A/N: Thank you for all of the kind reviews! They always mean a world to an author.

Warning for this chapter: Vomit, and lots of it. If you've ever been around sick little kids, you'll understand.

When Dean woke up, his face was pressed into something cold and flat. When he pushed himself upright, he saw it was bathroom tile. But the bathroom was dark.

"What?" he said aloud. It was not his bathroom. Or any bathroom in any of the places his family had stayed at recently.

Then he found Sam next to him and all that fell temporarily away as he put a hand on his brother's face.

"Sam? Sam!" he hissed.

He could barely make out the shape in the dark. Sam was stretched out flat on the tile, very limp and very unconscious. It freaked Dean the hell out. Sam tended to sleep curled in a ball. Preferably next to someone. Preferably next to Dean, Dean could admit now that none of the girls in his class were around.

He got to his feet. They were in a small bathroom, completely windowless, and mostly dark but for some weak light coming in from under the door. He made out a toilet and sink in one corner, and a shadowy bathtub with a shower curtain tipped sideways.

Dean tried the door. It was locked. Dean wasn't really surprised. He rattled the door; clanking told him that there was chain on the other side, even if he managed to pick the lock.

"Shit."

Sam stirred on the floor, probably awakened by the chain rattling, and mumbled, "Dad?..."

"Sam? It's me Dean," Dean said, crouching next to him.

Sam blinked at him. His coat monitor's bell was still around his neck, the bell resting on the tile next to Sam's troubled face.

"Dean?" Sam whispered. "I don't feel so good."

"What hurts?" Dean said urgently.

"My stomach….and my throat…" Sam swallowed audibly. "Dean – I – "

He turned his head to the side at the last second and threw up. The sound of vomit splattering on the floor made Dean's own stomach flip.

"Oh gross Sam – "

He heaved Sam up by the armpits and dragged him over to the toilet. Sam gurgled and puked again.

Dean reached up for the toilet handle. Please work, please work –

It flushed. Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

Sam had stopped throwing up. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"D'you feel better now?" Dean asked, figuring he had probably puked up whatever that witch Mrs. Runningham had put in those doughnuts.

Sam shook his head.

"Hmm. Well, you probably will in a few minutes. I always feel better after I puke."

"Oh."

Dean got up and stretched.

"Dean, where are we?"

"I don't know, Sam. I think we might be in somebody's basement bathroom. But I don't really know."

"Was it Mrs. Runningham?"

"…Yeah. Yeah it was. I think she kidnapped us."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe … Maybe it's something to do with Da—"

Then Dean remembered, broke off and looked quickly at Sam. His brother wasn't really paying attention, though; he was leaning against the side of the sink cabinet, looking green.

"You gonna spew again?"

Sam nodded tightly.

Three more vomits later, Dean was starting to worry.

"Here Sam, you better drink some water." He reached up and turn on the sink tap.

"No."

"Come on, it'll get the taste outta your mouth."

"No. I'm just gonna barf it up." Even saying the word barf had a visibly ill effect on Sam, and his mouth turned down.

"Well, then at least then you'll be yakking something up."

Sam had clearly already emptied his stomach. The last two rounds had been just retching.

"What did you mean earlier, something to do with Dad?"

"Huh?"

"You said maybe Mrs. Runningham kidnapping us had to do with Dad."

"I … didn't say that."

"Yes you did."

"You musta still been dreaming or something."

"I was awake too!" Sam said heatedly. "You always say that! I heard it!"

Dean snorted and leaned back against the cold tile wall. "Fine. So what if I did."

"Why would Mrs. Runningham not like Dad?"

"I dunno! Maybe they're enemies."

"People don't just get enemies without something bad happening first," Sam said accusingly.

"Damn Sam, hell if I know! Why you always gotta ask so many questions? Let's just think about getting out!"

Sam stuck out his tongue. "Don't say Damn Sam. It hurts my soul when you swear with my name."

"Jesus," Dean rolled his eyes in disgust. Sam had picked up the phrase from a favorite daycare mom in Pennsylvania and refused to give it up, even after Dean's repeated explanations that talking about things hurting your soul was unspeakably lame.

Dean got to his feet and crossed back to the door. He rattled it again, the chains on the other side clanking. He wasn't sure whether the rattling would bring the bad guys down or lead Dad to them.

"You see anything I can pick this lock with?"

Sam shook his head. The bathroom was crumbly and old but bare. The only thing in the cabinet beneath the sink was a dusty old roll of extra toilet paper.

"Wait, lemme see that bell around your neck," Dean demanded.

Sam clutched the coat monitor's bell as Dean came closer. "It's mine," he said. "I gotta take care of it."

"C'mon Sam, you wanna get out of here or not?"

"No Dean! If it gets broke it'll be my fault!"

"Sam, I'm oldest now and I'm in charge. So give me that bell right now or I'll come and get it!" Dean used his best Dad tone, standing over Sam with his hands on his hips.

