"Pull over." Sam groaned, blinking a weary eye open and wincing at the brightness of the sun streaming in through the windshield, "Dean."

"What?" Dean asked, turning down the radio and glancing in his brother's direction, "Did you say something, Sammy?"

Sam squirmed in his seat, pressing his hand against his abdomen with a groan, "Stop the car, I'm going to puke."

"Okay, okay." Dean said in a tone of mixed thinly veiled panic and mild concern. Sam didn't feel up to analyzing his brother's psyche at the moment, but it was likely panic at the idea of the car getting soiled and concern that his brother was unwell. Or maybe panic and concern for the car, which wouldn't be a thought too far off the reservation.

Dean pulled onto the shoulder, checking behind them to make sure no one was nearby, then stepped out of the car and walked to Sam's side, where his little brother had already pushed the door open and stumbled a few feet from the car, bent over and breathing heavily in an attempt to stop the inevitable.

A thin layer of sweat was accumulating on his forehead and he spit a mouthful of acidic saliva onto the ground, knowing that if he swallowed, it would be his undoing. He could feel the bile rise into his throat and he groaned, hoping this nausea would pass without cumulating to actual vomiting, but the rising chunks told him that he wasn't going to get a reprieve this time around. Swallowing back the rising mess, he hoarsely pleaded, "Go away. Please."

"I've seen you blow chunks before, dude." Dean remarked, shuddering slightly at the memories of many years of caring for his brother invaded his thoughts. Sam didn't get sick often, but when he did, it was usually to the extreme.

"Please." Sam gasped, not sure he could hold off any longer, "Privacy."

Dean rolled his eyes, but obeyed Sam's wishes and stepped towards the rear of the car, close enough to be of assistance if needed but still not right in Sam's line of fire. He grimaced as the sound of retching filled his ears, and he tried not to hear the splattering of liquid against the pavement. Unfortunately, the more he tried not to think about it, the more he did, and he felt his own gag reflex give a sympathetic jolt. To stave off his own discomfort, he quietly began to hum a Metallica song, waiting for Sam to finish so he could swoop in and do his big brother gig.

Sam coughed weakly, feeling slightly dizzy and off-balance after the onslaught of sickness, and spit a few times, trying to get some of the sour taste from his mouth. He hadn't been this sick in ages, and the last time he was had been a totally different experience. Growing up on the road, he was accustomed to riding out viruses and food poisoning in the cramped confines of a car, spewing his guts out on the side of the road and being told to man up just a little longer until they reached their destination. Their Dad wasn't known to be a particularly compassionate person when it came to minor illness and injury, not when there was more important things to accomplish. When Sam had gotten to hunting age, illness meant generally being treated as a disappointment as well as an inconvenience since not only was he delaying their trip, but it was hard to hunt when his mind was thick with fatigue and his entire body ached. The last time he had been sick, though, was right after finals during this third semester and he had been nursed back to optimal help by Jess, who had fixed him chicken noodle soup, cuddled him when he felt terrible, supplied him with cool washcloths for his feverish forehead, and was more compassionate than anyone he had ever known before. They had spent an entire week holed up in their apartment, lounging in pajamas and watching old movies even though he was feeling well enough to function after only a few days. She had insisted on making sure he was 100% healed before they did anything other than cuddle in bed or the couch, and he had never felt mothered like that before. He had to admit that at this very moment, he wished she was there to rub his back and hold him and comfort him...and he hated that he felt that way, because if Dean had any idea that Sam missed snuggling, he'd never hear the end of it.

"You done, man?"

Sam glanced over at his big brother, trying to gauge whether he actually was done or not, and after a particularly loud gurgle from his stomach, he shook his head slightly, "Give me a minute."

"Take your time." Dean replied, turning his attention to the trunk, where he was searching for a bottle of water or something for Sam to rinse his mouth out with. He glanced in Sam's direction when he didn't hear any further sounds, aside from Sam's heavy breathing. The kid looked terrible, dark rings around his eyes, his face a shade of pale that Dean hadn't seen since the time Sam had lost a dangerous amount of blood on a hunt when they were teenagers. Sweat had soaked through the fringes of Sam's hair, as well as the back of Sam's t-shirt. While it wasn't a common occurrence for one of them (or both, when particularly unlucky) to get sick after eating at one of the dives they usually stopped at, it wasn't unheard of. This seemed different, though, both in intensity and how quickly Sam seemed to be going downhill. Dean really hoped it wasn't something serious.

"I think I'm good." Sam announced after a few minutes of battling nausea, "Can we stop somewhere, though? I need a shower."

Which was true, Dean noted. Sam's shirt and jeans were soiled with last night's dinner and he smelled worse than some of the monsters they had recently killed, "Fine by me. I don't want you horking in the car anyway-if you do, you die."

"I know." Sam said tiredly, too weak to keep up with the banter that Dean was using to hide his concern. "Just...drive gently." Sam opened the car door, moving to get in when his muscles cramped up and he gagged again, turning away quickly and doubling over with a weak moan. He felt absolutely rotten, he just wanted to curl up in bed and die in peace. He gagged a few more times, though nothing resurfaced, and was just about to call the situation safe when Dean appeared at his side, a towel and a plastic bag in hand.

"Get in the car." Dean instructed, gently nudging his gigantic little brother towards the seat, "Take this...use it in case of an emergency. I'll drive carefully and we'll stop at the next place we come across."

Sam was too weak and tired to respond, though he tried to convey his appreciation with a smile that likely came out as a grimace. He shivered, letting his eyes fall closed as soon as the rumble of the Impala's engine met his ears. The sound had always been soothing, but he really appreciated the sound of the one place that felt like home when he felt as rotten as he did. He didn't realize he was starting to doze off until Dean clipped a pothole, the car giving a jolt that had Sam's stomach lurching once more. He opened the plastic bag that Dean had provided, looking down at it in distaste; he desperately wanted to avoid having to actually use it, and with a sideways glance towards Dean he could see that his brother was in agreement that it was better for all involved if he just held it in. Sam let his eyes close again and he took a deep breath before swallowing back acid that was beginning to rise in his throat.

