A/N This chapter was originally hella long, so much so that I finally determined it did indeed need cut in half. That in turn means that it takes a second for the plot to get rolling, but we will get there in the end!

Thank you once again to all of you amazing people. You're all helping to keep me mentally sane.

Chapter Two

Dean was humming softly as he walked the streets back to the motel, his suitcoat tucked underneath one arm. The top couple buttons of his shirt were undone, and his tie was hanging loose around his neck.

It had been a good night—morning, now, he supposed—and Aria had left him satisfied and relaxed.

He'd needed that. Had needed the night spent first with Sam just relaxing and eating good food, and then…he grinned. Life's simple pleasures.

Their motel came into view and his smile widened. Now he could sleep for a few hours in a somewhat soft bed, and then get back to hunting with Sam at his side.

For this moment, life was good, and he was holding tight to those moments as they came.

Inserting his key into the lock as quietly as he could, he carefully opened the door and slipped inside. Easing it shut, he winced at the audible click and glanced over to see if he had woken Sam.

His brother's bed was empty.

Anger and fear cut through Dean's good mood so fast that it left him dizzy, and then common sense caught up to him. The bed looked like it had been slept in, and a crack of light from under the bathroom door told the rest of the story.

"Just me!" Dean called, his shoulders relaxing as he tossed his jacket onto the end of the bed. Feeling a little foolish for overreacting, he sat down and began to untie his shoes, yawning widely. A night well spent or not, he was ready to go to bed.

Not bothering to get under his blankets, Dean rolled over onto his stomach and bunched the pillow up under his head. Sighing with relief, he closed his eyes.

Only, something wasn't right.

A sliver of unease wiggled into his brain, eating away at his comfort, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut tighter. There was nothing wrong. Why would anything be wrong this freakin' early in the morning? That was just Purgatory coming back and haunting him, unwilling to let him relax. It was fine. He was fine. Sam was fine…right?

And suddenly it hit him what was wrong. There was a light on in the bathroom, but there were no movements, no sounds of life, and Sam hadn't responded to him.

Opening his eyes, Dean rolled over. "Sam?"

There was no answering reply and Dean sat up, his heart suddenly beating faster as his sense of calm rapidly dissipated. Crossing to the door, he rapped his knuckles against it. "Sammy, you in there?" Finally, sounds of life and movement came from within and Dean breathed again, shaking his head. "Dude, did you seriously fall asleep on the toilet?"

A moment later the door opened and Dean stilled, frowning. "What the hell happened to you?"

Sam looked terrible. He was startling pale and his hair was sticking to the visible sweat on his face. One arm was wrapped protectively around his middle and he was hunched over slightly as he leaned against the door.

"Don't ask," he said, his voice rough as he tipped his head down to rest against the door jamb and Dean reached out to grab his arm, afraid that he was going to fall over.

"No, seriously, what the hell is going on? Are you sick? Hurt?" Sam's arm was clammy to the touch, and there was the faintly sour odor of vomit coming from the bathroom. Dean felt his own insides tighten with apprehension as he waited for Sam's answer.

"Relax…I think it's just food poisoning." Sam winced, hunching further inwards and Dean tightened his grip, ducking his head to look into Sam's eyes.

"You sure? How long has this been going on?"

Sam wasn't meeting his eyes, staring at some distant point as what little color he had began to seep from his face.

"Sam?"

"Be right back," he mumbled, pushing off the door and staggering back towards the toilet.

Dean frowned and followed with one arm outstretched in preparation to catch his brother should his legs give out. A fall and a concussion were the last things that Sam needed right now.

Sam collapsed ungracefully onto his knees and, gripping the seat of the toilet hard enough to turn his fingers white, began to heave. Dean looked away, fighting back the natural urge to gag himself, before turning his attention back to his brother.

Sam leaned further forward, throwing up again.

The smell of sickness became stronger and Dean hesitated, unsure of how much his help was wanted after the last few months. Tentatively he laid his hand on Sam's quivering back, ready to retreat if Sam looked like he didn't want it.

It wasn't shrugged off and Dean relaxed. He sat down on the rim of the tub and began to pat Sam's back lightly.

"Get it out, man. You'll feel better once you do."

Sam groaned softly, and Dean began to comb the hair away from his face. He was just in time too as he doubled over, retching pitifully. When he finished, he dropped his head down to rest on his forearm, breathing heavily.

