Archive of Our Own

The day had started with a dull headache at the back of his skull and Dean telling him he looked like crap, and that had kind of set the tone for everything else. But a leading coping mechanism in their family is to aggressively ignore the problem until it dies down, and that’s what Sam did. With a quick once-over of himself in the mirror of their motel bathroom to make sure there was color in his face, he convinced himself he was fine. A dull flush of fever is nothing; it’s when his complexion drains away that he knows he’s screwed.

Sam didn’t sleep on the drive to the docks. Each little pothole in the road agitated the meager contents of his stomach—black coffee, nothing else. But he couldn’t make himself eat; his palms got sweaty just thinking about it.

“Are you sure you’re good for this?” Dean had asked him. “I mean, I’d hate to pass up the chance to fight some pissed off naked women, but if you’re off your game—“

“I’m fine, Dean. And kelpies are horses most of the time.”

“... You're kidding.”

The banter calmed him down; enough to make him think whatever he’d been feeling before had been nothing.

Then, of course, things took a swan dive.

They’d found two eyewitnesses, longshoremen who’d grown up in town and were completely willing to help, and the low ache in his stomach had suddenly swelled up past five, six, seven on his one-to-ten mental scale of nausea. There was no build up for him to use any cognitive tools, no warning for him to step away and have his full-blown nervous breakdown in peace. So Sam found the next best thing: he reached over and grabbed onto Dean’s shoulder before all the functioning pieces of him came to a grinding halt.

Dean had taken one look at him, and the transition to maternal protection was instantaneous.

“S’cuse us for a minute, fellas—“ Then Dean was ushering Sam down the boardwalk and back to solid ground, where there was no threat of Sam pitching sideways into the polluted water. He’d leaned Sam up against the brick lining of a building, slid Sam down to rest his head between his knees, and crouched down in front of him.

“Sam, talk to me.”

Sam had groaned, unable to speak around the fear seizing him by his chest. He’d been afraid to open his mouth. If he got sick here, with these strangers watching… Or if he got sick on himself…

“Hey, hey, bring it down a couple notches, ‘kay?” Dean gripped Sam by the back of the neck, steadying him. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by getting juiced up like that, so just take a minute and then tell me what’s going on.”

Sam allowed himself a few deep breaths before resurfacing from his knees and resting his head against the brick. Sweat ran down his temple, beaded on his skin.

“I called it this morning, didn’t I? You’re sick.”

Sam flinched, shook his head.

“You’re seriously gonna pull that? You almost keeled over back there and you look ready to puke.”

Sam bit on his lower lip and put his head down again, feeling the sting in his eyes and not wanting Dean to see.

“Sammy?”

He drew in on himself, digging his fingers into the canvas material of his jacket.

“Okay, real talk? I gotta know if you’re hurt, or if you landed yourself with a hex bag, or if you’re poisoned. ‘Cause if you don’t tell me, I can’t do my job.”

“Could—“ Sam swallowed— “Could do it without me.”

“Not hunting, you dumbass. Taking care of you.”

Sam stilled.

“And to be honest, I kinda like that job. And I don’t wanna be let go, you know? The unemployment rate in this country sucks.” Dean wasn’t touching him, but he didn’t have to. The comfort radiated. “Look, you’re freaking out, I get it, but you gotta level with me: did someone hurt you?”

Sam shook his head. He didn’t want to face the scorn that would come with telling the truth, but he also hated hearing the worry in his brother’s voice, and he wasn’t sure how long he could take sitting out here with nausea turning his stomach over.

“Feel sick,” he’d finally said, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his jacket. Wording was important, because feeling sick and being sick were two very different things. Nausea didn’t always translate into being physically ill, and he tried to remind himself that, but it was hard when he could barely breathe out of fear.

“You gonna hurl?”

Sam’s breath caught. “N-no, I— no.”

“Dude, it’ll happen whether you want it or not.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? No control. Giving up the last fragments of autonomy and spilling them out over the ground in a mess of bile. Making a fool of himself just like always. Being a goddamn embarrassment.

Sam hadn’t responded, only thought about how useless it had been for him to dry his tears when he was crying all over again. Dean had watched, brows furrowed, confused and concerned.

“Is that… is this, like, a thing with you?” There’d been no teasing lilt in Dean’s tone. “Like your thing with clowns?”

Sam could barely bring himself to nod.

“Okay… okay, so you’re—yeah, this is definitely not good.” Dean glanced over his shoulder at the police officers, the caution tape, the longshoremen, and then back to Sam. “Alright, here’s my pitch: we get you the hell out of here.”

“Great,” Sam had croaked, and Dean hauled him to his feet.

-

Now, shielded from the scrutiny of strangers by dark windows and a roof over his head, Sam’s anxiety plateaus on the ride back to the motel. To be fair, it’s plateaued as damn high as possible, but Sam is in no position to complain.

