A/N I was giving it one last edit, and then things started changing more than I had anticipated, and thus why this is a little late. I also apologize in advance for all the mistakes that are present.
Technically, this is the second half of last week's chapter. Originally, it was all just going to be one chapter filled with lots of hurt/comfort but then I got carried away with the details and it turned out to be a lot longer than I had anticipated...I swear that this story is going somewhere. Hang with me and we'll get there. :)
Chapter Three
Sam actually felt somewhat human when he woke up.
His head still ached, and his stomach wasn't totally settled, but at least it wasn't actively protesting anymore. Shifting under the weight of the blankets, Sam waited for the sharp, jabbing, pains that had bothered him all of yesterday to rear their ugly head, but nothing happened.
Sam relaxed back into the blissfully soft bed as he let out a long sigh. He had no clue how he had gotten there, the last thing that he really remembered was finally falling asleep on the bathroom floor, but he wasn't going to look the gift horse in the mouth.
He drifted lazily in and out for a little while, listening to the quiet sounds of Dean puttering around and the AC attempting to kick on, until the blankets became too hot. Flipping them off, he wasn't surprised when Dean spoke.
"You good, or are you going to start puking again? If you are, do us all a favor and try to make it to the toilet this time."
Sam raised his middle finger, making Dean laugh, before pushing his hand through his hair. It was uncomfortably greasy and left him feeling grimy. He was in desperate need of a shower.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to sit up. The room tilted lazily and he bowed his head, riding out the brief dizziness. When he looked up, he found Dean watching him with quickly veiled concern from behind the laptop.
"You still look like an extra from a George Romero movie."
"Thanks for that. Just what I needed to hear first thing in the morning." Sam pushed himself to his feet and looked blankly around the room, still feeling fuzzy, before turning to Dean and announcing, "I'm going to take a shower."
"Thank God," Dean said fervently but Sam ignored him as he stumbled into the bathroom.
It still reeked of vomit and sickness, and Sam's stomach rolled tightly. Breathing slowly out of his mouth, he quickly shed his sweat-stained clothes while the water warmed.
The shower didn't help to refresh him as much as he would have hoped, the warm water doing little but making him more lightheaded and he had to sit on the toilet with his head in-between his knees for a minute before pulling on fresh clothes.
When he emerged, Dean was still bent over the computer, reading intently.
"Find anything?" Sam asked as he rolled up the sleeves of his button-up.
Dean glanced up. "Yeah, actually. While you were doing your whole worshiping act yesterday, I remembered something that the chief of police mentioned in passing. Look at this."
Clicking through to what he wanted to show Sam, he flipped the computer around so that he could see. Sam leaned over, bracing one hand against the chair as he began to read what looked like a police report. "Another robbery?" he asked in surprise. "But this happened over four years ago and no one died, right?"
"But it's the same MO. A trusted employee was caught using their security access to steal valuables in the dead of night. Only, they didn't catch her when she tried to run. They arrested her the next morning when she, get this, tried to clock in for work. She claimed that she had no clue what they were talking about. She ended up being forced to plead guilty due to all the evidence against her, and is still serving time in prison." Dean leaned back in his seat, looking pleased with himself.
"Huh," Sam frowned. "That's interesting, but not necessarily connected."
Dean was still smugly grinning. "I'd thought you say that." He grabbed the computer back, clicking over onto a new screen. "Just wait for this last bit, dude. There are another four cases that I've found like this one over the last five years in New York. All the suspects were employees, had rock-hard evidence against them, and swore up and down that they didn't do it." He handed the computer back over to Sam.
He took it, skimming the reports. Dean was smart, always had been, and people who didn't know him might have been surprised that he could have pulled that out of his ass, but not Sam. Sam knew better than anyone just how capable Dean was, even if Dean himself didn't always want to acknowledge it.
"What are you thinking?" he asked as he read.
Dean shrugged. "Either demonic possession or shapeshifter. Both could explain the knowledge of security codes, the hard evidence, and also a lack of knowledge on the individual's part."
Sam nodded along. It made sense.
"Dude, next time you try and get out of research, I'm going to remind you of this," he said as he pulled the chair out so that he could sit down. "There's definitely a pattern of some sort here, and we can work with that. We need to talk to some of the people involved and see if we can figure out which one it is. I'll try to set up some interviews."
Dean reached for the computer again. "Whoa, hold up there, hotshot. I can do that. I got you some fruit and yogurt fancy, breakfast, thing. It's in the fridge. You need to eat something, probably drink about a gallon of water as well."
