Everything felt bright, harsh and over exaggerated. From the luminescence of the fifty-year-old overhead bulbs to the way the yellowing papers of the book he was unsuccessfully trying to read felt under his fingertips. Even the light breeze coming from the ventilation system of the bunker made his overheated skin crawl. Like a million razors cutting into his flesh, yet every time he glanced to his exposed skin there was nothing there. And don't even get him started on how the forced cheerfulness that his brother was desperately trying to uphold grated against his thin-stretched nerves. Too loud. Too damn loud. He buried his forehead into his left palm, his thumb circling his temple, trying to ease an oncoming migraine.
"You gotta eat something, Sammy…" Dean pleaded with a tray of tea and crackers in his hand, worry clear on his face as he watched his giant of a younger brother sitting hunched at the library desk over one of the many books scattered around him, the wool blanket Dean had placed on his feverish form somewhat askew on his shoulders.
This was the third time he had asked within a span of twenty minutes, each with a different approach. First, he just bounced in, a smile on his face, encouraging Sam to eat. Then came the tough love, a gruff huff just like John would have handled it, and finally he settled back into the role of the overly concerned big brother, who felt utterly helpless and useless as he watched his ailing sibling taking the weight of the world on his shoulders yet again.
The trials were killing Sam. There was no other way around it. An otherwise perfectly healthy thirty-year-old suddenly coughing up blood cannot be normal. Yet both of them denied the implications wholeheartedly, reassuring each other that they just had to push through the third one. That everything would magically right itself once God's final test was done and over with, and Sam had closed the Gates of Hell for good.
It's not like they could go to the hospital and say 'Hey, my brother here is mysteriously falling apart from the inside because of a quest set upon him by the creator of the universe himself. Do you have something for that?' The psych ward would not help matters for sure. Castiel's nagging comment about even him not being able to heal Sam crept up into Dean's mind unbidden, but he pushed it away as fast as it came, opting for optimism. Only one more to go. Soon it will be all over.
"Still not hungry," the younger hunter muttered, failing at keeping his irritation out of his voice as he turned the page, even though he didn't have an inkling of a clue what he had read just ten seconds earlier. His concentration was utterly shot.
Admittedly he felt like crap, and as a matter of fact, way more crap than the trials should have called for. Something else was amiss. The low-grade fevers, the occasional – although blood producing – cough, and headaches he had gotten used to over the weeks. He could even function through them. But not today. Today the world was a hazy blur, punctuated by chills, hot flashes, and an insistent scratch at the back of his throat, spreading all the way up to his sinuses, making every breath he took itchy, adding to the oversensitive effect the outside world had on him.
Maybe pushing himself so hard two days earlier to work on Charlie's case with Dean hadn't been such a great idea after all. Especially walking into a hospital full of germs when they went to check out where all those payments from the hacker went. Or maybe fighting two Djinns in a dingy abandoned warehouse did the trick.
The notion that his immune system might also be shot with everything else the trials were changing in him should have at least crossed his mind. But no! Sam Winchester was a stubborn son of a bitch, just like the rest of the Winchesters, so there was no way in hell he would have stayed behind when their friend, who was almost like a little sister to them, was in trouble.
"At least drink some tea," Dean nudged the tray closer as he sat down in the chair next to Sam, his brows furrowed at his brother's sass but kept his remarks to himself.
Tea wouldn't hurt, Sam supposed. He had to stay hydrated after all. A trip to the hospital for IV fluids was the last thing he needed. He pushed the books away from himself and reached for the mug, almost wincing at how hot the handle felt even though rationally he knew that it was just fine. Dean beamed at him approvingly, and Sam almost rolled his eyes at his brother's internal victory cheer (or dance) that was surely going on in that head of his.
Sam lifted the cup of hot liquid, blowing on it to avoid scalding his tongue when the inhalation of the rising steam sent that itch in his nose into overdrive. He barely had the presence of mind to set the mug back down on the table before his breath hitched.
"Hehh…" he turned to the right, away from Dean, the knuckles of his right hand hopelessly trying to rub the urgency of the sensation away.
"Sammy?" Dean probed with concern, unaware of his brother's inner struggle, only noting that the tea that one minute was seemingly welcome was abandoned in the next without explanation, and Sam was now hunched over even more. Was he in pain? More than usual these days? "What's wrong, man?"
"Give… hiihh… me… huhh… a frigging minute, Dean!" Sam snapped at him, trying to shake off Dean's hand that he had placed on Sammy's shoulder in a comforting gesture, but which only made his oversensitive skin feel like a million tiny needles were thrust into it. With his angry outburst, the need to sneeze went away for a second, only to come back with a vengeance in the next.
"Whoa, don't need to be so snappy!" Dean backed off with his hands up, watching his little brother with a mixture of annoyance, concern, and curiosity.
"Hah...TkchEwwww!" he sneezed into his cupped hands under his mop of hair, and suddenly everything started to make a bit more sense to Dean.
"Gesundheit," the older hunter acknowledged, although prematurely. His little brother wasn't done yet.
"Haetktshshsh… 'kichshshsh… h'tshew…" Sam's head bobbed up and down, unable to control anything as his body gave into the all-consuming sneezes.
"Someone's on a roll…" Dean couldn't help feeling a bit amused at the display Sammy was putting on, even though he was sure as hell this couldn't be a good sign.
Sam sent him an irked glare, his hands never leaving his face before his eyelids fluttered into a pre-sneeze expression again. "Hksh… heh'ktshoo… heh… hihh… ugh… stuck…" he rubbed his nose irritatedly. There were few things he hated more than stuck sneezes even if getting them out did nothing for his increasing headache. Sam sat his head down on his forearms on the table, exhaustion overtaking him suddenly.
"Okay, I think it's to bed with you, mister…" Dean declared a few seconds later, gently trying to get Sam vertical so that he could move him to his bedroom.
"Yeah, I think you're right, Dean," Sammy agreed in a tired whisper, shocking his brother to the core with his admittance of defeat.
Something was wrong, but Dean was certain this one he could do something about. Even if they couldn't cure trial ailments, tomato-rice soup, tea, rest and lots of tissues did wonders to a cold. Not to mention maybe a bit of Hey Jude or even a chick flick if he felt really generous.
"Seriously, Sammy… only you can catch a cold at the worst possible times," Dean sighed, remembering all those instances when Sam got sick right before their dad would have finally taken them out on a hunt, ultimately leaving them at the motel, Dean charged with taking care of him. Or when Sam was supposed to have a date the next evening in his senior year in high school, ending up having to cancel because he couldn't stay upright with a fever of 103.5.
"Shut up, jerk," Sam huffed indignantly, but the corner of his mouth quivered despite all his misery at the truthfulness of that statement.
"Come one, bitch. Let's see if Mom's secret recipe is still as effective as it used to be," Dean patted him on the shoulder, still not noticing the barely veiled wince of the 6'4 guy next to him.
"Still not hungry, Dean," Sam replied with an eye-roll at that way too obvious attempt to stuff food into him, even if it meant soup, shying away from the touch and making an effort to get to his room without assistance.