Chapter Text
"We are never hunting in Oregon again. At least not in the winter, this is like digging through cement." Dean leaned against the handle of his shovel, panting, and watched as his breath flared up in a white cloud around him. The slowly melting snow had turned the grave beneath their feet into frozen sludge and it was proving to be the bane of his existence.
Sam didn't say anything, his face pale and drawn, as he heaved a partially full shovel of mud over his shoulder and onto the growing pile behind them. Dean frowned, giving his brother a long look even as he thrust the shovel into the dirt again. "You doin' okay there, sparky?"
"Peachy," Sam answered shortly before turning his head and coughing harshly into his shoulder. He cleared his throat raggedly, paused to take a deep breath, and began to dig again. Dean raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with his brother's answer.
Whether they wanted to admit it or not, Sam was sick. Had been for probably the last week, if not longer. That was just when the coughs had started to get deeper and more painful sounding, but Sam had kept assuring Dean that he was fine and Dean…well, Dean had believed him in favor of hunting down one Jeff Mathers.
It was easier than stopping because that left them both with too much time on their hands. Dad's death was hanging over them, his last words haunting them better than most of the things they hunted. Sam would dwell on his destiny and Dean would do his damn best to ignore it in an effort to protect Sam. It was a dance that was exhausting.
Next to him, Sam wheezed raggedly as his body trembled under the strain of digging through the thick muck. He had to stop a moment later as another round of coughing bent him over.
"Casper is going to hear you from a mile away, dude." Dean dumped another shovel full over the side of the hole. They had to be getting close to the body now if the size of the pile was anything to go by.
Sam leaned against the wall of muddy dirt behind him, his eyes closed as he fought for air. He still had the audacity to mutter a petulant, "I'm fine," that had Dean scoffing. Wiping the sweat away from his face, Dean stopped as well, looking at Sam intently.
"Yeah, and I'm about to become Ms. America. Listen, we're getting close. Get the rifle, keep an eye out for Mathers, okay? I've got this. Plus, I really don't want to haul your heavy ass to the top if you pass out because you forgot how to breathe correctly."
"It's going to take longer to finish without me."
"Yeah, 'cause you're doing so much to help right now. Dude, I swear you dug faster when you were twelve and still a pipsqueak."
Sam threw Dean a withering look but heaved himself out of the hole and all but collapsed onto the ground. Dean watched him pick up the shotgun, assuring himself that Sam could handle it before he turned back to his work.
Without Sam's aid, it took Dean another half hour of digging before he hit the coffin, and by that time both of them were tired, frozen to the bone, and more than ready to be done with this hunt. Mother Nature had decided to add to their misery as well, and it had begun to snow lightly. It wasn't like it hadn't been unexpected. The sky was unusually light for winter with thick clouds hiding the moon and stars from sight.
Dean pulled himself out of the gaping hole, brushing angrily at the large snowflakes that were stuck in his hair and on his shoulders as he muttered about dibs on the first shower. He turned, looking for the salt and gasoline.
The chill of Jeff Mather's ghost hardly penetrated the cold and it was only Sam's warning shout that saved Dean from the ghostly hands that had been reaching for his neck. The report of the shotgun was joined by an unearthly scream and Mather's was gone by the time Dean scrambled back to his feet.
Sam was bent in half, coughing harshly, but holding out the gasoline for him.
"Sonofa—" It wouldn't take Mather's long to reform or mobilize or whatever it was that ghosts did and Dean made a grab for the shotgun. "Gimme that, you're likely to shoot me right now. You do the salt and burn," he ordered, wrestling the gun free of Sam's weak grip and jerking his head at the open grave. Sam scowled at him but didn't bother throwing back a retort which told Dean a lot in and of itself.
Still coughing, Sam began to pour the gasoline over the open casket and the bones while Dean checked the shotgun shells, loading another bullet in preparation for the attack that he was sure was coming.
Sam dropped the can of gasoline, fumbling for the salt just as Mathers flickered into view. Dean fired, but the ghost was gone as quickly as he had come.
"Damnit. Sam, hurry it up!"
"I am," Sam snapped peevishly.
