CHAPTER ONE
Dean awoke yet again to the screeching sound of Sam struggling to find a comfortable position on his motel bed. He had to repress the urge to snap at his little brother. Since Sam went off to Stanford, Dean's 'little brother' had grown taller than him. Dean could remember all 200 pounds of Sam stomping along with him wherever the job dragged them. That was a year ago.
Now, Sam was a shadow of his former self. His jawline was stark, his cheek bones poked out, and he appeared to have lost all his hulking muscles. Now, Sam would drown in Dean's shadow, not the other way around. The blanket that had been tucked underneath Sam's chin got yanked down when he kicked his long legs out while trying a new position. Dean sighed inwardly when he saw the pressure bruises on Sam's shoulder blades and lower back.
His little brother's rib cage and spine swam beneath his pasty skin. Sam started to shiver and pulled up the blanket, his feet poking out at the end. A few moments later, the man's big feet began to shiver, too. Dean swallowed hard and bit his tongue. If it weren't such a 'chick-flick moment' thing to do, he would hold his little brother in his arms till the pain melted away.
It has been a little more than two months since Sam, unwittingly, opened the gate to Lucifer's cage. Dean has made it loud and clear how angry he was with Sam. How much he didn't trust him anymore, how disappointed he was, how betrayed he felt ... how much he didn't love him anymore. The last one was never said out-loud. Dean wasn't stupid.
He knew his apparently hostile and indifferent attitude towards Sam's continuing failing health can only be interpreted that way. Before all this, Dean would have gotten to the bottom of the problem and found a solution. But, it's difficult to admit when the problem is yourself. He had hardly spoken to Sam since the event. The silence between them was making him nauseous.
He knew Sam more than felt the same way, he could see it right in front of him 24/7. He knew he had the power to make all this go away. If only he could swallow his own pain. If only it didn't feel like swallowing a semi-truck.
"Help ... me," he heard an almost unrecognizable voice breathe.
Dean sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes wide as he stared at Sam. His brother was still asleep. Dean knew he wasn't faking. Sam had been talking in his sleep since he could remember. He sank back onto his bed. Sam started to groan and he curled up slowly into a ball on his bad, the squeaky springs inside the mattress screaming as he did so. The groans sounded so weak. Dean bit the inside of his cheeks and turned his back on Sam.
"My ... arm," Sam gasped, "hurts."
Dean rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. What he saw nearly made him jump out of his skin. Sam had rolled over again and he was staring right at Dean. Something wasn't right in Sam's mood-ring eyes. They were glazed over and red. For a moment, Dean doubted his brother could see him at all.
"Sam?" Dean leapt out of his bed and tumbled to the ground when he forgot to lift his blankets off first; he gripped Sam's wrist and knelt at his bedside. "What's going on with you?"
Dean groaned as he lifted Sam up till he was leaning against the wall, sitting on his pillows. Just because Sam had lost a ton of weight, didn't mean his little brother was light. It was just like Sam to wait till he hit rock bottom before reaching out for help. But, again, Dean wasn't an idiot. He knew that he wasn't exactly the easiest person to talk to. That fact was intensified over the last two months.
How could Dean really expect Sam to turn to him for help after all that has happened? Was Sam in so much pain, felt so scared, that he felt like he had no choice but to hope Dean would help? Sam couldn't even hold his head up straight. He was blinking heavily and his head was rolling from side to side against the wall. Dean clicked his fingers in front of Sam's eyes and grasped Sam's pointy chin, turning him to face Dean.
"Sam, talk to me!" Dean demanded, his deep voice like a growl.
Dean patted Sam's chest with his free hand, trying to get his attention for the first time in weeks. When he pulled his hand back he found it covered in cold sweat. Knowing immediately that it wasn't his, Dean pressed the back of his hand against Sam's forehead. It was very warm.
Sam's lips pulled a little into a smile and he closed his eyes, "I thought you'd never say that again."
Sam's head felt very heavy in Dean's hand, "No ... SAM?"
But, Sam didn't respond. Dean got to his feet as he wedged his arms underneath Sam's armpits and the other underneath Sam's knees. He tried to lift him at once but felt pain in his lower back.
