Jittery and hyped up, Dean circled the Impala for what seemed like the twenty-thousandth time. Like a starving panther, edgy and highly overstrung, his green eyes narrowed in concentration - never leaving his brother. "Drink it all down, Sammy," he growled the order, small homemade flamethrower gripped tight in his hand.
"I am drinking it all down, Dean," Sam slurred from the flat of his back in the tall grass, half-empty whiskey bottle in one hand. "Whoa," he squealed in a high-pitched tone, eyes shifting to follow the puffy white clouds slowly drifting by. "You see that?"
"See what?" Dean paused his agitated prowling not sparing a split second to take his eyes off Sam and look up at the sky.
"Santa riding a giant rat, snake swallowing a dog, demonic marshmallow guy," Sam chuckled, pointing from cloud to cloud.
"They're just clouds, Sam," Dean said disinterestedly.
What if this didn't work? What if that thing had already started to eat Sam from the inside out? Starting with his brain. Would his brother's flesh just disappear before his eyes leaving behind nothing but a splatter of Sammy juice? Not so much as a bone left to burn? Sam was on his second bottle of booze and still had yet to puke up one drop, and Dean was beside himself. This was taking too long.
"We're in the clouds, Dean, how'd we get in the clouds?" Sam giggled taking a huge gulp from the bottle.
Dean sighed stalking around the Impala again. "You ready for that barf bag yet, bro?"
"No," Sam shot back, rolling his head to stare across the wavy grass at Dean only a few yards away.
"You're taking your sweet old time there, brother."
"Hurrying as fast as I can, Dean," Sam exclaimed.
"Hurry faster," Dean barked anxiously, jumping a bit when his phone rang from inside his jacket pocket. He dug it out and flipped the cell open, shoving it to his ear. "Hey, Bobby," he answered, his grip on the flamethrower tightening, edging his finger to the trigger. He stopped at the trunk still eyeballing Sam. Soon as that kid barfed that bitch up...he was going to be all over it, like stink on a skunk! "You sure lighting this thing up is the way to go?" Dean sucked in a breath pulling the phone slightly away from his ear and wincing. "Yes, Bobby, I am fully aware you can't tell the future." Dean pressed the phone back and rubbed at his tired eyes. "Guess we'll find out," he said uneasily, heading across the grass toward Sam. "Not a drop, Bobby. Normally he'd be hanging upside down from a tree branch by now. He's still flat on his back. You know how he gets. Drunk-Sammy is an ever-evolving art form." Dean rolled his eyes, stepping around a rabbit hole. "What one of us is normal?" He reached Sam and bent down at the waist to examine the kid more closely. "He's alive and smiling, that's how he is."
Sam's eyes were closed, a happily drunken look on his face, arms and legs outstretched and moving as if he were doing jumping jacks only he was lying down.
"Oh, he's tanked-up all right, Bobby. He's shirtless and making angels in the grass…that's right, you heard me, grass angels, half naked. I'm going nuts here, Bobby. I will not calm down...if this thing doesn't make an appearance soon I'm going to..." Dean whipped the phone away from his ear. "Crap! Will you stop screaming my ear bloody." Dean took in a few calming breaths. "Sorry, I'm sorry, Bobby. We're both worried as hell. Yes. Hold on." Dean tapped Sam's forehead with his index finger. "Hey."
Sam opened his eyes and smiled stupidly up at him. "Heyyyyyyyyyy," he laughed, staring woozily up at Dean. "Y-you wanna know somefing'?"
"What?" Dean bent further down.
"You have big eyebrows."
"Seriously?" Dean shot straight back up to his full height.
"Srsly," Sam retorted, his tongue completely unable to form the word.
"I'd insult you back, Sammy, but you're brain wouldn't comprehend it right now."
"You're stupid," Sam uttered.
Dean let the insult slide. "Bobby want's to talk to you." He tossed the cell phone and it landed on Sam's chest.
Sam fumbled the cell to his ear. Hey, Bobby." He smiled up at Dean. "Yes, sir, I'm hanging tough. Thank you. Faster slows me down. No, Bobby," Sam whined. "'Cause I...hic... don't want to puke," he uttered fearfully. "I know. Yes. Yes. Yes, sir." Sam poked his tongue out at Dean. "Bobby said I should take my time and hurry."