Dean rolled his eyes, twisting around on the ball of his heel. That shot hadn't connected, Mathers was just biding his time. "C'mon," he muttered out loud, scanning the graveyard for any ghostly sort of apparition. "Show yourself, you fugly, and let's—" Dean was broken off by Sam's urgent yell of his name a second before a ghostly arm wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air. He tried to fire, but he couldn't get a good angle with Mather's right behind him and he dropped the gun, scrabbling against the arm in a vain attempt to break away from the sudden and intense pressure.
"Sam!" he managed to squeak out, staggering backward as Mathers bore down on him. A hand in his hair jerked his head back, further compromising his airway, and he stared up into eyes that were alight with malice.
He gasped, trying to suck air in, but he couldn't find any. Mathers outline was growing fuzzy and Dean blinked rapidly but he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, and his fingers slowed their desperate scrabble. Out of his peripheral vision, light sprang up followed by the faint whoosh of igniting gasoline.
Fire erupted across Mather's pale face. Dropping Dean, he staggered back with an ear-piercing scream as the flames swallowed him up to wherever it was that ghosts went to when their time was up.
Dean collapsed onto all fours, coughing and gagging as he desperately filled his lungs with sweet, sweet, air. Sam dropped down next to him, his hand warm and comforting on Dean's shoulder even as his own haggard and deep coughs filled in the silence between Dean's.
Closing his eyes, Dean forced himself to slow down, to take even and controlled breaths that could satisfy his lungs. The coughing finally tapered off and they sat in the snow both a little worse for wear than they had been an hour earlier. Dean finally opened his eyes, looking over at his brother. He found Sam looking exhausted and breathing heavily, one hand braced on the ground and the other still on his shoulder.
"Sam," Dean grunted, closing his eyes again and controlling a shiver. Sam made a noise in the back of his throat and Dean pushed himself up straighter. "No more denying it. You're sick."
Sam cleared his throat and Dean could see him wince in the moonlight.
"Yeah. Yeah, I think you're right." Sam suppressed another cough and slowly straightened as well, letting go of Dean to wrap his coat tighter around himself.
Dean blinked in surprise, looking more directly at Sam. "What? Just like that, you gonna admit it?"
"I'm not an idiot."
Dean smirked. "Could've had me fooled. Well, idiot or not, we are officially on vacation until you can finish a sentence without sounding like someone promoting a non-smoking ad, got it?"
Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair and dislodging flecks of snow. "What about Bobby's?"
"Bobby's? What about…oh, yeah." Dean sank back to rest on his haunches. They had promised Bobby that they would head down his way after they had finished to help him research…something. Sam had paid more attention to that part than Dean had, his eyes lighting up as he wrestled the phone away from him to speak more clearly with Bobby.
To be honest, Dean thought that Bobby just wanted to see them again—he could more than handle the research without them, he had proven that time and time again—but he wouldn't call the man out on it as long as he didn't question Dean too deeply. Ever since John had…had died, Bobby had been keeping a closer eye on them. And now with Sam's 'destiny' and visions and all that crap, well, it was nice to have an extra pair of eyes, but all the same.
Dean didn't want to talk about his feelings.
"It's your call, man. If you want to stay here, then I'm sure Bobby will understand."
Sam was silent for a moment, breathing in the night air and watching the snow through the still flickering fire from the grave. "We promised him. We should just go."
"It's going to be," Dean paused, calculating, "a good fourteen-hour drive from here." He grunted as he pulled himself up onto his feet and extended a hand down to Sam. Sam took it, heaving himself up with a grimace and a groan.
"Honestly, you'd think that you were the one to tangle with Mathers," Dean muttered, brushing snow off the knees of his pants before pressing a hand up against his still-sore throat. A shower and bed, that was what he needed.
Sam ignored him, looking too tired for their usual banter. "Besides, I would just be sleeping in the motel. I can do that just as well in the Impala as anywhere else."
"What? Oh, the drive. Well, it's your neck on the line. Literally, you're going to give yourself a crick." Dean patted Sam on the shoulder before they gathered their supplies and headed toward the gate of the cemetery. Sam was shivering visibly next to him and Dean shot him a glance out of the corner of his eye.
Was it just the cold, or was Sam flushed?
"You runnin' a fever along with that cough?"
Sam simply shrugged.
They settled into the Impala and the first thing that Dean did was start running the heat, holding his own lightly trembling hands in front of the vent. Sam was hunched forward in the seat, also trying to conserve the warmth.
It was still snowing and Dean frowned, thinking of being on the road tomorrow.
