The Fisherman's Wife (SPN, sick!sam, food poisoning, casefic AU)
Summary:
Sam gets food poisoning while on a case and Dean cleans up the mess. A not-so-routine investigation during a presumed banshee hunt in the small village of Sumner Grove, Massachusetts. H/C, emeto, sick!Sam and caretaking!Dean.
Notes:
For my lovely friend, Tumblr user @stuffndthangsndwhump, because she loves her some sick Sam <3
Work Text:
Sam wasn’t sure where his life had gone wrong, exactly.
He’d thought he could pinpoint it to the moment Dean showed up at his doorstep in Stanford, rain-soaked and bright-eyed, wearing John’s (Dad’s) too-big leather jacket and a shit-stirring smile. A tactile beckoning back to the world he’d been brought up in and fought so desperately to leave behind, to come clawing back when he’d thought he’d found his sanctuary.
Or maybe it was the insidious gleam in Ruby’s eyes that had compelled him to run his tongue lasciviously down the bloody blade of her knife, tasting the first sensuous descent into a dark and wicked new discovery of his powers, perverting himself almost to a point of no return (until Dean and Bobby had intervened, dragging him kicking and screaming back to the light).
Today, Sam decided it was when he joined Dean for an early lunch at Roy’s Crab Shack in the village of Sumner Grove, Massachusetts, while they initiated a good old fashioned banshee hunt.
--
“C’mon, are you kidding me?!”
Sam glanced up over his menu, furrowing his brow. “What, Dean?”
Dean’s eyes were as wide as the appetizer plates on their table, and he practically salivated with intense arousal. “Dude…The Shanty Sampler. ‘Six of our favorite fried seafood delights served with our award-winning coleslaw, our savory brown butter, and endless freshly baked rolls. A deal that can’t be beat, for $14.99!’” He grinned fanatically. “We gotta do it, Sam.”
“$14.99? For a seafood platter?” Sam made a face. “Uh, don’t you think that’s a little sketch?”
Dean leaned forward with pressing urgency. “It’s fried, Sam. It’s not fresh, not the good stuff. Four hundred degrees of white-hot grease’ll kill anything. C’mon, dude. Slaw and rolls. Endless rolls.” He threw a hand up with sudden incredulity. “Award-winning slaw! Dude, why are we even having this conversation?”
Sam rolled his eyes, but it was with a good-natured chuckle. “All right, Jani Lane, grin any wider and your face is gonna split. Fine, we can split the platter. But I’m still getting a salad.”
Dean made a mocking face, folding up his menu and settling back into the booth. “You do that.”
Sam did that, upgrading to a Caesar salad for a dollar more (hey, it’d been a minute, and they promised freshly shaved parmesan and housemade dressing, the real kind with anchovies).
“Wow,” Dean gushed through an eye-rolling, toe-curling, crispy crunching bite of food. “Dude…they could deep fry hobo toes here and I’d still eat ‘em.”
Sam paused with a forkful halfway to his mouth, face contorting. “Dude, seriously?”
“For these prices? Absolutely.” Dean licked his thumb, closed his eyes in rapturous bliss, and reached for a third roll, breaking it in pieces with a satisfied belch. “There. Room for more.” Another orgasmic moan, this one even louder than the last, caused an elderly couple to look over with twin glares of disdain.
“Ugh, GOD. Award-WORTHY. Sam, get the manager. We gotta alert the media.”
“I’m gonna alert the authorities if you don’t stop,” Sam sputtered through red-faced chuckles, feeling the familiar mixture of secondhand embarrassment and incredulous hilarity that often accompanied a seafood dinner with Dean.
Dean tossed his head back, licking his lips. “Mmm. ‘m so close, Sam….”
Sam threw down his fork with a final, ringing clatter. “I’m done. I’ll be in the car.”
This caused Dean to settle down considerably, looking up at Sam with a full mouth and a twinkle in his eye. “C’mon, princess. Don’t be such a little bitch. We got a while till we gotta meet Mrs. Stevenson for the interview. Enjoy some lunch, will ya?”
Their waitress chose this moment to check in, winding her way through the melee of tables. “Everything okay over here, guys?” Her tone implied that the disturbance they were causing was not, in fact, okay.
