Day 9

Title: Day 9
Author: tarotgal
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Pairing: None? Wincest? Up to you how you want to read it.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. I wish they were mine. I definitely don’t get paid for this.
Summary: Sam's got a cold and is completely out of commission.
Notes: Written during my 12 Ficlets in 12 Days in 2015 project for Lady Korana

Ah...” Sam waved his hand in front of his face. The damned tickle would not leave him the hell alone, but sometimes it seemed to need a little extra coaxing to actually come out. “Ah... ahhhhh!

“You gonna sneeze sometime or just planning to breathe loudly for the next half an hour?”

“Jer... hah... ahhh--” His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his nose twitched. “Hahhh... ahh! Ah!” It seemed to take forever; Dean had just about lost patience. But when the sneeze decided to strike, there was no denying it. “Ah! Gonna... ahhKutchoo!

“Finally it comes out. Took you long enough.” He trailed off, watching Sam. Sam had pulled a tissue out of the box that now practically lived on his lap. He rubbed the tissue against his red nose, but he winced at every single touch like it was the worst torture imaginable. And from someone who had survived being trapped in a cage with Lucifer and Michael, that was saying something. Dean got up and grabbed his bag. Jeans. Flannel. Underwear. There it was. He took out one of Dad's old handkerchiefs. It was soft from many years of use and washes. When he had a really terrible cold, it was what Dean liked to use best.

“No!” Sam's eyes went wide and he scooted back on his bed, back pressed right against the headboard.

“Sammy, this is going to help. Your nose looks so red and sore.” He started toward the bed with the handkerchief again.

But Sam shook his head and scrambled off the bed, squeezing himself into the far corner of the small motel room. “Dod't cub too close. We cad't afford for you to catch this cold frub be. Stay over od... od... od your side of... oh shit...” The tissues were back on the bed. So, as his mouth dropped open, he gently cradled his nose in the crook of his arm, the soft cotton sleeve of his hoodie muffling the sound of the sneeze, but he still winced. “hahhh-HIgtshmmfffff! Hah-hah-CHUMmphhhhh!


Sam raised his head just as Dean tossed the handkerchief over. It landed on the far side of the bed, just in front of Sam. Wearily, Sam picked it up and rubbed his nose. This time, there was only a little wincing. He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Still feel like crap, huh?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded. “Worst cold ever.” He fell sideways onto the pillows, coughing.


Sam scrubbed at his nose again. “I wish. Dod't you have to get going?” He raised his gaze up toward Dean, whose heart melted. No one could resist those eyes, especially not Dean.

“Yeah. I gotta go, but before I do, can I get you anything?”

Sniffling, Sam shook his head no.

But Dean got things anyway. He tossed a Gatorade and a protein bar onto the end of Sam's bed. And he set a bottle of NyQuil, a bag of cough drops, a box of Aspirin, and a thermometer on the dresser. “Think you can stay awake another hour? That's when you're supposed to take more medicine.”

Sam gave him a nod, but they both knew as soon as Dean left, Sam would swallow down all the medicine and sleep the rest of the day away. Dean sat on the edge of his own bed and laced up his shoes. He slipped a gun into the holster under his suit jacket and grabbed his trench coat. It was going to be a cold day out in the snow, but he still had to look like an FBI agent and he needed easy access to his gun, so he couldn't bundle up. He double-checked the silver knife tied tight against his calf and the other in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“Call if you get id trouble,” Sam said.

And though Dean knew the sentiment was genuine, there wouldn't be anything Sam could do to help him out. Dean was taking the Impala and Sam was a weakling when he was sick like this. “Sure. Get some rest... after you take the medicine, right?”

Sam nodded obediently and cupped the handkerchief to his nose and mouth. “hahhh-Ah... ahhhhhhhh... Ahh-Hahhschhmfff!” Dean was willing to bet that as soon as he was out of the door and not at risk of catching Sam's cold, Sam wouldn't be bothering to cover his sneezes.

“Bless you. Feel better, kiddo.”

Sam's eyes were closed, his nostrils flaring, his breath hitching. “Guh... good luck huh out there hah! hahhhhh! Hah! AhhhTChhmmphhh! HahhKTchhffff!

It was painful to leave, but Dean knew he had to. Every instinct he had told him to stay and take care of his little brother. To be so close and not be able to touch Sam was killer. He wanted to feel Sam's forehead, wanted to put an arm around him, wanted to hold the handkerchief for him, wanted to keep him warm in bed.