"You good for the moment?" Dean asked and, when Sam nodded, reached over to flush the toilet.

"Go back to bed." Sam didn't lift his face, and the words came out muffled.

Dean shook his head. "How long have you been throwing up?" He stretched above their heads to grab the threadbare hand towel hanging there and, reaching over Sam—the bathroom wasn't exactly large—he turned on the sink faucet, letting the cool water run.

Sam made a soft sound and Dean looked back toward him. "Sam, you with me? I asked—"

"I heard," Sam interrupted sharply, "Just…give me a moment."

Dean eyed him suspiciously, noting the way that the arm Sam wasn't leaning against was still wrapped firmly around his middle. It was probably there in some attempt to provide pressure against pain. Wringing out the towel, he began to blot at the sweat covering Sam's face and the back of his neck, noting as he did so that Sam's muscles were corded with tension.

They didn't say anything else until Sam slowly relaxed, letting out a long and shaky sigh.

"You good?" Dean asked, his hand coming to rest against Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I'm fine, I'm just…not feeling great."

"No way, I never would have guessed that." Dean rolled his eyes. "Seriously, how long has this been going on for? Did it just start, or…?"

Sam shook his head again. "I threw up at the bar," he admitted.

Dean tightened his grip. "Man, you should have come and found me. I would have brought you back."

"Car was here, remember, and you looked like you were having fun. Didn't want to interrupt." Sam breathed out slowly, his arm tightening around his middle again, and Dean watched him with apprehension.

"Where does it hurt?" If they were looking at appendicitis, then things were about to go to hell in a handbag.

"Just my stomach. Everything's cramping up." Sam grimaced, before lurching forward and coughing up a mouthful of bile.

Dean was more worried about the pain. "Talk to me, dude. Is it a stabbing pain on your right side?"

"No. It's not appendicitis. It's just pain," Sam repeated when he could and Dean frowned.

"You sure? Because—"

"It's not. The pain's on the left."

"Oh."

It may not have been appendicitis, but Dean still wasn't sure that it was nothing.

"And have you been throwing up like this ever since you left the bar?"

Sam wasn't looking at him. "I slept for a little bit, but it's been like this on and off for the last few hours."

"Damnit, Sam." And suddenly Dean was angry for no good reason except that once upon a time Sam would have called if he was suffering or something was wrong. "Why the hell didn't you call me earlier? Next time, call me. This could have been serious."

"I don't need you here to hold my hand," Sam snapped, his own anger putting a little bit of color into his cheeks, and Dean forced himself to take a deep breath. It wasn't Sam's fault that he had gotten food poisoning, and fighting about it wasn't going to make either of them feel better.

"Can I get you anything, then? I think that I saw a Gas 'N Sip close by."

"No," Sam said instantly, his arm tightening around his belly, and Dean nodded.

"You planning on worshiping for the rest of the night or do you want to go back to bed?"

Sam was already shaking his head. "I'm just going to throw up—or worse—again. I'm good right here."

Dean snorted and lightly thumped his fist against Sam's arm as he stood. "Be right back." He returned a moment later with the first-aid kit and began to dig through it. Sam wasn't watching, his eyes screwed shut.

"Here," Dean tapped out a couple tablets of Advil and offered them to Sam. "For the pain."

"I'm good."

"Shove the crap, dude. It's just me, take them." He held his hand out again, and this time Sam did take them, swallowing them dry before leaning his head back against the toilet seat with a shaky sigh.

Dean watched him, chewing on his bottom lip even as he returned the Advil to the kit. Sam looked horrible.

"You wanna at least try laying down?" he tried again, unsure of what else to offer.

Sam shook his head before saying, "You can, though. No reason both of us should spend the whole night up."

"Who's gonna hold back your hair if you start puking again?" Dean challenged lightly and Sam opened one eye to glare at him.

"Dean, just go to bed. This is embarrassing enough without you watching it all."

Dean smirked. "At least it's not because you're hungover. That would be more embarrassing. You never did exactly hold your liquor all that well."

Sam's other eye popped open. "Go to bed."

"Fine." Wiping his hands on his pants, Dean stood. "Seriously, though, you need something, you holler."

Sam nodded and Dean closed the door mostly behind him, allowing Sam the privacy that he no doubt craved.

