Summary:  A seemingly normal illness turns into a whole lot more for the Winchester family.
A/N:  This one goes out to my beta and dear friend, Cati. I never would have written it without her and it wouldn't be what it is without her sound beta-ing skills. This is my first "real" multi-chapter fic in quite some time and really the first one in this fandom, so I'm not quite in my element (sustained plots? what? consistency? huh?).
Disclaimer:  I own none of these characters but sure love playing with them (well, except John--him I could do without most days).

Chapter One: Status Quo

Sam was nervous. He had been nervous when he woke up, nervous as he sat through his classes, nervous when Dean picked him up from school. If his brother or father noticed, they didn’t say anything. Not that he expected them to. After all, to them it was just a normal day. As he went to school, they were prepping for the next hunt.

Normal. It almost made Sam laugh.

Life was never normal for the Winchester family. At 16, that was a fact Sam was all too aware of. He was used to it really, used to the transient lifestyle, used to always being the new kid, used to learning to wear long sleeves in the summer to hide the bruises and scratches. He was used to moving into and out of drab apartments and cheap motels, living on drive-through and take-out. He was used to this monotonous life punctuated by occasional dramatic bursts of supernatural encounters. He was even used to nearly getting killed every other weekend.

He was even more used to not fitting in--not with his family, not with the rest of the world. Despite his separation, Sam still found solace in school, surrounded by everything he craved but could never be a part of. He wanted to belong so badly, but couldn’t relate to those around him. While they lamented being grounded for curfew violation, all Sam could think of was his father’s emotionless voice instructing him on hand-to-hand combat. And no matter how hard he tried to look normal, the other kids always seemed to sense his difference, his innate oddity--his family curse.

But the Winchesters had created their own kind of normalcy, their own personal status quo. True, it existed in danger and transience, but there was a steadiness in their approach, in their general attitude toward it. Together, the three of them formed a seamless unit, unified in the face of the many obstacles they sought.

He learned early on that his father disliked deviations. John Winchester believed in plans and preparation, and expected complete obedience from his sons. He claimed that it was the only way to keep them safe, that kinks in the process put people at risk, and he wasn’t about to lose another family member.

Sam understood this, to a certain extent. When a hunt was going down, he certainly knew the value of taking orders. When someone said ducked, he had learned the hard way that he needed to hit the deck.

But not all of life was a hunt, at least not in Sam’s eyes. So he struggled to accept that status quo in the quieter moments, the moments between hunts when he saw that the pursuit didn’t have to dominate life.

It was all the same to his father, though-his life had been one continual hunt since Sam was a baby. He didn’t let go of it, ever. He was single-minded and iron-fisted. Anything he deemed worthless was worthless.

There had been a time Sam had accepted this, trusted in this, but his frustrations intensified the more such blind acceptance was expected of him.

There were moments when Sam purposefully bucked his father's authority, just because he resented it so much. There were other moments when Sam couldn’t help but buck it, when the injustices seemed too overwhelming to overlook. Then there were other times when he knew he had to be careful. Outright defiance got him very little. In truth, he tried to avoid it, because it never ended well. In order to get the things he wanted, he had mastered the art of subterfuge and manipulation. Sometimes it was all in the presentation.

When he couldn’t sneak his way to happiness, he treaded carefully toward it. With this in mind, he had finagled in his way into various avenues of normalcy--trips to the library, the mall, school activities. He had nearly mastered getting out for an evening without more than a disapproving glance.

But this time was different. This time he wanted a weekend off, a whole weekend away from the hunt. He had been planning this for weeks, carefully constructing his arguments in his spare moments. He had been sure to keep himself in check, obliging his father’s every whim, pouring himself wholeheartedly into research and training. He’d even asked Dean to help him spar, which his father had watched with a bemused smile.

Sam was playing his cards carefully. But no matter how much he had planned and prepared, the idea of making the actual request was unnerving. He hadn’t been able to sit still all day during school, and he hadn’t said two words to Dean in the car trip home. Now, back in the apartment, he hovered around his father, trying to garner his strength, but each time merely pouring himself a glass of water before disappearing back in to his room.

Sam took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His stomach turned, and for a moment he thought he might throw up.

He eschewed the feeling and went to his father.

John was leafing through a library book on paranormal activity. Dean was sprawled on the lumpy coach watching television. Sam edged closer, standing in their field of view, but near the exit. He waited a moment, hoping they would notice his presence. If they did, they didn’t show it.

Sam shifted awkwardly. "Dad, can I ask you something?" he finally managed to ask. His voice almost squeaked and he swallowed hard as he awaited a response, willing himself to stop shaking.

His father didn’t look up. "Yeah."

Sam cleared his throat. "I know we're supposed to head out tomorrow."

His father kept jotting notes in his journal. "Right."

"Well, I know we’re all supposed to go, but I was wondering if I could possibly skip this one."

Stopping, his father finally looked up at his son critically. "Why?"

Sam swallowed, encouraged by not receiving a flat refusal. "See, this weekend there’s this, um, competition that I’d like to participate in."

John raised his eyebrows. "What kind of competition?"

"It’s called Mock Trial," Sam explained tentatively. "It’s a group of kids and we reenact a trial. A bunch of schools compete and then we’re judged as a team and individually."

John appeared to think about the idea. "What kind of activity is that?"

Sam scrambled. "It’s, uh, supposed to help us understand the legal system. I’m a lawyer, which is a really important role, and the team is counting on me."

"When have you had time for this?"

Sam could feel Dean’s eyes on him, but he avoided his gaze. They both knew that their father would not like that Sam had been sneaking about for weeks attending meetings before and after school. He would think it was a waste of time. "There’s just been a few practices, most of it’s been stuff we’ve done in on our own. I usually read stuff before I go to bed." Sam’s statements were mostly true, although he underplayed the time commitment he’d already put forth.

John shook his head. "Sammy, you’re always doing stuff like that. I don’t know why."

