Hey I’m looking for a specific fic and I was wondering if you knew of it. Basically something bad happens so Sam and to cope he turns himself into dean. Dean plays along as Sam for a long while. Thanks!
Sounds like a great fic. I don’t know that one but maybe of our followers does?
Hey all! We still have two stories seeking artists for this year’s round of the Sam Winchester Big Bang. You can find the summaries for both stories here.
One is a Sastiel fic which also includes Sam/Jimmy Novak and the other is a gen fic which features hurt teen!Sam. If either of those sounds like your jam, then please take a look! You can find out more about the SWBB’s rules here. Posting will start on 13 January 2020 but you can also find a full timeline here.
If you’re interested, please fill in our art claims form; and if you can reblog this so that more SPN fan artists will get to see it, please do!
sam and dean get get locked in a walk in freezer when a hunt goes wrong, and it brings back cage trauma.
hey, lads, i'm back !! this is terrible and i hate it, but i wanted to give y'all something. half of this was written a while ago, and now i badly finished it off [finger guns]. (big tw for heavy anxiety and shit i’m so sorry i hate myself too.)
ao3
Sam’s eyes snap open and the first thoughts to run through his head, as incoherent as they are, are “Oh, G-d. I’m in the Cage. Lucifer is torturing me. Oh G-d.” Cold chains dig into his wrists and his feet aren’t even properly touching the floor. A chill runs through his body and his head feels foggy. Something in the back of his mind, something sensible and far away, is telling him that he’s drugged. That he’s not where he thinks he is. That this is just a hunt gone wrong. But it’s so far away.
His surroundings are dark but he can vaguely make out something— a body? against a wall a few feet to his right. Or is it his left? His head feels really bad and the panic that’s causing all the nerves in his numb body to tremble isn’t helping.
He wants to call for help but Lucifer doesn’t like that. He’ll just be more violent and Sam will just hurt more everywhere. And it’s not like any help will actually come way down here. Everyone has given up on me.
The figure against the wall moans softly and that doesn’t sound like Michael or Adam and it’s definitely not Lucifer. It sounds like… G-d, it sounds like Dean though. Why is he here? Why the fuck is he here?
Sam’s eyes aren’t adjusting to the dark very well and he swallows hard. “Dean?” Saying anything without Lucifer’s explicit permission is always a bad idea but he needs to know if it’s really Dean and not just another hallucination. “Dean.”
G-d, it’s too cold. Way too cold.
It’s tight and cold and empty and dark and so… so dooming.
“Dean, please.” Sam stumbles as he tries to turn towards the slumped figure, and he gasps as the chains pull at his shoulders and his wrists. He’s slowly adapting to the chilled darkness, and he can just barely make out a pale face behind an arm that’s strung up to the wall. It looks like Dean’s cheek. Please be Dean’s cheek. “Dee, don’t leave me here alone. Please.” Sam’s voice is trembling a little, but not anymore than the nerves in his arms and in his legs and in his hands and in his chest.
He lets himself collapse as much as he can, too tired to hold himself up by the arms anymore. He’s not sure how long he’s even hanging here and everything aches. “Wake up, g-ddammit!” It’s a half-hearted yell, his voice cracking hard and he wants to cry. His head is a wreck right now and he’s trying so hard to hold onto his sanity and calm but it’s slipping too quickly. “I fucking need you, Dee.”
“Sammy?”
It’s a really quiet and confused whisper and Sam isn’t sure if he’s just hearing things from the dim corners of what feels like a freezer. Or maybe he’s remembering something. Fuck, he’s not sure. Of anything.
“Sam?” It’s louder and more worried this time and it’s definitely his big brother.
“Dean,” he sobs his name like it’s a fucking prayer.
“Sam, are you okay?” The words sound like they’re stuck in Dean’s throat, like he has to force them past his own panic and worry for Sam.
Sam tries to respond, to at least nod, but he’s falling apart and passing out sounds nice and he has tears building in his eyes and now one’s slipping down his face and this is all terrible.
Lucifer is going to hate this.
“Hang on, okay? I’m gonna get you out of there.” Dean is talking, just blabbering about G-d knows what while he’s struggling to pick the lock with his left hand. “We’re both gonna get out of here. Gonna go find those motherfucking vamps and cut their damn heads off.”
Why the hell is he talking about vampires?
The nagging feeling in the back of his brain is still there, existing stubbornly, insistently. He’s forgetting something. Missing something. Something’s wrong.
Dean groans loudly in relief and Sam flinches at the sound of metal hitting metal as Dean trips to his feet and towards Sam. “You okay?” His hands somehow feel warm against Sam’s freezing, tear stained face. “Sam, are you okay?”
“Please just get me out of these chains, Dean, please.” Dean is already doing it before Sam can finish his sentence but now that Sam has started talking he’s not stopping. “Quick. Please. Lucifer, he’s gonna—”
Dean meets his terrified but somehow vaguely blank gaze instantly at that, shock and horror and sadness in his eyes as he untangles one of Sam’s from the icy chain, gently trying to rub it to bring back proper blood circulation before awkwardly reaching up to get his other arm away from the trap. “Sam, Lucifer’s not here.” His voice is soft and pained. “He’s not here, I promise. He can’t hurt you.” The other cable slips away from Sam and Dean wraps his arms around his limp body, moving behind him and letting them both drop to the floor against one of the walls. Sam’s partially slumped on top of him, one leg slung over Dean’s and his head pressed against Dean’s shoulder and neck. Dean doesn’t make any effort to push him off or away.
“We’re in a meat locker, Sammy,” Dean mumbles. His voice reminds Sam of nights a long time ago. Years, decades, centuries, maybe fucking millennia ago at this point… It reminds Sam of nights when he’d have nightmares as a little kid and Dean would tell him dumb, funny stories to distract him. But sometimes he’d just describe the room to Sam. The peeling walls and the lumpy beds and the tables with the old, flickering lamps and old, flickering TVs almost dangerously balancing on top of them. He’d just describe everything in the room because he always said that none of Sam’s nightmares could get every detail of every motel room exactly right and he needed to prove that to Sam. That they were just nightmares and that he was okay.
“There are four walls and it’s pretty small and super cold. Some metal shelving lining the walls and a few standing around the room too. There’s one tiny lightbulb in the corner that isn’t really doing it’s job.” Sam tries to follow what he’s saying and as far as he can tell, the description is matching his surroundings. “Pretty sure there are some bags of blood, which is disgusting, but they’re there.
“Some vampires drugged us because I guess we were dumb and we thought we could take them.” Dean huffs out a laugh and it feels like he’s gently rocking Sam. “They dumped us in here, chained us up. I don’t know why they didn’t just get rid of us for good. Maybe they know we have people who would come after them even harder if they ganked us.” He pushes Sam’s hair out of his face. “We’re gonna get out of here though. And I got you, little brother. I got you.”
