Dean glanced at his brother and smiled encouragingly. Sam tried to return the gesture but it came out more of a grimace. He really felt like shit- had been for the past two weeks- and just wanted it to stop.
So that was why they were sitting in the waiting room of a cramped, hot walk-in clinic in the middle of August in of Florida.
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to move away from the obese woman sitting beside him who was slurping noisily on a McDonald's soft drink, her piggy eyes watching an equally fat little boy run around the chairs and tables, knocking magazines and displays of brochures onto the floor. The stench of sweat wafted towards Sam from the woman's direction and he was sure if he had to sit any longer he was going to be sick.
"You want something to drink?" Dean asked.
"Okay," Sam replied, wiping sweat from his forehead.
He watched as his older brother got up, walked across the waiting room and stopped beside a large red and blue vending machine, brimming with bottles of water, soda, and juice.
Sam sighed and picked up a brochure on the end table beside him, reading about 'What To Do If You Think You May Be Pregnant?'
"Oh, is that what's up with you?" Dean grinned, holding out a bottle of orange juice to Sam, "Tell me, is it a boy or girl?"
The younger brother smiled slightly, unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a sip of the juice, grimacing as the acidic liquid stung the sores that had started developing in his mouth two weeks ago.
Sam wiped his mouth over his sleeve and sighed.
"What are they doing in there?" he muttered.
"I think they're on lunch," Dean replied, gulping down a bottle of Coca-Cola.
"How're you feeling?" his older brother asked, looking at him concernedly.
"Like my internal organs are slowly melting into goo," Sam replied, "Why can't they turn on the AC?"
The lady behind the reception desk, with an impressive pink and purple beehive hairdo and matching fingernails like talons, seemed to have heard Sam's question and called out in a voice made raspy by years of smoking cigarettes, "AC's broken."
"Maybe we should just go, Dean," Sam told his brother and made to stand up.
"Oh no, Sammy," Dean reached out and grabbed his brother's arm, "You're sick. We're here to find out what's wrong. Maybe get some antibiotics or whatever before we go."
"I feel better," Sam told him, forcing himself to smile, "Like I could run a marathon."
His brother shook his head, "A minute ago you were saying you were melting into a puddle. We are staying right here until your name is called."
Sam didn't say anything else; instead he opened his bottle of orange juice and took another sip.
"Camilla Roncato?" a doctor who looked like he had just graduated from med school the day before read the obese woman's name from the form she has no doubt filled out the same as Sam had upon entering the walk-in clinic.
The woman pulled herself up with some difficulty from her chair and called to her boy before waddling slowly towards the doctor, a large patch of sweat standing out darkly on the back of her flower print Mumu.
"I've gotta use the toilet," Sam told his brother suddenly, standing shakily.
"You okay, Sammy?" Dean reached out but didn't touch his brother.
"Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute," Sam moved with jerky movements across the waiting room towards the large unisex bathroom, closing the door quickly behind him.
Dean watched his brother go, sighing to himself.
"Aw hell Sammy," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, "What's wrong with you?"
Dean struggled to think of what had his brother so sick. Was it a bout of the flu? Two weeks ago Sam had suddenly fallen ill with vomiting, diarrhea and nausea. It was so bad that he could barely keep any food or drink down. A cough developed shortly afterwards and Sam could barely seem to stay awake for very long, sleeping in way past the time he normally woke up. Then, came a fever, chills and night sweats, so bad Sam couldn't sleep no matter how exhausted he was.
Last week, Sam had started complaining of what he thought were canker sores in his mouth, but they hadn't disappeared even though he has faithfully rinsed with salt water and only seemed to get worse.
Finally Dean had had enough and insisted Sam go to a hospital or at least a walk-in clinic. So, after breakfast that morning, Dean found the nearest clinic and practically dragged his brother inside.
Looking up at the sound of a door opening, Dean saw Sam stepped out of the bathroom, pale and sweaty.
Meeting his brother before he could sit down, Dean offered his bottle of juice.
"Thanks," Sam muttered and took the beverage, unscrewed the cap, and took a healthy swig.
The brothers watched as the obese woman and her son re-entered the waiting room, the boy tugging at his mother's fingers as thick as sausages.
"Can we go get ice cream now, Mom? Can we?" the boy whined.
"Of course," his mother chuckled, "You were very good for the doctor."
"Looks like you're next Sammy," Dean told him and as though he was summoned by an invisible signal, the baby-faced doctor appeared.
