Many of you may remember the fundraising effort for Wings a few weeks ago. As part of that, I offered a hurt/comfort fic involving our lovely boys and, although I've never written slash before, I decided to give it a whirl if requested on this occasion to give my offer wider appeal.
The lovely matchboximpala took up my offer and requested a slashy hurt/comfort story with Sam suffering from a physical illness or injury, (as a gen writing, strictly sick!Dean/hurt!Dean girl, this was a first for me on both counts!)
So, after much deliberation, and with the sterling beta work of firesign10, to whom I am most ridiculously grateful, this little fic is now ready to meet its recipient ... thank you so much for your donation - I hope this hits the spot for you :)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Wincest
Characters: Sam and Dean
Spoilers/Warnings: nothing over and above an M rating
Word Count: 2,100
Disclaimer: Don't own them
On the face of things, the whole fiasco hadn’t been a hunt that would be hoarded in their treasure trove of memories.
Media reports of a cougar offing locals had piqued the Winchesters’ interest, especially when the ‘cougar’ had turned out to be a waheela. Following that breakthrough, three days of extensive research into the mysterious creature had culminated in a two-day drive up to Maine, and countless freezing, windburnt hours of tracking the goddamn thing through the crappiest weather that a Maine winter could throw at them.
And when the scabby-assed sonofabitch had finally showed its face--and a fug-ugly, slavering face it was too--Dean had sprained his ankle tripping over a tree root buried under a foot of snow, and nearly ended up with the waheela chowing down on him.
Sam had dashed in quickly and, using a combination of momentum and his formidable size, essentially bulldozed the thing away from his brother’s prone body. Both hunter and waheela had somersaulted away from Dean, tumbling inelegantly across the ground in a cloud of powdered snow.
Dean had only just clambered to his feet, defying legs numbed by exhaustion and cold, as well as the burning pain in his injured ankle, when he heard it …
An ominous cracking sound; as sharp and clean as a whip through the cold, clear air.
That’s when he had realised that their interminable trek through the snowbound forest had led them to a frozen lake; a frozen lake on top of which Sam was currently wrestling with a pissed-off waheela.
The next thirty seconds had passed in a blur for Dean, as the waheela continued its attack on his brother. He'd reached into the waistband of his jeans for his gun; knowing he had no option but to shoot, even as the fight raged on top of the cracking ice.
The shot had rung out, its echo strangely muted by the snow, while around them, the forest had briefly erupted with an explosion of wildlife disturbed by the gunshot. The only other sound had been the squeal of the waheela as Dean’s bullet unerringly found its mark.
Seconds later, the creature had lain dead; a crumpled pile of flea-bitten fur sprawled at the epicentre of a spreading pool of crimson.
For several seconds, both hunters just crouched silently as they stared across the width of the lake at each other, panting with exertion, the sting of the frigid air assaulting their lungs.
Then, as another splintering crack suddenly sounded, Dean had watched in mute horror as a jagged breach opened in the ice and Sam had disappeared through it with a horrified cry.
Dean’s relief was incalculable when it became obvious that the lake wasn’t deep enough to carry Sam under the ice. He could see his brother, soaked from his initial immersion, chest deep in the lake’s inky depth, clinging with bloodless knuckles to the fractured edges of the ice.
Slithering across the ice on his belly, Dean ordered Sam to grab his hands; a not-inconsiderable task when all sets of fingers involved were frozen numb. However, after a great deal of cajoling, threatening, and swearing, Dean finally managed to grasp Sam's hands and drag him back out of the lake and onto the ice.
They both lay there for a moment, gasping away their shock, shivering violently.
It was Dean that moved first. “C'mon, S-Sammy,” he slurred through lips paralysed with the cold and chattering teeth which seemed to have taken on a life of their own. “We n-need to get back to the c-car.”
Thanks to the extreme chill pervading his body, Sam’s legs didn’t appear to have got the memo that it was time to go. It took far longer than Dean would have liked for the two of them to shuffle on elbows and knees across the ice until he was confident they were both back on solid ground.
Finding a fresh reserve of strength now Sam was away from the danger of the rotten ice, Dean knew his next challenge was to get Sam to the Impala--to warmth--before his body began to shut down from the extreme cold it had been exposed to.
Clumsily hauling his semi-comatose brother into a fireman’s lift, Dean set about hobbling back through the forest, oblivious to the burn of his protesting ankle and thanking every power on earth that their trek through the wilderness had taken them on a fairly circuitous route, meaning that Dean’s Baby--and their salvation--was only just over a mile away.
As they travelled, Dean talked, always prompting Sam for a response which was sometimes forthcoming, sometimes not. He talked about whatever trite garbage drifted through his mind, and got little more than mumbled grunts in response, but that was enough. As long as Sam wasn’t sinking into unconsciousness, they were winning, and Dean’s wrecked ankle would all be worth it.
Dean was always pleased to see the Impala, but this time he could have wept with relief as her glimmering outline came into view through the frosty, grey latticework of tree trunks that surrounded them.
He was shaking with a toxic combination of cold, pain, and exhaustion; face glowing with a sheen of sweat despite the bitter cold by the time he’d bundled Sam into the Impala’s passenger seat and pulled his soaked jacket and shirt off. Shucking his own damp jacket, he wrapped it around Sam’s bare shoulders, and was relieved to see that Sam was lucid enough to grasp it, pulling it tightly around himself, mumbling an incoherent attempt at thanks which was lost in the vibrating thrum of his chattering teeth.
Scurrying around the Impala’s hood, Dean slid into the driver’s side, and cranked the heat up full blast. He knew the motel was about an hour away; he planned to make it in 45 minutes.