"Not much longer." Dean reassured his younger brother, sensing the impending inevitable gastric feats, "Hanging in there?"

"Mmm." Sam hummed in response, not really trusting himself to open his mouth. He rested his achy head against the car window, the glass cool and comforting. A few minutes passed and he felt the car slowing and turning, and he cracked an eye open to see where they had arrived. He raised an eyebrow at the motel-it was a name brand chain, not their usual rathole, and he glanced over at Dean with a silent question of "what the hell?"

"If you're going to be holed up in the bathroom, we should probably get a bathroom that isn't roach infested."

"Ew." Sam muttered, his eyes drifting closed again as Dean shut off the ignition and got out of the car. His stomach did another somersault and he once again pulled the bag open, contemplating whether it would be better to expend the energy he didn't have to remove himself from the car to vomit or to save the little energy he had left and be embarrassed by making use of the bag Dean had given him. Ultimately, it didn't matter because when he doubled over, he completely missed the bag and instead was sick on his lap, the seat and the floor.

The upholstery. Dean was going to kill him.

A second onslaught directly followed the previous and he vomited again, his muscles protesting in agony and his body wanting nothing more than to just cease existing. He was in the midst of contemplating a third round when his door opened and Dean tugged on his arms in an attempt to remove him from the car with a frown on his face.

"Dude, you're really sick." Dean muttered, grabbing some napkins and wiping at Sam's clothes, "Are you thinking food poisoning? Virus?" His questioning was met with Sam bending over to puke again, barely missing Dean's feet in the process. "Okay, man, this isn't good. You eat like a friggin girl, there's no way you can have this much inside of you."

"Stop talking about eating." Sam moaned, his arms wrapping around his stomach in agony, "Just stop talking completely."

"Lets get you into the room." Dean suggested, "And into the shower, you reek."

"You reek." Sam muttered in response, sounding more like a twelve year old than a grown man, "Just get the shovel and dig a hole out back to bury me in."

"Drama queen." Dean grumbled, though he was starting to worry about his kid brother. Sam was never one to really come out and say how rotten he felt; Dean was great at noticing when Sam wasn't at 100% percent and could usually figure out the problem, but Sam rarely complained about anything and usually tried to cover when he wasn't feeling great. "You're going to be fine. You'll take a shower, get some sleep and when you wake up we'll start pumping you with fluids and you'll be back on your feet before you know it."

A groan was his only response.

As soon as they crossed the threshold to the hotel room, Sam stumbled to the bathroom. Dean expected to hear the shower turn on, but instead his ears were met with the sound of retching once more. He wasn't surprised, but he was hoping the kid would catch a break. He knocked lightly on the bathroom door, calling through the thin wood, "I'm going to get some ice from the machine and see if I can find someone in housekeeping to get us some extra plastic cups...I'm surely not going to drink after you when you're in this shape."

"You're probably already infected." came Sam's weak response, which caused Dean to frown because his brother was probably right and Dean definitely didn't want to be in Sam's position.

"Bitch." Dean called back, frowning when Sam only continued to heave. This wasn't good, Sam needed some sort of meds before he got dehydrated. Deciding he'd work on that when he got back from rounding up supplies, he slipped out of the hotel room in search of the ice and vending machines.

Once he was sure Dean was gone, Sam finally gave in to the tears that had been stinging his eyes for the last five minutes. He had never felt so completely awful in his life; every muscle ached deeply, his stomach hurt both from sickness and from the exertion that it had been put through, his head was pounding and he felt hot and dizzy. He reached with one hand to flush the toilet, the other pressed against his stomach in an attempt to steady himself. He stripped off his shirt and jeans, weaving into the bedroom to find a change of clothes. It was only then that he realized Dean hadn't brought their bags in yet, which royally sucked because he was now starting to shiver and he sure as hell wasn't putting his soiled clothes back on. He was already toying with the idea of burning what he had been wearing, even though they were still in decent condition and quite comfortable, just because he didn't think there was a washing machine in the world that would be able to get the smell of sickness out of them at this point. He shivered again, his teeth chattering slightly, and gently lowered himself onto his bed. When that motion didn't set off another wave of nausea, he sank against his pillow, no longer having the strength to remain upright for any period of time. The room swam around him and his head throbbed angrily. Sam rolled onto his side, hoping to find a position that made his head not feel like a jackhammer was pounding into his skull, and instead only managed to further anger his stomach, which chose that moment to spontaneously eject once more. It was a true testament to how lousy he felt that he didn't feel even the slightest bit of embarrassment moments later when Dean came back to the room to find a half-naked Sam laying on a bed stained with vomit.

"You're a complete mess, Sammy." was all Dean said as he placed the ice bucket on the sink counter before dropping both of their bags onto the empty bed. While Sam closed his eyes to prevent the world from spinning around him, Dean searched through Sam's duffle for a clean shirt and sweatpants, and then wet a washcloth, dabbing his dozing brother's face clean. After a few minutes of silently working, Dean pulled the duvet off the corner of the bed, gently commanding, "Roll over."

"I can't." Sam whined, long past the point of caring how pathetic he looked or sounded, "If I move, I'm going to be sick again."

Dean frowned, putting his hand against Sam's forehead, "I know this sucks, and you feel like crap, but you can't sleep in a dirty bed."

"Watch me."

