Summary: From a prompt by AlanahC. For a belated 16th birthday present, Dean takes Sam to Disney World. It is exactly that fluffy and plotless.
Warnings/Spoilers: None at all. It's about Disney World, guys.
Author's Note: So chronologically, this is the first Sammyverse story, and I like that a lot. It's completely schmoopy and ridiculous and everything that makes writing this verse really fun, and I think I like it as an intro. So. This is Sammyverse. Sam has asthma because of ~*reasons*~, but all that scary stuff in the future! Right now he's just Dean's favorite little wheezy thing in the whole world.
Title is from the song "Worker Bee" by Motion City Soundtrack. I use them a lot.
Sam was, like he is every fucking year, sick for his birthday. He had a sinus infection that swelled his face all up and he spent the day sniffling through a movie marathon. His presents were tissues and soup, and that's just pathetic, and now it's five days later and he's all better and they're not on a hunt (haven't been for three damn weeks--sometimes the world is quiet, which Dean fucking forgets when they're zizagging back and forth across the country for months at a time) and John thinks he's heard a hint of something, what the fuck ever, but if John's going to spend tomorrow on the phone and at the library chasing down clues of something that's probably nothing, Dean's going to borrow a car and a kid and that's just the end of the discussion.
Except it isn't, because everything with John is the biggest fucking deal in the world.
"One day," Dean says, while Sam's in the shower, because Sam makes things even more dramatic so yeah, not helpful, Sam, they'll be discussing this when you're not around. "Come on. You're not using him."
John looks up from sorting laundry. "Using him?"
"All right, Jesus, wrong word."
"He was just sick, and you're planning some big thing for him."
"And did not die, if I recall correctly, and also got well. It's a Sam Winchester miracle. He's sixteen, he's big and strong, I want him for a day."
Honestly, Dean can't believe they're having this conversation--it's not like Sam's fucking five and Dean wants to take him to the playground, fucking Jesus--but whatever, John's overprotective, Dean's overprotective, they can have an overprotective party in-between sending Sam out to get ripped to death by monsters, it'll be great.
Except not tomorrow. Tomorrow Sam is Dean's, damn it.
"I'm going to keep an eye on him," Dean says. "I'm kind of used to him."
"Yeah, I know."
John doesn't look up, but he has that fucking face on, so, great, awesome, it's that other thing. Fantastic. A whole day alone with Sam means plenty of time for Dean to...Jesus, John, Sam's sixteen, he doesn't need this bullshit.
"He deserves a good day," Dean says. "He doesn't get enough good days."
John sighs and looks up at the bathroom door. Sam's singing in the shower, because Sam is fucking ridiculous.
"All right," he says. "If he's breathing well tomorrow."
"Sam, breathe," Dean says to him later, while they're brushing their teeth. "This is important."
"Oh! All right, then."
"Mega incredibly epically important." Sam spits.
“Mmm.” Sam takes a breath in. It's a good breath.
"I meant tomorrow. Go ahead and wheeze to death tonight."
"All this contradictory advice. I'm conflicted. To breathe or not to breathe?"
"Not to death. Actually. We have shit to do."
"I'll wheeze to death later this week, then."
"That's my boy."
Sam grins up at him.
Sam sleeps through the night and wakes up taking these big clear breaths and Sammy for the win, pretty much. Dean hauls him over his shoulder and fireman carries him to the car, because that's the kind of shit you have to do sometimes. Sam kicks him in the back a lot, which is fair.
Dean dumps him in the passenger seat. "ID?"
"Real or fake?"
"Real or fake?"
"You're on my shit list, you know?”
"I've noticed I'm the only thing on any of your lists. Is there a Sam list? I want to be number one."
"I think that I want you to join the army Sam would be the first Sam."
"I'm completely fine with that."
"It sounds like we're going somewhere exciting."
"Why can't you just say check?"
Sam pats his pockets. "Check!"
"Bracelet with my phone number on it in case you die and I decide I want to hear about it."
Sam shakes it in Dean's face.
"You're a good kid. No matter what they say."
"And they say a lot."
"They do." He starts the car. "I'm they, by the way."
"You always are."
It's just that they're kind of the only people they know.
Dean should probably have an issue with that, but the thing is that there's this lanky creature in his passenger seat changing the channel on the radio and chewing gum with his mouth open like the gross little bitch he is and sneezing all over his sweatshirt--is that Dean's sweatshirt? fuck this kid--and yeah, okay, sure.
Palatka to Orlando is like 110, 120 miles, but they're shitty miles for Sam because it gets hotter and muggier as they go and he's rubbing his ribs before they're halfway there. Dean glances at him. "Staying good?"
"I know this sucks."