"Argh! Sammy, I can't do this alone! You gotta help me out!" he hissed as he strained to lift his brother again. "I'm not that young anymore!"
Finally, Dean managed to lift Sam off the bed. He staggered a little backwards but found his sense of balance. Although the weight loss was a big indicator that Sam's health was declining, Dean knew that if Sam hadn't gotten thinner he would never have been able to lift him off of the bed on his own. As he stumbled to the bathroom, Dean thought back on the day. Were there any signs that he should have picked up on?
This sickness can't have just infected his younger brother today. Dean recalled seeing and hearing Sam bump into a few pieces of furniture. He remembered fighting back a laugh when Sam accidentally closed the passenger door on his own ankle that morning. Dean glanced over at that ankle and saw a purple bruise from where the door had closed on his skin. He pushed the motel bathroom door open with Sam's feet, having to switch sides so that he wouldn't have to use Sam's head instead.
Dean stooped over the shower floor and, with trembling legs, he began to sink down to the floor to lay Sam on the cold tiles. On the precarious way down, Sam jerked awake. He groaned loudly when Dean slipped down the last few inches and Sam landed a little too hard on the tiles.
"Sorry, Sammy." gasped Dean, "You're heavier than you look."
Sam was propped on the shower wall. He started to fall sideways away from Dean as his eyes began to droop heavily again. Before Sam's head could smack against the wall, Dean sprung forward and used his hand to take the impact.
"Sam, I'm going to turn on the shower now." warned Dean as he set Sam's head gently against the wall.
"I ... feel ... cold," breathed Sam, each word pushed out with too much effort needed.
That worried Dean. Well, the fact that Sam felt cold when he could have sworn he had felt a mounting fever. Dean took his hand away from the shower handle and dropped back down to his knees beside Sam. He placed his palm on Sam's forehead.
"Sam, you're boiling." Dean disagreed, pushing Sam's curtains of bangs away from his face. "I've got to get your temperature down. You'll feel better."
Sam shook his head weakly, "No, Dean. Listen."
Sam looked down into Dean's eyes. Sam's eyes were still red. In fact, they seemed to have gotten more irritated. Dean waited for Sam to continue for another few seconds then he got to his feet. Dean turned the handle all the way to cold and turned the shower on. Sam flinched, coughing when the water went into his mouth and nose. Dean sank back down to the ground and dragged himself over to lean against the wall with Sam. Dean watched his brother squint through the cold sprinkles.
"Ah, screw it," said Dean as he scooted himself into the shower with Sam.
He wrapped his arm around Sam. The shower actually felt quite good. Maybe Dean was catching whatever was plaguing Sam. If that would be the case, Dean would have no choice but to take them both to the doctor. Only one of them was allowed to get sick so that the other could take charge. Sam always had the weaker immune system so Dean was usually the care taker rather than the patient. Sam lifted his head and turned to Dean.
"I'm sorry, Dean." he said thickly, water running into his mouth.
Dean hesitated for a moment. His brother eyes, though still bloodshot, were begging for forgiveness. Dean couldn't tell if Sam was crying or if the shower was making it seem that way.
Dean nodded, "I know you are, Sam."
Sam's head fell onto Dean's forearm, his eyes closed again. He would have slid into the wall if Dean's arm weren't wrapped around his shoulders. Dean's drawstring pants and large t-shirt were sticking to his body like papier-mâché. Sam's boxers were soaked to his skin. Dean hated what he saw of Sam's body. He could see his little brother's rib cage even with Sam slumped the way he was.
"When this is all over, we're going to a buffet." Dean told Sam, giving him a squeeze.
Dean felt something drip onto his forearm that wasn't water. He squinted through the showering rain and saw blood dripping from Sam's nostrils.
"SAMMY!"
Dean slipped his arm back from around Sam's boney shoulders, set him gently against the wall, and scrambled over to the shower knob. With slippery fingers he managed to turn it off. He pushed himself back across the wet tiles and kneeled beside Sam.
