Title: Crashing
Authors: Enkidu07 & Mad Server
Characters: Sam, Dean, ODC (Original Doctor Character)
Genre/pairing: Gen
Rating: T
Word-count: 1700
Spoilers: None. At all.
Warnings: Uh. Shmoop? Teasing?
A/N: This one's for Lia, whose patience with travel agents and indecisive North Americans knows no bounds.
Disclaimer: Less with the owning, more with the fangirling.

:::

"What the fuck, man?"

Dean's chest heaves in the confined space of the car. He blinks at the steering wheel, darts a panicked look at Sam.

Sam gapes openly, trying to process what just happened. Dean scrambles for the belt release, struggles out the door.

"Hey!" Sam rubs a shaky hand over his head and climbs out after him. "Dean!"

Dean's pacing along the driver's side of the car. The Impala's bumper is nestled tightly against a now dented sequoia.

"Quiet." Dean's fingers are running over and over his pale lips. He glances up. "You okay?"

Sam, assessing, rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. "Yeah." He peels his eyes from the steaming engine and looks back at the deserted road. "What happened?"

"Friggin' tree came out of nowhere, that's what happened." Dean shakes out his wrist and flexes the fingers. "Son of a bitch."

Sam watches his caged movements. "Are you all right?"

"Son of a bitch."

"Hey, let me see your hand."

Dean's fingers are shaking and cold but Sam doesn't feel any breaks. Bruises paint splashes of color over his knuckles.

"Okay, okay, enough already." He staggers to the hood and peers down into the smoking wreckage.

Sam pulls his cellphone out, checks the signal. "I'm calling a tow truck."

"Uhn." Dean palms his forehead and goes white.

"Dean!" Sam pulls the phone away from his ear and lunges for Dean instead. He grabs an elbow and scans Dean's face. "Here, man, sit."

"Nmh." Dean sits down hard in the grass and leans back against the tree. His skin glistens. "Crap."

"Did you hit your head? Dean? How many fingers?"

Dean flaps at Sam's probing hands. "Get off." His lip curls, brows crunching in. "Damn. I'm too tired for this crap."

Sam threads a hand through Dean's hair and comes up empty - no bumps or gashes or soft warming bruises. He sits back on his heels to evaluate the situation. Suddenly Dean slides sideways, slipping out of consciousness.

"Dean!" Sam jams his finger into Dean's clammy carotid and dials 9-1-1.

Dean's pulse is slow and steady under his fingertips. His face is smoothed out and his breath is steady. From Sam's rudimentary assessment, he seems to be just... sleeping.

"Seriously, man. What the fuck?"

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" Sam hears the tinny sound of the 9-1-1 operator.

"Car accident. Route Forty. My brother's unconscious."

Dean's throat bobs under Sam's fingers, then stills as Dean stops breathing. Before Sam can toss the phone and get his brother flat, Dean's already gasping awake.

"Dean! Hey. Whoa, no no no." Sam palms his chest and presses him into the tree trunk. "Don't move."

Dean blinks drowsily, "Sam?"

"Yeah. It's me."

He pushes Sam off, climbs to his feet. "Fuck."

Sam watches with concern as Dean bends and leans his face against the Impala, frame tensing as sirens break the still air.

:::

The doctor takes the thermometer out of Dean's mouth and holds it up.

"Slightly elevated."

Flat on the table, Dean yawns wide and licks his lips as she palpates his abdomen.

"Any tenderness here?"

"A little." Dean's voice is thick. He nestles his cheek into the paper that covers the bed, sniffing. His eyelids droop.

Sam frowns at the new red bruising standing out on Dean's belly. "Is that from the steering wheel?"

Dean grunts as the doctor presses a little harder. She spares Sam a glance, waits for Dean to answer. Instead he just sighs, blinking long and slow.

"That would be consistent, yes. I don't feel any internal damage - he lucked out there. Dean, did you bump yourself anyplace else?"

Sam listens for Dean's reply and watches as his arms slips off the edge of the exam table, swinging loose.

He rushes forward. "Dean!"

Dean snorts and gasps awake. "Unm?"

The doctor moves in with fresh concern, "Mr. Hendrickson?" She slides her fingers in behind his ears, palpates along his temple. "Did you hit your head?"

He blinks up at her, confusion plain on his face. "What? No."

She keeps one hand on his head, pulls out a penlight with the other. Dean looks around with bewilderment. "Sam?"

"Right here, man." Sam grasps Dean's ankle and gives it a squeeze. He rubs his brother's leg, looks worriedly to the doctor and back. "We'll take care of it, okay?"

"How have you been sleeping, Dean?"

Dean's eyebrows pucker. He shoots Sam a guilty look. Sam's struck by the whiteness of his skin.

"Not so good," he tells the doctor.

"Okay." She feels his neck, makes him say 'ahhh,' and gives him an empathetic smile before whipping out a prescription pad. "I'm going to give you something to help you sleep and then we'll get you in for an appointment at the sleep clinic downstairs. We'll figure this out."

