A request was made for Stomach-Flu Sam, so know that going in. While I won't write overly graphic stomach fics, Sam's definitely spending time face first in the can.

Sam sinks into the Impala after the third interview that day. Not one of them have been cooperative, and his head decided to follow suit and pound against his skull. He's alternating between sweating and shivering, sometimes accomplishing both at the same time. His suit feels too tight, the fabric's itching his skin, and the whole damn thing is just so heavy.

Dean settles behind the wheel, taking in everything Sam before starting the car. They hit a wall with this case, and Dean figures they should regroup at the motel with lunch and plot their next move. Sam's not talking, instead pressing his face against the window, hoping that the sort-of cool glass will make his head feel better. Dean slowly pulls away from the curb, heading back to the motel, trying to determine how to make Sam admit he's sick, so he'll relax and sleep it off.

They drive all of five minutes, when Sam rocks forward, sneezing into a tissue.

Dean huffs. "That's it. You're sick. Don't deny it - you are. So here's the new plan, and so help me, Sammy, don't you fucking argue with me. You're going back to the motel, you're getting into bed, and you're going to sleep."

After a pathetic sniffle, Sam whispers into his tissue, "Yeah, okay."

"I mean it, Sam. Quit acting like nothing's wrong. You...what?"

There's a sad little sniffle from the passenger seat. "I said, yeah, okay. I feel like absolute shit." He sneezes again, groaning afterwards. "I'm fucking done."

Dean's mouth opens and closes, brow wrinkled in confusion as the argument poised on his lips has nowhere to go. "Oh. Well...yeah, okay, then." He nods, rolling with the attitude shift and mapping a path to a drug store. "Gonna stop and get you some stuff then it's back to the motel, okay?"

"Sounds good...thanks." Sam leans his head on the window, eyes closed, tissues balled in his fist.

Dean nods. "Sure thing." He didn't want the argument, but he feels cheated of it all the same.

xxxxx

This thing has all the signs of a nasty cold. Fever, sneezing, coughing, chills, headache...the whole package. Dean's wiped out the store's stock of Kleenex and cold medicine, doing whatever he can do make Sam comfortable.

Hell, there's even a little humidifier in the corner of the room.

Dean's feeling pretty proud of himself for being on top of it, and feeling relaxed that Sam's allowing Dean to do his thing. It's been pretty uneventful, actually.

So naturally, on day two, things have to go to shit.

Whenever Sam shifts in bed, he moans a little, like rolling over takes colossal effort. He's breathing weird, too, sometimes in rapid bursts, like he's in pain.

"What hurts, Sam?"

Sam half-heartedly shrugs while face first in the pillow. "Dunno…"

"You don't know?"

"Everything just...aches. I dunno…"

Still, he was sneezing and coughing and generally acting all cold-like, so Dean didn't think much of it.

Until he had to.

Dean spends most of the next day at the library (Sam couldn't believe it either). As a reward, he picks up a six-pack and promises himself some "alone time" after he's sure Sam's passed out from Nyquil. The case is still at a standstill, so he's pretty okay passing the night with a pizza and some sweet porn.

Konnichiwa, free wi-fi...

He enters the motel room and becomes immediately aware that something is...off. "Sammy?" He calls softly, nose wrinkling at a slightly sour smell working its way through the room. He sets down the beer and flicks on the light.

Bed's empty.

Before his brain can imagine all sorts of crap, he hears an exhausted moan coming from the bathroom. Satisfied that he won't need his gun, he sets that on the table, too, and knocks on the door. "Hey there...you okay?"

The answering sound clearly indicates that Sam is not, in any way, okay.

Dean recoils, mouth pulled tight, knowing that not only does he have to go in there, he has to clean up whatever's in there.

Ugh.

Still...Sam needs him.

He listens a few seconds.

Sam'll still need him in five minutes.

"So...yeah...you, uh...yeah, okay. You let me know when - "

"God...Dean...I - "

Sam's interrupted by...Sam noises...and Dean drags a hand down his face. "Okay, kiddo...hold on." He pulls his shirt over his face, casts his eyes heavenward, and opens the door.

