Title: Bunker Fever
Disclaimer: Not my boys, world, etc. I make no money from this.
Summary: Sam deals with the aftermath of a snow storm. (Season 8)
Notes: I got another snow day! This snow drabble was written on February 26, 2015.
Sam had never seen Dean like this before. He'd seen Dean carried off to Hell by hounds. He'd seen Dean trying to hold his ground with a broken leg. He'd seen Dean torn and beaten down so many times. But he had never seen his big brother restless with cabin fever.
“Maybe I can find something to use as a shovel?” They'd been through the bunker a hundred times already; it seemed snowfall back in the days of the Men of Letters hadn't been this extreme and they weren't prepared for six feet of the white stuff piling up outside, and that was before the wicked winds made it drift. There was no telling how high it actually was outside their door; all they saw when they opened the bunker was white.
They had enough food to last a few weeks. The power hadn't flickered, not even during the worst of the storm. So they were warm and cozy and prepared to wait this one out... they just didn't have a snow shovel.
“A cookie sheet? A rake? Hell, a set of serving spoons?”
Sam sighed, realizing he wasn't going to get anything more read in this book, not with Dean pacing and complaining nonstop like this. And not with this headache pounding away behind his temples. Sam only had the strength to deal with one crisis at a time. Resignedly, he closed his book. Dean looked restless, twitchy, itching to get out on the open road with a case—any case. It was useless to tell Dean to be patient; Dean Winchester did not do patient. And Dean had already cleaned this place from top to bottom, including the dungeon. Short of giving him the task of cataloging every book in the collection, Sam wasn't sure what to suggest he do.
Dean whirled around, eyes locking on Sam. He'd tried to hold it back, but he hadn't had the energy lately; it was a chore some days just to get out of bed and go read. So it had come out as this half-stifled mess, smothered immediately in the corner of the gray blanket around Sam's shoulders but still audible enough for Dean to take notice. “What was that?”
“I think it's called a sneeze. There might be something about it in a book around here... why don't you look?”
Dean's eyes narrowed. “I think it's called a cold.”
“It was one sneeze, Dean. That doesn't mean a...”
“... a... Uhhhh... a c-uhhh-HTShihhhhh! HihKShhh! ehKxshhh! Sniff! A cold.”
“No, but four does.” He strode over to Sam and palmed his forehead. “And you're running a fever.”
“That's from the trials,” Sam said, as if that made it any better.
Dean immediately grabbed his arm and hauled him up. “Bed. I'll get you some more blankets. I'll make you soup.”
“huhh...” Sam swayed in place, and Dean moved close instinctively to offer his support. Sam reluctantly took it as he snapped forward. “hettChihhhh! HuhhKTshhhhh!”
“And I'll get you Kleenex. We've got plenty of Kleenex. You'll be fine.” He grabbed the book Sam had been reading at the table, tucked it under his arm, and then manhandled Sam through the bunker and into bed.
Sam tried reading in bed, but his head pounded and his nose dripped, so he just sat there with the back of his hand to his nose, waiting for Dean to return and knowing that if they did manage to dig themselves out and get to a case, he'd be no help at all there. “hehhh-TShuhhhh! UhhhTuchhhhh! Sniff!”
Dean returned with soup and tissues and Aspirin. And he had extra blankets that he tucked tight around Sam's body.
Sam tried to thank him, but his breath caught. “hahhh-KTshffffff!” The sneeze shook him in bed, but it had felt good to sneeze into tissues for a change. He rubbed them at his nose as Dean tucked the blankets that had come loose during the sneeze tight around Sam again.
Sam didn't comment about Dean's mother henning, even as Dean sat down on the edge of Sam's bed to watch over him, to hand him soup and medicine. He was just glad Dean wasn't pacing and plotting the great escape from the bunker with silverware any more.