A/N: Hello, all! Thanks for your support! Here's the update. :)

JUST WALK BESIDE ME

Seven: The Final Straw

Sam

Sam knows he shouldn't have shrugged Dean away. Because Dean cares. Dean's always just cared — and too much, sometimes. But Dean's always made it about himself too. He calls Sam selfish, but it's not always that way.

I got you possessed to save your life so I wouldn't have to live alone.

I got you back from Stanford so I wouldn't be alone.

I sold my soul for you because…

Because Dean's so scared of being alone, that he wants to drag Sam along wherever he goes — force Sam to stick with him. Dean has such a fucking terrible impression of himself, he feels like no one would want to be with him or stand by him of their own accord. And the only person Dean feels a sense of ownership towards is Sam, which explains why Sam bears the brunt of it all.

Sam thinks it's his own fucking fault that Dean feels this way. That Dean wants to keep Sam tethered to himself. Sam never told Dean that he'd wanted Dean to come along to Stanford. That every time he had failed to save Dean's life, he had also tried his best… but he just isn't as good as Dean, and that's the truth. He gave up too soon each time. He rolled over and surrendered.

Dean is selfish. So fucking selfish. . . and Sam got his selfishness from Dean, because Dean never knew how to let go.

Sam holds onto a wall and stops. His brain drums along his skull and he can feel saliva pool in his mouth. Dean's yelling hasn't helped his migraine at all, and Sam thinks he might puke again.

God, no. The first time was bad enough. He's going to die.

"Sam?"

There's a soft hand on his arm. Sam turns to his mother sluggishly. He'd heard Dean yelling some more, and Sam guesses that Dean threw everyone out of the room. Sam blinks, focussing on Mary's face, and she looks worried. If his parents are here to stay, he'll have to explain to them at some point that Dean's outbreaks aren't to be taken personally.

Sam swallows at the uncomfortable feeling crawling up his stomach. He needs to puke first. And he's dreading it.

He tugs his mother's hand off — tries to be as gentle as he can, but his fingers are shaking. He pushes himself off the wall when his mother backs off, and stumbles to the dark and drafty bathroom, shivering as he kneels down before the toilet. The nausea makes itself even more evident, creeping just below his throat, and Sam really wishes that Dean hadn't yelled, because Sam isn't going to survive this round of puking. He also wishes that Castiel and his mother could give him some privacy, for he can sense them standing at the doorway and watching worriedly.

He should have really just taken the Dramamine. His mother's appearance distracted him, but he should have remembered. This shit is all his fault. He got Dean riled up, he got Dean to yell, he didn't take the Dramamine and whatever pain Sam is in, now, he's brought it on himself.

Sam's head pulsates and he holds his forehead before leaning over the toilet and coughing miserably, puking up whatever he didn't puke earlier.

The pain in his head skyrockets, increasing the nausea and he leans in again, retching some more and clamping his forehead as it throbs. He curls his other hand across his belly, hoping it will quell the nausea but it does nothing to help as Sam pukes again.

His head is going to explode. He wants to scream — give himself some satisfaction by expressing the agony he's feeling, but when he opens his mouth, it's only to heave painfully again, and to feel the burn of stomach acid as it comes up. His breath hitches as he surfaces, trying to breathe through the pain and gasping miserably, and his head feels like it might fall off his shoulders as his stomach rolls.

He puts his other hand to his forehead as well, rests his elbows against the rim of the bowl, and vomits another time. It's relentless: the retching and the nausea. Sam has no idea how his stomach is still producing stuff for him to throw up. He gags on ribbons of bile, feeling tears fall out of his eyes and spatter into the bowl while a thousand Wendigos dance on his head.

"Is it always like this?" he hears his mother ask Castiel behind him, her voice slightly muffled to ears, which ring when he retches again.

"I don't know," Castiel replies. "Dean says he will be all right. He doesn't seem as intimidated by Sam's bad headaches as I am — although he doesn't know the whole—"

"C-Cas—" Sam coughs as he surfaces, and he tries to make the tone as reprimanding as possible, because there's no fucking way he's going to let his mother know that he had a stroke a few weeks ago. And this isn't associated with any of those headaches.

Before Sam can say any more, he hears footsteps and feels Castiel's presence beside him. His friend crouches down. "Are you sure it's a migraine, Sam?"

Sam spits into the bowl. "P'sitive."

