Sam awoke on his stomach and slowly opened his eyes, then closed them immediately. His head pounded mercilessly, and he knew the moment he moved, he would be combating nausea. He swallowed convulsively, wincing at the pain in his throat, as he remained motionless on the bed, remembering where he was and why.

Pastor Jim's...because Dad and Dean were on a hunt...and he was recovering from a tonsillectomy.

Sam sighed as he recalled the whirlwind of the past four days: admitting a sore throat, Dean freaking over the white spots, and being hauled to a clinic for the official diagnosis. Then came surgery and being whisked away from the noise of raised voices and too many questions to the comforting rumble of the Impala to here...the relative silence at Jim Murphy's.

Sam didn't remember much – memories jumbled or altogether lost in a haze of pain and medication – but he knew that he had had surgery on Tuesday, Dean had left on Wednesday, today was Saturday...and he felt worse now than he did before.

I'm so sick of being sick, he thought miserably, annoyed that it was taking so long for his body to recover and bounce back from what his father had described as "routine surgery."

Sam shifted on the bed and wondered idly if the surgeon had also said those exact words, or if that was just how his father had chosen to describe what he undoubtedly deemed a waste of time.

"Only you would have a sore throat that required surgery to fix, Sam," his dad had said over the phone Wednesday evening, and although his tone had been light, Sam had wondered if there was a jab – intentional or not – hidden beneath.

He used to be able to tell when his father was teasing – when he was showing rare affection in one of the only ways he seemed to know how – but as he got older, Sam suspected that everything his father said to him was laced with disappointment.

If you were only stronger, Sam...more like Dean...more like me.

"I'm sorry," he had responded as quickly and as naturally as a knee jerk, his voice still weak and raspy from surgery. "For screwing up the hunt," he had added when his apology had been met with silence on the other end of the phone.

He had held his breath for as long as John had held his silence.

"It's alright," his dad had finally responded. "You rest up. Here's Dean."

Sam opened his eyes and sighed. It seemed like John was always passing him off to Dean.

Sam swallowed another sigh and turned his head into the soft pillow. He retreated in the warm folds of the comforter, drawing a deep breath and then hissing at the sudden razor-sharp pain that dug into his ribs, reminding him of his fall on the stairs the night before.

Sam grimaced at the memory, recalling the explosion of pain when his stomach had collided with the step.

One minute he was slowly ascending – ridiculously and frustratingly exhausted from his two-hour venture downstairs for dinner when Bobby had unexpectedly stopped by – and the next minute he was quickly descending to meet step #8 up close and personal.

He had sprawled there for several minutes, winded and weak but determined to get his shit together before Jim came back inside from seeing Bobby out. While it took talent to fall up the stairs, this was not a skill he had wanted to demonstrate for the Pastor.

Not able to stand, he had crawled up the remaining six steps and then clutched the railing, hauling himself to his feet. Stooped and dizzy, he had wrapped one arm protectively around his pulsating, aching abdomen while using his other arm to brace himself, fingers skimming the wall as he had made his way back to his room.

Sam blinked, trying to remember what had happened after he had collapsed on his bed, but he was blank. Sleep was merciful and had undoubtedly swept him away.

But now he was awake and the internal pain played a distant second to the ache in his head and the heavy weight of exhaustion that seeped into his bones. It felt as though his blood oozed like molten lead through his veins.

"Tell Jim if something doesn't feel right, got it?" Dean had said before he left.

And although Sam had agreed, he doubted he would mention his fall last night or the resulting pain this morning to Jim. It wasn't that bad. He just needed to get up, walk it off, and suck it up.

With exaggerated care, Sam sat up and braced himself on the soft mattress with his hands, letting his body acclimate to the position before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He had no idea what time of day it was but assumed it was late in the morning, judging by the way the sunlight shone through the window and stretched across the floor.

As he continued to stare down, he noticed he was still wearing the dark green socks from the day before but now had on his sweatpants and t-shirt that he usually slept in. Not remembering details beyond crossing the threshold of his room, but knowing he wouldn't have had the strength to change clothes, only left one explanation – Jim – and Sam didn't know whether to feel grateful or mortified. The Pastor must have checked on him before going to bed and having found him literally passed out on the mattress, made him comfortable and tucked him in.

"Just like a freakin' baby," Sam muttered, knowing Jim wouldn't embarrass him further by mentioning it but still annoyed with himself.

Confused and sluggish, Sam eased himself to his feet and stumbled over to the closet, opening the door. His muscles protested the motion, stubbornly remaining stiff and sore, and his shoulder joints, especially on the left, radiated with pain at the slightest movement.

Sam sighed as he dressed, his fingers fumbling with the zipper of his jeans and the buckle of his belt, as he set his mind against the lingering aches and fatigue.

I don't have time for this, he thought irritably.

While he didn't have any physical training today – thank you, tonsillectomy – he did want to make good use of his extra time with Pastor Jim to go over some of the more complicated Latin texts.

Sam removed his sleep shirt, noticing his reflection in the mirror on the closet door, and paused, surprised by the faint blue bruises on his forearms and torso. Frowning, he lightly skimmed his fingers over the discolored flesh, gasping as he found they were painful to the touch.

"You are such a klutz, Sam," he whispered to himself.

"Sam..."

Sam jerked his head in the direction of Jim's voice as it floated up the stairs, instantly regretting the quick motion. He braced himself against the doorjamb of the closet and closed his eyes as he rode out the nausea. His breath came in short, harsh gasps, each one causing a stab of hot pain under his ribs.

"Holy...guh," he panted. "What the hell..."

"Sam?"

Sam struggled for a controlled breath. Jim's voice sounded closer and held a hint of concern. If he didn't answer, he knew the Pastor would come upstairs – and that was the last thing Sam needed.

