Disclaimer: Don't own it.
A/N: Thank you all SOOO much for reviewing chapter one! And I am so incredibly sorry it took me this long to get to chapter two. Real life has reared its ugly head and, unfortunately, this is the first pure sick/whump/torture fic I have ever written... but we're getting there. One chapter left!
Thank you all again so incredibly much!
o-o-o
Sam had never taken well to being sick. Try as he might to seem big and tough, he was always a bit of a wimp. When they were kids, Dean would all but freak out, setting aside his usual belligerent tendencies and taking care of his baby brother. It was never heartfelt or touching, just expected. With Dad gone so often and Dean left taking care of his (whiney) little brother, it would have been downright weird if he hadn't been the one to help Sammy through the Chickenpox, and the flu, and that nasty stomach virus. Sibling rivalry sort of went on hold when Sam was sick, because for a change Sam was too worn out to fight, and Dean was too worried to pick on him.
After Stanford, Jess, and the whole freaky psychic thing, Dean had worried that he and Sam might never find themselves on common ground again. Sure, they did what they always did. The hunted, they argued (though the arguments were a little more mature, a little less "buttface" and "Meanyhead"), they complained about life, and they went right back to it. But everything was different. At least, until Sam's nightmares and stress and worry finally wore him down.
For three days, Dean shoved chicken noodle soup, crackers, and watered-down gatorade down his throat. He checked Sam's fever, held the trash can for him, and answered the door when the uncomfortably pretty, blonde landlady checked in on her poor, sick tenant, oblivious to the resemblance she bore to said tenant's dead girlfriend.
By the end of the third day, he called Bobby, who diagnosed Sam's malady as 'hunter's fatigue' and, after a few helpful tips (and a lot of biting his tongue), Dean was better prepared to deal with his little brother's sickness. A day later, Sam pulled through, and they were back on the road.
o-o-o
"…Dunno if that'd work, Bobby. I mean, how can I know what will and won't set him off?"
Dean blinked groggily, wincing as the dim room lights stabbed into his brain. Sam paced around the back of the small motel room, his voice pitched soft and low.
"Yeah. Okay, I'll call you if it gets worse… yeah, we have insurance." Sam glanced up at Dean, his eyes widening. "Okay. I'll call you later, Bobby. Bye."
Sam flipped the cell phone shut, shoving it in his pocket as he hurried to Dean's side.
"Hey, Dean," Sam breathed, sitting down on the bed beside his brother. Dean grimaced as the mattress shifted, aged springs squeaking beneath them. Sam smiled weakly. "That bad, huh?"
Dean took a breath, ready to respond, when a sudden pain flared inside his chest. He choked, pressing the heel of his palm against his sternum as he relived the pain of that day in that abandoned old shack, a billion volts of electricity coursing through his chest, the heart attack that had sentenced him to death…
But he had survived to feel it again.
The pain triggered another coughing fit. Dean shot up, hand pressed against his mouth as something rattled deep within his chest, clawing its way up his throat like crushed glass, and boy did he have thirty years experience to know what that felt like. Oh, God…
He gagged, lungs burning as the small motel trash can, hastily lined with a plastic bag, was shoved under his mouth.
"Come on, Dean, just get it out," Sam urged, roughly rubbing Dean's back. As though it would help.
Dean gagged again, his stomach turning as something thick and wet caught in his esophagus, choking him, killing him…
He gagged again and again, hacking until, at last, a wet mouthful of mucus fell into the trash can with an awful 'plop!' and a crinkle of plastic. Dean drew a ragged breath, resting his forehead against the cool, plastic rim of the can.
"Dammit, Dean," Sam sighed, his hand stilling, but never leaving his brother's back. Secretly, Dean was grateful for the contact. "You're pretty sick."
"Naw, I'm-" he gasped, but the rest of his words were lost as his scant supply of air ran out and he struggled to draw in more. Each shaky breath relieved the burning in his lungs, but hit him in the chest like a hammer.
"Yeah, yeah, sure you are," Sam snarked, pressing one hand against Dean's aching chest and helping him to sit upright. Dean hissed, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled to suck in just one lungful of dry, hot motel air. The sensation wasn't unfamiliar.
Dean choked and bent over the trash can again, each desperate cough ripping through his body, threatening to shatter every bone. Sam rubbed his back, babbling comforting words that were about as effective as a water gun against a house fire.
"Come on, Dean, that's it. Nice and deep."
Dean wanted to tell Sam where he could freaking stick it, but another glob of mucus got in the way. Shuddering, he spat it out in the trash can and collapsed back against the pillows, sucking in what air he could.
Sam pulled the trash can away and glanced into it. Dean didn't miss the dismay on his baby brother's face; the way his cheeks went just a little bit pale, the way his eyes widened just a smidge. It wasn't the way a normal person might have reacted to something, but with a Winchester, it meant something was up.