"I'll try to heal you. I thought, in front of Dean, you might—"

"I w-w'sn't lying," says Sam, carefully taking his hands off his forehead to accept Castiel's help. He knows he shouldn't let Castiel do this, but just this once Sam can't take the pain. He's run out on the Imitrex and any medicine that would be effective against the migraine, and he needs Cas's aid this time. He hates it. Hates being so fucking needy, but he's not sure how else he's going to keep up with the hunt in the morning.

And he doesn't want to miss out on a single moment with his mom because he can't — he can't let it go like this and he remembers that time when Karen had come back to life and Bobby'd had to fucking kill her again and how… how on earth did Bobby even survive that?

If his parents die again…

Sam stops himself at the ominous thought. There have been so few things in his life that he's been able to cherish, to call his own… he wonders why life is cruel to only some people, and good to others. But then he remembers that there is probably still a lot to be thankful for, like the fact that he still has Dean, despite everything, even though he should have been (and deserves to be) alone. But he has Dean… he has Dean. And he should probably stop being so stubborn and talk to Dean.

If Dean is up to it.

With his head roaring and stomach still rebelling, Sam realises that though he feels like he's been thinking for hours, it's barely been a second. Castiel doesn't hesitate before placing his fingers on Sam's forehead. Sam waits, expecting the relief to wash over him any moment, but nothing happens. Instead, the pressure of Castiel's fingers on his forehead churns Sam's stomach some more, and he bats Cas's hand away as he lurches back to the bowl.

Castiel is patient and unflinching while he waits. Dean would have shifted about, shook his head and complained about how weak Sam's stomach is, and generally been a little more dynamic, but now Sam's more or less used to Castiel's silent presence too. He's accustomed to blue eyes watching him, the worry in them being the only sign that Cas is actually concerned, without Dean's fussing and cursing. Castiel waits for Sam to finish, and that takes a while. Finally when Sam's wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and reaching forward to flush the toilet, he notices the look of defeat on Castiel's face.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he says, "I think my grace has some holes because of the hit I took a while back."

Sam wishes now more than ever that Castiel had an intact grace, but he nods. "'Ts all right, Cas."

Castiel starts to stand up and holds out a hand to Sam. It takes Sam another two minutes to gather up the courage to move, but at long last, he takes Cas's hand and staggers to the sink to rinse out his mouth. His mother is still outside and she lends Cas a hand in helping Sam to one of the other rooms, where Castiel has set up his own sleeping bag. Sam falls down on his ass and gets supine without protest while his mother comes over to sit by him. She puts a hand on his face.

"Will you let me help you?" she asks him softly. Sam is not sure, at that point, what she thinks of all the mistakes that Dean has just outed. His dad not being around confirms that John's not taking it well, but Sam expects his mother to be at least a little shocked (disgusted).

Sam nods. He's not going to reject any kind of help at this stage. Not when there's a drilling machine in his head. Plus, he thinks, this way, Mom will spend more time with him. Maybe she will not hate him all that much, if she just gets to know him.

Maybe she's just sympathising because he's so sick.

"Okay," Mary whispers, interrupting Sam's thoughts. "Turn around and lie on your stomach."

Sam starts to turn, his hands shaky as he splays his palms on the floor, and Mary helps him. Once he's on his belly, Mary's hands run along Sam's back, in slow, soothing circles, and Sam tries not to sigh.

"Castiel," his mother calls out, and Sam hears the rustle of Cas's trenchcoat. "Can you get him a wet washcloth?" Mary suggests in a murmur. Castiel obeys, and Sam feels soothing wetness on his neck a few moments later. His mother sits back, and there's silence for a while.

Sam wonders if she's thinking about what Dean said. Of course she must be going through it in her head. Mulling it over. It's not something one can forget all that easily. Sam wonders if his mother is thinking of getting up and leaving now because she doesn't want to be around a monster anymore.

Dean shouldn't have said that in front of their parents. Sam gets that Dean is hurt and angry and many things at once — but there hasn't been a single person in Sam's life who hasn't judged him, and he had hoped that his mother wouldn't be one of them. Dean took that away and it's just not fair.

His head throbs some more and he just about blocks a groan, although, he thinks Mary hears it.

She puts her hand on his back. "Try to sleep," she soothes. "It's going to be all right."

"M-Mom—" Aren't you going to ask me about the stuff that Dean said? Aren't you mad? Disappointed?

"It's okay, honey," Mary says, patting his back. He feels her bend over and her soft voice whispers to him. "I love you."

Despite what Dean said?

"Everybody makes mistakes, Sam," Mary says, as if she's reading his mind. "I know you must have had your reasons. Your mistakes won't make me, or your dad, or Dean, love you any less."