"I like it," Sam said defensively.

"But it’s useless," John said.

Sam’s hopes began to fall. "I just thought I could sit this one out," he said meagerly.

"Sammy, you can’t just sit it out. We need you."

"You leave me at home all the time for hunts. You’ll have Dean with you."

"But you know this one is a different one for us. We’ve never encountered anything like this before. Don’t you see how much research I’m doing? I need all the help I can get on this one in order to get the job done without any casualties."

"I just thought--"

"About yourself, as usual," John snapped. "You never think about anyone else, just you. Always you. This world doesn’t revolve around you."

"I--"

"I nothing, Sammy. I’m tired of your excuses. I’m tired of you being a dead weight around here. How many times have we been there for you? How many times have we had to pull your sorry backside from the fire? Too many. Time to give back something, son."

His father’s words stung like a blow and Sam finally did not have the resolve to defend himself. With a ragged breath he tried to suppress, he kept his face stony. Without a word, he turned and walked away.

The place was too small to find some place of refuge where he could lick his wounds in peace.

His father’s bedroom was off-limits--too cluttered with notes and pictures anyway. The kitchen adjoined the dining room, which opened to the living room where his father and brother were. That left the bathroom (which was hardly a welcoming escape) and the bedroom he shared with Dean.

He sat disconsolately on the bed. There was a history paper he could be writing and a math assignment he should be finishing, but he knew he wasn’t going to be in school the next few days and couldn’t find the motivation. He had a library book in his backpack, but he didn’t want Dean to find him reading; he couldn’t take another slight at his hobbies.

His stomach twinged, and he pressed a hand to it. A wave of exhaustion spread over him. It was a little early for bed, but he didn’t want to face his family, and he hoped that sleep might melt away the pain of rejection and the unquenchable emptiness that upset his stomach.

He didn’t bother to change his clothes. He just pushed off his tennis shoes, turned off the light, and curled up under the covers.

Laughter erupted from the living room as his father and Dean shared a joke.

Sam rolled over in his bed and faced the wall, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, praying to keep the tears inside.

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"Dude, you’re going to be late!"

Rolling over, Sam opened his eyes blearily.

"What are you doing still in bed?"

"…go away…," he mumbled, coiling himself up under his blankets and closing his eyes and slipping back into sleep.

He was drifting into a dream of his biology class, sitting and looking as Mr. Paterson pointed at a life-size model of the human body. Food goes down the esophagus, and then make it way to the stomach where digestive juices are released…

"Sam!"

He opened his eyes again and saw his brother standing over him. Sam squinted, trying to bring himself fully awake. "Yeah, yeah, I’m up."

"Doesn’t quite look that way."

Grudgingly, Sam pushed himself up, and gave Dean a happy-now look.

"We’re leaving in ten," Dean said, moving toward the door, apparently satisfied by Sam’s progress.

A wave of dizziness swept over him as he sat up. When he found his equilibrium, his stomach churned.

Sam swallowed, forcing himself to stand. His body seemed to protest the movement, but Sam persisted.

Shuffling, he made his way slowly to the doorway, hoping that the movement would bring his body to full wakefulness. He met his brother coming out of the bathroom. He stopped, but the hallway kept moving forward, and he braced himself against the wall. Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t straighten himself and saliva built up in his mouth.

Sam grimaced, holding his stomach and looking at his brother. "I don’t feel so well, Dean."

"What do you mean?"

"I’m--" Sam’s voice cut off and he covered his mouth with his hand, doubling over as he made a dash to the bathroom.

Dean watched him and heard the unmistakable sound of throwing up. He followed after Sam, waiting just outside the door, watching as Sam curled himself around the toilet, oblivious of how dirty it was.

The vomiting continued until Sam could do nothing more than dry heave. He panted over the toilet, his eyes closed, trying to gather the strength to move from the foul stench that wafted up at him.

"That’s lovely, Sam," Dean said. "Really lovely."

Sam groaned, finally falling back against the vanity. "I don’t feel so good, Dean."

"I can see that, little brother," Dean said. He squatted in front Sam, feeling his forehead. "You don’t feel that warm."

Sam looked miserably up at him.

"But you clearly are not doing so well," Dean said. "Let’s get you to bed."

"The hunt--"

"You’re not going to do much good to us if you’re heaving your guts out, are you?" Dean said lightly, gently pulling his brother to his feet.

Sam allowed Dean to wrap a steady arm around him. "What about Dad?"

Guiding Sam, the two moved toward the bedroom that they shared. "I’ll take care of Dad, okay?"

When they reached the bedroom, Sam eagerly sunk into the folds of his unmade bed. Opening his eyes again, a look of discomfort passed over Sam’s face. "I really don’t feel so well today."

"You’re not going to hurl again, are you?"

Sam swallowed.

The sickly discoloration of Sam’s face was an answer in itself. "I’m going to go find a bucket. I swear, if you puke on the floor, you’re on your own. You hear me, little brother?"

Sam nodded, closing his eyes again.

Watching his brother nestle beneath the covers, Dean allowed himself a half-grin before he went in search of something to save them all from emergency trips to the bathroom.

By the time Dean got back, Sam was asleep. He placed the bucket he had salvaged from their pathetic collection of cleaning supplies on the bed next to Sam, and resisted an urge to sweep his baby brother’s hair off his forehead. Sam looked younger in sleep, more innocent, and Dean could remember an earlier time, a time when Sam’s life had not been so complicated, when Sam didn’t complicate his life so much.

There was a noise behind him, and he turned to see his father dressed and shaved.

His father still looked tired, the bags under his eyes perpetually present it seemed.

"He should be ready by now. I told you I wanted to be on the road in ten minutes."

"He’s sick."

"Sick? What do you mean?"

"He’s got a slight fever," Dean said softly, letting his hand rest on Sam’s forehead. "And I watched him empty last night’s dinner into the toilet."

