ultraviolet9a | Scorch

ultraviolet9a

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TITLE: Scorch

AUTHOR:

ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for seasons 1 and 2.

GENRE: Gen I reckon.

CHARACTERS: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Bobby

SUMMARY: It all starts with a fever.

RATING: PG13. The occasional cuss but nothing beyond that.

FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own them. I just love them. And wish I could do both.

NOTE: for

winchesters132. I chose the moods hyper (surprise, surprise) and sick. This one is for sick.

NOTE2: beta by lovely

girlfan1979

A couple of days after Sam has been Meg’s meatsuit and even more weeks after their father’s death, Sam falls sick with fever. It’s nothing much. He’s got a headache and feels a bit woozy and when he touches his forehead something feels off, so he turns to his brother and says:

“Dean, I’m hot.”

“Oh you wish,” Dean replies, but darts his eyes from the road back to Sam.

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

And he’s coming down alright, he is, because by the time they reach Raven’s Creek Sam’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes are glazing and he is shivering.

Dean has to help him into the room he books, and cover him up with extra blankets, but it still won’t stop Sam’s teeth from chattering.

Dean leaves for the nearest drugstore and gets back with aspirin, a hot water bottle, three thermometers, Panadol, Ponstan and an assortment of food that ranges from Chicken Noodle Soup to orange juice and tea.

“You’re such a wuss,” he says as he tucks the hot water bottle under Sam’s covers, and Sam doesn’t even roll his eyes, which, according to Dean, is the sole indication that he is sick indeed.

Sam looks at the thermometer and grimaces.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“I hate thermometers.”

“Guess where I’ll be shoving it if you don’t shut up.”

“Where the sun don’t shine, Dean?”

“Where the sun don’t shine, Sammy.”

And within three minutes, Sam’s reverted to his inner-five year old and Dean’s the older caring brother. The way he’s always been.

.:::.

Sam is huge, too huge, but as he huddles under as many covers as he can muster, he doesn’t look older than five. He doesn’t look like Sam anyway, all Dean can see is shaggy hair and a bit of head sticking out of the mass of covers. The ultimate Sasquatch, and Dean’s planning not to let that one go.

“Dude,” Sam mumbles. He sounds exhausted and muffled in his cocoon, and yet incredulous in a way Dean would recognize if the whole of the ocean worked as a muffler between them. “Dude, you taking pictures of me?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Dean says, discreetly pushing the save button on his phone, then tucking it away.

“You so would,” Sam murmurs, but he’s woozy and falls asleep again.

.:::.

It’s just a flu, that’s what the doctor said, a flu that needs to run its few-day cycle, and incidentally, what’s that burn on your arm? but spinning a lie is freaking easy, and Sam’s head is heavy and bent awkward as it leans against Dean’s shoulder and Jesus freaking Christ, Sam’s just a big baby, isn’t he? He’s reverted to a permanent state of puppy eyes and Dean… Dean can’t win this. Never has. He’s the one that got shot and beaten, dammit, but Sam looks helpless and drained and they end up watching whatever Sam wants on TV. Which is mostly crap, really, lucky thing Sam’s asleep most of the time.

And maybe it’s not just the flu, even though Bobby was right that a possession such as this took a lot out of Sam, weakened his immune system, but Dean thinks it’s guilt, too, about something Sam isn’t even responsible for.

“Maybe Meg did leave a little souvenir,” Sam says, looking morosely at the ceiling. “Maybe when the seal broke, something else broke in me.”

“What? Your internal thermostat?” Dean replies. “Or your brain? No, wait, no brain to break, cross that one out.”

“Maybe that’s my punishment, Dean,” Sam says ignoring the brotherly jibes. “Maybe I won’t…”

And he doesn’t complete the phrase, probably because Dean is giving him his shut the fuck up you idiot stare.

“You’re such a fucking drama queen,” Dean says. “You’ve only been sick for a few days.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Jesus, Sam, you were cranky as a kid, you are cranky now. It’s just a fucking flu. You’ll be alright.”

And Sam, Sam has his martyr face on, the one that says he doesn’t deserve to be alright cuz he’s such a sinner. Jesus freaking Christ.

“Sam,” Dean says, because among other things he’s been watching soppy movies that make him want to gag so he’s totally entitled to not being gentle for once. “Sam, none of this was your fault, okay? Shit happens. Get over it.”

Sam sits up and rolls his eyes and Dean sees the bitchface beneath the puppy eyes, and when he touches Sam’s forehead it’s cool and feverless, small beads of sweat clinging to Dean’s palm.

“I think you just sweat the fever off,” he says, relief visible, then picks up clean, dry clothes and puts them on Sam’s lap. “Change, or you’ll get cold.”

Despite the difference in dimensions the essence remains the same, and Dean remembers all motions of helping his brother dress and undress. So he does, even when he knows Sam no longer needs that; but Sam lets him anyway.

Maybe he does need that after all.

“Dean,” Sam says. “I’m sorry about everything.”

And everything can include lots of things, like slit throats, and bruises, and gunshots. Everything can include just too much, and none of this… none of this was really Sam. Dean hopes Meg’s rotting in the helliest of hells.