He wants to tell her that she's wrong, that Dean's trust in him vanished long ago, and that he and Dean have cracks deeper than the Grand Canyon running through their relationship. That Dad thinks Sam is the family ditcher. Sam wants to tell Mary that she loves the memory of the baby that he was, and not him, and she won't love him any more when she comes to understand what each of his screw-ups have brought about.

Sam doesn't have any memories of his mother but now he thinks of all the times she might have held him, folded him into her arms, rocked him and genuinely loved him despite the tiny ball of mess he might have been. He thinks of the many nights she might have not slept, and of the many times she might have been tired and might have wanted nothing but to rest, but gave it up for him (and Dean too, of course). All because she's his mom and somehow, despite what Sam is, she loves him. He obviously doesn't deserve it.

Sam understands. There's something about loving people. Something about being family. It's like you're bound, somehow, to that person, and you don't care two fucks about whether they're good or bad, beautiful or ugly, clean or dirty. You just put up with it all. There are so many things you don't mind giving up and there's nothing that's out of bounds. And whether you're worthy of it or not, some people just love you that much.

Sam feels his mother's hand in his filthy, sweaty, disgusting hair, fingers running through the strands gently, as though it isn't revolting to her at all. This makes Sam think about the time, when he and Dean were kids, Sam had spat watermelon seeds into Dean's palm because there wasn't a plate or a bowl around. Dean had promptly gone and washed it off later, without saying much. It's a memory from a long time ago — from when Sam was maybe five, and Dean though did grouse about it ("ugh, gross. You're so slobbery."), but each time Sam needed to spit, he'd stretched his palm forward.

He doesn't deserve Mom and he definitely doesn't deserve Dean. What started off as his father's and brother's revenge for his mother burning on the ceiling is now something else — and Sam can blame John all he wants, but most of the mistakes he made — the things he became — happened after his father died. He didn't listen to Dean and rebelled at every chance he got. His ego was inflated and dangerous to everyone. And Dean sticking by him after all this is a miracle.

"Sam."

His mother's voice is calm as she whispers. Her thin fingers still card gently through his hair, and she's doing it carefully enough to not flare up the migraine.

"Go to sleep," she says. "Stop thinking about it so much, all right? Dean will come around."

The pain is so much, Sam can't get himself to reply without the fear of letting out some embarrassing, pained noise. So he nods. His mother sighs and rubs his back with the other hand. "I used to tell you and Dean that angels were watching over you," she says softly. "I wasn't that far off the mark, was I?"

Oh, she has no idea.

He snorts, and shuts his eyes while she chuckles. And she hums. She's tone deaf, and Sam can't make out what she's humming, but he feels the arms of sleep pull at him from the periphery. He gives in; his mother's humming still reverberating in his head as he sleeps.

~o~

Mary

To say that her boys are hurting, is an understatement, Mary thinks, as she watches Sam fall asleep. She can remember rocking him, and he'd always clutch on to her nightie before he drifted off. And God, was it difficult to put him to sleep.

Dean had been easier. Once Dean was fed, he was more than content, and Mary would burp him, hold him to her shoulder and pace around, singing 'Hey Jude'. Dean would be snoozing and drooling into her nightie in the next ten minutes.

Sam had been fussier than Dean about most things. But even then, it had been so much easier at that time. Now, as much as Mary wants to, she can't pick Sam up and rock him to keep him asleep. Apart from the fact that she'll probably break her spine if she tries, Sam won't be receptive to the gesture.

And now it's getting too weird.

Mary sighs and pats Sam's cheek lightly before moving back against a wall. Castiel is watching silently from the far end, and Mary can see his blue eyes trained on her, as though he's trying to figure out something. She looks away from him and concentrates on her hands. She wants to talk to him, to ask him about Sam and Dean, but she doesn't know where to start. Because as familiar as her boys are to her, they're also complete strangers. And Mary feels like a single night isn't enough to understand what happened while she was gone.

"Mom."

Mary turns to the door to see Dean standing there. He sways and holds the doorframe and from the other side, Castiel scrambles up to help him.

"I'm good," Dean tells him determinedly, before limping into the room, clutching on to the wall and sliding down beside Mary. His eyes look up at her and she detects guilt and shame. But Mary smiles and reaches to push back his already-short hair. It won't make a difference, but she just wants him to know that she's not mad at him.

"Feeling better?" she asks him quietly, glancing at Sam, who's snoring a little with his mouth open.