John growled. "Sure he’s not faking? You know how upset he was that he couldn’t do that Mock-whatever thing this weekend."

"It’s definitely a fever and not even I could replicate puking that realistically."

John reluctantly let himself be convinced. "Never had this problem with you," he muttered. He scowled. "Fine, Dean." He left the room, Dean following after. "Stay with your brother--"

"Dad." Dean moved to protest, following his father into the living room.

"No, if he’s too sick to hunt, he must be too sick to take care of himself." The sarcasm in his voice was evident.

"You’re going to need backup."

"Dean." John stared at his son.

Dean held the gaze longer than usual before his shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir."

"He stays home ALL weekend. If he doesn’t hunt, he doesn’t do anything."

"Yes, sir."

"If he’s going to act like a baby, treat him that way. It’s about time Sam learned a little bit about growing up. He’s never going to be worth anything to us if he doesn’t get over this juvenile phase he’s going through."

Gritting his teeth, Dean swallowed his objections. "Yes, sir."

"I mean it Dean," John warned. "Sam’s getting out of control. He needs to learn a lesson about the way our life works. If he wants to play sick, we'll let him play sick and live to regret it."

Pursing his lips, Dean nodded.

"Do you understand me, son?" he asked with impatience.

"Yes, sir."

A glimmer of satisfaction passed over his father’s face before it returned to its typical flinty demeanor.

Dean watched his father go silently, noting all the supplies that had been checked and double-checked. He left no further instructions for Dean, told him to call Pastor Jim in case of emergencies, and said he’d be back Monday evening.

"You keep on an eye on your brother," he warned one last time.

With that, John was gone in a gruff flash, leaving Dean staring the back of the door. Taking deep and steady breaths, Dean tried to assure himself that he had not made a mistake in acquiescing to his father’s orders. John’s decision to go alone had been based on principle, not safety. He wanted to make Sam learn, to make them stronger as a unit.

Understanding his father’s train of thought made him focus his frustrations and anger on the source of the conflict: Sam.

Sam’s illness did seem too well timed. Despite Sam’s display over the toilet, the doubt was tangible now as real consequences lurked in the future. Dad shouldn’t be alone on this one.

Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that his father never should have left. He needs me.

Stewing, Dean stalked back to his brother’s room, making no secret of his entrance. A lot more than Sam does.

Sam shifted in bed, blinking hazily up at his brother. "Dean?"

Dean eyed him critically, coldly. "You better not be faking it-if something happens to Dad and I’m stuck here with you, I’ll kill you."

Sam looked like a kicked puppy.

The wounded look on Sam’s face made Dean soften. He sighed. "You look like crap, man."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I feel like it, too."

"Get some rest," Dean ordered curtly, hoping not to show the inner turmoil he was feeling. He wanted to protect his brother, to keep him safe, but he also wanted to protect his father. And in the grander scheme of things, Dean knew his father was probably at more risk on a hunt by himself than Sam was home alone with the stomach flu.

But Dean had his orders and Sam’s gratitude was marginally satisfying.

Chapter Two: Playing Sick

The day was uneventful. Dean camped out in the living room, watching bad daytime talk shows, trying not to listen when his baby brother threw up every hour. He would occasionally go check on Sam, help him back from the bathroom to the bed, and try to force feed him some water and saltines.

In the afternoon he went out to run some errands, swinging by a local bar where he knew some guys he knew hung out between classes at the local community college. He played a round of pool, joked around, and was enjoying his afternoon when they had to get to class and Dean reluctantly returned home.

The apartment smelled stuffy when he got inside. The air conditioning wasn’t working and there clearly weren’t enough windows open. "Hey, Sammy, I’m home!"

He dumped his keys on the makeshift coffee table then leaned into the bedroom. "Sammy?"

The room was empty. He narrowed his eyes in concern.

"Sam?" he asked again, moving carefully through the house, trying to keep his voice even.

He found his brother in the bathroom, curled up on the floor. He knelt beside him, smoothing his hair away to see his face. "Sammy?"

Sam whimpered, his face taught with pain.

"Sam, wake up," Dean commanded, panic pricking his subconscious.

Stirring, Sam blinked, taking gasping breaths. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. What are you doing there?"

Surveying his surroundings, Sam seemed uncertain. Overcompensating for his disorientation, he jolted upright. The room spun and his face paled.

Dean leaned back, not wanting to be in the path of any projectiles that escaped from Sam’s mouth. But the nausea seemed to pass and Sam slumped back, the lines of pain etched once again onto his face. "You okay there, bro?"

Sam didn’t move. The room seemed less unsettling with his eyes closed. "Stomach."

"Yeah, we established that," Dean replied apprasingly. "You just nauseous?"

"Just hurts," Sam breathed, hoping that his brother would stop asking him questions.

"Hurts how, Sammy?"

Sam opened his eyes to slits. "I’ve been heaving my guts out for nearly seven hours. How do you think it hurts?"

The answer seemed reasonable. But Sam was downplaying the pain, Dean was sure of it. His protests were not convincing when the pain was plastered so visibly across his face.

However, the Winchesters had a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy when it came to most things in life. And it was good that Sam wasn’t complaining; no one needed a whiny little brother when the going got tough. He trusted Sam would tell him if something were truly out of whack.

"Whatever, Sammy," Dean said. "Let’s just get you back to bed."

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Sam spent the rest of the evening in and out of the bathroom, falling into a desperate sleep between bouts. But the pain never let him drift too far, always anchoring him somewhat to consciousness, draining his already depleted energy reserves.

By the time Dean finally fell into the bed across from him, Sam had no idea what time it was, his life a painful cycle of nausea and pain. Dean said goodnight, and Sam didn’t know what he replied, but found himself slipping away into sleep.

He woke up suddenly, his eyes probing the darkness frantically. No, no, no…

For a moment, he thought he might scream but no sound came out. He looked over to Dean, seeing his brother sleeping on the rumpled bed. He didn’t have to ask Dean to know his sarcastic reply. Take it like a man.