His bed wasn't as comfortable as it had been before and sleep was proving harder to come by than Dean had hoped. He drifted in and out over the next couple of hours, half listening for Sam in case he did need something and wincing when the muted sounds of retching came through the door. He woke more fully when he heard Sam crawl into bed a little after six in the morning.

"Feelin' better?" he mumbled sleepily, not opening his eyes.

"Haven't thrown up in an hour," came Sam's weary response and Dean nodded. He waited a beat and then heaved a sigh and pried his own eyes open.

Sam was already asleep.

Getting up, Dean strategically placed the trashcan near Sam's bed, just in case it wasn't over. Stroking Sam's overly long hair out of his eyes, he rested the back of his hand against his forehead to check for a temperature. He was still clammy to the touch, but not feverish, so that ruled out the flu or the lingering doubts that Dean had about appendicitis. Hopefully, it was just food poisoning, and that meant that not only would Dean not catch it but that it would be over sooner rather than later.

Laying back down on his own bed, Dean let out a long sigh as he fell into a deeper sleep.

It didn't feel like that long, however, before he was woken abruptly by the sounds of vomiting. Blinking wearily at his watch—7:43 am—he turned his attention to Sam, who was bent over the edge of his bed, one hand bracing the garbage can as his body tried to expel what simply wasn't there.

"Again? Really?" Dean asked in exasperation even as he pushed himself upright, wiping the sleep from his face.

"Sorry," Sam gasped out, before doubling back over.

"Yeah, you should be," Dean said grumpily as he got out of bed. "I thought that I wasn't going to get any sleep tonight because of a hot date."

"You don't—"

Sam cut himself off as he lurched forward and Dean hurriedly wrapped an arm around his shoulder to keep him steady. "You can just be glad that I moved the garbage can closer. Otherwise, it would have been the carpet that you were aiming for."

Sam didn't bother to reply, panting around the nausea, before feebly retching.

When he finished, he was spent and he collapsed back against the pillows, breathing heavily. His hands were visibly trembling as he curled up tighter, looking miserable.

"See, I told you that you should have gone with a burger instead of chicken. Can't go wrong with a burger," Dean teased lightly as he used his foot to push the garbage can—and thus the smell emanating from it—further away. He would clean it up in a moment.

He searched around for the edge of the blanket, pulling it back over Sam.

Sam shook his head, pushing it back down. "Too hot," he complained, and Dean couldn't exactly argue against that and let him remain as he was.

"You done?"

"For the moment," Sam said darkly as he closed his eyes again.

Dean stood and grabbed the trashcan, looking down with disgust at the bile that Sam had managed to bring up. Thank God for plastic liners, all he had to do was tie it up, and toss it in the public trashcan outside.

Sam had fallen into a fitful sleep by the time Dean returned, his mouth open and face pale, and he shook his head as he returned the trashcan to its place of honor near the head of the bed.

He stood there for a moment, surveying the room with his lips pursed.

There was no way that he was going to get back to sleep now and the hunt was still ongoing. Monsters didn't take sick days, as their Dad had so often told them, and even if Sam was out of the game for the day, Dean wasn't.

Grabbing his laptop, he sat back down on his bed and opened it.

Dean stared at the screen for a minute, thinking.

The idea of the vase being cursed was a no-go, at least in his opinion, and he wanted to talk with more people instead of just doing traditional research.

Ted Ambrose's son, Teddy Jr, had said that they might be able to drop by and see him tomorrow—well, today now—and Dean also wanted to speak to the medical examiner. Perhaps even the police would be helpful, see if they had any other cases of bodies disappearing that they had hushed up.

It only took him a couple of minutes of searching to find the correct phone numbers.

With respect to his sleeping brother, Dean stepped outside to make the calls and set up the appointments. When he returned, the room was uncomfortably warm without the AC running, but it did nothing when Dean tried to turn it on.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, glaring at it.

No way in hell that they spending the day here without AC. Dean would pack them up and move if that was the case.

Looking back at Sam with a wince, he began to quietly fiddle with it.

It turned out that it just needed to be unplugged and plugged back in, and then it started right back up and Dean stood, satisfied. He puttered around for another hour before finding his suit and preparing to leave.

"Where you headed?" Sam asked thickly, and Dean looked over. Sam was watching him, his face half hidden by his arm.

"Out. I'm going to go talk with Ambrose's son. Might talk to the police too."

