I'd just managed to drift back off to 'I Dream of Jeannie' and the occasional faint snore from the other bed when a very specific sound jerked me right back awake again. A sound I was all too familiar with. You know the noise someone makes right before they throw up? That gross phlegmy gagging deep in the back of the throat? Yeah, it was that. Ew.
I was on my feet before my eyes were all the way open, managing to make it to the bed in time to get Sam rolled over and aimed toward the trash can. Well, mostly in time. Dude is heavy as fuck and not the easiest to shove around without a little cooperation. "...shit."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Or at least I'm guessing that's what Sam was saying. Between hiccups, vomiting, and slurred words, it wasn't the easiest to make out. I'd had a fair amount of practice, though (and because of that practice I can definitively say that sick kids are easy. Hell, even drunk adults are easy. Drunk, sick adults the size of The Jolly Green Giant getting white-girl wasted and sobbing into their pillow? Not as easy).
"It's okay, Sam, I'll get it all cleaned up. Don't worry about it." Careful to avoid the mess on the floor, I perched on the edge of the bed, ignoring my own personal issues to rub Sam's back while he heaved up a lung in between sobs. Poor guy was a mess, and who could blame him? Anyone would be in his situation.
...also, seriously, the fuck had they been drinking? Even half-digested and regurgitated, the smell of cheap whiskey was strong enough to make my head swim.
"I-I can't-" And more vomit. Christ. And no way I could get Dean up to help, he hadn't so much as twitched in spite of Sam puking his guts up six inches away. Grand.
Sticking on a smile, I pushed away the tightness starting in my chest and ruthlessly squashed the little voice in my head telling me it was time to get away before I ended up with a full-blown panic attack. Those are always fun. ...wait, no. What's the opposite of fun? Because that. "Come on, Sam, let's go get you cleaned up."
Flipping open the toilet lid, I helped Sam sit on the floor next to it, trying not to show how eager I was to get him off me. A handshake I could handle if unavoidable. Even a hug on occasion. But this? This was pushing it.
Double-checking that he was aimed the right way before going to find a washcloth, I winced at the sound of liquid hitting porcelain. He was going to dehydrate at this rate. Twisting on the faucet, I ran the rag under the water, letting it warm up before ringing it out and turning back to kneel on the cold tile floor in front of him.
I waited until he was done with this round before gently wiping a layer of sweat and vomit off his face. His shaggy brown hair kept falling into his eyes, tears seeping out from half-closed lids to slide down his cheeks as he just kept repeating how sorry he was. (Trust me, it was way more heartbreaking than I can even begin to describe here. Even I was tearing up and I don't really cry easy. Or at least, I didn't used to. Having feelings sucks.)
"Shh, Sam, it's okay. It's gonna be okay." Smoothing Sam's hair off his forehead, I tossed the washcloth onto the back of the toilet tank before sitting back on my heels. I went for reassuring, using the same voice I'd used a thousand times with a thousand different kids. "I promise, everything's gonna be alright. Now-" Holding out my hands as he blinked blearily up at me, I gestured for him to lift his arms. "-come on, arms up, let's get you out of that dirty shirt and then we'll go get you tucked in."
Setting a cup of water on the nightstand next to the twin bed, I started to turn away, thinking Sam had passed back out again but no such luck. "...Skyler?"
"Yeah?" Biting back another sigh, I turned back and settled on the edge of the bed next to him. Smiling at him, I watched his hazel eyes trying to focus on my face. Not easy when your BAC is like .2. "I'm here, Sam. What do you need?"
"Would you stay with me until I fall asleep?" Okay, like ninety-eight percent sure that was a verbatim translation, or at least close enough. Either that, or something about sheep, and if that's the case then I really don't think I want to know anyway.
I looked at the open door that led into the other room—the much bigger room. With windows—before closing my eyes for a second and taking a deep breath. "Of course I will."
