Not Quite Fuck Buddy by casuallyneurotic, HesitateDisintegrate || @casuallyneurotic
Rating: General audiences
Word count: 9k
“Come on. You look like you’re about to pass out right there.”
“If I could do that, this wouldn’t be happening,” Castiel muttered, but he obligingly put his hand in Dean’s and allowed the man to help pull him up. He swayed dangerously, and Dean rested a hand to his back, steadying him. His touch was warm, and Castiel found himself leaning into it.
Castiel is getting desperate for sleep, and when his roommate suggests he find a cuddle buddy, he figures it can’t hurt to give it a shot.
Or the one where Cas is so sleep-deprived, he is positively hilarious to watch. And while Charlie does snicker a bit at his antics, she is also very worried, which is why she tells him to find a warm body to sleep next to.
Now, she might have had something entirely different in mind, but finding someone to cuddle up to turns out to be just what the doctor ordered. Or maybe, it was all just Dean. He is kind and his voice is soothing and he knows exactly what to do and what to say. Really, the perfect, most softest pillow.
Someone Cas might want to get to know better... After he wakes up.
Here we go, my first entry for @jacklesversebingo24 🥰 Prompt is 'Dangerous Suggestion.' Hope you enjoy!
Danger is sometimes just in your mind - but Dean is definitely danger of another kind.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Word Count: 1954
Warnings: None really, except Dean in a tux; fluff
The warmth of Dean’s hands seeps through the silky fabric of your dress as he holds your waist, kissing you without warning, and the shock steals your breath away. The deliberate clearing of a throat makes it all stop, both of you looking wide-eyed towards the sound.
“Sir, ma’am – sorry, but you’re not supposed to be in here.”
You don’t have to fake your blush, and Dean glances down at the floor with an embarrassed smirk, expertly fooling the security guard standing in the doorway.
“Sorry, man – we were, uh, just looking for a little privacy, and this door was unlocked, so we just…”
“I understand. But you’ll have to find your privacy elsewhere. This office should have been locked and off-limits.”
Dean nods and takes your hand, leading you out the door as the guard steps aside, and he apologizes once again for good measure as you follow him back to the banquet hall. He parks you next to the wall and bends to whisper in your ear. “Sorry about that. Had to think fast.”
Your eyes slide up to meet his for a second, then you stare back at the floor, unwilling to let him read you quite yet. You nod, responding quietly. “Yeah, of course. At least we didn’t get caught.”
He sighs in frustration. “Didn’t get what we were after, either. So we have to come up with a new plan.” He looks over at the buffet table, cocking an eyebrow at the tempting offerings there. “How about we grab some food and a drink, sit down and figure it out.”
You agree, relieved at the thought of getting off your feet. Your heels are killing you. “Sounds good to me.”
He slips an arm around you, and the muscles in your stomach clench as his hand rests possessively at your waist again. He looks incredible in his borrowed tux, and you are having thoughts that you normally batter into submission with focused research, beer and violence against evil creatures. Unfortunately, none of that is available at the moment, but a glass of champagne can’t hurt.
You claim one of the small tables scattered throughout the room, letting Dean play the gentleman and hold your chair as you sit. Who knew he had that in him? You take a gulp of the bubbly, pop a cheese puff into your mouth, and mentally remind yourself to guard your expression before looking up into those stunning green eyes. “So, now what?”
“Well…” he managed between chewing, “I think I should head for the bathroom.”
You laugh softly. “Okay. That’ll teach ‘em.”
“I mean as an excuse, smartass. I should go, look for an unlocked door so we can duck inside and wait until everybody clears out. Then we pick the lock again, grab that fucking cursed statue and we’re home free.” The amused smile is still on your face, and he can’t resist responding with a slow grin that makes your heart skip a little. “Well, that’s my suggestion. You got anything better?”
You shake your head. “Nope. I think that’s probably the best plan. So – go tinkle or whatever, I’ll guard your baby quiche.”
He stands up, narrowing his eyes at you. “Just so you know, I counted those.” You can’t help but giggle as he turns to go. The man is serious about his food.
He isn’t gone long, sits down and takes a sip of his whiskey. “Okay, we’re good. Just need to wait until the crowd thins out a little so we can get in there without Mall Cop catching us.” He glances down, then glares over at you. “You ate one of my quiche.”
