A/N: Hastily written and unbeta'd for Comment fic prompt from Oh_Sam on LJ by 27_JaredJensen: Sam gets a minor injury- a book falls on his head or he breaks his pinky or something, lol. Dean fusses over him, and discovers Sam is running a fever.
Episode tag to 'Bad Day at Black Rock'.
If It Wasn't For Bad Luck …
It had been a rough couple of days.
Okay … that was an understatement – The last few days had been ridiculously crappy and even after burning that damned rabbit's foot, things didn't seem to be looking up.
Sam woke up and groaned as he glanced over at the clock on the nightstand – it was 5:30 am and his shoulder throbbed a painful reminder to him of the bullet wound Bela had given him. Sure, it was just a 'flesh wound' as she had called it, but still hurt like a S.O.B none the less and sleeping in any further, no matter how tired and awful he felt, was no longer an option.
Strangely enough, it wasn't the bullet that had to be pulled out of his shoulder or the beating his face had taken from those idiot friends of Gordon Walker that cried out with the worst amount of hurt – it was his freaking knees. He had been running at full speed when he tripped and skinned them, ruining one of his last remaining pairs of jeans, and while he had cleaned and dressed them as best as he could, the injury to his right knee had swelled like he had sprained it and walking on it made him feel like an old man with arthritis.
Sitting up carefully, Sam pulled the covers off of him and rolled up, trying not to let loose the string of curses sitting on his tongue as his movement pulled at the various injuries he had acquired in the last 36 hours while a spike of pain to rammed its way through his head, leaving him feeling slightly nauseous and dizzy.
On top of all of that, his nose felt blocked and as he sniffed in a wad of snot, his throat protested every swallow he attempted and that made him cough roughly into his cupped hand uncontrollably for several moments until he could finally catch his breath.
God – he felt like shit….
He was coming to realize that it was just his luck that he probably caught some kind of flu bug while he had been cursed, which was just perfect given how beat-up the rest of his body was.
Sam rubbed the back of his neck and told himself to get over it and quit being a whiney baby.
In the bed across from him, Dean lay on his stomach, his face buried in his pillow and snoring noisily. At least one of them could sleep, he mused resignedly as he grunted and rose from the bed, making his way to the bathroom.
He gingerly pulled off his clothes and then showered with the water turned up to a near-boiling temperature, but even with the hot water striking him from above, he felt cold and shivered as he washed while his heart pounded from the heat and made his headache and dizziness flare.
The shower had soaked his bandages and they needed to be changed, so when he was all finished, he cut off the water and stepped out of the steaming bathroom, wrapped with one towel around his waist and another one around his shoulders, shivering as he made his way towards the med-kit that sat on the table across the room. He tried ignoring the black spots that popped up and floated around his vision, but half-way across the room, he had to stop and sit on his bed for a few moments with his head between his knees until they faded and he no longer felt like passing out.
He really regretted taking such a hot shower now – it really messed him up.
Eventually, still dressed in only a towel, he made it to the table and to the med-kit. He sat down heavily in the chair next to the table and started to peel off the bandage on his shoulder, wincing as the tape pulled at his skin until it was removed. He examined the wound – it wasn't too terrible – it was a little red, but Dean had done a good job stitching it up and it would heal without there being an obvious scar. He unwrapped a new bandage from its package and taped it up without too much fuss then went to work on the bandages of his knees.
He lifted his left leg first and propped it up on the other chair beside the table. This one didn't look too bad and all he had to do to it was change the bandage. Sam switched legs then propped his right leg up on the chair and began to peel of the tape.
This one stung like crazy as the bandage stuck to the raw skin underneath and pulling it off was an arduous affair. Under the gauze, Sam found the wound red, hot, puffy, and oozing yellowish pus while the rest of the knee was also swollen and tender to the touch. It had been the knee that had taken the brunt of the fall and had been the one to take in the most asphalt, so it was little wonder now that now looked infected and like he had taken a cheese grater to it.
He knew he was going to have to clean it again, this time with alcohol before it got any worse.
Sam rummaged through the med kit and found the bottle of alcohol then braced himself for the next step, biting his tongue to muffle his pained noises and not wake his brother while he poured a healthy measure over the wound. He saw stars by the time he was done and was panting while the alcohol burned and bubbled into his open sore, but after a few moments of intense stinging, the pain receded and he was able to get it bandaged and he took the extra step of wrapping it all up with an ace bandage, hoping that it would make walking on it a little easier.
Getting dressed was next on his priorities list, but as soon as he stood up, another coughing fit hit and his blood pressure decided it was time to bottom out. A bout of wooziness struck him from head to toe and things spun like in those cartoons where tweety-birds circled Daffy-duck's head after he had been knocked out. The ceiling flipped flopped and he started to go down, but he caught himself at the last moment by grabbing the edge of the table.
This however, did not sufficiently stop Sam's momentum. Instead, it only served to tip the table and send it falling along with him to the floor, upending the medical supplies and catapulting them across the room. It all happened so fast and in such a confusing whirl that Sam didn't even realized that the table was on a direct collision course with his big toe until it was too late. He landed square on his butt and lost his towel the exact same moment the table crushed his toe.
He cried out loudly in surprise and pain.
Dean was instantly awakened by the noise, his eyes wide as he jumped from the bed in alarm, grabbing the knife that was always stashed under his pillow before he rushed to Sam's rescue, ready to slash and hack whatever had caused his little brother to make such an awful, pained noise.
But Dean's initial alarm quickly went to confusion and then to out-right mirth when he reached the end of his bed and saw the table lying on its side next to Sam who lay on the floor, naked, gasping like a fish out of water, covered in a multitude of cotton balls, Q-tips, and Band-Aids, and clutching at his big toe as he rocked back and forth.