Sam nodded his head shakily. They sit in silence for a minute while Sam catches his breath a little longer before he hesitantly tips his head up to look at Dean’s face. “So you’re sure Lucifer isn’t here?”
“He’s not here, I promise.”
“Okay.”
Only now that he’s starting to calm down, does he realize how violently he’s trembling, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the cold or the panic.
Dean rubs his knee soothingly. “Hey, you’re okay, I promise. You’re fine.” He touches his own forehead and winces. “They really got us good, huh?”
Sam’s shoulders tighten when he sees the deep cut on Dean’s temple. “Are you okay?” He tries to reach for Dean’s face, worried, but he’s so stiff he can barely move.
“Hey, I’m good. I’m completely fine. I think this is just where they knocked me out." Sam stares at him. “I’ll be fine.”
Sam wants to argue, but he’s too tired and he knows it’s no use right now.
“Okay, we need to get out of here, buddy. Can you stand up?” He pulls away slightly, starting to get up, and Sam shudders at the loss of heat. “I’ll help you, come on.” He grasps his hands and supports his weight as they both stumble to their feet.
They limp across the room to the door, and Dean lets Sam slide down the wall to the floor again. “Just wait right there, Sammy. We’re almost out.”
Sam nods and closes his eyes.
“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me, man. I can’t just carry you out.” Sam is extremely aware of how loudly his Dean’s teeth are chattering.
“Mmhm. I’m just... tired. I w-won’t fall asleep. As long as you don’t take too long with that door.”
“Shut up.”
Sam coughs when he tries to laugh and smiles weakly instead.
“Seriously, man. Shut up. We’ll be out of here soon. Save your breath.”
He’s not sure how long Dean takes with the jammed lock, because as hard as he’s trying to stay present, he’s having a hard time focusing. He jerks his head up when he hears Dean finally slide the door open, trying to jump to his feet quickly, but tripping in the process.
Dean grabs him, pulling him up properly. “Whoa. Whoa, dude. You’re fine. I just got the door open, sorry.”
“It’s ok-okay.”
Dean tightens his grip on Sam’s shoulders and gently tugs him through the the doorway. They shuffle their way across the warehouse, Sam flinching at every slight creak that he hears.
“You wanna wait here while I get Baby?”
“No!” Sam inhales shakily. “No. Please.”
“Alright, okay. It’s just that the trees are pretty thick, okay?”
“I don’t care. I don’t... I don’t wanna stay alone.”
It’s an uncomfortable walk through the woods to where they’d left the Impala but it’s ten times better than it would have been to have been left alone.
Sam falls into the seat when Dean opens the door for him, his eyes closing tiredly. Dean gets in on the other side as quickly as he can and Sam reaches for him, still too anxious not to be close.
“You know what, I’ll just let Jody and Donna know about this one because we are not going after these vamps right now.”
“Dee, not for m—”
“Pfft, no, man. This is totally for me. I need a g-ddamn break after pretty much carrying you all the way here.”
Have you been thinking about writing for this year’s Sam Winchester Big Bang? Do you have an idea for a Sam-centric story that could run at 5,000 words or more? Could you have 2,500 words written before the 26 November?
Then you need to act now!
Writer sign ups for the bang will close at midnight today, 5 November (as long as it’s still 5 November somewhere in the world... you’re good). Fill in our handy sign up sheet and register your interest with us. You will then have until November 26 to write your rough draft, which should be at least half the minimum word count requirement for your bang (5,000 for minis; 15,000 for bigs). Artist claims will be on December 1.
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all i need is to remember, what it was to feel alive
ao3 link
14.01 coda || sam hasn’t slept in well over a day, and castiel tries to change that (this is probably largely @transsammywinchester‘s fault ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)
word count: 1k
“Sam… you need sleep.”
A hand rests on his shoulder. “Wha--?” Sam stops staring at table and blinks slowly, focusing on Cas, who’s standing next to him and looking down at him with a concerned squint. He hasn’t really moved since Cas went to check on Jack. “Oh. Is my mom making you do this?”
Castiel tilts his head to the side a little and smiles. “Well, I did pass her in the hall and she did ask me to convince you, yes. But I would have tried anyway.”
“Oh.” Sam holds up the now room temperature bottle of beer against his eye to avoid looking at Cas directly. “How about we try to take care of you first?”
“Sam. Going by your mother’s concern and the absolute exhaustion radiating off of you, you haven’t slept in well over a day.”
“And going off of the blood that is not only dried on your shirt but also your face, you look like shit and need to be cleaned up.” Castiel stares at him defiantly. “Look, you let me do that and then I’ll… try to sleep?"
Cas takes the beer out of his hand and pulls him to his feet. “...Alright. But you’re going to bed immediately after. Deal?”
Sam bites the inside of his mouth before squeezing Cas’s hand and letting go. “Yeah, okay, deal. I really will try.” Cas narrows his eyes. “I will. Now please go get out of your bloody suit and meet me in the kitchen. I’ll change too if it makes you feel better.”
Castiel’s hand drops from his shoulder and turns away.
Sam’s alone again.
“Here. Sit down on the table.” Sam rips open a disinfectant wipe. “Is that… one of the shirts I let you borrow?”
Castiel nods. “Still very large on me.”
“Yeah.” Sam laughs softly and presses the wipe against Cas’s eyebrow, grimacing apologetically when he flinches. “Here let me get you an ice pack.”
“It’s alri--”
He’s already opening the freezer door. “So, uh, how’s Jack?”
“He’s… well, he’s still having a hard time coping with his lack of powers.” Sam nods as Cas holds the cold pack against his bruised eye. “It’s a hard thing to deal with. You know how it is losing something like that as well.”
Sam takes in a sharp breath and looks toward the side of Castiel’s face as he keeps dabbing at the dried blood, trying to get it clean with minimal pain. “Yeah, guess we all do. Definitely not easy.” He opens a band-aid and carefully applies it to Cas’s cheek. “How is his face?”
“He’s upset by that too because it, well, reminds him, but I helped him get cleaned up.”
“That’s good… I should go talk to him, but he’s probably tired and doesn’t want to talk anyway.”
Castiel grabs Sam’s arm to make him meet his gaze. “If you’re blaming yourself for Jack getting hurt, then please stop. It’s not your fault, Sam. Not everything is your fault.”
Sam huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, well, I was the one who let him come. Bobby thought it was a bad idea, but I said yes.”
“And he’s fine. He’ll be fine. I’m sure you knew this could happen, but you kept him safe.”