"Call Bobby, won't you? Ask what the weather is doing in South Dakota." Dean flexed his fingers before wrapping them around the steering wheel and starting the engine. Sam nodded, fumbling through his pockets sluggishly. He spoke quietly on the phone as they drove before putting it on speaker and holding it out in between them so that Dean could hear as well.
"Heya Bobby," he called over.
"Dean." Bobby sounded just as gruff as ever. "Listen, we've got a storm blowing in and it doesn't look good. I was meaning to call you in the morning and let you know, but they are sending out major winter warnings for the next week, not that you're likely to pay attention to anything the government says," Bobby huffed disgruntledly, and Dean grinned, smirking in Sam's direction who wasn't looking near as amused. Sam apparently did care what the government said, big surprise. "From what I can tell, it's gonna really start snowing sometime tomorrow night. If you drive fast, you might be able to beat it." Bobby paused, waiting for a response.
Dean hesitated before answering, looking over at the clock, and then at Sam again. One of the very few bonuses of hunting in winter was that the sun set earlier and they were able to do salt and burns sooner rather than later. People were also much less likely to be hanging out in graveyards when it was below zero. It was just past 10:30 now, if they got back to the motel quickly they could get a couple of hours of sleep, and then hit the road early.
"If we left before six, we should be able to beat the worst of the storm," he called out, more waiting for Sam's approval than Bobby's.
"Just don't do anything stupid," Bobby grumbled. "If you need to pull over and stay someplace, do. Don't be idijts just because you can. I don't want to have to show up and haul your asses out of trouble, understood?"
"Don't worry, Bobby, we will be," Sam called. His voice caught and he turned to the side, trying to cough quietly into the lapel of his coat.
"That's easy for you to say, you ain't the one driving. It's that brother of yours that I'm worried about."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'd be more worried if it was Sam behind the wheel. We'll call you when we get close or if we decide to stop."
Bobby made an affirmative sound and then the line went dead. Sam snapped the phone shut, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, and tilted his head back to look at Dean. "Did you just suggest leaving before six?"
Dean screwed up his face. "Don't remind me. But if we leave at six it will put us there about eight or nine pm, if the roads are good…so probably anytime after ten or eleven if the roads are bad. I don't know, it's a bit of a guessing game."
Sam nodded, looking tired and thoroughly miserable. He looked so miserable, in fact, that Dean offered him the first shower when they got back. By the time Dean returned from his own shower feeling like a new man, Sam was already asleep on the far bed, his mouth open and faint wheezing filling the room. Frowning, Dean paused next to him, laying the back of his hand against Sam's forehead.
Warm, but not warm enough to be a cause of concern just yet. He would check again in the morning. Ruffling Sam's hair fondly, he set the alarm on the bedside table and climbed into his own bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
#
2:33 am
2:34 am
2:36 am
Sam watched the numbers slowly tick by as six o'clock crept ever closer. All he wanted to do was sleep, but his body seemed to have other plans. His head was pounding, his chest ached, and his eyes were itching with tiredness but he was too miserable to go back to sleep.
Dean was snoring gently in the other bed, all curled up and comfortable in the blankets, and Sam couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy.
2:38 am
2:41 am
Rolling over onto his side, Sam pulled the pillow over his head and squeezed his eyes shut desperately. The position irked his already irritated lungs and Sam suppressed a cough, pressing a hand against his chest. It didn't do anything to help, and he rolled back over, trying to appease his lungs without actually coughing. His eyes began to water and breathing was getting hard, but he had already woken Dean once that night with a coughing fit and he didn't want to do so again.
Throwing back the blankets, Sam stumbled out of bed and staggered across the room. He made a split-second decision between the bathroom and the door. Choosing the latter, he eased it open as gently as he could so as not to wake Dean and sat down roughly on the curbside. Hunching over, he let the deep coughs rip through him until he could once again breathe properly.
Letting his head rest on his knees, Sam remained where he was at. It was cold enough that he wished that he had grabbed his jacket but being outside was better than lying in his bed, staring at the endlessly ticking clock.
It was snowing heavier than it had been when they had returned from the graveyard and Sam tilted his head back, just watching the flakes fall. The heavy clouds and snow muffled the world as it lay in a thick blanket over everything, and a strange peacefulness filled the atmosphere.
This was the calm before the storm.