"Are we sad about asthma? Noooooo."
"I get to do this every once in a while. God knows you do."
"Yeah, when I'm dying."
"I think we use dying too much, considering you have yet to actually die."
"That's totally your doing."
"You say that I'm dying all the time. It's like your hobby."
"And your hobby is dying."
"We work very well together."
Sam figures out where they're going as soon as he sees the first signs and then he's going, "Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck," and is that kind of language really appropriate for a kid on his way to Disney World, Samuel?
"I can't believe you didn't tell me," Sam says. "I couldn't do research!" and oh my God, Sam Winchester, why can't you have one surprising bone in your enormous body?
"Backseat, please, imbecile."
Sam squirms around and grabs the plastic bag with the guidebook in it because seriously, not one surprising goddamn bone.
"I am all over this shit," Sam says. He snaps his fingers and holds is hand out to Dean. "Highlighter."
"I didn't get you a fucking highlighter."
"You did, stop being a dick."
Dean hands him a highlighter.
By the time they pull up the gates, Sam's highlighted his way through half of Magic Kingdom and he's talking non-stop about...something. Dean really can't listen all the time, he'd probably get an aneurysm or some shit. Sam talks. A lot. Sam could maybe breathe better if we would shut up sometimes, but every time Dean suggests this Sam talks more because Sam is a little shit.
"Peter Pan," Sam says. "Aladdin. Main street. See the castle. Haunted Mansion."
"Haunted Mansion? Seriously?"
"I heard they use real fucking gravestones! There might be shit that needs doing!"
"I didn't even bring anything." Of course he did. Welcome to their lives.
"I have a gun in the trunk. Got your back, Dean."
"You want to do Tower of Terror?"
"That's Hollywood Studios. But. Pirates of the Caribbean. Space Mountain. Do we have time for all of this?”
"We've got the whole day. Park's open for like ten more hours. Whatever you want, Sammy. Happy late birthday, y'know?"
Sam gives him a little punch in the leg. "Thanks."
"I'm going to be treating you like shit for the rest of the month to make up for this."
"Mmmm, I know."
"I'm talking methodical physical abuse."
"Break a few ribs, maybe. Throw cats on you."
"I told you, today's going to be really, really good."
Sam grins at him.
"Inhaler now," Dean says, and Sam hits it with enthusiasm.
Sam has all these elaborate plans to break into the park ("they have tunnels, Dean. Tunnels") but tickets are like twenty bucks, Sam, and let's not get caught and kicked out before we're even in, you know?
Sam bounces on the balls of his feet in line and Dean says, "Okay, where are we starting?"
"We have to see the castle."
"I think there's a place you can get a Cinderella costume. Want one?"
"God, yes.” Sam rubs some distracted circles on his chest, then says, “Think of a scenario where we could use that in a hunt. Go."
"Got one! Damsel in distress. I always get kidnapped anyway. Now we have the bad guy thinking I'm a helpless little girl and then ka-POW! Shoot him in the face."
"This is a weird conversation to be having in front of people."
here safe Dean texts John while they're walking in, because he promised he would. The stuff he worries about is so weird.
you brought food for him, right?
"Why do you look like Dad just sent you a naked picture of himself?"
"Oh, Jesus fuck, Sam, I hate you."
Sam tugs the phone towards him and looks. "Dude, are you worried about this? We'll find something."
Dean scratches at the back of Sam's head absentmindedly.
"We're fine," Sam says. "Please don't freak out. It's a good day, remember?”
Sam tucks Dean under his arm and gives him a quick squeeze. "I'm fine," he says softly. "Okay?"
"Come on. Something tall. I want to scare the shit out of you."
They get a picture of them doing the speak-see-hear no evil thing, except there are only two of them, so Sam has his hands over Dean's ears and Dean covers Sam's eyes and mouth and you can still tell that he's smiling. Sam's fucking face, man.
"Whoooa, okay." Dean grabs Sam by the fucking neck as he starts down one street. "There's a nut thing up there. Switch directions."
"But..." Sam points at Space Mountain up ahead and huffs out a frustrated breath.
"We'll find another way there, okay?"
Sam walks with his hands in his pockets. "It's fucking stupid," he says.
"That we're all fucking careful about this and then we're on a hunt and doing things twelve billion times riskier than walking past a peanut stand."
This would be a lot more convincing if Sam weren't obviously a little shaken-up right now. Fucking allergy kid. Dean would heal the food allergies over the asthma any day and they give him so much less trouble on a daily basis, but shit, it takes a bad asthma attack to scare Sam like this and just the fucking risk of a reaction.
A minute later, though, Sam's okay, because that's Sam, and Dean's counting steps away from the nut stand, sixty, sixty-one, Sam's fine, Sam's fine.
