Work Text:
✦
Sammy squeezes Buster against his chest. The white fur is all squished and dirty from how much Sammy plays with it. One eye is almost falling out and the little collar that used to sit around its neck is long gone. Still, Buster is Sammy’s best buddy ever—well, after Dean.
He closes his eyes and presses his face into the stuffed dog, letting out a small sigh.
Everything smells wrong. It’s the same old motel room stink, only now it’s mixed with the pine car air freshener Dad found inside the bathroom. Dean swears the little tree makes things feel more like Christmas, but Sammy’s not sure.
He snuggles deeper under the itchy blanket. Presses Buster even closer. His throat scratches, and his head pounds. He tries hard not to complain—Dad always says big boys don’t whine. And Sammy’s a big kid, he’s almost seven, but a cough bursts out anyway, shaking his chest and making his eyes water.
Next to him, Dean sits on the edge of the other bed, one sneaker tapping against the carpet. Keeps looking at the door.
“Dad’s coming soon, Sammy,” he repeats.
Sammy doesn’t say anything. Just glances at the door. Feels the warmth of his own breath and wishes Dean’s right.
“Just had to find a place that was still open.”
It’s at night so that makes sense. Sammy nods, even though the room tips sideways when he does. He hides most of his face behind Buster, peeking out with one eye.
“I’m fine.”
Dean frowns. “Uh-huh. Sure thing, shrimp.”
Before Sammy can answers, another cough takes over him. Harsh. And Dean’s up in a second, thumping his back. Not too hard. Just how Sammy likes it.
“Easy,” Dean says. “Slow breaths. In through your nose.” He demonstrates for Sam. Loud and dramatic. It doesn’t feel that easy.
When the coughing eases, Sammy wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
“Is it Christmas yet?” He asks. Voice shaking.
“Tomorrow,” Dean replies, messing with Sammy’s hair. “Don’t you remember? Dad even got us a tree.”
Right. Dad did. On the dresser, next to the ancient TV, there’s a tiny plastic Christmas tree with fake branches and blinking lights. Red, green, blue. Red again.
It’s pretty. Makes the room less gloomy.
“Isn’t it great?”
That makes Sammy nod and smile, even though it makes his cheeks hurt.
Dean grabs a bottle of water and holds it out.
“Small sips.”
Sammy drinks just like Dean asked. One, two and—that’s all Sammy can manage before his stomach flips. His eyes burn. They feel heavy. He pushes the bottle away.
Taking the bottle, Dean puts it on the table and then drags a chair closer. Sits on it, knees spread, elbows resting there. He turns the TV on low, flipping until cartoons are on the screen.
They wait like that.
The cartoon laughs too loud. The heater clicks on and then off, on again. And Sammy drifts in and out, waking only when the next cough crawls up his throat. Every time, Dean’s there. Hand on his back and water ready.
Finally, the door opens.
Cold air rushes in, carrying snow and Dad.
Dean jumps up, turns off the TV, and Sam shivers due to the chilly air.
“Took you long enough.”
“Place was packed.” Dad holds up a pharmacy bag. “How’s he been?” Dad asks, already moving toward the bed.
“Hot. Coughing,” Dean says. “But he didn’t puke.”
Dean adds quick with a smirk, “Yet.”
Dad ignores that and pulls out a thermometer.
“Mouth open, Sammy.”
Nodding, Sammy does as told. Dad pours pink medicine into the tiny cup while they wait.
A beep.
“102,” Dad says. “But it’s coming down a little.”
He hands over the cup.
“Down the hatch.”
It tastes like fake grape candy. Too sweet and sharp at the same time, but Sammy kind of likes it anyway, even though he knows liking medicine is weird. He keeps his eyes down. Avoids Dean. Knows his brother would tease him. But Dad ruffles his hair for half a second, quick as always, but enough to make Sammy smile.
Then Dad starts unpacking cans of soup as Dean scoots closer to the bed.
“You wanna keep watching cartoons?”
Sammy nods, licking his lips and tasting the syrup.
Would Dad give him more if he asked?
He doesn’t ask though. Doesn't want Dad to think he’s weird like Dean says.
Dad grabs the remote and clicks around until Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer pops up. The music sounds too buzzy through the old TV, but Sammy likes it anyway. Reindeers are awesome.
He snuggles deeper under the blankets with Buster tucked tight under his arm. Smiles a little when Rudolph is chosen. Maybe one day he will be special and good like him.
Meanwhile, Dad heats soup on a portable stove. Fills the room with steam and the salty, cozy smell of chicken noodle. And Dean keeps checking on Sammy but he’s trying not to be obvious.
“You cold?”
“Kinda,” he admits.
Dean grabs his own blanket and piles it on top, then kicks off his boots and climbs onto the edge of the mattress. “Scoot over, you walking germ factory.”
Sticking his tongue out at him, Sammy wiggles and Dean leans back against the headboard, legs stretched out. When Sammy coughs again, Dean hands him the water without even looking.
Dad brings over the soup in a mug.
“Sip it slow,” he tells Sammy.
And he does so. It burns a little, but the noodles are soft, and the broth tastes good. Maybe this is how a meal made by a mom taste like. It settles well in his tummy. Makes Sammy feel warm. But the good kind.
He doesn’t make it halfway before his eyes feel too heavy to keep open.
“Sleep,” Dad commands, taking the mug. “We’ll wake you if we need to.”
Sammy wants to protest. Wants to keep watching Rudolph, but the words don’t come out. Instead, he sinks down under the blankets, Buster tucked close.