With a stern warning to Sam that any attempt at sleep would be rewarded with a slap, he gunned the engine, and the Impala leapt into life.
Dean actually made the trip in 43 minutes. During their journey, the Impala’s heater had worked some magic, but Sam still seemed to be a little ways short of full lucidity, plus he was still shivering violently. Dean vaguely remembered something from the first-aid instruction their father had instilled in them, that shivering was a good thing. He couldn’t actually remember why, nor did he care; a good thing was a good thing, and Dean would willingly take it.
His positive mood, however, began to wane as he struggled to hold up the full weight of a heavily listing, shivering, great lump of a brother and, at the same time, fumble a rust-caked key into the equally ill-maintained lock on their motel room door.
Eventually, stopping short at dumping Sam back into the Impala, he finally heard the satisfying click of the lock turning, and couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped as the door swung open with a pained creak.
Depositing Sam on the side of the bed, Dean stepped over to the thermostat and cranked it up to its highest level. He was back at his brother’s side with the room’s entire stock of towels before Sam had even realised he’d gone.
“Okay, dude,” Dean muttered, pulling in a deep breath as he removed his damp jacket from Sam’s clammy shoulders; “baby’s done her bit, now I gotta do the rest.” He threw the offending garment onto the floor behind him with a wet splat and began to work Sam’s belt open, his numb fingers fumbling clumsily at the stiff buckle.
Throughout the whole process, Sam watched Dean work, pure trust shining through his heavy-lidded eyes. Even as Dean hauled him to his feet to remove his sodden boxers, Sam made no move to prevent it.
As he removed each garment, Dean set to work with the towel, drying the residual dampness from Sam’s cold skin, using the rubbing motion to generate some friction. He talked as he went, spewing out meandering, meaningless words that were meant only to reassure.
Eventually, he tossed the damp towels into the puddle of wet clothes on the floor and stared intently into Sam’s face.
“How y’doing there, bro?”
Sam nodded and managed a smile. “Better,” he whispered. “Still c-cold, bu’ better.”
Dean nodded smartly and stepped back, pulling back the covers from the bed and gesturing for Sam to get under them, nodding with approval when Sam complied without question.
Sam lay quietly and watched from his pillow as Dean pulled his own T-shirt off over his head, adding it to the growing laundry pile behind him. With it went his jeans, socks, and finally his boxers. Sam’s eyes followed Dean intently as he walked around the end of the bed and climbed into it behind him. Tugging the quilt up over them both, Dean reached out to pull Sam back toward him, gasping as Sam’s freezing back pressed against his bare chest.
“Whad’y’doing?” Sam murmured sluggishly.
"Skin on skin,” Dean grunted in reply, reeling Sam in closer. “It's the best way to share body heat."
Sam hummed his approval, burrowing backwards to manoeuvre his leaden body closer into the firm curve of Dean’s torso.
“Gotta warm up your core first,” Dean continued, his warm palm tracing lazy circles over the expanse of Sam’s chest. “Otherwise… well, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, some crappy stuff happens and then you die.”
Sam felt himself start to relax. Already the warmth of Dean’s comforting proximity was permeating his chilled bones. More than that, it was generating a heat and fire through him that was more than just a natural rise in body temperature. Suddenly, the crushing fatigue of his ordeal was replaced by a spark that crackled around his body like electricity.
“Crappy stuff sounds bad,” he mumbled into the crook of Dean’s arm, closing his eyes as Dean’s roving hand gradually worked its way south, circling his stomach. He could feel his abdomen tremble beneath Dean’s touch, and he was quite sure that it had nothing at all to do with the cold.
Dean hooked his injured leg over Sam’s thighs, wrapping Sam tighter within his protective embrace.
“And so, because I kinda like having you around,” Dean growled into the back of Sam’s neck; “I’ve gotta warm up your core before any other part of you.”
Sam’s shivering intensified as he felt Dean’s fingertips continue their journey south, combing through the coarse thatch of hair that they eventually encountered. He pulled in a sharp intake of breath as Dean’s hand strayed onto his rapidly stiffening cock.
“I’m pretty sure that doesn’t qualify as part of my core,” Sam murmured, suddenly becoming aware of the hard ridge of Dean’s own shaft pressing into his back.
“Shuddap,” Dean grunted, biting gently at the muscular junction of Sam’s neck and shoulder. “It is if I say it is.”
Sam pulled in another breath, which trailed off into a ragged gasp as Dean’s long fingers curled around his straining cock and began to work rhythmically in an intense, sweet torment.
Dean’s free hand wormed its way under the contours of Sam’s chest, clawing and teasing; tracing lines of fire wherever it could reach, and it was mere moments before Sam was bracing backwards into Dean’s rock-solid presence, gasping and shuddering through the throes of a powerful release.
The last thought that crossed his mind as he subsided bonelessly into the mattress and succumbed to sleep, was that he really must fall into frozen lakes more often.
The dawn was creeping over the windowsill when Dean’s eyes fluttered open. The room was reassuringly warm, heavy with the kind of moist closeness that results from two warm, respirating bodies sharing the same space, and he reckoned they had been asleep four, maybe five hours. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was that had woken him, but the initial sight of Sam, naked and sitting astride his thighs, gazing intently
into his face was probably a good place to start.
“S’my,” he grunted blearily, knuckling tired eyes. “Y'ok?”
Sam nodded, “Yeah,” he reassured Dean. “It's just that you were kind enough to warm me up last night, only, you were all over that ice too, hauling my ass out of the lake, so I reckon the least I can do now that I’m recovered is return the favour.”
Waggling his fingers over Dean’s groin, he watched with a smile as Dean’s eager dick rose to attention between them.
“I’ll take that as your agreement,” he smirked.