Dean scowled, giving Sam the once over. "Pampered Princess."
"Jealous, bitch," Sam scowled in return, looking Dean up and down.
Dean's jaw dropped, genuinely stunned, lips working to form some sort of response, but none came.
Sam's eyes turned moist immediately and he hugged the bottle of whisky to his chest protectively. "D'n, I'm sorry. Soooooo...sorry, man." He handed Dean back the cell phone
Dean regained his composure and leveled Sam with a so-help-me-Sammy stare. "Just drink!" he shouted.
Sam dizzily sat up. "A toast then...to, to, to, to..." he held the bottle out in front of him, staring blankly through the glass deep in thought.
"To your awesome big brother," Dean prodded.
"Ehhhhhhh," Sam did his impersonation of a game show buzzer. "Wrong answer," he said confidently.
"To Bobby?" Dean said with an air of hurt in his tone.
"Eh-ehhhh," Sam buzzed again, laughing hysterically and weaving side-to-side precariously, like a tower of stacked blocks.
"Damn it, Sam!" Dean lost it. "I don't give a rats ass who you drink to. Drink to the birds and the bees the flowers and the trees...drink to Ho Ho's and meatloaf covered in snot and wildberry flavored condoms," he yelled waggling the flamethrower about like a wild man.
Sam cringed and ducked, once again pulling the whiskey bottle to his chest and cradling it like a baby.
"Drink to the monks in the monastery doing their whole monk thing, man," Dean continued his rant. "Drink to being merry, drink to weird, all-in-one eating utensils, drink to friggin' Jose Cuervo, Captain Morgan, and Paul Masson. Drink to the safety of fish-bait...I...don't... care. Dude, most people who drink...I'm not going to...yeah... for crap's sake Sam...drink and puke already!"
" Another toast then." Sam's eyes lit up. "To alcohol." He waved the bottle of whiskey in the air. "Let's get drunk."
"Let's," Dean blew out several breaths, trying to calm his nerves.
Sam wrapped his mouth around the end of the bottle and took a long hard pull. "Sip?" He held the whiskey bottle toward Dean in an offering of peace as he teetered sideways.
"No. No thank you, Sam."
Sam shrugged. "Cheers." He pounded down another huge swallow.
"Bobby," Dean spoke loudly into the phone forgetting he was still connected. "I'm going crazy here. How much longer is this going to take? Sam's going to get eaten alive by ticks before that thing ever takes a chunk out of him at this rate."
"Ticks," Sam shrieked wobbling up to his feet and fumbling to unbuckle his belt; denim's sliding down his hips showing the waistband of his tighty- whities.
"Stop it, you hippie!" Dean grabbed Sam's hand away, phone crammed between his shoulder and neck, fumbling for a hold of his brother to keep him from falling flat too his back, while juggling the flamethrower at the same time. "You don't want to know," Dean barked into the phone.
"You're a fuddy-duddy, nobody's watching," Sam laughed, eyes wide, "Except you," he laughed harder, feet tangling as he danced to and fro.
"Sam!" Dean scolded.
"Sam I am," Sam slurred.
"You mean slammed you are," Dean corrected. "In two seconds I'm going to–"
Dean's words were cut off when Sam abruptly stopped laughing and blinked repeatedly at Dean.
"Bro," Dean frowned fearfully, "What?"
"It's a little weird." Sam shivered.
"Bobby, hold on a second…Sammy, just tell me."
"Because you don't matter how I mind, and how could so much feeling…I mean how can I…hic...you're the only one…hic...and it never seems enough, and I need," Sam shook his head, knees bending slightly. "No, I want…hic...wherever we go-"
"Sam, you should just tell me later. You know how you get all emo when you drink," Dean interrupted, squirming uncomfortably.
"Yes, of course," Sam continued, his voice elevating, becoming agitated. "But there's only one thing…it's so simple and I hope…I want to be…I wish….I can't replace…hic...and I always will…hic...hic...but most of all," Sam took in a deep shuddering breath and grabbed Dean's arm in a stronghold. "Most of all." he took a step closer their foreheads knocked together.
"Sam," Dean stepped back wrinkling his nose at the strong smell on his brother's breath. "It's okay…I get it."