“I’m so sorry,” Sam automatically stepped forward, holding up his palms in a defensive stance. “My brother, he doesn’t get out much, and he’s very…excitable, so if we could just-”
“Don’t mind my brother,” Dean interrupted, holding up his own hand and tethering a winning smile onto the end of the gesture. “He just doesn’t appreciate the value of a good meal, let alone the incredible display you guys have served us this afternoon. I don’t think I’ve ever had coleslaw this phenomenal. Would you mind getting the chef for me? I wanna shake his hand.”
The waitress - Carla, her nametag read - pursed her lips, but couldn’t help a fond eyeroll in Dean’s direction. Utterly charming till the day he died, that was Sam’s brother Dean.
“Chef Louis doesn’t take requests during lunch service,” she informed them. “But I’ll tell him you guys really enjoyed your lunch. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear it.”
“Thanks.” Dean winked at her, but reached down to unearth his wallet in a display of apology. “We’ll get outta your hair here in a minute. What’s the damage?”
Carla pulled a handwritten ticket from her black book and scribbled a brief adjustment before handing it to Dean with a sudden, sultry smile. “I’ll extend your compliments to the chef.”
She sashayed away (Dean watched, naturally) and left Sam standing there, stunned and - suddenly - vaguely nauseous.
“You never cease to amaze me, Dean,” He muttered, reaching over and collecting his jacket and laptop bag from the booth. “C’mon, let’s go before that old lady has a heart attack.”
Dean threw a couple twenties down on the table and stood, giving his stomach a brief pat before joining Sam in departure. “Gotta hit the head. I’ll meet you out there.”
“Yeah,” Sam swallowed, unable to shake the feeling that something was very wrong. “Okay.”
--
The drive to Estelle Stevenson’s house wasn’t long or eventful by any means - just a few miles outside of downtown, in a tree-lined suburb with nice cars and nice houses - but Sam felt that same earlier feeling of unease creeping thickly in the pit of his stomach. Instinctively, he knew something was off with the lunch he’d eaten (but Dean seemed fine, so it had to be the salad). He tried to distract himself, hoping it would go away.
“So, I compiled some statistics on disappearances in Sumner Grove throughout the past six months,” he began, clearing his throat and reaching down for his bag, where the papers were. He immediately wished he hadn’t bent down, as a wave of dizziness abruptly intensified the nausea. He pressed on regardless. “Witnesses reported flickering lights outside of the victims’ homes on the same nights the victims went missing. Interviews were pretty much the same, but cops couldn’t find any evidence - no blood, no signs of struggle, no DNA whatsoever - so they were filed as missing persons and…that was that.”
Dean accelerated after stopping at a four-way intersection, glancing to his left and then to his right, at Sam. “Sounds like our kinda deal. What’s the address, again?”
Sam shifted uncomfortably, feeling the nausea creep up his throat. His heart picked up speed, pulse fluttering, and he felt a sheen of sweat bead on his upper lip. “Uh…eight six three, Willow boulevard.” He reached up and loosened the knot of his tie, focusing on the horizon (a trick he’d learned way back in the early days of his childhood, stuck in the backseat with John driving).
The house was two streets ahead. Dean threw the car in park and cut the engine, giving the dash a pat as the Impala rumbled to sleep. He checked himself in the rearview mirror, running his tongue over his teeth, and spared a glance toward Sam. “Hey, Francis. Lookin’ a little green around the gills, there. You okay?”
No, Sam was sure he was not okay. But, still, he straightened up with a sniff, steeling his resolve. “I’m good,” he said, reassuring himself as much as Dean. “Let’s go see what Estelle has to say about all of this.”
The doorbell rang a pleasant-sounding chime, and Dean took the brief opportunity to glance back over at Sam, silently appraising. “Dude, you sure you’re okay? You’re like, glistening.”
Sam closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. You can do this, Winchester. “I’m good, Dean. Let’s just get this over with. Lives are at stake.”
The door opened, cutting off Dean’s reply and revealing a middle-aged woman well into her forties, preserved with the beauty of Olay refining masks and a light, sedentary lifestyle. Her hair was immaculately groomed and her manicure on point, but her makeup was smeared with the vestiges of tears. The flaw made her seem much more human, and she took a breath to compose herself before speaking. “Yes?”
Dean withdrew his fake police badge (as did Sam, visually prompted by the action). “Mrs. Stevenson? I’m Detective Lane, this is Detective Shore. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the disappearance of your husband, if that’s all right.”