He’s got his forehead against the cool glass, eyes closed, gripping the edge of his seat for dear life.

“You holding up?” Dean keeps the radio low enough so it doesn’t hurt Sam’s head, but audible enough to serve as a distraction from the sick feeling in Sam’s gut.

“Not really." 

Sam checks his reflection in the side view mirror, sees his face is completely devoid of color, and he knows this is real. Another knot forms in his stomach, anxiety tugging on the nausea and ratcheting it up half a dozen notches. It’s useless by this point, he’s fucked no matter what, so he lets himself double over as much as the seatbelt will let him, a low groan straining his vocal chords.

“Just a little further, Sammy.” Dean’s got a reassuring grip on his shoulder, and he wants to tell Dean to drive with both hands. “You’re okay.”

Call him crazy, but he doesn’t exactly believe Dean right now. Not a single part of him feels okay; everything aches, there’s vertigo drowning his brain, and his stomach is by no means in its proper spot. The whole situation is so rattling that he feels like a hummingbird has somehow been trapped in his ribcage.

He swallows hard, saliva thick and acidic, and another layer of cold sweat breaks out over his skin. “Dean…”

“I know, I know. Take some deep breaths, you’re doing good.”

They pull into the motel parking lot and Sam is tumbling out of the car before it’s even fully stopped. He’s got the key in a clammy grip as he fumbles with the door, and barely keeps himself upright when he finally succeeds in unlocking it.

When he staggers inside, he doesn’t go into the bathroom. It's sort of taboo, like it would be an open invitation for his stomach to make its much-desired exodus. Instead he sinks onto one of the beds and clenches his jaw tight, breathing sharply through his nose.

He won’t vomit, he won’t.

His eyes are closed, but he hears the click of the door closing and heavy footsteps, and he knows Dean is there.

“If you puke on the floor—“

“Don’t,” Sam grinds out, but that doesn’t disguise it from the plea it really is. “Don’t say that, I’m not gonna… “

“Like hell you’re not.”

There’s a soft scraping sound across the carpet, one he can’t identify. He opens his eyes and finds Dean squatting in front of him, cheap metal trashcan held out. The mere sight of it triggers a gag, and Sam covers his mouth, chokes it down.

“Stop,” he manages from behind his hand, using the other to push away the bin. “I don’t want—“

“Trust me, man, I know how much you don’t want to.” There are creases of worry lining Dean’s forehead and the space between his eyebrows. “But I’m starting to think you gotta.”

The room tips ten degrees and Sam’s vision tunnels. The small sliver of his brain that’s remained out of flight-mode decides that he needs to find privacy; being sick alone as well as in something Dean won’t have to wash out will probably curb some of the embarrassment.

Good. Courses of action are good.

He struggles back to his feet, using Dean’s shoulder as a brief support before pushing past him to the bathroom.

“Now you’ll go in there?”

Sam doesn’t have enough spare energy to reply. If he did, he’d explain that up until ten seconds ago he’d still been holding onto a shred of hope that this would pass without incident. Now he’s certain he’s going to be sick, and it’s going to be very soon, and he doesn’t want his older brother watching while it happens.

Dean’s on his feet and following him, but Sam swats him away and shuts the bathroom door, keeping Dean out.

“Sam, let me in. I don’t want you busting your skull open on the toilet.”

Sam responds by turning the lock and slides down to his knees.

“C’mon, I used to change your diapers. Nothing fazes me anymore.”

That’s not the problem, though. The problem lies with Sam, because this fazes him, and he doesn’t think he could take being mocked on top of the crushing panic.

He curls up in front of the toilet, pressing his fevered cheek to the seat. His stomach somersaults and he gags again.

“Sam,” Dean repeats, more urgent this time, and there’s a dull sound of his open palm meeting the door.

“No,” he croaks, loud enough for Dean to hear but only barely. “Don’t want you to… don’t need your help…”

He’s not fooling either one of them, but Dean lets up anyways.

“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay, I’ll—I’ll go grab some stuff at the gas station up the road, give you some space.” There’s rustling-- Dean’s shrugging his jacket back on. “I’ll be back in ten. Don’t die.”

Sam waits, muscles tense and coiled, until he hears Dean leave. Once he forces himself to relax, it takes all of three seconds for his brain to slam his internal gearshift into full reverse. He lurches over the bowl and retches, nothing but a few strings of spit dripping into the toilet. But he feels bile crawling up his throat, so he stays like that, hunched over and resting his head on his forearm, taking measured breaths as he lets saliva drip from his mouth into the water.

When he does throw up, it’s thin and dark, and the heat from it makes him feel even sicker. His body won’t stop shaking, and he can’t tell if it’s from chills or from what’s beginning to feel like an intense anxiety episode.

He reaches up to flush away the mess, tries to pull himself together and fails. He’s too far in it by this point, and settles on not crying as a new goal… He doesn’t really pull that one off, either.