"I will later," Sam said, waving away the offer. The parfait didn't sound tempting at all, and he was trying to avoid a repeat performance of yesterday.
Better to wait, and let things settle further before trying anything adventurous.
"Man, I'm serious. You've got to be running on fumes and you still look really pale. Just eat something before you end up passing out." Dean had a pinched, worried, look on his face that Sam hadn't seen recently and he hesitated, before nodding.
If that was what little it would take to make Dean happy, then he supposed that it would be worth the risk.
Next to them, the AC gave a spurting hiss and then died.
"Again, seriously?" Dean spat, shoving away from the table to go unplug and plug it back in.
Sam shook his head as he collected the yogurt parfait from the fridge along with a cold bottle of water.
He began to pick half-heartedly at the food as he worked on creating a list of people that they could talk to and Dean got the AC to stutter back on. Only about a quarter of the yogurt parfait was gone when Sam pushed it aside, feeling queasier than before, and the look on his face must have told Dean not to push it.
Finding his phone after some searching—it was in his jacket pocket from the day before—Sam began to call and set up appointments.
Next to him and by the computer, Dean's phone began to ring and Sam picked it up, glancing at the number. He didn't know it, but it was a New York area code. Tossing it to Dean, he went back to his own conversation.
He listened in curiously to Dean's when he had finished his own call.
"Yeah, uh-huh," he was saying as he jotted something down onto a piece of paper. An address, Sam realized a moment later when he craned his head to look.
"Thanks for calling. See you later," Dean said before hanging up the phone and looking over at Sam.
"Who was that?"
"That was Chief Schneider. He said that something came up and that he wanted to tell me about it."
"Huh." Sam looked around for his shoes. "We need to go now?"
"Nah, he said that it wasn't urgent. He wanted to meet at six tonight after he got off work."
"I'll look forward to it then."
"Or," Dean countered, pointing his pen at Sam. "I can go tonight and to all these interviews, and you can stay here and get some more sleep. Or watch porn. Or even read that thick-ass book, I don't really care, but I think you need another day off your feet."
Sam shook his head. He'd already put them back a whole day, no way that he was sitting this out now. He could function just fine. Besides, sitting alone in a motel room all day with nothing to occupy him but his thoughts…not good. "Dude, it was food poisoning. I'm fine now."
Dean eyed him critically. "No offense, but you look like a stiff wind could knock you over. Hell, you couldn't even finish a parfait! And it's just interviews, it's not like I'll be hunting down Big Foot."
"Dean, I'm coming with you. I want to come. I was staring at these walls all of yesterday, I'm about to go insane," Sam replied stubbornly.
Dean chewed on his cheek a moment before giving in with a sigh and shake of his head. "I'm not bringing you back halfway through. If you go, you're sticking it out."
"Fair enough," Sam said with a small smile. It was an empty threat, and he knew it, but he didn't see there being any need for Dean to have to follow through on it. It was just some interviews. He had handled a lot more in way worse condition. This would be like a walk in the park.
Changing into their FBI suits, they headed out.
Finding a central location to park the Impala, they decided to walk between the interviews, if solely to save time and gas by not navigating through New York's heavy traffic. Sam, personally, also felt that it was to save Dean's blood pressure. His brother was an expert at driving backroads and long distances but put him in a traffic jam and he could become decidedly unpleasant to be around.
Sam didn't regret his decision at first, the fresh air was invigorating and the case was something to focus on besides the general feeling of off that was still bothering him. By the end of the fourth interview, however, he was starting to rethink his perhaps rash choice to come along.
It was hot out—exceedingly so—and walking through it was not doing his tentative stomach any favors. The nausea that he had been battling all morning was becoming harder and harder to ignore, and Sam forcibly, and maybe a little bit rudely, turned down the cookies that were offered at the next interview with an elderly man who had been the detective on one of their cases.
When they left the small apartment, he admitted to himself that he should probably say something to Dean. He knew theoretically that he was only going to feel worse rather than better as the day went on, but his brother was already forging ahead and his own pride was surging up.
He wasn't going to go back to the motel for something as ridiculous as food poisoning. He'd been stabbed before and still done his job. Hell, he had been going insane and had functioned up until the very end. There was no way that he was going to admit defeat to this.
He had said that he could do the interviews, so he would.
Besides, Dean didn't need to have anything else to hold over him, and he wouldn't be gracious about it when he made Sam eat humble pie.
It wasn't long after he had made his decision to just stick it out that his head began to pound along with every beat of his heart and thinking things through effectively started to become a challenge.
Dean impatiently took over asking the questions, leaning forward intently to hear the answers. He was fired up about this case and knew exactly what he was looking for and trying to ask. Sam didn't and was more than content to let Dean take the lead this time.
