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2 AM:
You wake up to the sound of someone typing away at a keyboard. Looking up, you see Sam sitting at the desk of the motel room in the dark with only the dimmed computer screen illuminating his ragged features. You sit up and push back a few strands of hair from your face, yawning.

  “Sam.” You say quietly. “What the hell are you doing up?”

  Sam glances up from the computer to look at you.

  “Nothing.” He replies just as softly. “Go back to sleep.”

  You raise an eyebrow at him and get out from under the covers, standing up and walking over to him. Pressing a hand to his neck, you feel heat radiating from his neck like that of a bad sunburn.

  “You’re really warm, Sam. You feeling okay?”

  He closes his eyes and leans his head into you. “No. Not really.”

  “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  “I have trouble sleeping when I don’t feel well.”

  “You should at least try. Come on.” You tug on his arm, gently persuading him to stand up and follow you over to the bed.

  He seems to have no trouble settling into the mattress, like his muscles are having a hard time holding him up. You don’t ask if he wants the covers on; they’d probably be too warm with his fever. Before climbing in with him, you walk back over to the desk and shut the laptop. In the total darkness, you make your way back over to the bed and crawl into next to Sam, pressing up against him lightly so you won’t make him feel too warm.

3:47 AM:
  You wake up more suddenly this time to the lurch of the mattress as Sam makes a mad dash for the bathroom. He flips on the light and shuts the door behind him hurriedly. A few seconds later, you hear the muffled sounds of vomiting.

  Flipping over, you stand and take quick steps over to the bathroom. You open the door and enter the small room, closing the door again and squinting until your eyes adjust to the bright light. Sam is kneeling on the floor, hunched over the toilet as his stomach empties its contents into the porcelain bowl.

  “(y/n).” He chokes out your name between violent heaves.

  “Shh.” You come over to kneel beside him, using your left hand to hold his hair behind his head and away from his mouth.

  With your other hand you rub his back, feeling the tense and release of his abused muscles along with the rise and fall of short, forced breathing. Two minutes later, his stomach finally quiets down. He closes his eyes and rests his cheek on the cool seat of the toilet.

  “Poor baby.” You say soothingly.

  Letting go of his hair, you lean forward to plant a kiss on his hot neck. You slip your right hand under his shirt collar and rub the spot just below his neck. The skin is hot, clammy, and slightly damp with sweat from the ordeal of vomiting up his intestines.

  “Think you’re done?”

  He nods almost imperceptibly, not saying a word as he steadies his breathing.

  You stand up and quietly exit the bathroom, making your way to the tiny kitchen to grab a glass before going back in and shutting the door again. You fill up the glass at the sink and lower it down to Sam.

  “Here.”

  He opens his eyes just enough to see the cup and take it. As he rinses out his mouth, you go back out into the main room, leaving the door open slightly and using the light to locate and dig through your duffel bag until you find a rather large, smoky-plastic pill bottle. When you go back into the bathroom, Sam has his eyes closed again, and the empty glass is sitting on the tiled floor next to his hand.

  You open the bottle and shake out two pills into your hand, kneeling beside Sam again and holding out the pills for him to take.

  “You can dry-swallow these.”

  As he takes the pills from you, he opens his eyes and recognizes them.

  “I didn’t know you carried these around.” He mutters tiredly.

  “Sometimes I get a little carsick. They’re just antacid tablets, but they should do the trick for a little while. If you still feel bad in the morning, I’ll make Dean run out and grab something a bit stronger. Right now though, we need to get you back in bed.”

  He doesn’t argue with you as you help him stand up and walk him back out to the mattress. Once he’s resting on his back and trying to sleep, you go back into the bathroom, flush the toilet, wipe off the seat with an alcohol wipe, and turn off the light. Then you join him again.

4:56 AM:
  You wake up to the lurching of the mattress again as Sam makes a second trip to the bathroom. As he practically flings himself off of the bed, he tugs on your wrist briskly, as if silently telling you that he wants you to follow him. You oblige sleepily, repeating the sequence of events from just over an hour ago before putting him back in bed with a cool, wet washcloth resting on his forehead.

  He falls asleep somewhat easier this time, exhausted from being sick twice in a single night. He drifts off clutching your hand like a frightened toddler. You know he’s not used to being sick, and he’s afraid of being alone when he is. Even though Dean would do everything in his power to get him better again, the older Winchester would also have to deal with the hunt, which would mean leaving Sammy alone for long periods of time.