"Come on, Sammy, work with me." Dean retorted with a sigh, suddenly having a flashback to many years ago when he had been left alone with a sick little brother who was just as whiny and difficult. He ruffled Sam's hair in a rare show of affection, and then continued to coax Sam to roll over so he could finish cleaning the kid up, "You're burning up, you know. When you think you can handle it, you need some tylenol or something."

"I'll never be ready." Sam complained, though he did roll over so Dean could continue stripping the top layer from the bed, "I'm going to die here."

"Somehow, I doubt that."

"I'm going to throw up again." Sam warned, attempting to push himself off the bed but completely giving up when Dean thrust a small trash can under his face. His body shivered between heaves, his muscles trembling and weak and his mind fuzzy and disoriented. He couldn't remember having ever felt this terrible before, at least not from something as ordinary and non-supernatural as a stomach bug, and tears threatened to fall as he wondered if this was ever going to end.

In all fairness, his big brother wasn't in much better mental condition. Dean had also never seen Sam so ill and he was starting to freak out quite a bit, though he tried to maintain a calm and composed face in an attempt to fool both Sam and himself into thinking he had this covered. A large part of him wanted to rush his brother to the nearest medical clinic, while another smaller and irrational part of him wanted to call their Dad and ask what they should do. He knew this was just the panic speaking, because their Dad would have no clue what Sam needed; Dean had always been the one caring for Sam, but there had rarely ever been a time where their Dad couldn't fix something. Of course, it's not like their Dad would answer anyway, he hadn't answered the other times Dean had tried him over the last five months.

When Sam had finally stopped turning himself inside out, Dean handed Sam his clean clothes, asking quietly, "Do you need any help?"

"I've got it." Sam replied, his voice tired and strained, though there was still a hint of defiance in his tone that Dean had become well-accustomed to over the last 22 years. Sam had an independent streak a mile long and it always picked the worst possible moment to rear it's ugly head. It was one of the things he loved the most about his brother, but it was also one of the things that irritated him to no end. Sam struggled with the shirt for a few moments before his arms fell limply to his sides, a groan of defeat soon following.

Without rubbing it in that he knew Sam needed the help, which he felt he should be rewarded for, Dean silently finished dressing his younger brother, who was fading fast. It only took a gentle nudge to get Sam back into a resting position and within minutes Dean was left with a softly snoring little brother and the cleaning duties. After tidying up enough to where it wouldn't be too entirely gross for either of them to use the bathroom and tying off Sam's soiled clothes in a bag to try and curb the stench emanating from them, Dean washed his hands in an attempt to not catch whatever plague Sam was suffering with and then flopped down onto the other bed. It was still early, too early to even think about sleeping, but he had a feeling that with the condition Sam was in, neither would be getting much rest. With that in mind, Dean let himself doze off in hopes that when he woke, Sam would have recovered and they could hit the road.

Sam blinked his eyes open nearly two hours later, the aching in his head now so intense that it was nearly incapacitating. As he returned to awareness, he quickly realized that he was having stabbing pains in his stomach just as painful as the throbbing against his skull, and he pressed one hand against his belly in an attempt to relieve some of that pain while putting his other hand to his head in an attempt to steady the world. Neither worked. He rolled from his back to his side, regretting it almost immediately when the world spun dizzily around him and he felt his insides constrict, his mouth watering ominously.

"Dean?" He called out weakly, unable to focus enough through the blinding pain in his skull to determine his brother's exact location. His brother gave a grunt in response, and Sam could only assume Dean was sleeping because he knew that if Dean was awake, he'd have given an actual response.

Not wanting to disturb his brother, Sam struggled to get to his feet, feeling lightheaded and disoriented, not to mention the fact that he wasn't sure he'd be able to make it more than a few steps before losing his gut again. He stumbled a few steps, bumping into the other bed and immediately losing his balance and going down, landing on Dean. Dean, in turn, awoke with a start when Sam's weight came down on his legs and screamed ('like a girl', Sam would later recount).

"Don't puke on me." Dean warned, seeing Sam's condition and immediately putting together what must have taken place in the last few moments while he slept. He pulled his legs from under Sam's weight and stood, trying to pull Sam back to his feet. Why did the kid have to grow so much? It was a lot easier to maneuver his little brother when said brother was actually littler.

Sam sniffed, trying to get to his feet but every single inch of him ached and he wasn't sure what was up and what was down anymore. "I don't feel good." Sam whined, implying that Dean needed to make it all better. Dean always made things better, it was the one constant in Sam's life, the one thing he could depend on.

"I know you don't." Dean said in the most soothing voice he could muster under the circumstances, "It'll all be over soon, it'll be okay."

"I don't want to throw up again." Sam continued to whine, not caring how pathetic he sounded because however he sounded, he felt a thousand times worse, "Dean, I don't-"

Dean was barely able to shift out of the way before Sam started choking up foul smelling bile, his whole body shaking violently as the carpet was redecorated. "Christ, Sam."

"I'm sorry." Sam apologized weakly, an embarrassed flush marking his pale cheeks. The world spun around him and he felt tears in his eyes though he couldn't even focus enough to determine if they were falling or not. He could feel the blood rushing in his ears and spots filled his vision, and he groaned, putting a hand to his head. "I feel…"

Dean could see Sam growing increasingly unsteady and he lowered his brother to the bed, putting his hands on Sam's shoulders and asking, "What? Talk to me, Sam."

Sam mumbled something unintelligible in response and Dean's gaze narrowed, quickly making an inventory of Sam's condition: sweaty, weak, making no sense, glazed and unfocused eyes. This was not good. "Dude, you need a doctor."

"No." Sam whined, using the remainder of his strength to pull away from Dean and lay back on the bed, hoping to prevent himself from actually passing out because he felt like he was very close to it, "I'm fine."