Dean nods hesitantly, and licks his lips. "I just… I…"

"There's nothing to apologise for."

He swallows, nods, and looks past Mary, at Castiel. "Cas."

Castiel gets up and comes to sit on Dean's other side. He doesn't say anything, but Mary watches, from the corner of her eye, as Dean reluctantly slips his hand into Castiel's. And in another moment, they're not holding hands anymore. The gesture — Dean's reluctance to be touched by Cas — strikes an alarm inside Mary. She remembers how Dean was quick to hug her, but he's not receptive to anyone else touching him. Well, except for Sam, when he was supporting Dean when Mary had just arrived.

Mary knows of few situations that could lead to this, and the implications frighten her. What really happened here? Because it doesn't look like it was some huge supernatural shitfest anymore. It looks like something happened to Sam and Dean. Not the world. And… oh, God.

"Mom," Dean says, turning to her again and breaking her thoughts, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologise," she whispers.

He looks away, but still explains. "I just… I get angry… and I know… I shouldn't be mad at you guys of all people. You are not at fault." He turns his gaze to Sam. "Sammy either." He blinks. "What I said, about Sam…"

"Is it true?" Mary asks, heart thumping at double speed.

"He's made mistakes," Dean says. "But he always made up for it, and he's one hell of a guy and don't get him wrong from what I say. I just…"

"… get angry."

He smiles sheepishly. "Yeah. I can't seem to help it. Gotta take some of those anger management sessions or yoga or whatever Sammy loves so much, I guess. I'm just pissing everyone off." He chuckles, but Mary doesn't find it amusing.

She looks into his eyes. "Dean, it's okay to be angry. Sometimes, life isn't fair—"

"Try 'all the time'," he snorts, interrupting her.

"What?"

"Well, we don't have the best luck on this planet," Dean says, "but it's…" he sighs, glancing at Sam again. "It's always Sam who's bearin' the brunt. It was me this one time… and look how I am. Throwin' bitch-fits everywhere." He snorts again, and it's so full of self-loathing, that Mary cringes. This is not right. This is so fucking messed up.

"Dean," she says, feeling the horror of the situation well up inside her, "we all react in different ways, honey. You can't blame yourself."

"The hell I can't," he replies, and she can hear the anger, though his voice is still low. "I was the one who was stupid. Stupid enough to let it happen. And Sammy — whatever shit he got, he couldn't help it. He couldn't have stopped it. And hell, I was responsible for some of the crap that happened to him. But me… I'm a whole new level of stupid." His voice breaks on the last word and Mary turns to him worriedly.

"No," Mary replies simply. Castiel is looking at her, mouth half-open, his eyes helpless. It looks like he's tried to get rid of Dean's guilt before, and failed. Mary swallows. "You're not stupid."

"You don't even know—"

"Maybe not," she says, "but the fact that you're feeling guilty about it — that you're sorry— proves that you didn't expect it to go this way. And that whatever you did, you thought you were doing the right thing."

"Or whatever I got done to me, huh," he says in a low voice, spitting the words with such hate, that Mary wants to hug him. What the hell? What did someone do to Dean? Who hurt him in such a way that he hates himself? Mary feels anger bubble up inside her. When she finds this son-of-a-bitch, she's doing some long-forgotten hunting. No one fucking lays a finger on her boys, and now this fucker will pay.

She braces herself to ask him the big question. She knows that Dean might lie, but it's worth a try. She needs to know what happened to to him that has Sam and Dean so upset. Because the hurt she can see in her sons right now is beyond everything else. Dean cuts through her thoughts.

"How's he doing?" He jabs a thumb in Sam's direction.

"Not great," Mary says truthfully.

"Tossed his cookies again, huh?" Dean deduces.

Mary nods. "He's pretty sick."

"Ah, crap," Dean replies. "All the poor bastard needed was a migraine. At least he's sleeping, though."

"Is he always like this?" Mary asks Dean. "You know… when he has a migraine?"

"Yeah. Sometimes he's lucky and it's not severe, but he's not very lucky today."

"You take care of him?"

Dean chuckles. "Kind of in my job description," he says. "But I usually just give him the shots if he needs them. He's more than capable of managing the rest by himself." He smiles proudly. "Independent kid."

"He doesn't object to you thinking that way?" Mary asks Dean, snorting a little. "He's thirty-two. You wanted to be a grown man even when you were four."

Dean shrugs. "Can't help it."

Mary laughs. "I bet he just loves that."