The mantra in his head lulled him back into a pain-filled sleep.

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Pain ripped him from sleep again, this time with a gasp. It was blinding and he couldn’t breathe.

His pride crumbled and he turned his eyes to his brother, attempting to speak.

Sam’s voice was taut, barely a hissed whisper. "Dean, I think--I think something’s wrong."

Dean didn’t open his eyes. "Wrong how?"

"…hurts…"

Moaning, Dean rolled on his side, flicking on the lamp.

"…Dean…"

Dean’s eyes adjusted in time to see Sam heave mightily into the bucket. Dean wrinkled his nose as he watched.

Sam’s retching continued. After a minute, he was spent, falling back against the pillows panting. His face glistened with sweat and his eyes were shut.

Dean moved carefully to Sam’s bed, sliding a hand across Sam’s brow. "You still feel okay," he said, noting the moisture his hand wiped away. "You just need to relax."

Sam shook his head, his forehead creased. "…hurts, Dean. It hurts."

Dean studied his brother a moment, chewing his lip. It wasn’t like Sam to be needy. He didn’t usually like to admit pain--to admit pain was to admit that he needed help, and Sam strove for complete independence these days.

But he had also remembered a younger Sam, a whiny Sam who exaggerated illness to get the attention he wanted. If he wants to play sick...

Sam was sick, but it was the stomach flu-never a pleasant experience, but certainly nothing serious. Sam would never grow up if he didn’t learn to suck it up, be stoic. He had never seen his father miss a hunt for a little stomachache, and he could remember more than once when he played down his own symptoms for the sake of the hunt. He needs to learn a lesson.

Sam didn’t know how to take one for the team anymore, and it was a lesson Dean figured he ought to show his brother again.

He found Sam watching him, his wide eyes looking hopeful. Dean had to be strong here. What would Dad do?

"You’re going to whine about a stomachache, little brother? Come on, after all the crap we’ve dealt with, I think you can have a stiff upper lip about this one."

There was a flicker in Sam’s eyes, a hesitation, a trembling. It looked as thought Sam might speak, might cry--might do something very un-Winchester-like. But it passed and he stilled, offering his brother an empty smile. "Yeah, guess so."

"Good." Dean’s voice carried false bravado. "Why don’t you go rinse that out, take a drink, and get some sleep."

Dean went back to his own bed, watching carefully as Sam gathered his energy to move. He sat up slowly, pausing before getting to his feet shakily. As his brother moved haltingly toward the bathroom, Dean almost went to help him, almost cursed when Sam had to lean against the door for support. Maybe he's sicker than I think.

But no one had stayed up with him when he had the flu--Sam should be grateful that Dean was here at all. Especially when their father needed him far more than his brother did.

Thinking of his father made him forget, helped him overcome that look of betrayal that had passed over his brother’s face. Sam would learn, in time. Sam would grow up and be better for all of this.

Dean adjusted his pillow as he listened to Sam running the water in the bathroom. He watched as Sam moved lethargically back to his bed. He collapsed to the mattress, letting the bucket drop to the floor beside him. Sam’s eyes were closed, but Dean could see deep creases across Sam’s forehead. For a moment, Dean thought he should say something, make sure Sam was really okay.

"Turn out the light, Dean." Sam’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He spoke low and monotone. "Can’t sleep with the light on."

Sam’s voice quelled his concerns. Dean turned off the light, and let his questions drift away into sleep.

Chapter Three: Mind and Matter

Sam awoke slowly, his mind groggily become aware. He kept his eyes closed, trying to feel out the status of his body. It was bright in the room--it must be morning--but he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. He could still taste the foulness of vomit in his mouth, which was dry and coated with grime. He felt tired; his limbs were too heavy to move.

He opened his eyes just barely, just enough to take in the fullness of the morning light. He forced a swallow, testing his stomach. The overwhelming nausea seemed to be gone.

Encouraged, he opened his eyes more fully, blinking as they adjusted to the influx of sun. He was about to sit up when the nausea hit him again and he barely had time to grab the bucket before he retched.

He had nothing left to throw up but bile, so after a few painful dry heaves, he leaned back against the headboard.

Then the pain lanced through him, re-igniting with vigor. He gasped, his hand moving to his stomach in shock.

The pain was searing, and it took moment for the whiteness to settle from Sam’s vision. With a couple of deep breaths, Sam managed to compose himself. He felt himself balancing precariously on the edge of consciousness, the pain threatening to consume him if he so much as twitched.

He was still lying there, in a stupor, when Dean meandered in.

His brother grinned his trademark grin. "Look who’s awake."

Sam grimaced.

"How you feeling?"

With a shaky shallow, Sam spoke. "Okay."

"We’re doing better here," Dean quipped. "You slept for nearly three hours that last time without as much as a hiccup. It’s all mind over matter, bro, and you’re on the mend."

Sam managed a thin smile.

Dean bought it, and returned it with a broad, toothy smile of his own before he disappeared back into the living room.

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Sam had tried to do his homework for part of the morning. But as he tried to complete the trig problems, thoughts of pi unsettled him, twisted his stomach angrily. When he tried to read Catcher in the Rye for American Literature, he found Holden Caulfield’s whiny voice too familiar, too appealing, and that nauseated him too.

He fell asleep to that book, wondering if there was some catcher out in the rye fields, ready to catch him as he approached the end. He felt himself running, desperately, furiously, ignoring the pain as it erupted through his limbs and body. When he neared the edge of the field, that’s when he saw the catcher, grinning a broad, cocky smile…Dean?

"Sammy, you awake?"

Sam’s eyes snapped open.

"You okay there?"

Sam’s voice was strained, but he was better at lying than his brother gave him credit for. "I’m okay," he said. "Just my stomach."