But people were out there dying and their research last night had pointed the answer straight at a Vetala, which meant there were two in the area. With Sam sick in bed instead of watching his back, Dean was outnumbered from the start.


At first, it made sense to Sam. Every time Jess opened her mouth, all that came out was ringing. It was beautiful. But it was also loud and she shook in place. Which seemed strange to him. And the next thing he knew, she was gone and he was lying alone in a motel room.

But the ringing continued, and he looked around to find his phone's screen glowing as it vibrated on the bed beside him. Dean. It was Dean. Sam made a grab for it and his thumb accidentally slid the wrong way, hanging up on his brother. Damn it. Sam shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to wake up. All that did was shift the congestion in his nose. His nose buzzed with a fresh and immediate need to sneeze. “ahhh-IHGshhhhh! HahChihh! HahhIhschhhhhh! Ahhhgtchhhhhhh! Sniff!” His nose was running, but that sniff had been a bad idea. The tickle in his nose flared up with a prickling, undeniable intensity. “hah-AH-GIHTshhhhhh!

His phone rang again. Pressing the handkerchief to his nose before it could drip, not wanting to risk another sniffle, Sam managed to answer his phone this time. “Yeah?”

“Sammy!” Dean sounded out of breath, which sent red flags up even in Sam's cold-weary head. “What color is a Vetala's eyes?”

It was telling that Sam didn't have to look it up. He knew it cold, though it helped that he'd just looked it up last night. “Blue. They look like sdake eyes add they're blue.” Then, the word he wished he didn't have to add, “Why?”

“Oh...” There was a grunt and some shuffling movement. “Because these girls have orange ones.”

Sam's nose started tickling again, but he pressed the handkerchief hard against his nose. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. I was, ah, pretty close just now.”

Feeling sleepy, and wondering if he had taken too much NyQuil, because he hadn't actually been using a measuring cup when he'd taken the last dose, Sam fought to stay awake. “Let be guess: she tried to kiss you?”

“Yep...” Another grunt. “Aaaaand now she and her girlfriends are trying to kill me. AH!” There was the sound of more movement. “Doing a pretty good job at it, too. M'bleeding here, Sammy. Not sure how much longer I can hold on.” 

“Where are you?” Sam's eyes were closing. His nose was dripping. He was somehow both sweating and shivering in his hoodie, covers still up to his waist. But he couldn't just sit here when his brother was out there dying.


“Tell be, or I swear by dext call will be to Charlie to get a fix od your cell phode.”

Dean told him. Then the call dropped. And Sam made a call of his own.


The world passed by outside the car window in blurry colors and streaks of light that made Sam's head hurt. The only thing that hurt more was his nose. And maybe his stomach. He was sick with worry, and nothing he tried to tell himself actually reassured him. Dean had hunted on his own plenty of times. John Winchester had hunted on his own as well. Most hunters hunted on their own. Dean would be okay. Dean could handle himself. Dean bled slowly.

Damn it. It didn't help that Sam's cold seemed to get worse the second he got out of bed. “hahh-Chuhh! HAH-KTschhhh! Ahhh-CHIHshhhhhhh!” He coughed and sniffed and then the cycle repeated. “HAKUHTchhhhhh!” The car turned off the main road and the tires hit a gravel parking lot. Sam took it as a sign to finally open his eyes.

“You sure you want out here? There's a nice, ah, hospital down the road.” The cab driver's bushy brown eyebrows rose at Sam in the rear view mirror.

Sam tossed a couple tens through the little Plexiglas window. “Keeb the chadge.”

“Your funeral, buddy,” the cabbie replied.

Sam felt a shiver run down his spine that he hoped was not a portent of things to come. For all he knew, Dean was dead by now and he was walking into the worst trap of his life. “hah... hah-Chishhhh!” And they would know he was coming. Sam dragged his sleeve under his nose, wincing, as he ran past the Impala parked in the lot next to a half dozen other cars. Instead of running into the bar, he headed straight to the back entrance. He threw the door open and immediately tripped over something. A body? Dean?

It wasn't Dean. Sam's racing pulse slowed just a bit. He pushed the body over with the toe of his boot. The woman was gorgeous. She also had orange eyes; Dean hadn't been going colorblind after all. She had a bullet hole right between those orange eyes. It seemed like these could be killed by more than just a silver knife; that was good to know.. She also had sharp teeth that were red with blood. Dean!