If Dean noticed his sudden lack of caring, he didn't point it out, for which Sam was grateful. After they finished—they only had one interview left, it seemed pointless to admit defeat now—he would carefully ask Dean to drop him back off at the motel and it wouldn't be a big deal. Then he could take a cold shower. Or maybe just sleep in the AC-cooled room.
Right then, that sounded blissful but Sam pushed the thought off.
He just had to get through this first. It would probably only be another hour at most. He could do that. It was just a twenty-minute walk to Central Park—where a Ms. Kang had suggested they meet— a short interview, and then the walk back to the Impala.
Piece of cake.
Sam didn't say anything as they walked, keeping his hands in his pockets and trying not to draw attention to himself. Dean wasn't talking either, looking decidedly grumpy. Not much new information had been offered during the interviews, and he was becoming increasingly frustrated with the lack of breakthroughs. Or maybe the heat was finally getting to him too, Sam didn't know.
Whatever it was, it was a distinct difference from the last time they had been headed to Central Park, and Sam felt even worse after the realization, feeling unexplainably like he was letting Dean down again.
"Alright, where are we meeting?" Dean asked as they entered the park. He had long ago ditched his suitcoat, which was tucked underneath his arm. Sam probably should have too, but he knew that he had sweated through his white button-down long ago so the jacket would just have to stay.
"Uh…" Sam paused, trying to get his brain to function. "The Carousel, which should be just off of 65th Street."
Dean paused. "Did we just enter off of 65th Street?" he asked pointedly and Sam looked over at him.
"I don't know! You're the one who always jumps ahead and takes the lead."
"You never said what entrance to go to. You just said Central Park."
"Well, maybe you should have asked."
Dean narrowed his eyes at him but Sam simply shoved his way past him and started to walk. It didn't matter, they were at Central Park, and they would find the carousel and then they would be done for the day.
Or at least he would be, Dean could do what he wanted.
Dean caught up with him a moment later, tugging on his arm and pulling him in the other direction. It was a silent apology, and Sam returned it with a small smile.
Central Park, it turned out, was a lot more confusing than Sam had thought and they both got turned around. With an embarrassed huff, Dean finally came to a stop in front of a sign detailing park attractions and locations. Sam stared at it a moment and then gave up trying to decipher it.
There was no thinking past the headache, and he was hot enough that he felt flushed and his face was burning. He was also parched, the heat sucking every drop of moisture from him, but he didn't think that he could keep water down even if they had any.
But Sam could make it through one more interview. He had done thousands of them in his lifetime, what was one more?
Dean—with no help from Sam—finally got them pointed in the right direction and then hurried them along in a brisk walk, checking his watch every few minutes as they went.
They were going to be late.
Sam wanted to be embarrassed about the fact, but he couldn't find the energy. It was taking all he had just to keep up the appearance of being mostly okay.
The carousel came into view ten minutes later, and Sam looked around, squinting through the bright sun.
"Ms. Kang!" he called, waving a hand towards the woman who was standing with her back to them, looking frazzled and checking her watch.
She was not happy that they were late, not that Sam could blame her.
"I have places to be," she said forcefully, giving them both dark glares.
"We know, and we are very sorry. This shouldn't take long," Sam said, giving her what he hoped was an apologetic smile.
Dean cleared his throat and took the lead.
Sam let him, staring down at the sidewalk tiredly. Dean could handle this just fine on his own. If Sam tried to help right now, he had the feeling that he would screw things up even more than he already had.
He was good at that, screwing things up.
He was thinking longingly of the privacy of a bathroom in which he may or may not throw up when Dean turned to look at him, his eyes wide and flustered.
Sam zoned back in abruptly, blinking as he shifted hesitantly on his feet. He had no clue what they were talking about.
"Uh," he said ineloquently, staring dumbly at the irritated woman who was standing there and staring at him with her arms crossed, and resisted the urge to start rubbing at his head to try and soothe away the throbbing there.
He couldn't do it. He had no clue what they were talking about but Dean was giving him a silent, demanding, look. "Just answer my partner's questions, Ms. Kang. We need to know what happened."
The woman glowered at him, saying something rapid-fire in a language that Sam didn't understand as she stuck her finger in his face.
Dean was also staring at him, but the demand was no longer there and he was now regarding Sam with what looked a lot like concern.
Sam fought the urge to look away, trying to compose his face into something acceptable. Dean's frown deepened as he hastily reached out, tucking a hand under Sam's elbow and steadying him. He felt his face grow warm from embarrassment and nodded pointedly at Ms. Kang. Dean could hover later, right now they had more important things to do.