"Fun." Sam rolled his head limply to the side, watching Dean through tired eyes. His hands were clenched into fists at his side and Dean carefully turned back to knotting his tie.

"You want some Midol for those cramps?" he asked casually, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eyes.

"You know what, screw off."

"I was just asking." Dean turned, looking for his wallet. "Seriously, though, you feeling any better?"

Sam huffed, curling up tighter in a ball, his face hard although Dean was fairly positive that was in a desire to not show pain rather than to cut him out. "It's food poisoning, Dean. I'm fine."

"Not what I asked, but okay. If you need anything, call me." Dean patted down his pockets, making sure that he had everything and then, flashing Sam a smile, headed for the door.

"Wait," Sam called out before he could leave, "If you find out anything important, then come back here first. Don't go after it yourself."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "And what are you going to do to it that I can't? Puke on it?"

"I'm serious," Sam said, pushing himself onto an elbow with a wince. "Wait for me, or at least call me. If plans change, keep me informed."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm not an idiot."

"I know, just—"

"Then just trust me," Dean said abruptly and turned away, letting the door fall shut behind him, slightly annoyed. He wasn't useless, he had handled Purgatory just fine without Sam, didn't see why he couldn't do the same with monsters that he had been fighting since he was a kid.

Sam's worries proved to be unnecessary anyway.

Teddy Ambrose didn't have any clue how his father had ended up dead in his bed or even why he would try and steal a priceless vase.

His father also hadn't been acting odd at all in the weeks leading up to his death. In fact, he had seemed content and happy. Ambrose had won a free vacation that took place the week prior to his death and had invited his son to go with him since his wife had died several years ago. It had been Teddy's last night in New York, and they had gone to bed at a normal time. Teddy hadn't been aware that anything was even wrong until the police had come knocking at his door at two am, telling them his father had died in an attempted robbery at the Monx Mansion. He had been in for a shock when he went upstairs and found his father's body not in the morgue, but in his bed.

The police were confused about that one as well, although they were slightly more helpful.

The police chief—Chief Schneider—was more than willing to meet with Dean.

"I've never lost a body like that. Still can't explain it," he said sourly even as he gestured for Dean to take a seat.

"I'm sure you've also never had a body turn up again in his own bed. That's what's weird to me," Dean joked and Chief Schneider just shook his head.

"All I can think of is that Ambrose wasn't really dead and that he crawled home in a last I don't even know what."

Dean had also floated that idea past Sam, but that had been more to get out of the library than because he thought it likely, and Chief Schneider didn't look like he believed that either.

"So, this robbery…" Dean sat forward, bracing his hands on his knees. "What can you tell me about it."

Chief Schneider scratched at his cheek, thinking. "I mean, it wasn't anything that we hadn't done before. Monx couldn't sleep that night and headed downstairs for a cup of tea but thought that he heard a noise. Looked over the railing and saw Ambrose stealing this Chinese vase—Monx went off about it for a good little bit, I had to fight to even take it in for evidence. Apparently, it's worth almost twenty million dollars."

Dean whistled lowly. "I mean, if I was making what Ambrose was, I probably would have gone for that too."

Chef Schneider made a face. "Right? Anyway, Monx called the police and we showed up just as Ambrose was trying to slip through the backdoor, vase in hand. The alarms hadn't gone off because, being a trusted associate, he had access to the codes. If Monx hadn't woken up, it would have been the perfect inside job, actually. What also doesn't make sense to me, though, is that Ambrose had worked there for over fifty years. Nothing else had gone missing before then. Why blow it now? Some random Tuesday night and he suddenly decides to risk everything by stealing one vase? That wasn't even the most valuable thing in the house that he could have taken. We had a case like that three years ago, ruined the woman's life and she is still in jail. It just doesn't make sense to me, not in this economy."

"Tell me about it. People do stupid things though," Dean agreed easily.

"Anyway, some of my officers showed up, Ambrose pulled a weapon on them while trying to run, so, they shot at him. He was declared dead on location, but the body disappeared before the autopsy could be performed. The window in the ME's office was jimmied open from the inside, which I personally don't want to think about. Then we got the call that the body was back at Ambrose's home, in bed like he had never gotten up. Odd, all around, really."

Story finished, Chief Schneider sat back, steepling his fingers together as he examined Dean. "What does the FBI have to make of that?"