People have finally started to leave, and you are so ready for this night to be over. You had taken as long as possible to eat, each had another drink, strolled around pretending to look at the art on display, but you are officially over wearing heels and trying to act like you fit in with this rich, pretentious crowd.
The guard Dean had dubbed ‘Mall Cop’ is busy manning the door as people leave, so now is as good a time as any to get yourselves settled in for the next hour or two until the place is empty. Dean guides you down the hall, a couple of doors down from the office you needed to get into later, looking over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear.
“Ok, let’s go,” Dean says, his voice barely above a whisper. He opens the door, craning his neck to look over his shoulder as he urges you past him to the doorway. “Get in there before somebody sees us.”
You step around him, and your eyes grow wide as your hands fly out to brace on the sides of the door frame. “This is a bad idea.”
Dean’s voice hisses in your ear as he pushes you inside. “You agreed to it, sweetheart, now move.”
He squeezes in behind you, pulling the door closed quietly. It’s pitch black and there’s barely enough room for both of you in the tiny broom closet, which is luckily empty of all but a couple of brooms and a mop leaning in one corner. “I changed my mind. I hate your suggestion. It’s a very bad suggestion. A very bad, dangerous suggestion.”
Dean scoffs at your comment. “It’s not dangerous. As long as we’re quiet, they’re not gonna know we’re here. They’ll all clear out in an hour or so, and then we can hit Maitland’s office, get that damn statue and then we’re outta here.”
Your breathing is quickening, your heart beginning to pound. “It is dangerous. I can feel it.”
You feel his hand on your shoulder, his fingers trailing down the length of your bare arm as he chuckles softly. “Afraid to be in the dark with me?” His hand covers yours, and he freezes for a moment, feeling the trembling of your fingers beneath his. When he speaks, the tone of his voice is completely different. “Claustrophobia? But I thought you were okay with hiding out until...”
“I thought it would be a room. Like, a real room, a whole, big room with, you know, room and – and air. Lots and lots of air. Not a tiny death trap. We’re gonna get stuck in here, the walls are going to close in on me and I… I can’t breathe.” Even though you are whispering, your fear comes through loud and clear.
Dean moves both of his hands up to your upper arms, supporting you. “We’re not going to get trapped. All I have to do is open the door, there’s not even a lock on it. Okay?” His voice is gentle as he continues. “The walls aren’t going to close in on you.”
Your trembling continues, and each breath is coming in soft, desperate little whines. “I… can’t…”
He says your name quietly. “Do you trust me?” After a second, you nod, and he gives your arms a squeeze. “Okay. First of all, take off those ridiculous shoes. You need to get comfortable.”
You slip out of your heels, doing what he asks without question, and the cool floor on your bare feet is actually soothing.
“Okay, now just lean back into me.” He moves his hands to cover yours, bringing them up to rest at your waist. “Just relax, feel when I breathe and breathe with me. In – out. In – out. In – out.” His hands stay on yours, holding you in place, grounding you as he slowly guides you out of your panic.
You are tense at first, but gradually you lay your head back against his shoulder and relax against his firm chest, your body responding and your breathing syncing with his. Your quaking begins to calm, and Dean gives your hand a squeeze. “Better?”
You nod as you answer. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
You draw in a shaky breath. “Just – talk to me. So I don’t have to think about where I am.”
“What do you want me to talk about?”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Anything.”
He blows out a breath. “Okay. So – you look amazing tonight.”
You let out a disbelieving little laugh. “Wow, you really are trying to distract me.”
He sputters a little as he answers. “No! Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. I should have told you before, but when you came out in this slinky dress and those sexy high heels, I couldn’t get any words to come out. So, I’m telling you now.”
You blow out an incredulous breath. “I – didn’t think you even noticed how I look. Like, ever.” You tilt your head back as if you can look up at him, even though it’s too dark to see. “And you said my shoes were ridiculous.”
“Well, they are. I mean, they can’t be comfortable. But they are sexy, and when you walk, it kinda puts a little extra swing in your step, it’s – ah…” he clears his throat. “Yeah, sexy.”
“Women are used to being uncomfortable just to look good for men.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t need to. I mean, you always look good. Barefoot, in your old jeans, or those cute little cut-offs you wear sometimes. And that old sweatshirt that hangs off your shoulder, that’s good, too.” He leans down so he can speak softly in your ear. “Kinda makes me want to take a bite.”
