Fic: Samus Asthmaticus
Jun. 21st, 2014 04:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cowboyguySamus Asthmaticus
Summary: Fill for this prompt in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tarotgal’s commentfic meme: Supernatural, Stanford era. Jess is just starting to date the mysterious but amazing guy that is Sam. She is ready to take him for all of who he is but there's one thing that's proving to be challenging: it's Sam's allergies (serious bonus points for asthma!!!). You can either write her trying to be a superhero while Sam is miserable OR get her to call Dean in for back up and they get to take care of Sammy together :)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Jess, sort of Dean
Rating: PG for some swearing
Disclaimer: I don't have asthma, so all of this was learned through internet research. Hope I got all of the details right!
The air in the club is heavy and smoky, and he immediately starts to hear those nagging voices in the back of his mind that sound suspiciously like his dad and Dean. But he’s got Jess next to him, and the band’s going to start soon, and he’s not going to let fucking asthma get in the way of him having a good time. They’ve only been dating for a month and a half, and he’s desperate to be the normal guy, not the guy who hunts monsters, or the guy who occasionally gets suffocated by his own lungs. He just wants to be Sam, whoever that is.
So far he just feels like the guy who’s really good at keeping secrets, but he’s really enjoying hanging out with Jess, and he doesn’t want to screw it up.
It’s crowded inside, a lot of people having already claimed their spaces at tables or leaning against the railings of each tiered platform inside the club. At the back of the room is the empty stage, lit by red and white spotlights, waiting for its occupants. Sam takes Jess’s hand and leads her toward one corner where they’ll have a good view – and hopefully stay away from the smokier area near the bar. They settle into an empty space by the wall, leaning forward against the railing to watch the crowds around the empty stage.
“I hope you’ll like the band,” Jess says, leaning up to speak closer to his ear. Even without the music, the club is already noisy with the chatter of a hundred different conversations.
“Yeah, me too,” he answers, smiling back at her. Truth be told, he’s never really thought about what kind of music he likes. Twenty years spent in the backseat of the Impala meant he’d pretty much listened to whatever his dad or Dean had chosen.
They talk for a little while, a half-shouted conversation back and forth into each other’s ears, until the lights around the club dim, and there is wild cheering from the people closest to the stage – presumably the band’s biggest fans. Jess claps and cheers along with them, and Sam coughs softly against his shoulder, the sound covered by the noise of the crowd.
The band starts playing, and then it’s too loud to hear anything else. They’re good, maybe a little too alternative for Sam’s taste. He rolls his eyes to himself when he realizes how much he’s been brainwashed by his family. If it wasn’t recorded before 1980, it’s not good.
They get through the first few songs, and they’re mid-way through the third, when Sam realizes that his chest is starting to feel tight. He rubs a hand absently against his breastbone, trying to concentrate on taking slow, measured breaths. He’s got one arm wrapped around Jess, who is completely into the music, but they’re close enough that if he starts having trouble, she’s gonna notice. But it’s too damn smoky, and the feeling’s just getting worse.
He makes it through the end of the song before he nudges Jess’s shoulder. She looks up at him, and he jerks his head toward the other side of the club, mouthing the word “bathroom” before he shrugs away from her and takes a step backward, working his way around a couple of people. She smiles and gives him a little wave, and then turns back to the stage.
He weaves through the crowds, coughing into his shoulder, until he reaches the little hallway at the side of the building and stumbles into the bathroom. The light is harsh in here compared to the dimness in the club, but it’s mostly smoke-free, and he gulps in a couple of desperate breaths, resting with his palms against the edge of a sink. He closes his eyes, trying to breathe evenly, and fishes his inhaler out of his pocket, shaking the little canister before exhaling as much as he can and pressing the mouthpiece to his lips. He inhales quickly and then holds his breath, feeling that familiar puff of medicated air rushing into his mouth and working its way down into his rebellious lungs. But it doesn’t last more than a couple of seconds before a coughing fit explodes out of him, and he steadies himself against the sink as he tries to fight for control.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” a voice near him says.