"Well you just spent the last few days emptying everything out of it. You’re bound to be a little off for awhile there, kiddo."

Sam almost smiled. Mind over matter.

He didn’t grimace until Dean had turned around. He silently willed Dean to probe him further, to make him divulge the depth of his pain, but his brother took him at his word, and disappeared down the hallway.

Sam let out a shaky breath, the trembling renewing. Exhausted by the effort of camouflaging the pain, Sam sank into a troubled sleep.

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Sleep had come readily to Sam, leaving Dean an evening to himself. He spent it in front of the TV, the one his father had purchased with the antenna that picked up a remarkable number of stations when aligned correctly.

He thought about calling someone--he had a few numbers for girls he had met scribbled on napkins in his bedside table. But Sam had still looked pale, still unsettled, and Dean didn’t want to leave his brother while he was still recovering. Besides, his father would kill him, and Dean was skeptical of his brother’s self-assessment of his condition.

He figured his father was probably at his destination by now, making preparations. Dean started to go through the mental checklist and wished suddenly that he could be there with his father to help ensure that everything was in place. He hated the thought that his father was going to be on his own this weekend.

He almost considered checking on Sam again, making sure all was well, but the infomercial changed to a hair removal cream that focused in on sleek and tan long legs of women in scanty bikinis. Enthralled, he watched, only half hearing the glowing testimonies, before he fell into a soundless sleep.

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Dean was jarred to consciousness by the growing sound from an early morning news report. Stretching, he checked the time. 7:30…I should be in bed.

The couch had left kinks in his back and he stood to work them out. Finding himself awake, he decided to check on Sam.

His kid brother was curled up, sleeping soundly. The bucket by his side was empty.

Satisfied, Dean knew it was time to start pushing his brother to full recovery. He went to the kitchen in search of nourishment for him. Poking around the empty cupboards, Dean found an assortment of protein bars and canned fruit--not exactly the idea food for a recovering stomach.

Dean rummaged for some bread--toast being a stomach flu standby--and found none. Sighing, he decided he would need to make a run to the store. Seeing as Sam hadn’t puked in hours, he figured his brother could survive without him. Besides, the house seemed interminably small and he was desperate to get away from the stench of sweat and sickness.

When he got back, he found Sam sitting up, reading his book. "You must be delusional now," Dean joked wryly. "Reading? On a weekend?"

Over the top of his book, Sam cast his brother a perturbed frown. "I’m feeling better, thanks."

"Yeah, back to your typical freaky self, I can see," Dean said. "You ready to try to eat something?"

"Do I have to?"

"Yep."

"Then why’d you ask?"

Dean gave a lopsided grin. Sam was back to ornery--probably the best sign of all that he was on the mend. "How’s some toast?"

"Mmm…sounds delicious."

Dean ignored the sarcasm and went to the kitchen, Dean emptied out his grocery bag, taking out the bread he bought for Sam. The toaster was on the counter and he plugged it in, plopping two pieces of toast in the slots. Dean managed to salvage the toast before the toaster charred the bread, tossed them on a plate, poured a glass of water and returned to Sam.

Sam accepted the plate of toast with as much excitement as could be expected. The smell of the food didn’t turn his stomach, but he still didn’t find it readily appealing. However, very aware of his brother’s eyes on him, he lifted up a piece and ate a small corner.

When it went down without a gag reflex, Sam was encouraged, and nibbled some more. Dean watched approvingly.

"We’re definitely making progress here."

Sam just rolled his eyes and took another, more sizeable bite. "Jack called."

"Yeah?"

"He says they’re having a party tonight, at his place."

Dean tried not to look interested. "Yeah, well, looks like I’ve already got my date for the evening."

Sam glared. "I’ll be fine," he said, annoyed. "You can go."

"Dad would kill me."

"I wouldn’t tell."

Dean seemed to consider it. "We’ll see how you’re doing tonight, okay?"

"Whatever."

There was a lull and Dean studying the window, which was streaky and laden with dust. "Man, we could have been there with him," Dean said with a sigh.

"Dad?"

"This was a big gig, Sammy," Dean said. "If I had known you’d be better by now, we could have swung it. You could’ve slept in the car."

Sam stopped eating his toast, his appetite waning. "Sorry for putting such a damper on your plans."

Dean glared at him. "It’s not about my plans," he said sternly. "It’s about what’s best for the family. Dad shouldn’t be on this hunt alone. He needed backup and you’re laying around with a little bug. I should have dragged you out of bed that morning and made you come."

"And you would have loved that when Dad had to pull over every five minutes while I puked my guts out."

"Maybe then you wouldn’t make such a show out of it," Dean muttered.

Sam’s eyes flashed with hurt and he set his jaw. "Yeah, because I so enjoy having you hover over me like a mother hen."

"Don’t be a baby, Sammy," Dean said, standing. "All you ever do is think about yourself and whine. Do you think I really want to be cooped up here with you all weekend?"

"Then leave," Sam said evenly, his words separated and punctuated. "I certainly don’t need you here to hold my hand."

"Right, Sammy," Dean scoffed. "Like you could do this on your own."

"Not like I’ve ever gotten a chance to try."

"Whatever, man. Just eat the toast and shut up. Do your little studying thing. I’ll be in the living room hoping that Dad’s okay."

With that, Dean left the room.

Sam sat a moment longer, looking at his hands as they held the plate on his lap. He felt the familiar rise of bile in the back of his throat, brought on as much this time by his brother’s hurtful words as by whatever bug he was suffering from. Disgusted, he put the plate back on the table, and laid down to sleep.

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Dean sat on the couch and stared at a blank TV screen.

He shouldn’t have lost his temper with Sam. Sam couldn’t help it if he was sick. And he didn’t want to have to worry about Sam under the weather in the line of duty. That was a weakness they couldn’t afford.

But he hated to think about his father alone out there. How could he protect both of them when they both had such different needs?

