Red Rock Fever (Supernatural, Sam) (COMPLETE)

[sierraplaid]

Title: Red Rock Fever
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean, John (gen)
Summary: Sam is really sick. Dean is really stressed. John is being John.
Time frame: Set a couple of weeks after John and the boys part ways at the end of Shadow.
Warnings: None
AN: Minor spoiler -- dialogue credit:

Spoiler

The line, "Last time we saw him, he said it was too dangerous to be together, and now out of the blue he needs our help" is borrowed from 1x20.

AN2: I finally finished the WIP after, what, two years? Sheesh.

Red Rock Fever

They didn’t pick the time and they didn’t pick the place, and yet here they are, in midafternoon in late July in the desert on Interstate 40, driving along on this ribbon of crumbling asphalt like a couple of idiots who don’t know any better. The cloudless sky is a supersaturated blue, dazzling and raw, blazoned with a motionless sun, and below it a sere, dull dustscape lies stricken and brown in the oppressive heat.

It’s too hot for music.

Too hot for silence.

The road a mile ahead shimmers in and out of existence.

The going is maddeningly slow—dragging and sweltering and sticky and endless. The Impala is a sturdy mass of scorching metal and sunbaked leather, an oven on wheels, and God love her, but she’s starting to fuss. Dean eyes the temperature gauge with growing unease and strokes the inside of the steering wheel with his thumb in an absent, worried gesture. He’s long since stripped down to a battered black t-shirt and beside him Sam’s sweating through a faded gray long-sleeve with the cuffs rammed up past his elbows.

Two one-gallon jugs of sloshing lukewarm water share the space between them on the seat.

A bone-dry wind lashes fitfully through the few inches of open window.

In his periphery Dean sees Sam try to suppress a shiver. Despite the heat Sam tugs his sleeves down and grips them tight, crossing his arms, hands tucked in. No sooner is he huddled in on himself than he unfolds again and smothers a wrenching sneeze in his elbow. Dean looks over, the question he’s been asking all week this time left unspoken, and Sam gives him a quick, grim glance in response. That’s enough for Dean to know the score. Sam snuffles wearily and then succumbs to a volley of deep, raking coughs. As the coughing subsides he curls up again with another shudder, fists balled under his arms, and slides down to rest his head on the back of the seat. His eyes are closed, his face flushed, shirt tacky with sweat.

Then he says softly, “This is bad.”

For a second Dean’s head spins with an adrenaline rush and he feels like he’s burning all over.

“I know.”

***

The coordinates from Dad pointed to Winslow, Arizona, and his next text just said: “Hurry.”

It was the first they’d heard from John since the run-in with daevas had cut their reunion short two weeks ago, since Dean had forced himself to admit John was stronger without them around, since John hadn’t disagreed. Now the single word from him replays itself in Dean’s head, in John’s voice, again and again, thudding like a heartbeat. He’s pushing the car as fast as he dares in this heat.

Dean was all for him and Sam shagging ass out of Barstow where they’d been for the past ten days, but this wasn’t the way they pictured it. They were supposed to be recovering from the last hunt, sleeping it off, waiting for the heat of the day to pass. Come dusk, the plan was to high-tail it west, rinse off the desert grit in the chilly, moonlit Pacific. Instead, at 11:00 a.m. when Dean startled into consciousness at the urgent buzzing of his phone, he found himself reluctantly shaking Sam awake, too, handing him into the car, and beating a dusty trail due east, deeper into the desert.

Sam was supposed to be sleeping off more than just the hunt. What started out as an inconvenient summer cold about a week ago was quickly tail-spinning into full-on flu, and since they bailed out of the motel Sam’s temperature has been keeping pace with the climbing desert heat, digit by rising digit. In the car it’s too hot to sleep, too hot to be awake. Too damn hot for a fever.

Dean hooks Sam’s water jug by the handle and knocks it into his arm.

“Hey,” he says, and Sam’s eyes flicker open.

Sam sits up a little, slowly, and takes the water from Dean. He swallows a few swigs before twisting the cap back on and setting the jug by his side, then turns away and coughs hard into the crook of his arm.

Reflexively Dean grips the steering wheel tighter.

“Hang in there, Sam.”