"Sam Winchester?"
The brothers followed the youthful doctor into an exam room. Smiling, the man introduced himself as Dr. Fazil Ahmed.
"It says here you've been experiencing flu-like symptoms for two weeks?" Dr. Ahmed said, glancing down at the form Sam had filled out.
"That's right," Dean spoke for his brother.
The doctor glanced at Dean and then back to the form attached to this clipboard.
"And these symptoms haven't gotten better?" Dr. Ahmed asked.
"No," Sam replied this time.
"Any other symptoms I should know about?" he asked.
Sam hesitated for a moment; glancing at his brother before responding, "Canker sores that I can't seem to get rid of."
"Hm," Dr. Ahmed frowned, "Would you mind if I take a look?"
Sam shook his head and opened his mouth. Dr. Ahmed pulled a penlight from his breast pocket and shone it into the hunter's mouth.
"Most unusual," the young doctor muttered.
"What's wrong?" Dean asked, "Do you know what's wrong with my brother?"
"No, I'd like to take some more tests if that's all right with you," Dr. Ahmed commented, putting the penlight back into his pocket.
"Sure," Sam replied, "I'm here anyway."
The doctor nodded and put the earbuds of his stethoscope into his ears, "Can I listen to your heart?"
Sam nodded and the doctor pressed the bell of the stethoscope against his chest for a moment or two, listening.
"I'd like to listen to your lungs," Dr. Ahmed said and Sam said it was okay.
"Take a deep breath," the doctor instructed.
Sam did as asked.
"And breathe out," Dr. Ahmed muttered.
Sam did.
"And again," the doctor requested.
Sam breathed in and out again for the doctor.
"I'd like to take a blood sample," Dr. Ahmed offered.
"Then Sam doesn't have the flu?" Dean asked.
"I'm not sure," the young doctor admitted, "I want to rule everything else out."
Five minutes later the brother were climbing into the Impala, a cotton ball secured to Sam's arm with medical tape.
"Are you hungry?" Dean asked as he started the engine, "I'm starving?"
Sam shrugged, "Whatever, Dean."
His brother frowned, "What's wrong, Sammy? Dr. Ahmed's gonna find out what's wrong. In a few days he'll get the blood work back and tell you it's nothing but the flu."
"I don't know," Sam hesitated, wrapping his arms around his middle as Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of the first diner that caught his eye, "Something doesn't feel right."
Dean pulled into a parking spot, killed the engine, and turned to his brother, his green eyes boring into Sam's hazel ones.
"Sam," he said, "It's going to be okay. It's just the flu. Nothing more."
Sam opened his mouth as though he wanted to argue but then he sighed, "Okay, Dean."
As soon as the brothers stepped into the diner the scent of deep-fried seafood hit them like a wave. Dean rubbed his hands together in anticipation but Sam just swallowed the bile threatening to climb up his throat.
"Sam," Dean said, "You're a little green around the gills."
"I'm all right, I just need something to drink," he replied as a waitress with a nametag that stated her name was 'Caroline' approached them and showed them to a booth.
"Can I get you two something to drink?" Caroline asked as she handed them menus.
"How about some sweet tea for me," Dean told her and she turned to look at Sam.
"Just water, please," he requested.
"I'll give you a few minutes to look at the menus," Caroline told them and left to get their drinks.
Dean opened the menu and perused it eagerly. Sam simply stared at the front cover of his.
"Sammy, you've gotta eat," Dean insisted.
"I'm not really hungry," he replied.
"We're not doing this," Dean put his open menu down in front of his brother, "Order the soup and salad for all I care, but just eat something."
Sighing, Sam acquiesced, "Okay, soup and salad."
Caroline returned with their drinks, "Have you decided what you'd like?"
Dean looked at his brother, "You go first."
"Can I get the house salad and the Soup-Of-The-Day?" Sam asked.
"Dressing on the salad?"
Sam shook his head.
"Okay," Caroline smiled and turned to Dean, "And you?"
"Large order of fish and chips," he told her, "With gravy."
"You got it," the waitress took their menus and walked away again.
Sam took a sip of his water, there were ice cubes floating in it and the cold liquid felt nice on his sore mouth.
Sam was quiet while they were waiting for their food, not matter how much Dean tried to engage him in conversation until he finally stopped, sipping his tea moodily.
