A/N: sorry I haven't been around. I'm still recovering from 2 weeks of the worst flu I've had in 8 years.
~SPN~ ~SPN~ ~SPN~
Sam Winchester face down is Sam Winchester exhausted. The 'hell and purgatory 2 days/1 night express tour' will do that to you. Ferrying a soul out of purgatory will do that to you. Closing the gates of hell Trial #2 will do that to you.
Being a Winchester will do that to you.
We're at a shack, halfway between Garth's boat and no Kevin, and the relative safety and sanity of the Bat Cave. I'd seen this place on a few of our treks to check up on Kevin and I decided to put it to good use now. Sam needs to rest and I need him to rest someplace quieter than an interstate motel.
So, he's face down on his sleeping bag, inside the salt circle, surrounded on every wall by every sigil and ward and protection I can think of. I'm just putting away the spray paint and flashlight and rolling out my own sleeping bag, right next to him.
I need the break, too. I've been driving non-stop for four days. Or nearly non-stop. I need to stop and breathe and get started not thinking about anything other than taking care of Sam. If I think about anything else, it'll be – it'll just be – I just can't think about anything else.
So I concentrate on Sammy.
He's exhausted but not sleeping. Not yet. In the thin glow of the single fat candle near our heads, I can see him twitch and shift and breathe deep and not settle.
"Cold. It's cold here."
Yeah, it's cold. We hit one of those 'clear sky, plummeting thermometer' early spring nights. Not colder than anything we've survived before, but even though Sam's core temperature has always been something approaching a human blast furnace, all that 'hacking up his lungs' blood loss is taking its toll.
"All right, here."
I push my sleeping bag up against his and unfurl my blanket so it's covering both of us when I lay down next to him.
"…thanks…" He mumbles and settles and sleeps. He'll sleep sound until morning.
That's all I let myself think about.