"Kiddo, you're drunk."
"No, Dean. It's not the alchofluence of incohol."
"Right," Dean muttered sarcastically.
"It's…it's…" Sam hiccupped again. "I wuv you, Dean," he spat, "A whole terribly awful lot."
"You really are drunk, little brother; you just regurgitated your soul, now if you could just upchuck that worm."
Sam shivered, tip-toed left, then tip-toed right. "N-not really look as drunk as I am."
"Yeah, man, you're drunker." He risked letting the flamethrower slip out of his hand and plop in the grass right at his feet. "Sam." He hooked his hands to Sam's shoulders, holding him steady. "No, Bobby, we're not practicing for spots on a soap opera," he snipped into the phone as it nearly slid away from his shoulder-chin grip.
Sam let out a sigh. "Good…hic…'cause…'cause it's just me and you, Dean. All we've got…and I was worried maybe…hic…"Sam cheeks puffed full of air and turned beat red.
"Oh crap," Dean grimaced. "Bobby got to go, overly sentimental is about to get overly sick."
Sam started to sweat, breathing in and out through his mouth.
"Yes, yes I know that's what we want and yes in tee-minus one. I raised the kid, believe me I know. Call you back." Dean disconnected the call and shoved the phone in his pocket. "It's okay, Sam. I'm here. Just let it happen."
Sam shook his head fiercely, eyes shining with fear. "Don't feel so great." He swallowed.
Dean nodded. "I know, but that's what we need, Sam," he said, removing his hands from Sam's shoulders.
A cool breeze blew across the field, rippling the tall, lush grass like the gentle waves of the ocean.
Sam slowly slunk toward the ground landing on elbows and knee and started coughing into the weeds, but nothing coming up.
"Sam." Dean crouched beside him, hand on his bowed back. "I'm here, let it come."
Sam's body was shaking and his heart was racing. "Can't," Sam panted and gagged up nothing again.
Dean nodded. "Sorry to do this to you, buddy, but enough is enough."
"Do wha'," Sam breathed out.
"Power of suggstion."
"No. Dean, please. Don't."
"Remember that time I made you pancakes and poured motor oil over them instead of syrup?"
Sam hiccupped. "Need to lie down." He made a move to lie back to the angel printed grass.
"No, Sam." Dean gripped his biceps and held him in place. "You can't fight this. You need to hack that thing up right the hell now."
"Not a hairball, Dean," Sam complained, dry heaving again.
"It's okay. I'm here, Sam. Got the trusty flame thrower ready, " he stated firmly, glancing at the weapon right next to him just to be sure. "That sucker is toast."
"'Kay," Sam blew out heavy puffs of air, "Trying."
"Hey, remember the time you ate that wilted spinach salad with expired Ranch dressing?"
"I…hic…hate you…hic…really, really terribly lot." Sam stiffened, purple veins in his neck popping out as he dry heaved, head hanging lower between his shoulders.
"That's only because you're drunker than drunk and your brain is slower than slow."
"No…hic…no I am not."
"Can you see straight, Dr. Suess?"
Sam blinked. "No."
"Can you turn your head without it feeling like it will fall off your shoulders?"
Sam concentrated a moment. "No."
"Everything spinning in circles?"
Sam's face hardened, grabbing onto handfuls of grass.
"Don't know if you want to laugh or cry?"
Sam frowned, then smiled, then frowned.
"Uh-huh. What about that fluttery feeling in your gut that's starting to burn and make its way up to your throat?"
Dean nodded and grimaced in advanced sympathy, knowing he was about to flip his brother's switch. "Remember the smell of that rancid fruit salad you ate when you were in the Sixth Grade? You were damn near puking for a week. Smelled like rotting bull testicles soaked in sewage and liver pudding and dripping with – "
It didn't take any more prompting. Sam lurched forward, still on all fours, spewing a lumpy rainbow blend of Neapolitan ooey- gooey glop.
"D'n." Sam's head dipped forward, unable to hold it up and yakking up more glop.
"Whoa, I got you," Dean splayed a supporting hand across Sam's forehead. "That's it Wyatt…just keep Earping," Dean encouraged lamely, growing more and more alarmed as Sam poured out his stomach contents.