"I'm not sure yet," Dean said truthfully, mulling over what he had just heard. "But once we know, I'll let you know." That one was a lie, but by the time Chief Schneider found out that Agent Smith wasn't a real agent it would be too late.

Wheedling a copy of the official reports from the secretary, Dean browsed idly through them as he walked. It was another hot day, and his collar was sticking to his skin uncomfortably when he reached the ME's office.

The body yielded nothing. There was nothing currently odd about Ted Ambrose except that he had somehow died in two different places. Maybe Sam wasn't so far off on his demon idea. Maybe it had hopped into him, just for the night.

By the time he had finished talking to everyone, it was well past noon. After a quick stop at a diner to eat some food and pick up some soup that would hopefully tempt Sam, Dean made his way back to the motel.

Stuffing the folder under his arm, Dean fumbled with the lock before easing the door open, hoping that Sam was asleep.

He was just in time to hear the sounds of retching coming from the bathroom.

Great.

Setting everything down on the table, he knocked once before pushing the door open. Sam was kneeling hunched over in front of the toilet, his head braced on his arm as he vomited.

"Man, what did you eat?" he asked, but Sam didn't even acknowledge him as he lurched forward with another round of heaving.

Dean stepped over his legs and settled on the edge of the tub to wait for him to finish.

Sam looked so much worse than he had the night before. His face was pinched and white, his lips chapped and cracked, and he was clearly shivering despite the hot and stuffy room.

"How'd it go?" Sam croaked out a moment later, his voice wrecked from all the vomiting, as he twisted his head to the side to better look at Dean.

"Fine," Dean said slowly, still searching Sam's face. "I got the police and ME's report."

Sam nodded, dropping his head back down, and Dean's worry rose a notch. He nudged Sam's foot with his.

"How about you? How you doing?"

"Peachy," Sam muttered more into the toilet bowl than to Dean.

"Isn't being back in here more of a step backward than forwards?"

"Probably."

That sliver of unease was back, and Dean felt his concern inching upwards. "You feel like food? I brought you some soup." Sam looked away, making a gagging noise, his fingers tightening into a fist. "Alright, alright, it was just a suggestion. Keep your stomach where it's supposed to be."

Dean sat there for a second, regarding Sam with narrowed eyes.

"I'll be right back," he announced and stood again, weaving his way back out into the main room and snagging his wallet.

He returned from the Gas 'N Sip five minutes later, with a bottle of Pepto-Bismol in hand. Sam looked over at his approach and scoffed.

"I'm not taking that."

"Sam, you've been throwing up for over twelve hours at this point and it doesn't look to be getting any better. You need to at least try to take something." He sat back down and began to tear the plastic protection seal off. Measuring out a dose, he offered it to Sam.

"I'm not taking that," Sam refuted again pointedly. "It's just going to come back up."

"We don't know that, and it might help with the nausea," Dean insisted, pushing the cap onto Sam, who wasn't looking too sure.

"You're not the one who's going to be puking it up," he muttered mutinously and Dean's lips thinned.

"Stop being a bitch about it and take it."

Perhaps it was a mark of how badly Sam really was feeling that he didn't continue to fight it or even tell Dean off for being bossy.

He just took the cap and knocked it back like it was a shot of whiskey, before glowering at Dean. "If that comes back up, I'm going to make a point to be sick all over your shoes," he said petulantly.

"You do that, and you're doing laundry until the day that you die," Dean shot back, stepping over Sam once again and ripping a plastic cup out of its wrapper. Filling it about half-full, he passed it to Sam.

"You should probably drink something as well."

Sam didn't try to fight him that time, instead simply taking a small sip before setting it aside.

Dean glowered at him but decided against pressing the issue for the moment. He had also gotten some Gatorade and once the Pepto-Bismol stayed down, they would upgrade to that.

Only, the Pepto-Bismol didn't stay down and not even ten minutes later, Sam was bent over the bowl once again, heartily heaving and retching it back up.

After that, Sam refused to even let Dean try to give him anything else. Giving it up as a lost cause for the moment, Dean put the soup in their little fridge where it would probably congeal before getting the reports to read through.

Sam spent the rest of the afternoon in the bathroom, alternating between sleeping fitfully curled up on the floor and being hunched over the toilet. Dean left the bathroom door open, going in and out as needed even as he studied the reports while Sam slept. He had been planning on going back out to talk with Monx's head of security but decided against it.