"He does," Dean says, glancing at Sam fondly as he rests against the wall. "Throws punches at me for it, the giant-ass." He lets off a short laugh. "God, he's such a doofus sometimes. And…" Dean raises himself and peeks at his snoozing brother again, "… yup, drooling on the sleeping bag. It's all his now. I ain't ever using that."

Mary just watches Dean and feels a bubble of happiness rise in her. It's a tiny bubble, like a single ray of hope, but she can take whatever she gets. Including the best kids in the whole world. She will not miss anything else in their lives — she promises herself that.

~o~

Sam

The world is a haze. Someone is slamming Sam's head against a wall and nausea is flaring up in his gut. His mouth feels like it's stuffed full of cotton. A drop of sweat runs down Sam's temple and clings to his nose. He wants to reach out and wipe it away, but everything hurts.

He tries to squirm away from whoever is knocking his head against the wall. He can't feel the hands, and he's not sure what force is causing this. Demon? Although Sam wouldn't put it past an angel either. Who has he pissed off and what led to this?

Most importantly, where's Dean? Dean and Cas should be around…

Then he remembers. No… no… there are no demons. Sam has a migraine. He's had the migraine for a while. Mom and Dad know. Dean is mad…

Shit.

He opens his eyes abruptly and blocks a moan from escaping his lips. He's still on the sleeping bag, which feels uncomfortable against his belly, and there are voices in the background. The cheek that's pressed into the sleeping bag is dry and crusted with… something, and Sam licks his lip experimentally.

The voices stop, and Sam sighs. They were too loud. He just needs to sleep. He just wants to sleep. He shuts his eyes again.

"Sammy?"

There's a shuffling sound. Dean's voice is grating and Sam wants to cover his ears. He takes in a deep breath as the pain crests and reaches its high point.

It hadn't been so bad before. Sam can swear it's gotten worse ever since he slept, which is weird, because for a migraine as horrendous as this, sleep is usually the only cure. But this monster isn't even beginning to leave. The pain flares up again and Sam concentrates on breathing, feeling like his head is slamming against a metal gate.

Oh God, let me die. Let me die, let me die… please.

Miraculously, the pain gets back to its nadir, now only agonising instead of excruciating. Whatever. Sam registers the hand on his shoulder.

"Sam."

Dean sounds worried. Sam's nails are digging into the flesh of his palm. He tries to breathe, only to feel his jaw unclench. Seems like his body is reacting involuntarily to the pain.

He wants to die. He can't take this anymore. Can't take this…

Can't. Can't. Can't. Can't.

Sam thinks he might have said that out loud, because Dean is squeezing his shoulder. "Okay, okay, relax, man, we'll get you something, huh? Just. . . just… Cas?"

There are more footsteps. Dean's hand is still on Sam's shoulder as he talks to Cas. "Check his duffel for any of the Imitrex injectors he might have left over. I don't think he's filled his prescription recently, but if you can find the shots, get them. Otherwise, just get my duffel."

"Okay."

Sam hears the whoosh of Castiel's trench as he turns away to leave. The pain starts to escalate again and before he knows it, he's gritting his teeth, toes curling as he tries to ride it out.

"Sammy," Dean soothes. "Relax, man. Don't clench up. C'mon. Deep breaths."

"Dean?" It's Mom. Sam tries to turn towards her, but he can't make out where she is.

"I got him," Dean explains to her. "If you wanna talk to Dad…"

"Okay."

Sam realises then that their Mom is probably leaving to give him and Dean some privacy. Is Dean here to talk to him, then? Well, in that case, Dean wins, because Sam's not in a position to talk. But Sam doesn't want to argue anymore, so it's okay. He'll just listen to Dean and let his brother get his satisfaction out of it.

However, Dean doesn't talk. Silence stretches for a while, until there are more footsteps, and Sam hears the heavy sound of Dean's duffel being laid on the floor. Dean mutters a 'thanks,' presumably to Cas, and Sam can hear Dean rummaging and then the rattle of pills in a bottle. Oh no, he can't push anything down his gullet right now.

Dean doesn't seem to care.

Sam hears his brother shake out two pills. "Sam," he calls out. "Here. Turn around, man, you can sleep once I get some meds in you."

"Dean…" It's Castiel.

"What?" Dean snaps.

"I don't think he should take it."

"What, Advil?"

Advil. Ah, fuck. Sam's already puked up the ones he took a while ago, but he knows that Cas is right. He can't take more Advil. The doctor asked him to control these kinds of drugs. And seeing as Cas couldn't heal all of Sam's problems…

"Advil is a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug," Castiel reasons. "It can cause certain formidable side-effects."