Dean is gone for all of fifteen minutes, but Sam’s having trouble keeping track of time, so it doesn’t make much of a difference. He hears the dull strides of footsteps on carpet, the crinkling of plastic bags.

“Not dead, are you?” Dean asks from the other side of the door.

“Shut—“ Sam’s stomach clenches again and steals the air from his lungs. “Shut up,” he wheezes.

“I’m gonna come in, alright? Don’t judo flip me.”

Sam stays quiet, the soft fiddling with the doorknob telling him exactly what’s going on; Dean’s picking the lock, just like Sam had known he would. There’s a click and the door creaks open, and Dean peers in.

“Hey.”

Sam turns his face away and buries it in the crook of his arm. The porcelain isn’t even cold anymore; his fever has leveled it out and it’s lost its comfort. “Don’t,” he mumbles.

“Stop telling me not to take care of you.” Dean steps inside, leaves the door open so Sam feels less trapped. “C’mon, on your feet, man. Clean yourself up and I’ll give you a painkiller cocktail.”

Sam draws his shoulders in, props an elbow on the seat to clutch the back of his head with his hand.

“Sammy.”

“It’s Sam,” he says finally, looking over at his older brother with watery bloodshot eyes. “I’m not—I’m not a kid anymore, I don’t need your help, I’m fine, I’m not…”

A shudder ripples through him and he bows his head to shield himself from Dean. His wrists come up to cover his eyes, fingers digging into his hairline. “I’m not crying, I’m not crying, I'm not crying…”

He can’t cry, it’s not allowed; even as a child he was hushed into silence, whether his tears were from a long car ride or a late night or a raging fever. It’s never been an option, it’s never been an available outlet, and it’s not about to start being one just because he’s having an emotional breakdown on the bathroom floor.

You can’t crack like this.

“Look at me for a sec, okay?”

Sam peeks around his hands; Dean is on his knees next to him, looking unsure of whether he should touch. But not, Sam realizes with a twinge of surprise, with any teasing undertones. There’s nothing that resembles disdain in Dean’s face, no disgust, no disappointment, and Sam doesn’t understand.

“I know that we don’t normally, like, get scared of stuff,” Dean says. “And I mean, we kind of can’t, or else we can’t do our job. But if you haven't noticed, you keep your shit together for a solid ninety-five percent of the time.”

Dean pulls Sam’s hands away from his face and brushes Sam’s sweat-damp hair to the side to feel his forehead. “You're allowed to be scared, you hear me? Even of normal stuff. It’s not a big deal that you are. You're allowed to panic every once in a while.”

It’s hard for Sam to agree. Nearly four years on his own, three months on the road again, and he still fractures like glass. It’s embarrassing, it’s degrading, and he wants to find a place in the walls to hide.

“Let’s get you up and somewhere more comfortable, alright? Somewhere you can stretch out your ridiculous legs.”

He doesn’t notice Dean helping him to his feet until he’s already up on his knees, his stomach rolling from the movement.

“Stop, stop—“ Sam tries to pull away but his muscles won’t cooperate, and Dean has no problem maintaining his grip under Sam’s arms. “I don’t think I’m done, you gotta stop--“ There’s that sensation at the back of his throat again, and his anxiety spikes, and he’s going to be sick and he can’t get back to the toilet, fuck--

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth in time to stifle a wet belch, and two red splotches bloom over his cheekbones.

Dean does stop then, looks at him with raised eyebrows, like he’s skeptical that Sam will actually bring up something substantial. “Yeah, no, you’re as empty as our bank account. You’ve just wound yourself up so tight your body doesn’t know what’s what.” He brings one arm to circle around Sam’s shoulders and guides him and his trembling form out of the bathroom. “Chill out for a minute and it’ll fade.”

Sam is too high-strung right now to lie down, too afraid of losing his stomach over the sheets, so he shakily lowers himself into the chair in the corner of the room. A cramp burns through him and he draws his legs up, rests his head on his knees.

The sink runs for a few seconds, and Dean’s footsteps are lighter now. Softer. Like there’s a scared animal in the room and he doesn’t want it to run. It takes a minute for Sam to figure out why Dean’s acting this way, to realize that he’s the scared, skittish creature in the corner.

A gentle pressure settles around one of his calves, and he raises his head. Dean’s holding onto him—as a reassurance, not a restraint—and there’s a wet cloth in his free hand. The green in his eyes is bright and startling, but it feels like home.

“Mind if I clean you up? You’re sweating bullets.”

“You don’t have to…”

“You’re right. I don’t have to.”

Sam represses a sigh of relief when the cloth meets his skin, breaking up the smell of salt, fear, and acid. Dean leaves the cloth draped around the back of Sam’s neck to cool him down and takes a seat on the edge of the closest bed.

“You think you could scale your pain for me, one to ten? Not including the urge to hurl.”

