Title: Rummage Sale
Author: Mad Server
Rating: T
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 600
Summary: Sam has a bad time at a rummage sale.
A/N: Happy birthday, IheartSam7!
Disclaimer: I don't own these guys.

They do this every so often: hit up a rummage sale in some church basement, cruising for silver. It always seems to happen on a Saturday morning. There'll be weak coffee out of an aluminum urn, cookies and Rice Krispies squares and cupcakes made from a mix. Dog-eared paperbacks, china figurines, home-knit sweaters; it's the same all across the country.

This sale's not too closely guarded and so Dean's managed to mustard-test a respectable number of necklaces, bracelets, cups and utensils without anyone being the wiser, or anyone who cares at least. An engraved pen and a couple of spoons are all he's found worth grabbing here. He never steals out of a church, not if he can help it, but he usually manages to haggle and bluff the price down to next to nothing. Sam takes issue with it, every six months like clockwork, but then Dean busts out the Robin Hood analogy and that always seems to shut him up.

Spoons and pen stowed in a crumpled plastic grocery bag, Dean starts scanning the room for Sam. His job's done and he's ready to go. The place is pretty crowded, and the room's pretty big, so it takes Dean a minute. Finally his eyes lock onto their target: Sam's standing by a table of used toys against the far wall, head down, his back to Dean.

"Still looking for Malibu Barbie, Sam?" Dean asks, coming up behind him. "I keep telling you, she was limited edition..."

He trails off when Sam turns and meets his eyes. Right off, Dean can see that something's not right: Sam's face is drained white except for flushed patches in his cheeks; sweat's standing out on his face; his eyes are too bright.

"What the hell, Sam? You look like shit."

Sam winces, swipes at his sweaty face with his coat sleeve. A shudder goes through him.

"Yeah, I... yeah. Listen, you ready to get outta here?"

Dean holds up his bag by way of answer. "Locked and loaded."

"Great." Sam swallows, then grimaces, his nose wrinkling faintly. He grunts, shuts his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose, going if possible a shade paler. His other hand reaches for the table, to steady himself.

"C'mon, let's go," says Dean, grabbing onto Sam just under the armpit. "Seriously, man, you look rough. Motel or clinic?"

"Maybe the bathroom?" Sam burps ominously.

Dean doesn't miss a beat. "Bathroom it is." He wraps an arm around his brother's waist, appalled at the heat he can feel coming off the kid in waves and blown away by how quickly this came on. His eyes dart across the walls, scanning for the men's room. Naturally, when he spots it, it's clear across the room.

"Here we go, nice and easy." He steers Sam around ladies with large purses, snaps at kids who shove past his brother's legs. He steals a look at Sam and sees his eyes are squeezed shut, his free hand shielding his eyelids from the light, his eyebrows knit in embarrassed suffering.

They're still a long way off when Sam stops walking. Dean turns and sees his brother's face has smoothed out in a strange kind of peace. Sam opens his glassy eyes and looks straight ahead at something Dean can't see. Then he looks at Dean, opens his mouth as though maybe to explain, or to ask for something, water, Dean can only guess. Then he shuts it again, gets down on his hands and knees on the smooth, speckled tiles, and vomits.

Later, after Dean's bundled Sam home and put him to bed, and the puking's stopped and the fever's broken, Dean makes Rice Krispies squares and they smelt the silver into bullets together.