Hung-over Sammy is usually sick.
The bathroom was dim. Any bright light shining into the tiny room drove horrible moans out of Sam, more horrible even than the moans he was making already. Dean stood in the doorway, blunting the reflected light that was bouncing in from the outer room, watching as Sam's body tried to turn itself inside out into the toilet.
He'd shepherded Sam out of the bar in the early afternoon, and despite Sam's drunken state, had managed to get him eat the Deluxe! Cheeseburger! Special! down at Edna's! Park~N~Eat! Dinery!
Actually, it was probably because Sam had been drunk that Dean got him to eat that much greasy food. He thought the food would blunt the effect of the alcohol in Sam's system – it had in the past – but now it seemed like a really bad idea.
It was barely nine o'clock and instead of sleeping like he'd been doing since going face first into his pillows as soon as they got back to the room, Sam was jigsawed into what little space there was on the bathroom floor between tub and toilet, with one hand on the rim, one arm pressed across his heaving stomach, and his legs folded and torsioned anywhere he could get them.
"This hit you kinda fast." Dean said, when Sam's retching eased off for all of seven seconds. "I didn't think it'd get you 'til tomorrow morning."
He tried to sound supportive and unconcerned, but Sam's spasms were agonizing, even for Dean. He could see every muscle under Sam's t-shirt coiling and bunching as the next bout started, every single fiber, sinew and tendon from the top of his head right down to the bottom of his feet straining so hard with the effort of puking that any second Dean expected Sam to rupture something.
"You doing OK?" He asked when Sam was done retching, again.
"Doh'nee'dense…" Sam slurred. He sat back as much as he could with cramped quarters and cramping muscles and pulled his discarded flannel shirt from the floor to scrub across his mouth.
"Dude, I'm not your audience; I'm your First Responder."
When that got him no answer, Dean took a step to give the vomit a check for blood and then hit the flush.
"I mean it, Sam. If this doesn't stop in five minutes, I'm taking you to the hospital."
And by 'five minutes', he meant right now.
"An' ris-risk m-m-me hhhurling all over y'r – y'r – baby?" Sam managed to rasp out. "I mus-must b-b-be dying."
"I'm trying to keep you from dying, Sammy. I keep expecting to see a lung or something floating in there."
"Nooo, just lemme – lemme – "
But that was as far as Sam got before Puke Trolls were at it again, riping his entire digestive tract through hell's sieve before launching it out his mouth and nose. The instant it was over, he sat back hard, hitting his back against the tub, and letting out a moan that sounded like a sob. Then he turned his head like he was embarrassed or ashamed and scrubbed his mouth again with his shirt.
"No hospital, Dean. Please. Jus-just – please."
That was it for Dean, he stopped hanging back and sat on the edge of the tub, right against Sam.
"All right, Sammy. All right." He put his hands on Sam's shoulders and massaged the trembling, agonized muscles with his thumbs. "No hospital. But, man, you gotta stop puking up your everlasting soul."
"T-t-trying. M-m-m'trying."
"I know, I know you are. I just – I hate seeing you this miserable. Only I'm allowed to make you this miserable."
That got him the teeniest amount of a breath that was all the laughing Sam could probably manage at the moment.
"Thank you?" He asked. He coughed into his shirt, still crumpled in his hand. He sniffled and coughed again and sighed a sigh that rasped almost as much as his voice. "I think that might be it."
"How about we give it another minute before I help you up off the floor?"
"Yeah…'kay…"
They waited, Dean massaging Sam's shoulders, Sam leaning against Dean's knee.
"Hey, Sam? Next time you want to pickle your liver, give me a chance to talk you out of it, first. Okay?"
And he heard another teeny breath of laugh.
"Okay."
The End
UP NEXT: Sick Sammy is usually whiny (but adorable.)