It was a little bit like their lives right now, he couldn't help but think. The ever-present worry in the pit of his stomach flared. The demon had plans for him—and the others like him—and he didn't know what they were, but he was sure it was not going to be pretty. Dean seemed content to think that nothing was going to happen, to ignore it until something forced them to confront his…powers. But the visions meant something, didn't they? The demon was planning something with him and the other kids he just knew it.
Realizing that he was biting his nail, Sam dropped his hand hastily back to his lap.
Dad had clearly known something was happening and that there was something wrong with Sam, that he was a freak. Hell, Dad had ordered Dean to kill him. Sam would rather die than turn dark side or serve the demon.
Swallowing thickly, Sam dropped his head back into his hands, clenching tight at his hair. Dean had promised him, but he was not sure his brother would go through with it. He hadn't when Meg had possessed him. What about Bobby? Or Ellen? They might be willing to if he asked them. They were going to go see Bobby, he could try and get a promise out of him. But it had been hard enough asking Dean to promise him such a thing. He didn't think he could stand it if Bobby started looking at him differently.
He was gnawing at his nails again.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Sam coughed thickly to clear his lungs and then turned his eyes back up to the falling snow.
Maybe this cough would kill him, save everybody the trouble.
Sam sat there for a long time with nothing but his thoughts for company and watched the snow fall gently. At long last, his eyes began to droop and his head began to nod…if he didn't move now then he wasn't going to. Pushing himself upright Sam ignored how his sweats were soaked from sitting in the snow and stumbled back into the room, dropping heavily onto the bed. Dean mumbled something and rolled over before letting out a heavy sigh.
4:53 am.
Curling into the blankets, Sam's sighed and closed his eyes.
#
The blaring of the alarm snapped Sam awake and sent a throbbing pulse of pain through his already pounding head. Dragging his heavy eyelids open, Sam squinted at the clock.
He couldn't make out the blurry numbers and he dropped his head back down, fumbling for the covers and pulling them over his head.
Just one more minute…
Dean's bed creaked, and he could hear him muttering darkly about where the alarm could be shoved before the shriek was cut off.
Blessed silence filled the room. The heater kicked on, half-heartedly chugging warm air out into the cold room.
"Sam. Sam, get up."
Through the blankets, he saw the lamp flicker on and then something soft, probably a pillow, thudded against his back. Groaning, Sam slowly pushed the covers down and rolled over. Dean was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring unseeing down at the floor. He must have gone to bed with his hair wet and now half of it was sticking up oddly but, more importantly to Sam, he wasn't moving.
And that meant that Sam didn't have to either.
Relaxing back into the lumpy mattress, Sam closed his eyes again, trying to savor the warmth and comfort of his bed. In the end, it was his own body that betrayed him, not Dean's harassment, as the need to clear his lungs built up to an unbearable level. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he coughed until he had a mouthful of phlegm.
Grimacing in disgust, Sam staggered to his feet and into the bathroom.
By the time he returned, Dean had stood and was blearily stuffing clothes into his duffle. Sam stared dully at him for a moment before shuffling over to the small kitchenette and the coffee pot. Dean's eyes followed him, but Sam ignored it, settling against the small counter to wait.
"Sam."
Sam looked over at Dean. He held a shirt in one hand but was motioning Sam towards him with the other.
"What?" he asked, flinching a little at how hoarse he had become.
"Just. C'mhere." Dean wasn't a man of many words at the best of moments and Sam sighed, pushing off the counter to stand next to his brother. Dean grunted in approval, reaching up and planting his hand against Sam's forehead. Sam shoved him tiredly off, glaring at him.
"Tylenol," was all that Dean said, jerking his thumb towards the first-aid kit that was sitting popped open on the end of the bed.
"Dean—"
"Tylenol." Dean returned to packing and Sam sighed before wrestling out a couple of tablets and returning to the coffee. Dean finished with his duffle, zipping it up and throwing it on the bed before moving towards the bathroom.
They didn't have that much to pack, not that they ever did, and they were headed out the door four minutes before six.
"I'll check us out," Dean said, tossing Sam the keys and his duffle. Sam snatched the keys, missed the duffle, and swore softly under his breath as he bent down to retrieve it. It was bitterly cold outside, cold enough that it instantly ratcheted up his already-pounding headache, and Sam fumbled with the keys miserably. Stowing their gear in the trunk, he gratefully sank into the front seat and started the car. Rubbing his hands together to try and preserve some small form of warmth, Sam stared out the windshield.
