A/N: Wow, didn't expect that kind of response! Now I feel all pressured for brilliance--eek! So I hope this doesn't disappoint. Anyway, thanks to all who reviewed--it's made me WAY giddy. Of course, a teacher on spring break is just asking for giddiness anyway. Thanks and love and hugs to Cati for the beta and the incessant inspiration (I know, I know--I owe you a fic and those two weird post-Shadow ramblings don't count...). But, now on to Sam and Dean and that persistent stomach flu (but is it...? wow, I am bad at suspense). Apologies for turning any reader's stomach. It was not my intention to have my writing associated with vomit, but I guess as long as it's memorable, right? Oh, and remember, I know nothing about real life medical conditions...I teach languages arts, so I might be able to use a comma correctly but even that's shaky.

Chapter Two: Playing Sick

The day was uneventful. Dean camped out in the living room, watching bad daytime talk shows, trying not to listen when his baby brother threw up every hour. He would occasionally go check on Sam, help him back from the bathroom to the bed, and try to force feed him some water and saltines.

In the afternoon he went out to run some errands, swinging by a local bar where he knew some guys he knew hung out between classes at the local community college. He played a round of pool, joked around, and was enjoying his afternoon when they had to get to class and Dean reluctantly returned home.

The apartment smelled stuffy when he got inside. The air conditioning wasn't working and there clearly weren't enough windows open. "Hey, Sammy, I'm home!"

He dumped his keys on the makeshift coffee table then leaned into the bedroom. "Sammy?"

The room was empty. He narrowed his eyes in concern.

"Sam?" he asked again, moving carefully through the house, trying to keep his voice even.

He found his brother in the bathroom, curled up on the floor. He knelt beside him, smoothing his hair away to see his face. "Sammy?"

Sam whimpered, his face taught with pain.

"Sam, wake up," Dean commanded, panic pricking his subconscious.

Stirring, Sam blinked, taking gasping breaths. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. What are you doing there?"

Surveying his surroundings, Sam seemed uncertain. Overcompensating for his disorientation, he jolted upright. The room spun and his face paled.

Dean leaned back, not wanting to be in the path of any projectiles that escaped from Sam's mouth. But the nausea seemed to pass and Sam slumped back, the lines of pain etched once again onto his face. "You okay there, bro?"

Sam didn't move. The room seemed less unsettling with his eyes closed. "Stomach."

"Yeah, we established that," Dean replied apprasingly. "You just nauseous?"

"Just hurts," Sam breathed, hoping that his brother would stop asking him questions.

"Hurts how, Sammy?"

Sam opened his eyes to slits. "I've been heaving my guts out for nearly seven hours. How do you think it hurts?"

The answer seemed reasonable. But Sam was downplaying the pain, Dean was sure of it. His protests were not convincing when the pain was plastered so visibly across his face.

However, the Winchesters had a don't-ask-don't-tell policy when it came to most things in life. And it was good that Sam wasn't complaining; no one needed a whiny little brother when the going got tough. He trusted Sam would tell him if something were truly out of whack.

"Whatever, Sammy," Dean said. "Let's just get you back to bed."

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Sam spent the rest of the evening in and out of the bathroom, falling into a desperate sleep between bouts. But the pain never let him drift too far, always anchoring him somewhat to consciousness, draining his already depleted energy reserves.

By the time Dean finally fell into the bed across from him, Sam had no idea what time it was, his life a painful cycle of nausea and pain. Dean said goodnight, and Sam didn't know what he replied, but found himself slipping away into sleep.

He woke up suddenly, his eyes probing the darkness frantically. No, no, no…

For a moment, he thought he might scream but no sound came out. He looked over to Dean, seeing his brother sleeping on the rumpled bed. He didn't have to ask Dean to know his sarcastic reply. Take it like a man.

The mantra in his head lulled him back into a pain-filled sleep.

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Pain ripped him from sleep again, this time with a gasp. It was blinding and he couldn't breathe.

His pride crumbled and he turned his eyes to his brother, attempting to speak.

Sam's voice was taut, barely a hissed whisper. "Dean, I think--I think something's wrong."

Dean didn't open his eyes. "Wrong how?"

"…hurts…"

Moaning, Dean rolled on his side, flicking on the lamp.

"…Dean…"

Dean's eyes adjusted in time to see Sam heave mightily into the bucket. Dean wrinkled his nose as he watched.

Sam's retching continued. After a minute, he was spent, falling back against the pillows panting. His face glistened with sweat and his eyes were shut.

Dean moved carefully to Sam's bed, sliding a hand across Sam's brow. "You still feel okay," he said, noting the moisture his hand wiped away. "You just need to relax."

Sam shook his head, his forehead creased. "…hurts, Dean. It hurts."

Dean studied his brother a moment, chewing his lip. It wasn't like Sam to be needy. He didn't usually like to admit pain--to admit pain was to admit that he needed help, and Sam strove for complete independence these days.

But he had also remembered a younger Sam, a whiny Sam who exaggerated illness to get the attention he wanted. If he wants to play sick...

Sam was sick, but it was the stomach flu-never a pleasant experience, but certainly nothing serious. Sam would never grow up if he didn't learn to suck it up, be stoic. He had never seen his father miss a hunt for a little stomachache, and he could remember more than once when he played down his own symptoms for the sake of the hunt. He needs to learn a lesson.

Sam didn't know how to take one for the team anymore, and it was a lesson Dean figured he ought to show his brother again.

He found Sam watching him, his wide eyes looking hopeful. Dean had to be strong here. What would Dad do?

"You're going to whine about a stomachache, little brother? Come on, after all the crap we've dealt with, I think you can have a stiff upper lip about this one."

There was a flicker in Sam's eyes, a hesitation, a trembling. It looked as thought Sam might speak, might cry--might do something very un-Winchester-like. But it passed and he stilled, offering his brother an empty smile. "Yeah, guess so."

"Good." Dean's voice carried false bravado. "Why don't you go rinse that out, take a drink, and get some sleep."

Dean went back to his own bed, watching carefully as Sam gathered his energy to move. He sat up slowly, pausing before getting to his feet shakily. As his brother moved haltingly toward the bathroom, Dean almost went to help him, almost cursed when Sam had to lean against the door for support. Maybe he's sicker than I think.

But no one had stayed up with him when he had the flu--Sam should be grateful that Dean was here at all. Especially when their father needed him far more than his brother did.

Thinking of his father made him forget, helped him overcome that look of betrayal that had passed over his brother's face. Sam would learn, in time. Sam would grow up and be better for all of this.

Dean adjusted his pillow as he listened to Sam running the water in the bathroom. He watched as Sam moved lethargically back to his bed. He collapsed to the mattress, letting the bucket drop to the floor beside him. Sam's eyes were closed, but Dean could see deep creases across Sam's forehead. For a moment, Dean thought he should say something, make sure Sam was really okay.

"Turn out the light, Dean." Sam's voice interrupted his thoughts. He spoke low and monotone. "Can't sleep with the light on."

Sam's voice quelled his concerns. Dean turned off the light, and let his questions drift away into sleep.