"S'my?" he rasped. In an instant, the 'look' on Sam's face vanished, replaced by his usual calm, controlled expression.
"Here, Dean. Listen, I know it sucks, but we need to get some food in you."
Sam retreated into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of gatorade and bowl of soup that had probably been warm once. Dean didn't bother trying to raise his leaden arms from the bed to accept the soup. The thought of putting anything in his mouth right now sent his stomach rolling. Sam sat down next to him.
"Hey, Dean, you gotta cut me some slack here," Sam mock whined. "I even went and got the good stuff; Campbells chicken noodle."
Campbells. They all died. Every one of them, dead. Picked off like flies, just like goddamned hunters always died. God... the look on mom's face when she saw him, knew that he knew what she'd done, holding dad's corpse...
"Dean?"
Sam's face mirrored the concern he had seen in Castiel that night all those months, no, all those years ago...
Dean grimaced, glancing at the proffered soup. It looked thick and oily; definitely not something he wanted to put in his mouth at the moment. He wanted to summon some funny thought, something to lighten the situation... but all he could manage was a shake of the head. Sam didn't like that, but he held his tongue.
You never used to hold your tongue, Sam. What happened? What's going through your head that you can't tell me? You used to tell me so much...
"At least drink some gatorade," Sam urged, pressing the bottle into Dean's hand.
Dean choked back a groan and pushed himself up, his head spinning. A sudden splash of cool liquid seeped into his jeans, the weight of the bottle gone less than a second later.
"That's okay, Dean, come on. I've got it for you."
Dean blinked, the cozy, old motel room swimming into focus, and there was Sam, pressing a half-empty gatorade bottle against his lips.
"Get off," Dean grunted, swatting the bottle away. Crap, he was out of breath again.
"Dean, you need fluids," Sam insisted, putting on his very best bitchface.
"I... don't need you to..." Dean wheezed, but Sam cut him off.
"Yeah, cause you're so strong you can totally hold the bottle for yourself."
Dean glared, but didn't have the strength to resist as Sam pressed the bottle to his lips again. A sweet, powerful taste exploded in his mouth, too much, too sudden. He held it in his mouth for a moment, trying to psych himself into swallowing it, and grimaced as it went down. Sam tried to press another sip into him, and this time he managed to push the bottle away, shaking his head. He didn't dare open his mouth; more than likely he'd end up puking.
"Okay, Dean, we'll try more later," Sam sighed.
Dean sighed in relief, easing himself back down to the pillows, ignoring the squeak of the springs or the rock-hard pillows. This was enough for now, at least. He shivered, and before he could grab the comforter folded neatly at the foot of the bed, Sam had already draped it over him.
"Hey, Dean. You remember that summer at Pastor Jim's when I was six?"
Oh no. Sam was not using Dean's own method against him. Dean scowled up from under the covers, but Sam wasn't looking at him; his eyes were fixed on the floral wallpaper, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
He likes this. All our lives, I've taken care of him... he actually likes being the one to take care of me. He shouldn't have to, though.
"You griped the whole time, but man you loved it. Having a place to stay, running around in the fields, trying to catch squirrels. Man, it was so funny that night when Dad came back and found out that you actually managed to catch one. I still can't figure out if he was proud or just shocked that Jim let you keep it in a cage out back. You even named it, what, Binky right?"
Bucky but I can't expect you to really remember. That was twenty years ago.
"We managed to keep him all of a week before he managed to get out of his cage. Man, you were so pissed. You must have run around looking for him until midnight."
Yeah, well, that was one cool squirrel. How many kids you know managed to catch a squirrel, Sammy? Catch, not shoot.
Sam smiled and patted Dean's shoulder before returning to his bed, flipping on the television. Gunshots rang throughout the room. Dean's throat tightened, every muscle in his body stiffening, his eyes bugging out. Sam hurried to change the channel, but the damage was done. Dean couldn't get the images out of his head... and it wasn't that all the images came from one thing, one set of memories. There was that moment Sam had fired at Dad, all those terrible times when he'd been forced to take the lives of humans, the rock salt to the chest in that asylum, and of course the strange, distorted sounds of hell that could never be recreated up here, but damned if some sounds didn't just bring them back to focus.
He shuddered, burrowing under the covers and struggling to keep his eyes open. Each time a muscle relaxed, he tensed, his heart pounding, chest throbbing, but he couldn't let his guard down. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't let them back at them, where they'd carve and cut and slice away until there was nothing left, and who would take care of Sammy then?
The seconds ticked by like hours, the minutes like days, the hours like years.
Just like hell. Each second feels so much longer. Oh, God, please don't send me back. Please. I won't last.
As the alarm clock on the bedside table clicked to 11:00 p.m., Sam glanced over, his usual bitchface in place.
"Dean, you're gonna make yourself more sick that way."
Shut up, geekboy, you don't get it.
Dean scowled over the covers, but didn't bother saying anything. What was the use? Two words and he'd be out of breath again.