“I am,” Sam says, pulling a tissue from the box beside him and folding it over his nose.

He’s obviously miserably sick, fading fast after running on fumes for days now. But he is hanging in there, as long as he can, getting by on aspirin and warm water, pacing himself in case later tonight he has to go salt and burn some bones or hack his way through a vampire nest or plug a shapeshifter or whatever the hell it is they’re supposed to be doing.

Sam shoves his sleeves back up, clears his throat. There’s an uneasy pause before he ventures to say what they’ve both been mulling over since Barstow.

“You think Dad’s gonna be there?”

Dean grits his teeth. On top of the likelihood that both his car and his brother are headed for a breakdown, Dad’s phone has rung to voicemail seven times so far today.

“There’s just no way this ends well,” Dean says. “You get that, right? Say Dad is there and it’s bad enough he needs two-man back-up….”

“I know,” Sam interrupts. “Last time we saw him, he said it was too dangerous to be together, and now out of the blue he needs our help? Dean, he wouldn’t call us for back-up, not unless he really needed it.”

“And he’s gonna find his two-man back-up team one man short,” Dean says. “Or he’s throwing us a job, like at Blackwater Ridge or Rockford or Burkitsville, and I handle this solo while trying to keep you from burning up back at the motel room.”

Sam doesn’t offer a third option where he feels up to working a job with Dean and doesn’t in fact burn up back at the motel room, and in the heavy silence that follows it dawns on Dean that Sam feels worse than he’s letting on.

“Just promise me something,” Dean says over the rush of blood suddenly coursing in his ears. “If Dad is there, no shouting matches, all right?”

Sam gives him a wan smile.

“I don’t have the energy for this conversation. You think I’d have enough to argue with Dad?”

“I think you’d find some,” Dean says with a cynicism that experience has taught him isn’t misplaced, but Sam looks a little wounded and Dean is instantly contrite.

“Here,” he says, snagging Sam’s water again and offering it as an olive branch.

Sam holds it in his lap like it weighs too much for him to lift.

Dean looks away and for some reason thinks it’ll calm him down about his brother to distract himself by checking the car’s temperature gauge again, and after that bright idea backfires predictably, right then and there he decides it’ll be a miracle if they can all keep it together until they get to Winslow.

“Damn it,” he mutters, and that fairly sums it up.

There’s silence again, but takes the shape of the last unasked, unanswered question, until finally Sam turns to Dean.

“You think it’s the demon?”

Dean doesn’t know what he thinks. Yes. No. Could be. His brain is parboiled from the heat and set to medium simmer in adrenaline—Sam, Baby, hurry, Dad—and clearly he’s starting to lose it because he can’t stop fantasizing about how much he wants to be back in Barstow, of all places. What does he think?

Or, what should he say? Sam’s still looking at him with those frank, fevered eyes and Dean knows he should say whatever will make him stop doing that, for the love of God.

It’s too hot to face the truth.

Too hot to lie.

“No way of knowing, Sammy.”

***

Baby gets them to Winslow all right. She’s low on gas, hot under the hood as she crawls through the downtown streets with her windows agape, her grill choked with fine ocher dust. In the sun’s relentless stare she glints all over, blinding, a hero in black shining armor. She feels her years, takes the corners slow.

Dean pulls up behind a Subaru parked under the only shade tree on the street, keeps the engine running, hops out, and heaves it forward fifteen feet. Then he slides back behind the wheel, coasts into the spot, and throws the Impala into park. He’s in a mood to fight anything that looks at him the wrong way, up to and including the owner of that Subaru, when and if he ever shows up.

“Hell if I care,” Dean grumbles darkly as he pulls the keys from the ignition.

“She deserves it,” Sam agrees.

“Damn straight. She saw us through.”

The Impala clicks angrily as her metal bits start cooling off.

Dean rubs a hand across his forehead, pushing gently at the dull hammering behind his eyes, and mutters, “Can’t believe we had to ditch our credit cards in Barstow. How much cash you got on you?”

“Think I’ve still got a twenty.” Sam digs his wallet out to double-check. “Wait, sixteen dollars. And a couple quarters.”

“Awesome.”

In his side mirror Dean studies a dilapidated motel about a block behind them across the street—uninviting, spare—while he does a little mental math.