"Yes, you're the picture of perfect health." Dean replied dryly, making a face when Sam rolled over and buried his face in the blanket. Dean's blanket. Dean's blanket that he would now be unable to use because there was no way in hell he was going to let himself catch whatever this virus was. "Are you going to puke again?" Dean asked, though he was already grabbing the trash can and bringing it closer just in case, because he had no intention of scrubbing bodily fluids out of the carpet and they couldn't afford to pay damages to the hotel room; hell, they could barely afford to stay the night in the hotel room.

"Yes." Sam muttered, raising his head just enough to look at his brother, "Not yet, but I will."

"Great." Dean replied with a sigh, taking a towel from the bathroom and tossing it on the floor over the mess Sam had made; at least he wouldn't have to see it and he could pretend it wasn't there. He walked back to the bed, pressing his hand against Sam's cheek, "You're roasting, Sam. You need to take something."

Sam only groaned in response, but Dean understood the message clearly; Sam had no intention of taking anything or ingesting anything for the rest of eternity. Dean couldn't blame him. He wasn't even the one sick but he didn't think he'd ever have an appetite again either. At a loss for how to make this situation better, Dean went back to basics. He walked into the bathroom and wet a washcloth with cold water, folding it over before laying it against Sam's exposed neck, frowning when Sam shivered beneath it.

"Cold." Sam moaned, trying to pull it away but unable to muster up the energy to actually bring his hand completely to his neck. "D'n, s'cold."

"You're burning up, Sammy, we need to get your fever down. Don't mess with it." Dean replied, running his hand over his face and into his hair. Every instinct was screaming at him to load Sam up into the car and bring him to a clinic to have a real doctor look at him. The kid was in bad shape, and without fluids he knew they would be facing dehydration soon with the puke/fever combo Sam was presenting. "I'm going to get the med kit from the car, we need to monitor your fever."

"Don't leave." Sam whined, "m'cold. I need a blanket."

"You need to not spontaneously combust." Dean retorted, grabbing the keys to the Impala, "I'll be back in twenty seconds, I'm just going right outside. Just lay here and try not to yak on my bed."

Sam mumbled something in response that Dean couldn't decipher, which was really worrying because he spoke fluent 'Sam-ese' and usually understood even the most incomprehensible things his brother said in varying stages of lucidity. He quickly darted out to the car, wincing when he heard Sam's loud retching start up again as he dug in the trunk for their medical supplies, and made it back to the room in record time. He was relieved to see that Sam had managed to grab the trash can in time and his bed had been spared, but it provided very little comfort now that he was getting a good look at Sam's deteriorating condition. Where his brother had looked pale before, now he looked positively grey. The sweat that had lined his face since they had been in the car earlier had dried up and the rings around his eyes were growing more and more pronounced every time Dean looked at them. With a worried sigh, Dean ran some water into a plastic cup and brought it to his brother.

"No." Sam said weakly, seeing the cup of water in Dean's hand. The look on his face led Dean to believe that if Sam had the energy, there would be plenty of expletives in the statement of how he was not about to drink anything, but Sam was just too tired to further protest.

Dean held it out anyway, coaxing, "You don't have to drink it, just rinse your mouth out. But when you can go more than ten minutes without revisiting your lunch, you're going to need to start drinking something, you're drying out on me."

Sam groaned miserably, but did take the cup and swish some water around in his mouth before spitting it out into the trash can that Dean was holding up for him. While he still felt like he just wanted to curl up and die, it was nice not to have that rancid taste in his mouth anymore.

Dean took the cup away and put it on the table between the two beds, then grimaced at the trash can. He was about to go rinse it out when he noticed Sam breathing heavily once more in a manner that was becoming very familiar to him, "You good?"

Sam winced, swallowing back acid that was threatening to rise, but gave Dean a thumb's up in response. Not wanting to take any chances, Dean quickly rinsed out the mess before hurrying back to Sam. Sam watched his brother with one dull eye open, feeling like he should be doing something to reassure Dean that he was okay and he would be fine, but unable to find the energy to even convince himself much less his skeptical and overly-observant brother. He must have started to doze off, because the next thing he knew, Dean was standing over him with a thermometer in hand telling him to open up. Too weak to protest, Sam did as told, gagging slightly just from having the cold glass object in his mouth but forcing his stomach to remain down at Dean's warning glare. He let his eyes close, and only managed to open them back halfway when he felt his brother pulling the thermometer out of his mouth a few minutes later.

"Damn it, Sammy." Dean sighed, looking at the tiny numbers where the mercury had risen to just above the 103 mark. Sam really needed something to bring the fever down, but Dean was hesitant to think that Sam would be able to hold down meds long enough for them to work. Glancing down at his brother, who was now dozing again and drooling on Dean's blanket, Dean contemplated his options. He could hope for the best, that the fever would disappear on its own, but he knew they would never be that lucky. He could give Sam a dose of Tylenol and hope it stayed down, but that was equally as unlikely. He could cover Sam in cold rags and towels and try to bring it down the old-fashioned way but with the way Sam was whining and shivering, he didn't think Sam would cooperate. Besides, he knew that the shivering and chills were just ratcheting up Sam's temperature more and he didn't want to make things worse. After weighing his options for a few minutes, he sighed and walked back to the car to get Sam's laptop. He had to figure out how long Sam would have to keep down the meds before they were effective and then figure out how to make Sam keep them down.

Ten minutes of internet research later, Dean shut the laptop and walked back to his brother, watching him for a few moments as he contemplated his next move. From everything he had read, Sam would need to keep down the pills for 20-30 minutes and Dean didn't think the kid would be able to keep anything down for 2-3 minutes, much less 20-30. He felt Sam's forehead again, muttering a quiet curse when he realized Sam felt even warmer than before. With a sigh, knowing this wasn't going to end well, he opened the bottle of Tylenol and shook out two pills, setting them on the table beside Sam's cup of water. He was really dreading this. He reached over to shake Sam awake, but hesitated and reached for the trash can instead, bringing it closer to the table where the medicine was laid out. If he got Sam sitting and drinking, it would be best to have something within arm's reach just in case things turned south.