Sam's on his knees, arms braced on the toilet seat, looking whiter than snow. His cheeks each display a dark pink splotch, looking very clown make-uppy. His hair, plastered to his face with sweat, is dangerously close to his mouth.

No...wait...oh, in his mouth.

Tired, pleading SamEyes look up at Dean. He starts to say something, but a look of panic sweeps across his face and once again, he's face first in the toilet, shuddering and heaving, and maybe crying a little.

JesusChrist…

Dean's shirt slides back into place as he moves to kneel next to his brother. "Oh, Sammy…" He snags a washcloth off the towel rack, wets it, and gently swipes Sam's hair to the side, carefully wiping the ends clean.

Sam spits a couple times, then sags, head resting on his arms. "S'ry…"

Really?

Dean rinses out the cloth, laying it on the back of Sam's neck, eliciting a whimper. "Fuck, tiger, what the hell happened?"

Sam just shakes his head, trying to catch his breath (his mouth really needs a rinse). "D'nno...jus' hit me."

Without feeling his skin, Dean knows the fever's high, but there's no way meds will stay down. Biting his lip, Dean rubs his hand up and down Sam's back, watching him shiver, his body tense and wrung out. Sam rests his head back on his arms, muffling a weak cough against his skin.

This totally isn't a cold.

Dean sighs. "This is the flu, man. I've been treating the wrong thing."

Sam sniffles, sloppily patting Dean's leg. "Not your fault. Didn't know either." He pauses to cough, tensing in anticipation of more rippling stomach muscles.

Dean decides not to argue, but he's still taking the blame on this one. He drags a hand down his face again, and clears his throat. "Well, we know now. This requires a whole new set of medicine - "

Sam freezes.

"- but I'm not leaving you, so I'll see if Cas can help out."

Sam relaxes.

"And if not, then I'll order delivery." Sam snorts. "Okay...think you're done?"

Head still burrowed against his arm, Sam hesitates, then nods slowly.

"Sweet." Dean reaches up and flushes, pointedly averting his eyes by focusing on rewetting the washcloth. When the coast is clear, "Head up, Sammy."

Sam does as he's told, and Dean cleans him up, more worried at Sam's compliance than anything.

"Think you can rinse with some water?" Dean prefers mouthwash, but…

"Maybe?"

Dean wets the cloth yet again, followed by filling the small glass sitting on the sink. He holds the glass to Sam's lips. "Try this…"

Sam manages to swish and spit, much to his brother's delight. With Dean's help, Sam gets to his feet, clutching Dean's shirt the entire time, needing it to get to his feet. He sways, blinking furiously and tightening his grip on the shirt, almost pulling Dean off-balance. Wrapping an arm around him, Dean maneuvers Sam to the closest bed, helping him under the covers.

Immediately, Sam curls into a ball, still shivering, blanket pulled up to his neck.

"I'm gonna call Cas, see if he - " A nifty guitar riff interrupts him, signalling an incoming call. Brow furrowed, Dean pulls the phone from his pocket. "Huh...it's Cas…" He swipes the screen. "Hey Cas, I was just about to call you."

"Hello, this is Castiel calling."

Dean sighs. "I know, Cas. I just said hi…"

"How...how did you know I was calling?"

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "My phone told me. What's up?" He moves to sit next to Sam, absently handing over tissues and massaging Sam's shoulder.

Cas sighs deeply. "I'm...in need of some assistance."

Shit. "Really? Why? 'Cuz I called you for help." Sam sneezes harshly, followed by a muffled groan. Dean winces, increasing pressure on his shoulder, running fingers through Sam's hair.

At his touch, Sam sighs, settling against the pillow. Again, Dean's surprised at how Sam's behaving. He's not complaining though. It's kinda nice having this Sam again...the Sam that needs his brother.

Cas sounds worried. "I'm not very well liked in Heaven at the moment. I'm warded to avoid detection, but if I use any of my...abilities...they'll find me."

"I'm guessing if they find you, it won't be good." Sam looks up at Dean, bumping his leg, eyes asking What is it?

Dean shakes his head. Don't worry about it…

Sam closes his eyes with a huff, flicking Dean's thigh in irritation. Dean flicks Sam's ear in response, giving him a look. You're sick, so just be sick and let me handle this.

