#allergic sam

“It’s pretty simple,” Sam’s saying, and Dean has to sit down because he knows it’s going to be way the hell far away from simple.

They’re in the library and Sam’s curled around a book, sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up because he’s always complaining about how the library chairs are too tiny for him. Dean’s pacing the space in front of him, tracing his fingers along the rows of books, but he has to sit down because he’s tired and Sam’s about to lay some complicated shit on him. It’s way too early. No one should even be in the library this early in the morning except old ladies and homeschooled kids anyway.

“Somehow, I doubt that,” he tells Sam before reaching over and smoothing his fingers over Sam’s stupid hair that’s sticking out above his ear. 

Sam ducks away and shoves his book into Dean’s lap.

“A couple of hex bags should make us invisible to the demon.” He points with his long finger to a list on the right side of the page. “We just have to track down this stuff.”

“I need my coffee first,” Dean yawns. “Go make a photocopy.”

They stand up and walk over to the photocopier, and Dean ends up making the copy because Sam gets sidetracked by a shelf of books on dolphins or something equally ridiculous.

When he’s done, he starts for the door, but Sam huffs his name and gives him his bitchiest frown.

“Put it back on the shelf.”  

Dean rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “That’s what the librarians are for, Sam.”

Sam just breathes through his nose and brushes past Dean. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

Sam grabs the book off the photocopier and stomps back toward the shelf to put the damn book in exactly the right spot because that’s the kind of person he is.

Except as soon as Sam’s out of sight that’s not what Dean is thinking about anymore. He’s reading the list of ingredients that they’ll need to make the supposedly simple hex bags, and it’s all the same shit they always work with.

All of it except for one item.

He reads the line again, just to be sure, but where the hell else are you going to see an ingredient like that? Dean couldn’t forget the words if he tried.

Herba nasus vexo.

Oh shit.

“Oh shit.”

“What?” Sam’s back. He takes the paper from Dean. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah.” Dean pats Sam on the shoulder. “My little brother thinks he’s a librarian.”

“You honestly don’t remember?

It’s Waffle Wednesday at Pig ‘N Pancake, so naturally Dean is scarfing his way through a stack of waffles covered in maple syrup. Sam, on the other hand, is barely touching his pancakes that he ordered because It’s a pancake house, Dean. Pancakes. 

They’ve got the list between them and Dean’s a little baffled at the fact that Sam doesn’t remember the summer of ’92, because Dean sure as hell does.

“Nope, don’t remember a thing,” Sam shakes his head. “So, Dad had to carry this herb around, and, what? I was allergic to it?”

“Dude. You were so allergic to it. You were sneezing so much we thought you were cursed.”

“I didn’t know I was allergic to anything,” Sam frowns, taking a sip of his coffee. “Weird.”

“Yeah. Kinda sucks.”

They’re both thinking the same thing. Without the hex bags, they’re demon bait. And without the herb, they don’t have hex bags. Sam absently rubs his hand under his nose and looks at Dean.

“Yeah. Kinda does.”

Dean downs the rest of his coffee, then pulls out his wallet.

“Why don’t I go grab this stuff,” he says, tapping the piece of paper with his finger. “I’ll drop you back by the room, and you can call Bobby and see where he’s at with this demon thing.”

“Bobby and Rufus are tracking the demon in Iowa,” Sam tells Dean, who’s dumping a grocery bag full of shit onto the table. “Said it might take a while.” He walks over, carefully sifts through the ingredients, then looks over at Dean. “Where’s the, uh--”

“Still in the car,” Dean answers. “So you’re telling me that we could be carrying these around for more than a few days?”

“I guess.”

“Awesome.”

They start to assemble the hex bags, and Dean puts off getting the herb from the Impala as long as he can, which isn’t very long because they don’t have much time, not with a demon that could potentially be after them.

“Should I like, take some Benadryl or something?” Sam says suddenly, sounding nervous.