Sam sees where he’s looking and pushes himself back into the warm black leather with a shudder.

“I’ll be fine, Dean.”

“Yeah, we’ll work on that. Sit tight.”

Dean shoves open his door, circles around to the trunk, and props up the false floor. For a minute he just stands there, feeling fuzzy and cooked. Heat roils off the blacktop, steams mustily out of the trunk, and Dean tries but somehow it’s too hard to take a deep breath. Sam, Baby, hurry, Dad, Sam, Baby, hurry, Dad…. Does he think it’s the demon? Is he too hot to care? Yes? Maybe? How would he know? Too hot to know his own mind.

Dean is buried in his own head and his head is buried in the trunk as he starts slinging supplies into a duffel, and Sam is slouched back in the seat with his eyes closed, so they both miss the big black truck rumbling up and parking across the street, the figure climbing out and striding towards them.

Sam hears the approaching footsteps before Dean does, and just as he opens his eyes, the new arrival says, “Hey, Dean.”

Dean’s head snaps up.

It’s John.

***

Sam stands up fast, pulling himself out of the car as John walks up. John is ragged and covered head to toe in a film of dust but he looks like he’s in one piece, his eyes bright and keen in spite of the stupefying heat, his forehead beaded with sweat.

“Hi, Sam,” he says over the roof of the car.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Dad.” Dean’s heart is pounding. “We got here as fast as we could. Are you all right? What’s this hunt? What’s going on?”

“I saw you drive into town,” John says. “I knew you boys weren’t too far away. Thought I needed some extra hands. Then everything happened too fast. I took care of it on my own.”

There’s a pause while Sam and Dean wait in expectant silence for John to enlighten them further, but John seems to think he has apprised them of all necessary detail. He’s looking at Sam intently.

“You okay, Sammy?”

Sam sets his jaw and answers firmly, “Yessir.”

John’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer until Dean stammers, “So… so, what are you saying? You mean there’s no hunt?”

“Not anymore,” John says. “I’m sorry to make you boys drive all this way for nothing. But it could have gone down differently.”

“What were you hunting? Was it the demon?” Dean’s spitting out questions that he only half expects answers to. “Why’d you call us for back-up?”

John’s face softens into a smile.

“That’s not important. Like I said, I took care of it.”

Dean accepts this response with only the barest shadow of a frown and Sam says nothing but shifts from one foot to the other, and for one guilty, fleeting moment Dean is grateful that Sam’s so sick and that his instinct to hide it from Dad is stronger than his desire to pick a fight.

“So, what do we do now?” Dean asks.

Another smile steals across John’s face.

“Nothing’s changed. It’s still not safe for us to be together. I shouldn’t be here right now. Just came to let you know what happened and to lay my eyes on you boys, make sure you were all right.”

John glances again at Sam, then shoots Dean a look, and with that, he gives a nod and turns to go.

His back is to the boys when he stops and says, “Let me guess, you’re running low on cash?”

“Yessir,” Dean admits, taken aback and wondering how John could have known. “We had to toss all our cards. Last hunt got a little hairy towards the end.”

“Guess you’ll be needing this, then.”

John turns on his heel and extends a thin wad of doubled-up twenties to Dean, and Dean stares for a moment before taking the money with a quiet “Thanks.”

Then John’s eyes trail over both his sons and Dean is within reach so he claps him on the shoulder.

“Take care, boys.”

Sam and Dean watch their father cross the street, get in his truck, and drive away.

***

The growl of the engine takes a long time to disappear in the still, late afternoon, and for a while after it’s truly gone there’s nothing to say. In a daze Dean thumbs through the bills—once, twice—not remembering to count, and Sam just stands by silently and watches him do it.

The money doesn’t change anything. Not really. It should be enough to buy them one more night in the dive motel and to leave some seed money besides. There’s a backroom poker game somewhere in this town, and Dean will find it tomorrow and sidle up, transform nineteen dollars into nineteen times that, clean the opposition out in an hour and split without giving so much as his real name or a backward glance.