He's still fine when they're standing in line for lunch, and Dean is the nervous wreck.
"I fucking hate you for making me feel all these feelings," Dean says. "I could kill you for this, seriously. This is embarrassing."
"Just throw a peanut butter sandwich at you."
"All these allergy threats today."
"I like it. Just get burgers or something and we'll be fine. I'm going to go get a table because I don't think I'm making your impending stroke any less impending standing this close to all the food. You okay? Seriously."
Dean knocks his forehead against Sam's. "Yeah."
When he meets Sam at the table with their tray, Sam's made sixteen swans out of napkins and he says, "How many swans in your average flock, do you think?"
"Do swans flock?"
"Swans flock. Swans flock. Swansflock."
"What the fuck, Sam."
"Swansflock. It's hard to say."
"Yeah, if you're stoned. Are you stoned?"
"I don't even get to be stoned."
"Poor straight edge Sammy."
"Sam and his asthma could drink you under a table."
"Does your asthma drink?"
"I"m going to make more swans, I think."
Dean eats and leafs through the guidebook until Sam goes, "Psst. Dean."
Dean looks up.
Sam has his burger balanced on the backs of his swans (and he totally made more) and is making the ferry it across the table.
Dean means to tell him to eat but instead snorts Coke through his nose and Sam laughs and cleans him up with one of the swans. "It's cool, it's cool," Sam says. "This one was really ugly anyway."
"Are you allergic to swans?"
"Oh, I'm sure." Sam tears his bun to tiny pieces, not in an angsty-way, just a Sam-way.
Still, Dean says, "I'll shut up about allergies if you want,” because Sam's not great at eating and allergy talk isn't great at not stressing him out.
"What? I don't mind."
Sam shakes his head. "Of course not. Don't mind anything when it's just us."
"Sappy piece of motherfucking shit."
"I don't even mind that!"
"You're so goddamn annoying. You're an ugly swan."
"This would be so much more convincing if you weren't smiling at me like your face is about to fall off."
"I really wouldn't be smiling in that case..."
Sam ducks his head and grins. Those fucking dimples, man.
"Yeah, ugliest swan ever," Dean says.
"I think it's ugly duckling."
"Except ugly ducking gets hot, and you're going to be ugly forever."
"Did you just call a bird hot? Oh my fucking God. Dean. Dean." Sam throws a fry at him, and Sam, those are Dean's and you're not supposed to be touching them, and way to waste a fry, damn it.
"Wipe your fingers off, I don't trust the oil they're in."
"You think birds are hot."
"You're maybe allergic to French fries, sooooo."
"You think birds are hot. Dean Winchester thinks birds are hot! Sam yells, and people turn around and Dean throws a fucking fry at him and Sam laughs his ass off and doesn't die of allergies today.
Dean comes back from scoping out the ride and rejoins Sammy in line. "I don't know, buddy. Your call."
Sam chews on his thumbnail, and he just washed his hands so Dean can't even bitch at him. "How bad?"
"It's just muggy. I don't know."
"We've done hunts in swamps."
"And they've given you a rough time. I don't know, seriously. This one's up to you."
"It's Pirates. It's a classic."
"I know. You want to do it?"
"All right. Inhaler now, and it's short, I think, so we don't need to panic if you start feeling shitty."
Except it's longer than a minute and thirty damn seconds, and that's how long it takes before it's clear this was a mistake. They're sitting in the back of this boat with a normal fucking family in front of them and Sam doesn't even need to say anything, he just wraps an arm around his chest and scoots closer to Dean.
"Okay," Dean says softly. "Okay. You're all right."
Sam's kind of hunched over and he's wheezing pretty hard and shit, that was fast.
Dean rubs up and down his back. "Just a little longer, kiddo."
Sam nods and presses the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his mouth and nose. Dean wishes for Sam's scarf really, really hard, even though it's hot as all hell, because that scarf does a better job than fucking anything, than fucking Dean, at comforting the kid when he's getting an asthma attack.
He's breathing so well and Sam's so fucking not and they're breathing the same air and there's a part of this that's just never going to make sense.
Sam starts sneezing soon after that, because, yeah, it's probably moldy as fuck in here. Bad big brother, bad, bad.
"C'mere." He tugs Sam close and rubs his shoulders. "Just look at the pirates. It's okay."
Sam looks up and obeys, looking where Dean points. He stifles coughs into his wrists and rubs his chest and leans his head against Dean's shoulder.
He's getting bad. Shit. It's an eight-and-a-half minute ride, Simba, how do you get this fucking sick so fast? It's just not fucking fair.