The only lights on in the small complex were the offices, all the other rooms still dark.
Huddling further into his jacket, Sam pulled the sleeves up over his hands.
Dean was at the car a moment later, the slamming of his door loud in the quiet night.
"We good to go?"
"Yup." Dean twisted in his seat, backing out of the parking lot.
Sam nodded, curling up in the corner and pillowing his cheek on his arm. "I'm going back to sleep," he announced tiredly and Dean grunted in acknowledgment as he guided the Impala onto the main street and flicked on the radio. He turned it down low, and Sam closed his eyes.
His sleep was fitful, and he jerked awake more than once as the car decreased or accelerated. Even worse were the times that his lungs decided that they had had enough, forcing Sam awake long enough to weakly cough them clear before slipping back under.
Thus, it took Sam by surprise when he blinked open his eyes and bright sunlight came streaming in through the windshield. His head was pillowed on a jacket, and the thick blanket from the trunk was covering him. Dean was humming happily next to him and the fresh smell of coffee penetrated the car. Sam raised his head, rubbing at his eyes to clear the sleep from them, and let the blanket fall to pool in his lap.
"He lives!" Dean tossed a grin in his direction, one hand wrapped loosely over the top of the wheel and the other clutching a large cup of coffee.
"Wha' time is it?" Sam mumbled, running a hand through his hair and blinking sleepily at the landscape that was flashing by.
Dean flipped his wrist over, checking his watch. "Just after noon."
"Oh." Sam's brain felt slow and foggy and he shook his head trying to clear it, still disoriented by the change from night to day. "How long was I asleep?"
Dean shrugged, taking a long sip. "You tossed and turned and about drove me up a wall in the process for the first couple of hours, but you finally passed out about nine. You didn't even wake up when I stopped for gas and coffee. Oh, and—" he balanced the coffee between his legs, digging in the footwells for a plastic bag. "I bought you a gift." He grinned cheekily, tossing the plastic bag over into Sam's lap.
"What is it?" Sam asked cautiously, poking at it, and Dean snorted.
"It's not gonna bite. Jeez, you'd think that I'd never gotten you anything before."
Peeling back the edges, Sam grimaced as he pulled out a bag of chips. "You got me—"
"Wait! Those are mine, gimme." Dean snatched them back, tucking them into his corner and Sam shook his head, reaching for the bottle that had been hiding beneath the chips.
"Nyquil? Wow, I'm speechless." Sam leaned back against the window, dropping the bag back down at his feet.
"I know. I'm just awesome that way." Dean reached over, turning the music up higher than the low hum it had been on. "Seriously, though, dude. Take some for both of our sakes. All that coughing can get on a man's nerves. And you should probably take more Tylenol while you are at it."
"I'm heartbroken," Sam said dryly, rubbing absently at his forehead before pinching the bridge of his nose. "You doin' okay? You need me to drive for a while?"
Dean almost choked on his coffee. "You think that I would let you anywhere behind the wheel right now? Are you crazy?! No, you ain't touchin' my baby until you can breathe like a normal person again."
"Alright, alright. Noted."
Bon Jovi filled the silence for a minute, Dean tapping along with the beat before he looked over at Sam. "Do you think that it is going to snow all the way to Bobby's?"
"It's not snowing right now…" Sam said, glancing through the window, but recent snow was on the ground and the sky ahead of them look ominously dark. Shivering in anticipation, Sam shifted enough to tug the blanket back up around his shoulders.
"Yeah, well, you missed the fun that was Rexburg. Not gonna lie, that was scarier than a ghost. For people who live in Idaho and face snowy winters every year, they do not understand how to properly handle road care. They didn't even salt the roads, Sam. They just threw some dirt down and called it good." Dean made a face, turning the music back down a little.
Sam relaxed further into his seat. Dean was in one of his rare moods when he just wanted to talk. Sometimes they could spend hours in the car together in comfortable silence, reading each other as easily as if there had been words, but there were also times that they would talk for eight hours straight. They would debate the game they had seen last night on TV or the best way to kill this or that, or even the finer points of the latest presidential election. It was just…it was comfortable, knowing that he had someone with whom he could talk to about anything and who felt just as comfortable talking to him.
It wasn't awkward, it wasn't forced. It was just them.
Still, those times had lessened lately, after Dad's death and…and everything else that had followed but this felt nice.