Dean reached out and shook Sam's shoulder lightly, "Sammy?"

Sam moaned in response, not even bothering to crack open an eye.

"Sam!" Dean said sternly, shaking his brother's shoulder a little harder, "Wake up, Sammy, you need to take your medicine."

"M'not-" Sam grumbled, followed by gibberish that Dean could only assume was supposed to be a declaration that he was not going to take anything.

"You have to, Sammy." Dean coaxed, trying to be patient and compassionate though his patience was beginning to run thin and his worry was kicking into overdrive, "You're getting into the danger zone with your fever, you need to take something for it."

Sam mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a Top Gun reference, which could only be a response to Dean using the phrase 'danger zone', and then covered his head with his arms. Dean pulled Sam's arms away and attempted to pull his brother to a sitting position, "Come on, Sammy, just cooperate."

"M'not taking them." Sam grumbled tiredly, his hands pressed against his eyes as his head began to throb unmercifully again now that he was upright. He could take the puking or he could take the headache, but together they left him wanting to die. "M'tired."

"Once you take them, you can go back to sleep." Dean soothed, "I know you don't want to take them and you don't want to puke again, but you need to try."

Sam shook his head, then swayed alarmingly as the action completely destroyed his equilibrium. His eyes closed and he felt Dean's hands on his arms, steadying him. Slowly he opened them again to find Dean's face inches from his own, his expression calm though his eyes were filled with panic. It wasn't reassuring to Sam that Dean looked freaked out, Dean was always calm when it came to this sort of thing, but the room was fading in and out too much for Sam to worry about anything at all.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted when Sam's eyes closed, and he shook Sam's arms lightly, "Stay with me, Sam!" He relaxed marginally when Sam's eyes opened again, but was far from reassured by the vacant look present in Sam's expression. Sam's pale face was quickly becoming flushed with fever and Dean knew they needed to get the fever down before the situation went from bad to worse.

He pressed the pills into Sam's hand, instructing in a tone as close to their father's as he could manage, "Take the medicine, Sam. Now."

Sam whimpered, which only caused Dean's worry to increase because Sam never whimpered, but he did take the medication and followed it with a small sip of water. Dean glanced at the clock, making note of the time, and then said in the same strict voice, "Listen to me, Sam, you have to keep those pills down for at least twenty minutes. You are not going to puke, you hear me?"

Sam was silent, his stomach already churning painfully in an attempt to reject what he had just swallowed, but he nodded jerkily, as if to say he'd try.

"Look at me!" Dean instructed, waiting for Sam's tired eyes to meet his before continuing, "Twenty minutes. You can make it. You've already made it for one. Nineteen to go."

Sam only moaned in response, breathing shallowly and putting a hand against his stomach as if to steady it from the outside. He was far less confident than Dean, but if it would make him feel better, he would do his best to follow the rules. He could care less about the fever, but if the Tylenol could make a dent in his headache, he would at least feel human.

Dean watched Sam struggled to keep the pills down, highly concerned for the first three minutes where Sam really seemed to fight a battle of wills with himself, but after five minutes had passed Sam seemed to be relaxing the tiniest bit and Dean was feeling confident that they would be triumphant. After ten minutes, Sam had completely relaxed and Dean was starting to think his younger brother might fall back asleep. After seventeen minutes, though, Sam bolted upright and pressed his fist against his mouth, glancing between Dean and the clock with a look of panic on his face. "Three minutes, man, just hold it in for three more minutes."

Sam whimpered again, swallowing convulsively with his mouth still covered, his eyes pained and panicked. He didn't think he was going to make it, and he had to swallowed back as vomit surged into his throat. There was no way he'd be able to hold this off for another three minutes.

"Breathe through it, Sammy." Dean encouraged, "You're almost there."

Sam shook his head, and was about to reach for the trash can when Dean jumped to his feet, loudly and obnoxiously starting to sing "Dirty Deeds Done Dirty Cheap" by AC/DC. He had gotten halfway through the first verse when Sam lowered his hand from his mouth, his expression slowly morphing from 'agony' to 'what sort of drugs is my brother on?'. He managed to hold Sam's attention through the entire song, which Dean thought he had pulled off rather spectacularly with a bit of air guitar and drums, and when he finished he glanced at the clock, triumphantly grinning when he saw that the twenty minutes were up and the medicine should be absorbed.

"What the hell was that?" Sam asked, his voice weak and strained but the playful tone that he often used when he was amused by his brother's antics but trying to hide it still evident.

Dean motioned to the clock, then replied, "Effective."

Sam glanced at the clock, surprised to see that the required amount of time had passed as he realized Dean had been trying to distract him from feeling sick, and even more surprised that it worked. His mouth turned up in a slight smile as a surge of appreciation for his brother stirred within him, "Thanks."

Dean's 'chick flick' senses were tingling at the sappy expression that Sam now wore, and to curb any further girly moments, Dean sat opposite of his brother, placing a hand on Sam's forehead again. It wasn't any cooler, but that wasn't surprising since it would take some time for the pills to work. "You should get some more sleep."

Sam nodded, still feeling tired and achy and miserable and knowing that if he dwelled on how lousy he felt, he wouldn't even notice when the meds started working, like the 'a watched pot never boils' statement suggested. He rubbed his throbbing head and looked around for a moment in confusion, just now realizing he was on Dean's bed. He started to gear up to move back to his own bed, but Dean gently pushed him back into a laying position, as if he already knew what Sam was thinking. Of course, Sam realized, he probably did. Dean was awesome like that. "W'r you g'sleep?" Sam murmured tiredly, rolling to his side with his eyes closed as soon as his head hit the pillow.