You’re finding it hard to breathe again. “You’ve never even tried.”
“Well, maybe the time’s never been right. Or maybe I just didn’t think you’d want me to.”
“Wow. And I thought you could see right through me.”
“You’ve always kept your distance, and I thought that’s the way you wanted it.” His thumb is brushing over the soft skin of your hand.
“I thought that’s the way you wanted it. I didn’t think you were even interested in anything else.”
“Shhhhh,” Dean whispers, and you both go silent. Footsteps echo in the hall, then a voice right outside the door makes you jump.
“Did you check the bathrooms?” A distant ‘yeah’ came back in reply. “Good, then let’s get the hell out of here and go grab a beer.”
The footsteps retreat back the way they came, and you let out the breath you were holding. “Just a few minutes to make sure they’re gone,” Dean says softly, and you nod.
After a few long minutes have passed, he finally reaches behind him and opens the door. The dim nightlights in the hallway let you see your way out, and you take a deep breath. “This is much better.”
You start to take a step, but Dean takes hold of your hand and stops you, backing you into the wall.
“You still owe me for that quiche you stole,” he says, his eyes shining playfully. Then he bends to kiss you, gentle at first, then more hungrily as you grab at his jacket to tug him closer. When he finally lifts his head, you are both panting, his eyes searching yours as he waits for your reaction.
“I knew this was gonna be dangerous - in more ways than one,” you tease, and he grins, a touch of relief in his eyes.
“Danger is my middle name,” Dean quips in his best Austin Powers voice, and you giggle, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss him again. You smile slyly up at him as you slide out from between him and the wall, heading towards the office that holds your target. “Hey,” he says, and you stop, turning to look at him. He holds out his hand, your shoes dangling from his fingers. “Don’t forget your ridiculous shoes.”
Summary: “Here, drink this,” Dean says.
A small plastic cup is pressed to his lips, and the strong, medicinal odor of Nyquil almost clears Sam’s sinuses on its own. He whines again, not daring to open his mouth to actually voice his complaint, and hoping his stuffy nose lets him last long enough. Dean knows he hates this stuff. It makes him so groggy and woozy he can barely function, and he doesn’t even like to take a full dose. He tries to reach for the cup, but Dean grabs his wrist and Sam wonders how many hands Dean has.
The cup leaves Sam’s tightly closed lips and Dean sighs. “Sammy, c’mon, ya gotta let me take care of you, man.”
[AKA "dean feeds sam nyquil while he has a cold, and does somnophilia" --Finally, it is done!]
Written for @wincestwednesdays July 2024
July 31st Prompt: in sickness & in health
Tags: sickfic, caretaker dean, sick sam, fever, fever dream, dubcon medication, dubcon/noncon somnophilia, watersports elements, masturbation, underage, weecest, pining Sam, Sam POV, a dash of humiliation and praise kink, a pinch of oral fixation Sam, pubescent Sam
Note: Gifted to @supernaturalkickparty as a very late birthday present. Also extremely late finishing this for the fest. I was sick when I started this lol.
So I'm sick and can't be near my son and it's killing me. So here's a gen teenchesters ficlet I wrote with sick sammy and caretaker Dean
Dean was pulled from his sleep by the sound of violent retching and Sam's sniffles. He knew it was going to happen eventually, a lot of kids at the last high school had been sick from the cafeteria food. They both hoped that Sam wouldn't get sick, Dean knows full well how much Sam hates throwing up.
"Sammy, you good?" Dean went straight for him, pushing his sweat soaked bangs out of the way.
"No. I can't stop hurling." Sam whined, eyes screwed shut as he had his arms wrapped around his thin frame. It worried Dean, Sam was already too thin and too small for fifteen.
"Let me see if we have any pepto or something. I'll be right back."
He went through their makeshift med kit, trying to find any form of medication for Sam, who was currently puking his guts out.
"De!" Sam cried from the bathroom, Dean found the bottle at the bottom of the box, rushing back to the bathroom.
He hated seeing his brother sick, nothing scared him more than anytime Sammy's gotten sick. He grabbed a washcloth, ran it under the cold water, he hoped a cold compress would help Sam's heated clammy skin.