"You think that icy roads are worse than a ghost? I've met people who would strongly disagree with that." Sam turned in his seat to better watch his brother.
"Dude. There were these four-way stop signs. Everybody was slippin' and slidin' their way through. And there were all these college kids trying to cross the street because this was right by campus. It was horrifying."
"Huh. Wait, which university in Idaho?" Sam settled in, relaxing back into old familiar patterns.
#
Dean was midway through his elaboration on the benefits of snow tires vs snow chains when Sam's snore cut him off. Looking over, Dean trailed off, smiling a little at the sight of Sam's chin tucked against his chest, one arm falling out of the blanket that had been pulled up around his shoulders.
At last.
About three in the afternoon, Sam's barking cough had started to become more frequent and deeper but, as he had a stubborn idiot for a brother, it had taken Dean a while to bully him into chugging half the Nyquil. Immediately, Dean had begun to wax on about the most boring subject that he could think of—at least for Sam—and together it appeared to have finally done the trick.
"Sammy?" he asked softly, but Sam only let out another thick and congested snore. Dean rolled his eyes. They would be lucky if either of them got any sleep tonight between the coughing and the snoring. Some of the lightheartednesses faded and, glancing at the minivan in front of them to ensure they didn't rear-end it, he reached over and brushed the back of his hand against Sam's cheek.
His skin was dry and hot to the touch.
Retracting his hand, Dean chewed absently on his bottom lip. Sam just needed some sleep and some more Tylenol and he would be fine. Bobby's would be able to provide both.
Sam slept straight through the rest of the afternoon and by the time it was dark, Dean made the executive decision that it was time to stretch his legs. They needed gas anyway. Pulling off at the next exit that promised gas and food—the bag of chips had been forever ago and he was starving—he turned into the first restaurant he saw and put the car into park, letting the engine purr silently.
Leaning back, he stretched his arms, cracked his neck, and then slumped down in his seat.
"Hey, dude."
Sam's eyes remained shut, his breathing even.
"Sam." He leaned over, shaking his shoulder. Sam flinched minutely, his face screwing up for a moment before slackening and Dean huffed in disbelief. "Sammy…dude, I know you are a lightweight, but Nyquil? Seriously?"
Sam slept on and Dean gave in.
"I'm getting food. Speak now or forever hold your peace…?"
#
"Sam?"
The distant voice dug through the fog that had become his brain and Sam resisted, pulling away back towards the warmth of oblivion…
"Sammy…."
This time, Dean's voice was accompanied by a hand on his shoulder, jostling him lightly, but Sam kept his eyes closed. The Impala was blissfully warm, the blanket soft. He was comfortable and he wasn't planning on moving anytime soon. He just wanted to go…back…to…sleep….
"Dude, I know that you are a lightweight, but Nyquil? Seriously? Fine. I'm getting food. Speak now or forever hold your peace."
There was another long stretch of silence, the car rumbling gently, and then a hand was invading his personal space. It rested just under his jaw, pausing there for a minute before moving back up to his forehead. Dean sighed heavily, fussing with the blanket before pulling back.
The hinges squeaked as Dean swung his door open, the car rocked a little and then the door slammed.
Sam just refrained from sighing in relief and snuggled back under, trying to reclaim the comforting darkness that was sleep. It was right at his fingertips…only, now that he thought about it, it was a little too warm in the Impala. And his lungs weren't happy.
Popping an eye open, Sam blinked in surprise at the darkness that was outside. Hadn't it just been afternoon? Closing his eyes against a groan, he burrowed further into the blanket and shifted, trying to find the position that had been so comfortable just moments ago, but now the door handle was digging into his back, his legs were cramped, and there was a crick in his neck.
And it was freaking hot in the car, honestly, how high did Dean have the heat on?
Shoving the blanket off, Sam pushed himself upright and rubbed at his neck as he stared dully outside at the brightly lit restaurant visible through the fast-falling snow.
He should probably go find Dean.
Swallowing down a cough, Sam squinted down at the clock. 5:53 pm.
He probably really should go find Dean.
Sam sat in the car for several more minutes as he worked up enough energy to move before he finally reached over and turned off the car and heaved himself out. The sudden change in elevation didn't sit well with him and he wavered, throwing out a hand to rest against the doorframe. Blinking away the lightheadedness, he hacked harshly into his elbow to clear his lungs before spitting a mouthful of phlegm into the snow.
