A/N: Thanks again for the all the reviews! They are truly making this process exceptionally fun. Unfortunately it is Friday so I am mourning the rapidly approaching end of my spring break (if I keep denying will Monday come less quickly?). Anyway, onto chapter three! Again much credit needs to go to Cati who manages to keep my writing from exploring every random tangent I might otherwise let it pursue. I'm a better writer because of her and probably a better person too :)
Chapter Three: Mind and Matter
Sam awoke slowly, his mind groggily become aware. He kept his eyes closed, trying to feel out the status of his body. It was bright in the room--it must be morning--but he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He could still taste the foulness of vomit in his mouth, which was dry and coated with grime. He felt tired; his limbs were too heavy to move.
He opened his eyes just barely, just enough to take in the fullness of the morning light. He forced a swallow, testing his stomach. The overwhelming nausea seemed to be gone.
Encouraged, he opened his eyes more fully, blinking as they adjusted to the influx of sun. He was about to sit up when the nausea hit him again and he barely had time to grab the bucket before he retched.
He had nothing left to throw up but bile, so after a few painful dry heaves, he leaned back against the headboard.
Then the pain lanced through him, re-igniting with vigor. He gasped, his hand moving to his stomach in shock.
The pain was searing, and it took moment for the whiteness to settle from Sam's vision. With a couple of deep breaths, Sam managed to compose himself. He felt himself balancing precariously on the edge of consciousness, the pain threatening to consume him if he so much as twitched.
He was still lying there, in a stupor, when Dean meandered in.
His brother grinned his trademark grin. "Look who's awake."
Sam grimaced.
"How you feeling?"
With a shaky shallow, Sam spoke. "Okay."
"We're doing better here," Dean quipped. "You slept for nearly three hours that last time without as much as a hiccup. It's all mind over matter, bro, and you're on the mend."
Sam managed a thin smile.
Dean bought it, and returned it with a broad, toothy smile of his own before he disappeared back into the living room.
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Sam had tried to do his homework for part of the morning. But as he tried to complete the trig problems, thoughts of pi unsettled him, twisted his stomach angrily. When he tried to read Catcher in the Rye for American Literature, he found Holden Caulfield's whiny voice too familiar, too appealing, and that nauseated him too.
He fell asleep to that book, wondering if there was some catcher out in the rye fields, ready to catch him as he approached the end. He felt himself running, desperately, furiously, ignoring the pain as it erupted through his limbs and body. When he neared the edge of the field, that's when he saw the catcher, grinning a broad, cocky smile…Dean?
"Sammy, you awake?"
Sam's eyes snapped open.
"You okay there?"
Sam's voice was strained, but he was better at lying than his brother gave him credit for. "I'm okay," he said. "Just my stomach."
"Well you just spent the last few days emptying everything out of it. You're bound to be a little off for awhile there, kiddo."
Sam almost smiled. Mind over matter.
He didn't grimace until Dean had turned around. He silently willed Dean to probe him further, to make him divulge the depth of his pain, but his brother took him at his word, and disappeared down the hallway.
Sam let out a shaky breath, the trembling renewing. Exhausted by the effort of camouflaging the pain, Sam sank into a troubled sleep.
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Sleep had come readily to Sam, leaving Dean an evening to himself. He spent it in front of the TV, the one his father had purchased with the antenna that picked up a remarkable number of stations when aligned correctly.
He thought about calling someone--he had a few numbers for girls he had met scribbled on napkins in his bedside table. But Sam had still looked pale, still unsettled, and Dean didn't want to leave his brother while he was still recovering. Besides, his father would kill him, and Dean was skeptical of his brother's self-assessment of his condition.
He figured his father was probably at his destination by now, making preparations. Dean started to go through the mental checklist and wished suddenly that he could be there with his father to help ensure that everything was in place. He hated the thought that his father was going to be on his own this weekend.
He almost considered checking on Sam again, making sure all was well, but the infomercial changed to a hair removal cream that focused in on sleek and tan long legs of women in scanty bikinis. Enthralled, he watched, only half hearing the glowing testimonies, before he fell into a soundless sleep.
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Dean was jarred to consciousness by the growing sound from an early morning news report. Stretching, he checked the time. 7:30…I should be in bed.
The couch had left kinks in his back and he stood to work them out. Finding himself awake, he decided to check on Sam.