Sam sighed and rolled out of bed, reaching into the duffel and pulling out the first aid kit. Dean watched him warily as he shook out two pills from an all-too-familiar bottle.
"Here," Sam sighed, nudging Dean into a sitting position and pressing the pills into his palm. "Take these, you'll feel better."
Dean grimaced at the sleeping pills and glanced up at Sam with an "Are you serious?" look on his face; one he had practiced well over the last four years.
"Hey, we don't have any Niquil or anything. This is the best we've got for now. Besides, you give me sleeping pills when I'm sleeping."
Yeah, cause if I don't knock you out you'll keep me up all night long with your coughing and moaning and complaining.
"And anyway, I need to get some sleep, and I can't sleep until I know you're sleeping. So do it for me."
Bitch.
Reluctantly, Dean popped the pills in his mouth and took a loathesome sip of the gatorade to wash them down, gagging at the too-sweet taste of the sports drink.
Sam flopped back onto his bed as Dean retreated once again under the covers and managed to find a rerun of "I Love Lucy", that really good one when the women and the men switched places. Just as the rice from Ricky's attempt at cooking began overflowing from the pot, Dean felt his eyes begin to droop.
No, please, no!
He gripped the bedsheet tightly, widening his eyes and holding his breath. He could stay awake just a little longer. He could!
But the room blacked out and, for a time, Dean floated in dreamless slumber.
o-o-o
The problem with sleeping pills was that they weren't designed to keep memories at bay. They put a person to sleep and kept them asleep. Didn't necessarily promise that they wouldn't dream.
Dean shrieked as the hellish blade sliced again and again through his abdomen, carving patterns into his spine, splitting open his spleen and stomach and bladder like water balloons. The knife traced along his ribs from the inside, and if they had been alive and in the real world some of this shit wouldn't even be possible. But this wasn't the 'real world' as he still struggled to think of it. This was hell, and this was the reality of hell.
Screams and wails echoed around him, miles away and inches from his ear, male and female and beast alike, all suffering, all reminding him that there was no hope. No escape.
"Now, Dean," Alastair crooned, carving into Dean's kindeys with the air of a human man preparing a Thanksgiving turkey. "What was it you told me during our last little chat? Something about how I could stick it where the sun shines?"
"Gah!" Dean choked as the knife pierced through his back.
"I don't know why you say things like that, Dean. I don't. Why you're so fond of that dank, cold, empty place I'll never understand."
"P-Pleh..." Dean gurgled, but his ruined body would not permit him to beg. All he could do was endure.
"I'll tell you what," Alastair mused, pulling the bloody blade from Dean's innards and running it lovingly across his shattered, broken collarbone, pausing to tap it where the yellow-white bone poked through the skin. "I'm going to turn you over to someone else, and I'll come back later. See if you change your mind."
o-o-o
Dean choked, barely managing to snatch up the trash can beside the bed before he emptied the meager contents of his stomach. Bile burned his throat, smoke filling his mouth and oh God he was burning, fire licking his skin as he heaved over the can, tears leaking from his eyes that stung and screamed oh God oh God please...
"Dean, Dean, hey!"
A hand pressed down on Dean's back, and he flinched back. But it never did any good. They liked it when he flinched; it excited them.
"Shit, Dean, you're burning up!" Sam hissed, but it couldn't be Sam, could it? Dean had said goodbye to his little brother all those years ago. Knew he was never going to see him again.
The sound of running water rumbled softly in the distance. What was this? It wasn't a sound he was familiar with... maybe they were going to drown him for a while. Might be a nice reprieve to drown for a change. He'd heard that once you let the water in your lungs, it was sort of comfortable. That and freezing to death. That might be nice. He hadn't done that, yet.
"Come on, man," the voice grunted as a pair of strong arms laced themselves under Dean's shoulderblades, hoisting him up. "You gotta try walking with me, Dean, I don't think I can carry you."
Even though Dean knew better, knew the sort of tricks these bastards loved to play, he couldn't help dragging his feet forward. After all, it was Sam's voice. If he could just pretend that it really was Sammy, even just for a moment, he might find the strength to say no to Alastair the next time around.
His clothes were stripped away (Wait, clothes? No, it had to be an illusion. His clothes had rotted away years ago.) his boots peeled off, leaving him only in his boxers, shivering suddenly against the chill of room he found himself in. Maybe they'd freeze him and drown him atthe same time. That would be something else.
"Sorry, Dean, but I need to get your temperature down while I call the ambulance," Sam apologized profusely, nudging Dean to step into the water.
Dean hissed the second his feet touched and tried to recoil. He was grateful for the cold, but it was too much too fast. He didn't want to die quickly this time around; wanted to enjoy this gentler death while it lasted. But Sam kept nudging him and urging him so gently that he couldn't refuse, and let the thing that sounded like his little brother ease him into the thing that felt like a bathtub, shivering and sweating as the cool water swept over his broken body.