up short and calling out over the railing.

“Hey, useless, come help me unload the car.”

Sam looks up wearing the aggrieved expression of a really sick person who’s recently been forced to stand for an hour drenched in freezing rain and who doesn’t expect anything to be asked of him for quite some time.

“I don’t have shoes on.”

“That’s okay, I can wait for you to go get ‘em.”

Dean rests an arm coolly on the railing and smiles down at his brother with cat-like placidity.

That isn’t at all the response Sam was angling for so it’s with considerable and visible annoyance that he snaps, “Okay, fine,” and goes to get his shoes.

***

Dean is leaning back against the hood of the car when Sam finally stomps out into the bright, clear, cold afternoon, squinting and looking rumpled with a jacket thrown on over his old sweatshirt. Sam greets him with an accusatory sneeze.

“All right, I’m here. What di—hehKXSHhoo! what did you want?”

“Nothing really, just your sunny disposition to keep me company.”

Sam tries to vanquish his brother with a glare, ends up shivering violently instead. “Let’s just unload the damn car.”

Dean doesn’t make any move to do so, just gives Sam a disarming smile and says, “Sorry about last night.”

“What?”

Dean shrugs a shoulder. “Not a whole lot of ‘comfort and joy’ in being naked in the rain in a graveyard in the middle of the night. Pretty sure that’s a new Christmas low for us—not that the bar wasn’t already pretty far down there—and I’m not even sick. Can’t exactly have been a good time for you.”

Sam doesn’t have a retort, just stands there sniffling, looking pale, slightly mollified by Dean’s unlooked-for apology.

“Yeah, well,” he says. “Needed doing.”

Dean tosses him the keys. “I’ll unload the car, you grab what’s in the trunk. You up for it?”

Sam nods, even as his breath starts to hitch. “hh. heh-khXHSHhoo! What’d you get?”

“Groceries, tissues, rock salt, aspirin.”

“EXSHHoo! h-h-…heh-XSHHoo!”

“Did I already say tissues?”

Sniffling, Sam unlocks and lifts the trunk and then stops abruptly, staring in surprise at what’s wedged inside.

“Hey, did you, uh, did you buy a Christmas tree?”

“Course not. Why would you ask that?”

“Well, there is a Christmas tree in the trunk, so….”

Dean’s pulling plastic bag after plastic bag out of the back seat and piling them on the ground. “Even if we weren’t about to max out our last credit card, you think I’d spend hard-earned money on a dead plant when they’re being put out on curbs all over town?”

Sam snuffles to try to hold off another sneeze. “They thr—…hnUHXSHHoo! they threw it out with the string of lights still on it? And the st-hah... huhXCHSHhh! the stand still attached?”

“I know, right? Suburbanites: the world is their landfill.”

Sam hauls the tree upright with a grating scrape of branches against the metal roof of the trunk.

“Scratch the paint job and you’re a dead man, Sam.”

Sam pulls it the rest of the way out of the car and sets it at his feet. It’s a fresh Noble fir, stick-straight, and comes up to about the middle of his chest.

“I can’t believe you stole somebody’s tree.”

“Like I said, I d—”

“hehKHXHSHhoo!”

“I didn’t steal it,” Dean insists. “If you’d stop sneezing for two seconds I can explain. This really old guy was lugging it out to his trash can, lights and all, so I stopped to give him a hand. Told him I had a sick kid brother at home who had a crappy Christmas—think Tiny Tim but way less cheery—and he let me have it. I think he probably thought you were twelve, but whatever. Not bad, huh?”

Sam isn’t sure how he feels about this, but something about being outside in the fresh air is improving his mood without him wanting it to. His brother looks happy and hale and snug with his jacket zipped to his neck, arms folded, relaxed, and Sam stops shivering just looking at him and wonders if maybe this warmth spreading through him could be the Christmas spirit. One day late, but who the hell cares? Or maybe it’s just the fever. He’s supposed to be sick and miffed, but he can’t help feeling less and less miffed. And also more and more sick.

It must show on his face because Dean’s gaze sharpens and he uncrosses his arms. Taking a step toward Sam, he lays a practiced palm on his forehead and Sam submits tamely, hands curled limp in his jacket pockets.

Dean lets his hand drop to Sam’s shoulder and says, “Well, I probably should’ve realized that a lot sooner.”

“I… probably should’ve told you a lot sooner.”

“Yeah, just telling me is always an option. All right, inside.”

“I’m okay.”

“I know. Grab the tree.”

***

Sam’s sitting in the library with his shoes kicked off, sleepily eating reheated cure-all kitchen sink stew while Dean tests the tree out in various spots around him.

“We need a decision, Sam. Where do you want it?”

“I don’t care. Wherever you want it.”

“Somewhere near a socket….”

Sam coughs a little before saying, “Just put it anywhere.”

Dean unplugs a lamp on the center table and scoots it aside, positions the tree, and plugs in the strand of lights. They don’t turn on.

“Oh, come on, are you kidding me? Well, that explains why gramps was throwing out the tree with the lights still on it. What a rip off.”

“Dean, it was free.”

“The old scrooge could’ve mentioned he was pawning off damaged goods.”

“Well, the stand works.”

“Yeah. Merry Christmas, here, have a Christmas tree stand.”