Estelle delicately dabbed a finger beneath her eye, wiping away a tear and smudging her mascara in the process. Sam wanted to offer her a tissue. “Yes. Please, come in.”
The living room was decorated in nautical blue, wooden tchotchkes and handpainted anchors lining her tables. There was a sanded driftwood desk facing out the window, decorated with an ornate golden lamp and several leather-bound books, flanked by a wastebasket half full of crumpled papers. A large and rather gaudy fisherman’s net was displayed across the far wall, interspersed with photographs of (presumably) her husband standing on docks and out at sea, fishing, holding aloft a giant swordfish like a trophy. Sam stared at the display, barely stifling a groan at the thought of fish, a roll of nausea sliding through his belly.
“Detectives,” Estelle began, clearing her throat and attempting manners despite her angst. “Would either of you like something to drink? I can brew a pot of coffee.”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” Dean answered, holding up a hand with a slight smile. “But I think my partner might like a ginger ale, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long drive, and he doesn’t travel well.” He glanced over at Sam again, feigning camaraderie. “Lucky he got stuck with me, eh?”
Sam threw him a look, ignoring Estelle’s soft cluck of sympathy as she scooted into the kitchen. He exhaled, bending over slightly in an attempt to ease the queasiness. “Really, Dean?”
“You look like you just got off the Tilt-o-Whirl, dude. It might help,” Dean reassured him with a quick clap to the shoulder, straightening up as Estelle returned with a fizzing glass.
“I’m afraid I’m out of ginger ale,” she began. “But I made you a bitters and soda. Tom always swore by them, for seasickness.” She offered Sam the glass, and he accepted graciously, offering the woman a tight smile in return.
“Thank you,” he told her, appalled to hear the slight waver in his own voice. “You’re too kind.”
Dean cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as Estelle took her own.
“Mrs. Stevenson,” he started. “When exactly did your husband disappear?”
Estelle pursed her lips, reaching for a tissue from the box on the coffee table. “Three days ago.” She delicately dabbed under her eyes, again, trying to keep her composure. “Please, call me Estelle.”
“Estelle,” Dean repeated, smiling warmly, then continuing. “Did Tom mention anything about taking a fishing trip? Going out to sea?”
“No, he didn’t. Tom hasn’t sailed in two years, said he didn’t have it in him to ‘weather the storms anymore’.” She nervously twisted her wedding ring, gazing up at the fisherman’s net. “He goes down by the docks often, though. Stops by the warehouse, does the books, that sort of thing.”
Sam, sitting to Dean’s right, took a tentative sip of his bitters and soda, stomach roiling. His heart pounded against his chest, and he could feel the sweat beginning to soak his undershirt. He resisted the urge to devolve into pattern breathing, instead clearing his throat. “Estelle,” he spoke up. “Did Tom ever confide in you anything about…hearing voices?”
Estelle looked up, her expression bemused beneath the tears. “Voices? Are you asking me if my husband was suffering from schizophrenia?”
“It’s routine in cases of unsolved disappearances,” Dean cut in, placating. “We’re just covering all the bases. It’s important to rule out in a missing persons case.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably, unable to stop himself from leaning forward with a slight exhale. His skin crawled with nausea, sweat prickling, and he hoped to God that Estelle’s elixir worked. Please, don’t let me get sick, he prayed silently. Not on this poor woman’s rug.
“No,” Estelle’s voice was fading in the background, lost in the rising tide of his gorge. “I didn’t notice anything un-”
He couldn’t hold it any longer.
Sam gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth, and nearly knocked over the glass in his haste to stand. He immediately felt Dean’s hands on him - his back, his shoulders - and heard him use his Big Brother voice at Estelle: where’s your bathroom?
But he wasn’t going to make it down the hall; Sam kept the hand tight against his mouth, saliva pooling - oh god oh god oh fuck - and lurched for the wastebasket by the desk, doubling over and helplessly, violently expelling everything he’d eaten for lunch at the crab shack.
Distantly, he could hear Estelle fretting - “oh, oh my, oh dear” - and he barely had time to feel any sort of embarrassment, saving his energy for gasping for air between heaves. Semi-digested hush puppies and croutons came up in an asphyxiating wave, acid burning his nose. He felt hands on his shoulders, rubbing his back - big, rough, warm; they belonged to Dean.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” his brother reassured him, holding him steady as he retched. “I gotcha. Estelle’s gettin’ you some water. It’s okay.”