Sam did just that. Tasting the rainbow wasn't all it was advertised to be. And even though they were in the great outdoors the smell was bad, heavy and stale like rotting Tuna and hot milk.
Dean nearly puked himself. "Just keep bringing it all up, buddy," he cooed, trembling fingers of his other hand skimming up and down Sam's hunched back.
"Hard," Sam spewed, "Breathe," his chest locked up body jerking as he spewed, shuddering ripples shooting up and down his stiffened spine.
"Easy. Easy." Dean exchanged skimming fingers for a pounding fist. "Puts a whole new spin on the monster has you by the throat." He pounded harder, still cupping Sam's forehead. "No choking to death on me now," Dean said worriedly, raising his brother's head up higher. "Just breathe," he ordered. "Breathe, Sammy."
Sam gasped, shaking his head, leaning all his weight into the palm of Dean's hand, heaving and rocking and spitting out the last of the sick, barely conscious.
"Come on, you son of a bitch," Dean hissed, looking critically at the pile of glop in search of the creature responsible for putting his brother through such pain. "Holy crap, look at all that. That was all inside of you?"
"Guh," Sam gurgled and spat and shivered as the torment suddenly stopped. "See it?" he weakly gasped drool dribbling from his lips as he pushed off all fours and sat on his knees, eyes searching the pile of vomit.
"No." Dean inched closer to Sam, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "You good?"
Sam's wet bangs hung in his eyes, his face fireball-red. He coughed and spit leftover pieces of food from his mouth. "I threw up."
"I know that genius…but are you good?"
"Yeah, I get that." Dean kept one hand on Sam, the other taking up the flame thrower from where it still sat in the grass. "How you feeling? Really?" he grimaced, ducking to look up under Sam's hair to catch his eye.
"Really? Like I want to pass out," Sam panted, breathe short and squeaky.
"No, Sam! Not passing out yet...shit," Dean bellowed catching sight of a three-inch fish-like worm as it half-slithered, half-swam slowly through Sam's sick.
"Dean." Sam flinched, having seen it too, his breathing pattern picking up.
"Got it, "Dean hissed, getting ready to spring up to his feet. "Do… not… move." Dean turned the safety switch off on the flamethrower and slowly raised the weapon, tracking the lowlife that had invaded his brother.
"Keep very still," he whispered, focusing on the small body sliding through the ooey-gooey vomit. It had a head like a friggin' sardine and the body of a snake. Its skin was slimy and oily, fleshy-pink-in color almost like raw chicken. Thing looked more like a piece of fatty grizzle than any worm Dean had ever seen.
"Th-that was in me?" Sam's body trembled weakly, sweat-dampened hair cold and sticking to the sides of his face, goose pimples raising on his bare chest.
He didn't have to look at Sam to know his brother was wigging out.
"Easy, Sammy," Dean muttered, breathlessly. "Easy."
The worm-fish stopped suddenly, seeming to try and hide between a chunk of what looked like half-digested hamburger and a blob of Lucky Charms marshmallows.
"Got you now, Slimey," Dean whispered, finger pulling slowly back on the trigger of the flame thrower.
The thing let out a screech and jumped at Dean before he could get a shot off.
"Son of a bitch," Dean yelped dodging tiny, white-pointed fangs as he fell flat to his back, the worm-fish darting off. Dean catapulted back up to his feet, steady and alert, eyes roaming wildly. "Where'd the hell Charlie Tuna go?" he questioned his confused and distraught little brother.
"Dove into that grove of bushes," Sam panted, struggling to get off his knees, every muscle weary and trembling.
Before Sam could recover his breath or his feet, Dean clamped onto a shoulder and pushed him back down. "Sam! Stay! Don't need that thing getting back up in you," he yelled racing off in a frenzy of anger.
"Dean!" Sam called out.
Ignoring Sam, Dean took off at a full-on run. He came roaring around the bush the thing had dove behind and skidded to a halt. "What the…"
He'd expected to find the worm-fish to be long gone, but there it was squaring off with him, its spooky green eyes glowing, freakish body still dripping in his brother's vomit.
Dean wrinkled his nose and cocked his head to one side. "Inchworm thinks he can grow," he muttered at the now one-foot long creature. It's flabby chicken skin raw and yellow and bumpy.