"Here, chug this in one go. It'll get you better." Dean pressed the compress to Sam's forehead, wiping away the sweat from his face.
Sam gagged as he drank the foul pink medicine.
"You lied to me." Sam leaned against Dean, wincing in pain.
"What are you talking about?" Dean was completely confused by that. He wasn't sure what Sam was talking about.
"When I was six, you told me if I threw up enough that I would never have to throw up again." Sam tried to chuckle, it came out more of a pained huff as he leaned further into Dean.
"Yeah and I told you that if I rubbed your stomach that it would help it go away faster." Dean chuckled. He remembered that time, their dad was supposed to be gone for two days and had ended up being gone a whole week. Sammy had never been sick from his stomach before and he wasn't sure what to do. He called his dad panicking, not sure what to give him until their dad calmly talked him down and told him what to grab from the corner store and promised he was going to be rushing back.
They sat there in silence, Sam leaned forward towards the toilet, throwing up once more. Dean held his shaggy hair back, rubbing his back.
"It's ok Sammy, shh. I know that this sucks man. You just need to get the infection out of your system." He continued to rub his back until Sam fell back against him.
"Do you…I mean do you think you can rub my stomach? You feel so warm and the warmth helps." Sam kept his eyes closed, leaning further into Dean. He knew fully well that Dean wouldn't say no.
"Brat." Dean scoffed, moving his hands to Sam's stomach. He normally would have calmed him bitch, but he was saving that teasing for whenever Sam was healthy enough to talk back.
Sam groaned, mumbling that he feels sore and hurts all over.
"It's gonna be ok. This'll blow over soon." He spoke softly as he rubbed his hand in small circles over Sam's stomach. He could feel the rumblings underneath. He hoped that Sam wasn't going to be sick the rest of the night and that this was just his stomach trying to settle.
Eventually he had dragged Sam off to bed. They had fallen asleep sometime around five in the morning, Dean waking at every little sound Sam made.
School wasn't an option for Sam and Dean didn't have a job at the moment since their dad was the next town over.
He looked over at Sam, noting how he wasn't clammy looking or as pale anymore. He still didn't look quite healthy but it was an improvement from last night.
Sam slept until one o'clock, only waking when he heard the motel door opening.
"Hey, how are you feeling? I did a quick run to the gas station. I got you some gatorade and those unsalted crackers you like." Dean set the bags on the opposite bed that was still made up.
Sam vaguely remembers Dean staying in his bed the night before.
"I feel really sore and my throat hurts."
"Your stummy don't hurt anymore?" Dean smirked.
"Oh fuck off, I was a little kid when I would say that." Sam threw a pillow at his laughing brother.
"I know, I was remembering how you used to say that." Dean handed Sam a drink and some crackers. "Talked to dad earlier, he's on his way back already, do you think you can handle riding in the car or do you think you're gonna spew some more?"
Sam grimaced as he took a sip of the gatorade.
"Not gonna have much of a choice, if dad's ready to go we have to go."
"Yeah but I already told him how sick you were last night. He's the one who wants to know if you can handle the drive." Dean handed him a couple more of the crackers, waiting on him to think it over.
"I guess we can wait and see how I'm feeling later…thanks for taking care of me last night."
"No problem, I mean I wasn't going to get much sleep with you hurling up a lung all night."
The brothers both smiled softly at each other, the moment quickly ruined as Sam bolted to the bathroom throwing up whatever little he had eaten.
"You're stummy again?" Dean made a face as Sam loudly retched.
"Fuck you jerk." Sam shouted from the bathroom.
"Love you too bitch, I'm already grabbing the pepto."
~ destiel fic, hurt/comfort, 1k words, for @castielsdisciple
“Be still,” Dean murmurs to Cas when he flinches away again. He’s tried to minimize how much he pokes and digs, knowing what a bitch it is to be on the business end of pliers, but he can’t help that some of the shards are buried deep. He waits patiently as Cas takes a large swallow from the whiskey bottle he’s clutched like a lifeline, then Dean picks out yet another broken glass piece and drops it into the cup next to his hip.
It couldn’t have just been a cut-and-dry D-list case, because life — this life especially — doesn't work like that. It was inevitable for shit to go sideways on them, and it’s laughable, fucking inane Dean ever dared to think otherwise. (“Good things do happen, Dean,” Cas said to him once. Dean’s still not convinced that's true.)