Dean gave him one last, long, searching look, silently asking him if he was alright. Sam wasn't, and he cleared his throat. Frowning, Dean turned back to Ms. Kang and took back over the conversation even as he continued to glance at Sam every couple of seconds.
Sam looked away and finally gave in to the temptation to pinch the bridge of his nose and squeeze his eyes shut.
He had a feeling that he'd just screwed up despite his best intentions.
The rest of the conversation didn't last long, Dean's questions were half-hearted at best and he was the one to wrap up the interview abruptly. Ms. Kang strode away from them, her head held high and clearly offended.
Dean didn't wait before he rounded on Sam, his face tight with anger and, probably only visible to Sam, fear. "Dude, what the hell?"
Sam deserved that.
"Sorry."
"Sorry? That's it? Seriously, what was that? She just finished telling us how she didn't trust the FBI because of what had happened with her father…and you hit her with that? I thought you were supposed to be the sensitive one between us. You were supposed to get all doe-eyed and tell her that 'we're different' and 'we actually want to help' or some useless crap like that."
"I dunno, I just…" Sam was struggling to find the right words. Actually, he was struggling to do much thinking at all and resorted to rubbing both hands against his temples.
Dean's hand returned to his elbow, gripping tight. "Man, you should have stayed home today. I told you that you weren't ready yet."
Sam bristled. "I don't need you to babysit me."
"Apparently, you do."
Sam opened his mouth to throw back a retort but shut it again.
Dean wasn't exactly wrong in this case, Sam shouldn't have pushed himself so hard. He looked away, his face growing hot with embarrassment. He had handled Lucifer's cage and going insane, and now he couldn't even handle food poisoning…he had grown soft. Weak. It was pathetic.
"C'mon," Dean's voice softened as he ducked his head to meet Sam's eyes, cajoling instead of fighting now. If anything, it made Sam feel more miserable. "Let's just get out of here. I'll take you back to the motel, and then we'll go from there. You need to rest a little bit out of the sun, and then actually eat something."
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, digging his fingers into his eyelids until he saw stars, and then nodded. Dean was right, as per typical.
"I'm sorry," he offered again, but Dean just shook his head.
"Don't, it's not that big of a deal."
Sam wasn't sure that was true, but let Dean tug on his arm and turn him back the way that they'd come.
The sun beat down on them, and Sam ducked his head further, swallowing thickly. The little of the parfait that he had eaten earlier really wasn't sitting well. He was probably going to throw up as soon as they made it back to the motel, he just hoped that he could stave it off until then.
As if things weren't bad enough, the oppressive heat was starting to make everything blur together. Sam blinked rapidly to bring things back into focus, feeling suddenly lightheaded.
"Whoa, hey, you okay?" Dean sounded alarmed, his hold on Sam's arm had become almost painful.
Sam shook his head in an effort to clear it, looking around. He was half off the path and tilting dangerously to one side. He must have stumbled. "Sorry," Sam said again, and Dean's eyebrows furrowed together, pinching in worry. There wasn't even a hint of anger or disappointment anymore. He just tightened his grip, steadying Sam.
"You're slurring your words, man. You sure that you're good?"
Sam shrugged, not quite sure what Dean wanted him to say. He was all too aware that they couldn't do anything about it here in the middle of Central Park. "I…I'm just a little dizzy. It's nothing."
Dean's frown deepened. "Do you need to sit down?"
Sam huffed a long sigh, closing his eyes in an attempt to ward off the increasing dizziness. "I don't need to sit down or take a break. I can make it back to the motel. I'm fine."
Dean gave a disbelieving snort. "You're not fine. You are pretty damn far from fine right now."
"Yeah, well, what are you going to do about that out here? You can fuss when we get back."
Dean shook his head and wrapped his hand more firmly around his arm as he started walking again. Sam focused intently on the path, trying to walk a straight line. He probably looked drunk, and that was just the cherry on top of everything else.
They rounded a bend to see a small staircase that led to a bustling group of vendors.
Dean visibly brightened. "How about we get you some food, that might help. You need something in your stomach."
Sam did not agree and gave his brother a beseeching look. "No, Dean. I don't want whatever they're serving, it's not going to stay down,"
"New York's finest food right there, Sammy. Don't tell me that you can turn that down."
His stomach turned over traitorously just at the thought of the amount of grease that would be involved. "No," he repeated firmly but Dean was pulling him forward. "Dean—" Sam warned again but Dean just tugged on his arm.