The creature hissed at him, teeth gleaming. Bitch was lightning fast and he couldn't waist the precious opportunity.
"One flaming shot is all I need." Dean took a slow step forward, but froze as the worm shuddered and transformed again, not only growing to the size of a small cat, but its body porking-out and freakishly sprouting four stumpy legs now looking more like a giant salamander than a worm.
"That's some trick." Dean scowled at the still hissing cat-fish, worm-fish…whatever. "You grow to the size of a baby dinosaur and I'm still going to torch your ass."
He angled the flamethrower, pulling back on the tirgger when all of sudden the worm-thingy made a garbled screech and leaped into the air, glowing green eyes zeroing in on Dean's throat once again.
Dean backpedaled to escape, but his right foot slipped down into a rabbit hole, throwing his aim off and sending a shot of wildfire harmlessly skyward. It was a bad scene happening in slow motion. Dean quickly caught his balance, pulling his foot from the hole. Too late. The worm-fish was attached to him, fangs pinching the skin of his throat. He struggled to pull it off one handedly, keeping hold of the flamethrower.
"No," Sam yelled in horror, coming around from behind the bush. "Dean!"Adrenalin spurring him on, he grabbed the worm-fish by its tail, yanking it off his brother.
"Bitch," Dean screeched as a sliver of his flesh went with it.
The creature was strong and Sam was weak. It thrashed and twisted in his hold its tail suddenly separating form its body and dropping off as the creature took flight.
Sam staggered to one side. "Holy shit," he cursed staring at the wiggling tail on the ground, and slamming a boot down on top of it.
Without a word, Dean zoomed past Sam, flamethrower raised and eyes on his target.
After shedding its tail the creature seemed slower and off balance as it tried to hide in the grass.
On the run, Dean squeezed the trigger spitting a stream of fire through the air. "Bull's-eye," he yelped watching as the creature erupted in an orange ball of flame, charred ashes blowing in the wind. "I love the smell of fried chicken in the morning," Dean drawled, looking back over his shoulder at his brother. "Way to nail that piece of tail," he laughed heading over toward Sam. "If only you'd done that in the first friggin' place," He reprimanded.
"So funny, I forgot to laugh, Dean," Sam panted out of breath. "Just burn the tail already before it somehow regenerates and crawls back up in one of us."
"God, don't say that out loud!" Dean came to stand beside him aiming the flamethrower at the wiggling tail under the size-thirteen boot. "Foot, Sam."
Sam let go the tail and took a step back.
Dean zapped it with the flame, the thing igniting immediately.
"Nice move, Sasquatch, ripping its tail off." Dean lowered the flamethrower, clamping a hand to the side of his neck.
"Autotomy," Sam murmured swaying as he stared down at the burnt remains feeling rather sick.
"Your tummy what?" Dean stared at Sam worriedly.
"It shed its own tail," Sam let out an exhausted breath, "Self-defense mechanism designed to elude a predator's grasp."
Dean stared at Sam steadily. "And then how do you explain it growing so fast, geek boy?"
"S'm sort of oxygenation process?" Sam shrugged.
"You are such a bookworm," Dean deadpanned, wincing at the sting in his neck as he reached up to inspect where the thing had nicked him more closely.
"Don't! " Sam growled, index finger stabbing at the air. "Don't ever us that word again."
"Which?" Dean took his had away from his neck examining the few dots of blood on his palm. "Book or worm?"
"Yeah, okay, I get the picture." He wiped his bloody fingers on his jeans.
"Get you bad?" Sam asked, staring at Dean through hooded, drunk eyes.
"Little more than a shaving nick," Dean retorted, eyes going back to Sam. "How're you doing?"
"Passing out now," Sam said, eyes rolling, legs going out from under him.
"Crap." Dean lurched forward, discarding the flamethrower and catching his brother's bulking weight in his arms, gently lowering him flat down to the grass.
Sam's head lolled listlessly to the right.
"Hey, hey." Dean cupped his chin and brought his head up. "None of that, bro," he said patting Sam's cheek. "Sam!"
"Sorry," Sam said, eyes opening back up. "Shilped," Sam muttered, blinking Dean's blurry face into focus.