Dean didn’t know, and sulkily flipped on the TV. Nothing else I can do, anyway, he thought, and he maintained the status quo.

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A steady pulse of pain filled his sleep, cajoling him to consciousness. He gasped as his eyes flew open, surprised by the renewed onslaught of pain. It was worse than before.

He clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It’ll pass, it’ll pass. Mind over matter, mind over matter.

He heard a noise from the doorway and barely had time to wipe away the tear trickling from his eye as Dean came in.

"How you doing there?"

Sam tried to keep his face blank, tried to contain his shivering. "Fine."

"You sure?"

Sam closed his eyes. "Just tired."

"Yeah, you look it," Dean said, noting the lack of color in his brother’s face. "You going to eat some more?"

"Not really hungry."

"You’ve got to eat. You haven’t thrown up in nearly a day, and you kept the toast down this morning. I think you can manage it."

"I just want to sleep, Dean," he said, his voice almost a plea, desperate for Dean to leave him alone. He could only maintain the image of being strong so long. "I’m exhausted."

"You’re not going to get any strength back until you eat something, Sammy," Dean explained tersely. "This isn’t all about how your stomach may or may not feel. You can’t let yourself get run down like this."

Sam took a shallow breath, hoping to steady his voice. He opened his eyes. "Okay, I’ll eat some toast."

As Dean left, Sam collapsed to the bed, writhing in agony. He took shuddering breaths, hitting his fists to the side of the bed. Please let it stop…

By the time Dean returned, Sam had stilled his body, suppressing the pain by sheer willpower.

Dean handed Sam the plate of toast as Sam struggled to sit upright. Dean watched his younger brother quizzically. "You sure you’re okay?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. He lifted the toast and took a bite as though to prove his point.

Dean watched him for a few more pathetic bites before retiring to the living room. "I want to see that plate clean, Sammy!"

With Dean gone, his guise fell again. He fought the urge to regurgitate the measly pieces of toast he had just consumed. Instead he blanched, hastily crumbling the remaining bread. He sprinkled some behind his bed, not caring if it would attract more roaches, and placed the plate on the bedside table.

His artifice exhausted him, and he curled up on his side, his hand over his stomach.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. What’s wrong with me?

The pain didn’t abate, and he thought about calling out to Dean. Dean would listen to him, Dean would take care of him-

But he was tired of being the baby. They were going to keep treating him like he was three until he started sucking it in. Take it like a man.

He trembled as he tried to inhale. He expected his father’s disappointment; it was Dean’s he couldn’t stand.

Dean would never let a little stomachache keep him down. Dean would never cry out for help for a 48 hour bug. Or 72…who’s counting?

He wiped away an errant tear, gritting his teeth. Just got to breathe, just breathe. Think about what Dean would do.

Dean would grin and bear it. Sam forced his breathing to even, stilling himself, trying to hide from the pain that radiated throughout his stomach. Just grin and bear it.

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He came back to check on Sam, to find his brother sound asleep. So much for some rousing conversation to keep me from going stir crazy.

Collecting the plate, he found the toast torn to crumbs, though it did appear that Sam had managed to eat most of it.

Dean sighed and resigned himself to the living room couch. He tried flipping channels, but the reception was poor tonight, and he didn’t feel like watching a rerun of 7th Heaven.

He turned off the TV, letting the remote flop to the couch. He still had a full day until his father returned home. He had been given explicit orders to stay, but if he had to sit here any longer, he was sure he was going to lose it.

He remembered Jack’s party. You can go. Sam’s blessing may not be enough to appease his father, but Sam wasn’t a tattle-tale, and he trusted that Sam would tell him if he couldn’t handle a night home alone.

With his father on the hunt and Sam bedridden, this definitely seemed like an ideal opportunity to revitalize the remnants of his social life. Their father was single-minded in his hunts-he wouldn’t call to check up or even for backup since he was so determined to do it on his own.

And Sam--Sam was sound asleep. It had been nearly a day since his brother had stopped throwing up. Dean figured the worst of the bug was behind him, and all he needed was rest. He was sure his baby brother would sleep through the entire night.

He glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he could still make the party. Dad was gone, Sam was on the mend, and he was tired of sitting around the apartment.

The decision made, he left the phone by the bed along with a glass of water and a small pile of toast. He thought about rousing his brother to tell him he was leaving, but Sam needed his rest. Dean sneaked quietly out the front door.

Chapter Four: Escape

Jack Travis lived in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town, far enough from neighbors that parties could get loud and last all night. His parties were infamously loud and wild, and people from three counties would come to check one out.

Dean parked his car on the grass a good ways from the house. Clearly the party had already started. Some partygoers were outside, leaning on the hoods of cars, smoking and tipping their beer bottles back.

The front door was open, and he could hear the music from the lawn. Inside, the place was packed, nearly wall to wall. The lights were half-dimmed and the house reeked of smoke.

"Winchester!" Jack called, moving his way through the throng of people. "You made it!"

Dean accepted a beer that Jack offered. "One of your parties? Wouldn’t miss it?"

"Don’t you have to babysit or something? Thought your dad made you stick by your kid brother like glue."

"He’s 16, dude. I think he’ll be okay for the night."

"Whatever, man," Jack said, leading him toward the living room. "I’ve got my eye on this cute little brunette. Redecker’s a little too close to her, so I’ve got to go reclaim my territory. Check you later, Winchester."

Dean nodded a goodbye and watched as Jack disappeared into the crowd. He took a sip of his beer and meandered through the mob of people, scanning the crowd for a familiar or amenable face.

He found her by the window, nursing her beer, bobbing her head slightly to the music’s rhythm.

Her name was Tessa, but he didn’t know that until later, and she had such a beautiful smile. Her teeth were perfectly straight and brilliantly white. Her lips were a glossy pink, full and voluptuous as they widened around her teeth. In the low lights of the house, her blonde hair seemed to glisten, the light dancing up and down her highlights as she moved with the music that pulsated off the walls. As she sidled up to him, her smile became mischievous, and Dean could see she had crystal blue eyes that were round with long dark lashes, laden with mascara.