"What the … Jesus, Sam … I thought you were being attacked – " God help him, Dean couldn't help the snort that was driven from his lips, "What happened? Did the table piss you off or something?"
Sam never really took notice of Dean as he swore up and down like a sailor caught in a hurricane and rolled around on the floor.
Dean quit laughing for long enough to realize he was being a dickhead and that Sam was actually hurt.
"Whoa, Sammy … take it easy … Whatcha do?" Crouching, Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder while his brother sat up and continued to hold his toe.
"Owwwww – I fucked up my toe."
"Your toe? Jeez – thought you were dying or something – lemme see, it can't be that bad."
Dean was wrong.
As soon as Sam let go of the digit, he saw what had caused his brother so much pain and he felt bad all at once for mocking him. The nail was split down the center, embedded into the nail bed and it bled profusely onto the carpet. It was already swelling and Sam hissed in a sharp breath the moment Dean touched the toe, trying to assess the damage.
"Yeah – I think it's broken alright." Dean stated the obvious.
"No shit." Sam snapped back, grabbing the towel next to him and covering his unmentionables.
"Okay … don't worry. I'll tape it up and splint it to your other toe and it'll be just fine."
Dean got up and searched around for the supplies he needed, finding them scattered across the room, then got to work cleaning the blood from Sam's toe and telling his little brother not to be a baby as he squirmed under his ministrations. Soon he had the toe wrapped in enough gauze and tape to keep it immobile.
"There – boo-boo's fixed, Sammy. Need me to kiss it and make it better?"
Sam flipped him the bird.
"That's the spirit." Dean said as he grabbed his brother by the bicep and helped him from the mess on the floor, he then guided him back to his bed where Sam sat down wearily then flopped onto his back.
Dean saw him shiver, so he tossed him his duffel. Sam didn't even try to catch it before it hit him smack dab in the face. "Jeez – Jerk."
"Put on some clothes, dumbass." Dean grumbled and shook his head as righted the fallen table then started to pick up the supplies and drop them into the fallen med-kit.
"What's up with you? You haven't been this klutzy since you were a teenager. You sure you're still not cursed by that damned rabbit's foot?"
Sam didn't answer, he was too busy watching the ceiling spin above him and focusing on not giving into to the coughing fit that was trying to work its way from his raw throat. His headache pounded with a renewed vengeance, his shoulder ached, his knees throbbed and now his toe …
He felt truly awful.
Yeah – he was cursed – but that been established well before they encountered that rabbit's foot.
Dean finished picking up what med supplies he could from the floor, leaving a few cotton balls to stay where they had fallen then turned again towards his brother. The poor kid looked like he'd been used as a punching bag – his face still held the hallmarks of the beating he had taken, he had bandages on his knees, his shoulder, and now his toe. He looked miserably pathetic as he lay on the bed shivering, coughing harshly, sniffling, and making no move to get anything on other than the towel wrapped around his waist. Dean suddenly had an overwhelming urge to wrap him up in a nest of blankets, feed him chicken soup and read him a bed-time story like he had when they were kids and Sam wasn't feeling well.
However, being grown men made that difficult and Sam had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to be treated like a kid, but that didn't mean Dean couldn't still fuss over him and make sure he was comfortable at the very least. He crossed the room and approached Sam then noticed that his brother had closed his eyes and appeared to have fallen asleep horizontally across the bed with his long legs dangling over the edge.
Dean noticed then the flush in his brother's cheeks and how pale the rest of his skin was, so he reached out and placed his palm across his forehead. He was quite hot to the touch and while Dean couldn't tell how high the fever was in degrees, he knew it was high enough for him to worry.
Sam opened his eyes and batted Dean's hand away weakly, "Stop it. I'm fine."
"Yeah right – that's why you're lying here half-naked," Dean grumbled without any heat as he reached for Sam's duffel bag and fished inside for a pair of underwear and some sweats, "C'mon – let's get some clothes on ya and get you in bed."
Dean started to help Sam get his clothes on, but his little brother protested, "I can put my own clothes on," He mumbled through his congested nose, standing up to pull his underwear on. However, as soon as he stood, Dean saw every bit of color drain from Sam's face and he just able to catch him before he went down like a felled tree.
"Whoa … you proved your point – you're a real Chuck Norris, Sammy. C'mon – just lay down, will ya?"
Sam's head flopped forward so his bangs fell into his eyes, but he nodded and allowed Dean to guide him back to the bed and start tucking the blankets over him. He felt like a little kid again being hovered over like that, but he couldn't deny that he secretly liked having Dean taking care of him – not that he enjoyed being sick, but there was something about knowing he was worthy of his big brother's protection that gave him a soft, warm, fuzzy feeling inside.
Sam snuggled into the blankets, pulling them tight around him as he rolled onto his good shoulder and shivered through another chill. A moment later, Sam found a glass of water and two Advil being shoved into his face.
"Sit up and take this," Dean insisted. Sam groaned as he made his way up to a sitting position and obediently swallowed the pills and chased them down with a gulp of water.
"Drink the whole thing." Dean ordered, "You need to keep hydrated."
Sam drank the rest of the water and it felt good on his scratchy throat, but secretly he wished it was juice instead –- he always preferred that over water when he was ill.
As soon as he was done, Dean took the glass from him and gently pushed Sam back into his pillow before draping the blankets over him again. Seconds later, Sam was out like a light, snoring softly through his stuffy nose.
He woke up sometime later with no clue as to how long he had been asleep, but when he looked to the nightstand to find out what time it was from the clock, he saw a big bottle of apple juice, a box of tissues, sore throat lozenges, a box of decongestants, and a still steaming container of hot soup.
Sam grinned – maybe he hadn't had the best of luck the last few days, but he had Dean, and maybe that made him the most fortunate person on the planet.