Fic: Sick City
Title: Sick City
“Dean, you go ahead.” Sam closed his eyes, stifling the moan that filled his throat. The pain was sharp, knife-sharp, ice-pick sharp; if he lay perfectly still, it eased somewhat, but only enough to lull him into thinking it was gone.
It wasn't gone.
Sam bit his lips, praying for Dean just to leave their room, go on down to the blackjack and poker tables. For him to go guzzle some free whiskey and hook up with some showgirl or craps groupie and get laid. For him to leave Sam to his quiet misery, stretched out on the softest bed he'd slept in in a year, air conditioning quietly blowing cool air over Sam's over-heated skin.
Just go.
The pain receded, and Sam shakily exhaled. He knew he shouldn't have eaten so much last night, but they'd been starving when they'd pulled in after midnight. Dean had been hot to trot about their annual Vegas week, their 'vacation' from hunting, a week of wine, women, and song. Or, in Dean's case, whiskey, women, and whatever game he could win at. Sam had felt some pangs in his middle, but written them off as hunger. He'd eaten more heavily than usual, even joining Dean in some chocolate cream pie, and now he was paying for it.
Oh, how he was paying.
A sudden surge inside his stomach pulled Sam off the bed, and he ran to the bathroom. He threw up everything from last night and kept going. By the time the nausea subsided, Sam was pretty sure he'd expelled everything he's eaten all week. Gasping as he flushed the mess away, he felt a cool, damp washcloth drag across his sweaty forehead.
“Dude, I think that's more than a late night pig-out. You gotta have the flu or something.” Dean's voice was quit and concerned.
“So what...even if it is, what are you going to do? Sit around and watch me sweat and puke? Go on, go have some fun. Besides, my stomach's calming down now.” He laughed weakly. “The pie must have been too much.”
Dean looked at him with uncertainty. “Are you sure? I don't want to--”
“Go, go. It's Vegas, baby! Unleash the kraken! If I need you, I'll text.” Sam got to his feet, holding on to the sink to combat his spinning head. The cranial gyroscopes settled, and he was able to smile at Dean. “I feel a lot better now. Just gonna flake out and watch TV.”
“Okay. I'll text you in 30, see how you're doing, okay?” Dean looked in the mirror, giving his hair a final tweak and checking his teeth.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh god, you're perfect, okay? Jesus!” He climbed back into bed, pulling the snow white Egyptian cotton sheet over him. God, this bed is heavenly, he thought, wishing it could roll up and fit into the Impala's trunk.
He must have dozed off before Dean left, because the next time he opened his eyes, the room was empty. Unfortunately, he'd woken up due to fresh jagged pains arcing inside him. He groaned out loud, turning on his side and curling up, wrapping his arms around his torso. Acrid bubbles churned in his stomach, and he knew he was going to vomit any second. He barely made it out of bed, grabbing the wastepaper basket and retching so hard he thought his eyes might pop right out.
When he was done, he lay on the floor, feeling too dizzy and weak to attempt getting into the bed. He was sweating heavily; his skin felt hot to his own palm, and his t-shirt was soaked through.
This isn't flu. He pushed himself into a sitting position, back against the bed, and fumbled around on the nightstand for his phone. He cursed as he grasped it an it slipped from his shaky fingers. Clicking it on, he swiped on Dean's number and thumbed sick need help. Before he let the phone drop, he managed one more word.
sorry
The next time his eyes opened, they felt crusty. He squinted at the white ceiling. The white was abruptly hidden by two big green eyed staring down at him.
“Sam? Sammy?”
“Dean,” Sam whispered. “Where..am..I?” His throat hurt. His middle hurt, but a duller pain than before. Sam had had enough painkillers in his life to know he was floating on a little cloud of morphine. “What...happened?”
Dean backed up when San turned his head, and now he could see his brother's worried face, with an IV stand and softly beeping hospital machinery behind him. “You had surgery, Sammy. It wasn't the flu after all. I came up when you texted and you were passed out on the floor.” Dean wiped his face with one hand. “You were white, man, and I saw you'd puked mo, and I called the hotel doctor. He thought it might be appendicitis or diverticulitis, so he called an ambulance.”
Sam's shock must have showed on his face, because Dean moved closer and patted his hand. “It wasn't either. Turned out to be gallstones. Who'da thought? So they took them out and here you are.”
Sam licked his dry lips, and Dean gave him a drink of water through a straw. “How long...here?”
“Just overnight. They did that thing where they make tiny incisions, do it all inside, you know? Overnight and then you just gotta rest a few days.” He smiled and ruffled Sam's hair “We'll just sit around an watch movies and stuff, okay”?
“Laparo...laparoscopic?”
“That's it. So just sleep now, buddy, and tomorrow we'll just go hole up a few days and let you rest. And I'm staying here tonight to watch over ya.”
Sam sighed. He was already drifting back to sleep. He reached out and Dean caught his hand, holding it gently but firmly.
“I gotcha, Sammy.”