Sam turns to see a guy with dark hair, a little older than him, standing at the other sink with a concerned look on his face.
He nods, drawing in a shaky breath. “Yeah… m’fine.”
The guy doesn’t look entirely convinced, but shrugs and leaves him alone. Sam stands there for another minute or two, staring at his reflection in the mirror and trying to stay calm. If he’s gone for too long, Jess will start to wonder. But he thinks the albuterol is helping, and he’s pretty sure he can manage to go back out there without a problem. He knows that really, the best solution would just be to come clean and ask Jess if they can leave. (“Get away from your triggers, you moron,” Dean says in the back of his mind.) But she looked so happy out there, and he’s determined to make it through the night.
He takes one last deep breath – as deep as he can, anyway – of semi-fresh air before he pushes the bathroom door open again and heads back out into the mass of people, swinging by the bar to pick up a bottle of water in the hopes that it will help his dry throat.
* * *
Four, maybe five songs later – he’s lost count – and he’s completely stopped paying attention to the music. It’s just him in his little asthma bubble, surrounded by a sea of faces, voices, lights, and noise. It’s not gonna work. He’s barely breathing at this point, taking these stupid little shallow breaths that don’t do much good. He’s gonna have to tell Jess, or maybe just gesture and gasp. Speaking may be beyond his capabilities at this point. He’s gonna have to tell her, and yet another night will be ruined by Sam Winchester and his Stupid Fucking Asthma.
The music stops, the lead singer is saying something into the microphone, something about a break, and then the lights come up and everyone blinks a bit and starts to move. Jess turns to him, still leaning against the railing, which coincidentally is also pretty much the only thing that’s keeping Sam upright at this point. Thank you, railing.
“Wanna get some fresh air?” she says casually, like it’s just a maybe-we-could kind of thing and not an oh-god-please-now-can’t-breathe kind of thing.
He nods, and leads her out of the crowd, using his height to his advantage as he presses through the clusters of people and out into the cool night air. He takes a couple of steps away from the building, and then stops, leaning against the bricks and trying his best not to fall over or pass out or stop breathing.
“So, what did you think?” he hears her say as she edges her way between two people to join him near the wall.
He looks up at her and blinks, wheezing and trying to remember where his inhaler is. And Jess just asked him a question, he really should answer, but all he can do is breathe, which is becoming more difficult by the second. “I…” he wheezes out, and then shakes his head.
It’s quiet enough out here that Jess can hear his breathing, because her eyes widen in alarm. “Sam, are you okay? What’s going on?”
He shakes his head again and closes his eyes for a second, pressing a hand against his chest like that’s really going to do anything. “I have… asthma,” he manages to say, and his voice sounds weird and strained. He coughs, and it’s harsh and painful and he can’t help the desperate little moan that comes at the end of it.
He’s afraid to look back up at Jess, afraid of what he’ll see. After all, he’s in the process of ruining her night, him and his stupid breathing. “…sorry…” he whispers after another tight, gasping breath, and then looks up at her.
Jess doesn’t yell at him, or turn around and walk away, or do anything of the things he was worried she would do. She just looks at him with an expression of concern on her face and says, “Jesus, Sam.”
And then she’s all business. “What do you need? You have an inhaler or something?” She rests a comforting hand on his arm, and he nods, fumbling through his pockets for that little red piece of life-saving plastic.
He goes through the routine again, and Jess is quiet through it, but she doesn’t leave his side. Instead she rubs circles on his arm with her thumb, and offers him small sips of water from the bottle he’d forgotten he had. Nobody’s taken care of him like this since he got to Stanford, and all of a sudden he’s hit by a pang of homesickness for Dean and Dad and post-hunt nebulizer treatments in dingy hotel rooms.
“Did that help?” Jess asks after a few minutes.
He blinks down at her, and considers the question. His breathing is still crappy — rasping as his breath catches on each inhale, and with a high-pitched whine when he breathes out — but it’s a little better. He nods, mouthing a “yes” because he doesn’t care about trying to speak anymore.