“Way ahead of you,” Dean answers, digging in his bag until he comes up with a box. He tosses it to Sam. “Claritin. Worked better than anything else when you were nine.”

Sam doesn’t look any less worried as he opens the box.

Dean goes out to the car, brings the bag into the room while Sam waits on the bed farthest from the table. The herba nasus vexo is some funky-looking little plant, a purple-green color. He puts exactly three of the dried leaves into each bag before ditching the rest in the dumpster behind the motel.

Sam holds out his hand, palm up, and Dean gives him the hex bag carefully, like it’s a bomb or something. Sam, curious little shit he is, brings it closer to his face and smells it, then immediately snorts and covers his face with his other hand.

“Oh God, that’s strong,” Sam blinks, his eyes watering.

“Moron.” Dean rolls his eyes, then gives his own bag a testing sniff, but it just kind of smells bad, nothing distinct. Sam raises his eyebrows, then twists to the side with a sudden sneeze that he stifles by pinching his nose.

“Hh-hngxt!”

“Bless you. Already, huh?”

Sam stuffs the bag in his pocket with a shrug, nostrils flaring, and Dean can see that he’s losing control. Fast.

“HPTSH’chuh!” Sam shoves a fist under his nose, stifles the next sneeze. “Hh’HTCHsh! Oh my God.” He wipes his eyes, presses his fingers against his sinuses.

“Wow. Bless you.”

“It’s n-not…so bad…hihh…” Sam’s breath hitches, chest moving in and out without his permission. “Nose itches really bad th-though’hhh…”

“The Claritin will kick in soon,” Dean says hopefully.

Sam nods, drops his hands to his sides. He’s holding his breath. He blinks a few tears away, wiggles his nose back and forth. They both wait.

And then he’s sneezing. Nonstop. He tries to stifle them at first, his face flushing, but it’s a lost cause. Sam sneezes and sneezes until he’s a mess, snotting all over his sleeve, his eyes and nose red. Dean goes into the bathroom, grabs a wad of toilet paper because there are no tissues, and presses it into Sam’s hands while successfully avoiding the spray. Then he goes back into the bathroom to get the rest of the roll.

When Sam finally gets a breath in, he takes the length of toilet paper that Dean offers and blows his nose.  

“Holy shit, this is insane,” he pants, but he’s looking kind of impressed and Dean wants to smack him upside the head for it. “Three tiny leaves.”

“Six.”

“Huh?”

“Three in yours, three in mine.”

“Huh-HSH’SHOO!”

Dean sighs.

“Bless you.”

“This is worse than when you were a kid. Way worse.”

“Huh-hutch’SHUH! Really?” Sam asks absently, sniffling.

Dean drags a hand down his face. Sam’s on his laptop, one knuckle pressed under his nose, an attempt to keep the sneezing to a minimum. Which is about one sneeze every five seconds. With his other hand, he pulls a tissue out of the box next to his leg, holds it up to his face to catch the next sneeze, then crumples it up and tosses it into the wastebasket, his gaze on the laptop screen for the entire process. His eyes are watering so badly Dean’s not sure how he’s even able to read anything.

“Maybe we should try some different meds.”

Sam looks over, opening his mouth to speak, but he inhales sharply instead, eyelashes fluttering. His breath hitches for a torturous moment, nostrils quivering as a single tear leaks down his face, and then his head snaps forward.

“HPSH’SHUH! Heh-HTCH’choo! Hhhh…uh-KTCH!” He half-stifles the last one, crushing his tissue against his red nose. “Whoa.”

“Shit. Bless you. Maybe Benadryl.”

Sam massages the sides of his nose with his fingertips, pulls out another tissue and blows his nose. “HTCH’choo!”

“Zyrtec. We haven’t tried Zyrtec.”  

“Stob worryigg.” Sam sniffs and hides a smile.

“I’m not worrying.”

“You are.”

“Bitch.”

“Hhh-HRCHSHch!”

Sam’s lying face down, arms and legs spread out like he doesn’t already take up the entire bed with his giant torso.

