“Easy does it, Sammy. Just focus on breathing, in and out, and we'll have you back to your normal, bitchy, emo self in a second.”
Dean is going through the duffel bag with the same ruthless efficiency with which he tackles any other project, and just about drops the inhaler, he's so relieved to find it. Sam's head has fallen back against the car, fingers digging weakly into the asphalt as though he's trying to anchor himself there. If he was wheezing before, now he's in serious goddamn respiratory distress, coughing and choking, groaning audibly with each failed breath in a way that makes Dean's chest ache in sympathy. He clutches reflexively at Dean's arm, heels scraping for purchase on the ground as he fights to stay conscious.
“Shit,” Dean mutters, fumbling with the cap on the inhaler. “Easy, Sammy. Come on, focus on me. Here we go,” he doesn't bother trying to put the inhaler in Sam's hand, just forces the mouthpiece past his lips. “You know the drill. Take as deep a breath as you can. That's it,” he prays the angle of the spray is about right as he presses down on the pump, “now hold it —as long as you can. Easy does it.”
He places his free hand against Sam's chest, trying to even out the stuttering rhythm by sheer force of will. He can feel Sam's breathing even out a bit as his brother forces himself to be calm, to keep his breaths even. He's still got a death grip on the sleeve of Dean's jacket, his knuckles turning white.
“Good job,” Dean says encouragingly, but after a few minutes Sam is still struggling and coughing, still not pulling in enough air. “One more hit, okay Sammy? One more, and then I'll buy you the biggest damn cup of coffee we can find. That always helps, right?”
It's uphill from there, and he almost cries with relief. Sam keeps coughing, but the horrible desperate wheezing has stopped, and colour is coming back to his face slowly, the hectic spots in his cheeks fading, and eventually he lets go of Dean's arm, nodding to indicate that he's just fine, thanks. Dean rolls his eyes to show exactly what he thinks of that, but pulls him up to sit in the front passenger seat, and thumps him on the shoulder.
“Okay. Coffee, and we'll pick up some Benadryl —the stuff in the kit's expired. Then we'll head back to the motel and stick you in a hot shower. How does that sound?”
“Awesome,” Sam rasps, one hand pressed to his sternum, leaning back against the seat. He pulls in a careful breath, as though he expects not to be able to at any moment. “Dean?”
“What?”
“You... even think of... buying a frilly apron... I'll feed it to you.”
Dean snorts, and switches on the ignition. “In your dreams. C'mon, let's hit the road. I don't want to have to explain to that shrieking harpy why her damned house isn't clean.”
Re: Dust Busters 5/5 (no warnings or spoilers)
Dean is going through the duffel bag with the same ruthless efficiency with which he tackles any other project, and just about drops the inhaler, he's so relieved to find it. Sam's head has fallen back against the car, fingers digging weakly into the asphalt as though he's trying to anchor himself there. If he was wheezing before, now he's in serious goddamn respiratory distress, coughing and choking, groaning audibly with each failed breath in a way that makes Dean's chest ache in sympathy. He clutches reflexively at Dean's arm, heels scraping for purchase on the ground as he fights to stay conscious.
“Shit,” Dean mutters, fumbling with the cap on the inhaler. “Easy, Sammy. Come on, focus on me. Here we go,” he doesn't bother trying to put the inhaler in Sam's hand, just forces the mouthpiece past his lips. “You know the drill. Take as deep a breath as you can. That's it,” he prays the angle of the spray is about right as he presses down on the pump, “now hold it —as long as you can. Easy does it.”
He places his free hand against Sam's chest, trying to even out the stuttering rhythm by sheer force of will. He can feel Sam's breathing even out a bit as his brother forces himself to be calm, to keep his breaths even. He's still got a death grip on the sleeve of Dean's jacket, his knuckles turning white.
“Good job,” Dean says encouragingly, but after a few minutes Sam is still struggling and coughing, still not pulling in enough air. “One more hit, okay Sammy? One more, and then I'll buy you the biggest damn cup of coffee we can find. That always helps, right?”
It's uphill from there, and he almost cries with relief. Sam keeps coughing, but the horrible desperate wheezing has stopped, and colour is coming back to his face slowly, the hectic spots in his cheeks fading, and eventually he lets go of Dean's arm, nodding to indicate that he's just fine, thanks. Dean rolls his eyes to show exactly what he thinks of that, but pulls him up to sit in the front passenger seat, and thumps him on the shoulder.
“Okay. Coffee, and we'll pick up some Benadryl —the stuff in the kit's expired. Then we'll head back to the motel and stick you in a hot shower. How does that sound?”
“Awesome,” Sam rasps, one hand pressed to his sternum, leaning back against the seat. He pulls in a careful breath, as though he expects not to be able to at any moment. “Dean?”
“What?”
“You... even think of... buying a frilly apron... I'll feed it to you.”
Dean snorts, and switches on the ignition. “In your dreams. C'mon, let's hit the road. I don't want to have to explain to that shrieking harpy why her damned house isn't clean.”