Jess breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good,” she says. “You think you can walk to the corner, and we’ll take the shuttle home?”
He’s getting good at nodding, so he does it again, pushing himself away from the brick wall he’s been leaning against. It’s only now that he realizes there’s no one else left outside, and he can hear the muted beat of the music coming from inside the club.
Jess takes his hand and leans into him, a steady presence next to him as he stumbles slowly down the sidewalk. “Sam?” she says, pausing for a second even though she probably knows she’s not getting an answer. “Don’t scare me like that again, okay? Next time, I don’t care how badly I want to do something. If you can’t do it — or even if you just don’t want to — tell me. Okay?”
He squeezes her shoulder with one hand, pulling her closer to him. “…’kay,” he whispers, and then saves his breath for walking to the bus stop.
* * *
Sam does his best to ignore the concerned glances he gets from other students on the shuttle ride back to his dorm. Mostly he’s just exhausted, and all he wants is a quiet room, a neb, and a good night’s sleep. He’s still wheezing, and fuck the whole “trying to hide it” thing, because that failed spectacularly already. So he wheezes, and Jess rests her head on his shoulder, and they breathe together until the shuttle stops across the street from his building.
Jess guides him off the bus and down the sidewalk, keeping him steady until they get to his hall and he digs through his pocket for the key to his room. He lets them both in, glad that he has a single room and no roommates to ask him why he looks like he’s about to collapse.
And collapse he does, sitting wearily down on the bed, scooting back a little to lean against the wall.
“Welcome… to my room,” he tells Jess with a tired grin.
She laughs. “Glad to be here, although I wish you felt better.” She sits next to him on the bed. “You still don’t sound so great. Anything else I can do? We don’t need to go to the hospital or anything, do we?”
He shakes his head quickly, then regrets it when his vision gets blurry for a second. Real smart, Winchester. Remember the oxygen deprivation? “No… No, I just…” He points toward the corner of his room, where there’s a little alcove with a sink and a cabinet. “Know what… a neb… ulizer… is?” He coughs again, dry and shallow.
Jess bites her bottom lip, looking unsure. “I think so? I mean, I’ve heard the word before, but I don’t really know how they work.”
Sam sighs a little. He’s going to have to get up and do it himself. But he really doesn’t want to get up.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, flipping it open and scrolling through the contacts list until he lands on the right number. He hands the phone to her. “Call… Dean.”
“He’s your brother, right?” she asks, and he nods silently again, because speaking in sentences is making him tired.
Jess takes the phone from him and presses “call”, getting off the bed and pacing around the room a little while the phone rings. Other than Sam’s wheezing, it’s quiet in the room, until he hears the tinny sound of someone picking up on the other end of the phone.
“Hello?” Jess says, clutching the phone with both hands like it’s a lifeline. “Is this Dean? This is Jessica Moore – Jess. …I’m Sam’s girlfriend. …Yes, he’s--- well, no, he’s not really okay. He’s having — or just had — an asthma attack, and I didn’t know what to do, and he said to call you.”
She pauses, and Sam hears Dean’s voice, although he can’t really make out what his brother is saying. “Yeah, we’re in his room, but I don’t know how to set up the nebulizer. …Okay. Okay, I will. Hang on.” She pulls the phone away from her ear and presses a button, then sets the phone down on Sam’s desk.
All of a sudden Dean’s voice fills the room, still a little distorted but much louder over the speakerphone. “Sam, stop scaring your girlfriend. You hear me?”
Sam nods, and a breath whistles its way out of his fucked-up lungs.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Dean says. “Jess? You still there?”
“I’m here,” she answers, ready for instructions.
“Good.”
Dean starts talking, and Sam stops paying attention, because Dean has been setting up nebulizers since he was eight years old, and Jess is the smartest fucking girl he’s ever met. They’ve got it covered. He closes his eyes and zones out until Jess slips the mask onto his face. He likes the mask better than the mouthpiece, because at least he can still do his homework every night while he reminds his lungs how to work. Right now, though, it’s just nice knowing he can sit there for the next ten minutes and not have to do anything. The room is filled with a rhythmic hum as Jess switches the neb on, and he feels the fine mist against his face as he inhales and it works its way down into his lungs.
