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Sam Winchester knew the signs of a flare-up. Hell, he’d been diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis since he was a baby; of course, he knew when his health was getting bad. He stared at the green mucus on the napkin.
He was sitting in the Impala. Dean was in the gas station getting way too much junk food for his liking, and Sam was in the Impala, coughing up gook.
Dean came back, and he startled, hiding the napkin. Dean frowned.
“Dude, you realize you can’t hide your physical health from me, right?” Dean asked, a grim look on his face.
Sam sighed. He didn’t want Dean to worry about him. His cough was mild, really, and this was
the first time he’d spit up mucus. “Dean, chill. I’m fine, really.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“Well, it’s not like we can go to the doctor, can we?” Sam snapped, instantly feeling bad as he saw the look on Dean’s face. “Dean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that…”
“No. You’re right. We can’t go to a doctor, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to worry less.”
“Just drop it, okay?”
“Fine.”
Dean dropped it for a while, not bringing it up during the rest of their drive. It wasn’t until they arrived in Duluth, Minnesota, that he approached the subject again. Well…it was more like the subject was thrust upon them.
They were sitting in a diner, and Sam could not stop coughing. He could see the stares of the other diner-goers and he felt the crippling shame he often felt when he couldn’t stop coughing. Truth be told, Sam hated being sick. He couldn’t even really call himself “sick.” Yes, he had Cystic Fibrosis, but he had a mild case, and his flare-ups were rare. Technically, the mild case was made worse by the fact that Dean and Sam didn’t have health insurance and therefore didn’t have access to the treatments that made CF just a little more bearable, but it was fine. Right?
Dean grimaced. “Sammy, you’re not going on this hunt,” he said.
Sam sighed. Dean got like this when Sam was sick. Well, he was always overprotective, but it worsened when Sam had a flare-up. Sam understood to an extent. He was Dean’s little brother, and he knew that he just wanted to protect Sam. That didn’t make getting benched any less frustrating.
“Dean, no. Why wouldn’t I go? I’m fine. So I’m coughing a bit. That doesn’t mean anything.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Sammy, you just had a coughing fit that lasted five minutes straight! I don’t want you to risk your health more, okay?”
Sam felt his body deflate with exhaustion. Maybe Dean was right. It was ironic, though, how Dean urged Sam to take care of himself when he knew Dean probably hadn’t slept in the past week.
“Fine. Fine, I’ll sit this one out. But just this one, okay?”
They drove to some shitty motel in the city, and checked into a room.
“At least let me do research,” Sam argued.
Dean shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, Sam, you are getting rest.”
Sam sighed but didn’t argue. He got in bed, and wow, he hadn’t realized how exhausted he’d been. He closed his eyes, and darkness instantly overcame him.
🫁🫁🫁
Sam woke a few hours later to an empty motel room. His body slumped over in disappointment, and he wanted to scream. He knew Dean was right, that he needed rest, but that didn’t make it any easier. Sam despised the feeling that he was capable of less due to his illness, even though he knew that, in some ways, it was the truth. He needed to take breaks more, and for some reason, there was so much shame attached to that.
He opened a book. Sam so rarely had time to read fiction, but when he did, he consumed it like no one else’s business. He found that losing himself in other people’s problems was therapeutic. As he lost himself in the story, he felt the black hole in his chest disappear. It would be back when he closed the book, but for now? For now, it was gone.
He closed the book, and he couldn’t run from his emotions anymore. It was fucking embarrassing, not being able to go on a case because he was sick. Tears pricked at his eyes.
As much as he’d never admit it, Sam hated the fact that he didn’t have access to the medications he needed. He didn’t even know how he was still alive, honestly. Living with a chronic illness was exhausting enough, but living with a chronic disease with no reprieve was grueling.
It was also incredibly lonely. He’d never met someone else with CF, and he knew he never would (at least, not in person). People with Cystic Fibrosis couldn’t be within six feet of each other due to spreading germs, so… It wasn’t like Sam was going to make a friend with CF any time soon. Dean was great, but he’d never fully understand what Sam went through on a daily basis.
And honestly? Sometimes, Sam felt like a burden to Dean. He felt like he slowed him down. The fact that he hadn’t been able to go on this case really bothered him, to the point where he felt useless. Sam didn’t believe in the concept, but he did remember John telling him and Dean as kids that hunting was their destiny, that it was their purpose. If he couldn’t do the one thing he’d been born to do, then what was Sam good for?
He was startled from his thoughts by a knock on the motel door. Dean was back. He wiped the tears from his eyes. He wasn’t going to let Dean see him cry.
“Sammy, it’s me,” Dean said.
Sam sighed and opened the door. Dean could tell something was off, that Sam was thinking too much.
“What? What’s going on?” Dean asked.
“N-nothing,” Sam responded, his bottom lip quivering.
Dean frowned. “Is this about not being able to go on the case?” His eyes widened as he realized he’d hit it spot on the head.
A sob erupted from Sam’s lips.
“Hey, hey. Sammy, look. You have a disease, okay? You’re sick. I know I’m the last one to be saying this, but you gotta take care of yourself, man.”
Sam shook his head. “I was fine. I should’ve been able to go.”
“You weren’t fine. You were coughing like crazy.”
At the mention of that, Sam felt himself go into a coughing fit.
“Sam…putting your health first doesn’t make you any less of a hunter, okay?” Dean said.
Sam shook his head. “It feels like it does. I feel…I feel broken, Dean.”
Anger and disappointment flashed on Dean’s face. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that again. You are not broken. You’re my little brother. You’re not…”
Sam grunted. “Whatever. You know I’m right.”
“No, Sam. You’re not right. You have never been, and you will never be, broken. Yeah, you have a disease. But it doesn’t have to define you.”
Sam sighed. “But it does! It’s such an important part of my life. Can’t you fucking see that?”
“That’s not what I said. I know it’s a significant aspect of who you are. I know that. But you are so much more than a disease.” Dean ran his fingers through his hair anxiously. “God, Sam. When I look at you, I don’t see my sick little brother. I see my little brother who just so happens to be sick.”
Sam bit his lip. That was quite comforting to hear. He didn’t want to be defined by his illness. It was a big part of his life, but it wasn’t everything. He met Dean’s gaze. Despite all he’d just heard, Sam still expected to see disgust and pity reflected in his older brother’s eyes, but all he saw was love.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” Sam said, his voice a mere whisper. “Thank you.”
“Any time. Now, enough chick flick moments.”
Sam laughed. “Whatever, jerk.”
“Bitch.”
Sam felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with his flare-up. No matter what, at least he has this.