"Oh, and you're what, Dr Sexy, now?" Dean asks him shortly. "I know what's good for him, okay? Stay out of this, Cas."

Castiel falls quiet immediately. Sam finally opens a bleary eye, and finds Dean's worried, tired face looming over his. "Here," Dean says, pressing the pills into Sam's hand. "Take them."

Sam brings them to his eyes and squints. "Took 'em," he manages in a hoarse whisper. "Threw up." He takes a breath. "Dean…"

"What is it?" Dean asks him, concern in his voice.

"'M nauseous. No pills… pl'se…"

"Oh yeah, sorry, I should give you the Zofran injection first." Dean takes the pills away. He rummages his duffel some more. "I swear I had the other med kit in here…" he pauses. "Is it in your bag?"

Sam barely nods, and he feels Dean shift. "Cas?"

And Castiel is off again.

They wait some more, until Cas gets Sam's bag, and Sam hears Dean searching for the medicine kit. They have two — one for the pills, and the other for injections. Sam listens to the pleasant, white noise that his brother makes in the background, while he tries to breathe through the headache. He hears Dean stop while rummaging.

"What's this?"

Sam opens an eye. Dean is holding the orange prescription bottles that — oh, crap.

"Doxa…zosin," Dean reads. He picks up the other bottle. "Atenolol." He pauses. "What are these for? And why do you have a BP apparatus in your bag?"

Dean sounds confused and suspicious, but Sam's headache is too much to deal with in itself. He doesn't reply, and watches Dean put the pills down as he reaches for the med kit.

"You're going to have to tell me, you know," he says, pulling out a syringe and popping open a Zofran ampoule. He starts loading, and gestures to Sam. "Arm."

Sam obliges, and feels the needle slip into his vein as he watches blood swirl in and mix with the medicine. Dean pushes the plunger slowly, and presses a piece of cotton on the needle wound before drawing the needle out and capping it.

"You get sick while I was gone?" Dean asks, and Sam doesn't reply. He isn't sure he can handle another explosion right now.

"Sam?" Dean presses, and Sam just shuts his eyes again. There's a few moments of silence again. Sam waits for the Zofran to work, but the nausea doesn't abate. The headache seems to only grow, and Sam's neck hurts too.

Dean sighs. "Fine. You don't want to tell me," Sam hears another rattle, "I'll find out. You know that, right? I know how to use the internet, Sam. I ain't stupid." There is a pause. "Here. Cataflam. We're out of injections but I know the pills take the edge off your migraines sometimes."

Cataflam's just the same as Advil. The doctor has forbidden it unless there's an emergency, but this is an emergency. Plus Sam puked up the Advil, so this shouldn't add to that, should it? Sam lets Dean help him sit up and knocks down the pills, chasing them down with some water after that. Then he lays back down and shuts his eyes through the throbbing.

"Sammy."

"'Bout the pills, I'll tell you, Dean," Sam murmurs. "Just not now."

That's all Dean seems to need: an assurance that Sam will eventually let him in on why the new pills are there. "You should sleep properly, man," he says, worry tingeing his voice. "Look at what's happened. It hasn't been like this in years."

Sam scoffs. What was he supposed to do? Snore away, while Dean had nightmares and panic attacks? When Dean was possessed? How exactly was Sam supposed to stay put all that time? Would Dean have followed his own advice, had their situations been reversed?

A hand places itself lightly on the back of his head, and is gone the next moment. Sam knows that Dean feels guilty about what he said. And Dean really shouldn't blame himself — because it was all actually Sam's fault. Sam just wishes, right now, that he could stop being so fucking debilitated these days, and actually help his brother.

Minutes pass, and Sam tries to think, to divert his mind from the pain. His stomach is still churning, the pills sitting inside unsettlingly, and Sam swallows against the rising nausea. Beside him, Dean is talking to Cas in a low voice… and it's about their case, but Sam can't understand what they're saying.

The nausea suddenly reaches its crescendo, though, and Sam struggles to sit up. Dean, whose hand is still on Sam's shoulder, notices this. "Hey, hey, what? What's happening?"

Sam just props himself up before leaning over the side of the sleeping bag and throwing up on the floor. He feels an anvil fall on his head, and heaves again as the bitter pills come rushing back up. The headache goes up another notch, driving in more nausea, so that Sam retches again.