“Hey, Sammy?” A voice — Dean’s voice — says, and Sam opens his eyes and looks up, for a moment half-expecting to see Dean there.
Dean’s not there, but Jess is sitting in his desk chair, the cell phone still open on top of a pile of books on his desk, and she says, “He’s listening.”
“I’m coming out there, okay?” Dean says to him.
Sam lifts the mask away from his face, saying, “Dean. You don’t… have to.”
“Yeah, I do.” Sam knows that voice. Sam knows it is completely useless to even try arguing with that voice.
“Where…are you?” he asks instead.
“Not too far. Did you know there’s a town outside of Vegas that’s called Winchester? I’ll be in Palo Alto in ten, maybe twelve hours. And you and I gotta go to Vegas sometime. It’s no fun gambling by yourself.”
Sam laughs, and then instantly regrets it as the laughter turns into a fit of painful, dry coughing. The nebulizer mask hangs on its elastic string around his neck as he muffles the coughs into a loosely closed fist.
“Mask back on, kiddo,” Dean orders, and Sam obeys. Dean knows the sound of Sam’s breathing better than anyone else in the world except maybe Sam himself, so he listens to his brother.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Dean continues. “And for the next twelve hours at least, promise me you won’t do any more stupid things to fuck up your breathing, okay?”
Sam sucks in a breath of medicated air. “…’Kay,” he agrees, voice a little muffled.
“I’ll be there soon.”
He watches as Jess hangs up the phone and crawls up next to him in the bed. He puts a hand on her leg, and murmurs, “…Sorry.”
“What for?”
“…ruined your night.. Didn’t… want this… to happen.”
She stares at him for a moment, then rolls her eyes. “You moron. You didn’t ruin my night. Scared me a little, sure, but I’d rather be here with you than at some stupid concert by myself. Okay? Believe it or not, I actually like spending time with you, Sam Winchester.”
He smiles back at her through the mask. “Me too.”
Summary: Fill for this prompt in
tarotgal’s commentfic meme: Supernatural, Stanford era. Jess is just starting to date the mysterious but amazing guy that is Sam. She is ready to take him for all of who he is but there's one thing that's proving to be challenging: it's Sam's allergies (serious bonus points for asthma!!!). You can either write her trying to be a superhero while Sam is miserable OR get her to call Dean in for back up and they get to take care of Sammy together :)Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Jess, sort of Dean
Rating: PG for some swearing
Disclaimer: I don't have asthma, so all of this was learned through internet research. Hope I got all of the details right!
The air in the club is heavy and smoky, and he immediately starts to hear those nagging voices in the back of his mind that sound suspiciously like his dad and Dean. But he’s got Jess next to him, and the band’s going to start soon, and he’s not going to let fucking asthma get in the way of him having a good time. They’ve only been dating for a month and a half, and he’s desperate to be the normal guy, not the guy who hunts monsters, or the guy who occasionally gets suffocated by his own lungs. He just wants to be Sam, whoever that is.
So far he just feels like the guy who’s really good at keeping secrets, but he’s really enjoying hanging out with Jess, and he doesn’t want to screw it up.
It’s crowded inside, a lot of people having already claimed their spaces at tables or leaning against the railings of each tiered platform inside the club. At the back of the room is the empty stage, lit by red and white spotlights, waiting for its occupants. Sam takes Jess’s hand and leads her toward one corner where they’ll have a good view – and hopefully stay away from the smokier area near the bar. They settle into an empty space by the wall, leaning forward against the railing to watch the crowds around the empty stage.
“I hope you’ll like the band,” Jess says, leaning up to speak closer to his ear. Even without the music, the club is already noisy with the chatter of a hundred different conversations.
“Yeah, me too,” he answers, smiling back at her. Truth be told, he’s never really thought about what kind of music he likes. Twenty years spent in the backseat of the Impala meant he’d pretty much listened to whatever his dad or Dean had chosen.