"Fine, you don't have to want anything, but I'm at least getting you something to drink. Just sit your ass down here in the shade, take a breather, and I'll be right back."
Before Sam could form a protest, Dean was forcibly pushing him down to sit in the middle of the staircase. He landed on his ass more abruptly than he had intended, and his head pulsed pitifully in protest. Groaning, he bent over, tucking his head into his hands.
"You good?"
"I thought I wasn't allowed to be fine," Sam said mulishly through his hands. Dean made an exasperated sort of sound, and then his shoes appeared back in Sam's line of vision.
"You're a smart-ass, you know that, right?" Dean said, before plucking at the sleeve of the suitcoat that Sam was still wearing. "Take that off. It isn't doing you any favors, it's too hot out here to be wearing it," he ordered.
Sam raised his head, glaring up at him.
"Dude, I swear, just—take it off. I'll be right back."
Sam rolled his eyes as Dean left. All the same, he did shrug out of the jacket before dropping his head and squeezing his eyes shut in some sort of effort to control the nausea.
Breathing out slowly and calmly, he leaned his head against the sun-warmed, metal, handrail. The sounds of people chatting and vendors yelling floated around him and he tried to focus on that rather than how truly bad he was starting to feel. He looped one arm around one of the rails, trying to further ground himself as the world threatened to twist dizzyingly away. He wrapped the other around his stomach, clenching it tightly in the folds of his shirt.
The position wasn't doing anything to alleviate his symptoms, and Sam shifted, bending forward with his hands now clasped in front of him so that his head was resting against them. He was fine. He was fine. He really was fine.
He wasn't fine.
Sam brought a hand up, running it through his hair to pull it away from his face, trying to find some sort of relief. It wasn't working. Nothing was working. Lifting his head slowly, he searched for Dean in the crowd below. He just wanted to go back to the motel and get away from prying eyes.
He spotted his brother waiting about sixth in line at a vendor's cart. As if sensing his gaze, Dean looked over and they made eye contact. Sam stared at him, silently pleading with him to forget getting him a damn drink and to come back so that they could leave.
Dean gave him a small, forced, smile, and didn't look away until the line moved up again.
Sam dropped his head back down, breathing slowly, and twisted a little so that he was leaning his shoulder against the handrail. He wasn't going to throw up or pass out in Central Park. Wasn't going to happen.
If he told himself that enough, maybe it would be true.
"Hey." Dean's voice came from over his head a moment before a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Squinting, Sam peered up at Dean, who was outlined in the sunlight. "C'mon, get up. I found us some better shade."
How long had it been? Dean had still been in line a minute ago.
Sam frowned, but slowly stood and allowed himself to lean against Dean's arm as he was led over to a small grove of trees that were several feet past the vendors and off the path.
"We should…I just want to go back to the motel," Sam tried to protest when his brain connected what was happening, but Dean wasn't having it as he pushed Sam to sit down rather gracelessly with his back against a tree. He settled himself cross-legged next to Sam, stretching to grab the food that he had purchased.
It was more than just a drink, but there was no nauseating smell of grease or cheese. Instead, Dean pulled out two bottles of water, a soda, and a hot dog bun.
"You should try and eat some of this," Dean said, passing over the flimsy piece of cardboard that had the bun in it. "Try small bites, and don't rush it."
"I don't think I can," Sam said truthfully, his stomach turning over at just the thought. Dean's eyes tightened; his face grim.
"Try. You're running completely on empty, and your blood sugar levels have to be in the tank. Seriously, you need to eat and drink something before I let you even think about walkin' back to the Impala. Here."
Sam was expecting him to hand over one of the bottles of water, but it was the soda that was offered instead. Dean smiled thinly at the confused look on his face.
"Sugar, Sammy. You know that it will help."
Sam made a face but cautiously took a sip. It was sickly sweet and almost overpowering but Dean nodded at it again and Sam forced himself to drink some more.
Dean, meanwhile, broke open the seal on one of the water bottles. Before Sam realized what was happening, he began to trickle the water over his head.
"Dean—!" He reared back but Dean just caught his arm, holding him in place.
"You're overheated. Just tryin' to cool you down a little," he said calmly.
The cold water did feel nice but Sam wasn't going to admit to that out loud. Instead, he took another sip of the soda to buy himself time but stopped as his stomach cramped.
He was going to throw up.
Dropping his head, he braced it against his knees and forgot all about telling Dean off as his brother continued to dribble the water over his head. When he could open his mouth without tossing his cookies, maybe he would fight it.