“G-God-” Sam choked out, stomach clenching, bracing a palm over his belly. “Dean-”
“Shh,” Dean soothed, rubbing a few circles on his back. “You’re okay. Shit happens, man.”
A smaller, softer hand joined Dean’s, and Sam was mortified (but, yet, strangely comforted) to realize that Estelle had returned and was hovering over him.
“Here, dear,” she murmured. “Sip some water, rinse out your mouth. Don’t worry about the trash can, it needed to be emptied anyway.”
Sam wanted desperately to apologize, to thank her, to say something, but his voice got lost in another straining heave, this one rougher than the last, bringing up only a small amount of bile.
“I think there might be a bug going around,” Estelle offered warily, obviously hoping this was not the case. “Laura - from the city council, she lives right down the street - said something about her grandson being sick this week as well.”
Dean chose not to comment, more focused on his sick brother than Estelle’s fretting. “Hey, Sam. You think you’re done?”
Sam thought he might be, for now. He spat a long thick string of drool and mucus, eyes streaming, and accepted the tissues offered to him, wanting to bury his burning face in a hole. “Yeah…” he panted, finally able to speak. “Think so. Mrs. Stevenson, I am so sorry-”
“It’s all right, Detective,” Estelle assured him, unable to stop herself from giving his back a rub. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of sick fishermen. There’s a bathroom down the hall, to the left - I’m sure you’d like to freshen up. I’ll take care of the can, don’t worry.”
“I got it,” Dean piped up, abandoning professionalism and going into Big Brother mode. “But thank you, Estelle. You’re a good woman.” He gave her a real smile, then, and turned back to Sam. “Hey, how bout you take the can and go wait in the car? I’ll be right behind you.”
Sam gladly accepted the offer of retreat, picking up the trash can and pausing before leaving. “Thank you, ma’am,” he mumbled to Estelle like a shy teenager, face burning with shame.
“It’s all right, dear,” she replied, putting a warm matronly hand on his shoulder. “You go get some rest. Sip something clear, rest your stomach.”
Sam put on a small, brave smile. “Will do.”
--
It didn’t take long for Dean to wrap up their faux investigation and attempt to console Estelle with a few folded bills, for the trouble (and for her to graciously refuse him, as expected) before he was able to hurry out to the Impala, where Sam sat languishing in renewed nausea, having removed his suit jacket and tie and rolled down his window for some air.
Dean swung himself into the driver’s seat, discarding his own jacket and reaching out for Sam. “All right, Linda Blair, what gives?” He demanded. “It can’t be food poisoning, I feel fine.”
Sam closed his eyes, groaning. “The salad, Dean. Don’t make me repeat it, please.”
“We didn’t…oh.” Dean suddenly remembered Sam’s own addition to their lunch. “Well, just goes to show why I never order rabbit food. Shit’s raw, dude.”
“Dean,” Sam gritted out, panting with a fresh wave of queasiness, hand over his stomach. “Shut…up.”
Dean nodded, mouth set in a thin line, and started the engine. The Impala snarled to life, revving and rumbling like a sultry predator. Over the noise, Dean spoke to Sam. “Sammy, I love you like a brother, but you gotta toss that smelly trash can. I’ll pull over for you, promise.”
Sam hoped Dean wouldn’t have to honor that promise as they pulled away from the curb, leaving the residential area and heading back downtown to their motel.
“Seriously, Sam,” Dean spoke up, glancing warily over at him as they approached the Sumner Grove - Village Limit, pop. 2380 sign. “Lemme know if you gotta hurl, okay?’
Sam nodded minutely, keeping his mouth pressed closed. Sweat beaded freshly on his brow, and the thick, ugly swell of nausea returned, creeping up his belly and throat. He sat very still, focused on the horizon again, on the distant stoplight far downtown. “Let’s just…talk about the case,” he pleaded.
Dean spared him another glance, jaw set, and finally spoke. “All right. So, Estelle says Tom wasn’t showing any signs of distress before he disappeared. If it’s the banshee we’re thinkin’ it is, he’d be acting real distracted and dead-set on going down to the water the day of, right?”
