prompt from @vanessacatt: trial!sam in bed unable to really move or speak, maybe emotionally exhausted too due to fever, malnutrition, sleep deprivation and dean being super soft and taking care of his sammy💕
this got long, sorry, so i put most of it under a cut. enjoy! <3
warning: spoilers for supernatural season 8
--
It’s been a difficult day.
It starts with Sam waking up with a fever, and then vomiting whatever he’d managed to keep down in the last twenty-four hours. It’s only downhill from there. Dean spends all morning trying to bring Sam’s temperature down, and only just manages to succeed by afternoon thanks to a combination of heavy-duty meds, ice packs, and patience.
After that it’s a battle to get some fluids into Sam. Dean starts out optimistic, making tomato rice soup as best as he can from memory, but two spoonfuls of that and Sam is throwing up again, pale and shaky and apologetic. He tries orange juice after that, but it doesn’t go down any easier, and in the end he resorts to water. Thankfully, Sam manages to keep some of that down, but Dean is well aware that his belly is empty and medicine on an empty stomach is just going to make him more miserable.
It’s after sunset that Sam finally manages to go back to sleep. Dean remains by his side, propped up uncomfortably in the chair by Sam’s bed, not taking his eyes off his brother even for a second. Sam has lost a significant amount of weight over the past few weeks -- it had been happening, slowly, ever since the first trial, but after the second one the effect is more pronounced, with Sam’s ribs visible under his skin, and the knobs of his spine sticking out in a way that makes Dean feel abjectly helpless. Sam’s skin is sallow, bags under his eyes, and even his hair has lost its shine, something that Dean cannot bring himself to even joke about anymore.
His little brother is wasting away right before his eyes, and there is nothing he can do about it.
The third trial is nowhere in sight, and even if it was... the way Sam is right now, Dean’s not sure he should even let Sam do it. Then again, this is Sam, and when he sets his mind to something there’s no force that can stop him. All Dean can really do is look after him, and be there with him, and make sure he’ll be all right.
Dean lets out a slow exhale as he watches Sam’s chest rise and fall with every breath. The dim lamplight makes his skin look paler than it already is, throwing his cheekbones, jawline, and collarbones into sharp relief. He’s not wearing a shirt, having sweated through two t-shirts earlier, and Dean can literally count his ribs. Every time Sam exhales his belly stretches taut between his hipbones, making them jut out sharply, and the sight makes Dean vaguely nauseous. No human being should look this damn emaciated, dammit.
With an inward sigh Dean pulls the covers up to Sam’s chest -- only a thin blanket at this point -- and then sits back down in his chair, resigning himself to a few hours of uncomfortable sleep. He’s too afraid to go back to his own room; his brain won’t stop coming up with horrifying scenarios, all of them involving Sam being alone and needing Dean and Dean not being there. Sam is so weak right now that he can barely raise his voice above a hoarse whisper; there’s no way he’d be able to call out to Dean if he needed anything.
Leaving the lamp on, Dean shifts until he can find some semblance of comfort in the chair, and then closes his eyes. Sleep comes easy; he’s been awake for as long as Sam has, and it’s been an exhausting day.
--
Dean wakes with a start in the middle of the night. The lamp is still on, and as his eyes struggle to adjust to the light he can hear Sam’s heavy, labored breathing. His little brother is lying on his side, wide awake, watching Dean and breathing slowly through his parted lips.
“Sammy?” Dean asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Everything all right?”
Sam nods. “Nightmare,” he whispers. “Can’ sleep.”
“How long you been awake for?” Dean asks, stretching. His back and shoulders ache in protest, something he ignores. They’ll be fine once he gets some sleep in an actual bed. Whenever that is.
(He tries not to think about how it might possibly not be until after Sam’s... no. Nothing is going to happen to Sam. He’ll get better, and he’ll be sleeping through the night soon, and then Dean can go back to his own room. Sam’s not going anywhere.)
“A while,” Sam answers. He’s curled under the blanket, only his head poking out, and Dean feels guiltily grateful for that, for not having Sam’s skinny chest and arms in sight.
“D’you need anything?” he asks.
Sam shakes his head. “No,” he tells Dean, voice slurry from weakness and fatigue. “I’ll jus’ - jus’ throw it up.”
“Still nauseous?” Dean asks, wincing in sympathy when Sam nods. “Damn. I’m sorry, Sammy. I wish there was something I could do to help, man.”
“You are helping,” Sam tells him, voice cracking a little. “More’n you know. You don’ - you don’ have to.”
“What are you talking about?” Dean asks, leaning forward in the chair and resting his elbows on his knees. “’Course I have to, Sammy--”
“‘S not fair to you,” Sam says quietly. Something about the resignation in his tone shuts Dean up immediately. “‘M jus’ a burden t’you, Dean. ‘S not fair.”
