Yeah yeah Sam being tired of Dean & Cas dancing around each other is one thing. but. How about Sam not knowing jack shit. “haha dean is so weird around cas. if you didn’t know him you might think he was gay. isn’t that funny? imagine thinking my brother could be gay.” So much of what he believes about Dean’s personality is either what Dean has told him or what he’s assumed based on the way Dean presents, so I kind of don’t think he would put two and two together on his own. Dean must be straight because c’mon have you seen him? — Dean could probably fangirl over some famous guy and Sam wouldn’t even pick up on it- wait they did do that. that was a thing that happened.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
This fanfic was sitting in my folder for a long time. It is not finished (and idk if it ever will be), but I wanted to post it in case anyone likes it. I hope to revisit this story someday and give it the chance it deserves. In the meantime, I appreciate any feedback or support from readers who enjoy Supernatural AUs ;)
(releasing this into the wild bc it's not going anywhere. i think it was @stemroses who brought up this idea way back when)
John has a wendigo to hunt. All the signs are there, he’s prepped as well as possible, maps and landscapes memorized. He’s only stopping back at the motel to pick up supplies and is already halfway out the door, bag heavy on his shoulder when a pitiful ‘Dad’, followed by a deep cough stops him.
He backtracks, has to now. He had already felt bad enough about leaving Dean to take care of Sammy with his stuffed nose and sore throat, but God, his oldest looks about ready to keel over, pale, eyes bright, as he wipes his runny nose on the too-long sleeve of the hoodie he’s disappearing in, still a size or two too big; the only thing John had found on his last trip to Goodwill.
“’m sorry, sir,” Dean says, immediately followed by another cough, deep and bellowing, wrecking his whole body.
In the bed across the room, Sammy blows his nose, probably for the thousandth time today if his red skin is any indication, silently watching the exchange. He hasn’t said a single word since his throat had started to hurt, and if it hadn’t been for Dean and the shorthand he and Sammy have, it would have driven John crazy by now.
John drops his bag with a soft sigh, shrugs out of his coat. “C’mon, bed.” Dean slumps in on himself with relief the moment John puts his hands on his bony shoulders, guides him to the unoccupied bed to the right. “I’m sorry,” Dean says again, a hoarse little sound, as he pulls up the covers, burrows into the warmth of the bed. “It’s okay, son, just get some sleep.” Dean sniffles, coughs, eyes already half-closed.
John takes a moment to settle into the new situation, his body still thrumming with the surge of adrenaline that had come with the prospect of going out to hunt a wendigo.
Instead, he pulls out their med kit now, rifles through the mess inside only to come up empty. He curses under his breath, chances a glance at the boys. Dean’s pretty out of it but Sammy’s sitting up against the headboard, reading a comic book, or trying to, his focus straying every other moment.
“Need to go pick up some medicine, food. Won’t take long, okay Sammy?” Sam nods, glances at the nightstand for a second before looking over at Dean.
“D’you need anything before I go?” John asks, pulling Sam’s attention again. Sam reaches over, picks up the empty cup from the nightstand, holds it out to John. There’s a rush of mortification when he realizes he doesn’t even know what Dean’s been giving him and he hovers uncertainly, wishes Sammy would just open his mouth.
“Tea, with lots of honey,” comes the raspy response to the unspoken question as Dean shifts on the bed, tries to get comfortable. “’s the only thing he’ll drink.”
John nods, takes the empty cup from Sam, heads to the small kitchenette to get the kettle on. He takes the time it’s taking to get the tea ready to watch his boys, Dean miserably huddled into the covers, Sammy reaching for the tissues to blow his nose again. Part of him hates that it takes the kids being sick for him to stick around, to spend time with them.
Once the tea is done, he squeezes some honey into it, before handing the cup back to Sam. He takes a sip, pulls a face, then holds the cup back out to John. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment, it looks like Sam is actually going to speak but then he just turns, looks imploringly at Dean.
“Not enough honey,” comes from the pile of blankets, low and whiny, sounding out the look on Sam’s face, and John sighs but goes to add more honey anyway.
After that, he makes the trip for groceries and medicine, cough syrup for Dean and more tea for Sammy’s sore throat, something to get a fever down just in case.
By the time he gets back, Dean is burning up, body wrecked by coughing fits every few minutes.
Dean to his mom : And I... I had to be... Not just a brother, I had to be a father. And I had to be a mother. To keep him safe. And it wasn’t fair. And I couldn’t do it.
