Dean woke up in the morning to hear his brother angrily talking to someone.
"Look, I already told you…the doctor hasn't seen him in a year, because the cycle stopped. It's restarted, we're in the middle of nowhere. We still have maybe a day or two's worth of meds left from last year. Yes, an appointment would be wonderful, thank you."
Sam looked over and saw Dean was awake. He rolled his eyes theatrically and Dean smirked.
" March?! You've got to be kidding me! No,…no,…no. Time is a factor."
Dean clambered out of bed and held out his hand for the phone, wearing his best May-I expression. Sam handed it over, muttering, "Good luck."
Dean walked into the bathroom with the phone. All Sam heard of the conversation was, "Hi, I'm Dean McGilliguddy, I'm speaking with? Hello, Sandra. That's such a pretty name. Sorry about my brother, he's wound a little tight." Dean waggled his eyebrows at Sam as he closed the bathroom door.
A few moments later, Dean walked back into the room. "Appointment is Friday at 3pm."
Sam flailed his arms. "Twenty minutes I spent on the phone with that harpy and got nowhere. Five minutes later, you have an appointment for three days from now?"
"Aww, Sammy. You were just warming her up for me." Dean handed his brother back the phone with a delighted smile on his face. Apart from the smile, Sam noticed, Dean looked wrecked. Not sick, not in pain, just achingly tired.
"You okay?"
"Fine." Dean scratched the back of his head. "Coulda done with a couple more hours, but we'll have time to play catch up. We're only, what...half a day from Maryland?"
"About that, yeah."
"So, we shoot for the Virginia border today, which puts us for Nashville around lunchtime…." Dean trailed off, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eye, obviously trying to manipulate the conversation.
Sam let out a long sigh. "Smooth. You want to go to Cheeseburger Charley's, don't you?"
"I am friggin' velvelty smooth, little brother." A crooked Carey Grant smile flitted across Dean's face. "And we are passing through…I think I've earned a burger of highest quality."
Yeah, Dean had more than earned it. "Sure, yeah, we can go."
The smile Dean bestowed on Sam would have made Sandra weak in the knees.
By day, they had a wonderful time. The interstate was smooth sailing, beautiful weather and no cops in sight. They hit Nashville in no time, which meant Sam had time to hunt and peck around some old bookstores, while Dean had some time to hunt and peck around some old music stores. Sam bought a book on protection herbs, but left desperately wanting a first edition Dickens.
"You can't even be a normal nerd, can you? You're an elitist nerd!" Dean had laughed.
Dean had bought a cassette from The Edgar Winter Group, and ending up lusting over a Sunburst Stratocaster that was hanging on the wall.
"Do you think if you got a guitar, you'd develop better taste in music? Because I'll buy it for you right now." Sam had teased.
On the way out of Nashville, after a cheeseburger that Dean kept on gushing over and didn't even finish, the reality of the situation sank in and the mood began to get a bit more tense.
"So…we have two days of medication and three days until your appointment. What do you want to do?" Sam was fidgeting in the passenger seat. He didn't want to bring it up, but he wanted to have a plan of attack.
"We can get the Imitrex called in at a pharmacy when we stop for the night."
"Okay, good, but Dean…that stuff works sporadically, at best."
"I know that." Dean purposefully kept his eyes on the road.
"So, I was thinking that the sooner we get to Annapolis the better. We can map out where the ERs are, so if I have to take you-"
"Sam, you are not carting my ass to the ER every night!" Dean interrupted, "It is just not happening! You know what kind of problems that can cause."
"It causes problems when we have to explain away crazy injuries. This is a legitimate illness and you have a neurologist in town there. We'll use the same name, the same info. I'm not talking about staying overnight, just a couple of hours so they give your ass some Demerol."
"Sam." Dean said, with warning in his voice.
"Dean," Sam echoed with nearly identical intonation. "You are literally dealing with the scientifically quantified worst pain imaginable and you want to do it without pain meds? You want to prove how macho you are, man? There, you win!"
"You think I didn't go through this with dad?" Dean bit out. "Before I was diagnosed we were spending every friggin' night at the ER. If you cart me in there yourself, then we have to wait in line. By the time they get to me, the attack will probably be over. Meanwhile, I coulda been dealing with it in the dark and quiet somewhere. And if you call an ambulance, the cops might show up too. You want to explain all the weaponry?"
"It isn't like it'll be a call for a domestic disturbance or drug possession, Dean. They'll be no reason for them to be rooting around in the trunk unless we say, "Hey guys – can you grab the bag with his medical history, it is right on top of the machete.""
"We can't take that risk, Sam, not when we have to find dad." Dean's words were final. There was no way he was being talked out of it. "Besides, it isn't like I'm bleeding out or anything."