Dean doesn’t know what it is about Cas, but the monster, like, fixated on him. The whole night, no matter how hard Dean fought to get the ugly bastard's attention, it kept going after Cas. Then monster grabbed and fucking bodily tossed him out the window and let out a roar that felt like it shook the whole house; Dean's only felt his heart leap into his throat like that a few times. He didn't get time to even process what happened because the monster, having taken out one opponent, turned and advanced on him. Dean had to finish the job alone, not knowing if Cas was even still alive. He ran to find Cas lying on a patch of wood chips, shattered glass surrounding him like a halo. Those few short moments felt like several lifetimes as he slid to his knees next to Cas, who was winded and aching and breathing. ("You alive?" Dean asked, and Cas huffed out a pained laugh and flipped him the bird. "Yeah — yeah, you're alive, you asshole.")
Dean could swear that Cas has a deathwish or something because the reckless motherfucker refused to be checked out at the hospital. Dean insisted that he needed to go, as only so much could be done with the sparse supplies they had. They argued, and in the end, Cas’ stubborn glare won out. If he was gonna be like that, then Dean figured the sooner they get a move on and save Cas from his own bullheaded stupidity, the better. The last thing they need is Cas getting an infection. And the way he climbed into the Impala, slow, graceless, hiding his winces and grinding his teeth, only further proved that they should head to the hospital, but Dean held his tongue.
The ride back to the motel was, to say the least, unpleasant. In their room, it’s not much better.
For the past hour now, Dean’s painstakingly removed a myriad of embedded glass and wood shards from Cas’ back, wiped away the blood, and applied ice to the welts that have already turned angry and dark. Cas hasn’t said a word since their fight— that disagreement back at the old farmhouse, but Dean's talked plenty for the both of them. He’s lost count of how many times he’s repeated this mantra: Be still, be still. How many times it’s followed by tiny plinks of glass and wood into a plastic cup. Dean would think Cas finds it patronizing — insulting, even — if it weren’t for the way the coiled tension in Cas’ shoulders starts to ease whenever he speaks. If it makes this process easier for him… well, then who’s Dean to deny him?
“Be still. I know, I know. I’m sorry.” Another glass piece. Plink.
The A/C unit in the corner kicks over with a wheeze. Cas says, “I don’t deserve this,” in a voice so hushed Dean would’ve missed it if he wasn’t sitting right behind him.
Dean’s hands stop, just for a moment. Plink, plink. “What are you talking about?”
Cas sighs. “I don’t deserve this. Your attention, your care, your lo—” He cuts himself off, arms coming around his middle and shoulders hunching away from Dean’s hands. A soft hiss escapes his lips as the motion tugs sharply at his wounds. He sounds like wishes he could take back the words the second they leave his mouth and hates himself for it. “Your kindness. I don’t deserve it.”
How could Cas think so little of himself? Believe himself so unworthy that he shouldn’t even receive the most basic care? But Dean gets it, maybe more than Cas realizes. “That’s bullshit,” Dean says mildly. Plink.
“Dean...” Cas starts to shift further away from him, and that won’t do, because he needs to listen, needs to hear what Dean’s telling him, and he won’t if he’s already sinking into himself.
“Don’t, I’m not finished,” Dean admonishes quietly. “I’m serious. Don’t move.” He touches Cas’ waist and— and he just stills with a shaky breath. If this were any other time, Dean would dwell on how Cas caves at the slightest touch initiated from him, how he always just lets him.
When it seems like Cas isn’t on the verge of bolting, Dean says, “I know there's something about this case that got to you bad — don’t think I didn’t notice, man.” Hunts aren't easy, and unexpected bodies turning up are never something a good hunter takes lightly, but Cas seemed to take each one like a devastating blow. Dean tried to press Cas about it, and he shook off Dean’s worry and pretended that everything was fine. Dean doesn't have to be a good hunter to know Cas was lying. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
Cas turns his face away. “There’s nothing to talk about.” A beat. Then, “I think you’d be better off hunting with Sam again.”
The fuck? Taken aback, heat starts to crawl up Dean’s face. Part of him wants to be angry — hell, he kinda is, underneath the hurt — but he takes a breath and lets it out slowly, for once grateful Cas is facing the other way. “I like hunting with you. Besides, Sam's got his club going on, and anything with Eileen he likes to be involved.”