"Don't worry about me." Dean replied quietly, covering Sam with a blanket, "Get some sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up."

Dean moved to sit at the table, opening the laptop and wishing he had a beer or something to drink. He wasn't planning on leaving his brother alone, though, so he pushed that desire away and pulled up the local news for Clinton, OK, where they had been headed towards before Sam had gotten sick. He knew he wouldn't be sleeping for awhile, not until he was sure Sam was on the mend, so the least he could do was prepare for their upcoming case.

He had only been sitting at the computer for half an hour when his head started to slightly ache. He rubbed at his forehead absentmindedly, slightly annoyed at the disturbance, and he was about to turn his attention back to the computer and research when Sam shifted, catching Dean's attention. Sam quickly settled back to sleep, but Dean studied his brother for a moment before rubbing his forehead again, hoping to hell that his headache was not connected to Sam's illness in any way, shape or form. The idea of spending 6+ hours in agony like Sam had made him want to douse himself in bleach. Had he washed his hands thoroughly? Had he finished any of Sam's food or drinks over the last few days?

Sam shifted again and Dean sighed, taking the bottle of Tylenol from the table and dry swallowing two pills. He normally wouldn't take meds for a minor headache, but if he was coming down with Sam's plague, he wanted the pills in before he was a feverish, puking mess. He was tempted to rustle up some pepto and chug the bottle as a preventative measure, but resisted the urge considering that part of his body wasn't bothering him at all. 'Yet' a tiny voice in the back of his head threatened, but Dean pushed the thought aside, not even wanting to consider the possibility. It was one thing, caring for Sammy when the kid was so sick, but he didn't not want the roles to be reversed, he didn't want Sam to see him so sick and weak, especially when the kid was already feeling so lousy. If he were to go down for the count, who would take care of Sam?

Sam's eyes fluttered open, and he tiredly pushed himself to a sitting position, relieved that the room wasn't quite as out of focus as it had been earlier. His stomach still felt sloshy and unsettled, and after a few seconds of deliberating if he was going to be sick again, his mouth began to water and he stood, swaying slightly.

"Sam?" Dean questioned, watching Sam waver ever so slightly as he stood. He rose to his feet, taking a step towards his brother in case Sam needed assistance.

"Bathroom." Sam stated plainly, not trusting himself to keep talking, as he took a few steps towards the bathroom. The floor didn't rush to meet his face, which Sam considered a win, so he brushed off Dean's hand when his brother moved to help him. He made it to the toilet with a few seconds to spare before his stomach rebelled once more, which was an improvement over the last several hours, though once he started heaving again the dizziness and lightheadedness came back tenfold. He crossed his arms over the toilet seat, resting his head against them as he panted breathlessly between dry heaves.

He didn't move as a washcloth was pressed to the back of his neck again, wanting to express his gratitude to Dean for putting up with all of this but not trusting his body to do anything other than repeat it's cycle of breathe/gag/pant/heave. He felt Dean reach over him to flush, and he made an indecipherable-to-anyone-but-Dean-noise in appreciation because it smelled really bad and he completely lacked the energy to do it for himself. He wasn't 100% sure, but Sam was pretty convinced that if he didn't have his arms to hold his head up, he wouldn't be able to do it at all on his own. After nearly twenty minutes of nonstop agonizing dry heaves mixed with the occasional appearance of bile or saliva that not only spilled from his mouth but also once from his nose, Sam finally felt like it was safe to remove his head from the porcelain throne and he clumsily pulled a few sheets of toilet paper off to wipe his nose and mouth before flushing and sinking back against the bathtub, not sure if he was completely done and too weak to move even if he was.

"Man, Sam, I'm getting worried here."

"M'fine."

"Clearly." Dean paused, then continued, "What do you look like when you're not fine?"

Sam didn't have the energy to argue, so instead he closed his eyes and rested his head on the wall next to the tub. He wanted to push Dean's hand away when Dean started feeling his forehead again and poking at his hands and fingers, but he was too tired to, though when Dean returned with the thermometer again, Sam turned his head away, not wanting anything anywhere near his mouth.

"Come on, Sammy. If you don't let me take care of you, I'm going to have to drag your ass to the ER. I think you're getting dehydrated."

"No." Sam moaned irritably, "G'way."

Dean exhaled loudly, his patience waning in favor of irritated concern, "I won't go away, someone needs to take care of you and you clearly aren't up for the task."

"M'fine."

"Then prove it." Dean demanded, shoving the thermometer in Sam's mouth when he opened it to protest. Sam blinked open an eye to glare at his brother, but Dean didn't seem to care one way or another what Sam's thoughts were on the subject.

The brothers sat in silence for several minutes until Dean reached over and plucked the thermometer from Sam's mouth, not looking entirely too pleased with the numbers it showed, "You're down to just over 101, but I would have thought the meds would have made a bigger difference by now."

"My headache isn't as bad." Sam offered as a semi-consolation, wanting to ease some of Dean's concern.

"I wish I knew what it was we're dealing with." Dean commented with a frown, "I don't think you run a fever with food poisoning...maybe the stomach flu? But I would think you'd be leaking at both ends if that were the case-"

"Ew."

"Well, it's true." Dean countered, slightly exasperated, "I don't think it's your appendix or anything-"

"No appendix." Sam said wearily, swallowing in an effort to soothe his aching throat, "Had it out."

"When?" Dean demanded. How could Sam have gotten his appendix removed without him knowing? He had been in charge of Sam's health for as long as they could remember, and he was sure he'd remember surgery. While he waited for Sam to respond, he tugged on Sam's shirt, looking for proof. Sure enough, there was a scar on his lower abdomen as well as a tiny scar at his belly button.