"Slipped?" Dean laughed. "More like you fainted."
"Don't faint. Not a girl," Sam whined.
"Fine," Dean conceded. "We'll pretend you're not a girl. Just this one time. Now let's just get your gargantuan hung-over- ass to the Pala and put you into a motel bed," Dean grunted, leveling his brother back up to his feet.
Sam shot Dean a silly grin, head bobbing about like a curious owl.
"Bro, what the hell is with you?"
"You want to put me into bed," Sam raised a hand to his mouth, trying to smother his giggles.
"Wow!" Dean's eyes widened. "Are you still drunk?" he asked, stunned.
Sam hesitated, teeter-tottering sideways. "Generally speaking," he muttered.
Dean gripped him tighter. "How can…after all that upchucking?"
"Alcohol's in my blood system, Dean, n-not my puke." Sam bent toward Dean pressing his nose against Dean's nose doing the Eskimo rub.
"Whoa!" Dean let go of Sam taking a quick step back. "Uh-uh. No, no! Mnh-mnh," he groaned in disgust shaking his head, hands held up in front of him. "Back off, Eskimo Pie." Dean dug into his pocket, keys now jingling in his hand, just as his cell phone rang. "Hey, Bobby" he answered, "Car. Now," he gestured to Sam pointing him in the right direction.
Sam lowered his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair mussing the damp, tangled, grassy mess further, then without another word shuffle-stepped, feet crazily going in all directions as he stumbled past Dean.
"Yeah, we got it. He's fine. We're both fine." Dean followed a few feet behind his hop-scotching brother; keeping a close eye on the kid should he take a tumble. "You know Sam, Bobby. When he gets booze-soaked he turns all loosey-goosey. "No!" Dean screeched at Bobby, rolling his eyes. "I'm not going to pimp him out to the first chick we come across."
Sam paused, glancing over the top of the Impala curiously at Dean.
'Get in,' Dean mouthed, frowning deeply.
Sam gave Dean a girly wave then slipped into the car, and started rummaging around.
"Seriously, Bobby? After all that you want me to feed him some more?" Dean narrowed his eyes trying to see what his drunken brother was doing. "Yeah, I get it. He needs to absorb the booze...don't need that trying to eat his insides too." Dean blanched at the thought. "Oh, son-of-a-bitch. He better not be puking in the car…Bobby I got to go…call you later." Dean flipped the phone shut and pocketed it. "Dude!" he flung open the passenger door and bent in to see Sam kneeling on the bench seat, upper body draped far over the back. "You better not be –"
Sam's head whipped up. "Howdy," he mumbled chewing happily. "Found a package of brownies at the bottom of your bag." Sam's face was a sugary, brown mess. "Want shum?" he offered Dean.
"No. No thank you, Sam." Dean shuddered in horror. "How's that friggin' go again?"
"It's okay, D'n, 'em fine," Sam slurred. "Not that drunk…just…I need…I need to…need to…to…got to eat more…absurd the blood in my alcohol." He smiled happily.
"You mean absorb," Dean corrected. "After this, Sam, I don't want you to eat another bite for a week, you hearing me?"
"Stop bossing me, Dean."
Dean sighed. "You look like you fell into a chocolate river, man." He dug in his pocket and handed Sam a bandana. "At least wipe your face, Augustus." He looked at Sam's hands, "And your fingers," he added, shaking his head in bewilderment, slamming the door shut and hurrying to get into the car. "Think I'm going to have to drink myself into oblivion next." Dean sank down exhaustedly in the driver's seat.
"Beddy-bye time?" Sam asked wiggling his brows as Dean started the engine promptly heading them back out onto the road.
"You are so lamely backwards." Dean sat up straight and started up the engine. "Fully clothed, Sam, you in your bed…me in mine, now just sit there and finish absorbing and don't say another word."
"Absurding," Sam lamely corrected. "Stupid."
"And for the record, your drunkenness, you're the one with the big eyebrows. Not me."
"Whatever you say, big brother," Sam said quietly, his growing wooziness sending his head thumping against the window as he passed out.