7:15 AM:
  The alarm clock on the nightstand next to you starts to blare, and you reach out and slam the Sleep button before it wakes up Sam. Fortunately, Sam isn’t woken by the noise and continues to sleep. Dean, on the other hand, is sleeping lightly and stirs at the sound of the alarm.

  Both of you sit up almost simultaneously. Dean rubs his eyes and you yawn, glancing over at the figure sleeping next to you. He hasn’t moved from the position he fell asleep in, face-up with his legs spread out, outside hand resting across his stomach, inside hand still holding on to yours. You work your hand free and stand up, stretching.

  “You gonna wake up Gigantor?” Dean asks.

  You shake your head. “Just let him sleep. He got sick twice last night, and,” You lean over to feel Sam’s forehead. “He’s still got a fever.”

  “That’s odd. He was feeling fine last night when he went to sleep.” Dean stands and starts to change into his day clothes.

  “He’s like me I guess.” You start to change as well. “Gets sick overnight.”

  “You gonna stay here with him for the day?”

  “I might as well. Are you gonna head into town early?”

  Dean pulls on his flannel shirt. “Yeah. Gotta make a food run.”

  “Bring back some meds. Something for his fever and maybe something a little stronger than antacid for his stomach.”

  “Gotcha.” He pulls on his shoes and heads out the door.

  You sit down at the desk, facing sideways from Sam, and open his laptop. There isn’t any research to do, and even if there was you don’t feel like researching. Instead, you find a website with games created for bored middle schoolers and lazy adults. Sam sleeps motionless on the bed.

11:00 AM:
  You’re interrupted halfway through some weird, anime dress-up game by a moan coming from the bed. Looking over, you see Sam sitting up slowly, removing the now dry washcloth from his head and sucking in a breath through his nose.

  “It lives! Morning sleeping beauty!” You greet him with a playful smile.

  He tells you to shut up but smiles back, shakily standing up and shuffling over to sit across from you. With a tired exhale, he lays his head down on the table, using his arms as a pillow.

  “You know, you can sleep on the bed. No one said you had to get up. How ya feeling?”

  “Like someone bashed my skull with a sledgehammer while trying to deep fry me in the deepest pits of Hell.” He mumbles.

  “Sounds like fun.” You close the browser and stand up. “You should eat something.”

  “I feel like I’d just throw it up again.”

  “I’m not giving you a choice. Go clean yourself up in the bathroom and then get back in bed.”

  “(y/n) –”

  “Now.” You cut him off and point at the bathroom.

  He obeys, standing up again on unsteady legs and heads for the bathroom. While he tries to clean up, you dig through the sparse cabinets of the tiny kitchen, searching for something you can whip up that won’t be hard on Sam’s stomach. You find a half-empty bag of popcorn and a rather old popcorn maker, so you use what you’ve got to fill a large bowl with fluffy white kernels. Just as you’re finishing up, Sam comes back out and heads for the bed, collapsing in the same position he woke up in on the mattress, the only exception being the fact that he’s propped up against the headboard.

  “Feel any better?” You grab the bowl and head for your duffel bag.

  “Not really.” He moans.

  You grab a small bottle of painkillers from your bag before grabbing the laptop and joining him on the bed. Careful not to drop anything, you set the bowl of popcorn in his lap and hand him the pill bottle.

  “That’ll help with your head.”

  As he dry swallows two of the white tablets, you set up the laptop and open the browser to a free movie site, selecting the first movie to catch your eye, and then settle back next to Sam.

  “Eat this.” You tap the bowl of popcorn in his lap.

  Gingerly, he grabs a few kernels and pops them in his mouth, sucking on them to make them dissolve rather than chewing them. He repeats this process twice more, and then tries to swoop in and kiss you on the cheek. You catch him with one hand and push him backwards.

  “Dude, your breath smells like vomit. Did you brush?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You need to do it again.”

  He ignores you and tries for a kiss again. Once more, you catch him and push him away.

  “I don’t wanna catch whatever the heck it is you’ve got. Back off.”

  “A kiss would make me feel better.”

  “Sure it would. Eat your popcorn.”

  He lazily tosses a kernel at you, and you promptly pick it back up and throw it back at him. For a third time, he leans in close to you, and this time you shut your eyes and hold your breath, letting him press his mouth against your cheek.

  “Happy?” You ask when he pulls away.

  “Yep.”

  He leans back against the headboard, eyes closing and right hand searching for your smaller one. When he finds it, his eyes close, his breathing relaxes, and he’s asleep before Dean gets back.