"You're mean," Sam accused as he pulled the yarn loop over his head and surrendered the bell.

Dean turned it over in his hands. The loop on top of the bell was a thin circle of wire, easy enough to pull apart. The yarn and bell parted ways. Sam looked stricken, and Dean shoved the bell back at him.

"Here, take your stupid bell back. The wire is all I wanted."

Dean went back to the doorway, bent the wire straight, and stuck it into the lock. It only took him a few minutes to undo the lock – it was old and relatively simple. After all, he and Sam had practiced on all kinds of locks.

"See?" Dean pushed the door open a crack, and then it caught against the padlocks on the outside, but it was still progress. "Now I bet you …"

He turned back to Sam, but Sam was hunched over, his back to Dean. At first Dean thought he was sulking, but then Sam made a wurgling urp sound and his head was back in the toilet.

Dean's watch was gone, so they had no idea what time it was or how many hours had gone by since Mrs. Runningham had kidnapped them. Dean was sure that school had already let out, though.

He'd felt along all the walls and found nothing but smooth solid tile. The sink and toliet both worked, but the shower was broken. It was obvious no one had used the bathroom in a while.

Once in a while they heard scuffings and stompings over their heads. Dean held a finger to his lips when this happened, and they both stayed absolutely quiet on the floor until the noises faded. Dean was pretty sure they were in Mrs. Runningham's secret headquarters of evil, and he didn't want to attract any of them.

"D'you think anyone at school missed us?"

"Maybe, but Mrs. Runningham could totally cover it up. Or maybe they're all in it together! All the teachers in the school!" Dean pounded his fist into his palm. "I knew Mrs. Henley had it in for me."

"Miss Diana isn't one of them," Sam said firmly. "She's my favorite teacher."

Dean glanced mischieviously at him. "Betcha didn't know she was an alien for real," he said.

"She is not!"

Dean played the ultimate card. "I read a book about it," he said triumphantly. "The teacher was an alien for real and the kids caught them at it. It was called My Teacher Is An Alien!"

Sam stared at him uncertainly. "But … "

"And I bet Mrs. Runningham is the head alien. She's big enough for it. She could totally be the leader."

Both brothers were silent for a moment, contemplating the prospect.

"Wad'you think Dad'll do when he finds out?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "Kick some ass and then come find us."

"How?"

"I dunno. He always does. Remember that gas station guy in Kentucky? The one that tried to steal the car? Remember what Dad did?"

"Kicked his butt," Sam said, smiling shyly.

"Opened up a can of whoop-ass," Dean added, satisfied. "I'm gonna be like him someday. Except with better music."

"I know. You always say that."

"Cuz it's true!" Dean lay back on the floor and crossed his arms behind his head. "I bet Dad could punch through that stupid door. With one punch."

"Why d'you think she put us in a bathroom?"

"Pretty great prison cell, ain't it? Who would even hear us if we yelled?"

Sam got a little pale and Dean backtracked. "I mean, someone would. Just we gotta keep quiet till Dad beats up the bad guys and saves us."

"Okay," Sam agreed.

Dean's stomach growled, making both their eyes pop open.

"You're not sick are you Dean?"

"Nope, just hungry." They'd run out of the house that morning without breakfast and gone to see the principal right before lunch, so Dean's belly was reminding him just how long it had been since he'd eaten. "Man, I could murder a hamburger right now." Dean smacked his lips. "And some fries. You remember that diner in Nebraska we used to go to? Dude, those were the best damn fries I ever ate. Gooey in the middle and crispy on the edges, and plenty a grease, and a pile of ketchup that---"

Dean's stomach growled again, only this time it was answered by a lower and bubblier gurgle from Sam's. Sam's face went from pink to green in an instant, and he was being lavishly sick into the toilet in another instant.

Dean guessed he better not talk about food in front of Sam anymore.

It got harder, though, as time wore on, and Dean just got hungrier and hungrier. He drank some water from the tap and made Sam drink some, despite his protests. Sam barfed most of it up right away, but Dean was pretty sure you were supposed to keep drinking water if you were sick.

So he just sat against the door, rhythmically bumping his head against it to feel it catch on the padlock outside, and thought about food. The chewy explosion of a Snickers bar. The tough, intensely salty flavor of his dad's favorite beef jerky. Crunchy handfuls of potato chips. Smooth creamy chocolate syrup dribbling down vanilla ice cream. Oh, god. His stomach was gonna eat itself soon.

He glanced at Sam, who had given up straying more than a foot or two from the toilet bowl, and felt a little guilty. His little brother rested his head on the cold porcelain seat – which was kinda gross, actually, Dean should make him get his face off there – and kept his arms wrapped around his stomach as if that would keep the hurling in.

Steaming fragrant apple pie, with juicy sweet fruit and the crust a little burnt just the way Dean liked it –

Dean moaned, wrapped his hands around his middle much like Sam, and leaned back against the door.