Request: What Goes Around, Comes Around
Request: I’m having such a bad time right now. I’ve been depressed and at my wits end and I can’t afford to get the help that I need, and on top of that I’ve been sick with a sore throat and no appetite as well as a fever. Any chance I could get a really comforting and fluffy Sam x Reader fic while your requests are open? Maybe the reader is sick or feeling really down, or both like me, and Sam takes care of her and makes sure she’s okay and is just the super sweet caring guy he is? It would mean a lot.
Word Count: 1,306
I’m so sorry, and I hope you’re feeling at least a little better! Thank you, though, and I hope you like it/it helps<333
As soon as you come to your senses you can feel it. The leaden limbs, pulsing headache, raw throat. It’s been coming for a few days and you’ve been doing everything in your power to ignore it, to stave it off for as long as possible, but it finally caught up with you.
Reluctantly, you inch your eyes open – Sam’s already gone, leaving the other side of the bed empty, but that’s nothing new: he’s probably off on a run, and he’ll come to wake you once he’s home. The room is light, however, the hall light reflecting from the open door onto the stark white walls. You groan, your throat like sandpaper, closing your eyes once more and burying your face in the pillow.
Eventually you force yourself to stand up, wrapping the duvet around your shivering form, and shuffle to the bathroom. Then, you head to the kitchen, earning a disapproving look from Dean.
“You don’t look like you should be out of bed.”
“I’ll be fine,” You sniff, “It’s always worse in the morning.”
Dean raises an eyebrow, “Do you want me to make up some chicken soup? I’ll call Sam and tell him to get his ass back here, too, you don’t look-“
You shake your head vigorously, sending your head spinning, “No, none of that. I’m okay. I mean… I might get a glass of water and some ibuprofen and go back to bed for an hour or two, but I’ll be fine. And don’t bother Sam, he’ll be back before too much longer anyway.”
It kills your throat to speak for that long and the dubious nod from Dean is all you need to turn on your socked heel and disappear back off down the corridor. You fix yourself a glass of water, down a couple of pills and head back to your room, collapsing into bed with a soft groan. Before you know it you’re back asleep.
You only wake again when Sam closes the door, accidentally letting it swing closed too quickly. He cusses softly as you open one eye and look up at him sleepily.
“Hey, you,” He offers, coming to sit on the bed beside you, “How are you feeling?”
You shake your head in response, “I’m okay. Just…”
“Not okay?” He offers, gaining a minute nod in response, “You’re allowed to be ill, Y/N – Dean said you looked like death warmed up. And we’d know what that looked like.”
You croak out a laugh, burying yourself further into the covers as he reaches out, pressing a cool hand to your forehead.
“Hell, Y/N, you’re burning up. You should get rid of those blankets.”
You shake your head, “Nope. I’m cold.”
“You can’t be cold,” He sighs, “That’s a hell of a fever. I’m going to get a cloth and some cold water, okay?”
You shake your head, trying to sit up, but your head spins and your elbows give out and you drop ungracefully back onto the bed.
“I’m fine.” You insist, earning a roll of the eyes. Sam presses a careful kiss to your clammy forehead.
“You’re allowed to be ill, Y/N. Just stay there, okay? Do you want food or-“
You shake your head again, “Nope. I’ll just throw it up.”
“Okay. Do you want to stay here or we can head into the sitting room and set up camp there?”
“Here is fine. Sam, you should leave, I don’t want you getting infected.”
“Bullshit, Y/N. Like I’m going to pass up the opportunity to look after you.” He grins, before disappearing out of the room. He returns a few moments later, somehow juggling a pitcher of iced water, a shallow bowl, a rag, what must be a half dozen pillows, at least a third of the contents of your medicine cabinet and his laptop. You merely raise an eyebrow at him and he smiles sheepishly.
“If we’re going to hole ourselves up in here all day I might as well bring everything we need.” He explains, “It’s fine.”
“Ever heard of making two trips?”
“Two trips is for losers.” He grins, dropping the pillows on the foot of the bed, placing his laptop beside you, and depositing the bowl, rag, and pitcher on the nightstand. He then props you up using the pillows so you can sit, and pours some of the ice water into the bowl, wetting the rag, wringing it, and placing it carefully over your head.
“Better?”
“It’s freezing. Are you trying to freeze me?”
“I’m trying to break your fever.” He assures you, opening up the laptop, “Please just bear with. You don’t always have to be stubborn, you know.” He climbs into the bed beside you and wraps an arm around your shoulders, so naturally you can’t resist curling into his comfort and warmth. For a moment you can forget the battle being waged in your head as he pulls up Netflix and opens the show the two of you have been watching.
***
It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep. It’s not your fault – Sam is warm and comfortable, and you’re just so sleepy. It’s impossible not to – and in the end, you don’t even make it through the first episode. Sam only smiles, however, pausing it so you don’t miss any and pulling up a research page, staying put so as not to disturb you. It’s not often you get sick and you’re too stubborn to let him take care of you whenever you’re injures – he’s definitely not passing up this opportunity.
You shift slightly, a small whimper leaving your lips. He looks down, removing the rag and soaking it once more – you’re still warm, your otherwise grey-tinged face interrupted by pink flushed cheeks. The bags under your eyes are obvious and he can’t help but smile fondly as he dabs the cold rag across your face, making you sigh in unconscious contentment.
He loves you. More than words could ever describe and it scared him, of course it does, but that doesn’t mean he feels it any less. He does his best to make sure you know that, too, because the idea of you feeling anything but loved and adored and worshipped scared him just as much. He’s never been in a relationship like this – the sense of normality (real normality, not the fake stuff he forced on himself when he was younger) that you inspire in him is more than he can ever ask.
“Sammy?” You murmur: he’d been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn’t seen you wake up, “You okay?”
He nods, “I’m fine, beautiful. How are you?”
“Sleepy.”
“Go back to sleep then. I’ll be here.” He promises, “Always.”
“You don’t have to stay.” You protest, but your eyes are already closing. He smiles, settling you comfortably in his arms.
“I know. I want to.”
***
He keeps true to his word and hardly leaves your side until you’re back on your feet. It doesn’t take long until the Y/N he knows is back with a vengeance, running around the bunker, always with a task or goal. In fact, you’ve been up since before dawn cleaning weapons when Sam shuffles down the corridor, wrapped in a blanket and looking like Death warmed up.
You’re sat on the table in the library, cross legged, when you see him – you put the gun straight down, hopping off and crossing over to him.
“Do I have to say I told you so?” You raise an eyebrow, “Back to bed. Now.”
“It’s not that bad, Y/N, I prom-“ He’s cut off as he stumbles into the wall, the world spinning around him, “I mean-“
“Bed. I’ll bring… everything.” You promise, smiling slightly to yourself as he hobbles back towards you bedroom - as they say, what goes around, comes around.