"Last year." Sam mumbled, "Stanford. Finals."

"You missed finals? And survived?" Dean quipped, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his kid brother had surgery and he hadn't been there.

Sam shook his head slightly, "Waited until after finals. Damn thing nearly ruptured."

Dean was about to ask Sam if he was serious, if he had really put off important surgery for a test, but stopped because he realized that sounded exactly like something Sam would do. Someone should have been there, watching him and keeping him from being stupid like that. He vaguely wondered where Jessica had been and why she had let that go on.

"Didn't know it was my appendix." Sam continued, his voice raspy and speech slow as he tried to summon energy he just didn't have, "Thought it was stress. Jess was pissed."

"I'll bet she was. You didn't call." Dean said, the hurt in his voice evident though he had tried to conceal it. He still couldn't believe that Sam had gone through surgery without his big brother there.

Sam shrugged slightly, mumbling something that Dean couldn't hear even though the room was silent around them.

"Come again?"

"I was worried you wouldn't care." Sam admitted. It went without saying that part of 'if you walk out that door, don't come back' implied phone calls for minor surgeries as well as a place to stay over the Christmas holidays and semester breaks. If he had called and Dean had brushed him off, it would have been devastating. It was a lot easier to live with righteous anger than it was to possibly find out the one person you could always depend on loathed you.

Dean sighed, then pulled Sam in for a hug. He understood where Sam was coming from, but he would never have totally abandoned his brother like that. He had checked up on the youngest Winchester several times during the Stanford years and if Sam had needed him, he would have dropped everything to be there. He'd like to say their Dad would too, and up until the time Dad disappeared he would have said so, but now he wasn't so sure. Sam made a half-hiccup, half-burp sound and Dean pulled back slightly, warning, "Dude, keep it on the inside."

"I'm okay." Sam replied tiredly, resting his head against Dean's shoulder. He was completely spent, he didn't know if he even had the energy to hold himself upright at the moment. Earlier he had thought he missed Jessica's cuddling, but now that he'd been through this embarrassing, humiliating, degrading bout of whatever-the-hell-was-wrong-with-him he was glad that his big brother was around. No one made things better like Dean did, and no one was allowed to see him at this level of weakness except for Dean.

"I think you need a dictionary for your birthday." Dean retorted dryly, "So you can look up the proper definition of the words 'fine' and 'okay'. Clearly they don't teach vocabulary at your fancy college."

Sam snorted lightly, amused but not having a response for his brother. His stomach cramped and he groaned, pulling away from Dean in an attempt to find a position that wasn't quite as painful. Also, he wasn't totally sure he wasn't going to get sick again and didn't want to possibly toss his cookies on Dean if he was taken by surprise. He may trust Dean enough to show a bit of vulnerability in front of him, but he would never be okay with throwing up all over his brother as a grown man. He couldn't deny that it had happened before, but a 4 year old getting puke on his 8 year old brother was excusable and incredibly different from a 22 year old doing the same to a 26 year old.

"Are you going to hurl again?" Dean asked, studying Sam as his brother pulled away with a pained expression. He wasn't kidding when he said he was getting worried; he had never seen Sam this incapacitated from a simple illness, nor had he ever see Sam this sick in their lifetime.

Sam shivered, pondering Dean's question for a moment before nodding. He moved to where he was kneeling in front of the toilet again, putting an elbow on either side of the bowl and propping his head up with his hands. He felt absolutely miserable and the closer he got to actually getting sick, the more everything seemed to ache and throb. He shivered again with a low moan, spitting out the saliva pooling in his mouth while he waited for the next round of vomiting to begin. A few minutes passed without incident and the spasms in his stomach started to loosen up. He looked over at Dean, who was hovering in the doorway with an anxious look on his face, and muttered, "False alarm."

"Need help getting back to bed?" Dean offered, extending a hand to his weakened sibling, "Some fluids?"

"Bed." Sam responded wearily, allowing Dean to help him to his feet. He was thankful he did, because as soon as he was vertical his knees buckled and the sound of buzzing filled his ears. White spots clouded his vision, followed by black spots, and Dean's voice sounded so incredibly far away. He was vaguely aware that his brother was talking to him, but as he tried to make out Dean's words, the darkness enveloped him and he knew no more.

"Son of a bitch." Dean growled, kneeling next to his unconscious brother, his forehead creased with worry. This was not good; he should have listened to his gut instinct earlier when he first thought Sam needed a doctor. He carefully placed two fingers at Sam's neck, trying to gauge his pulse, only to find it rapid but steady. Carefully, as to not hurt himself or his brother, Dean found strength he did not know he possessed and managed to lift his brother and stagger to the nearest bed without losing his precarious grip on the larger man.

Sam was feverish again, and though he couldn't get an actual number because using the thermometer would require Sam's cooperation, Dean could tell just by touching Sam's skin that it had risen since last checked. This sucked out loud, because it was still too soon to give him another dose of meds. With a heavy sigh, Dean walked back into the bathroom, grabbing all of the towels and washcloths and running them under cold water. If the pills weren't going to keep Sam's fever under control, he'd have to rely on other methods to do so.

It took 47 minutes for Sam to finally blink open his eyes, and by the time he did, Dean was a tightly wound bundle of nerves. He knew how dangerous it was to cross the line into dehydration and he knew it was a bad sign that Sam had passed out. He had fully expected Sam to come to within minutes, and the more that time passed, the more antsy Dean felt. There had been several moments where he had contemplated hauling Sam's gigantic butt to the ER and even once when he had thought of calling an ambulance. Still, they had no money and no insurance and he couldn't resort to the professionals unless it was a dire emergency. He just wished there was a clear cut sign that flashed 'emergency' when that line was crossed.