Dean stood guard at the bathroom door, wincing in sympathy while Sam puked up his brownies. This time at least his brother was puking up for normal reasons. Not because some Gypsy Grandma cursed him with a gut busting parasite, but because Sam had continued on with his absurding...absorbing...helping himself to a few more drinks and snacks once they'd gotten checked into their room.
He listened as the toilet flushed and the sink water ran.
"You doing okay?" he called out worriedly.
The sink water shut off and the door opened. "Define okay?" Sam leaned his head against the doorjamb trying to catch his breath.
"Do I look hunky-friggin'-dory?" Sam moaned, one hand clutching his stomach.
"You look alive." Dean managed a small smile. "And since you raced in there thirty minutes ago…you do have a bit of color back."
Sam shook his head. Damn his ears were ringing, his stomach was screaming at him, his throat was burning, and everything was a dancing blur. "Dean," he barely whispered, swaying in the doorway, fingers gripping the jam to keep from going down.
"Okay. All right," Dean wrapped an arm around his waist, taking on much of Sam's weight. "You're good, little brother. Let's just get you back into bed. One step, two steps, three," Dean counted as he tipped Sam back and eased him down into the soft mattress.
"How can I feel so sick when I wasn't even that drunk?" Sam questioned, eyes squeezed shut.
"Brother," Dean laughed. "You took drunk to a whole new level," he informed with a chuckle, sitting on the edge of the bed and dipping a cold towel into the bowl of ice water he had sitting on the night stand.
"What are you talking about?" Sam blinked his eyes open, staring up at Dean's blurry face.
"You've been enjoying your ride on the happy train."
"Dean, clarify," Sam demanded.
"You do not want to know," Dean said, ringing out the cloth.
"Dean, tell me, what'd I do?" Sam begged and sat forward. "Did I assault someone again?" he asked in a panic. "Try to steal their food?"
"No, nothing like that."
"Like what then?"
"Well." Dean smiled a little and adjusted Sam's pillow, plumping it for him. "For starters, you put your shoes on your hands and tried to walk upside down."
"I what?" Sam's bloodshot eyes went wide.
"After you finally figured out the shoes belonged on your feet, you dressed up in your best suit and tie, slicked your hair back like a Greaser, went outside and…"
"And what? Sam asked, panic stricken.
"You tried to put the moves on the Impala." Dean nodded briskly.
Sam sucked in a breath, mortified. "Why the hell would I do that?"
"Do you really need a reason?" Dean deadpanned.
"Stop messing with me, Dean, I feel shitty enough." Sam swallowed down hard.
"Bro, you tweaked her headlights and kissed her grill." He brushed the cool cloth over Sam's forehead and cheeks.
Sam's eyes snapped open even wider, completely dumbfounded.
"And then you tried to…" Dean shrugged. "You know."
"Oh, God," Sam muttered as the fuzzy memories sank in.
"Uh-huh." Dean cocked a high brow. "And you know what else, Sammy?"
"Dean, please, no more," Sam pleaded, face burning red.
"You liked it."
"Guh." Sam shut his eyes slumping deeper into his pillow.
"I don't ever want to be that drunk again." Sam said through quivering lips.
"I don't ever want to see you that sick again, Sammy," Dean said seriously. "Here you go." He scooted up onto the bed, pulling Sam over to lean up against him. "Better?"
"Maybe in a month," Sam uttered a low moan, eyes closing.
"Next time some hot gypsy chick's grandma wants you to put your pool toy in her granddaughter's boathouse…for that matter any chick comes along looking for a showdown...you hit that. Because if your frustrated self tries to have a close encounter with my baby ever again….drunk or not…you're getting a beat down. Hear me?"
"I ever get that drunk again, Dean, kill me."
Dean tugged Sam closer.
They both remained silent a few moments.
"Dean?" Sam shifted all jittery, looking up into Dean's face.
"Did I….did I…I…did I go into weirdness mode and tell you I wuved you?" He asked embarrassed.
Dean said nothing.
"Oh," Sam moaned. "I didn't mean to –"
Dean put a finger to Sam's lips. "It's cool, Sam, you were drunk. Now get some rest you're exhausted." Dean hauled him closer.
Sam stretched a little, eyes barely able to stay open as he curled against Dean and did just that.
"And for the record, little brother, the weirdness is mutual," Dean whispered, shutting his eyes as well.