Anxiety, I laugh in the face of it. Then I shove it down and hide it deep inside until it comes clawing back to the surface at inconvenient times to blow up in my face. (You'd think I'd eventually learn, but no.) (Yeah, that's a family trait. -Dean)
Climbing onto the bed next to Sam's bulk, I suppressed a shudder when he promptly curled up with his head in my lap. Come on, Skye, it's no different than a five-year-old doing the same and you're fine with that. Deep breaths. I could do this. I'd be fine. It's all good. Except it wasn't the same, mostly because I've never met a two-hundred and twenty pound five-year-old that could break me in half.
Smoothing Sam's hair out of heavy-lidded eyes, I smiled tightly down at him, thankful he was too far gone to notice my obvious discomfort. He didn't need to feel bad about that on top of everything else he was going through.
"How about a story? I have Alice in Wonderland memorized." Or mostly, anyway. What can I say, I always identified with Alice. I must have read those books a hundred times as a kid. Still one of my all-time favorite authors.
Taking a vague nod as agreement, I closed my eyes again and leaned back against the rickety headboard, stroking his hair and trying to convince myself that he was just another kid on a Saturday night needing a bedtime story before I headed into the other room to do my homework. Yeah. Right.
"...Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank and of having nothing to do. Once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it and what is the use of a book, thought Alice, without pictures or conversations…"
Leaning over the sink with my eyes tightly closed, I focused on the feel of the cold porcelain under my fingertips and tried to slow the rapid thud of my heart in my chest. I was not having a heart attack and it was not going to kill me, much as it might feel like it. Much as I sometimes might wish it would.
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. ...yeah, I have a mantra, and yeah, it's Dory. What can I say, it's excellent advice and sometimes it actually helps. Also, I have it tattooed on my ass. (...now figure out if I'm kidding.)
In retrospect, getting Sam cleaned up had been effortless compared to having him curled up with his head in my lap for I don't even know how long. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had any kind of extended contact with anyone over the age of eight, let alone a grown man I'd known for all of three days. Needless to say, I was not fond of it. At all.
Cracking my eyes open, I looked at my reflection with a wry smile, meeting my own eyes in the bathroom mirror and noting the pallor of my already pale-as-fuck skin and the stress lines around my lips. Yeah, I was fine. Totally fine.
I was also (and still am) a big, fat liar. Well, okay, I don't think there's any universe where I qualify as either big or fat, but you get the idea.
Resting my forehead against the cool glass, I held a brief (very, very brief) internal debate. I desperately needed to blow off some steam, but no way I could do that with Drunk and Drunker passed out in the next room, which only left so many options. And that's when I had a fantastic thought: A big, old, fancy-ass place like this was bound to have a ballroom...right?
The sharp sound of the door latch clicking into place stabbed deep into my brain, waking me up and forcing me to pry my eyes open while reaching for a weapon I didn't have, which was more than enough to get me sitting up, though I don't think my brain had quite caught up to the fact that I was conscious yet.
Ungluing my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I scrubbed a hand over my face, trying to shake the alcohol-induced cobwebs. The fuck had Sammy and I been drinking the night before? It'd been cheap and strong and that's really all I remembered about it. Unfortunately, that was all I had forgotten, everything else was crystal-fucking-clear. What were the chances Skyler had hit her head, blacked out, and wouldn't remember me making a total ass of myself?
Hauling my ass out of bed, it only took a few seconds to check the empty bathroom before my attention turned to the closed door that opened into the adjoining room.
...and here's where I have to admit—because Tink's threatened to feed me nothing but salad for a month if I'm not one-hundred percent honest about what I remember (and come on, that's basically a death threat)—that I did have a brief moment where I thought the worst…
Right up until I realized how fucking stupid that was. Skyler could barely shake hands without hyperventilating and Sam was in no shape to do anything but push rope, so why the hell had that thought even entered my mind? Stuffing a pointless surge of jealousy right back down where it came from, I opened the door to the other room and verified for myself that Sam was alone.
Alone and half-dressed, with a trash can and a cup of water next to the bed. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Skye must have cleaned him up and put him to bed, the thick smell of vomit backing that assumption up. Dammit, she really was a nice person. Like I needed proof. It'd have been so much simpler if she really had been the raging bitch she came off as but no, of course not, that'd be too easy.
...but if she wasn't here, then where the hell was she?