"D'n?" Sam asked groggily, blinking his eyes open for a fraction of a second before squeezing them shut again, the light causing the light throbbing in his head to venture into migraine territory. He whimpered, dragging his hand over his eyes, and tried to get his brain to work well enough to tell Dean to shut off the lights. Dean must have understood, though, because even through his closed eyes the room darkened and he was able to blink his tired eyes open.

"Sam?" Dean asked, "Is that better?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but everything was getting jumbled from his brain to his mouth and without speaking he closed it again, moaning and shifting on the bed, feeling rotten, confused and scared because he didn't know what was happening to him. He could make out Dean's outline in the darkness and he reached for his brother's hand and squeezed it tightly, trying to convey what his minimally functioning brain not output.

"Dude, you're scaring me. Talk to me, Sammy."

Pain flared again, resonating through Sam's skull with a force that left him actually crying out from the intensity, and soon Dean was grabbing his shoulders, shaking him gently and demanding answers. Trying his best to calm Dean, Sam was finally, through a great deal of concentration and frustration, able to form a coherent sentence.

"Head hurts, hurts to talk."

"Your head hurts to talk?" Dean questioned, "Like, you have a sore throat? Or you have a headache?"

"Yes." Sam replied, because in all actuality both were true. He rubbed his hands against his forehead, then pinched the bridge of his nose with a wince, "Tylenol?"

"Not for another hour." Dean replied apologetically, "But if you think you can keep it down, I can give you some of the good stuff."

Sam laid still for a moment, gauging his body and wondering if it was worth sacrificing some of the good pills they usually reserved for serious injuries while also contemplating if it would be possible to keep down anything at all. His stomach no longer felt on the verge of puking like it had felt for most of the day, and it was tender but not aching. He propped himself up on his elbows, asking weakly, "Water?"

Dean enthusiastically retrieved a cup of water for Sam, relieved that his brother was at least interested in fluids. The google research he had done while Sam was unconscious had said that after 8 hours of vomiting and refusing fluids that it was time to see a doctor. They were getting pretty close to that threshold, and it was a huge relief to see that Sam was making some improvements, despite how small and slow progress was coming along.

"Small sips," Dean reminded his brother, trying to be helpful although he knew Sam already knew not to gulp it down. He held the cup steady while Sam drank a few small sips, and then he pulled the cup away and put it on the table, "If you can keep that down for a bit, you can have some more."

"If it goes well, I want the good drugs." Sam groaned, becoming more coherent and aware of his aching joints and muscles the longer he was awake. "Every inch of me hurts."

"Do you think it's the flu?" Dean asked, still trying to figure out exactly what was wrong with the kid because it was bothering him to no end to not know, "Achy body and fever usually equals flu."

"It doesn't feel like the flu." Sam replied, quietly, "I don't know what it feels like, really. It's probably food poisoning. It just sucks."

Though he wasn't going to vocalize it, Dean was relieved to hear Sam say that it was probably food poisoning since they rarely ate the same meal and food poisoning wasn't contagious. He loved his brother dearly and would never not take care of Sammy, but he desperately wanted to avoid this illness at all costs. Dean checked his cell phone for the time, then asked, "How's the water settling?"

"Okay, for now." Sam responded, pushing himself further into a sitting position. His head did not appreciate the movement, but he was more worried about testing his sensitive stomach and was relieved that the change in position did not bring a wave of nausea as it had done earlier. "I can drink some more water, I think."

"Give it a few more minutes." Dean suggested, not wanting to push their luck, "I need to check your fever, anyway. I've been trying to cool you down but you're still pretty warm."

Sam took the thermometer from Dean and stuck it under his tongue without protest. The more Dean took control of the situation and took care of him, the easier Sam found it to slip back into their old routine from childhood; Dean was the caretaker, the one in charge, and Sam had to fall in line. He actually felt comforted by the predictability and familiarity of Dean's caregiving, though he would never tell Dean because that would certainly go to Dean's head and inflate his already gigantic ego even further. He let his eyes slip closed, enjoying the relief that the simple motion gave his aching eyes and head, and when Dean pulled out the glass device a few minutes later, he mumbled, "What does it say?"

"102.5." Dean replied, feeling extremely frustrated that his brother's temperature refused to stay anywhere near normal. "How's your stomach?"

"Staying where it is supposed to." Sam answered, trying to fully sit. He gasped as a jolt of pain shot through his abdomen, and hissed lightly. "I am so freaking sore."

"I'm getting the pills." Dean decided, hating to see Sam in pain and wanting to do something that would help ease his brother's discomfort, "Do you need anything else? Something to eat?"

"I'm not ready for food yet." Sam said, making a face at the mere thought, "Maybe later."

Dean reappeared by Sam's side a few moments later, two tiny pills in one hand and a fresh cup of water in the other. "Bottoms up, Sammy."

"Thanks." Sam replied, taking the pills and following them with a small sip of water, "God, I hope this works."

"You and me both." Dean agreed, taking the cup from Sam and placing it on the table, "You sure you don't need a doctor?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." Sam replied, the ghost of a smile on his face. He didn't need a doctor to take care of him, he had the best caregiver in the world already. Dean knew him better than anyone in the universe and as long as his brother was by his side, Sam was in good hands. "I've got all I need."

"Again with the chick-flick." Dean teased, sitting down beside his younger brother, "You turn into a girl with you're sick, Samantha."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Stop being a girl, bitch." Dean retorted, finally starting to relax. Now that Sam was medicated and seemed to be getting more and more coherent and better, it felt as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. Within moments, both brothers were asleep, propped up against the headboard with Sam's head leaning against Dean's shoulder.

-Please leave a review if you enjoyed!-