He takes a second to consider the dull ache in his stomach, the distant pulsing in his head. “A two.”

“And where’s the nausea at?”

“I, um—“ Sam swallows. “Maybe a five?” He doesn’t want to give a number any higher than that, because that’s like goading it to worsen.

It. Separating himself from it barely helps at all. It’s not a natural thing, not a response to a threat in his body, not a part of him. It’s foreign, and it’s something happening to him, not something he’s doing to himself. It’s not up to him; it’s not his choice. It’s never been his choice.

“Has this always been a thing and I never noticed?”

For all his cyclones of thoughts, he still knows one thing for sure: there should not be guilt like that in Dean’s voice. “No, and it’s not your fault.”

Dean waves him off. Stay out of my head. “Got any idea what triggered it?”

Sam takes a breath, and then another. He doesn’t want to think about it—any of it. “My, uh. My first year on my own, when I was still en route to California… I took a bus from LA to San Francisco. It overshot Palo Alto, but only by two hours, and…” He huffs out a weak laugh. “God knows I’ve learned how to keep busy on long rides.”

He hates this story, and he feels his face getting hot. His breathing picks up.

“I guess—I don’t know, I’d been on a lot of trains, been around a lot of people, and I must’ve caught something. And I…” The heart palpitations are making him dizzy. “I got so sick, so fast. I didn’t even know I could get that sick.”

Dean looks suitably grossed out, which Sam appreciates to a certain degree, because it means he’s not completely nuts. “Did this happen while you were on the bus?”

“There was a bathroom—it was one of those road trip buses, and they always have one in the back—but I was in there so long they sent somebody to check on me to make sure I wasn’t dead, or setting up an explosive, or whatever.”

Dean snickers. Sam would think it was funny too, if he hadn’t been scarred by the experience.

“I was really out of it by that point, but this guy opened the door and I was just… lying there, soaked in sweat and probably seizing. And I’d gotten this bright red rash all over my body.”

His brother’s eyebrows shoot up. “Jesus Christ, Sam—“

“I think that's when they got the driver to pull over, and someone must have called an ambulance.”

Sam is still trembling. Dean removes the wet cloth and replaces it with a blanket.

“We were in the middle of an interstate, so it took a while for anybody to show up, but a bunch of people helped me off the bus and sat me down in the grass while we waited. And I couldn’t stop… couldn’t stop getting sick.” Sam swallows hard and ignores Dean reaching for the trashcan. “Paramedics came eventually. They hauled me out to a hospital in Wood Ranch, told me I had meningitis, and doped me up on antibiotics.”

Dean lets the bin hit the floor. “Meningitis? You’re kidding, right? Because if you actually had fucking meningitis, you definitely would’ve called me to let me know you were laid up in fucking Wood Ranch.”

Sam wants to burrow into this blanket and never come out. “I didn’t think it mattered anymore,” he admits, and Dean’s expression falls, and then Dean drops the subject because that’s what they do.

“What’ve you been doing since then? You’ve gotta have some tricks up your sleeve to deal with the panic—no way you haven’t puked since then.”

Sam shrugs. He’s really starting to not feel well again.

“C’mon, not even on your twenty-first?”

“I didn’t go out for drinks on my twenty-first.”

“Why not? ‘Cause of this? You shouldn’t let it control you like that--”

“I didn’t do it because I got a pretty good idea of what booze does to people from watching Dad,” Sam snaps, a burst of anger dulling the nausea, and Dean’s gaze flickers somewhere else. Avoiding. “I didn’t need to feel it myself, not when that habit runs in the family.”

“He wasn’t…”

“He is.”

He remembers that night, when he’d stepped into a bar and the smell of whiskey flooded his senses. He’d reached for Jess’s arm, telling her he couldn’t be there and they needed to leave before he broke in front of everyone.

Part of it had been because of Dean and all he drinks and how much Sam had missed him, but Dean wears the scent in a way that provides Sam safety and comfort. John wears it like armor, threatening and violent. Sam could hear Dean’s voice that night, but only barely. It was faint, and other memories overpowered it; the slap of a leather belt, the low thud of a punch, the loading of a rifle.

He’d cried a lot that night and Jess hadn’t asked why, just played the big spoon and kissed his neck without leaving marks, made him feel like he’d only ever known the tender touch of a loved one, and not the cruelty.

“Sam,” Dean says, bringing him back to the present. “I’m sorry.”

Sam can’t respond; he’s occupied with keeping his stomach in its rightful place. Dean crouches in front of him, sets the trashcan in Sam’s lap, and tears prick the corners of Sam’s eyes.

“The sooner you relax, the sooner it’ll be over.” Dean’s hand is on Sam’s knee, thumb running over the faded denim.

Sam leans forward until his forehead touches the rim of the trashcan. A hiccup rocks him a little, and Dean uses his other hand to grip Sam’s shoulder.

“What’s scaring you?”