Eventually Caroline returned with their food; Dean watching his brother closely as he picked at his salad and drank the broth from his soup.
"Sam," Dean began but his brother shook his head.
"I just don't feel like eating," he replied, "I feel like I'm going to throw up all the time."
"Okay, Sammy, okay," Dean murmured, but he still pushed some of his fries onto his brother's plate anyway.
W
The brothers watched television late into the night until Sam passed out and Dean finally allowed himself to sleep.
W
He must have been asleep for only an hour or two before he was alerted to the sound of his brother in trouble. Sitting up, Dean saw the bathroom light was on and the door was ajar, sounds of retching coming from within.
"Sammy," he jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, shoving the door open and catching sight of his sibling practically hugging the toilet as he threw up.
Sam's face was the colour of spoiled milk and slick with sweat even though he trembled all over. His hair hung in his eyes in damp hanks.
"G'way, D'n," Sam muttered and raised a hand as though to push him back.
"No way," Dean grabbed a washcloth from the shelf above the toilet and ran it beneath cold water from the sink.
Kneeling beside his brother, Dean wiped Sam's face with the cloth.
"It's just the flu, right?" Sam gave Dean a wry smile before bowing his head and throwing up again, groaning in pain.
"That's right, Sam," Dean muttered, "Just the flu."
W
Dean opened his eyes. Sam's phone was ringing.
Rolling over, he nudged his brother gently.
"Hey, wake up there Sleeping Beauty," he whispered, "Someone wants to talk to you."
Sam groaned but didn't open his eyes. After his fit of vomiting in the night, he had crawled into bed beside Dean, craving the same comfort that drew him to do the same thing when they had been kids. The only problem with sharing a bed now, the motel's single-sized mattress didn't fit two fully-grown men.
"Fine, I'll get it then," Dean muttered and got up, walking around to the nightstand sitting in between the two beds and picked up his brother's phone.
"Hello?" he answered.
"Is this Sam Winchester?" a voice with a slight Middle Eastern accent asked.
"No, this is his brother, Dean."
"This is Dr. Ahmed," the voice told him, "Can your brother come in to see me today?"
"Did you find out what's wrong?" Dean asked.
"I'd rather not discuss it over the phone," the doctor hedged, "We open at nine. Can you come then?"
"Yes, of course," Dean replied.
"Good," Dr. Ahmed said, "I will see you done."
"Who's that?" Sam muttered, lifting his head and peering blearily at his brother.
"The doctor from the walk-in clinic," Dean responded, ending the call, "He wants to see you."
"Today?" Sam asked.
"Yeah, as soon as they open."
Sam's eyes widened and Dean saw fear in their hazel depths.
W
Sam picked at his pancakes; the last thing on his mind was food this morning.
"You haven't had anything to eat since last night," Dean reminded him, "And whatever you did ended up in the toilet."
Sam sighed and shoved a piece of pancake into his mouth, washing it down with hot coffee.
Dean kept checking his watch, wanting to be the first people at the clinic when it opened.
He slurped down his coffee, crammed the last piece of bacon into his mouth and tossed some bills onto the table without looking.
"You ready?" he asked, standing and throwing his coat back on.
Sam nodded, abandoning his barely-touched pancakes gratefully.
W
The drive to the clinic wasn't long. As soon as the brother's stepped inside, Dr. Ahmed appeared as though he had been waiting for them.
Dean automatically followed his brother towards the doctor.
"Mr. Winchester," Dr. Ahmed looked to Sam, "I need to ask you some questions of a sensitive nature before I tell you what the tests show. You may want your brother to wait out here."
"Anything you have to say to Sammy you can say to me? Right?" Dean laid a protective hand on his sibling's shoulder.
"Dean comes with me," Sam told the doctor.
He nodded, "Follow me."
Dr. Ahmed led them into the same exam room as he had the day before. Closing the door, he turned to the Winchesters and he wasn't smiling.
"I need to ask you some questions," Dr. Ahmed told him, "And it would be in your best interest if you answered truthfully."
Confused, Sam said he would.
Now that he had permission, Dr. Ahmed saw no point in beating around the bush; he began his questioning.
"Have you ever had unprotected sex, especially with multiple partners?"
"No," Sam answered, feeling rather squeamish about the question. The only girl he'd been intimate with for a while had been Jess and they were always careful.
Dr. Ahmed checked something off on a piece of paper on his clipboard.
"Have you ever been or are you currently an IV drug user?"