:::

"Hey." Sam watches Dean pad toward the motel room door in socked feet. "Where you going?"

"Need to take a look at the Impala. Can't let her sit like that, she'll rust out."

"The car's fine." Sam stands as Dean tugs open the door, letting in a chilly breeze. "Dean. You're supposed to be sleeping."

Dean stands in the doorway, an involuntary shiver jittering down his frame. Sam grips his biceps, gives him a tug. Dean is immovable.

"I've been sleeping for two days." Dean jerks his arm free. "I can't do this anymore. I'm going crazy."

"Dean. Your body needs to rest. Your brain short-circuited while driving. You need more than two days."

"It doesn't matter. I sleep but I'm still so friggin' tired." Dean drags his arm under his nose.

Sam takes in the dark circles and ruddy complexion. "Dean."

Dean pushes both hands through his hair, mashes his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Damn it." He pushes the door shut. "Fine. All right. We'll play house." He turns toward the bed and stumbles. Sam catches him around his waist.

"Take it easy." Sam's voice is soft, his hold tight. "Just take it easy a couple more days and we'll get to the bottom of this."

:::

"How was it?"

Dean looks worse than he did when Sam dropped him off. He's haggard and disheveled.

"Better than Disneyland." Dean slides into the backseat of the cab and slams the door shut. He eyes the driver uneasily.

Sam follows Dean's gaze and then turns his attention back to his brother. "What'd they say?"

"Before or after they ripped the suction cups off my face?" Dean snuffles, locks and unlocks the door. "Bupcus, that's what. They said they won't know anything until next week. Next week!" He fusses with his sleeves. "So I say screw it. Enough's enough. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

"Uhh." Sam looks out the back window, wondering if he should have talked to the technicians himself. "I'm sure we can get our motel room for another week. It'll be good for both of us to rest up."

"I've had it up to here with resting." Dean darts a glance at the cabbie, lowers his voice. "I'm not some precious little butterfly, all right? I'm me, just like I've always been. I never needed twenty hours of sleep every day before, and I don't now. Let's just go, man. I'll be fine."

"Dean." Sam keeps his voice low. "We can't just take off. We should at least hear what they have to say. Plus, the Impala isn't exactly road worthy right now."

"If you'd've let me fix it..." Dean breaks off, rubs his mouth. "It's fine. I can have her up and running this time tomorrow."

"So you can wrap her around another tree next week?"

Dean looks at him coolly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think I mean, Dean?" Dean looks sharply at the driver and Sam lowers his voice. "You look like hell, man. Do you trust yourself behind the wheel right now?"

Dean stares him down for a long moment. Then he blows out a breath through his nose. He holds up a hand between them. They both watch it tremble. Dean drops his palm and smoothes it over his thigh. "Maybe not."

:::

"Well well well." Sam shuts the motel door and holds out the cardboard box for Dean to see. He waggles his eyebrows. "What do we have here?"

Dean looks at it suspiciously. "From the sleep place?"

"Yeah." Sam rips off the packing tape and sets the parcel beside Dean on the couch. "Go ahead, try it on."

"Looks like it's for snorkeling. We going to the beach?"

Sam snorts. "Come on, put it on. I'll get the machine set up." He grabs a jug of demineralized water off the kitchen counter. "The clinic told me CPAP machines need some of this inside. Let's see..." He pulls the whole bundle out of its package, nudges the empty box off the couch with his sneaker.

Dean watches Sam dubiously, flips through the paperwork. "Sleep apnea? Yeah, no. I'm not putting that on."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you like having your breath stop hundreds of times a night? Or is it the ass-dragging exhaustion in the daytime that appeals?"

Dean looks at the mask hesitantly and then snaps, "Give it." He takes it from Sam and pushes into the bathroom.

Sam sets the rest of the gear on the sofa, follows on his heels. "Are you following the instructions?"

He steps back a little when Dean growls. Steps back further when Dean turns with the thing over his face.

"Oh my god." Sam passes a hand over his lips, tries to wipe off his smile. "That's. Uh." He swallows down a laugh. "You look really good."

Dean scowls harder.

"Very, um." Sam lets loose a giddy chuckle. He feels his face go red. He swipes his hand back over his mouth again, presses it there for a second. "Kinda like an astronaut."

"Astronaut, huh?" Dean's voice echoes through the plastic tubing. He surveys himself skeptically in the mirror.

Sam's nostrils flare with barely-contained giggles. "Or a squid." Shoulders shaking, he forces out, "Or a squid astronaut."

Dean rolls his eyes, turns to Sam. "Oh yeah, you're hilarious. Do you want me to wear this freakin' thing or not?"

Sam nods, can't speak through his laughter. He grips the doorframe, one arm wrapping around his stomach.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean sullenly eyes his reflection. "It's not that funny."

Tears slip down Sam's cheeks, giddy relief loosening something in his chest. "Sorry. Sorry." He pulls in a hitching breath, scrubs his eyes with his sleeve. His face hurts from smiling. "It's perfect."

:::

end