Dean circles the table and sits opposite Sam, looks up at the tree, appraising.

“It’s still not too bad, right? Even with no lights.”

“Mmhmm. Thanks for stealing it for us.”

“Shut up, I didn’t steal it.”

A playful smile darts across Sam’s face, and then he adds more earnestly, “Sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

“Nah. Slide me that bottle of whiskey and don’t give me the flu and we’ll call it even.”

Sam’s eyes lose focus and he turns and buries his face in his elbow.

“hRXSHHh!”

“Although you’re probably more likely to do one than the other,” Dean says, unperturbed, and reaches for the bottle himself across the table as Sam pitches forward again.

“hhEXCHSHoo!”

“Did you take something for the fever? Besides whiskey?”

“Took aspirin earlier,” Sam says, stuffy and a little short of breath. “Was just gonna s—huh..h-IXCHSHhoo! sleep it off…. hXCHSHhh!”

“Yeah, it’s definitely past your bedtime.”

Dean knocks back a glass, then gets to his feet, socking Sam gently on the shoulder on his way to the kitchen.

“Come on, Sam, before you keel over.”

“hrUHRXSHHoo! Urghh, yeah. I’m going.”

So Sam yawns and shuffles off to his bedroom and Dean comes by in a little while with something sissy and decaf and steaming. Sam lets him hang around while he drinks it. By now Dean figures Sam’s all tired and compliant but when he fishes a thermometer from his back pocket Sam disappears into his pillow and tells Dean in a good-natured but muffled tone not to push his luck. He puts up with having an extra blanket spread over him, though, and with the brisk rub on the back Dean gives him as he switches off his bedside lamp.

***

While Sam sleeps Dean tinkers with the strand of lights, peering at fuses, twisting off a few bulbs. He unearths a multimeter in an old junk drawer he didn’t know they had.

***

In a few hours Sam wakes up feeling just utterly terrible, aching all over with the fever creeping up. He’s thirsty and hot and forgets there’s water sitting right there on his dresser as he coughs and drags himself out of bed. Dazed and not thinking clearly, he gets his legs under him and starts out unsteadily down the hallway in search of his brother.

When he finds him Dean is in the darkened library with his ankles crossed on the table, coffee near at hand, reading by the warm white glow of the Christmas tree.

***

End

[Pyrus_Fangmon]

Dammit Dean! You and making Sam happy even with a snoopy tree!

Gaaaaahhhhhhhh! Beautiful!

[sierraplaid]

Dammit Dean! You and making Sam happy even with a snoopy tree!

Gaaaaahhhhhhhh! Beautiful!

Thanks for tolerating my h/c Christmas shmoop! Sam definitely needed a little holiday cheering up.

[Anilkex]

Shit, I didn't comment on this. I read it immediately, on my phone, which is a terrible platform for comments.

*ahem*

It must show on his face because Dean’s gaze sharpens and he uncrosses his arms. Taking a step toward Sam, he lays a practiced palm on his forehead and Sam submits tamely, hands curled limp in his jacket pockets.

Dean lets his hand drop to Sam’s shoulder and says, “Well, I probably should’ve realized that a lot sooner.”

“I… probably should’ve told you a lot sooner.”

“Yeah, just telling me is always an option. All right, inside.”

“I’m okay.”

“I know. Grab the tree.”

Hands down, this was my favorite part of the fic.

I also liked how Dean is concerned, but not hovering. He lets Sam be an adult with a cold, understanding it isn't life-threatening, he can still function, but yeah, he needs to go to bed and get some rest.

Perfect Christmas story!

[ID2006]

Yay, sick Sammy and caring and crafty Dean.

[sierraplaid]

Shit, I didn't comment on this. I read it immediately, on my phone, which is a terrible platform for comments.

*ahem*

It must show on his face because Dean’s gaze sharpens and he uncrosses his arms. Taking a step toward Sam, he lays a practiced palm on his forehead and Sam submits tamely, hands curled limp in his jacket pockets.

Dean lets his hand drop to Sam’s shoulder and says, “Well, I probably should’ve realized that a lot sooner.”

“I… probably should’ve told you a lot sooner.”

“Yeah, just telling me is always an option. All right, inside.”

“I’m okay.”

“I know. Grab the tree.”

Hands down, this was my favorite part of the fic.

I also liked how Dean is concerned, but not hovering. He lets Sam be an adult with a cold, understanding it isn't life-threatening, he can still function, but yeah, he needs to go to bed and get some rest.

Perfect Christmas story!

I tend to take forever to comment on stories, so nooo worries! I'm just happy you read it right away. Concerned-but-not-hovering is my go-to Dean for these. I'm a little worried it'll get boring and repetitive, but I'm so glad you liked it here!

Yay, sick Sammy and caring and crafty Dean.

/nods Yes, the dynamic duo. Thanks for reading!

[27jj]

Well this is DELIGHTFUL

[HPG]

I love the way you spell your sneezes.

[sierraplaid]

On 2/3/2016 at 6:12 PM, 27jj said:

Well this is DELIGHTFUL

 Thanks!!

 

On 2/6/2016 at 0:37 PM, HarryPotterGeek said:

I love the way you spell your sneezes.

Thank you!  They're ever-evolving, I find!