He didn't think that it was wise to leave, not when Sam was as sick as a dog.

Shouldn't he be over this by now? At the very least, there should have been some improvement but, if anything, he seemed to be getting worse.

He was watching the bathroom discreetly when he heard Sam, who was currently laying curled up on the floor, let out what sounded horribly like a whimper.

It cut straight into Dean's heart. He liked to tease Sam about being a wimp sometimes, but he wasn't. He really wasn't and had gone through things without a murmur that Dean wasn't sure he could have.

Leaving the report he had been trying to read behind, Dean grabbed the Gatorade and then crossed over to the bathroom.

"How you doing, big guy?" he asked, coming to crouch next to Sam's head.

His brother was looking more grey than white now, and he just slowly shook his head. "Not great," he mumbled, his arms tightening around his stomach. Dean's concern inched higher and he rested his hand against Sam's forehead.

Still no fever.

"C'mon." Dean snagged Sam's arm, tugging on it. "Sit up for a moment. You need to drink something. It will make you feel better, and then you can lay back down." Sam shook his head again but Dean took ahold of his arm more insistently. "It won't take long."

Sam screwed up his face to show his displeasure but reached out to weakly grasp Dean's wrist. Dean returned the grip, before wrapping his fist in the collar of Sam's shirt as he tugged. "Alright. Here we go. Up!"

He pulled Sam into a sitting position and then allowed him to lean forward against him to ride out the head rush. When Sam was ready, he pushed away from Dean to sit with his back against the wall.

Dean waited a moment to make sure that he was steady before handing him the already open bottle of Gatorade. "Drink that, but take it slow, okay?"

Sam nodded and used both hands to hold the bottle as he took an unsteady sip.

"Are you feeling any better at all?" Dean asked, lightly massaging Sam's shoulder as he took another swallow.

Sam shrugged, lowering the bottle to rest in his lap.

"How is the pain?"

He heaved a slow sigh, looking exhausted. "Bad, but manageable. It's the nausea, it just…it won't go away no matter what I do."

Dean tightened his grip. He was sure that Sam was downplaying both symptoms, and the fact that he had admitted to both being bad decided it for him. It was time to take Sam in to see a doctor. "Not a lot of fun, then. You keep drinking that, I'm gonna go find your shoes, then we're going to the Urgent Care."

Sam was staring distastefully at the drink, but his head came up at that. "I'm not going to the Urgent Care."

Dean had been prepared for that response. "Dude, you just told me yourself that you weren't doing great, and I think that it's time we let some professionals have a look at you. You kind of look like you died, and then decided to stick around."

"I don't need to go," Sam protested, hunching in more on himself. "It's just food poisoning, they would just give me fluids and something for the nausea. It's not worth the trip or the money."

"That's what fake insurance is for. And you said it yourself that nothing else was working for the nausea, so why not try this?" Dean pointed out and Sam glared at him before his look softened into something else that he didn't quite recognize.

"I don't think I need to go in, Dean. I just need to let it run its course. I can be sick for a little bit, I've had worse."

Dean hesitated, taking in Sam's pallor and chapped lips. "I know that, but there is no reason for you to have to suffer. You really don't look good."

"I'm fine. I just need to sleep it off." Sam breathed out slowly, tipping his head back against the wall. "I don't want to go in."

"No one ever wants to go to the doctor, but I think that you should, man."

"Dean, enough. I don't need to go."

Dean made a face. He was still very much of the opinion that Sam needed to go in, but…he did trust his brother. If Sam thought that he just needed to sleep it off, then he probably did. There was also the issue that Dean didn't have as much leeway as he used to. Maybe a year ago he could have forced Sam's hand but right now it would probably just cause an argument and he was so sick of arguing with his brother.

Sensing this, Sam gave one final push. "If I'm not feeling better by tomorrow morning, then I'll go in, okay?"

Dean shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sam wasn't deathly ill and he was right that it was just food poisoning. Heaving a sigh, he stood and gestured at the Gatorade. "Okay, we won't go in yet, not unless you get worse. But dehydration is a bitch, you should drink some more of that."

Sam turned his head away, making a face, but recognized it as the compromise that it was and took a sip.

Dean watched him, his arms folded across his chest, and noted the way that Sam's hands were trembling.

"Are you—"

"—Yes, I'm sure. I don't need to go in," Sam insisted even as he set aside the bottle. It was still mostly full.