“Maybe you should have a different partner. One that doesn’t fuck up.”
“Everyone fucks up,” Dean says defensively. “Cas, if this is about what you did, you’re already forgiven for that—”
But Cas isn’t listening. The dam's busted open. “I’m supposed to— I used to be an angel. My powers, I could... I could help you, I could help Sam, but now I can’t — I can’t even do that.” Cas covers his face with his hands, rakes them roughly up through his hair. “I’m — I’m useless.”
Dean’s heart clenches sharply. He knew that the fading powers and subsequent loss of them had been hard on Cas, but Dean didn’t know it was affecting him this badly. Then he feels like an asshole, because of course this was, for fuck's sake. “Cas…”
Cas turns around, winces as he moves too quickly. He touches Dean’s face with gentle, hesitant fingers. There are scrapes and cuts Dean hasn’t taken care of yet, too occupied with making sure Cas doesn’t get a damn infection. Cas’ eyes grow sad; his brow furrows. “I miss— With a touch, I could heal you. I wouldn’t need you to care for me this — this way.”
“Cas, man, you gotta know that it’s never been about your powers. You’re not a-a tool, Cas. All I want— It’s just you. I told you, man. I’d rather have you. Nothing’s ever gonna change that.”
Cas is quiet for a minute. “Your faith... I've always admired it. How you put your trust in people. You're a good man, Dean."
"Yeah, well." Dean clears his throat. "Gotta make up for all the bad shit I've done, right?"
Cas hums, unconvinced. He grabs the damp rag that held the ice, shaking out the remaining pieces. He doesn’t seem to care where the ice landed. "Let me?"
Dean almost says no, he's fine, but something in the way Cas looks at him... "Okay."
Cas wipes away the dried blood on Dean's face. Lately, he and Cas would be arguing, if they weren’t busy giving each other the cold-shoulder. It’s not the first time they’ve been at opposite ends or had disagreements — Dean refuses to say they bickered — not by a long shot. It’s just... been a while. Dean thought they were past petty fights. Now, though, they fall into a comfortable silence, for once not thick with tension from the unsaid.
Cas’ thumb traces over the scar on Dean's chin, and he says, a hopeless look in his eye, "I love you. Did you know that?"
Dean just breathes and touches Cas' wrist. "Cas..."
"You don't have to say anything. I just thought you should know."
Dean tugs the rag out of Cas' hand. His mind is taking a second to reboot. But he knows — he knows he needs to kiss Cas right now. "C’mere," he mumbles and cups Cas' face between his palms and presses their mouths together. When they separate to breathe, Dean says, “It’s always you, Cas. You know that.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I love you.” The smile Cas gives him is soft and crooked and still sad. Dean’s not stupid; he knows things with Cas are rocky at best, but it’s a start. “Now turn back around so I can get the rest of the junk out, asshole.”
I'm like one who asked if you wrote for Sam too. I was thinking one where he wakes up from a nightmare sick and he and dean at first think hes just sick from the nightmare but then realize he has a stomach flu because he's burning up
Here you go! Enjoy s1!Sam having some freaky nightmare premonition about s4/demon blood!Sam, and resultant concerned!dean. Also, I have no idea where “whiter than Natty Ice” came from, but it just felt right.
This was worse than being possessed, because here, Sam was in full control.
He felt his arm lift, the tendons in his wrist flex as his fist clenched, the shift of weight between his feet as he stood his ground, preparing to summon up the newly-nurtured infernal powers within to choke the life out of his brother, who stared with wide green eyes, horrified at the thing his Sammy had become.
“S…Sam…” Dean rasped, face gone white, freckles spotting garishly in the absence of blood. The 1911 loosened in his grip, then tightened again, and the set of his jaw hardened once more as instinct overrode rationality – kill or be killed it was, then. Sam was gone, a black-eyed monster in his place. “Sammy, c’mon, don’t make me shoot you.”
Sam, lucid in this distorted nightmare world, inhaled to fill his chest and lifted his arm for the final, deadly strike, gritting his teeth against the hellish humming in his veins. “I told you,” he growled, voice gone deep and demonic. “It’s Sam.”
His fist clenched once more, and Dean’s head exploded like a wet grapefruit, crimson meat and ribbons of gray meninges splattering the wallpaper. Headless and lifeless, his body crumpled to the ground, limbs twitching, loaded gun clattering to the floor, the barrel still smoking, bullet fired too late.