"I don't see you eating or drinking," Dean insisted, nudging the bun back toward him. Sam shook his head and Dean's lips thinned. "Man, please. For me, just try and eat a little."
It wasn't going to stay down, but Dean was looking hopefully at him. Sam blindly broke off the corner and shoved it past his lips. It was dry, yet still somehow tasted of grease. Dropping the bun back into the boat, he shook his head.
"I eat another bite of that, and I'll throw up. I'm not kidding."
Dean opened his mouth to debate it, but changed his mind and tossed the bun haphazardly to the side before pointing at the soda. "Okay. We'll save the solids for after a trip to the ER. Drink that, though. I paid like an arm and a half for all this stuff, it would be stupid to waste it."
Sam raised the bottle before his brain fully comprehended all the words. "Wait, ER? Dean, I don't—"
"Don't fight me on this," Dean said firmly. "You're clearly not okay, no matter what you're trying to pretend. You're feverish and not sweating, and that's just for starters. We've got to get some fluids back into you before you shrivel up like a corpse."
Sam snorted. "I'm—"
Dean cut him off again impatiently. "If you say that you're fine, then I swear that I'll hit you. You're not thinking super straight, so trust me on this, you need the ER. Besides, that damn AC keeps going out back at the motel. The ER will be well air-conditioned, and if that's not a reason to go then I don't know what is." Dean tried for a smile, but it still looked forced.
Sam hesitated and Dean took the opportunity to dribble more water over his head, letting it run down his neck and soak into his shirt.
"Stop it," he tried to protest again, but there wasn't any strength behind it and Dean didn't heed him.
Sam looked away. He didn't want to go to the ER.
It wasn't that he didn't trust Dean. He trusted him more than anyone else, but still…it felt embarrassingly weak, and the last time that Sam had made a weak decision, well, Dean still hadn't totally forgiven him.
If they went to the ER, then they would be there for a couple of hours at the very least. It would waste the rest of the day that they could have spent trying to figure out what they were hunting. It would be a day wasted because Sam hadn't been able to take care of himself, and that was after him being out of commission the day before.
Not that that was really the issue. They took sick days when they needed it, it just…it just was irking Sam today. Made him feel like he was useless.
Maybe Dean was right about him not thinking straight.
"Sammy?" Dean ducked his head, trying to make eye contact and Sam took another sip of the soda. He immediately regretted it as his stomach painfully protested having anything in it. Setting the soda carelessly aside, he watched listlessly as Dean quickly righted it so that it didn't spill.
"Dude, you are so dehydrated right now that this isn't up for discussion. We are going." The impatience from earlier was gone, and Dean was staring at him with such open concern that Sam relented with a frustrated sigh.
"Okay. You're probably right."
Dean smiled brightly, his shoulders dropping in relief. "Don't you know by now that I'm always right?"
Sam's head gave a vicious throb and he closed his eyes again as he resumed his earlier position with his head on his knees.
"So…is the soda a no go?"
Sam made a face. "Too sweet."
"That's why you're supposed to be—" Dean cut himself off before continuing, "Never mind. How about the water, then? At least try and drink some water."
Dean reached for the second bottle of water and cracked the seal before offering it to him. Sam took a sip to appease his brother, but the water landed heavily in his stomach and he stopped immediately.
"I'll drink it in the car," he offered desperately as a compromise and Dean made a face, clearly not happy with the situation but not fighting it.
He gave Sam a couple more minutes to try and get the symptoms in control before he stood, brushing off his pants and asking as he did so. "You wanna stay here while I go get the car and park it closer?"
Sam shook his head. "It's not that far. And I feel better now, I can make it." That was partially true. The cold water had helped some and he no longer felt like he was going to puke the second that he opened his mouth.
Dean didn't look convinced as he raised an eyebrow. "You sure? It's at least a mile, probably more like a mile and a half. I don't mind running and getting her."
"It's going to take you longer to go and get it, and then come back. Besides, then you'll have to find a place to park and feed the meter here as well. It's a hassle. I'll just walk it."
Dean still didn't look convinced. "I dunno, man. Are you sure that you can? It's still hot out and you don't…you don't look exactly steady."
"I'm good, I can make it to the car," he insisted.
Dean was silent for a long moment and Sam didn't look up. He didn't want to know what kind of face Dean was making. "Alright," he finally said, still sounding unsure. "You need a hand up?"
Sam took the offered hand, allowing Dean to pull him to his feet once again.
The world wavered, and Sam closed his eyes, fighting to keep both his composure and his stomach. It was a losing battle and he bent over at the waist, swallowing thickly. Dean's grip tightened, his other hand coming up to wrap around his back.