“I just--” Sam rubs his forehead and winces when he presses against the corner of his eye too hard. He shakes his head when Cas tries to offer him the compress and turns away instead. “I can’t lose anyone else right now.” And G-d, Mom and Cas are right. He’s exhausted. He’s basically been on the verge of tears for almost three weeks and he’s barely ever alone.
He hears Castiel stand up and feels his hand on his shoulder, pulling him around. “I never understood you Winchesters and your inability to cry.” Sam glances away again and snorts, which causes a tear to drip onto cheekbone. “It’s just your body trying to cope, Sam. It’s fine."
“I miss him.” It’s barely a whisper but Castiel hears him and pulls him closer. Sam’s head automatically drops to his shoulder, almost relieved for physical contact. “I miss him so much.”
“Me too.”
They haven’t even been standing there for a minute when someone walks in. Sam looks up. “Hey, Nathan. Um, something wrong?”
“No. No, I was just thirsty. Everything’s okay.”
“Relative term these days.”
“Yeah, well, I’m just grabbing a beer and we can all go back to cuddling with our respective partners.”
“We’re not…” Sam frowns. “This is clearly more of a hug.”
“Or, as I like to call them, standing cuddles.”
Sam closes his eyes in tired exasperation. “Just go to bed, Nathan.”
“Of course, chief. Night, Castiel.”
Sam shakes his head as he leaves and smiles crookedly. “Well, it’s good to be back in the bunker.”
“And you need to follow your own advice and go to bed, Sam. We have a deal, and my end of it is done. Come on.” Castiel’s hand wraps around his wrist and tugs gently towards the door. “You need sleep immediately.”
“Fine.”
“Do you wanna…” Sam stops and rubs his eye too hard again as he sits down on the edge of his bed. “My mom’s still in number fifteen, and I think most of the other dust free rooms are occupied. The bed is pretty small but, uh, if you wanna stay here you can.”
“You know I don’t really sleep, Sam.” Cas squints at him in question.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
They don’t really say much more because the only thing that ever really gets spoken about nowadays is bad things, but they both lay down. Sam turns off the light next to bed and lets himself focus on Castiel’s breathing instead of letting thoughts of Dean being trapped by an angel or Nick being a few hallways away or the vampires making their way along the highway or Jack being so upset by everything.
He focuses on that and warmth of Castiel’s body until the absolute exhaustion everyone keeps pointing out finally overwhelms him completely.
got a sam + jack fic set like,, later this same night partially written up, so if anyone wants too see it completed hmu with some good ol’ motivation
Written for 2018 Summergen as a gift for @themegalosaurus. I jumped at her lovely prompt of Sam and Jack plus a little something about Sam's powers and wrote a coda to the season 13 finale.
Thanks to my beta @anotherwinchesterfangirl and to @nigeltde for her thoughts - two friends and writers who love Sam as much as I do.
Pairing: Gen | Rating: Teen | Wordcount: 4773 | Link to fic on AO3
Summary: It’s a slow procession out the front door of the Bunker that first week until it’s just the two of them left. Jack wants to comfort Sam after Michael takes off with Dean but doesn’t know how; Sam is obsessed with how to get his brother back, no matter what the cost.
It’s a slow procession out the front door of the Bunker that first week.
Sam says he can’t blame them for leaving, but Jack can.
Cas is the first one out. He waits only long enough to make sure that Sam and Jack walk in the front door alive, before mumbling something about radio silence in heaven and giving them awkward hugs. As he walks out, Jack follows him. There are things he needs to ask, things that Sam wouldn’t talk about on the ride home, but as they step outside, Cas turns and places a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“You need to stay,” Cas says and glances over Jack’s shoulder at the Bunker door. “Take care of Sam. He… he doesn’t do well without Dean.”
Sun glints off the gold hood of Cas’s car as it rolls down the gravel road and Jack goes back inside.
Rowena is next. She arrived in the chaos that followed the arrival of Lucifer and Michael and lingers only long enough for Sam to confirm that Lucifer is dead and Michael is out and about wearing a Dean-suit. She side-eyes Sam’s slumped shoulders as she strolls through the library, slipping a few spell books off the shelves and into her bag. The witch’s energy and smile are off. She makes Jack nervous but Sam doesn’t seem to notice.
“Take care of yourself, Samuel,” she says as she stops in front of him, looking small as a kitten with claws just as sharp. Sam leans down and for a moment Jack thinks he’s going to kiss her on the forehead but instead he pulls one of the books back out of her bag.
Rowena shrugs. “Word of advice. Leave Michael alone and maybe he’ll leave you alone.”
Sam never responds when people talk about the archangel or Dean, just looks away, so Jack’s surprised when Sam's hug envelops the witch, smothering her for several minutes until she pushes back. "Give me room to breathe, giant.”
She wipes her eyes before she turns back to Jack and pats his cheek. “Too bad the wee battery here can’t recharge.”
Jack holds his breath at the touch of her palm on his skin. The dab of grace that Lucifer left inside Jack still gives him the ability to sense emotions, although they are muted and dull compared to before. Rowena’s hand on his cheek sends off waves of fear and loss and envy layered with self-preservation and concern for Sam. It makes Jack want to fall on his knees. She sweeps out the door and Sam spends the rest of the day meticulously painting angel sigils around the Bunker’s main door.
Bobby and Mary are the last two to go. They stay for a few days longer, and watch Sam from doorways and whisper together in the kitchen. Bobby takes Sam aside in the war room and outlines how the two of them are eager to get out and start the hunt for Michael, and Sam listens and nods without saying a word. The two pack up a car from the garage and hit the road two days later.
Sam tries to get Jack to leave with them, says it would be good for him to be around good people, hunters that he could learn from. Bobby and Mary would take good care of him but Jack refuses to go, hiding out in his room as they leave.
Quiet falls over the Bunker that night. Jack was used to hearing Sam’s soft footfalls or Dean’s more purposeful ones in the hallways, the clatter of pots in the kitchen while dinner was made, the tinny sound of music playing loud in Dean’s headphones, or the tapping of laptop keys as Sam spent a late night at one of the library tables. There was a thrum of energy to the place. Tonight, it’s gone silent.
With his ear pressed to Sam’s door, Jack hears nothing on the other side except the soft whir of the ceiling fan. He was hoping they could talk now that everyone is gone, about some of the things that Lucifer said before he died, about why Dean would say yes, and about this terrible clenching he feels around his heart. Jack caused all of this suffering when he brought Lucifer back to the Bunker and he doesn't know how to make it better. He doesn't know how to say he’s sorry but Sam would know. Sam always knows the right thing to say.
If he would just come out of his room.