"Coming..." he managed and slowly opened his eyes as he eased himself back to a standing position.

As quickly as he dared – and as his sore, fatigued body would allow – Sam finished dressing, pulling on a faded navy blue hoodie. He ran a hand over his forehead, under his bangs, down his cheek and over his chin, observing his features and deciding that aside from his sleep-tousled hair and the unusual pallor of his skin, he didn't look too bad. Dean would know that something was off – but Dean wasn't there.

Sam snorted softly, unsure if it was good or bad that his charade could continue unnoticed, and slowly padded down the steps, his socks allowing a silent approach to the kitchen.

"Morning, Sam," Jim said cheerfully as he continued to scramble eggs at the stove. "How's your throat this morning?"

"Better," Sam answered truthfully. That was the least of his worries right now.

"Glad to hear it. You do sound a little better," Jim replied, turning the eggs with the spatula. "I'm sorry to wake you, but you need to eat so you can take your antibiotic and pain pill."

Sam gave him a half-hearted smile and leaned against the counter. "Sorry I slept so long. You should've gotten me up before now."

Jim sighed, as he transferred the eggs to a plate. "You're here to rest, relax, and recuperate, remember? In a few days, your dad and Dean will be back, and you'll be on the road again."

Sam nodded, watching the Pastor pour a glass of apple juice. He was being spoiled, that was for sure. He'd barely done anything for himself while he'd been at Pastor Jim's.

"Have they called?"

Jim shook his head, placing the plate and glass in front of Sam before turning away to collect Sam's medicine. "No, but I'm sure they're fine."

Sam nodded but said nothing. He knew that it was sometimes impossible to get a signal, depending on which backside-of-nowhere his family ended up, but still...

Sam sighed and looked at the eggs, immediately pushing them away.

Jim raised an eyebrow as he returned with Sam's pills. "Not in an egg mood this morning?"

"Not really." Sam swallowed. "Sorry."

"That's fine." Jim turned back towards the stove. "I'll fix you something else."

"No, that's okay. I really don't want anything."

"You have to take those with food, Sam," Jim said, indicating the pills resting on the counter beside the juice glass. "We don't want a repeat of the last time you took them on an empty stomach."

Sam wrinkled his nose, feeling his cheeks flush pink. No, they certainly didn't. Throwing up with Dean was one thing; throwing up with Jim was...embarrassing beyond words.

"I know, I just..." Sam trailed off, unsure of what to say. If he confessed how he was feeling, if he told about his fall and the intense pain and lingering exhaustion and those weird bruises on his stomach and chest, he would be headed to the hospital – no doubt about it – and he had already caused enough trouble over the past few days with his illness and surgery and convalescence.

At his continued silence, Jim frowned and turned to fully face the youngest Winchester. This was more than just Sam's usual picky eating habits. Sam was pale and looked exhausted as he leaned heavily against the counter, as though that was the only thing holding him upright.

Jim rounded the counter and placed a hand on Sam's forehead. "You sure you feel okay?"

Sam smiled lazily up at Jim, too sluggish to shy away from the Pastor's hand and too comforted by the contact to even want to. "I'm fine. Just a little tired." He pushed away from the counter, swallowing a hiss of pain as his sore muscles protested the motion. "I need to get started on that Latin."

Jim watched as Sam moved slowly toward the doorway. "Hold on a minute, Sam."

Sam stopped and turned expectantly.

"I don't like how pale you are this morning."

"Jim – "

" – and you felt a little warm, too."

"Pastor Jim, really – "

Jim held up his hand to stop any further protest. "I think you should go back to bed for a while."

Sam sighed. "But I want to go over those texts so that Dad – "

"Sam, John wouldn't want you working on anything if you were sick."

Sam looked doubtful.

"And don't even get me started on Dean's reaction..." Jim continued.

"But I'm not sick."

"Maybe, but you're certainly not well, either." Jim approached his young charge and gently rubbed his shoulder. "Recovery takes time, Sam – even for a Winchester."

Sam smiled in spite of the sting Jim's contact caused as hot pain spread across his left shoulder.

Jim returned the smile, pleased that his comment had momentarily lightened Sam's mood. "Listen, you go back to bed. I'm heading out for a little bit, and if you're not up when I get back, I'll wake you. Just rest for another hour or so, and then we'll revaluate how you feel, okay?"

Sam stared at him before slowly nodding. Going back to bed sounded good. Just the short walk down the stairs and then leaning against the counter had taken its toll.

"Okay."

Jim nodded his agreement, grabbing his keys and cell phone as he watched Sam ascend the stairs. "If you need anything, call me. I'll just be over at the church."

"'Kay," Sam mumbled as he disappeared around the corner and heard the door slam as Jim left the house.

The climb back up the stairs had tired Sam more than he expected. By the time he had crested the top step, he was breathless, as if the air had become too thin to breathe. A sudden wave of dizziness sent him staggering against the wall, his legs weak, his body trembling. He closed his eyes, leaning heavily against the solid wall and waiting for the dizziness to pass.

After a few minutes, Sam pushed away from the wall and steadied himself, taking deep breaths, forcing air into his lungs and trying to satisfy his overwhelming need for oxygen.

A fine sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead, and Sam abruptly wiped it away, annoyed that his hand trembled, confused and scared by how miserable he felt, and desperately wanting his brother.

In a déjà vu of the previous night, Sam made his way to his room and sank into the soft mattress of his bed, exhausted.

"Dean..." he whispered, knowing his brother wasn't there, but somehow drawing comfort in calling for him. "Something's wrong."

He closed his eyes, the comforter absorbing his tears as he fell asleep.

TBC