"Sammy?"
Sam shook his head, breathing heavily through his nose. His head felt a little like it was about to float away as dizziness swamped him. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself back upright.
He straightened too quickly, and the headrush that followed sent the world twisting around him even more than it already had been.
"Sam?" Dean's voice echoed oddly around him, coming as if from very far away, and when Sam opened his eyes again to make sure that Dean was still there, that he hadn't left him, his features were indistinct and blurry.
He reeled back a step, shaking his head to try and clear it but that only made everything worse as the green grass merged oddly with the blue sky, creating a kaleidoscope of colors. Dean was closer now, almost suffocatingly so, as he wrapped his arms around Sam's waist and back, pulling him in.
That was good, because Sam had lost track of his legs, had lost track of which way was up and down. The arms tightened, Dean's voice a low whine, but Sam couldn't make out what he was saying.
"Gotta…gotta sit down," he mumbled, trying to find Dean's arm so that he could brace himself. He had to sit down, otherwise he wasn't going to make it…where he couldn't remember. Where had they been going?
There was a rushing sound in his ears and the hold on him became almost painful in its intensity before blackness overtook him.
#
"Sammy…?"
Dean's heart was somewhere in his throat as he lowered Sam down in a controlled fall rather than the abrupt collision with the ground that he had been about to achieve. His brother was a tangle of limp limbs, his overly long hair obscuring his face.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen, Sam wasn't supposed to faint. He had literally just said that he could make it to the car and while Dean had had his doubts, he hadn't expected this. He had more of been planning to walk Sam to the nearest exit and leave him there while he got the car. Hell, he'd even been thinking of getting a taxi.
But this…it was all wrong. Dean maneuvered himself out from under Sam's dead weight, and crouched next to him, feeling for a pulse.
It was strong if a bit erratic.
Brushing Sam's hair out of his face, Dean laid a hand atop his head, feeling the heat and dryness there. Sam still wasn't sweating, and his face was flushed.
Damnit, damnit, damnit.
He patted Sam's cheek firmly. "Hey, Sam? Sammy, c'mon, wake up. This isn't funny anymore."
Nothing happened and he fumbled in his pockets, looking for his phone. He didn't want to call 911, but Sam had freakin' fainted, and if he didn't snap out of it soon…
Sam wasn't responding and wasn't waking up. Growling under his breath, Dean punched in the three numbers. They were headed there anyway, might as well take the fashionable way in.
"Do you need help?"
Dean wheeled around at the voice and frowned as he noticed the small, gawking, crowd that had gathered around them. The speaker, however, was a middle-aged woman in running shorts and a t-shirt who was panting as she pulled out one of her earbuds.
"We're fine," Dean snapped, hunching slightly over Sam.
The woman didn't pay him any attention as she walked over. "I can help, I'm an EMT."
Dean hesitated again, glancing down at Sam's slack face and then up at her.
"My name is Tamica," she offered as she knelt next to Sam, reaching for his wrist to take his pulse.
Dean's first instinct was to push her away, to keep Sam safe, but he thought better of it, instead moving aside so that Tamica had more room. This wasn't the worst emergency they had been in—not by far—but it was still reassuring to have a medical professional there.
"That's Sam," he offered, gripping Sam's shoulder tightly.
"I saw him go down. Is that normal?" Tamica asked as she thumbed up one of Sam's eyelids, checking his pupil response.
Dean shook his head. "No, not at all. He did have a pretty bad case of food poisoning yesterday, though. I think he just overdid it."
Really, Sam should have known and told Dean long ago that he wasn't doing okay. Dean would have eaten his previous words and taken Sam back, and he knew that his brother was aware of it. They never should have reached this stage. Then again, sometimes Sam had difficulty listening to his own body.
Dean, on the other hand, had no such excuse. He should have known better. He knew Sam, knew his stubbornness, especially in fear of looking weak. Why hadn't he been paying more attention? He'd known that Sam hadn't felt great all day, but he hadn't realized just how badly until he'd snapped at Ms. Kang and by then it had been too late.
Guilt surged up in his chest. He was supposed to watch out for his brother, to help him when he needed it.
"Not fun for him, then," Tamica said, checking her watch with a frown. Sam should have woken up by now. "What were his symptoms right before he collapsed?"
Dean heaved a sigh even as he began to loosen Sam's tie. It might not help, but it gave him something to do. "He was disoriented and kept complaining about being nauseated. We'd also been out all day. He's overheated and dehydrated. I tried to get him to eat and drink something, just to keep him going until we could get to the ER, but he didn't think that he could handle it."