Sam blew out a breath, shifting in his seat, and shook his hair out of his damp face. “Yeah….yeah. According to lore, banshees lure their victims to their watery graves with a siren song that they can’t get out of their heads.” He paused, bringing a fist up to his mouth to stifle a foul-tasting burp. “Ugh…so, apparently, it’s gotta be something else.”
“Obviously,” Dean agreed, slowing to a stop at the downtown light. “But what else?”
Sam tried to rack his brain; he really did.
Outside, the late afternoon sun beamed in through the windshield, creating a greenhouse-like effect despite their windows being rolled down. Cars lined the street on either side, all waiting at the red light, and exhaust fumes drifted into the air. Seagulls circled the drive-in Sonic across the street, searching for treasures among discarded French fries and burger wrappers.
“Aw, come on!” Dean suddenly exclaimed, throwing an incredulous hand in the air, gesturing to the fresh pile of whitish-brown disappointment on the Impala’s windshield. He pulled the washer fluid lever, muttering about “damn sky-rats” and “the hell is this light gonna turn?”.
Sam’s heart pounded a staccato rhythm in his chest; he felt saliva beginning to pool again. “Dean,” he gasped shortly after they accelerated from the stoplight. “I gotta-”
“Huh?”
“Pull over,” Sam gritted out, unbuckling his seatbelt and slipping a hand over his mouth.
Dean revved the engine, gunning ahead to an empty curbside spot, and threw the car in park just in time for Sam to wrench his door open and lean out to vomit on the asphalt with a splattering retch. This time was worse than at Estelle’s house; not much was on his stomach save for some water and soda, and after that came up like two cupfuls of hot water, the rest was mostly acid and bile that strained his stomach and burned his nose on the way out.
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean murmured, reaching out to splay a hand on Sam’s sweat-soaked back. “You’re gonna hurt yourself hurlin’ that hard.”
Sam gasped, trying to catch his breath, chest heaving. His shoulders braced against the frame; his whole face was wet with tears and sweat and drool, eyes streaming, nose running. His arms shook, and he suddenly wished - longed, even - for a bathroom floor to curl up on. He moaned, wanting nothing more than to just die, right now.
“Oh God…” he mumbled, spitting thickly and coughing, pressing a hand against his stomach as a vicious cramp rolled through his abdomen, making him screw up his face in a pained grimace.
“Easy, Sammy,” Dean coached, settling into the routine as easily as he did when they were kids. He grabbed a handful of fast food napkins and a water bottle from the backseat floorboard, offering them to Sam with a gentle clap on the back. “Here you go. Wipe and rinse.”
Sam did as he was told, wiping his eyes and mouth and blowing his nose, grimacing again. “Ugh, gross. Dude…my stomach’s killin’ me.” He rubbed his sore midsection, moaning softly. Another cramp seized his insides, and he moaned again. “Oh, God…”
Sam’s lamentation tapered off into a thin, liquid retch that took more effort than usual, and left him panting and shaking in the aftermath. His shoulders trembled with exertion, and he struggled for air, helpless to his body’s whims. He was sick as hell, no denying it at all.
“Sam,” Dean spoke again, voice low and steady (but not commanding, as John’s would’ve been). “Just breathe. Take it easy.” He rubbed Sam’s back, stilling when Sam stiffened and hissed through another cramp. “I know it hurts, man. Gonna get you back to the motel and get you set up with some A/C and some ice. All the orange Gatorade you can drink. How’s that sound?”
With some considerable effort, Sam managed to straighten up and resettle into the seat, tipping his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes, hand still resting on his stomach. “Sounds awesome,” he mumbled.
“All righty,” Dean agreed, revving the engine and pulling forward. “Just hang tight, Sammy. We’re almost there.”
Sam kept his eyes closed for the remainder of the voyage, taking comfort in the rumble of the engine beneath him and the solidity of his brother’s presence beside him. Dean always knew what to do, and he’d always been there to take care of him, ever since they were kids.
As long as Dean didn’t mention anchovies ever again, Sam knew he would survive.
Sam gets food poisoning while on a case and Dean cleans up the mess. A not-so-routine investigation during a presumed banshee hunt in the small village of Sumner Grove, Massachusetts. H/C, emeto, sick!Sam and caretaking!Dean.
Notes:
For my lovely friend, Tumblr user @stuffndthangsndwhump, because she loves her some sick Sam <3
Work Text:
Sam wasn’t sure where his life had gone wrong, exactly.