They talk for a little while, a half-shouted conversation back and forth into each other’s ears, until the lights around the club dim, and there is wild cheering from the people closest to the stage – presumably the band’s biggest fans. Jess claps and cheers along with them, and Sam coughs softly against his shoulder, the sound covered by the noise of the crowd.
The band starts playing, and then it’s too loud to hear anything else. They’re good, maybe a little too alternative for Sam’s taste. He rolls his eyes to himself when he realizes how much he’s been brainwashed by his family. If it wasn’t recorded before 1980, it’s not good.
They get through the first few songs, and they’re mid-way through the third, when Sam realizes that his chest is starting to feel tight. He rubs a hand absently against his breastbone, trying to concentrate on taking slow, measured breaths. He’s got one arm wrapped around Jess, who is completely into the music, but they’re close enough that if he starts having trouble, she’s gonna notice. But it’s too damn smoky, and the feeling’s just getting worse.
He makes it through the end of the song before he nudges Jess’s shoulder. She looks up at him, and he jerks his head toward the other side of the club, mouthing the word “bathroom” before he shrugs away from her and takes a step backward, working his way around a couple of people. She smiles and gives him a little wave, and then turns back to the stage.
He weaves through the crowds, coughing into his shoulder, until he reaches the little hallway at the side of the building and stumbles into the bathroom. The light is harsh in here compared to the dimness in the club, but it’s mostly smoke-free, and he gulps in a couple of desperate breaths, resting with his palms against the edge of a sink. He closes his eyes, trying to breathe evenly, and fishes his inhaler out of his pocket, shaking the little canister before exhaling as much as he can and pressing the mouthpiece to his lips. He inhales quickly and then holds his breath, feeling that familiar puff of medicated air rushing into his mouth and working its way down into his rebellious lungs. But it doesn’t last more than a couple of seconds before a coughing fit explodes out of him, and he steadies himself against the sink as he tries to fight for control.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” a voice near him says.
Sam turns to see a guy with dark hair, a little older than him, standing at the other sink with a concerned look on his face.
He nods, drawing in a shaky breath. “Yeah… m’fine.”
The guy doesn’t look entirely convinced, but shrugs and leaves him alone. Sam stands there for another minute or two, staring at his reflection in the mirror and trying to stay calm. If he’s gone for too long, Jess will start to wonder. But he thinks the albuterol is helping, and he’s pretty sure he can manage to go back out there without a problem. He knows that really, the best solution would just be to come clean and ask Jess if they can leave. (“Get away from your triggers, you moron,” Dean says in the back of his mind.) But she looked so happy out there, and he’s determined to make it through the night.
He takes one last deep breath – as deep as he can, anyway – of semi-fresh air before he pushes the bathroom door open again and heads back out into the mass of people, swinging by the bar to pick up a bottle of water in the hopes that it will help his dry throat.
* * *
Four, maybe five songs later – he’s lost count – and he’s completely stopped paying attention to the music. It’s just him in his little asthma bubble, surrounded by a sea of faces, voices, lights, and noise. It’s not gonna work. He’s barely breathing at this point, taking these stupid little shallow breaths that don’t do much good. He’s gonna have to tell Jess, or maybe just gesture and gasp. Speaking may be beyond his capabilities at this point. He’s gonna have to tell her, and yet another night will be ruined by Sam Winchester and his Stupid Fucking Asthma.
The music stops, the lead singer is saying something into the microphone, something about a break, and then the lights come up and everyone blinks a bit and starts to move. Jess turns to him, still leaning against the railing, which coincidentally is also pretty much the only thing that’s keeping Sam upright at this point. Thank you, railing.
“Wanna get some fresh air?” she says casually, like it’s just a maybe-we-could kind of thing and not an oh-god-please-now-can’t-breathe kind of thing.
He nods, and leads her out of the crowd, using his height to his advantage as he presses through the clusters of people and out into the cool night air. He takes a couple of steps away from the building, and then stops, leaning against the bricks and trying his best not to fall over or pass out or stop breathing.