Instead, Jack sits in his bed and watches Clone Wars again. As the sixth episode starts, he punches his pillow up a few times and curls around it, drifting off to sleep. In his dream, they ride in the Impala together. He can see the backs of their heads from where he sits in the backseat - Dean’s short hair and Sam’s long - and their stubbled jaw lines as they turn to talk to each other. The sounds of Sam’s laughter and Dean’s jokes mix with the murmur of the radio and it comforts him.
“You did it.”
“No, we did it.”
In the dream, the windows darken as a rain of ash falls across the windshield. He wakes up choking in the dark of his room, trying to dig his way out of the ash, only to be wrapped in sheets and blankets.
The next few days roll by slowly. If the noisy exodus of people looking to hide from the coming apocalypse or hunt down Michael had frustrated Jack before, this quiet is worse. Sam is usually up first and fixes coffee without a word before retreating to the same chair in the library and the same dusty stack of books, his laptop screen open nearby. Jack isn’t sure that Sam is aware of him as he sits doing research or wanders like a ghost through the hallways. Jack can’t remember the last time Sam ate solid food or changed his clothes or slept more than two hours at a time, and Sam’s stony face makes it clear that Jack shouldn’t ask.
Instead, he watches reruns of Super Friends with his headphones on and sits in one of the leather chairs in the corner of the library, one eye on his screen and one eye on Sam.
It’s not that he thinks Sam would leave him to look for Dean, not really. It’s just that he’s not sure if Sam would notice that Jack wasn’t in the car with him.
With all the focus on his father returning from the other world and showing up at the Bunker, Jack had pushed the thought of Michael to the back of his mind. Sam has yet to talk about how Michael came to be inside Dean and how he came to rescue them from Lucifer. Cas’s explanation was succinct. “He chose you, Sam. Again.”
Jack senses there was a lot more behind that answer but the angel he once called his father didn’t stick around to explain. Whatever it is that Cas needs to fix in heaven, Jack doesn’t really care.
That night he hears gunshots. He peeks around the corner into the shooting range to see Sam taking target practice. An open box of ammo is spilled on the counter and Sam is firing at a shredded target down the range. When the gun is empty, Sam methodically loads it back up again and fires until empty again. Fire and load. Fire and load. Sam’s face is blank and his jaw tight as he changes the paper target out. Jack wants to reach out but waits because this isn’t the Sam he knows. The feelings of pain that roll off this Sam are sharp and cold as a tomb.
As the target goes up and Sam starts firing his fourth round, Jack can’t bear to feel that pain and runs. Through his tears, he stumbles into the garage and crawls into the Impala’s back seat. The leather smells the same as before. The small army men stuck in the ashtray are the same. He closes his eyes and can still smell Dean’s after-shave. Jack falls asleep, cheek pressed against the leather and his hand resting on the banged-up boxes of cassette tapes on the footwell.
The next day, he wanders into Dean’s room. This room was always off-limits to Jack - Dean made that very clear. Photos are scattered across the desk and a few are propped up by Dean’s lamp. Despite the yellowed paper and tattered edges, it’s easy to recognize Mary and Sam in many of them, and there’s a man who looks like Bobby and another with a bearded man who is large and dark-haired holding two small boys on the hood of the Impala. Jack pulls them in front of him, flipping through and tracing his fingertip along Sam and Dean’s faces on the cracked surfaces. They looked happy. They looked like a family.
In the last one, Mary holds a baby with dark hair which must be Sam. Hard to imagine a time when Sam was that small. He rises up tall in all of Jack’s memories from the very beginning, bigger than ...
Sam is standing in the doorway when he looks up.
“Sam, I’m sorry—“
“You should probably get some sleep now.”
Jack flushes at the words. He stands up and puts the photos back where they were and gets a nod from Sam and a wan smile as he leaves the room. Jack thought he’d be angry to find him here, invading Dean’s space, but he’s not and Jack isn’t sure which is worse.
“Hey,” Sam calls out as he walks out. “Sorry I haven’t been here for you. What Lucifer did to you - I should have warned you what he was capable of.”
Jack pauses and considers how much to jump through this door that's Sam opened. “All of you tried to tell me but I didn’t listen.”
Sam shrugs and turns to walk away. Nothing more can be said right now and his footsteps echo back down the hall as Jack falls into bed.
***
“You up?” Sam asks from the half-opened door.
Jack pulls himself up against the old headboard and nods, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as Sam sits beside him on the mattress. Dark smudges are under Sam’s eyes and his hair is greasy and lank, but he’s sitting close to Jack and that’s another open door. Strong emotions are still coming off Sam - anguish, despair, rage - but his face doesn’t show any of it.
“We should check that wound.” The knife wound from where Jack stabbed himself in the chest with the archangel blade has started to crust over and he rubs at it as Sam opens up a banged-up First Aid kit on his lap. “Another thing you’re not used to yet, huh?”
Sam waits patiently for Jack to lift his t-shirt and then sets to work changing the bandage there. Care is taken to peel the days-old gauze off and Jack feels his eyes fill with tears.
“You okay?” Sam’s brow wrinkles in concern and Jack nods, wiping at the corners of his eyes. “It’s been a long week. For all of us.”
Sam packs up the kit again and heads out of the room before Jack can work up the courage to say anything. It’s no surprise that when he comes out later he finds Sam leaning over the War Room table, his long fingers grazing across the vellum pages of a large book.
As Jack watches, his stomach gurgles - another thing he’s getting used to now that he’s mostly human and apparently still growing - and he heads to the kitchen. Ten minutes later he walks back out, carrying a tray carefully as he winds through the hallway. He sets it on the library table and pushes it towards Sam with a smile.
“Toast. Dean showed me how to make it. In the toaster. Orange juice too. He said vitamin C was important.”
Sam smiles and when Jack doesn’t leave, he picks up a piece and takes a bite to make him happy.
“I want to help,” Jack says. “And you need a shower.”
Sam chokes on the toast and sets it down on the plate. “I guess I do.”
“You’re the reason I’m alive,” Jack blurts out. “This was all my fault. Lucifer coming into the Bunker. Dean--”
Sam's eyes open wide. “Jack, it wasn’t your fault. Lucifer manipulates everyone. I should have told you before, talked about the things he was capable of, but--” He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, and when he looks up at Jack again, his eyes are wet and his mouth is a tight line. “But I couldn’t.”
When Jack starts to protest, Sam waves him off. “If you want to help, I have an idea, thanks to Rowena of all people. Not sure it’s a good idea but we got nothing else. Let me shower and we’ll talk. Okay?”
Sam scrubs a hand through his hair and ambles towards his room and Jack takes his place at the table, pulling the book towards him.
