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Zepplin plays softly through the Impala's speakers. The early morning darkness outside smothers them like the knitted blanket draped over Jack where he's stretched out across the back seat. His head is pillowed on his jacket, and his legs are curled up near his middle.
Sam and Dean slump in the front seat, Dean behind the wheel and Sam scrolling on his tablet without really reading anything in an effort to stay awake. They speak in murmurs back and forth about the hunt they're returning from, about how they need rest.
"And showers."
"And about four pounds of bacon."
About how Castiel and Mom are waiting for them back at the bunker.
Just as Sam is finally getting into the article he has open, Jack shifts from lying on his side to his back and makes a noise in his sleep. Nightmares aren't uncommon for Jack, not for any of them, and Sam wonders if he should wake him or let him ride it out.
As if he’s read Sam’s mind, Dean glares and gives a shake of his head to Sam’s unspoken thought of pulling over and checking on the kid. Dean's been driving a long time and no doubt he's gunning to get home as fast as possible. He knows from experience too that pulling over isn't going to magically chase the nightmares away the next time Jack falls asleep. Sam concedes for the moment and turns back to his tablet.
The third time Jack cries out, Sam reaches his arm over the seat and pats Jack's leg. "Jack, buddy, hey."
Jack wakes with a start and groans again. "Sam?"
"Hey, it's me, I'm here. You okay?"
"I- I don't think so." Jack shivers under the blanket and winces as he shifts again. "I was having weird dreams. I'm cold, but when I have the blanket on me I feel too hot, like I'm on fire. And I hurt all over."
"Hurt? Like aches?"
Jack nods. Sam sighs. Hm. Not just nightmares then.
"Sounds like you might have a fever, kiddo. We'll pull over soon," he shoots Dean a pointed look across the front seat, "and take your temperature, get some medicine, alright?"
They pull into a Gas-n-Sip just as the approaching sun is painting everything gray, and Sam pops the glove box open to find the thermometer he stowed in there shortly after Jack lost his grace. Dean raises an eyebrow, as if he isn't the one who’s kept baby wipes in the trunk since before Sam turned twelve, and Sam rolls his eyes, straightening up as he steps out of the car. "What? Never know when we might need it."
He sticks the boxy end of the thermometer between his teeth so his hands are free and rummages in the trunk to pull out what he's looking for, a bottle of ibuprofen in case Jack doesn't have a fever after all. He strides around to the back driver's side door and swings it open where Jack's head is resting.
Sam hates to wake him now that the kid's finally gotten to sleep, but it's unlikely he'll have another chance to check him over until they're home.
"Jack?” he murmurs. “Wake up, sit up for me."
Jack groggily cracks his eyes open and tries to pull the blanket tighter around himself. It takes him a few moments to process what Sam said, but eventually he hauls himself upright and slumps against the seat, flushed cheek pressed against the vinyl. Under the florescent gas station lights and the early morning sky, Sam can see the dark circles under Jack’s eyes and the sheen of sweat at his hairline and the goosebumps on his arms where the blanket isn't covering them.
"How much longer until we're home?"
"A lot longer if we keep hamming and hawing," Dean calls from where he's pumping gas. He's only being a dick because he hates to see Jack sick too and wants to get home so he can fix him soup and Cas can heal him, but his impatience does nothing but piss Sam off.
"It's hemming and hawing, Dean," Sam snaps over his shoulder. He turns back to Jack and brushes at the hair hanging in the kid's eyes.
He takes Jack's temperature: 100.6. Not dangerous, but he's definitely come down with something.
"I'm gonna run inside for some medicine. Do you want the syrup kind you drink or the capsules you swallow?"
Jack thinks a moment. The last time he took capsules, he'd nearly gagged trying to swallow them, so Sam isn't surprised when he croaks, "Syrup, please."
Sam pushes Jack's hair back from his forehead one more time before unfolding himself from the backseat. He returns with Nyquil, a bottle of water, and a portable pouch of applesauce. Jack cringes when Sam hands him the cap full of thick blue syrup.
"Three, two, one," Sam counts down for him, and Jack pinches his nose and tilts the cap back to swallow the medicine. Sam motions for him to do it again to get the sip he missed at the bottom, then lifts the corner of his flannel so Jack can wipe the lingering syrup from his lips.
Jack gulps down half the applesauce pouch to rid his mouth of the medicine taste before pushing it toward Sam. Sam twists to poke his head out the door to ask Dean if he wants the rest, who grabs it immediately. Probably not the best idea if they want to avoid the rest of them getting sick, but Sam doesn't think Dean's eaten since lunch yesterday.
Dean tosses the empty pouch into the trash can next to the gas pump, double-checks that the gas cap is on, and slides into the driver's seat. "You gonna ride back there with him?"
Sam nods and reassures Jack he'll feel better in twenty minutes or so when the medicine kicks in. Jack shuffles closer until he's pressed against Sam's side and leans his head against Sam's shoulder. Sam wraps an arm around him, pressing a kiss into his hair.
With his free hand Sam texts Cas an update on their ETA and that Jack's not feeling well. Cas replies with a thumbs up emoji, a crying face emoji, and a yellow heart emoji seconds later. Sam sends back a purple heart.
Before they get far down the road, Jack resituates himself with his head in Sam's lap so he can stretch out across the back seat again. He drifts off to sleep easily this time. Sam tucks the blanket more tightly around Jack's shoulders and cards his fingers through Jack's hair the rest of the way home.