He’d thought he could pinpoint it to the moment Dean showed up at his doorstep in Stanford, rain-soaked and bright-eyed, wearing John’s (Dad’s) too-big leather jacket and a shit-stirring smile. A tactile beckoning back to the world he’d been brought up in and fought so desperately to leave behind, to come clawing back when he’d thought he’d found his sanctuary.
Or maybe it was the insidious gleam in Ruby’s eyes that had compelled him to run his tongue lasciviously down the bloody blade of her knife, tasting the first sensuous descent into a dark and wicked new discovery of his powers, perverting himself almost to a point of no return (until Dean and Bobby had intervened, dragging him kicking and screaming back to the light).
Today, Sam decided it was when he joined Dean for an early lunch at Roy’s Crab Shack in the village of Sumner Grove, Massachusetts, while they initiated a good old fashioned banshee hunt.
--
“C’mon, are you kidding me?!”
Sam glanced up over his menu, furrowing his brow. “What, Dean?”
Dean’s eyes were as wide as the appetizer plates on their table, and he practically salivated with intense arousal. “Dude…The Shanty Sampler. ‘Six of our favorite fried seafood delights served with our award-winning coleslaw, our savory brown butter, and endless freshly baked rolls. A deal that can’t be beat, for $14.99!’” He grinned fanatically. “We gotta do it, Sam.”
“$14.99? For a seafood platter?” Sam made a face. “Uh, don’t you think that’s a little sketch?”
Dean leaned forward with pressing urgency. “It’s fried, Sam. It’s not fresh, not the good stuff. Four hundred degrees of white-hot grease’ll kill anything. C’mon, dude. Slaw and rolls. Endless rolls.” He threw a hand up with sudden incredulity. “Award-winning slaw! Dude, why are we even having this conversation?”
Sam rolled his eyes, but it was with a good-natured chuckle. “All right, Jani Lane, grin any wider and your face is gonna split. Fine, we can split the platter. But I’m still getting a salad.”
Dean made a mocking face, folding up his menu and settling back into the booth. “You do that.”
Sam did that, upgrading to a Caesar salad for a dollar more (hey, it’d been a minute, and they promised freshly shaved parmesan and housemade dressing, the real kind with anchovies).
“Wow,” Dean gushed through an eye-rolling, toe-curling, crispy crunching bite of food. “Dude…they could deep fry hobo toes here and I’d still eat ‘em.”
Sam paused with a forkful halfway to his mouth, face contorting. “Dude, seriously?”
“For these prices? Absolutely.” Dean licked his thumb, closed his eyes in rapturous bliss, and reached for a third roll, breaking it in pieces with a satisfied belch. “There. Room for more.” Another orgasmic moan, this one even louder than the last, caused an elderly couple to look over with twin glares of disdain.
“Ugh, GOD. Award-WORTHY. Sam, get the manager. We gotta alert the media.”
“I’m gonna alert the authorities if you don’t stop,” Sam sputtered through red-faced chuckles, feeling the familiar mixture of secondhand embarrassment and incredulous hilarity that often accompanied a seafood dinner with Dean.
Dean tossed his head back, licking his lips. “Mmm. ‘m so close, Sam….”
Sam threw down his fork with a final, ringing clatter. “I’m done. I’ll be in the car.”
This caused Dean to settle down considerably, looking up at Sam with a full mouth and a twinkle in his eye. “C’mon, princess. Don’t be such a little bitch. We got a while till we gotta meet Mrs. Stevenson for the interview. Enjoy some lunch, will ya?”
Their waitress chose this moment to check in, winding her way through the melee of tables. “Everything okay over here, guys?” Her tone implied that the disturbance they were causing was not, in fact, okay.
“I’m so sorry,” Sam automatically stepped forward, holding up his palms in a defensive stance. “My brother, he doesn’t get out much, and he’s very…excitable, so if we could just-”
“Don’t mind my brother,” Dean interrupted, holding up his own hand and tethering a winning smile onto the end of the gesture. “He just doesn’t appreciate the value of a good meal, let alone the incredible display you guys have served us this afternoon. I don’t think I’ve ever had coleslaw this phenomenal. Would you mind getting the chef for me? I wanna shake his hand.”
