Jim saw the headlights cutting through the darkness and heard the rumble of engine and crunch of gravel under tires before he saw the familiar black muscle car crest the hill leading to his house.
It had started raining ten minutes ago, causing Jim to stand by the door on the porch, waiting for the boys' arrival and holding the largest umbrella he could find in the hall closet.
Jim had just stepped under the umbrella and into the downpour when Dean got out from the driver's side, ran around the front of the car, and opened the passenger's side door.
Ducking in and pulling the hood of Sam's sweatshirt over the kid's head, Dean then backed out with his arms full of blanketed Sammy, thankful Jim was there, covering them from the icy rain as he carried his little brother up the steps and into the foyer.
They had just cleared the doorway when Jim snagged the keys from Dean's fingers and turned around, heading back outside.
"I'll get your bags."
Dean nodded as he carried Sam up the stairs, guided by the soft glow of lamps as he turned left into the hallway, and then left again as he entered the room they typically shared. The house had more than enough rooms for them to have their own, but that just felt...weird.
Although Sam looked scrawny, he was solid muscle and getting taller by the day, and Dean's arms were beginning to shake from exertion as he neared the double bed in the farthest corner. Dean eased his little brother down on the mattress and then took off his leather jacket, shaking it a little as he removed his cell phone from the pocket and placed it on the nightstand. He heard the front door slam downstairs, followed by the flapping of an umbrella, and then footsteps on the stairs as he tossed his jacket on his bed.
"D'n..." Sam mumbled, his eyes at half-mast.
Dean tugged the hood from Sam's head. "Yeah, Sam?"
Sam swallowed and then winced. "Don't feel good."
"I know, kiddo," Dean replied and began disentangling the blanket from his brother. "Let's get you settled, then we'll get you some drugs, okay?"
Sam nodded, his eyes scanning the room. "Dean..."
"Hmm?"
"Where..." Sam blinked up at him. "Where are we?"
Dean tossed the blanket to the foot of the bed before easing off Sam's sneakers and socks. "At Pastor Jim's, remember?"
Before Sam could answer, Jim appeared in the doorway carrying two slightly damp duffle bags.
"Everything okay?" he asked, depositing the bags in the chair by the door.
"I think we're good – " Dean began, only to be interrupted by Sam making a strangled sound and bolting straight up. " – or not," he amended, knowing that look on his brother's face.
Jim shook his head, recognizing the expression as well. He snatched the trashcan from the corner and handed it to Dean before giving the brothers their privacy.
"I'll be downstairs if you need me."
Dean nodded tightly, hearing the door close as he sat next to Sam. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Dean tried to lend his weakened little brother support as the first bout of nausea hit.
Sam gagged, his eyes watering.
Dean tightened his grip. Sam hadn't eaten anything in over 24 hours; there was nothing to throw up.
Sam's body tried again, causing him to slump into Dean's lap as his back arched against the forced strain of emptying an empty stomach. Thick saliva, slimy and discolored from bile, hung in syrupy strands from Sam's mouth, hovering over the trashcan, actually swaying in Sam's ragged breaths.
Sam spat, trying to rid his mouth of the bitter taste and milky texture before it triggered another gag response but was too late and heaved again, causing more bile and saliva to coat his chin and dribble on the sheets.
Without hesitation, Dean wiped his wrist across his brother's mouth and then rubbed the mess on his own jeans. Sam's fingers dug painfully into his older brother's legs as he took shallow breaths through his mouth. Dean could feel his little brother's stomach muscles clench and tremble from the strain as Sam braced against him, could feel the kid's ribs barely expanding against his thighs, heard him swallow convulsively.
"Deep breaths, Sammy. Stop fighting it."
Sam shook his head erratically as his eyes squeezed shut. Tears streaked his cheeks as he swallowed against the distinctively sour stench of sickness wafting up from the trashcan.
If he hadn't felt so miserable, he would have been mortified.
Sam opened his mouth to speak but gagged instead, choking and coughing as dense saliva once again clogged his throat.
A few moments passed before Sam moaned low, sounding more like a sob, and rested his cheek on Dean's lap, his face turned toward his big brother, his eyes still closed.
Dean thumbed tears away from Sam's temple as they slipped through his eyelashes. It's okay, Sammy. He rubbed his brother's back. I'm here. You're okay.
Sam let out a shaky breath, his fingers still gripping the fabric of Dean's jeans.
Dean listened to the rain peck at the window and continued to move his hand back and forth between Sam's shoulder blades, feeling the tension ease out of his brother's muscles with each pass from left to right.
"Better?"
Sam nodded weakly.
Dean placed the trashcan on the floor, glancing over the rim to make sure there was no blood mixed in the mess, and sighed when he saw none, pushing the bin further away with his boot. Dean then looped his hand in the hem of his own shirt and wiped Sam's mouth and chin, smiling when his little brother squirmed, reminding him of toddler Sammy resisting having his face cleaned.
"Deeeeean..." Sam complained, sounding as sick and exhausted as he was.
Dean didn't flinch, continuing his task. "Stop, Sam."
"S'gross."