She didn’t say anything to him at first, just let her body graze against him, so close that he could feel her heat. He let his hands find their way to her hips. She didn’t shy away, and Dean could see the freckles on her nose.

Even Sammy would understand this. Even with all of his focus on academics, all his resistance to a no-strings lifestyle, he would understand this.

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He couldn’t open his eyes, he could barely breathe, and pain eclipsed his reality.

He lingered there, caught in a tormented limbo, praying for some kind of escape.

Time to grow up, Sammy. Take it like a man.

Sam tried, he attempt to steady himself, but the pain commandeered him, left him weak and spent. I can’t.

Despite his controlling need to live up to his brother’s expectations, the pain won out, and he surrendered to it.

"…Dean…?" He heard his own voice lilting feebly through a haze.

Where was his brother? It wasn’t like Dean not to come when he needed him. It wasn’t like Dean to not be here, to not help him, to not make him better.

I swear, if you’re faking. Sam could see the look on Dean’s face--composed with a definitive layer of anger underneath. No, Dean, not faking, I promise.

Everything burned. There was fire around him, near him, in him. It started in his stomach, burning intensely throughout his abdomen, then spreading steadily throughout his entire body. He tried to scream, to call out for help, but he couldn’t make his throat work.

His chest felt tight and each breath was an effort. His pretenses of stoicism fell away. Dean, please, help me.

He opened his eyes, searching for his brother, but everything blurred together--the off-white walls, the blue bedspread, the small rickety fake wood desk, his brother's unmade and empty bed covered with pale green sheets--it was an ever shifting kaleidoscope. The colors made his stomach turn, and he closed his eyes again.

Was he asleep? Was this a nightmare? Sam shook his head, trying to find his voice, trying to wake himself up.

As pained seemed to vibrate along every synapse, he realized acutely that there was no way this was a dream. He felt suddenly detached, the pain encompassing his body, making it a separate entity. He still felt it, but distantly now, and he let himself drift away from it. Sleep. It was a dark sleep that beckoned him, but he could not resist. Sleep now.

Chapter Five: Aftermath

Dean woke up with a start, with the sudden conviction that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He jolted in bed, taking in his surroundings.

The room was foreign and devoid of personality. Then he remembered. The party.

As if on cue, a headache began to pound behind his eyes.

Then he remembered the girl in the dim lighting and her smile.

Sure enough, Tessa was asleep next to him, her blonde hair less vibrant in the early rays of the morning sun. Her makeup had smeared and faded, and she looked far less alluring than she had the night before.

He picked up his watch off the bedside table. Almost 8. He had to get home.

Soundlessly, he got out of bed and retrieved his clothes from the end of the bed. He thought about waking Tessa, but he didn’t see the point. Instead, he left a note and stumbled from the bedroom.

Digging his keys out of his pocket, he stepped outside and squinted into the morning light. The yard was still half-full with cars which glimmered with the early morning dew.

The car ride home seemed longer than he remembered, and he felt a strange need for haste. He had not intended to stay that night. He knew Sam could take care of himself, but Sam was his responsibility. You keep an eye on your brother.

Burying the twinge of guilt, he pressed down a little more on the accelerator and hurried home.

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The apartment was just as he had left it. It was eerily dim as the blinds blocked out the light. Sam didn’t usually sleep late, and he was somewhat surprised not to see his brother up and about. He had been hoping after a good night’s rest, Sam would be readily recovered.

Dean checked the kitchen and found it untouched. He moved toward the bedroom, noting that the door was still closed.

Gently, he opened it, peeking in. Sam was sprawled on his bed, twisted in the blankets.

Dean moved closer, turning on the lamp to illuminate the room with dim light. Sam was sleeping, but it looked far from restful. His brow furrowed and his head kept turning from side to side. The water and toast sat untouched on the bed stand.

"Sammy?" Dean sat on the edge of the bed. "Hey, Sam. Have you been sleeping all this time?"

There was no answer.

Dean reached a hand to his brother’s sweat-drenched head. He drew it back, shocked by the heat radiating form his brother’s face. "Geez, Sammy."

Sam whimpered at the touch, and he scrunched his eyes shut even tighter, a small tear dribbling from the corner.

"Sammy?" he asked, gently running his hand over Sam’s face again. Sam had been getting better. What had happened?

Dean tapped his brother’s face, trying to get a response. "Sammy?"

But Sam still didn’t move.

"Sam, wake up," Dean ordered, putting a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder. The panic began to rise within him. He had dealt with Sam sick, he had dealt with Sam injured, but his brother’s current condition had him baffled. It was nothing more than the stomach flu--why wouldn’t Sam wake up?

Dean shook him once more. "Sam," he said, approximating his father’s voice as best he could. "Wake up."

Sam mumbled something, his head rolling, but his eyes did not open.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Dean did a split second analysis of the situation. Sam was sick. Although Dean had medical training, it was rudimentary and limited mostly to cuts, bruises, and sprains. This was out of his league.

His father hated taking them to doctors because the paperwork was messy and it left them vulnerable to the checks and balances of real world authorities, which would never understand hunting and the necessary risks involved. Hospitals were a last resort, but Sam’s condition was too questionable to leave unattended.

"Come on, Sammy. You need to get up now." Dean flung back the sheets, revealing the t-shirt that was plastered to Sam’s chest. He grimaced as he pulled Sam upright, slinging his arm over his shoulder. "Come on, Sam."

Sam’s head lolled against his brother’s shoulder. A groan was his only protest.

Dean maneuvered his brother’s body to the end of the bed, wrapping his arm around his brother’s waist. "Up we go," he muttered, trying to pull Sam to his feet.