Disgusting.
Making his way through the parking lot, Sam pulled his coat tighter around him as a chill coursed through him. Pushing the door open gratefully, he slipped inside. He wasn't surprised when Dean, who was at the counter, glanced over his shoulder. Some of the tension eased from his face upon seeing Sam and he turned fully.
"You look like crap," he said tastefully as Sam stopped next to him, shivering even in the warmth of the diner.
"Did you get a booth or…?"
"Sound like crap too. And no, I got us food to go. I didn't want to leave the Impala running outside for a long time. You did turn her off, right?" Dean leaned against the counter casually, his words light but his eyes intense as he studied Sam. Sam automatically straightened to his full height, trying not to give off the appearance of feeling like crap as well.
"No, Dean, I left the car running and the doors unlocked. I even put a sign out that says, 'free to a good home'."
"Oh, wow, has anyone ever told you that you are grumpy when you are sick." Dean grinned brightly at him and Sam rolled his eyes.
"I'm gonna find the bathroom. Don't leave without me."
"If I do, it's your fault for taking so long!"
Sam ignored the comment, weaving his way through the tables toward the bathroom. Leaning against the sink, he breathed out slow and shallow, trying to keep the lurking cough at bay. Running the water, he splashed some over his face before running his wet fingers through his disheveled hair and staring at his reflection.
Dean hadn't been wrong about him looking terrible and he felt just as bad as he looked.
How on earth had he gone from feeling relatively alright to whatever this was? It wasn't fair, Dean didn't have so much as a cold. Though maybe he should be grateful. If Dean thought that he was grumpy when sick…
Sighing, Sam turned away from the mirror and reentered the hustle and bustle. Dean was still waiting at the counter, sharing flirtatious looks with one of the waitresses who kept passing by. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Sam slouched next to his brother with his elbow on the counter and dug the heel of his hand against his forehead.
"We eatin' on the road, or are you going to want to stay now and flirt?" he asked, twisting just enough to look at Dean.
Dean sighed unhappily, checking his watch. "Yeah, on the road. I want to make South Dakota as soon as we can." He smiled suggestively over Sam's shoulder as the smiling waitress passed by again. Sam snorted and bowed his head, trying to rub away the pain there.
"Hey." Dean's voice was soft enough for just Sam to hear as his brother rested a hand on his back. "You doin' alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired." Sam heaved himself upright, trying to wipe the concerned look off of Dean's face.
"You sure? We can stop and spend the night here if you want. We passed a motel on the way in."
"Nah, I want to go to Bobby's. At least there I don't have to worry about the sheets being clean. Getting shot if I get up in the middle of the night, maybe, but at least the man does his laundry."
"That's fair." Dean leaned back, giving Sam his space as he checked his watch. He continued to shoot concerned glances his way until the woman working the counter came back with a large sack and then they were heading back out into the cold and to the car.
Dean began to sort out the food and Sam shoved the blanket he had been using in the back to make more room, before turning to accept the Styrofoam container of what looked like soup that Dean was passing to him. He struggled for a moment with the lid and heard Dean stop going through the bag.
Looking up, he found his brother watching him and frowning.
"You're like, full-on trembling."
"No, I'm not," Sam huffed, trying to ignore the way that he was having trouble prying the lid off.
"Yeah, you are. Is your fever higher?" Dean was still watching him, his hand in the bag but pulling nothing out.
"No, my fever is not higher."
Dean shook his head and returned to the food, pulling out a wrapped sandwich for himself and a spoon for Sam. "Here, might need this. It's potato soup, figured it might do you some good. I got you some tea too."
Sam finally managed to get the lid off, setting it carefully aside. "Thanks."
Dean nodded, backing the car out. The tires caught on the snow, spinning for a second before they found traction and then they were on their way. "Do you even know what your temperature is?"
"Why would I know that? Do you regularly know your temperature? Listen, just watch the road, conditions are—" A harsh deep cough caught Sam by surprise and once he started, he was having trouble stopping.
"Yeah, you're just fine." Dean heaved a sigh and reached over to turn up the music before propping his elbow up on the car door and leaning his head against his hand.
In the darkness, the snow seemed to be falling thicker and faster and the windshield wipers were going furiously in an attempt to keep up.
Yeah. Everything was just peachy.