His ears are ringing, eyes are watering, and his whole body, except for his head, is numb. Sam has no clue what's going on. He catches snippets of Dean's words to him and anchors himself to them, because it's the only thing he can do.

"Breathe, Sam, dammit," Dean says, and Sam tries, but all that happens is more painful heaving. And Dean says something else — Sam thinks he's asking him to calm down… but how?

A few moments later, Sam feels the sleeping bag hit his back and someone's patting at his sweaty cheek, trying to reach out to him. Sam's head is blasting away — pieces of his skull rattling in his head, and creating havoc.

"That's it," Dean's disembodied voice says, "you're done. You're done."

Sam screws his eyes shut as another throb shakes his skull, and he tries not to cry out. "Please," he says, the words coming out in a garbled sound as he clutches his head. Sam can't recognise his own voice. "Please…"

"Sam," Dean says quietly. "Just take it easy, man. Getting wound up is makin' it worse."

"Please."

"Okay. Okay."

"C-Can't…"

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam's vision goes between black and white. Dean's hand is on his shoulder again, clenching and unclenching, and Sam gasps as another set of throbbing spasms begin to attack him, like several pieces of shrapnel hitting his brain and exploding and swirling and…

"Dean, Dean, 'm sorry." It comes out desperate and slurred, and Dean's hand clenches on Sam's shoulder.

"Hey."

"Dean, m'sorry… 'bout Abaddon… next time… lemme go…"

"Sam, you're not making sense. What?"

"D-D'n."

"Okay, I'm gonna give you a shot. You really need to sleep."

"N-No…"

"Sam, shut up, all right? You can barely talk and you're hurting. Now let me do my shit."

"D'n…"

"I know you hate it, I know, but we tried everything else and you're puking despite the Zofran. Just go with me here, dude."

"D'n, please. Lemme g-go."

"Shhh."

Sam sighs. "'Kay."

There's another prick… and Sam can barely locate it with all the torture in his head, but he feels cool liquid slide up his vein. In another minute, before he can realise it, he's one with the inviting darkness.

~o~

Sam doesn't know how long he was asleep, but when he comes to, it feels like he never slept. Every bone in his body is tired and his head… well, he doesn't actually have words for that. He just… he doesn't want to think and… fuck.

The throbbing rises. Sam hisses. There's a low voice coming from somewhere in the general vicinity, and someone's talking again. Sam sighs and opens his eyes for a little bit, only to catch sight of a tan trenchcoat's end, fanned out on the floor, not very far from where he's lying. Sam squints up. Dean and Cas are leaning against the wall, conversing rather seriously. Despite the pain, Sam smiles; they're holding hands.

Dean is slightly fidgety in Cas's grip, but he manages not to pull his hand away.

"Cas," he says, not realising that Sam is awake, "I just… I know I must look like crap to you guys, but stop hiding things from me, man."

"We didn't want you worried."

Dean scoffs. "Seriously?" He pauses. "What are the pills about? I checked them on the web. They're meds for high BP?" Dean sounds extremely confused.

"Yes."

There's a long moment of silence, as Castiel refuses to provide further information. Finally, Dean speaks.

"You wanna elaborate?"

"No."

"Cas."

Castiel turns to Dean. "You should ask Sam."

"Dude, the internet gave me a crap load of heart stuff when I looked for these meds, and now I'm spooked, okay? I just wanna know what the hell happened. You owe me that much!"

"Dean, what Sam chooses to reveal or hide about his health is up to him. Doctors follow a confidential protocol, I believe. And we should respect that and do the same for Sam."

"Yeah," Dean says, twitching his hand away from Cas's. "Except, you actually know what went wrong. And I deserve to know. He's my little brother."

"There's nothing wrong with him. I healed him. It's in the past. You should rest, Dean, and not worry about something that isn't a threat anymore."

"Why is he still on meds, then? Why did you tell me not to give him the Advil?"

"Well, honestly, I'm pretty sure the doctor said no Cataflam either," Castiel replies.

"What?"

Castiel shrugs. "Never mind. The medicine is not actually a threat to him now, seeing it never stayed in Sam's stomach."

Dean stays quiet for a moment. He turns his head in Sam's direction, and Sam quickly shuts his eyes to prevent Dean from knowing that he is awake. He bites down on his pain as he hears Dean let out a low snarl. "Screw you. Screw you both."

"Dean—"

"Don't you fucking touch me, man!" Sam opens his eyes in shock, to see Dean shift himself away from Cas. "You and Sam — both of you. What the fuck do you think has happened to me?"