In Norse mythology, the apples of Iðunn are what kept the gods and goddesses forever youthful and their powers strong. Her name translates to “ever young” and she is often referred to as the Rejuvenator.
Jack is well into the story about Loki and his role in kidnapping Iðunn when Sam walks back into the War Room with damp hair and wrinkled but clean clothes.
“Do you see?” Sam says as he pulls out the chair next to Jack. When Jack shakes his head, Sam takes a minute before he speaks again. “The apples - the fruit - help the gods to stay youthful but more importantly to us, it keeps their powers strong. It rejuvenates them, recharges their powers like a battery.”
Too bad the wee battery here can’t recharge.
“You think we can charge up my powers?” Jack says. Hope flood his body and he pushes the chair back. “So that I can fight Michael?”
A flicker of guilt travels across Sam’s face and that's too much for Jack.
“I’ll do it. Whatever you need.”
He doesn’t know a lot about spellwork or witchcraft and listens to everything Sam says about careful measurements and the precise annunciation of the words. He is planning to combine a few of the spells from the Men of Letters archives and use the last remaining fruit they have from the Tree of Life. It’s a risk because it’s the last one they have and Cas isn’t answering his phone or any of Jack’s prayers. Sam reassures him that Cas always comes back and heaven’s issues can be next on their list after Michael if this works.
It’s a reach. Sam doesn’t know whether the modified spells will work together, and Rowena would only offer lukewarm encouragement from a distance. She wants them to succeed but has no intention to get involved with archangels again.
He watches Sam. Closely. That gray cloud of desperation and guilt that has surrounded Sam since that awful moment in the church - thanks for the suit - has lifted and now there’s a steely focus to his thoughts that Jack’s never felt before.
That afternoon, the two of them drive to a Wiccan shop called The Green Witch in Kansas City. It’s sunny and beautiful outside and Jack rolls down his window to soak in the warmth while Sam talks more than he has in the previous week. As they drive, he points out Lawrence, where he was born and Dean spent the first four years of his life and talks about the case they had in their childhood home. Jack asks questions about John, what kind of father he was, and Sam answers obliquely about the time they spent on the road, changing schools every few weeks, and some of the craziest motels they stayed at as kids.
“Dean’s favorite when we were little was this cowboy hotel out in Wyoming. They had two wooden horses out front, painted to look real. Dean insisted that we sit on them and Dad took our picture. Wish I knew what happened to it. That picture. Could have been at Bobby’s house when it burned down.”
Jack doesn’t interrupt the nostalgic flow of words and lets it all wash over him. It’s comforting to hear the sound of Sam’s voice again after so much silence and they arrive in Kansas City before he hears everything he wants to know about that high school they went to in Ohio.
Sam recognizes the lady behind the counter at the Wiccan shop. She’s thin and pale and reminds Jack of the elves in Lord of The Rings, minus the pointy ears. She nods solemnly as Sam reads off his list of ingredients and Jack explores the display of crystals in the front window. They’re pretty, clear and pink and purple, and they sparkle in the sun but he’s not sure what they have to do with witchcraft. He wraps his fingers around the largest one and feels a humming sensation deep inside his core.
“They have the amber and oil of acacia,” Sam says as he comes up behind Jack, eyeing the crystal. “Maybe you shouldn’t touch that. It looks expensive.”
“We need to buy this.”
“We need to go and I don’t have an extra--” Sam pulls the price tag away from the crystal and his eyes roll back. “$300. Definitely not.”
When Sam goes to walk away, Jack grabs his wrist. “It helps. I can tell.”
Sam sighs and picks it up. “Can’t hurt.”
***
It’s dark when they return to the Bunker, and Jack is exhausted. Sam heads to the library, paper shopping bags in his arms, as soon as they walked up from the garage.
“Wait, Sam. You need sleep too.”
Sam pauses with his foot on the step leading up out of the War Room, the soft golden glow of the library desk lights reflecting on the planes of his face. “We’re so close, Jack. This can’t wait.”
“You’ve only slept a few hours since your mother left. I’ve been watching,” he says and when Sam doesn’t move, he adds, “You said spells are easy to mess up and this is too important.”
Sam considers this and nods. “You’re right. I’ll get some sleep.”
***
His dream tonight isn’t about the other world. It isn’t about the archangels. Sam is with him in a forest; the leaves rich and green and fluttering in the wind and the branches so dense that the sun doesn’t hit the ground where they stand.
Sam stands next to him - well, stands above him, broad and imposing like he isn’t in real life. His muscles and neck are thick, his face as dark as the forest around them. Jack wants to ask where they are going but Sam grabs his hand and pulls him along. He’s unsure where they’re going, but Sam seems to know so he just stumbles behind.
***
When he walks through the hallway the next morning, he can hear Sam talking inside the kitchen and waits outside the door.
“Max, I could really use your help.”
When he peeks around the corner, Sam is seated at the canteen table, holding his cell in one hand and rubbing his temple with the other.
“This is about Dean. This spell I’m working on - I’m not sure if I’m doing this right. If you could—“
Jack hears the tinny response of the person on the other line and Sam’s irritated breaths as if he’s holding back words. Finally, the words stop and Sam sighs.
“Of course, Max, I understand you’re busy. If you can’t come, at least tell me if you think it’s going to work.”
Jack wants to grab the phone out of Sam’s hand and yell at this Max person to help but instead, he listens as Sam talks through the ingredient list and writes down a few adjustments.
***
Jack doesn’t find Sam at the shooting range that night. Instead, he’s slouched at the library table, halfway through a bottle of Jack.
“Sam,” he calls softly. Sam tosses back the last of his drink and looks up. The cold, stone anger from the shooting range is gone. Sam’s eyes are wet and Jack can feel a flood of sorrow washing over him. “Please, let me help.”
He pries the glass from Sam’s hand and moves the bottle back before pulling him to his feet.
“It’s all my fault,” Sam slurs. “If I could just stop dying, Dean would be here. He should be here.”
He guides Sam to his bedroom and lays him across the mattress. As Jack pulls off his boots, Sam begins to snore.
***
That next morning, they rise before sun-up. Sam makes a thermos full of coffee and has Jack pack up the last of the donuts they got when they were in town yesterday. Jack likes the filled ones, the lady behind the counter called them bismarcks, while Sam got a few cinnamon sugar ones. They head out to the nearby state park and find a spot by a creek that Sam remembered.
Max thought it was important for the spell to be done out in the open, over grass and dirt instead of concrete, with water running nearby, so they could draw upon all four elements. As the night sky begins to turn indigo with the dawn, Sam sketches out a sigil in the dirt with a stick and starts a small campfire in the center that is more smoke than flame. He then crushes the last of the Fruit of Life with his mortar and pestle, and the two of them settle down on opposite sides of the circle.