Sam shakes his head because he truly doesn’t know and because the urge to gag is right there on his tongue. He retches, spine arching, gripping the bin until it hurts, and there’s nothing but a mouthful of spit to show for it.

“Breathe, Sammy. If it’s gotta happen, it’ll happen.”

Sam thinks the whimpering he hears is coming from him, and he wants to pass out so he can escape the humiliation. His stomach ties into a pretzel and he wonders if it’s possible for an organ to dissolve itself, because if he keeps puking up acid like this, that’s probably what'll happen.

But no stomach means no vomiting, and he’d be fine with that.

“You’re okay,” Dean insists when it’s over, running his fingers through Sam’s bangs and wiping the tears from his face. “That looked like it sucked, but it’s done, and everything’s alright. You’re okay.”

Sam leans back in the chair and searches for a moment in his life when he wasn’t such a mess.

-

“What do we got on kelpies?”

“We’re polluting their homes and they hate us.”

“I was asking more along the lines of how I’m supposed to kill one, college boy.”

“We. How we’re supposed to kill one.”

Dean laughs, shakes his head. “Dude, you’re so fucking benched for this one, don’t even try.”

Sam exhales sharply through his nose. “I could help.”

“Oh, good, because what would really help me is knowing you’re staying hydrated.”

“Shut up.” Sam dulls the brightness on his laptop in the hopes that it'll make his eyes stop aching. He should drink something, he’s not pretending that wouldn’t help, but his hollow stomach protests the idea of anything being put into it. It’s barely been an hour, but he’d been working on slim to nothing even before he’d gotten sick, and it’s only gone downhill from there.

There’s a soft thunk on the wooden table as Dean sets a bottle of Gatorade in front of Sam.

“I know you wanna get rid of that taste in your mouth.”

Looking at the drink is enough to make him anxious. “I can’t.”

“Then I guess you can’t kill kelpies with me tonight,” Dean says, rounding the table to stand behind Sam and read the computer screen over his shoulder. “Looks like I should load up on silver bullets.”

“You’d let me go if I drank something?”

“No, man, I was yanking your chain. You’re staying put.”

When Sam’s frown deepens, Dean ruffles the top of his head, messing up the soft brown curls, and grabs his jacket from the bed. “It’ll be a breeze, Sammy. You got nothing to worry about with me being on my own.”

Sam isn’t convinced, and it shows.

“Sammy, hey—“ Dean adjusts the blanket around Sam’s shoulders. “Don’t feel bad for being off your game. I wouldn’t go alone if I didn’t think I could handle it.”

“Yes you would,” Sam grumbles.

“Yes I would. But this time I mean it.”

“I don’t want you out there by yourself.”

“And I don’t wanna leave you here by yourself,” Dean replies, “but there’s not much we can do, y’know?”

Sam’s stomach turns, and he lets one of his hands hover over it as he calms his breathing.

“Just keep your phone nearby and I’ll check up on you, give you updates.” Dean is unscrewing the orange Gatorade cap. “How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” Sam breathes, barely above a whisper.

Dean’s grin is crooked, only pulling at one of the corners of his mouth, but it’s familiar and genuine. “Atta boy. Now do me a favor and drink some of this before I go.”

Sam had been hoping he’d be able to avoid this, pretend to drink it before Dean got back by pouring some down the bathroom sink, but Dean’s too smart to let Sam pull a move like that. He knows Sam better than the backs of his own hands.

The cold feels good on his throat, dimming the majority of the burning sensation, but the faint aftertaste it leaves in his mouth is a trigger. He can’t stop thinking about how it might taste if—when—it comes back up: sugar-sweet and bile-sour.

“Relax, Sam. It’s not cyanide.”

Sam hadn’t realized how tense he’d made himself until he consciously loosened up. “I’m okay,” he says, more to assure himself than Dean. It’s not helpful.

Dean grins again, brushing Sam’s bangs to the side to feel his forehead one more time, and then clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “You call me if you need me to come back, you understand?”

Sam nods even though he isn’t planning on it, and he knows Dean knows it, too.

“And use the trash can if you need to. I don’t mind taking it out when I come back. I’ll choose little brother puke over ectoplasm or blood any day.”

Sam is shaking in his chair, pale and sweaty, but the comment still earns Dean a shadow of a smile.

“I’ll see you later,” Dean says, hanging in the doorway. “Don’t wait up if you get tired, and I got a few Campbell’s from the store earlier, the cans are in the fridge—“

“Dean, I got it.”

Dean exhales and takes one last look around the motel room. “Alright, just—alright, I’m going, I’m going. Hang in there for me, okay?“

The door closes, the automatic lock clicks, and the nervousness in Sam’s body swells from a four to a seven.

-

Sam does not heat up the Campbell’s soup in the crappy microwave, and he does not lie down to rest on the motel bed with the loud mattress springs. He stays in that chair, the blanket slipping off one of his shoulders, and tries doing anything other than looking into more kelpie lore. He’s rational enough, even now, to know that would only feed his anxiety.