“Hey,” Dean says, voice coming out harsher than he’d intended. Sam flinches a little, but Dean goes on, “Hey, Sam, you stop that, you hear? You’re not a burden, man. Come on. Hell, I’m the one feeling useless right now ‘cause you’re sick and ain’t jack I can do to make it go away.”
“You bein’ here helps,” Sam tells him after a moment. His eyes are glossy from fever, but for the first time in almost two days he seems entirely coherent.
“I’m glad,” Dean answers softly. “Don’t think I’m here ‘cause I ain’t got a choice, all right, Sammy? I’m here ‘cause I want to be. You’re my little brother, man. ‘Course I’m gonna look out for you no matter what.”
That earns him a small but genuine smile. “Thank you,” Sam says, barely audible.
“You don’t need to thank me, Sammy.”
Sam’s smile widens enough for a dimple to show, and something inside Dean melts at the sight. It’s been so long since he’s seen it, and he hadn’t even realized how much he missed it until now.
He gets out of his chair, Sam’s gaze tracking him as he sits back down on the bed, next to Sam. “Man, you gotta get better, y’hear?” he tells Sam, gently brushing Sam’s sweat-damp hair out of his face. “You gotta kick these trials in the ass, and you gotta - you gotta be okay again, man.”
Sam’s smile fades a little at that. “Dean...”
“Don’t,” Dean says forcefully, already knowing what Sam’s going to say. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, okay? I won’t let it.”
“You don’t know that,” Sam says, a little sadly.
“Yeah, I do,” Dean answers fiercely, not letting on how absolutely and utterly terrified he is at the very prospect of losing Sam. “Yeah I do, Sammy. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Understand me?”
“Dean--”
But whatever Sam is about to say is interrupted by a coughing fit; the fever-flush of his nose and cheekbones dissolves into wanness, face going bloodless as he hacks up what sounds like his entire lung. His eyes are watering, one hand clutching his chest as the other reaches out, and Dean grabs it immediately, free hand on Sam’s back as he helps him sit up.
“Hey, you’re okay,” he mutters as he rubs circles into Sam’s back, waiting for the coughing to pass. This is not the first time, but that doesn’t make it any easier, hearing Sam’s wheezing, watching him cough so hard that there are tears running down his face as he tries to catch his breath. “Let it out, Sammy, that’s it...”
It takes a few minutes, but it passes, and Sam slumps into Dean’s side, exhausted. His pulse is rabbit-fast and thready under the thin skin of his throat, and he’s breathing hard, making little sounds of pain with each inhale. It tears at Dean’s heart, makes him want to wrap Sam in around ninety blankets and hide him from the world, but that’s not entirely possible right now. They’re already closeted away in this old bunker; that’s as good as it’s going to get, as far as hiding Sam goes.
“Water?” Dean asks, when Sam’s breathing starts coming a little easier.
Sam nods, sweaty forehead sliding against Dean’s shoulder. Dean helps him sit up again, adjusting pillows behind him so that he’s resting against the headboard, and then hands him a glass of water from the bedside table.
Sam sips slowly, hands shaking with effort as he holds the glass up. Once or twice Dean tries to reach out and hold it for Sam but Sam doesn’t let him, shaking his head until Dean withdraws his hands. This is the last bit of independence his little brother’s got, and Dean’s not about to take it from him against his will. The rest of it must have him feeling humiliated enough as it is, bedridden and weak and feverish and unable to do much without Dean’s help, like he’s a toddler again. And Dean could tell him a thousand times that he’s got nothing to be embarrassed about, but he knows Sam -- his fierce, independent, stubborn Sammy -- won’t believe him.
Sam hands back the glass when he’s had about a quarter of it, and Dean sets it back on the table before getting into the bed next to Sam. Going by the grateful look Sam gives him, it’s obvious that he’d been wanting this but had been too shy to ask for it. Giving him a small smile, Dean helps him lie down again, and makes sure he’s as comfortable as he can be before he, too, lies down next to him.
“Let me know if you feel too hot,” he tells Sam.
Instead of replying, Sam moves his head from his pillow to Dean’s chest, throwing one arm around his middle. It scares Dean a little how thin his arm is, and how when he puts his arm around Sam’s shoulders he can feel every single bone underneath his skin, but he doesn’t say a word.
“‘M fine,” Sam tells him. Dean can’t tell if the slurring is now from weakness or sleep.
“What did you dream about?” he asks softly, using his free hand to pull the covers up over both of them.
They haven’t shared a bed in literal decades, not counting motel rooms with only kings. It had been normal when they were kids -- Sam used to crawl into Dean’s bed and burrow into his side, and fall asleep right there as Dean read him a story. It only stopped after Sam hit puberty -- gangly, growing limbs combined with inconvenient boners at any given time did not make for a pleasant night’s sleep for either of them. And Dean will never admit it, possibly not even under pain of death, but he’s missed this -- having Sam next to him, curled into his side and radiating warmth.