Jack pulls an envelope out of one pocket and the crystal from the Wiccan shop window in the other. The ink on the envelope is smudged from where he held it tightly in the car but he can still read the words to the spell.
He takes a deep breath. Not that he’s worried about whether it will work or what it might feel like to have his powers back. Michael deserves to be destroyed after everything he’s done. Jack was so sure of this when they were on the other side but now, killing Michael could mean he kills Dean, then Sam would have nothing left.
As the sun cracks the horizon, Sam puts the fruit inside a small metal bowl and sets it over the fire in offering to Iðunn. The mixture begins to smoke, and he nods at Jack to begin the incantation with him.
Sam’s deep voice and Jack’s higher one repeat the lines again and again, and nothing happens. There’s no flash of light, no sound from the fire, and Jack feels no different even as Sam searches his face for some kind of sign of transformation.
Sam’s eyes close and he continues to chant the words of the spell so Jack does the same until he hears Sam’s voice come to a halt. In the silence that follows, a few crows can be heard cawing from a nearby field and little sparrows hop on the ground nearby and let out their sharp trills. There is a splash of small fish in the creek, but no sign.
“Sam?” Jack opens his eyes.
Another ten minutes go by before Sam begins to put out the fire and gather up their things to leave.
***
When they arrive home, Sam disappears into his room and Jack sits in the library for hours. He practices and practices but the pencil won’t rise off the table, no matter how hard he tries.
***
Mary calls the next morning. She and Bobby are following a lead. A well-dressed man matching Dean’s description was seen in Chicago, and they promise to send Sam the security camera footage later when they get to the motel. He nods and his eyes are blank as he hands off the phone to Jack. Mary asks him how things are going, how Sam is doing and Jack’s answers are vague. If Sam didn’t tell her about the spell, he’s not going to either. Not that it matters.
While Mary talks on about them stopping by old Bobby’s junkyard in Sioux Falls, Jack watches Sam pulling books from the library shelves and piling them up on the table next to his laptop. The pile grows as Mary talks. By the time she says goodbye, Sam waves off the phone when Jack offers it again, pulling out a large black book from a drawer under the card catalog, leafing through the chicken scratch writing on its vellum pages.
He puts the phone back in its cradle in the kitchen and a wave of angry tears surprise him. No amount of toast or apologies will help get Dean back and without his powers, he’s useless. Impotence gnaws at his insides and the idea of walking back out to the library to face Sam crushes him, but he is tired of being alone. He wipes the hot tear tracks away and breathes in and out deeply, a tip Sam taught him those first few days in the Bunker.
Ice cream, he thinks. Sam bought me some ice cream yesterday. It’s ridiculous but it’s all he can think of to do right then, digging the carton out of the freezer and scooping the cookie dough ice cream into two bowls.
Sam doesn’t look up when Jack walks back in with the bowls; instead, he slams the book shut that he’s reading, running a hand through his hair. “More pages are missing. Goddamnit Rowena!” Tears are welling up in Sam’s eyes as he sweeps the book off the table and the Black Grimoire lands at Jack’s feet.
Jack hesitates; he can’t pick it up with his hands full and senses that this is a bad time to comfort Sam.
“Goddamnit!” Sam’s face screws up and he slams his fists down on the table, and then all hell breaks loose in the room. The laptop spins off the table to hit one of the brick pillars, cracking open and falling to the floor, and the bowls in Jack’s hand explode and he can feel stripes of cold ice cream where it hits his face and arms. There’s a moment of silence in the room that is broken as Jack drops the remaining shards of ceramic to the ground.
They look at each other in shock.
“Was that you?” Sam whispers to Jack who still hasn’t moved. He doesn’t feel the same coursing of energy through his body like before or its glassy after-effects and shakes his head.
“That wasn’t me.”
The blood runs from Sam’s face and he plucks at the front of his plaid overshirt as he stumbles back. “No, no. That’s not possible.”
“Sam,” Jack wipes his sticky hands on his jeans and steps closer. “Could the spell have--”
“NO.” The sound that Sam makes is high and desperate, and Jack can feel it now. The power coming off Sam is like the hum of an electrical station.
“It’s not me, Sam. It’s you.” He grabs his hand and Sam flinches back. Jack’s heard some of the stories from him - the visions, the demon blood, the mistakes - and what it was like to struggle with powers you didn’t understand. “Your powers from before? Or maybe some leftover angel grace inside you?”
Sam slumps down against the pillar, next to the ruined laptop, and Jack doesn’t let go of his hand, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him. Sam’s breathing is ragged and his eyes move between the busted laptop next to him to the ice cream mess at the entrance and then back again.
“This is not good. This is never good,” he whispers.
Jack squeezes Sam’s hand until he finally looks away from the wreckage. “It can be. Don’t you see, Sam? We finally have a way to face Michael.”
Sam’s eyes roll back and Jack squeezes again. “I know you’re scared, but I’m here to help you, just like you helped me. Remember what you said to me, Sam? The choice is up to you what you do with your powers. And I know you can be good.”
He can sense the panic and the fear, but Jack has faith in Sam. This is something that he can finally help with, something the two of them can use when they catch Michael and maybe, just maybe, rescue Dean. He smiles and helps Sam to his feet.
Just remembered my headcanon that Brady helped Sam through all the anxiety that came from leaving Dean and the hunting lifestyle at Stanford (that’s why he took longer than 4 years there!) and their relationship ended up being Sam’s first with a guy and the one that helped him realize his orientation.
hello im so sorry for replying to this so late. it just seemed like,, such a good fic idea ily payton <3
sam takes a deep breath in, and breathes it out through his nose but it doesn’t work as well as it should have. his chest still feels tight and he still feels like screaming, but he can’t because he’ll wake brady up. he bites down on his wrist again to resist the urge and chokes on a sob.
maybe he shouldn’t have ever left. he’s probably gonna fucking fail all his classes anyway. maybe becoming complacent and just hunting for the rest of his life would’ve been a better idea.
and he misses him, fuck. he misses dean.
he thinks he hears a noise and winces because he probably failed in his attempt at staying quiet and then the door handle rattles and brady’s soft voice breaks through (yet another) hazy existential crisis.
“sam? are you okay?”
sam drags his hands through his hair and shrugs even though brady can’t see him. which is actually great. brady seeing him right now doesn’t seem ideal. “ye–yeah, i’m fine. just can’t sleep. need to uh….. wash my face.”
there’s quiet and sam very slowly gets to his feet and turns on the faucet.