Which he isn’t exactly doing a good job of keeping under control in the first place.

Since November, since Jess, being alone has become very difficult. The thoughts in his head jump at moments of isolation and claw through his skull until he’s sure his brain will ooze out the cracks in his head, grey matter spilling onto the floor.

His stomach twists. He shouldn’t think about brains right now. He shouldn’t think at all; that’s what gets him into trouble. Thinking feeds anxiety. So does blinking, breathing. If he slows everything down, quiets the roar in his ears and doesn’t move, closes his eyes and takes breaths so shallow he can barely feel them, then it’s bearable. Then it no longer feels like his fear is about to swallow him whole.

And of course he can’t find it in himself to do that tonight. It's already going too fast, he’s already caught up in it all.

An ache in his head has developed over the last two hours. He should probably drink more of that Gatorade, or even water, because he knows this is dehydration and there’s a clear solution to that problem, but he can’t.

He rests his head in his knees. It’s a little pathetic. He’s a little pathetic. That’s nothing new.

Dean has texted him three times; once a half hour after he left, another an hour later, and then a few minutes ago. He reads them over because the repetition is calming.

i stole a boat. i dont really know how to drive a boat

we should totally go fishing sometime. also you should eat if you havent yet

one of them almost tipped over the boat but its ok i didn't fall in. and so far only horses, no hot pissed naked ladies :(

Sam wonders about his brother sometimes.

Another hour goes by. He’s done a little walking around the room to stretch his legs and get his blood moving, and he’d gotten one more text that said think i got them all, gonna stick around just in case, be back by 10. And then the nausea, which had been laying dormant at a 3 for a good while, decides to spike up to an 8. The air is promptly knocked out of Sam’s lungs and all the color drains from his face.

No, no, no.

There’s nothing he can throw up, he tells himself. That Gatorade Dean made him drink is long since through his system, and he can’t puke if his stomach is empty. The gaping hole in that logic doesn’t seem to matter.

Breathing. He needs to breathe.

The floor is just as good a place as any, so he lets himself sink to his knees there and brings his cell phone down with him, clenching his jaw as a hiccup surfaces in his throat. Now he’s breathing too fast instead of not enough, and Jesus, can’t he do anything right?

What a wreck he is, what a spectacular mess he’s made of himself since Stanford, what a disappointment he must be.

He doesn’t call Dean. He should be able to soldier through this on his own.

Dad’s obedient little soldier.

He can’t think about Dad, he can’t go to that place. He can’t let those thoughts take ahold of him right now.

He knots his fingers through his hair and pulls hard.

-

It’s half past nine and Sam’s resting his head on the rim of the trashcan, trying and failing to catch his breath, when his phone rings. He pulls himself together enough to pick up and answer.

“Sam, hey, you holding up alright?”

He searches for any remnants of oxygen in his aching lungs and clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

Sam is by no means fine. He’s been cycling through panic attacks for the last forty-five minutes and he’s vomited twice since then—the second of which was self-induced, because the nausea had been so bad that he’d been willing to stick his fingers down his throat and trigger the act to gain the slightest bit of relief. He’s shivering where he sits on the floor, he’s clammy, his brain is too big for his skull, and he feels just about ready to die.

Thank God Dean caught him on a low point on this anxiety rollercoaster, or else he might have burst into tears the second he heard Dean’s voice on the other end of the line. But crying or no crying, Dean is always able to tell when Sam is hurting. Even after so much time apart, Dean is still able to tell. Sam thinks that level of perception is usually reserved for moms.

“Come on, don’t lie to me. What’s wrong? You’re not hurt, are you? Nobody hurt you?”

“No… No, I’m not hurt—“ The anxious feeling is building up again, carrying more nausea with it, and fuck, fuck, he can’t do this—

“Sammy.”

His breathing hitches, and his free hand grips the trashcan tight. The idea of getting sick while on the phone with his brother is terrifying, and he can’t begin to understand why. “I’m—I c-can’t—“

“Easy, easy, take a breath, man. Talk to me.”

His eyes sting and he’s never felt more ashamed. “I can’t come down from it, it won’t stop…”

“Come down from what?” Dean pauses for half a second. “Are you—is this the same as what happened at the docks?”

Sam swallows hard. “W-worse.”

He hears Dean swear into open air on the other end, and then he’s speaking back into the phone. “Okay, okay, it’s a twenty minute drive back to the motel from here, so I’m gonna put you on speaker and talk you through this.”

“But the job—“

“They’re dead, I got ‘em, I swear I didn’t half-ass it.”

Sam is starting to respond when the god-awful feeling of 'you’re going to throw up and there’s nothing you can do about it' races up his spine. He all but whimpers, drops the phone in favor of clutching the bin with both hands, and doubles over to retch hard.