“So, what did you think?” he hears her say as she edges her way between two people to join him near the wall.
He looks up at her and blinks, wheezing and trying to remember where his inhaler is. And Jess just asked him a question, he really should answer, but all he can do is breathe, which is becoming more difficult by the second. “I…” he wheezes out, and then shakes his head.
It’s quiet enough out here that Jess can hear his breathing, because her eyes widen in alarm. “Sam, are you okay? What’s going on?”
He shakes his head again and closes his eyes for a second, pressing a hand against his chest like that’s really going to do anything. “I have… asthma,” he manages to say, and his voice sounds weird and strained. He coughs, and it’s harsh and painful and he can’t help the desperate little moan that comes at the end of it.
He’s afraid to look back up at Jess, afraid of what he’ll see. After all, he’s in the process of ruining her night, him and his stupid breathing. “…sorry…” he whispers after another tight, gasping breath, and then looks up at her.
Jess doesn’t yell at him, or turn around and walk away, or do anything of the things he was worried she would do. She just looks at him with an expression of concern on her face and says, “Jesus, Sam.”
And then she’s all business. “What do you need? You have an inhaler or something?” She rests a comforting hand on his arm, and he nods, fumbling through his pockets for that little red piece of life-saving plastic.
He goes through the routine again, and Jess is quiet through it, but she doesn’t leave his side. Instead she rubs circles on his arm with her thumb, and offers him small sips of water from the bottle he’d forgotten he had. Nobody’s taken care of him like this since he got to Stanford, and all of a sudden he’s hit by a pang of homesickness for Dean and Dad and post-hunt nebulizer treatments in dingy hotel rooms.
“Did that help?” Jess asks after a few minutes.
He blinks down at her, and considers the question. His breathing is still crappy — rasping as his breath catches on each inhale, and with a high-pitched whine when he breathes out — but it’s a little better. He nods, mouthing a “yes” because he doesn’t care about trying to speak anymore.
Jess breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good,” she says. “You think you can walk to the corner, and we’ll take the shuttle home?”
He’s getting good at nodding, so he does it again, pushing himself away from the brick wall he’s been leaning against. It’s only now that he realizes there’s no one else left outside, and he can hear the muted beat of the music coming from inside the club.
Jess takes his hand and leans into him, a steady presence next to him as he stumbles slowly down the sidewalk. “Sam?” she says, pausing for a second even though she probably knows she’s not getting an answer. “Don’t scare me like that again, okay? Next time, I don’t care how badly I want to do something. If you can’t do it — or even if you just don’t want to — tell me. Okay?”
He squeezes her shoulder with one hand, pulling her closer to him. “…’kay,” he whispers, and then saves his breath for walking to the bus stop.
* * *
Sam does his best to ignore the concerned glances he gets from other students on the shuttle ride back to his dorm. Mostly he’s just exhausted, and all he wants is a quiet room, a neb, and a good night’s sleep. He’s still wheezing, and fuck the whole “trying to hide it” thing, because that failed spectacularly already. So he wheezes, and Jess rests her head on his shoulder, and they breathe together until the shuttle stops across the street from his building.
Jess guides him off the bus and down the sidewalk, keeping him steady until they get to his hall and he digs through his pocket for the key to his room. He lets them both in, glad that he has a single room and no roommates to ask him why he looks like he’s about to collapse.
And collapse he does, sitting wearily down on the bed, scooting back a little to lean against the wall.
“Welcome… to my room,” he tells Jess with a tired grin.
She laughs. “Glad to be here, although I wish you felt better.” She sits next to him on the bed. “You still don’t sound so great. Anything else I can do? We don’t need to go to the hospital or anything, do we?”
He shakes his head quickly, then regrets it when his vision gets blurry for a second. Real smart, Winchester. Remember the oxygen deprivation? “No… No, I just…” He points toward the corner of his room, where there’s a little alcove with a sink and a cabinet. “Know what… a neb… ulizer… is?” He coughs again, dry and shallow.