"You're going to throw up again, aren't you?"

"Probably." Sam drew his knees up closer to his chest, dropping his head down to rest against them even as he kept his arm around his middle.

"Well, don't say that I didn't offer to take you in if something bad comes of this."

"Just—go read something. You hovering is not helping the situation."

Dean rolled his eyes, but stayed at the door for a minute, watching his brother. His gut was telling him that he should take him in, but he pushed the feeling away. Vowing to himself that he would give Sam until midnight to start improving, Dean sat back down on his bed. Actually, it was Sam's bed as it offered a better view into the bathroom but that was far too girly to admit out loud.

He watched quietly as Sam fidgeted around, clearly uncomfortable, until he finally threw up the Gatorade. Then he went back to lying on the grimy floor, trying in vain to sleep through the symptoms.

No complaint or sound of pain passed his lips now, but Dean didn't need that to know that Sam was suffering. He still knew his mannerisms like the back of his hand. Hell, deep down he knew Sam just as well, there had just been a few more layers added that Dean was having a damn hard time deciphering.

Dean didn't get much work done that afternoon. He couldn't concentrate or think about the case with Sam's palpable misery distracting him. Giving up at last, he also moved into the bathroom where he wetted down a cloth to wipe at Sam's sweaty face or lay against the back of his neck.

When that wasn't needed, he just sat with him. It wasn't uncomfortable and his brother seemed to be more relaxed with him there. Most of the time was spent in silence, Sam feeling too ill to even try and keep up a conversation, but that didn't matter.

Around seven in the evening, Sam convinced Dean that he would survive by himself while Dean did a food run. His stomach was grumbling and Sam hadn't thrown up recently so with the promise to be back soon, he left.

It took longer than Dean had anticipated and, when he returned, he found Sam once again asleep.

Dean smiled.

Sam was too large to really fit on the bathroom floor. His head was pressed up against the base of the toilet seat, and his feet were jammed against the edge of the tub.

"I should take a picture," he said softly, shaking his head in fond exasperation. It had been a while since he had found Sam curled up asleep in an odd spot like that. It had been something that he had done as a kid and Dean had countless memories of coming back from a hunt with his father to find Sam with his head on a book at the table, or asleep in a chair that had been pulled up next to a window.

Dean had loved that kid so furiously and with everything that he had. The love had not faded despite their…disagreements. Hell, if anything it was stronger.

It was just more complicated too.

Shaking his head, Dean turned his attention back to his food, deciding that it would be best to let Sam sleep for as long as his body allowed.

As he worked his way through the fat sandwich and fries, he silently mulled back over his conversation with Chief Schneider.

He had mentioned something that had been bugging Dean all afternoon, but he wasn't sure if it was anything. He wanted to do more research on it before he brought it up to Sam to get his opinion.

Dean was about three years deep into the police records for the area when he glanced over at the time and started, looking up. It was after ten now, and dark outside.

Sam still hadn't woken up and was in about the same position that Dean had found him in earlier.

Cleaning everything off of Sam's bed, Dean turned down the covers before coming over to crouch next to him.

"Hey…" He lightly shook Sam's shoulder.

Sam stirred lethargically, his eyes slitting open just long enough to ensure that it was indeed Dean who was touching him, before trying to go right back to sleep. Dean's lips quirked up into a smile despite himself. "Hey, no, not yet. The floor cannot be that comfortable, you're twisted up like a pretzel. C'mon…just for a minute, Sam, and then you can go right back to sleep, I promise."

Sam stared up at him, still not fully awake, and then allowed Dean to pull him first up into a sitting position, and then onto his feet. Dean ducked underneath his shoulder, not quite trusting Sam to hold his own weight on wobbling legs, and guided him towards the bed.

Dropping him down onto it, he watched as he rolled over onto his stomach and tucked a hand underneath his cheek. Once he seemed comfortable, Dean began to pull the blankets up around him before lightly resting his fingers against Sam's throat, checking both his pulse and his temperature. Both were still good, even if he was still several shades too pale for Dean's liking.

Sam mumbled something unintelligible and dug his face deeper into the pillow. Dean's smile grew as he moved his hand to his brother's back, watching and feeling him breathe.

Something quieted in his soul, just as it always did when he took moments like this.

Giving himself another minute to soak it in, he patted Sam's back once before taking a deep breath of his own and retreating to the waiting computer.