His kid brother was curled up, sleeping soundly. The bucket by his side was empty.
Satisfied, Dean knew it was time to start pushing his brother to full recovery. He went to the kitchen in search of nourishment for him. Poking around the empty cupboards, Dean found an assortment of protein bars and canned fruit--not exactly the idea food for a recovering stomach.
Dean rummaged for some bread--toast being a stomach flu standby--and found none. Sighing, he decided he would need to make a run to the store. Seeing as Sam hadn't puked in hours, he figured his brother could survive without him. Besides, the house seemed interminably small and he was desperate to get away from the stench of sweat and sickness.
When he got back, he found Sam sitting up, reading his book. "You must be delusional now," Dean joked wryly. "Reading? On a weekend?"
Over the top of his book, Sam cast his brother a perturbed frown. "I'm feeling better, thanks."
"Yeah, back to your typical freaky self, I can see," Dean said. "You ready to try to eat something?"
"Do I have to?"
"Yep."
"Then why'd you ask?"
Dean gave a lopsided grin. Sam was back to ornery--probably the best sign of all that he was on the mend. "How's some toast?"
"Mmm…sounds delicious."
Dean ignored the sarcasm and went to the kitchen, Dean emptied out his grocery bag, taking out the bread he bought for Sam. The toaster was on the counter and he plugged it in, plopping two pieces of toast in the slots. Dean managed to salvage the toast before the toaster charred the bread, tossed them on a plate, poured a glass of water and returned to Sam.
Sam accepted the plate of toast with as much excitement as could be expected. The smell of the food didn't turn his stomach, but he still didn't find it readily appealing. However, very aware of his brother's eyes on him, he lifted up a piece and ate a small corner.
When it went down without a gag reflex, Sam was encouraged, and nibbled some more. Dean watched approvingly.
"We're definitely making progress here."
Sam just rolled his eyes and took another, more sizeable bite. "Jack called."
"Yeah?"
"He says they're having a party tonight, at his place."
Dean tried not to look interested. "Yeah, well, looks like I've already got my date for the evening."
Sam glared. "I'll be fine," he said, annoyed. "You can go."
"Dad would kill me."
"I wouldn't tell."
Dean seemed to consider it. "We'll see how you're doing tonight, okay?"
"Whatever."
There was a lull and Dean studying the window, which was streaky and laden with dust. "Man, we could have been there with him," Dean said with a sigh.
"Dad?"
"This was a big gig, Sammy," Dean said. "If I had known you'd be better by now, we could have swung it. You could've slept in the car."
Sam stopped eating his toast, his appetite waning. "Sorry for putting such a damper on your plans."
Dean glared at him. "It's not about my plans," he said sternly. "It's about what's best for the family. Dad shouldn't be on this hunt alone. He needed backup and you're laying around with a little bug. I should have dragged you out of bed that morning and made you come."
"And you would have loved that when Dad had to pull over every five minutes while I puked my guts out."
"Maybe then you wouldn't make such a show out of it," Dean muttered.
Sam's eyes flashed with hurt and he set his jaw. "Yeah, because I so enjoy having you hover over me like a mother hen."
"Don't be a baby, Sammy," Dean said, standing. "All you ever do is think about yourself and whine. Do you think I really want to be cooped up here with you all weekend?"
"Then leave," Sam said evenly, his words separated and punctuated. "I certainly don't need you here to hold my hand."
"Right, Sammy," Dean scoffed. "Like you could do this on your own."
"Not like I've ever gotten a chance to try."
"Whatever, man. Just eat the toast and shut up. Do your little studying thing. I'll be in the living room hoping that Dad's okay."
With that, Dean left the room.
Sam sat a moment longer, looking at his hands as they held the plate on his lap. He felt the familiar rise of bile in the back of his throat, brought on as much this time by his brother's hurtful words as by whatever bug he was suffering from. Disgusted, he put the plate back on the table, and laid down to sleep.
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Dean sat on the couch and stared at a blank TV screen.
He shouldn't have lost his temper with Sam. Sam couldn't help it if he was sick. And he didn't want to have to worry about Sam under the weather in the line of duty. That was a weakness they couldn't afford.
But he hated to think about his father alone out there. How could he protect both of them when they both had such different needs?