Sam crossed his arms. "We'll just have to find another way, then."
"If you can, then – by all means."
The next two nights went pretty much the same as last. And although Dean, being the one afflicted, still ended up in tears both nights (if you asked him, they were very manly tears), Sam had done his utmost to take on a role of a calm, somewhat detached care provider. The detachment was the only thing that had gotten him through those nights. Dean seemed to either be getting more comfortable with being in such great pain in front of his brother or wasn't coping as well, because he wasn't censoring himself as much. It was quite possible that he had no idea what he was saying at the time. Wishes for death had happened a couple of times, pleas to be knocked out happened near constantly and Sam had come close to abiding his wishes and punching his brother out. Part of that was the very altruistic notion that Dean wouldn't be aware of the pain if he was unconscious. The other part was the sheer frustration of limited pain management resources and Dean's refusal to take an emergency room into consideration. Knocking someone out by force was tricky business, though – hitting hard enough to lay someone out meant possible concussion no matter how you sliced it, and it wasn't guaranteed to keep Dean out long enough to make a good deal of difference. In the end, Sam settled for not interfering (as much) when Dean kept trying to knock himself out.
Thursday dawned – they had no Dilaudid left. They pulled into Maryland in the early hours of the morning, Sam driving due to the hellish night Dean had previously. Now Dean had the shakes, and Sam had no idea what that was about. Dean had withdrawn completely into himself, basically only muttering that his head was fine and for Sam to stop staring at him. Sam got them set up in the first motel they saw on the outskirts of Annapolis, figuring Dean could do with a nice long shower and a nap. Meanwhile, Dean had told him that he was welcome to find an alternate plan, which was tantamount to a challenge in Sam's book.
In a few short hours, Sam became a scholar on cluster headaches, learning everything he could. This had less to do with his awe-inspiring research abilities and more to do with the lack of information and treatment options. Preventative medication was all well and good for later this month , but preventative medication was all about trial and error and what may or may not work – and it could take a long time to properly test these meds and get them up to a right dose. Point was - it didn't cover the issue of what the hell was going to happen that night. In the end, he ended up doing what he'd done whenever he was a kid and going to Dean wasn't an option, he called Pastor Jim.
The phone call started out predictably awkward. Sam hadn't spoken to Jim Murphy since right after he left for Stanford. He always felt rather bad about it, but at the time he had felt the need to separate his new normal life from his old fucked up one. Always the epitome of understanding, Jim hadn't made a big deal about it. He had told Sam back then that he was confident they would meet again someday. He was, however, surprised to find out now that Sam was back hunting. So, there was a bit of catching up to do. Pastor Jim didn't offer any clichés or platitudes about Jessica's death, which was comforting in and of itself. Sam was still getting emails from his friends and Jessica's family telling him to "hang in there" and that it would "get better." Sam knew the truth of it. It would never get better; it would just get different enough that he'd accept his new reality without question. He'd get used to her absence, which almost seemed worse – like he was letting her go, bit by bit. It was why he was clutching hold of revenge so hard. If he centered his entire purpose around Jessica's death, then he felt like he was still holding onto her, still making sure she mattered to him. He wondered quite a lot if this was how his father felt about their mother.
"Samuel, hunting is a noble calling no matter what your reasons are, but I'll tell you what I told your father. Most hunters get into this business because they've suffered a loss. The ones who truly make it are those who have figured out they still have something left to lose. Don't lose what you already have in pursuit of this goal, son. Now, that brother of yours, he has his head on fairly straight in this regard."
Remembering why he was on the phone, Sam blurted out,"Dean is actually why I'm calling."
Suddenly full-fledged hunter and fierce friend, Pastor Jim hurried Sam along to the point. "If something was wrong, Sam, you should have said right away. Although, I appreciate the talking – to be sure."
"Were you in contact with dad last year when Dean got sick?"
"They've come back, haven't they, the headaches? Damn it."
"I'll take that as a yes." Sam couldn't help but be a bit irked that Pastor Jim had been filled in about Dean being sick, but he'd been kept in the dark this whole time. Sam was busy trying to stifle the ire that rose up within him at the possibility that his father was being deliberately spiteful by not letting him in on a family emergency, before he realized that the holy man was speaking.
"Sam, did I you lose you? How can I help?"
Sam explained the situation – that they had an appointment for Dean at the neurologist the next day, but tonight they were out of pain medication. "I guess I was hoping you had some contacts in the area that could help us out on that front. At this point, I'll take anything – tranquilizers for him, anything."
There was a long pause and Sam heard the clacking of keyboard keys in the background.
"Er, Pastor Jim?"
"Just a second. IMing some contacts."