"Trust me," Dean snorted affectionately, unwinding his hand from the corner of his shirt. "I've done grosser things for you."
Sam's nose wrinkled as he rolled off Dean and onto his back, shifting uncomfortably on the mattress.
"Hot."
"Bet so," Dean agreed, brushing sweaty, straggly bangs off Sam's forehead before placing his cool palm against the fevered skin. "Let's get this hoodie off, huh? Gotta be roasting in that thing. All those layers you wear."
"'Kay," Sam replied, continuing to lie on the bed but raising his arms.
Dean smiled, reminded of the times he had dressed and undressed a much younger Sammy and was both amused and touched that, judging by his little brother's actions, Sam remembered, too.
In the next instant, Sam's sweatshirt was off, flung to land beside Dean's leather jacket on the other bed.
Dean rested his hand on Sam's chest, palm feeling the damp t-shirt, fingers brushing clammy skin along the neckline. He glanced at the bags resting in the chair by the door.
"Sam? Think you can handle a shower?"
Sam opened his eyes and shrugged. Maybe.
"Good. Let's sit you up," Dean responded, his calloused hand cupping the back of Sam's neck. "Ready? On three..."
"Promise?"
Dean smirked. "Yep. Tonight 'three' means three, not two. Promise."
"'Kay."
"Here we go," Dean warned.
Sam closed his eyes, listening to his brother slowly count. On "three", he was distantly aware of being pulled upright, and he gagged before he could stop himself, his eyes snapping open just in time to see red-tinged saliva drool from his lax mouth onto Dean's shirt.
Panic – from the sight of blood and the realization that he just threw up on his brother – surged through Sam's system, causing him to heave again, spewing more watery vomit on Dean and himself.
"Ugh...D'n..." Sam gasped, his fingers slick with sweat and sickness, tangled in his brother's shirt. "S'ry." He coughed. "D'n...s'ry."
"Hush, Sam," Dean gently admonished, drawing his little brother's head to rest on his shoulder. "It's okay."
"S'ry," Sam repeated, now more upset by the embarrassment than the thin red smudges he could feel on his lips, could see on the fabric of his brother's shirt.
"Don't worry about it, Sammy," Dean soothed. "Just try to relax for me. I gotcha, just relax."
"Blood."
"I know," Dean replied evenly, thumbing the blood from Sam's bottom lip. "It's okay. Your throat's just irritated from all this throwing up. As long as you don't bleed any more than this, you'll be fine. I promise."
Exhausted, but reassured, Sam sagged against Dean's chest, still clutching his brother's shirt between his fingers and became aware of comforting circles once again being rubbed between his shoulders.
Sam closed his eyes, grateful beyond words that when it mattered, Dean dismissed his unspoken rule against touchy-feely crap; when it mattered, when Sam was sick or hurt or upset, Dean wasn't impatient or snarky or secretly storing ammunition to be used later for teasing and further embarrassment. When it mattered, Dean was just his big brother – and that made everything better.
"Thirsty," Sam sighed and felt Dean nod beside his temple.
"We'll get you some water."
"No." Sam weakly shook his head. "Juice."
Dean smiled and felt the limp, sweaty strands of Sam's hair between his fingers as he lightly rubbed the kid's head, wondering how many times tonight his little brother would remind him of his former toddler self.
"Cold water will help stop the bleeding, Sam. If you make it through the shower with no more incidents, then you can have your apple juice." He lifted his shoulder, gently nudging Sam's head as it rested there. "Deal?"
Sam opened his eyes, gave a hint of a smile. "Deal."
"Okay," Dean said, grasping Sam's shoulders and gently pushing him back. "Let's do this. Nice and easy, right? You should be completely empty by now, but I don't wanna take any chances."
"Ugh...me, neither," Sam mumbled as he allowed Dean to pull him to his feet and then just stood there, gaining his balance.
"Weebles wobble but they don't fall down, huh Sammy?" Dean teased affectionately, steadying his brother as they shuffled toward the door.
Sam rolled his eyes, then stumbled when it made him dizzy.
"Easy," Dean murmured, snagging their duffles on the way out the door as he helped his little brother to the bathroom down the hall, pleased – but not surprised – that towels and washcloths were already waiting along with two glasses by the sink.
Wordlessly, Dean filled one of the glasses and handed it to Sam, looking down at the mess on his shirt and jeans when he noticed his little brother's gaze.
"It's okay, Sam," he assured, knowing the kid was still upset about what had happened just moments before. "You're gonna get cleaned up, I'm gonna get cleaned up, and it's all gonna be fine. Okay?"
Sam still looked distressed but nodded slowly.
"Good." Dean pointed to the glass in Sam's hand. "Now go ahead. Slow and easy," he advised, watching as his little brother took a few careful sips.
Sam winced as he swallowed and coughed once.
"You good?" Dean asked, taking the glass and setting it on the counter.
Sam nodded as Dean stripped his t-shirt, still stuck to him with sweat, and shivered when the cool air struck his clammy skin.
"Open up, let me see," Dean said, tilting Sam's head back, angling toward the light. "It looks red and swollen back there, but I don't see any fresh bleeding." He released his grip on either side of Sam's head and frowned when the kid seemed to pale. "Whoa. You gonna hurl again?"