“i…. i thought i heard you crying, sam.”
sam spills water on his shirt. “wha–what? no, i just…. it was probably the water. the sink. the faucet.”
“right.” he doesn’t sound remotely convinced. he sounds almost as unconvinced as sam does. “……you really think you’re okay?”
sam chokes out an awkward, strangled, tear soaked laugh at that as he dries his face, which with how gentle and caring brady’s voice is, isn’t going to stay dry for long.
brady laughs too, but it seems shakier and more concerned. “do you mind opening the door?”
sam puts his hand on the handle and leans his forehead against the frame. “can you give me just two seconds?”
the response sounds like a yes.
a full, silent two minutes passes until sam’s fingers fumble with the lock and he lets the door swing open. “i’m okay, man,” he whispers.
brady huffs out another laugh and this time it’s vaguely incredulous. “you don’t have to say that, winchester.” his hand tentatively brushes against sam’s jaw.
he instantly leans into it, which probably surprises both of them, and brady bites his lip. “can i…. do you want a hug?”
sam just kinda falls against him when he says that and they stand there for seconds or minutes or half an hour. they just stand there, with sam silently crying against brady’s neck and shoulder.
he pulls away though, feeling uncomfortably annoying and slides down the wall to the hallway carpet. brady follows him.
“i’m so sorry,” sam mumbles, and he’s not sure he even said it loudly enough for brady to hear. “before you ask, i can’t even tell you what’s wrong. i’m just…. tired, i guess? i’m super worried i’m gonna fail my classes and g-d i miss my brother, dean. and now you even found me sobbing in the fucking bathroom.” he snorts out an awkward laugh. “and, uh, washing my face.”
“not exactly your best excuse, huh?” brady smiles. “and you don’t have to apologize, sam. i got you.”
lost in the in-between, or so it seems // i'm out of control
@sahwen asked: “That’s it. If you throw up on more time we’re going to the hospital.” with sam and cas? platonic or romantic, either is good!
anonymous asked: “If you didn’t just blink I would’ve sworn you were dead, that’s how sickly you’re looking. Go to bed, please!” w whoever ?? i rlly like that prompt sldkfjlskf
im allegedly still alive yo
it’s s8 trials!sam + samcasdean but like,, vv queer platonic which i fuckin love okay. he’s doing terrible both physically and mentally and dean and cas are desperately trying to take care of him and obviously there’s some vomiting so like,,,,, , just a warning my dudes xoxo
ao3
Sam is sitting huddled at one of the library tables, chilled despite the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the burning heat of his feverish body. He’s clutching a bloody tissue in one hand in case he needs to cough up his lungs again, but the other hand is methodically flipping pages and scrolling through his laptop. Maybe he should sleep.
Maybe he should die.
Dean is sitting in the war room, doing G-d only knows what on his laptop, but he keeps glancing at Sam every few minutes—if not every few seconds— to make sure he’s okay. Or at the very least not collapsing. He’s probably also hoping that Sam will eat a little more than one g-ddamn bite of the grilled cheese sandwich he’d brought him two hours ago for dinner. And Sam wants to, for Dean if not for himself, but he can’t bring himself to do it. The smell and the sight itself makes his stomach turn a little, and he can’t.
Sam sees Castiel come into the war room and talk quietly to Dean out of the corner of his eye, and that probably means they’re both gonna come in here and try to take care of him. It’s sweet, but Sam doesn’t even deserve it.
And they’re both so worried about him. It makes him feel terrible, even though the rational part of his brain is telling him that it’s illogical. That they’re two grown people who can decide who or what they want to worry about. That, possibly, he even deserves the worry. The last one is the hardest to believe, and maybe it’s really not coming from the rational part of his brain.
Castiel and Dean are walking into the library, which means Sam was right.
“Yo, Sam, you gotta eat something, man.” Dean is staring at him, his jaw obviously clenched, trying to keep himself from going into full on Big Brother mode.
“If you didn’t just blink, I would’ve sworn you were dead, Samuel.” Castiel touches his shoulder gingerly, almost like he’s scared Sam is just gonna… shatter and turn to dust. “That’s how sickly you’re looking. Go to bed, please!”
Sam knows how awful he looks. He’s refused to look in a mirror in over a week and every time he accidentally catches a glance he just wants to shrink into himself because he knows and it almost makes him feel ashamed because he can barely do the basics like brush his hair and wash his face. Shame and guilt are apparently his main emotions currently.
“I’m fi—” He starts coughing again and instead of letting them see the kleenex with the blood splotches on it and making them more worried, he coughs into his elbow, which is a mistake because he now has splatters of red on his pink flannel.
Dean’s whole face crashes with concern but he laughs shakily. “Oh, yeah, Sammy. Spitting blood out onto your clothes is totally fine.” Sam attempts a weak smile, and that breaks Dean completely because he’s kneeling next to Sam’s chair and holding his hand a little too tightly. “Sam, what the hell, just let us take care of you for once. Please.”
“You don’t have to, Dee. It’s okay.”
“Sammy…” Dean always complains about Sam’s puppy dog eyes, but Dean. G-d, Dean puts everything into his pleading when he deems it’s necessary.
Sam nods hesitantly, and Cas, who’s been standing there with his hand on Sam’s shoulder this whole time, helps him stand up. “You need sleep, but as Dean said, you should eat something first. Does… anything sound appealing?”
“Uh… Just not something greasy? I don’t… Actually whatever, I’ll just eat a little of whatever you give me.”
“Nuh-uh, Sammy. You’re telling us what you want, and you’re not gonna feel bad about it.” Dean is glaring at him, but it’s a… kind, concerned glare.
“Uhm… Not anything super greasy because it makes me feel kinda nauseous.” Sam notices Dean glance at the grilled cheese sandwich on the table and wince. “Maybe uhh… some fruits? Or something? Really it’s fi—” This time his “fine” gets interrupted by Cas kissing his cheek quickly instead of another coughing fit, which is a relief, really.
They help him to their room, the biggest bedroom in the bunker, where they have two beds pushed together so it’s big enough for the three of them. Dean follows Castiel out because “he wants to do something for Sam” despite Castiel’s protests.
Sam smiles and shakes his head slightly as they argue down the hall and let’s himself sink into the pillow. It’s soft and nice, and Sam is so tired, but he can’t sleep because 1) Dean and Cas want him to eat and 2) it’s hard for him to sleep alone right now. He can’t really do it when he’s feeling this shitty.
He glances down at his pink flannel and feels a flash of disappointment, which just adds to the feeling of despair and exhaustion, because it’s one of his favorite shirts and now it has blood on the sleeve.