Dean, bless his loud Kansas heart, has never had much of a control on his volume. It’s helpful when they lose each other in a crowd and Dean can shout for him from over a block away, or when the self-deprecating voices in Sam’s head get overwhelming and Dean can drown them out. And, apparently, when Sam’s going through crisis by himself and loses his grip on the phone before putting it on speaker first.

“Sam, listen to me. This is out of your control, and freaking out isn’t going to make it stop.”

Out of control can’t make it stop even your own body won’t listen to you this isn’t your choice nothing’s ever your choice—

you’re powerless—

you’re just a neurotic, lonely, scared little boy—

“Sam!”

“Stop,” he chokes, “s-stop, I can’t breathe—"

“Yes, you can.”

And there it is: Dean’s unwavering faith in him. It always comes back to this, Dean and his confidence in his family and how impossible it is to sway him. Sam doesn’t get where all that trust comes from, because he knows their father too, and the man hardly inspires a feeling of safety. Sam himself is a disaster, a fucking powder keg, and if he were Dean he wouldn’t trust himself or their dad, not the way Dean does.

Once he’s granted a few moments where his stomach isn’t threatening self-eviction, he wipes the tears from his cheeks and fumbles for the phone.

“Tell me what you need from me,” Dean says.

All Sam wants is for this to be a virus he can sweat out through fever, or one that has him coughing up his lungs. He’ll take anything over this assault on his insides. It causes all traces of logic to shut off until his mind is projecting nothing but a neon sign: OUT OF BUSINESS, EVERYTHING MUST GO.

Dean can’t fix that. If Sam wants to stop being a freak and function like a normal person, that’s on him to figure out.

The utter dejection he feels begins to override a lot of the anxiety, but that might not be a good thing.

“Just-- keep talking,” he croaks, wincing at how raw and torn his throat is. “Don’t give me time to think, distract me.”

He can practically hear Dean grin from over the phone. “One of my many talents.”

He isn’t lucid enough to understand what Dean talks about, but the cadence of his big brother's voice and the ease at which his words flow are so soothing that it doesn’t matter. Sam leans to his side and curls up on the floor, keeping an arm around the bin in case the nausea rises again. He listens to the hum of the radio in the background noise as Dean drives, the phone probably resting on the dashboard, and lets his eyes close.

-

He’s still there on the faded motel carpet, half-asleep and nearly dreaming, when the familiar sound of a keycard slipping into its slot comes from just outside the door. He gains full consciousness and everything comes rushing back.

“Dean?” He calls out hoarsely, hoping to God it's actually Dean and not someone (something) that requires him to hold a gun steady.

Then there’s a muffled “yessiree” and the door swings open wide, and Dean is there with his gun shoved through his belt, damp with sweat and lake water.

“What’re you doing on the floor?”

Sam honestly can’t remember; the past hour has been a total blur of fear and nausea, and nothing makes sense. “Dunno… The whim of the cosmos, I guess…”

“Alright, Bukowski, let’s get you up.”

Dean hauls Sam to his feet and guides him to his bed, impossibly gentle. The instinctual compulsion to be anxious is still there, stewing in his brain and turning his stomach, but he’s so tired that he can’t be bothered to pay attention to it.

“You eat while I was gone?” Dean is knelt in front of him, palming his forehead with one hand and smoothing down his hair with the other. When Sam shakes his head, Dean flicks him lightly on his temple. “Empty stomachs make everything worse. Why do you think I always eat beer nuts while I drink? It’s not cause I want to. Beer nuts are the worst.”

The thought of food turns up the nauseating heat coursing through Sam's body, a new thin layer of sweat breaking out at the back of his neck. “Dean, please shut up.”

“No. But here’s what I will do—I’m gonna put the soup in the microwave, and you are gonna eat it.”

“Dean—“

“Sam, you have to.” He gets to his feet and starts towards the little fridge. “If you puke, you’ll puke. Hell, it’ll probably be less painful if you got stuff in you.”

He watches Dean break the seal on the can, tip half of it into the bowl (oh God, he shouldn’t have looked), and fiddle with the microwave’s buttons.

“So, no hot girls, huh?” Sam asks to fill the silence.

“None!” Dean replies, and his indignant tone puts a tiny smile on Sam’s face. “What a let-down, right?”

“Yeah, but if they were hot, you wouldn’t have wanted to kill them.”

“I have way more integrity than that.”

Sam looks at him.

“Okay, maybe I don’t. But we’ll never know, because none of them were hot.”

The quiet ticks by another few seconds, monitored by the timer counting down on the microwave.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam says, gut twisting with guilt now in addition to sickness. He hears Dean sigh—sees it more in the slow slump of his shoulders, actually—and prepares himself for that notorious John Voice, the one that always manages to have him hanging his head and feeling ashamed of himself, even if he hadn’t started out feeling that way. John is scarily talented at that, making Sam feel guilty for his choices.