The movie fading into warm muffled hums.
Then, under the blanket he finds Dean’s fingers.
✦
This time, the dream comes fast.
Not a nightmare. Just the dream. A familiar one. The one he always gets when he’s sick.
Sam knows it well.
He’s small. Maybe a mouse. Maybe a rat.
He never knows.
The ground is cold stone beneath, and the walls rise high on both sides, twisting into a dark maze that never stays the same.
He runs.
Left. Right. Back. Forward.
Every turn feels familiar, like he’s been here a hundred times.
Maybe he has.
He squeezes through narrow gaps, scurries under archways, darts around corners.
He’s not scared. Just determined. He always tries to find the way out.
And finally, he does.
But outside, the world is nothing but smoke.
Thick, gray, drifting everywhere.
A yellow light—like the Batman signal—glow far away from everything.
Distant. Lonely.
The air tastes sour. The sky is dark and heavy.
That’s always the last thing he sees.
✦
Sammy wakes up in the dark. Heart pounding.
The little tree still blinks softly. His pajamas are damp with sweat, and his skin’s way too hot. A tiny whimper slips out before he can stop it.
Dad’s there almost instantly, sitting on the edge of the bed. Still rubbing his own eyes. Touches Sammy’s face.
“Hey, buddy. Fever’s up again.”
A cool cloth presses against Sammy’s forehead. Dad’s hand stays there.
Dean groans next to Sammy. Throws a fit into his sleep and lands on Buster.
Sammy’s too tired to say something.
“Tylenol in an hour,” Dad mutters.
Sammy hugs Buster tight. Keeps him safe from Dean.
“I feel yucky,” Sammy admits. Looks at his dad.
“I know,” Dad says quietly. “Just rest.”
He tries and the cool cloth helps.
The blinking lights blur together, and then Sammy’s drifting back to sleep.
✦
Morning comes gray. Quiet. Snow still falls outside the curtains.
Sammy feels lighter. His head doesn’t pound as much, and the fever feels smaller. His throat still hurts, but not as bad.
He sighs, looks again at the snow.
Dean’s already up, pouring Frosted Flakes into flimsy bowls. Dad sits at the table, reading the newspaper like he always does.
“Morning, Sammy,” Dean says, setting a bowl down. “Best Christmas breakfast ever.”
Sammy pushes himself up slowly, flopping Buster into his lap. “Thanks,” he says.
Dad glances over. “Throat better?”
“Yeah,” Sammy croaks—and it’s mostly true. Dad doesn’t like lies. Neither does Sam.
Dean grins.
“Dad got presents.”
Sammy’s eyes go wide. Forgets about the throat. Under the tiny tree sits two packages.
“Cereal first,” Dad says from where he is.
This time the world doesn’t blur when he nods.
Dean talks about how the snow will be perfect for snowballs later—only if Sammy feels up to it.
Sammy looks down. Bites his lips. Looks at the medicine.
Afterward, Dad checks the thermometer again.
“99.8. Better. Still resting today.”
Resting.
“If I take more medicine, could Dean and I go outside?” Sammy asks. Shy. Tries to be brave.
Dad waits. Takes a few seconds and Sam’s stomach drops at that.
“Yeah, I think so,” Dad says. Sounds soft. Sammy likes when Dad is like this.
“Thanks, Daddy,” he says, feeling so much better now.
Soon he’ll be all better, and he and Dean are going to play in the snow. Just like Dean wants.
Then, Dean pulls out a beat-up deck of cards.
“Go Fish?”
Sammy glances at Dad, who gives him a nod. Smiles.
They play on the blankets. Dean wins most rounds, but Sammy snags a couple lucky hands. He’s getting better and better at it.
And that’s something.
Finally, Dad hands out the gifts.
Dean tears into his first.
It’s a new black Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a new cassette tape of the same band.
“Whoa. Thanks, Dad.”
Dad nods. Gives him a tight smile.
Sammy opens his carefully. Tries to keep the wrap undamaged, he likes to keep them.
First, it’s a red leather collar with a tiny bone tag that jingles softly.
It’s for Buster. Sammy holds it. Feels the texture of it. Imagines how cool Buster would look.
It’s perfect.
Underneath, a Hardy Boys book. The exact one Sammy stared at in the store last month. It’s about two brothers, and Sammy always thinks about him and Dean when he sees it.
Sammy gasps. Hugs Buster tight, the collar clutched in his hand.
“You remembered?”
“Saw you staring at it.” Dad shrugs, focused on his coffee. “Think you could read it all by yourself?”
“Of course I can,” he says. The book is thick, with lots of pages and no pictures, but Sammy’s pretty sure he can do it.
Dean nudges him.
“Pretty awesome, huh?”
“Yeah,” Sammy breathes. His eyes burning. Feels like a little kid when he raises his arms to get Dad to hug him.
And Dad does it.
Strong hands slide under him, lifting him right up like he weighs nothing. One arm wraps around Dad’s neck while the other carries Buster. Sammy’s cheek presses against his dad’s jacket for a few seconds.
The hug is tight and warm.
Different from the fever-warmth.
Then Dad lowers him gently back into the blankets. Sammy’s too dazed to protest.
Snow whispers against the window. The tiny tree blinks its colors, and the room feels good. Maybe that’s what a home feels like.
Sammy leans into Dean’s side, Buster squished between them, listening to Dean ramble about the cassette’s tracks.
It’s Christmas.
And Sammy’s a little sick and a little happy.
The End.