At first, Dean wasn't quite sure what awakened him from a sound sleep. Until, that is, the next cramp struck like a thunderbolt. He gasped and rolled to his back when another one hit on the tail end of the first.

Unfortunately, being on his back seemed to make it worse so he rolled onto his side, drawing his knees up toward his chest. He couldn't hold back a moan as the assault continued in rolling waves. A cold sweat broke out all over his body, and he began to pant as intense nausea bore down like cement. Dean jackknifed into a sitting position. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and hit the ground running. Slamming the bathroom door, he reached the toilet with a half second to spare, heaving the contents of his stomach into the porcelain receptacle with great force.

Sam was torn from sleep by the slamming of a door. Instantly alert, he laid still for a moment, straining to identify the threat. In those few frozen moments, he finally realized he was hearing the sound of his brother retching violently behind the closed bathroom door. Concern drew him to his feet, and he hurriedly moved to the door.

"Dean, you okay in there?"

The toilet flushed, and his brother ground out, "I'm good."

Sam rubbed a hand over his stomach, walked back to his bed, and sank down on top of the covers. He waited for the door to open so he could see just how "good" Dean really was. He didn't have long to wait. The bathroom door opened and Dean, his face tinged a remarkable shade of green, shuffled his way into the main room. All at once, Sam's determination to assess his brother flew out the window as his own stomach rebelled. He flew past his brother so fast that Dean almost staggered in the resultant wind.

Dean swiveled around to stare, but before he could retrace his steps, he was doubled over by clenching pain in his gut. He moved to his bed instead, desperate to lie down. The elder hunter was curled in a fetal position with his eyes tightly closed when Sam exited the bathroom. At the sound, his eyes popped open, and he tracked Sam's progress to his destination.

He watched Sam lower himself onto his bed. "Dude, you're green."

"Not as much as you. You're neon."

Considering how awful he felt, Dean figured his brother was likely telling the truth. He swallowed before saying, "You okay?"

"Been better." Sam mirrored Dean's position, clutching at his belly.

The room grew quiet as each brother concentrated on calming his ills, and they each drifted into a restless doze. Unfortunately, Dean's was short-lived as nausea again flooded his system, and he tore into the bathroom. His stomach, mostly empty from his earlier round, soon offered up nothing more than acrid, burning bile. And still the spasms wouldn't cease. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the rim of the toilet. When the heaving finally ended, his breath was all but gone, and Dean felt so weak he wasn't sure he could get off his knees. Trembling, he scooted around until his back rested against the tub. Goosebumps suddenly chased one another across his skin.

Damn, I'm cold.

Before he knew it, his teeth were chattering. He jumped when, out of nowhere, there was a pounding at the door.

"Dean! Open the door! I need . . ." Sam's plea abruptly cut off. There was a heartbeat or two of silence, and then Dean heard Sam puking. Using the bathtub for support, he pulled himself up and stood on shaky legs. Sadly, the change in position aggravated his fractious belly, and he vomited—not into the toilet but into the tub. Grimacing, Dean reached out a trembling hand and turned on the water, rinsing away the evidence of his misery before making his way slowly out of the bathroom. He was greeted by the sight of Sam hunched over and heaving into a small trash can.

Crashing back into bed, Dean pulled the pillow down over his ears in an attempt to block out the sound of Sam being sick. It wasn't that he wasn't concerned about his brother—he was—but the sound itself, especially so close, was playing havoc with own system. Shivers wracked his body as his fever climbed.

When Sam was done, he pushed the trash can away and weaved back to the bed, dropping into a boneless heap.

"Oh God, Dean, this is not good," he groaned.

Dean merely grunted.

From that point on, time ceased to have much meaning for the brothers. Beyond dueling trips to the bathroom (the loser relegated to using the trash can), neither man had the energy to do anything other than lay perfectly still.

When Dean, bent over and lurching like an old man, exited the bathroom for what seemed like the millionth time, he found Sam sitting on the edge of his bed.

Sam eyeballed him up and down, "You have anything left to throw up?"

"I've long since left behind mere puking, Sam."

"Oh? Oh--God! Um . . . okay," muttered Sam, scrubbing a hand over his face, "we really need to drink some water or something, Dean. See if we can hold it down."

"I will if you will."

With a Herculean effort, Sam managed to get to the kitchenette and fill two glasses each half full with water. Inching back to the beds, he handed one to Dean, who greedily downed the tepid liquid.

Despite the fact that it tasted like ambrosia and soothed his raw throat, Dean knew immediately that gulping the water was a mistake, as it landed in his stomach like hot knife. Seconds later it burned its way back up his esophagus, and with no time to make a run for it, he vomited all over the carpet. Once the water was expelled, Dean continued to dry heave. The spasms were so hard and continuous that he was unable to take a breath in between. His face went from pale to bright red and tears leaked from his eyes.

Sam, who'd been sipping his own water, felt his stomach cramp and protest what he'd ingested. He swallowed hard against his the urge to vomit. He heard Dean heaving and watched his brother's struggle in horror and knew what he had to do.

He quickly grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand and dialed.

"911, what is your emergency?"

(SN) (SN) (SN)

TBC . . .