The waitress - Carla, her nametag read - pursed her lips, but couldn’t help a fond eyeroll in Dean’s direction. Utterly charming till the day he died, that was Sam’s brother Dean.
“Chef Louis doesn’t take requests during lunch service,” she informed them. “But I’ll tell him you guys really enjoyed your lunch. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear it.”
“Thanks.” Dean winked at her, but reached down to unearth his wallet in a display of apology. “We’ll get outta your hair here in a minute. What’s the damage?”
Carla pulled a handwritten ticket from her black book and scribbled a brief adjustment before handing it to Dean with a sudden, sultry smile. “I’ll extend your compliments to the chef.”
She sashayed away (Dean watched, naturally) and left Sam standing there, stunned and - suddenly - vaguely nauseous.
“You never cease to amaze me, Dean,” He muttered, reaching over and collecting his jacket and laptop bag from the booth. “C’mon, let’s go before that old lady has a heart attack.”
Dean threw a couple twenties down on the table and stood, giving his stomach a brief pat before joining Sam in departure. “Gotta hit the head. I’ll meet you out there.”
“Yeah,” Sam swallowed, unable to shake the feeling that something was very wrong. “Okay.”
--
The drive to Estelle Stevenson’s house wasn’t long or eventful by any means - just a few miles outside of downtown, in a tree-lined suburb with nice cars and nice houses - but Sam felt that same earlier feeling of unease creeping thickly in the pit of his stomach. Instinctively, he knew something was off with the lunch he’d eaten (but Dean seemed fine, so it had to be the salad). He tried to distract himself, hoping it would go away.
“So, I compiled some statistics on disappearances in Sumner Grove throughout the past six months,” he began, clearing his throat and reaching down for his bag, where the papers were. He immediately wished he hadn’t bent down, as a wave of dizziness abruptly intensified the nausea. He pressed on regardless. “Witnesses reported flickering lights outside of the victims’ homes on the same nights the victims went missing. Interviews were pretty much the same, but cops couldn’t find any evidence - no blood, no signs of struggle, no DNA whatsoever - so they were filed as missing persons and…that was that.”
Dean accelerated after stopping at a four-way intersection, glancing to his left and then to his right, at Sam. “Sounds like our kinda deal. What’s the address, again?”
Sam shifted uncomfortably, feeling the nausea creep up his throat. His heart picked up speed, pulse fluttering, and he felt a sheen of sweat bead on his upper lip. “Uh…eight six three, Willow boulevard.” He reached up and loosened the knot of his tie, focusing on the horizon (a trick he’d learned way back in the early days of his childhood, stuck in the backseat with John driving).
The house was two streets ahead. Dean threw the car in park and cut the engine, giving the dash a pat as the Impala rumbled to sleep. He checked himself in the rearview mirror, running his tongue over his teeth, and spared a glance toward Sam. “Hey, Francis. Lookin’ a little green around the gills, there. You okay?”
No, Sam was sure he was not okay. But, still, he straightened up with a sniff, steeling his resolve. “I’m good,” he said, reassuring himself as much as Dean. “Let’s go see what Estelle has to say about all of this.”
The doorbell rang a pleasant-sounding chime, and Dean took the brief opportunity to glance back over at Sam, silently appraising. “Dude, you sure you’re okay? You’re like, glistening.”
Sam closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. You can do this, Winchester. “I’m good, Dean. Let’s just get this over with. Lives are at stake.”
The door opened, cutting off Dean’s reply and revealing a middle-aged woman well into her forties, preserved with the beauty of Olay refining masks and a light, sedentary lifestyle. Her hair was immaculately groomed and her manicure on point, but her makeup was smeared with the vestiges of tears. The flaw made her seem much more human, and she took a breath to compose herself before speaking. “Yes?”
Dean withdrew his fake police badge (as did Sam, visually prompted by the action). “Mrs. Stevenson? I’m Detective Lane, this is Detective Shore. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the disappearance of your husband, if that’s all right.”
Estelle delicately dabbed a finger beneath her eye, wiping away a tear and smudging her mascara in the process. Sam wanted to offer her a tissue. “Yes. Please, come in.”