Jess bites her bottom lip, looking unsure. “I think so? I mean, I’ve heard the word before, but I don’t really know how they work.”
Sam sighs a little. He’s going to have to get up and do it himself. But he really doesn’t want to get up.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, flipping it open and scrolling through the contacts list until he lands on the right number. He hands the phone to her. “Call… Dean.”
“He’s your brother, right?” she asks, and he nods silently again, because speaking in sentences is making him tired.
Jess takes the phone from him and presses “call”, getting off the bed and pacing around the room a little while the phone rings. Other than Sam’s wheezing, it’s quiet in the room, until he hears the tinny sound of someone picking up on the other end of the phone.
“Hello?” Jess says, clutching the phone with both hands like it’s a lifeline. “Is this Dean? This is Jessica Moore – Jess. …I’m Sam’s girlfriend. …Yes, he’s--- well, no, he’s not really okay. He’s having — or just had — an asthma attack, and I didn’t know what to do, and he said to call you.”
She pauses, and Sam hears Dean’s voice, although he can’t really make out what his brother is saying. “Yeah, we’re in his room, but I don’t know how to set up the nebulizer. …Okay. Okay, I will. Hang on.” She pulls the phone away from her ear and presses a button, then sets the phone down on Sam’s desk.
All of a sudden Dean’s voice fills the room, still a little distorted but much louder over the speakerphone. “Sam, stop scaring your girlfriend. You hear me?”
Sam nods, and a breath whistles its way out of his fucked-up lungs.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Dean says. “Jess? You still there?”
“I’m here,” she answers, ready for instructions.
“Good.”
Dean starts talking, and Sam stops paying attention, because Dean has been setting up nebulizers since he was eight years old, and Jess is the smartest fucking girl he’s ever met. They’ve got it covered. He closes his eyes and zones out until Jess slips the mask onto his face. He likes the mask better than the mouthpiece, because at least he can still do his homework every night while he reminds his lungs how to work. Right now, though, it’s just nice knowing he can sit there for the next ten minutes and not have to do anything. The room is filled with a rhythmic hum as Jess switches the neb on, and he feels the fine mist against his face as he inhales and it works its way down into his lungs.
“Hey, Sammy?” A voice — Dean’s voice — says, and Sam opens his eyes and looks up, for a moment half-expecting to see Dean there.
Dean’s not there, but Jess is sitting in his desk chair, the cell phone still open on top of a pile of books on his desk, and she says, “He’s listening.”
“I’m coming out there, okay?” Dean says to him.
Sam lifts the mask away from his face, saying, “Dean. You don’t… have to.”
“Yeah, I do.” Sam knows that voice. Sam knows it is completely useless to even try arguing with that voice.
“Where…are you?” he asks instead.
“Not too far. Did you know there’s a town outside of Vegas that’s called Winchester? I’ll be in Palo Alto in ten, maybe twelve hours. And you and I gotta go to Vegas sometime. It’s no fun gambling by yourself.”
Sam laughs, and then instantly regrets it as the laughter turns into a fit of painful, dry coughing. The nebulizer mask hangs on its elastic string around his neck as he muffles the coughs into a loosely closed fist.
“Mask back on, kiddo,” Dean orders, and Sam obeys. Dean knows the sound of Sam’s breathing better than anyone else in the world except maybe Sam himself, so he listens to his brother.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Dean continues. “And for the next twelve hours at least, promise me you won’t do any more stupid things to fuck up your breathing, okay?”
Sam sucks in a breath of medicated air. “…’Kay,” he agrees, voice a little muffled.
“I’ll be there soon.”
He watches as Jess hangs up the phone and crawls up next to him in the bed. He puts a hand on her leg, and murmurs, “…Sorry.”
“What for?”
“…ruined your night.. Didn’t… want this… to happen.”
She stares at him for a moment, then rolls her eyes. “You moron. You didn’t ruin my night. Scared me a little, sure, but I’d rather be here with you than at some stupid concert by myself. Okay? Believe it or not, I actually like spending time with you, Sam Winchester.”
He smiles back at her through the mask. “Me too.”