"Never," Sam responded, trying not to sound offended but failing.
"Do you have any piercings or tattoos? Dr. Ahmed asked.
"Yeah," Sam replied.
"Where?" the doctor asked and Sam unbuttoned his shirt partway to reveal the tattoo on his chest.
"How long ago did you get the tattoo?" Dr. Ahmed asked.
"A few months ago," Sam replied, "Six, I think."
"Was the parlour clean and reputable?"
Sam nodded.
"What's this about, Doc? Do you think Sam has hepatitis or the clap or something?"
Ignoring Dean, Dr. Ahmed had a final question for Sam.
"Have you ever received a blood transfusion?"
Sam nodded.
"When was that?" he asked, looking interested.
"I was a kid," Sam looked at Dean.
"It was in '89," Dean told him, "Sam got hurt while we were hiking and needed blood."
Dr. Ahmed was nodding as though what the Winchesters were saying made perfect sense to what he was seeing on his paper.
"Mr. Winchester," he looked up at Sam, his dark eyes sad, "I have bad news. You do not have the flu."
Glancing at Dean he continued, "Nor do you have hepatitis."
"So… it is the clap?" Dean asked.
"No," Dr. Ahmed, "Your blood tests positive for HIV."
Neither Winchester responded for a moment. Sam felt as though someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water over him.
"What?" Dean asked, "That's impossible!"
"From the answers your brother gave me, its very likely he contracted the virus from tainted blood given to him during his blood transfusion as a child. Donors were not always screened as strictly as they are today and HIV does have a period were people who have it are asymptomatic and may not even know they are infected."
"No," Dean argued, "Take another sample, do the test again. You're wrong. Sam's not sick. He doesn't have that. He doesn't."
Dr. Ahmed started to explain to Dean that it wouldn't matter if he tested Sam's blood again, the result would be the same, when the younger Winchester spoke up.
"What do I do now?"
"You need to start on an antiretroviral therapy drug as soon as possible," Dr. Ahmed, "Which can slow the progression of the disease down."
"Sam's got to take medication?" Dean barked.
"Yes, most likely for the rest of his life," Dr. Ahmed explained, "But it should greatly improve his quality of life."
"Well, write a prescription then," Dean snapped.
"Dean," Sam said quietly.
"The drugs are quite expensive," Dr. Ahmed told them.
"Don't worry about us," Dean growled, "Just tell Sam what he needs."
The doctor nodded and started writing on his clipboard.
"I'm going to give you a prescription for a couple of drugs," Dr. Ahmed told them.
Tearing off the written prescription, the doctor handed it to Dean; Sam seemed to have turned into a mannequin.
"I'm very sorry," the young doctor told them, "I wish I could do more to help."
Dean's expression softened, "Thank you for doing this."
"C'mon Sammy," Dean grabbed his brother's wrist, "Let's get these filled."
His brother followed him, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that, deep inside his body, a deadly virus resided, intent upon his destruction.
Dean practically dragged his brother to the car, shoved the prescription into his brother's hands and exited the parking lot, eyes keen for a pharmacy.
"I'm going to die," Sam whispered.
"What?" Dean asked, not looking at his sibling, "Don't be stupid, you're not going to die."
Sam turned to look at him, his eyes filled with fear.
"People die from this, Dean," Sam told him, "They get sick and then they die and there's nothing anyone can do."
Dean hit the brake so fast he forced a truck behind him to swerve to avoid a collision.
"Yeah, screw you too, buddy!" he shouted at the driver as he passed the brothers, laying on the horn as he did so.
"Sam," Dean turned to his brother, and grabbed his face between his hands, "You are not going to die, understand me? We'll find a pharmacy and get you the medicine and you'll get better."
Dean knew it wasn't true, that Sam would no doubt be fighting this battle as long as he lived, but he didn't want to think about that right now. He just wanted to comfort his sibling and tell him everything was going to be all right, like when they were kids.
Sam's lower lip trembled, "You promise?"
Dean felt his eyes sting with tears.
"I promise," he told Sam.
His sibling forced a weak smile.
"Thanks, Dean," Sam muttered.
"No problem," he said and started driving again, "Now let's get you those pills."
There was no way Dean was going to let his brother succumb to the cruel death the virus had in store for him, not if it was the last thing he did.
Author's Note:
This was originally going to be just a one-shot but I think I can make it a two or three chapter fic. Please leave a review if you'd like to read more.