Or fever heat, in this case, but Dean’s not feeling up to hashing out specifics.
“Dreamed ‘bout Mom,” Sam tells him. His eyes are closed, fingers curled loosely into the material of Dean’s shirt, and Dean rubs absent circles into the skin of his shoulder as he listens to him talk.
“Yeah? What about Mom?”
“Forget it,” Sam says after a few moments of silence. “Wasn’ a good dream.”
Dean frowns. “You had a nightmare about Mom?”
“Mm.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No,” Sam answers. “It was bad.”
The way his voice cracks at the end tells Dean all he needs to know. “It wasn’t real, you know that, right?” he tells Sam gently. “Whatever you saw. It was just a bad dream.”
“But she wasn’ wrong,” Sam murmurs into Dean’s chest. “Mom. What she said.”
He seems to be slipping into delirium again, which isn’t surprising considering how feverish and weak he is. Dean resolves to try again to get some food into him in the morning, but for now, he’s got other things to deal with. “And what did Mom say, Sammy?”
“She said ‘m a... a monster,” Sam whispers. It’s only because he’s half-asleep and barely lucid that he’s even saying this much, Dean knows, and it makes his heart sink down to his stomach.
“You’re not,” he tells Sam in a fierce whisper. “Sammy, you’re not a monster. It was just a nightmare. Mom would never call you a monster.”
Instead of answering, Sam lets out a sniffle.
“Hey,” Dean says, gentler this time. “Sammy. Listen to me. You’re a good person, all right? Literally the best person I know. Whatever happened before... it doesn’t matter, okay? It doesn’t change who you are. You’re my little brother. You’re literally the best thing in my life, man. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re not -- you’re not a monster, okay? Far from it. I don’t care how many times I gotta say it to make you believe it, man, I’ll do it.”
“Why?” Sam asks with another sniffle. “I did bad things, Dean. ‘M... ‘m not good.”
“Quit that,” Dean tells him, wiping at Sam’s tears with his free hand. “Sammy, I’ve done bad things too, man. And whatever you did, you more’n made up for it. You saved the world, kid. You’re a damn hero. The only reason we’re all even here on this stupid planet is ‘cause of you, so don’t you dare tell me you ain’t a good person. You’re a damned saint as far as I’m concerned.”
“You only say that ‘cause you like me,” Sam says accusingly after a few moments.
“Damn right I do,” Dean tells him. “But also ‘cause it’s true.” He picks up Sam’s free hand and intertwines their fingers. “I wouldn’t be making a chick flick moment happen if it wasn’t, now would I?”
Sam lets out a wet little huff of amusement at that.
“Right?” Dean prods. “That’s how serious I am, Sammy -- I’m setting my dignity and manliness on fire to convince you.”
“What a sacrifice,” Sam mutters, but he’s smiling through his tears now, fingers gripping back at Dean’s hand weakly. Then, a moment later, he adds, “Thank you,” all soft and wide-eyed as he raises his head and looks up at Dean like the sun shines out of his big brother’s face.
“Aw, Sammy,” Dean mutters, suddenly and embarrassingly overcome with love. “It’s nothing, man. Just the truth.”
“Thank you anyway,” Sam tells him, and then puts his head back down on Dean’s chest.
“Get some sleep, man,” Dean says, pretending he isn’t choked up. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Hope so,” Sam murmurs. “‘Night, Dean.”
“G’night, Sammy. Sleep well, kiddo.”
It only takes a few more minutes for Sam to fall all the way asleep, chest rising and falling against Dean’s. His breathing is still somewhat on the shallow side, and his skin is still burning with fever, but he looks peaceful as he slumbers, face lax and looking about a decade younger. If Dean ignores the stubble and the skinniness, he can almost pretend this is the cuddly toddler he raised, always clinging to him at night for warmth and solace.
He can’t go, Dean thinks suddenly. Sam can’t leave him. It doesn’t matter what Dean has to do. He can’t let Sam go. If Sam doesn’t get better on his own, then -- he’ll make a deal, he’ll find a way to take the trials on himself and take the burden from Sam, he’ll -- he’ll do something. He’ll find a way. It doesn’t matter what it costs.
But he won’t lose Sam. He can’t. Just the thought has him choked up again, throat closing up from preemptive grief. His life, this home they’ve found, the entire damn world, none of it means a thing to Dean if Sam’s not here to share it all with him. He’s lost him too many times already; one more time would break him, shatter him irreparably.
He won’t let it happen. Sam isn’t going anywhere. He’ll be right here, with Dean, where he’s safe, where Dean can protect him, and if Dean has to fight the entire universe to keep him here, he will. He’s not afraid of a damn thing when it comes to looking out for Sam.
He’s Dean’s little brother, and Dean’s going to hang on to him for as long as he can.