Dean drops his keys on the table and holds up a plastic sack even though Sam’s not looking at him.

“Got some more Kleenex.” The rate Sam’s moving through tissues, they’re going to be broke. 

Well, if it was their own real money they were spending, they’d be broke.

Sam doesn’t move, just sneezes where he is, face buried in the pillow. Dean opens the box and sets it next to his head, and Sam immediately curls his arm around it and sneezes again.

“HTCH-shuh!”

“Bless you. How are you doing?”

Sam takes a tissue and blows his nose, then flops over onto his back, revealing red, watery eyes narrowed in annoyance. His breath hitches like he’s going to sneeze again, but instead he says, “Itchy.”

He’s completely stuffed up at this point, and he looks pathetic. Dean’s glad that Bobby and Rufus are taking care of this thing, because no way is Sam going to be able to recite an exorcism in this condition.

Sam’s drifting off, hand still holding the tissue box. Dean goes into the bathroom, fills a glass with water to set on the nightstand, for when Sam has to take his antihistamines again. He goes back into the room, pulls the covers over Sam. Sam’s breath whistles in and out, and he stirs slightly, snuffling against the back of his hand.

“Thanks,” he says softly, and then he’s snoring.

Dean’s quietly trying to sneak out the door when Sam stirs on the bed, then sneezes himself awake. He pauses in the doorway, and Sam sneezes again and slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“Ugh.” He looks up, spots Dean. “Hey.” His voice is hoarse.

“Hey,” Dean says, coming back inside and shutting the door. “Sorry, I was trying not to wake you.” He looks at his watch and Sam sneezes.

“You got like, four hours that time.”

“It’s the meds,” Sam replies stuffily. “They’re making me sleepy.” He then dissolves into a sneezing fit, burying his face into a handful of the covers.

“HPTSH’chuh! Hhhh…HTSH’chuh! uh-HTCHSH! HSH’SHOO! Hhpt’chuh! HPHH’SHOO!” 

“Bless you,” Dean says when he’s done. “I was just going to go grab some coffee.”

Sam digs his fist into his eyes and sneezes again. He stands, stretches his arms above his head and sniffles a little.

“Hihh’CHOO! Ugh. I’ll come with you. Hhh’HPSHCH!” He puts a hand to his chest, winded.

“You sure?” Dean asks, because damn Sam looks miserable, sneezing all over the place like he’s trying to set a record. Dean’s surprised, not to mention proud, that he’s still standing on his feet. Or that he’s even alive.

“Let me get dressed.” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and starts gathering his clothes.

“You might want to brush your teeth too, if we’re going out in public,” Dean says, then ducks to avoid the tissue box that’s aimed at him.

“Son. Of. A. Bitch.”

Dean’s voice echoes throughout the room. Sam finishes brushing his teeth, goes out into the room to see Dean hanging up his cell phone.

“Just got off the phone with Bobby,” he says, walking over to Sam. Without warning he reaches forward and puts his hand into Sam’s pocket, pulling out the hex bag. “Apparently, they exorcised the thing. Yesterday.”

“Oh– HKSHSH!” Sam sneezes in reply. “Yesterday?”

“God, sorry. I should have told Bobby.” He looks down at the hex bag in his hands. “I’m going to go get rid of these.”

Dean disappears out the door, and Sam rubs his nose, which still itches like crazy. Thinking about it makes him sneeze, and sneezing once makes him sneeze more. By the time he makes it to the box of tissues, Dean’s back.

“Wow. Bless you.” 

Sam sucks in a breath, blows his nose. 

“We should move to another room, it probably reeks of that shit in here.”

“I wandt a shower,” Sam agrees congestedly, “ad cleed clothes.”  

“Fresh, herb free clothes,” Dean nods. “You got it, bitch.”

Dean pulls his duffle bag onto the bed and begins to gather up his clothes, grinning. Sam sneezes, rolls his eyes, and starts packing up his stuff.