Dean had underestimated the weight of his brother’s lean frame. He tried to take a step forward, but Sam’s long legs became tangled, not supporting the younger’s weight. Dean felt his balance tip and he stumbled backward to the bed to keep them both from crashing to the ground. "Work with me here, Sammy."

Frustrated, Dean reconsidered his plan of attack. Sam was not walking out of here of his own volition.

He spared a look at Sam, who showed no signs of awareness. His face glistened in the morning light, a sheen of sweat shimmering across it. He had to get Sam out of here, and he had to do it fast.

With his motivation revitalized, he sighed. "Sorry, Sammy," he muttered, pulling Sam upright again. Carefully, he positioned himself under his brother, hesitantly rising with Sam in a fireman’s carry.

He grunted under the weight ane took a few test steps, he felt satisfied that Sam was secure. With even paces, he made his way to the car. He deposited Sam in the backseat, found his hand shaking as he fumbled to get his keys in the ignition. He was trembling. What am I going to do?

Still shaking, Dean gunned the engine and pulled out of the parking lot with a screech of tires.

Dean did not care much for the rules of the road on the best of days. He always figured they applied to normal people--people who could afford to believe that life existed with in neat little boundaries, people whose biggest rebellion was to drive five over the speed limit.

Usually Dean was careful--the last thing he wanted was flashing lights in his rearview mirror. No matter how he judged himself in relation to the laws that regulated most people, the police wouldn't know that difference.

But usually and best of days were not phrases that characterized this car trip.

Dean glanced in his mirror and saw Sam still sprawled on the back seat, bouncing as the car jolted over bumps in the pavement. Come on, Sammy. What’s going on with you?

Dean was nearly surprised when he arrived at the hospital and came to a squealing stop in front of the doors, cursing as he remember Sam unrestrained in the back. Slamming it into park, he scrambled out, relieved to find his brother still situated on the seat.

Trying to maneuver Sam out of the car was more difficult than he had anticipated, as Sam flopped bonelessly. He nearly dropped his brother when someone finally took notice.

"Hey, you okay there?"

Dean glanced up, seeing a paramedic packing up his rig. "My brother." Dean couldn’t think of anything else to say. He hoisted Sam up, his arms locked around Sam’s chest.

It was enough for the paramedic, who was jogging toward him, moving to keep Sam from hitting the pavement as Dean pulled him from the car. "What’s wrong with him?"

"I don’t know," Dean admitted, his throat tight.

"Hey, Callie," the EMT yelled to his partner. "Grab the gurney."

Within seconds, Dean heard the clatter of metal wheels on pavement and the two EMTs were guiding Sam to the padded surface.

Dean stumbled to move with the gurney, his eyes not leaving Sam’s face. Wake up, Sammy, come on.

A flurry of activity erupted when they entered through the doors. He was pushed aside as doctors and nurses swarmed around Sam. Numbly, he tailed along as Sam was rushed to an exam room.

"Sir, what’s his name?"

Dean looked up at a doctor, who was waiting with urgency. "Sam. His name’s Sam."

"What happened?" The gurney was stopped and Sam was transferred to another one.

"He’s been sick," Dean tried to explain, watching as they took scissors to Sam’s t-shirt.

"Sick how?" a doctor asked.

A nurse slipped an oxygen mask over Sam’s face. The other doctor was setting up an IV.

"Stomach flu," Dean said. "He was throwing up."

The first doctor was listening to Sam’s exposed chest. "For how long?"

"A day or so."

The other doctor was drawing blood. "Anything else?"

"His stomach hurt," Dean offered. "He couldn’t hold any food down."

A nurse pulled a thermometer from Sam’s ear. "His fever’s 103.8."

"Was he running the fever?" the first doctor asked, checking Sam’s pupils.

"Barely. Until today." He kept his eyes trained on his kid brother, who laid completely still admist the action around him.

"He’s dehydrated," the other doctor was saying.

"Micah, can you take Mr. Winchester to the waiting room?"

The nurse was petite and small boned, but Dean was unable to stop her from pulling him away.

"Come on, let the doctors do their work," she said, her voice soothing and low. She led him to a waiting room, plastic chairs lined up on linoleum.

"How do you know Sam?" she asked.

Dean looked at her for a moment, then cocked his head. "He’s my brother."

"Are your parents around?"

Dean just shook his head, unable to think, unable to really process her words.

She gave a small smile. "We’ll find you when we’re done assessing him."

He sat down uncertainly and didn’t see her go. He blinked once. Twice. There was a passage of time, but Dean did not move.

All he could think of was Sam and how his body had rolled onto that gurney, how hot his skin had been to the touch, and how lifeless he had looked as the doctors and nurses probed him.

He didn’t recognize the doctor who talked to him next, didn’t even understand what he was saying, until there was a mention of surgery.

"What?" he asked, willing his head to clear.

The doctor seemed perturbed. "Sam’s appendix has ruptured. When did he first fall ill?"

"A few days ago," Dean said, his mind scrambling. "Thursday."

"Thursday?" The surprise was evident in the doctor’s voice. "It’s Monday. This kid must have been in agony."

Dean remembered the tears in Sam’s eyes, the creasing of his brow in fevered sleep.

"Why didn’t you bring him in sooner?"

Dean racked his brain for a response, but his hesitation was enough.

The doctor looked disgusted. "Where are your parents?"

Dean reddened. "My dad’s at work."

"Mom?"

Dean shook his head. "Just Dad."

"Well, call him. Sam needs emergency surgery."

"Can I see him?"

"Not right now." The doctor’s reply was clipped as he moved quickly down the hall.

Dean tried to follow. "But--"

The doctor stopped abruptly, turning around in hurried exasperation. "Look, kid, your brother is very sick. His appendix should have been dealt with days ago. Infection has probably set in. If we don’t act, your brother could die."

The doctor’s words were so forceful, so final, that Dean can do nothing but stare as the doctor disappeared behind the door and left him gaping.