Tamica nodded. "Have you called 911 yet?"
"No. No, I was going to, but…" Dean trailed off as he fumbled for his phone again, but Tamica was shaking her head.
"I got it, you just get his feet elevated." She was already punching the number into her phone as Dean shifted towards Sam's feet, elevating them in his lap while also still trying to shield him from the growing crowd of onlookers. That was the last thing that Sam needed.
Tamica began to relay information over the phone and Dean glanced back up at Sam's slack face.
Sam should have only been out for a few seconds. Why wasn't he waking up? Dean checked his watch, feeling the panic threatening to increase.
"Sam, hey. Hey, dude," he called, pinching the back of his ankle hard.
Sam groaned softly, his head lolling in Dean's direction and he leaned forward eagerly, watching as his eyelids fluttered.
Tamica moved forward, bending over Sam and blocking his view.
Reaching up impatiently, Dean snagged Sam's lax hand and squeezed it tightly. Sam feebly returned the grip as he groaned what sounded like a garbled "Dean?"
"I'm here, buddy," Dean called up, irritated that it was Tamica and not him talking to Sam. Some of the frustration must have bled through in his voice because someone tapped him on the shoulder.
"Here." It was a teenager, offering a backpack and Dean nodded his thanks.
Sliding it under Sam's feet, he shuffled on his knees back up to kneel next to his head. Sam's eyes were open, but if his pinched expression was anything to go by then he was having trouble focusing.
"Hey." Dean didn't have to force a smile, the relief that he was feeling fueling it.
Sam blinked, his eyes finding Dean's, and a look of calm brightened the foggy hazel. "Dean, I…wha' happened?"
"You fainted, hotshot," Dean said, not at all comforted by the way that Sam was continuing to slur his words. Sam blinked again, and Dean swiped the hair out of his face and then laid his hand on his head trying to ground him.
"Fainted?" Sam repeated, his brow scrunching up, and Dean nodded.
"You know, after spending all summer in Texas, you would think that you would know how to handle the heat. Not to mention the four years that you spent in California. What is it with you and choosing hot places to run off to anyway?" Dean regretted the last part as soon as it left his mouth, but Sam seemed too dazed to pick up on the low blow, and he hoped that it remained that way.
Sam didn't need any more reminders of his mistakes, not at that moment.
"Oh. Yeah. I guess," he mumbled instead, his eyes closing again as he tried to push himself upright.
"Hey, hey, hey, no. Stay like this. How are you feeling?" Dean asked, stilling him with one hand on his chest and leaning in closer. Tamica was subtly paying attention to their conversation, her hand on Sam's wrist as she continued to time his pulse.
"I have water," she offered softly, tilting the phone away from her mouth.
"We've got water," Dean said to Sam, lightly kneading his brother's shoulder.
Sam shook his head, his face taking on a green tinge. "Gonna be sick."
"But you might feel better," Dean countered, but Tamica shook her head.
"Don't push it if he doesn't feel like it. The paramedics will be here in less than five minutes, and they'll get an IV going."
That brought Sam's head up and he looked between Dean and her. "Not going to the hospital."
Dean huffed. "We already had this conversation. You agreed that you needed to go to the ER, remember?"
Sam frowned. "No. Maybe. I don't know."
"Well, that's comforting." Dean shook his head in exasperation.
Sam glared at him, before dropping his head back.
Tamica was watching them with interest and Dean fought the urge to once again shield Sam.
"You know," he said, gripping Sam's shoulder tightly to focus his attention. "We're going to have a talk about you pushing yourself so hard. This isn't cool, man."
Before Sam could respond, there was a bustle of movement at the edge of the crowd as a pair of paramedics with a stretcher emerged.
Sam's cheeks flushed, and Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Don't look at me that way. That's what you get when you don't listen to me. I told you to stay back today."
Sam glared at him and was with it enough to mutter, "Screw off," making Dean smile.
The paramedics came to kneel next to Sam and Dean shuffled so that he was kneeling above Sam's head, one hand tangled in his hair.
Sam answered the questions that the paramedics had, with Dean only jumping in once or twice to clarify. Once they got an IV going and were satisfied with his vitals, Dean and one of the paramedics got him up and on the stretcher without incident.
"Good luck," Tamica told Dean, giving him a faint smile and handing him both his and Sam's suitcoats that he had almost forgotten in his rush.
"Thank you," he said, dipping his head in her direction. She smiled, and Dean hurried to catch up with the paramedics as they began to wheel a thoroughly dejected-looking Sam through the crowd and towards the ambulance.
"I'm riding with," Dean informed them firmly and they didn't question it.