“Thanks, Dean.”
“Dean, you go ahead.” Sam closed his eyes, stifling the moan that filled his throat. The pain was sharp, knife-sharp, ice-pick sharp; if he lay perfectly still, it eased somewhat, but only enough to lull him into thinking it was gone.
It wasn't gone.
Sam bit his lips, praying for Dean just to leave their room, go on down to the blackjack and poker tables. For him to go guzzle some free whiskey and hook up with some showgirl or craps groupie and get laid. For him to leave Sam to his quiet misery, stretched out on the softest bed he'd slept in in a year, air conditioning quietly blowing cool air over Sam's over-heated skin.
Just go.
The pain receded, and Sam shakily exhaled. He knew he shouldn't have eaten so much last night, but they'd been starving when they'd pulled in after midnight. Dean had been hot to trot about their annual Vegas week, their 'vacation' from hunting, a week of wine, women, and song. Or, in Dean's case, whiskey, women, and whatever game he could win at. Sam had felt some pangs in his middle, but written them off as hunger. He'd eaten more heavily than usual, even joining Dean in some chocolate cream pie, and now he was paying for it.
Oh, how he was paying.
A sudden surge inside his stomach pulled Sam off the bed, and he ran to the bathroom. He threw up everything from last night and kept going. By the time the nausea subsided, Sam was pretty sure he'd expelled everything he's eaten all week. Gasping as he flushed the mess away, he felt a cool, damp washcloth drag across his sweaty forehead.
“Dude, I think that's more than a late night pig-out. You gotta have the flu or something.” Dean's voice was quit and concerned.
“So what...even if it is, what are you going to do? Sit around and watch me sweat and puke? Go on, go have some fun. Besides, my stomach's calming down now.” He laughed weakly. “The pie must have been too much.”
Dean looked at him with uncertainty. “Are you sure? I don't want to--”
“Go, go. It's Vegas, baby! Unleash the kraken! If I need you, I'll text.” Sam got to his feet, holding on to the sink to combat his spinning head. The cranial gyroscopes settled, and he was able to smile at Dean. “I feel a lot better now. Just gonna flake out and watch TV.”
“Okay. I'll text you in 30, see how you're doing, okay?” Dean looked in the mirror, giving his hair a final tweak and checking his teeth.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh god, you're perfect, okay? Jesus!” He climbed back into bed, pulling the snow white Egyptian cotton sheet over him. God, this bed is heavenly, he thought, wishing it could roll up and fit into the Impala's trunk.
He must have dozed off before Dean left, because the next time he opened his eyes, the room was empty. Unfortunately, he'd woken up due to fresh jagged pains arcing inside him. He groaned out loud, turning on his side and curling up, wrapping his arms around his torso. Acrid bubbles churned in his stomach, and he knew he was going to vomit any second. He barely made it out of bed, grabbing the wastepaper basket and retching so hard he thought his eyes might pop right out.
When he was done, he lay on the floor, feeling too dizzy and weak to attempt getting into the bed. He was sweating heavily; his skin felt hot to his own palm, and his t-shirt was soaked through.
This isn't flu. He pushed himself into a sitting position, back against the bed, and fumbled around on the nightstand for his phone. He cursed as he grasped it an it slipped from his shaky fingers. Clicking it on, he swiped on Dean's number and thumbed sick need help. Before he let the phone drop, he managed one more word.
sorry
The next time his eyes opened, they felt crusty. He squinted at the white ceiling. The white was abruptly hidden by two big green eyed staring down at him.
“Sam? Sammy?”
“Dean,” Sam whispered. “Where..am..I?” His throat hurt. His middle hurt, but a duller pain than before. Sam had had enough painkillers in his life to know he was floating on a little cloud of morphine. “What...happened?”
Dean backed up when San turned his head, and now he could see his brother's worried face, with an IV stand and softly beeping hospital machinery behind him. “You had surgery, Sammy. It wasn't the flu after all. I came up when you texted and you were passed out on the floor.” Dean wiped his face with one hand. “You were white, man, and I saw you'd puked mo, and I called the hotel doctor. He thought it might be appendicitis or diverticulitis, so he called an ambulance.”
Sam's shock must have showed on his face, because Dean moved closer and patted his hand. “It wasn't either. Turned out to be gallstones. Who'da thought? So they took them out and here you are.”
Sam licked his dry lips, and Dean gave him a drink of water through a straw. “How long...here?”
“Just overnight. They did that thing where they make tiny incisions, do it all inside, you know? Overnight and then you just gotta rest a few days.” He smiled and ruffled Sam's hair “We'll just sit around an watch movies and stuff, okay”?
“Laparo...laparoscopic?”
“That's it. So just sleep now, buddy, and tomorrow we'll just go hole up a few days and let you rest. And I'm staying here tonight to watch over ya.”
Sam sighed. He was already drifting back to sleep. He reached out and Dean caught his hand, holding it gently but firmly.
“I gotcha, Sammy.”
“Thanks, Dean.”