Castiel licks his lips, taking the rhetorical question all too seriously. "I am not sure about Sam, but Dean, I think you've been sexually abused. It explains—" He stops midway, and Sam realises why, when he takes a look at Dean's face.

Dean blanches. The colour trickles out of his face quickly, draining away like sand in an hourglass, stream-by-stream, until there's nothing. His eyebrows are arched and his mouth opens for a moment.

The next second, Dean finds his voice. "You have no fucking—"

"Dean, we can help," Cas interrupts him, and Sam cringes. Cas didn't say that. Cas didn't actually say that…

"I don't need your help," Dean mutters, and his voice is not a whisper anymore. The pain in Sam's head reminds him that it's excruciating. Shit.

"I don't need your help, or anyone's help," Dean repeats. "You're not my knight in shining armour, okay? Not you, not Sammy. You saved my life, and thanks, but apart from that, don't think you can—"

"Let us help, Dean," Cas pleads, and Sam knows that he's well-meaning, but he also knows how this is going to end.

"I am not a fucking damsel in distress!" Dean explodes, his voice almost a yell. Sam clenches his jaw, willing the pain to reduce. It doesn't. Instead, Sam finds it difficult to even turn his neck. Crap, shit, something's wrong here. Something's really wrong.

Castiel continues to speak. "We know—"

"Do you? Because I sure as hell don't think so!" Dean's voice is piercing Sam's ears, and Sam's gut roils with more nausea. "Because," Dean continues, "ever since I came back, neither of you has fucking left me alone. You wanna talk. Both you bastards just wanna talk. But guess what? It doesn't go away!"

"Dean…"

"Stop trying to help me, Cas," Dean snaps. "Did I ask for it?"

"No."

"Then learn to fucking stop doing what people don't want done to them!" Dean shouts. "And if you can't do that, fuck off from my life, because I ain't taking any more of this shit!"

Sam's ears are ringing. His eyes are open now, and he hisses, hands going up to his head, but Dean and Cas don't seem to notice. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Cas deflate.

"You don't mean that, Dean."

"You wanna bet on that? I'm done with my tolerance, Cas, and I'll do it. I'll follow through, okay?"

There's more silence, and Sam curls his toes as the pain beats against his head in waves. Dean still hasn't noticed Sam's agony, and Sam is praying for them to stop shouting. He can't take it anymore. He can't. No. Nononononono. Please. Let me die. Let me die.

"Sam?"

It's Dean's voice. Softer, anger reined in, and more controlled.

Sam doesn't realise he'd shut his eyes again, but when he opens them, Dean is closer to him, his face apologetic. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't—"

"'S ok," Sam whispers, but it's not. He clenches his fingers over his head. "Oh, God."

"Sorry," Dean repeats. "I… can I do something? Please tell me, Sammy, I'm sorry, man."

Sam shakes his head as a tear runs down his temple. He chokes on his own breath from the pain, teeth clenched too tight together for him to even moan. He feels like something is sawing through his head, and the urge to puke becomes overwhelming. Sam tries to turn as he retches.

"Sam!"

Dean is turning him over and Sam gags up nothing, again and for another time, dry-heaves taking over his body as Dean's fingers clutch on to his arm. Several tears make their way out of Sam's tightly-shut eyes, and he's shaking all over as he keeps retching up air.

Something shifts beside him, and Cas speaks. "Dean, you need to check his BP."

"Cas, it's a—"

"Check his BP, Dean," Castiel says insistently, "or move, so I can do it. He might need a hospital."

The shock of Castiel's last sentence makes Dean loosen his grip on Sam slightly, but he gathers his bearings. "I'll do it."

The cuff is around Sam's arm in a moment, and he feels it tighten, then loosen. And then the cuff is off just as quickly. Dean sighs. "It's normal. Will you tell me—?"

"Is his nose supposed to bleed in a migraine?" Castiel unabashedly diverts Dean's question.

That's when Sam registers the thick, warm liquid gushing from his nostril and flowing down, and he tries to breathe it in. What? Why is his nose bleeding? That shouldn't be happening. The only time Sam's had headaches and nosebleeds are while he was using his powers all those years ago, but he's clean now.

"The nosebleed isn't supposed to be there," Dean admits.

There's a pause. Sam opens his eyes warily and flicks his gaze to Castiel, who seems to be calculating something. He glances at Sam and they meet eyes, before Castiel looks back at Dean.

He licks his lip. "This might be more than just a migraine, Dean."

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you considered that the shaman could have cursed Sam?"

A/N: Thank you! Reviews are great! :)