"Sammy, can you hear me?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Sam! Open your eyes!"
Dean pushed Sam's eyelid open. Sam's pupils didn't dilate with the ceiling light. He was unconscious. Dean tried to lift Sam up but now the tiled floor was slick with water. He dragged the rug over to stand on to provide traction as he gripped beneath Sam's armpits.
He didn't want to leave Sam in the shower lest he slip down and hurt himself further. With the luck his little brother has, he'd drown in a quarter of an inch of water. Dean gave a great tug on Sam to begin dragging him and Sam jerked awake again with a yell of pain.
"Dean!" Sam gasped, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "Put-me-down! Let-me-go!"
"Sammy!" exclaimed Dean, happy that his brother had come around again.
Sam was weakly trying to wrench his arms free of Dean's grip.
"Just let me get you on the bed again," said Dean, kneeling beside Sam one more time and speaking quietly so as not to irritate Sam further.
Sam shook his head.
"You can't stay here, Sam." pressed Dean, holding Sam upright with one hand between his little brother's shoulder blades and the other on Sam's chest.
Dean could feel Sam's heart shuddering beneath his boney chest. It was dangerously offbeat. Dean worried that Sam was having a heart attack.
"Okay, Sammy." said Dean, lifting Sam's drooping head to meet his eyes. "Don't you worry. I'm here. I'm gonna take care of you."
Sam lifted up a trembling hand, his mouth gaped as though it was too painful to close. The thick blood dripping from his nose was beginning to dry into a dark crust around Sam's lips. Dean searched over either of his shoulders through the open doorway for the motel room phone. It was agonizingly twenty-five feet away from him, set on the little table between their beds. Dean glanced back at Sam, trying to judge how long he could risk not being at his side.
All the color had drained from Sam's usually tan skin. The whites of his eyes were taking on a yellowy tinge.
Sam finally met Dean's eyes, "I-think ... I-have," he cleared his throat roughly, "... infection."
Dean thought that was a likely possibility. That could explain the weight loss and clumsiness. Even though Sam was a lanky giant of a man, he had been extra accident-prone over the last couple of weeks. He hadn't heard Sam talk much over the two months. But, his voice sounded raspy tonight. But, could an infection cause a heart attack?
Was Sam about to have one? Dean placed his hand again on Sam's forehead. Is it possible that it had grown hotter?
"Sam, why? Why didn't you tell me sooner?" growled Dean. "You're so stupid, you know that?"
Sam's chin drooped downward in Dean's hand, "I'm ... sorry."
Dean lowered Sam down on the bathroom rug, despite his little brother's weak protests, "Stop being sorry!"
Dean staggered when he got to his feet too quickly in his haste to reach the phone. He dialed 9-1-1. Sam's head rolled on the ground, facing Dean. His reddened, yellowed eyes were watching Dean. Sam's chest convulsed and his neck pressed his head into the black rug involuntarily. He tried to speak but it came out like a dry, shuddering cough. He tried dragging his arm along the slippery floor and snap his fingers but they were too slick.
"Hello?" Dean said loudly. "Yes! It's my brother! He's really, really sick. I think he may have had a heart attack." There was a moment's pause, "I have him on the bathroom floor. Century Motel, room two-seventeen. Please, hurry!" Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam on the ground, reaching for him. He admitted quietly to the 9-1-1 operator, "I'm scared ... that I'm losing him."
Dean dropped the corded phone back on the receiver but it fell off onto the table top. He hesitated for a moment like he was going to actually take the seconds required to set it back right. But, he shooed his hands at it and ran back over to Sam. Dean pulled Sam's torso onto his lap and dragged him out into the warm hotel room, Sam's stretched-out arm resting on Dean's elbow. Sam's skin was cool to the touch but Dean could feel the fever swelling beneath. It was a bizarre combination of fire and ice.
"Don't you die, Sammy." Dean said thickly, holding his brother so tightly his lips were in Sam's dripping hair. "Don't you even think about it. Don't you leave."
Sam listened to Dean's panicking heart and spoke clearly for the first time that night, "I'm not going anywhere."