Sam seemed to consider the possibility.
"Sam?"
"Nuh-uh."
"You sure?"
"Mm-hmm," Sam responded, one hand on the counter by the sink, the other grasping the towel bar on the opposite wall as Dean began to remove his jeans and boxers.
Some part of Sam suspected he should be embarrassed that his brother was undressing him like he was three-years old and still needed help with bath time, but he was too sick, exhausted, and miserable to care.
Dean started the water, and then lent an arm to Sam as he stepped into the tub.
"Here," he said, handing over soap and shampoo from Sam's kit, and then sliding the shower curtain shut.
Dean listened to his little brother move around under the shower spray and pulled out a clean pair of boxers along with sweatpants, a sleep shirt, and socks for Sam and then began to strip his own dirty clothes. He held a washcloth under the sink's faucet, then wrung it and wiped it over his face, arms, and torso before patting dry and dressing in his own sleep clothes. He'd take a shower later – maybe tomorrow – but this would work for now.
Dean shouldered the duffles and scooped the dirty clothes up in one arm. "Sam, I'm gonna go take care of a few things in our room, okay? But yell if you need me. I'm just down the hall."
Sam rested his head against the tiled wall and closed his eyes, relaxing in the warm spray, but was startled when the shower curtain's corner was yanked back, revealing Dean's worried, yet irritated face.
"Did you hear me?"
Sam nodded.
"Then answer me."
"My throat hurts," Sam rasped, sounding like that was an understatement.
Dean softened immediately. Duh, dumbass, he chastised himself.
"Sorry, kiddo. How about some pain meds and apple juice, huh?"
Sam nodded with the same enthusiasm Dean usually reserved for offers of hamburgers and hot chicks.
Dean chuckled, closing the shower curtain and leaving the bathroom door cracked as he entered the hall. He knew it would take Sam about ten more minutes to finish up, which meant he would have to hustle to change the sheets, dispose of the trashcan contents, get Sam's juice and pills, and...
Dean paused in the doorway of their room. "Pastor Jim?"
Jim finished tucking the flat top sheet under the mattress and turned. "How's Sam?"
"He's okay right now," Dean replied, setting the duffle bags in the chair by the door and crossing the threshold as his eyes swept the room, taking in the juice on the nightstand, the fresh trashcan nearby, and the pile of dirty linens on the floor. "I was coming back to do all of this."
"I know you were," Jim agreed, straightening the comforter on Sam's bed and then smoothing it back along with the clean sheet. "But you have more important things to tend to, so when I heard the shower, I came up to help."
Dean nodded, never really knowing how to respond to other people helping him care for Sam, even when those other people were longtime friends.
"Um...thanks."
"You're more than welcome." Jim smiled, gathering the soiled sheets from the floor and taking the dirty clothes from Dean's arms as he passed by. "I'm going to start a load of laundry and then warm up some cans of soup. Do you think Sam can manage chicken noodle?"
"Hard to say," Dean responded honestly, crossing to his leather jacket still on his bed. "Sam's picky on his best days." He pulled out the brown paper bag from the hospital and withdrew two of the pill packets. "And this is definitely not one of his best days."
"Understandable, but I'll bring up a bowl, and we'll see," Jim said shifting the laundry in his arms and turning to leave.
"Sounds good," Dean answered, placing Sam's pills beside the juice glass on the nightstand and noticing his phone.
Two back-to-back calls.
Both from John.
No message.
Great, Dean thought, knowing he would catch hell later for having not called John immediately following the surgery – but he didn't care. Sam was his priority. Taking care of his little brother, making sure he was safe, settled, and comfortable; that's what came first, and John Winchester could wait his fucking turn.
The water shut off down the hall.
Dean listened for a moment, then placed the phone back on the nightstand and went to check on Sam, realizing that "yell if you need me" probably wasn't the best advice given the kid's current condition. He could barely speak, much less yell.
The shower curtain rings clanked together as Sam pushed back the plastic fabric and climbed out of the tub, toweling off and reaching for his boxers and sweatpants. He had just pulled his t-shirt over his head and was reaching his arms through the sleeves when Dean appeared around the corner, giving him a once over.
"All done, Sam-I-Am?"
Sam smiled weakly at the childhood nickname and nodded as he rubbed the towel over his hair.
"Anymore visits from our friend Ralph?"
Sam wrinkled his nose, shaking his head and then sweeping his damp bangs out of his eyes before he sat on the closed toilet and pulled on his socks.
"Good. Jim's gonna bring up soup."
Sam scrunched his face.
"I know, princess, but a few bites is all I'm askin', okay?"
Sam looked doubtful but nodded as he stood.
"Good," Dean said, draping his arm over Sam's shoulders and switching off the bathroom light. "Food, pills – "
" – juice?"
Dean smirked. "One-track mind much?"
Sam shrugged.
"Yes, juice," Dean affirmed. "And then night-night time for Sammy."
TBC ~ As always, thanks for the reviews and alerts! And special thanks to those who have sent birthday messages!