Sam could not stifle the laugh that came out of him. "Ahem, sorry, just….struck me as funny." The last memory Sam had of Pastor Jim with a computer was the Apple IIGS that Sam used to play Oregon Trail on, and this was only a few years back.
"To tell you the truth, it started as mostly for the church. A parishioner donated his old PC. We ran a congregation webpage and had a committee meeting on Google. It sort of spread out into other areas of my life. Can you be downtown in two hours? Three-story brick building on the corner of Franklin and Admiral."
Sam glanced over at his brother who was curled up in a fitful slumber . "Absolutely! Who are we meeting?"
"Elderly man by the name of Thomas Darwin. Don't let his age fool you, though, he's sharp…still a practicing doctor. I've filled him in on the situation and he's expecting you."
"You filled the elderly doctor in via Instant Messenger?" Sam asked in disbelief.
"No, don't be silly, Samuel. By email. I have to get going, I'm the chaplain for hospice patients today. The dying don't tend to wait when you're running late. You give your brother my regards, tell him to take better care of himself this time. And let me know how you make out, will you?"
"I will," Sam promised. "Just one more thing."
"Name it."
"Er, can I have your email address?"
After Sam said his goodbyes and hung up his phone, he walked over to Dean's bedside and took a deep breath.
"Hey." Sam nudged Dean's shoulder gently and got no response. Sam sat down on the bed and tried again.
"Dude, time to wake up." Dean groaned and rolled away from the sound of Sam's voice.
"Do not make me break out the ice bucket, man."
"You do that and I will punch you in your giant head," said Dean, not moving a muscle, his voice muffled from the pillow.
"When has that ever stopped me?" Sam asked.
This was true and Dean knew it. Sam had taken more than one shot to face from waking Dean up forcefully and had never seemed to learn his lesson. Dean rolled back over and propped himself up on his elbows so he could glare at his brother properly.
"What do we even have to get up for? I know you didn't find us a job yet, and checkout time is, gee, tomorrow…"
Sam ignored Dean's surliness. "I called Pastor Jim, he has a contact we're meeting in town in a couple of hours. A doctor."
"Sam…" Dean just sighed and shook his head. He wanted to give the kid a piece of his mind, but he remembered that he had told Sam to find any viable path, so long as it wasn't the hospital. He still wasn't happy that Sam's plan had involved Pastor Jim, though. "Okay, so that's in a couple of hours. See you then."
Dean went to lay back down and Sam pulled the pillow out from under him. "No!"
"Goddamn it, Sam! Why the hell not?!" Dean shouted.
"We need to get something to eat." Sam said, as if the answer was painfully obvious.
"So you go and tell me how it is." Dean said, making a grab for the pillow, which Sam put out of his reach. When everything in life needed to be on a sharp deadline, it turned out food became distinctly less enjoyable. You did not want to wake yourself up after an evening in hell just to snag breakfast.
Usually it was Dean stopping the car at some diner, whether Sam was hungry or not. At this point, Sam was starving. They hadn't a good sit-down meal since Nashville, mainly subsisting on mini-mart fare. Mini-mart fare that Dean had barely touched. The only times he'd ever known Dean to avoid food was when he was sick or sick with worry.
"The past couple of days you've barely touched anything. Is your stomach bothering you, something else?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Dude, you're wrecked. Don't try and pull that crap with me."
Dean rolled his eyes. Going through this with Sam was ten times worse than going through it with his dad. His dad wasn't nearly so observant about this kind of crap, for one. Secondly, the drill sergeant gave an order – you obeyed, and most times it was an order. Now that Dean had room to discuss things, he had license to abuse that room to his liking, or thought he did. He hadn't been used to that pleading gaze in Sam's eyes for a couple of years. He'd been hoping he'd become immune to it while Sam was at Stanford. Apparently not. "Whatever. Seriously, my stomach is fine. With everything that is going on, I just get wiped, y'know? Barely wanna think about anything, nevermind food."
Sam immediately put his hand on the well-worn industrial carpet of the motel room.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dean asked.
"Checking to see if hell froze over." Sam said, tossing the pillow back to Dean. Well, more like at Dean. "C'mon. I'll order for you, you won't have to think about it."
"Like you know what I'll like." Dean snorted.
Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Dude, I'm the one that gave you the Four Food groups lecture when I was nine. I'm all too familiar with the crap you eat."
"I still say Frankenberry is a valid fruit choice." Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor.
Sam snorted. "Well, maybe we can pick up a box for dinner."
Of all the stupid things to make Dean's eyes light up, it was the possibility of Frankenberry, picking out the tiny marshmallows first and letting the cereal turn the milk pink. That was something worth getting out of bed for.