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Sam was slow. Not special kind of slow, just moving at a decelerated pace kind of slow. And it wasn’t that he zigged when he should have zagged. It was that he hadn’t even seen the need to zag coming before he was firmly knocked onto his ass. He hit the concrete warehouse floor hard. But his head slammed against some machinery and, as pain shot through him, the already dark warehouse went black.
Dean was on the opposite side of the warehouse, busy cornering two of the three Leachee demons under a devil’s trap and hoping Sam had dealt with the third. You had to stab them in the neck with a blade cleaned in holy water. Coming up with a couple daggers that fit the bill wasn’t a problem for the Winchester boys; the problem came in the stabbing. The demons were virtually impervious and tended to choose abnormally tall humans to possess. Dean would have fought them single-handedly to keep Sam out of harm’s way because of that, but even he couldn’t take on three at once.
Arm straining, extending, he drove a dagger into flesh at the neckline. It wasn’t quite far enough, but the angle was true and the demon collapsed before him. Dark blood ran down Dean’s hand, making his grip slip as he withdrew the dagger. He stood on the fallen Leachee in order to get the height needed to dispatch the second.
“Sam!” he called out. Machinery whirred and hummed, clanked and sputtered all about him. He yelled louder but couldn’t hear a response. As he headed through the warehouse, Dean muttered, “I’m fuckin’ exhausted. If he’s gotten himself possessed, I’m not even going to bother killing him. He’ll just have to deal.”
He found the third Leachee before he found Sam. It was lying with its head crushed in some mechanical press, an athame embedded in its Adam’s apple. “Sam?” The mechanisms around the Leache squeaked and ground noisily in protest. But there was no Sam. “Sam!”
He lay around the corner, curled on his side, moaning so softly Dean wouldn’t have been able to hear him even without the broken machinery. “Damn it, Sammy.” Dean sank to his knees.
“Hurts,” Sam whimpered—actually fucking whimpered, like a little kid, like someone really hurt.
It wasn’t a very helpful answer, however. “What hurts?”
Dean’s fingers brushed Sam’s forehead and Sam recoiled, wincing. “Head… and everything else.”
His forehead had been hot. Far hotter than it should have been.
“What’s the matter with him?”
Dean wheeled around, nearly losing his balance, though he was kneeling on the floor. “Damn it, Cas. You couldn’t have come fifteen minutes ago?”
“What’s the matter with him?” Castiel repeated, cocking his head as if that would help him better see the problem.
“Not sure, but he’s got a fever. I don’t think it’s from the Leachee demons.”
Castiel walked over and squatted down. With a touch to his temple, Sam’s eyes opened. His head wound was healed, but the illness remained.
“Sam?”
Sam looked from Castiel to Dean and then back again. “Hurts,” he said again.
“The two of you are as bad as broken records,” Dean muttered. He turned to Castiel. “His temperature’s too high; makes him hypersensitive. We need to get him somewhere safe, cool him down, force him to rest.
With a nod, Castiel scooped Sam up. Sam cried out and turned his face into Castiel’s trench coat, muffling the sounds of moans. Castiel held him close and carried him out of the warehouse, to the backseat of the car.
Tears turned the tan fabric darker brown as Sam cried with pain at every turn or bump the Impala navigated. Dean glanced in the rear view mirror, catching Castiel’s expression, reflecting his concern. Dean’s foot pressed heavier on the gas pedal, not being able to keep from turning but making the ride a few seconds shorter. After surviving the ride, Sam passed out on the journey to the motel room, the hand that had tight hold of Castiel’s tie loosening then going slack and dangling down with the rest of his arm.
Castiel sat with Sam in bed while Dean brought washcloths and bowls of cool water. He sat with Sam when Dean left to get medicine from a local drug store. He sat with Sam while Dean nodded off in the next bed, reluctant to sleep but unable to keep his eyes open any longer.
Sam slept for a long time and then drifted in and out of consciousness, delirious or crying when awake and whimpering when asleep. Four times, Sam got up and stumbled to the door, mumbling about demons and having Dean’s back. Castiel walked him back to bed each time and held a fresh compress to his forehead.
It was around four in the morning when Sam’s fever broke and lucidity washed back over him. “Cas,” he whispered, as if just noticing the angel were there. “Hi.”
“Hi there,” he replied, as if he had just arrived. He wiped a cool washcloth over Sam’s damp forehead. “You have a fever.”
“Had one this morning, too. Thought I’d be okay on the hunt. Dean’s okay, right?”
“He is fine. Sleeping now.”
“Good.” Sam looked relieved for a moment. Then he reached up and put a hand to his head. “World’s spinning, Cas.”
“Yes, it is. In fact, it’s in constant rotation—”
“More than usual, I mean.” Sam sat up, stripped off his shirt, and then lunged for the angel, pulling him down so they were snuggled together. Sam buried his face in the space between Castiel’s neck and shoulder, nuzzling. He threw a leg and an arm over Castiel’s body. He sighed deeply, relaxing as Cas’s arm wrapped around him and held him tight. “You gonna stay the rest of the night, or do you have to rush back to Heaven?”
Castiel didn’t answer right away, and the pause made Sam shiver. He was certain Cas didn’t move, but suddenly there was a blanket up around the two of them, tucked so tight he couldn’t imagine the angel would be able to escape.