“You should be,” Dean replies. “The hell you put me through with your taste in movies… You’re damn right you’re sorry, you big sick wuss.”

And then he cracks the smile he holds for Sam, eternal love and care and worry and devotion and just… love, and Sam smiles and eats a normal Sam portion after a lot of days.

And the fever won’t come back, not so intense anyway, Dean knows, because the flu is running the cycle towards the finish line, so he actually manages to sleep that night. It’s a deep sleep, not like that of a cat, ears preened and adjusting to every moan, every sigh, every thought his brother makes.

He dreams.

.:::.

It’s not a good dream.

Sam’s on the ceiling, hair spread around his head, and he looks innocent in his white T-shirt, the eyes and mouth of a saint. His mouth murmurs words Dean can’t make out, and Dean’s thinking, no. NO.

Faint smell of burn, memory of golden hair on the ceiling and Dean knows what will happen, he’s been there, he’s never left, a child doesn’t forget easily, and the demon is buffing his nails in the corner and dad’s nowhere around.

The flames burst out in waves of orange and yellow and red that roll and roll and roll, an endless ocean turning Sammy to ash.

Dean’s screaming but no voice comes out of him and the flames go up and all that’s left on the ceiling is char and despair and then he’s in a hospital corridor. He thinks he remembers this place from somewhere, should remember it, the black-haired pretty girl familiar somehow (Tessa? he’s thinking but he doesn’t think he’s fucked her), and he’s barefoot and wearing hospital clothes, and she’s standing in front of him, impossibly glossy lips and hair, such a pretty face.

“Sam,” he asks her. “What about Sam?”

“You are cursed by fire,” the tessawoman says. “Bred in it, born in it, lived in it, doomed do die in it”, she says.

“Fire?”

“Not just any fire,” she says. “Hell is on your heels. It’s the Winchester curse. Careful, boy. Careful. Daddy first, Sammy next, then your turn, Dean, oh Dean.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Nothing. Flame is hungry, needs to feed.”

“No.”

“Change the order,” she says as she starts gliding away like some chick in a Moby clip. “Change the order, Dean, just like your daddy did. Flame is hungry, doesn’t care who to feed on first or last.”

She’s far away in the corridor when everything around him, everything, goes up in flame, a violent burst like that of music and then Dean’s burning, burning

.:::.

he wakes up with the scream caught in his throat, all fears running new in his head, fear that Sam is already dead, burning, that the fever lied, it came back, and he can’t lose Sam, not to fire. He lost his family through fire, mom on the ceiling, dad on that pyre, he can’t lose Sam, not to fever, not to anything.

His eyes stare at the ceiling, in the darkness trying to shed the image of Sam stuck there, but Sam’s in the next bed sleeping, breathing even and calm. Dean gingerly steps out of his own bed and lays a careful palm against his brother’s forehead. It’s still cool. Sam’s going to be alright, nothing but a freaking flu, stupid nightmare, but he’s still riding high the knot-bowling fear of having lost Sam; he’s got the acrid taste still in his mouth, Sam not Sam, and dad’s words echoing in his ears about doing what he has to do.

He knows what Bobby will tell him. He’ll tell him to snap out of it, because no matter what happened, this is simply a flu and it will be over. He’ll tell him that Dean is so worried he can’t see straight, his love too overwhelming. He’ll tell him not to be an idjit. He’ll tell him to call him whenever he needs him, day or night, and Bobby’ll come running.

He’ll tell him what he always tells him when it’s about Sam and life and death: Don’t do anything stupid, boy.

And Dean… Dean needs that. Needs to talk about fear that guts so deep you can’t tell it apart from yourself. Needs to talk about fire that is greedy and needs to feed.

In the next bed Sam sleeps easily, and Dean’s voice over the phone is hushed and soft, like that of a young boy.

“Hey, Bobby?”

Bobby listens.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: I’ve had the first paragraphs (with the thermometer banter) for months on my hard drive. Was supposed to turn into a fun fic or something, but somehow I got never round to it, because the fever thing spawned the Weight of Dark fic somehow and I let that one be.

And then spikesssaid “hey. Moodring? Wanna?” And yeah I did. (Also, she was more articulate and shiny, but, you know. I’m summarizing here.:) )

So I picked up the start and continued it the way I did, mainly cuz… I don’t know. I wanted some nice foreshadowing about Dean’s actions. Some sort of supernatural trigger, and at first I wanted a witch and then I thought hey! Tessa! Cuz Tessa is the Reaper, in a way Death, and Death and Sleep are brothers, so it makes sense she’d manifest in Dean’s sleep (either as his subconscious or as herself for whatever agenda, you decide, I’m too shallow that way.)

And anyway, that’s what the plot donkey said, and when the plot donkey says, I obey, because it has hard hooves. *rubs tushy*

Also, I imagined that when Sam is sick, he’s kind of like when he had a hangover, you know? Impossibly cute and child like and a bit naïve and totally… five-year old. Ahem. I might have channelled myself there. Sorry.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

julibeth.livejournal.com

I really like that. Most fics do things that I like, that are in character, but I can't see acutally happening in the show.

This I can definately see happening in the show, exactly like you've written it. A great coda for that episode.

Memming :D

From:

the mirror lj so far? Don't know yet.

Scorch

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