Again Sam huffs, and Dean knows he won't leave him be.

"No, it won't. So, I was wondering…" Castiel's voice trails off, but Dean hears the unspoken question.

Sighing, Dean asks, "Where are you, Cas?"

xxxxx

Luckily, Cas isn't far from them. He's able to get a car (Dean didn't ask, Cas didn't tell) and he said he'd stop at a drugstore on the way over. Based on Castiel's location, Dean's guessing it'll take the angel at least three hours to get to them.

Now that company's coming, and Sam can't pass out with Nyquil...Sayorana, evening alone.

Sam tried to take some Tylenol, but it made a reappearance moments later...and now Sam's on Dean's bed while Dean bags the sheets and blanket, dumping it outside.

Sam's face reflects the misery felt within, from physically feeling sick and unequivocal embarrassment over just having forced a single bed situation.

"Dean…" he gasps, still huddled in a ball, hands protectively over his stomach. "I...God...I'm so s-sorry…"

Dean flaps a hand at him as he shuts the door. "Shaddup, Sam. You can't help it." He sighs, glancing at the poor kid. He's a mess, sniffling and shaking, breathing through his mouth (still need that mouthwash…) and just looking so...sad.

Still, Sam clears his throat, attempting to be productive with something other than throwing up. "So, he's driving?"

Dean nods. "Apparently." He disappears into the bathroom to get a freshly wet cloth.

Sam's forehead wrinkles up. "And he's gonna go...shopping?" His voice is strained, but Dean can still hear the incredulity.

Dean chuckles, carefully sitting next to Sam, dotting his forehead with the towel. "Yup."

Sam breathes a laugh (Dean decides to text Cas to get mouthwash, pronto). "That'll be a story when he - Nghhh...oh, Jesus…"

Sam doubles over, chin on chest, panting like he's going into labor. For a second, the thought that Sam's been cursed to be pregnant actually passes through Dean's mind, before he shakes it off, focusing on the miserable little brother before him.

"Easy, Sammy…" Sam's got a death-grip on Dean's shirt again, twisting it tight, almost to the point of ripping it. Dean's crooning whatever pops into his head, belying his worry and panic. One hand's ready to grab the trash can, the other rubbing Sam's back, desperate to make Sam feel better.

"This...sucks...I...ohshit…" His breath hitches, and he sneezes, gasping in pain, and sneezing again. Dean hears him swallowing, and grabs the can.

"Sam…"

Sam's making these guttural grunts from the back of his throat, trying like hell to keep it together. It's a tense minute, until Sam finally wipes a shaky hand across his mouth. "Okay…'m okay...fuck…"

Dean shakes his head, setting the can back on the floor. "Quit sneezin', Sam."

Sam snorts, exhausted. "Yeah, I'll get right on that."

Dean checks his watch and sighs. "Cas won't be here for a while…" His eyes flicker to Sam's hand, still all wrapped up in his shirt. They slide to Sam's bed, bare to the mattress, a wet spot blatantly sticking its tongue out at him.

He sighs again.

Sam looks up at him, scrubbing at his nose. "What?"

Dean looks at him...really looks at him. Drooping eyelids, sore nose, pain lines around his mouth. Sam swallows hesitantly, sniffles, then scrunches up his face. "What?"

Porn's overrated, anyway.

Ruffling Sam's hair, Dean shakes his head. "Nothin'. Let's see what's on TV." He gently removes Sam's hand, snags the remote off the dresser and crawls into bed, his hip brushing against his brother's back. He turns on some action movie, setting the remote on the nightstand, and placing one hand on his brother's back.

Solid, reassuring, there.

Sam hesitates all of a second, before scooting close, closing his eyes, and falling asleep.

So, I'm never really sure how long to play stories like this out...there's no real plot to signify that the story's over, so they just sort of...end. When I write them, I don't feel like the reader wants a day by day list of what they're doing...it's too mundane to be a story...but perhaps that's what folks want? I dunno. Seems like that'd be less like a story and more like a transcript if that makes sense, so I try to make an actual story...so.

Yeah.