Prompt: Slash or gen. Sam has a really really really bad cold. Dean makes him soup.

Guess What Day It Is?

Sam is tough. And strong. And imposing. But at 6’4” and with a horrible head cold that isn’t letting him catch a bit of sleep, graceful Sam Winchester is not.


Dean wakes, drowsy. It wasn’t the bump that had roused him but the loud curse as Sam’s toe hit a night stand that had been oddly placed by whoever had laid out the motel room. Dean pulls himself out of the nest of blankets and crawls to the edge of the bed, looking down to see Sam crumpled on the floor with the first aid kit. “If you’re looking for where I’ve hid your birthday presents, you’re way off.”


Sam gives a start, having forgotten what day it is. That doesn’t matter, though. He’s miserable and sick and nothing’s going to change that. “Lookig for the therbobeter,” Sam croaks, surprising even himself with the state of his voice, all rough and stuffy and deep. Talking tickles this throat, which tickles his nose, and he snaps forward with a vicious sneeze.


“Don’t need a thermometer. You don’t have a fever,” Dean insists, thinking he knows everything. “It’s just a cold.”


But Sam shakes his head. “I’ve had colds before. Add they were dever this bad.” He demonstrates by trying to sniff and all his nose can do is squeak. “I’b bretty sure I’b dyig this tibe.”


“I’ll kill you myself if you don’t climb back into bed.”


A violent shiver shakes Sam. He hugs both arms around his middle. “I’b gettig the chills dow. By fever—”


“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Dean scrambles off the bed, bends over, and clamps a hand to Sam’s forehead. “You’re cold because the heating in this room is awful. Which is why you’re supposed to stay in bed.” Sam sort of nuzzles into his brother’s warm touch, tilting his head and whimpering as Dean pets him, strokes his hand from forehead to back of neck repeatedly. Dean eases him to his feet.


Sam sways and, for a moment, he thinks he’ll be all right. Then he sneezes and they topple over, onto the bed and the tangle of blankets that are already cold without Dean in them. Sam curls in on himself, sneezing again. And again. And again.




Dean is clever. And resourceful. And used to motel rooms. But after spending all night and day worrying over Sammy and only getting an hour of sleep, precise he is not.


Sam wakes, his head filled with so much congestion he almost think he’s still asleep, under layers of blankets. Then he coughs and gulps air and realizes it’s just this haze of a cold that’s settled in his head and won’t let up. It’s a moment before he realizes what woke him—not his own massive snores or a tickle in his throat, making him cough. No, it’s Dean swearing up a storm on the other side of the room. Pulling himself into a sitting position, Sam calls out, “Is it ad evil coffee baker?”


“Evil fucking beast! If we still had the colt, I’d...” He pulls a wad of something white, gooey, and dripping out and plunks it into the trash can with one last “Damn it, that was the last pack!”

And Sam finally realizes what Dean’s been doing. There’s a small carton of milk and a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. The Winchester boys have grown up learning how to prepare a meal using a bathroom sink, an ice bucket, and a motel coffee maker. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s your birthday. Least I could do was make you a birthday dinner.”


Soup without rice is still soup—hot, steaming, creamy, delicious soup. Sam hugs the mug to his chest, letting the warmth fight off his shivers, letting the steam have its way with the stuffiness in his nose. When he takes a sip, he can’t really taste much of it anyway.


The presents come out as Sam nurses the soup. They’re wrapped in old, torn maps that have lived under the Impala’s seats for who knows how long. As Sam hadn’t expected anything of that kind, he tears up a little, buries his face in Dean’s shirt when Dean settles beside him. “Thadks,” he whispers. And then he sneezes.


Dean reaches over to one of the presents, rips it open himself, and thrusts the tissue box in Sam’s face. “Just once, Sammy, I want you to have a cold and not sneeze all over me. Think you can work on that?”

Sam thinks about it as he plucks some tissues out and cups them to his nose. He sneezes repeatedly and leaves the tissues bunched to his nose. It’s running now, which is damn annoying but it’s progress. And when he blows his nose, that heavy congestion seems to lighten a little.


Quickly, he finishes up the soup, just so he can set to work unwrapping the rest of his presents. There’s a box of heavy duty cold pills, a bottle of pain killers, a jar of vaporub, and an older brother who knows exactly what he needs.