Then Sam shifts heavily against the car and Dean looks up to see he’s all but fainting on his feet, and just like that Dean stuffs the money in his jeans and slams the trunk, resolute, because one thing at least is perfectly clear: now that there isn’t a case in town Sam isn’t a hunter with the flu—he’s just plain sick, and the hunt may be over but Dean’s job is far from done.

“Come on, Sam,” he says, and he maneuvers them down the sidewalk, hoisting two duffel bags and Sam’s backpack and satchel over his left shoulder, gripping Sam’s upper arm firmly in his other hand.

“Dude, let go,” Sam says, making an attempt at shaking him off.

Dean takes his hand away and rearranges the straps digging into his shoulder and circumspectly waits until, about a dozen paces later, Sam goes a bit wobbly before replacing his hand without a word.

***

By the uncurtained window in the low, ruddy light of dusk, John’s journal lies open but unheeded on the table, an assortment of small bills fanned out across the page. Two pennies in change are a tiny paperweight on top, and Dean sits slumped in the chair, slick with sweat and sticking to the naugahyde, sliding one coin against the other with a soft, circular metallic rasp.

At his elbow there’s a half-drunk coffee he’s too tired to finish off.

Next to it, his phone, which he’s not expecting to ring.

Sam hasn’t really slept. When they got to their room, Dean made him take off his shoes and socks and change out of the grimy shirt and jeans and into his sleep clothes, and then, with the very last of his energy, Sam sprawled out spreadeagled on top of the loud, scratchy blanket and he hasn’t budged since. He’s draped all over the mattress that’s smaller than he is, too hot and too bone-tired to move, slipping now and then over the edge into fevered dreams and never so much as flinching whenever Dean changes the cool washcloths on the nape of his neck, his elbows, wrists, the small of his back. He’s crashing, finally letting himself go, now there’s no reason to hold himself together anymore. It’s only natural he’s getting worse, although that doesn’t make it any easier for Dean.

Dean gathers himself and gets to his feet again, heads to the bathroom sink, pulls another washcloth from the basin and wrings it out, then carries it, dripping, across the room.

“Sammy,” he says, sitting next to his brother on the bed. He holds the cloth to the back of Sam’s neck and Sam doesn’t make any movement but Dean can tell he’s awake and listening, so he keeps talking trivialities just to fill the silence. “You know, the way I figure, we’ll have about 300 bucks to blow through tomorrow. Hundred and fifty apiece—that’ll go a long way on the wine, women, and song of Winslow. What do you say?”

Sam doesn’t say anything.

“Life of the party,” Dean says, soft.

Sam’s eyes flutter open a fraction of an inch and he looks up drowsily at Dean.

“Car okay?” he asks.

In spite of everything Dean can’t help but smile at that.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Moved her into the parking lot.”

Sam nods a little, reassured. He shudders under Dean’s hand and muffles a soft sneeze in the blankets, then presses weakly into the pillow, sniffling. Dean reaches across and pulls up the corner of the bedspread, folds it over Sam’s shoulders, tucks it around his legs.

“Dean,” Sam says, and it’s so unsteady and hoarse that Dean doesn’t hear him over the rustling of the cover. “Dean.”

“Hmm?” Dean hears this time. “Yeah, what is it?”

“We should go find Dad.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry and he blinks in astonishment. Suddenly he feels vaguely off-balance and sick, like the bed is gently canting and the room along with it. They’re not supposed to be talking about this. Dean’s supposed to be cramming it down, not even letting it cross his mind until Sam has turned the corner. Doesn’t matter what the hell the hunt was. Doesn’t matter they’re left here on their own.

He looks full into Sam’s face with as much semblance of composure and authority as half a cup of coffee can help him muster at the tail end of an abysmal day.

“That’s the fever talking, Sammy,” he says. “No more road trips for a while.”

But Sam is insistent if only quasi-lucid, his usual tenacity heightened by mild delirium, and he says again, “We should go find him.”

Dean runs a palm up and down his brother’s warm back, carefully readjusts the blanket that doesn’t need readjusting.

“We’ll find him, I promise,” he says, trying to talk him down. “Just not right now, all right?”

“Wonder what he was hunting,” Sam says through another shiver. “We could retrace his steps….”

“Sam.”

“…track down the signs or omens….”

“Hey.”

Dean stops and grips Sam’s shoulder.