Dean didn't know, and sulkily flipped on the TV. Nothing else I can do, anyway, he thought, and he maintained the status quo.
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A steady pulse of pain filled his sleep, cajoling him to consciousness. He gasped as his eyes flew open, surprised by the renewed onslaught of pain. It was worse than before.
He clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It'll pass, it'll pass. Mind over matter, mind over matter.
He heard a noise from the doorway and barely had time to wipe away the tear trickling from his eye as Dean came in.
"How you doing there?"
Sam tried to keep his face blank, tried to contain his shivering. "Fine."
"You sure?"
Sam closed his eyes. "Just tired."
"Yeah, you look it," Dean said, noting the lack of color in his brother's face. "You going to eat some more?"
"Not really hungry."
"You've got to eat. You haven't thrown up in nearly a day, and you kept the toast down this morning. I think you can manage it."
"I just want to sleep, Dean," he said, his voice almost a plea, desperate for Dean to leave him alone. He could only maintain the image of being strong so long. "I'm exhausted."
"You're not going to get any strength back until you eat something, Sammy," Dean explained tersely. "This isn't all about how your stomach may or may not feel. You can't let yourself get run down like this."
Sam took a shallow breath, hoping to steady his voice. He opened his eyes. "Okay, I'll eat some toast."
As Dean left, Sam collapsed to the bed, writhing in agony. He took shuddering breaths, hitting his fists to the side of the bed. Please let it stop…
By the time Dean returned, Sam had stilled his body, suppressing the pain by sheer willpower.
Dean handed Sam the plate of toast as Sam struggled to sit upright. Dean watched his younger brother quizzically. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah," Sam replied. He lifted the toast and took a bite as though to prove his point.
Dean watched him for a few more pathetic bites before retiring to the living room. "I want to see that plate clean, Sammy!"
With Dean gone, his guise fell again. He fought the urge to regurgitate the measly pieces of toast he had just consumed. Instead he blanched, hastily crumbling the remaining bread. He sprinkled some behind his bed, not caring if it would attract more roaches, and placed the plate on the bedside table.
His artifice exhausted him, and he curled up on his side, his hand over his stomach.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. What's wrong with me?
The pain didn't abate, and he thought about calling out to Dean. Dean would listen to him, Dean would take care of him-
But he was tired of being the baby. They were going to keep treating him like he was three until he started sucking it in. Take it like a man.
He trembled as he tried to inhale. He expected his father's disappointment; it was Dean's he couldn't stand.
Dean would never let a little stomachache keep him down. Dean would never cry out for help for a 48 hour bug. Or 72…who's counting?
He wiped away an errant tear, gritting his teeth. Just got to breathe, just breathe. Think about what Dean would do.
Dean would grin and bear it. Sam forced his breathing to even, stilling himself, trying to hide from the pain that radiated throughout his stomach. Just grin and bear it.
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He came back to check on Sam, to find his brother sound asleep. So much for some rousing conversation to keep me from going stir crazy.
Collecting the plate, he found the toast torn to crumbs, though it did appear that Sam had managed to eat most of it.
Dean sighed and resigned himself to the living room couch. He tried flipping channels, but the reception was poor tonight, and he didn't feel like watching a rerun of 7th Heaven.
He turned off the TV, letting the remote flop to the couch. He still had a full day until his father returned home. He had been given explicit orders to stay, but if he had to sit here any longer, he was sure he was going to lose it.
He remembered Jack's party. You can go. Sam's blessing may not be enough to appease his father, but Sam wasn't a tattle-tale, and he trusted that Sam would tell him if he couldn't handle a night home alone.
With his father on the hunt and Sam bedridden, this definitely seemed like an ideal opportunity to revitalize the remnants of his social life. Their father was single-minded in his hunts-he wouldn't call to check up or even for backup since he was so determined to do it on his own.
And Sam--Sam was sound asleep. It had been nearly a day since his brother had stopped throwing up. Dean figured the worst of the bug was behind him, and all he needed was rest. He was sure his baby brother would sleep through the entire night.
He glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he could still make the party. Dad was gone, Sam was on the mend, and he was tired of sitting around the apartment.
The decision made, he left the phone by the bed along with a glass of water and a small pile of toast. He thought about rousing his brother to tell him he was leaving, but Sam needed his rest. Dean sneaked quietly out the front door.