He's really miserable by the end. Hard time standing up miserable. Dean knows making a scene will just make him more anxious, so he hauls his kid up with a hand on his shoulder and tries to cuddle him up as subtly as possible on the fucking moving ramp out, but seriously, moving ramp? Sam needs out of here now.
"Almost there, buddy."
Sam coughs hard into his elbow.
"I've gotcha. It's all right. I've gotcha."
The first-aid station is really awesome, it turns out, and the nurse listens when Dean tells her that they're fine, they've got this, they just wanted somewhere quiet and clean for him to rest. She keeps an eye on them but fusses over a kid with a scraped knee and Dean hops up on a little bench next to Sammy and tells him when it's time to take another hit off his inhaler.
He's feeling like shit, all hunched over and breathless, and it sounds like a horrible fucking thing to say but in a way he's always kind of relieved when Sam looks so fucking sad during attacks because it means it doesn't bother him all the time, and whenever they get him to a doctor they always get looks and those pitying little remarks about how it must be so uncomfortable for Sam to fucking live, like what's the fucking alternative, here, kill the kid because his chest is sore, and yeah, they could blame it all on hunting and fuck knows Sam's yelled at Dean and Dean's yelled at John and John's yelled at Sam until fucking everyone's panting and on one's sure what the fuck anyone wants or what the hell's going to keep Sam alive and then you take your kid to Disneyworld and he ends up wheezing on a makeshift hospital cot, so.
"Fuck," Dean says. "Fuck, I wanted this to be fun for you."
Sam looks up. He's forcing deep breaths. "Dean?"
"It's just...you had a shitty birthday, okay? And have you ever had a good birthday, ever? You have dad all upset thinking about Mom and thinking about his asthmatic little baby and you've got me angsting the fuck out that I don't have cake for you and you really don't need any of this shit, okay? Because this isn't you, and I know I talk a big fucking game about how we need to stop thinking about asthma as this enemy and integrate it into you or whatever the fuck but the truth is, okay, Sam? You're like a fucking little self-propelled robot and I try to slow you down all the goddamn time and you're a little bitch about it and then this thing comes and clamps down on your lungs and pees all over your good time and it's not fucking fair. And I just...I want you to be happy, okay, and fucking make fun of me once you can breathe, whatever, but I don't want you to be happy today, I want you to be happy fucking long-term and you hate hunting and you fight with Dad and your lungs are like time to go get a soda half the time they're supposed to be breathing and there's just all these fucking odds and you drive me out of my fucking mind and I'd really just rather I think at this point if we could just say screw saving everybody and run away and live in a clean room forever and play board games. That's the stupid shit I always think when you're having asthma attacks. Every fucking time.”
"That's not really...news, you know?" Sam wheezes. "This isn't really your first...speech like this."
"Yeah, yeah, fuck you."
“Hey. I am happy. I love you, y'know?”
Dean crosses his arms. "Do you have to say it all sincere and shit? Can't you throw in some sarcasm?"
"I loooooove you, Dean."
"Better.” Dean waves to the nurse and says, “Hey, is there a way for an allergy kid to get to Space Mountain?”
She gives directions while Sam chuckles and says, “Why can't you ever just say it?”
“Because..doing that to a sick kid is scary. Okay?”
“Loving anyone in this business is scary.”
“I'm going to overdose on that word. Say something else.”
“Uh, caribouing anyone else in this business is scary.”
“Yeah. It sounds like 'care about'.”
“You're breathing better.”
“You ready to go?”
Sam nods and gets down. He's still a little shaky, but it's all right.
“Seriously,” Dean says. “Caribou?”
“Yeah. You don't have to stick me in a clean room, you know?” he says, his shoulder bumping against Dean as they go out. “I'm really good at being a sick kid.”
“I know. Lungs up for fireworks?”
“Sam. I like...you know. Caribouing.”
“I can't believe this word. Seriously. Wouldn't you be allergic to caribou?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely.” He's coughing a little.
Dean stops in front of him. “C'mon, wheezy. Piggy-back ride.”
Space mountain sounds like a good idea, really, because it'll kind of throw the air down Sam's throat, but when Dean mentions that Sam laughs at him and says Space Mountain is a really tiny roller coaster and it doesn't even count.
“Someday we'll go on a big one,” Sam says.
“We've got lots of time.”
They end the day with fireworks, because this is fucking Disneyworld and that's what you do and Winchesters like fireworks.
Sam wheezes softly and plays with the cuff of Dean's sweatshirt.
“It's a good day,” he says, softly, and stomps on Dean's foot.
On the way to meet John, Sam folds a herd of shapeless four-legged things out of tissues and lines them up on the dashboard, marching towards Dean.
Dean makes fun of them, but they'll do. They just will.