“You don't have to apologize, ” Dean tells him.

Well, that's new.

“What?”

“People get sick all the time. And even if you weren’t going all 'Girl, Interrupted' over it, I wouldn’t have let you come with me. You gotta cut yourself some slack, okay?”

Slack. After twenty-two years of coiling himself tighter and tighter and tighter, building up a thick skin, keeping all his white-hot fury crammed inside and burning himself from it, he’s supposed to cut himself some slack? What a fucking joke.

He grits his teeth and swallows the urge to laugh. Or scream. He isn’t sure which he wants to do more.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” There’s no way that lie went over Dean’s head. They’ll talk about it later, Sam knows, because Dean can’t stand secrets unless they’re his own.

God, he's an asshole when he's sick.

-

Dean sits across from him at the little wooden table. He’s got a bowl of soup, too, and Sam is grateful for the subtle attempt at making him less nervous about eating. It doesn’t really work, but it’s a nice gesture all the same.

Sam doesn’t look at his spoon as he eats because he doesn’t want to give his brain a chance to conjure up an image of what it’ll look like in the trashcan or the toilet. He’s painfully slow about it, and Dean’s watching him, and he hates the way his older brother mothers him.

It’s not because Dean’s bad at it, because Dean is so good at it; it’s because Dean shouldn’t have to be good at it. But John lacks a few essential parenting skills and Sam is basically an IED of rage and anxiety, and that means sometimes Dean has to play mom.

“Don’t you ever get angry?”

Dean pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “About…?”

“… All this. Everything.”

Dean considers the question and offers a shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, I do get angry, don’t get me wrong, I just—I separate myself from it, you know? I blow off steam when I can, and when I can’t, I set it aside.”

“Don’t make it sound that easy.”

“Believe me, it’s not. Doesn’t come naturally, either.” Dean fidgets with his ring. “But it’s better than shoving it all down. Anger like that, like what you and I have, you can’t ignore it. Unless you want it to build up until someday it explodes.”  

“Like what Dad and I do,” Sam mutters.

“I wasn’t gonna say that. And you’re not Dad.”

“Okay.”

“Sammy, you’re not.”

He feels sick again, and whether it’s genuine or if it’s from the conversation is anybody’s guess. He’s got his hands clasped between his knees under the table, gripping hard enough for his knuckles to go white, and breathing stops coming naturally.

Dean pushes out of his chair with a soft brush of the wooden legs along the carpet and clears both of their dishes.

“Meds?”

“No,” Sam manages, leaning forward and resting his head in his folded arms.

“Might help.”

“No.”

“Alright, alright. Jesus.” Dean’s hand touches Sam’s spine, passing over it in broad, soothing sweeps. “Hey, you’re fine, you’re okay.”

Sam nods, not looking up and not really believing Dean either.

“You wanna watch crap television with me?”

“No Casa Erotica,” Sam mumbles into his elbow, and Dean snorts.

“Sure thing, Sammy.”

Dean’s disposition to staying within close proximity of Sam, even more so when he’s sick, isn’t forgotten. He leans up against the headboard of Sam’s motel bed, pulls Sam close, and he’s all warmth and worn leather and whiskey. This, Sam decides, is shelter. Refuge. 

“Hey, hey, scale this for me, one to ten,” Dean says, his arm around Sam’s shoulders and his chin propped on the crown of Sam’s head. “How fucking ridiculous is Friends?”

“A solid nine,” Sam answers, and then guesses, “but you still think Jennifer Aniston is a knockout.”

“I’m not wrong. And you know she just had that nasty break-up with Brad Pitt, right? I could be her rebound.”

“Okay, no, for so many reasons, the simplest being that you’re ten years younger than her.”

“You should be more supportive of my romantic pursuits.”

“You’re right, I’ll try harder in the future.” Sam closes his eyes, breathes deep, cherishing the false normalcy for as long as their fucked up lives will allow. It could be minutes, could be hours, but they’re going to find another monster by tomorrow and it’ll start all over again. These few and fleeting peaceful moments in between are all that hold Sam together anymore.

“Hey, Dean?”

“You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just…” He doesn’t want to cry, and the thank you is subsequently lost in his throat. “Never mind.”

“Alright, kiddo.”

He doesn’t have to look up to know Dean is smiling, like he knows what Sam was going to say. 

Time blurs until its meaning is gone. He isn’t sure when he falls asleep, but he’s still flush against Dean’s side and Friends is still playing on the static-layered television (Joey is convinced he can eat the entire turkey, and even in Sam’s feverish and sleepy haze, that sounds like a bad idea). There’s a fleece blanket thrown over him, and his nausea isn’t threatening mutiny, and the slackened hold of Dean’s hand on his shoulder suggests that he’s gonna be out soon, too.

They can have this, Sam reminds himself. They can have this until tomorrow, and for now, it’s enough.