“Cas fuckin’ kicked me out of the kitchen. Said I’d—” Sam looks up as Dean airquotes “—make it take longer.” He sits down on the bed next to Sam shaking his head. “I’m good at slicing fruits and shit. Hell, I make food for you all the time! I’m perfectly capable!”
Sam is trying to hide a grin, and Dean rolls his eyes at him. “Hey, it’s not funny!” He knows it’s more about Dean just wanting to be helpful than the actual cooking thing but it’s still amusing.
“It kinda is actually.”
Dean makes a face before his eyes slide down to Sam’s flannel. “You love that shirt…” He meets Sam’s gaze again. “I can get the blood out if you want…?” His eyes look hopeful and expectant and Sam nods.
“You’d do that?”
“Anything for my little brother.”
Sam winces as he sits up, and Dean gently unbuttons the front and gets it off Sam. “You maybe want a clean hoodie and sweats? Sleeping in jeans is bullshit.”
Sam sighs in exasperation but he appreciates it. “I… yeah, sure.”
Dean helps him tug the white shirt he was wearing under the flannel off and finds him a freshly washed sweater before getting him to his feet and trying to help him change out of his jeans even though Sam just shakes his head because he’s making it more complicated. Sam crashes back onto the bed, a little harder than he intended because his tiredness just made him drop. “Dude, be careful, dammit.” Dean pulls the blanket over Sam’s shoulder and presses his lips against his hair. “I’ll be back in a sec, and I swear I’m getting that blood out of your flannel. I’ve gotten blood out of so many clothes, I’m practically an expert.” He flashes him a grin and leaves with the shirt.
Castiel comes back a little after Dean leaves with a bowl of fruit salad on top of a tray. “Where’s Dean?”
“Washing my shirt since you shoved him out of the kitchen.”
Cas shakes his head with a dramatic eyeroll and sits down, putting the tray on Sam’s lap after he sits up against the headboard. “I hope this tastes good and won’t make you feel sick?”
“Thank you, Cas.”
“Of course.”
Sam’s too tired and wrecked to eat it all but he manages to swallow down more than half of it but it’s better than usual. He feels even more tired after Cas leaves to put the dishes away, turning off one of the bedside lights so it’s dimmer, but it’s a more content exhaustion now except for the uncomfortable churning in his stomach after actually eating again.
“Hey,” Dean whispers as he walks into the room and Sam squints his eyes open from where he was trying to fall asleep alone. “I got your flannel all cleaned up and it’s drying now.” Sam smiles softly in thanks. Dean strips down to his boxers and slips under the blankets.
“Dude, Dean, you don’t have to sleep yet. It’s barely nine.”
Dean grins his lopsided grin and curls up against Sam, his chest radiating welcome heat again Sam’s back through his sweater. “You sleep better with people and besides, I’m getting old and maybe I need to sleep more.” Sam can feel his lips twist into a smile against his neck and he shakes his head.
“Okay, old man.”
When Castiel comes to bed Sam pulls him as close as he can, feeling even colder than usual.
“G-d, you’re a fucking furnace, Sammy,” Dean whines but he doesn’t move away. “Like, more than usual. You okay, man?”
“I’m fine. My stomach feels a little weird but it’s okay.”
“Are you sure, Sam?” Castiel shifts against him and Sam nods.
“Yeah, really, I’m okay.”
Cas makes a noise like he’s not sure he believes him but neither of them say anything and Sam falls asleep for the first time in almost forty hours.
He wakes up to feeling straight up nauseous and he awkwardly clambers to his knees, almost elbowing Dean in the face and definitely kneeing Cas in the stomach.
“Sam-Sammy?” Dean mumbles, confused and half asleep. Castiel who wasn’t really asleep as so much as lying there with his eyes closed sits up and grabs Sam’s arm.
“Bathroom, G-d, fuck, I need to get to the bathroom.” He stumbles to his feet with Castiel still holding onto his arm and at this point Dean’s protective instinct has overridden his lack of consciousness and he’s off the bed.
“Sammy, what’s wrong?”
“I feel really sick, man, I don’t know.” Another wave of nausea hits him and he has to bite down on his tongue to keep from vomiting right here and now in the hallway. He pulls away from Castiel, somehow thinking that’ll help him get through the door to the bathroom quicker. Cas catches him as he drops to his knees in front of the toilet, barely pulling his hair away from his face before Sam throws up the little food he forced himself to swallow down.
Dean’s next to Sam and pushing away a few extra strands of hair from his sweaty forehead when he stops dry heaving. He groans and presses his forehead against the toilet seat. He feels exhausted, which is a normal feeling but it’s worse all of a sudden.
“Do you want some water?” Cas doesn’t even wait for a reply before leaving the bathroom and Sam mumbles a raspy thank you after him.
Dean rubs his back slowly, trying to help him relax. “Shh, it’s okay, Sammy. Just take some deep breaths.”
“G-d, Dean, I feel so sick.” Sam knows he sounds whiney but he can’t actually bring himself to care enough to stop.
“I know and I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly, still rythmically running his hand over Sam’s shoulder. “You’ll feel better here in a little bit, okay? You’ll be fine.”
Castiel comes back with the water and Sam gulps it down quicker than he should, his throat aching. He’s not sure whether it hurts more before, during, or after and for some reason he laughs; it’s a little high pitched and delirious. “It’s gonna come up again in a second.”
Dean gives him a concerned smile. “Jesus, okay.”
It takes closer to thirty seconds, but he vomits again, and by now both Castiel and Dean are on the tile, trying to soothe him by rubbing his back and keeping his hair out of his face. A hand presses against his hot forehead and he thinks it’s Castiel. “That’s it. If you throw up one more time, we’re going to the hospital.
“No, Cas, please. No—” He coughs. “Please don’t take me to the hospital. Please. They can’t do anything anyway.”
“Okay, shh, it’s okay. We won’t go then.” Castiel runs his fingers through Sam’s greasy hair gently. “It’s okay.”
Sam gives him a weak smile but it breaks into a another painful round of spitting absolutely nothing into the toilet bowl. “Could you… Could you get more water maybe?” He looks up at Cas pleadingly.
He ends up throwing that up too, but he’s slowly starting to feel a little less absolutely and completely horrible. Dean’s tugging on his shoulders and pulling him back against him and Sam just lets himself collapse against his chest. This time when he opens his mouth, it’s a tired fucking yawn.
“Hey, if you’re feeling okay enough to get up, you need to get to bed, big guy,” Dean whispers softly and Sam nods a little. Castiel grips his hand and they both help him back to their room after he washes his face by the sink.
Sam presses his face against Dean’s neck and he can feel the comforting thereness of Castiel against his back and he lets out a sigh of what might actually be contentedness.
lol validation welcome // come talk to me [peace sign]