“…whatever Dad spotted….” Sam’s rambling now. “Weird weather….”

“Sam. No. We’ll deal with this when you feel better, all right? I promise. Right now the only thing you need to do is get some sleep.”

Dean folds the washcloth over again, runs it along Sam’s hairline, and Sam coughs for a minute into the blankets and then falls silent. He hasn’t conceded the point so much as he’s faded away again, consciousness dipping beneath the fever’s high tide. He lies there, motionless under Dean’s hand, his breathing hot and rough and gradually slowing.

For a long while, the minutes that Dean sits by him, calming him, there’s just the soft rattle at the bottom of his chest with every exhale, the even rise and fall of his rib cage while the rest of him lies absolutely still. He might be drifting off to sleep, finally, Dean’s hand still on his shoulder, and Dean is only a few seconds away from calling chick flick and backing off to give him his space.

Then Sam’s voice, barely above a whisper, says, “I didn’t fight with him,” and Dean’s hand is in Sam’s hair before he can stop himself.

“Hey,” he says. He leans in close, into the awful fever-heat of him, tired beyond words. He swallows against the lump in his throat. “I know you didn’t.”

***

It’s past midnight when Dean opens their door and steps out barefoot onto the still-warm concrete. There’s no traffic, no hint of a breeze to stir the washed-out American flag hanging limp in its spotlight. The fusty perfume of some night-flowering desert plant mingles, faint but unpleasant, with the dry whiff of baked earth.

Almost out of earshot a machine somewhere is buzzing.

Dean sits on the curb next to his car and props his elbows on his knees, brings a hand up to massage his forehead. His headache has gone from bad to worse, and his chest feels fragile and tight in a way that he knows is from all the anxiety but that also makes him swear he’ll clock Sam one if he’s given him the flu. That’d be just what they need. If he does come down with it maybe Sam can drive them back to Barstow just for the hell of it. It’d be only fair.

Barstow. They might as well be there for all Dean can tell. Somehow it’s easy for him to imagine that none of today was even real. After all, mirages happen in the desert all the time. Everything is exactly the same as when he woke up this morning: a hot desert motel, a dad in the wind, a sick brother close by, more questions than answers about the demon. The only difference is the Pacific is even farther away.

None of it should have happened. They should be 600 miles west of here, holed up in a sandy motel with a cheap ocean view, both sleeping soundly to the endless crash of the waves. In the morning, Sam should be better, cooler with the fever broken and happy to stay in bed, and the day after, when he’s strong enough, they should have nothing to do but meander north with the windows rolled down, breathing fresh salt air, taking all the time they want—rubbernecking, cruising five miles an hour under the speed limit along the most beautiful coastline in the country, the sublime California sun beaming overhead with the glistening sea below, a magical, intoxicating blue.

In the dark on the curb, Dean smooths a hand over his dirty hair, wipes the sheen of sweat from his cheek and jaw. Behind him there’s the starchy rustle of sheets as Sam turns over restlessly in his sleep.

A few doors down a TV switches off.

Dean wonders if Dad is still on the road.

***

End

[starpollen]

This is very well written!  Poor sick Sam.

[Leafeon78]

This was lovely to read thanks for sharing.

[iluvemojis]

This has always been one of my favorite sneezefics. I'm so glad you finished it!! You sure kept us in suspense XD 

[sneezy_frnk]

Loved it! Very glad you finished it

[estrelleta]

Think this is the most beautiful fic I've ever read on here. Gahhh...my heart <3

[sierraplaid]

On 7/26/2017 at 11:45 AM, starpollen said:

This is very well written!  Poor sick Sam.

Merci!

On 7/31/2017 at 3:44 AM, sneezy_frnk said:

Loved it! Very glad you finished it

Thanks so much! I'm glad I finished it, too. hah

On 8/6/2017 at 0:56 PM, estrelleta said:

Think this is the most beautiful fic I've ever read on here. Gahhh...my heart <3

That means so much to me. Thank you. This thing was a labor of love and went through eight bazillion rewrites (that's an exact tally) so it's gratifying to hear that you thought it read well. I wasn't trying to write the next great American novel but I was trying to write something at least vaguely literary. I'm so pleased!