Sam coughed lightly into his sleeve as he looked around the back entryway. There was a short hall ending in a door straight ahead and two doors, one on each side. He had a one in three chance of finding Dean, which were not the best odds. He considered them for a second before going for the one on the right. Dean.

Sniffing and panting, Sam ran to the end of the room were a collection of metal cages was stacked. Dean was hunched over in the bottom one, but he looked up when Sam broke the lock on the cage. “Oh Sam...” Sam noticed a bright stain of blood across Dean's chest, where he held his arm. “This place is like some monster's version of the Roadhouse. Except instead of Bud or Miller it's Dean and Tom and Carson.”  He looked around at the cages to either side of his and then glanced down at his slashed chest. “They're keeping us to feed off of.”

Sam nodded. “I'll get you... ahhh-HIHTchhhhhh!hahhTuhshhhh!” He sniffed hard. There was no time to bother with a tissue or handkerchief now, even though his head felt light and nose felt full. “I'll get you out. Hadg od.” Ignoring the strong shiver that struck him. Sam pulled off his hoodie, folded it up, and pressed it to Dean's chest. “Cad you hold this there?” Dean could, and Sam was sure he'd be all right until they got back to the motel to get stitched up. “Cad you hold a gud?” Dean could do that, too, and Sam was glad he'd brought several. “Cad you stadd ub?” That was where Dean's abilities ended, and Sam had to help him out of the cage and onto his feet, swaying. 

There were other people in cages, most much worse off than Dean. Using his knife, Sam pried the locks off each cage and he and Dean helped the ones who needed it. Everyone could at least move forward on their hands and knees if not stand. Dean and the victim named Tom leaned against each other as Sam led the way out of the room and right into the waiting arms of seven undeniably beautiful women who had sharp teeth and orange eyes. Sam wished he could say that they looked angry to see him there; they didn't. They looked hungry. And excited. Their tongues moistened their lips and their eyes danced joyfully until he slit the first one's throat.

Behind him, with both of his guns, Sam and Tom fired repeatedly while trying to stay upright. Sam slashed wildly, a silver knife in each hand. In a perfect world, adrenaline would have taken Sam over, allowing him to protect himself and his brother and the other innocents. It would be one of those moments like those that let mothers lift cars off their children. But it didn't turn out that way. Sam didn't stop sneezing the whole time.

ahhh ahhhHIHKtshhh! HahTShuhhh! Hah ahh hahhhKTshhhh!” Slash. “hahh-KIHTchhhh!” Swipe. “ahhHihshh!” The knife hit something, drawing through like carving meat. “hahhhHIHShhhhh!” The knife moved freely now, and there were thuds of bodies hitting the floor along with bullets firing. “ahh ahhhhhhhhhHIHFschhhhhh! AHSchhhhhh!” His other knife hit something else and there was a terrifying scream. Plus more sneezing. “ahhh-HahShuh!” The gunfire stopped, and Sam thought the worst—that they'd run out of bullets.

“Sammy, it's over.”

Sam pinched his quivering nose between a thumb and forefinger, knife handle still gripped in the rest of his hand, and opened his eyes. The floor was littered with bodies, most with gunshot wounds, but a few with cuts across their necks or chests or arms.

ahh-Hihshhuh!” Sam swapped a knife for his dad's handkerchief and gave his nose a grateful, useful blow. It still took him a moment to catch his breath. “Deand, you all right? Is everyode else all right?”

“Yeah, we are.”

Sam nodded and coughed. He was out of breath, his heart pounding. “Good.” He looked over at his shoulder. “The dext tibe I cub dowd with a cold, I'b dot keebidg by distadce. I'b goidg to be sure you catch it. I'll sdeeze od you if that's what it takes. If you cad't go out hudtidg thed you wod't have to call be to get by ass out of bed to rescue you.”

Dean chuckled. “Sounds fair. I'll take a couple sneezes over being kidnapped and bled to death.”

There were more than a couple sneezes. Dean had to know that by now. “Are you ahh... okay to drive? I cad't... cad't... ahhh-Hihktchhhh! Ah AHShihhh!

“I can.” He chuckled again. “What's it say that I'm dizzy and bleeding and still better off to drive than you?”

AhhhhHihshhhhh! Says sniff that this is the worst cold ever. Sniff, sniff!

“This time, I know you're not exaggerating. C'mon, kiddo. Let's go.” It was a slow procession out of the bar's back door, as Sam called 911 for the victims, knowing that the Impala would be long gone before the ambulances even got close.