“Sam!”
The sudden boom of his brother’s voice – very much alive, and loud, urgent – woke Sam with a jolting start, and he flailed against the sheets, flinging pillows. “Hhhmu-what?!” His heart pounded, and he blinked frantically, struggling.
Dean reached over from the opposite bed and turned on the light, the brightness momentarily blinding them both. His green eyes were very wide, almost shining, pupils shrinking rapidly. “Another nightmare. Bad one, from the sounds of it.”
Sam, dissolving gradually back into reality, panted heavily, catching his breath. Sweat dampened his T-shirt and stuck it to his back, plastering the hair to the nape of his neck and temples. Fuck, it was hot in here. His stomach churned, and he glanced over at the digital clock on the nightstand. 4:57 AM. Damn, almost 5. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice raspy with sleep. “’m fine. Sorry.”
“Mmm.” Dean didn’t buy it. He rested back on his elbows, rubbing an eye. “Like hell. You’re whiter than Natty Ice. Wanna talk about it?”
The animation of Dean’s brains splattering the wallpaper was still fresh in Sam’s mind – c’mon, Sammy, don’t make me shoot you – I told you, it’s Sam –
The dull burn of acid at the back of his throat made Sam wince, and he shifted his legs over the side of the mattress, leaning over to rest heavily into his palms. The heels of his hands dug into his eyes, rubbing away both sleep and heartburn. Nausea roiled disconcertingly, and he exhaled harshly, willing it away. “M’fine, Dean. Just a nightmare. Not a little kid anymore.”
Dean sat up, too, and their knees almost knocked in the small space between the two queen beds. ‘You’ve been havin’ nightmares since Jess died six months ago,” he began, baritone gone uncharacteristically soft. “I’m just sayin’, it might help t’get some stuff off your chest, is all.”
Sam lifted his head to glare wearily at his brother, although it came across as more of a pained grimace. He felt nauseous and woozy, like he had the spins. “I told you, Dean. Don’t wanna talk about it.” He brought a fist up to his mouth, feeling a surge of acid crawl up his throat.
Dean noticed, and cocked an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“I said I’m—”
“Sam, I swear, if you say you’re fine one more time—”
The trash can was nestled between Sam’s bed and the shared nightstand. Hastily, Sam reached down and grabbed it, bringing it up to his chin just in time. Bile burned his throat and nose, coming up in a wrenching wave like hot foul water, and tears streamed down his face. “Oh, God,” he gasped between heaves, clutching the can for dear life. The fuck did this come from? The nightmare? He doubted it. More like the greasy half-raw burgers Dean’d brought back from that diner across the street—
“Whoa, easy,” Dean coached, his voice lost in the awful tide of Sam’s sickness. He reached out to steady his sick brother, offering physical comfort as well. “Easy.”
Sam was helpless, body locked and set to his stomach’s expulsions, and he focused solely on trying to breathe whenever he could. He felt Dean’s warm hands on his shoulders, his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his face, helping him hold the trash can steady.
“Sam,” came Dean’s voice from the fringes of Sam’s misery. “I got you. It’s okay.”
And Sam did feel got, knowing that Dean would not let him fall over, or drop the trash can, or puke on his bare lap. His brother’s hand was hard, rough, callused, worn tough by years of shotgun-wielding and grave-digging and wrench-turning. It was the firmest, most familiar sensation Sam had ever known, next to John’s hands, but when John was all discipline, Dean was comforting, solid, steady.
“Here, c’mere,” Dean was murmuring, gently disengaging Sam’s quivering fingers from the trash can, lowering it onto the floor beside his feet. “You’re a mess, Sammy. Lemme help.”
C’mon, Sammy, don’t make me shoot you.
In the aftermath of his exertions, damp with fresh sweat, panting like a runaway horse (eyes and nose running disgustingly and lips slick with bile, man, he could use a tissue, Dean was getting him one right now) Sam decided to let the nickname slide, submitting himself instead to his big brother’s efficient and capable ministrations, rehearsed and sympathetic and comfortingly familiar.
He’d tell Dean about the nightmare when the sun came up and made it less real, and for now, he’d let Dean keep calling him Sammy when it counted.