The living room was decorated in nautical blue, wooden tchotchkes and handpainted anchors lining her tables. There was a sanded driftwood desk facing out the window, decorated with an ornate golden lamp and several leather-bound books, flanked by a wastebasket half full of crumpled papers. A large and rather gaudy fisherman’s net was displayed across the far wall, interspersed with photographs of (presumably) her husband standing on docks and out at sea, fishing, holding aloft a giant swordfish like a trophy. Sam stared at the display, barely stifling a groan at the thought of fish, a roll of nausea sliding through his belly.
“Detectives,” Estelle began, clearing her throat and attempting manners despite her angst. “Would either of you like something to drink? I can brew a pot of coffee.”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” Dean answered, holding up a hand with a slight smile. “But I think my partner might like a ginger ale, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long drive, and he doesn’t travel well.” He glanced over at Sam again, feigning camaraderie. “Lucky he got stuck with me, eh?”
Sam threw him a look, ignoring Estelle’s soft cluck of sympathy as she scooted into the kitchen. He exhaled, bending over slightly in an attempt to ease the queasiness. “Really, Dean?”
“You look like you just got off the Tilt-o-Whirl, dude. It might help,” Dean reassured him with a quick clap to the shoulder, straightening up as Estelle returned with a fizzing glass.
“I’m afraid I’m out of ginger ale,” she began. “But I made you a bitters and soda. Tom always swore by them, for seasickness.” She offered Sam the glass, and he accepted graciously, offering the woman a tight smile in return.
“Thank you,” he told her, appalled to hear the slight waver in his own voice. “You’re too kind.”
Dean cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as Estelle took her own.
“Mrs. Stevenson,” he started. “When exactly did your husband disappear?”
Estelle pursed her lips, reaching for a tissue from the box on the coffee table. “Three days ago.” She delicately dabbed under her eyes, again, trying to keep her composure. “Please, call me Estelle.”
“Estelle,” Dean repeated, smiling warmly, then continuing. “Did Tom mention anything about taking a fishing trip? Going out to sea?”
“No, he didn’t. Tom hasn’t sailed in two years, said he didn’t have it in him to ‘weather the storms anymore’.” She nervously twisted her wedding ring, gazing up at the fisherman’s net. “He goes down by the docks often, though. Stops by the warehouse, does the books, that sort of thing.”
Sam, sitting to Dean’s right, took a tentative sip of his bitters and soda, stomach roiling. His heart pounded against his chest, and he could feel the sweat beginning to soak his undershirt. He resisted the urge to devolve into pattern breathing, instead clearing his throat. “Estelle,” he spoke up. “Did Tom ever confide in you anything about…hearing voices?”
Estelle looked up, her expression bemused beneath the tears. “Voices? Are you asking me if my husband was suffering from schizophrenia?”
“It’s routine in cases of unsolved disappearances,” Dean cut in, placating. “We’re just covering all the bases. It’s important to rule out in a missing persons case.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably, unable to stop himself from leaning forward with a slight exhale. His skin crawled with nausea, sweat prickling, and he hoped to God that Estelle’s elixir worked. Please, don’t let me get sick, he prayed silently. Not on this poor woman’s rug.
“No,” Estelle’s voice was fading in the background, lost in the rising tide of his gorge. “I didn’t notice anything un-”
He couldn’t hold it any longer.
Sam gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth, and nearly knocked over the glass in his haste to stand. He immediately felt Dean’s hands on him - his back, his shoulders - and heard him use his Big Brother voice at Estelle: where’s your bathroom?
But he wasn’t going to make it down the hall; Sam kept the hand tight against his mouth, saliva pooling - oh god oh god oh fuck - and lurched for the wastebasket by the desk, doubling over and helplessly, violently expelling everything he’d eaten for lunch at the crab shack.
Distantly, he could hear Estelle fretting - “oh, oh my, oh dear” - and he barely had time to feel any sort of embarrassment, saving his energy for gasping for air between heaves. Semi-digested hush puppies and croutons came up in an asphyxiating wave, acid burning his nose. He felt hands on his shoulders, rubbing his back - big, rough, warm; they belonged to Dean.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” his brother reassured him, holding him steady as he retched. “I gotcha. Estelle’s gettin’ you some water. It’s okay.”
“G-God-” Sam choked out, stomach clenching, bracing a palm over his belly. “Dean-”
“Shh,” Dean soothed, rubbing a few circles on his back. “You’re okay. Shit happens, man.”
A smaller, softer hand joined Dean’s, and Sam was mortified (but, yet, strangely comforted) to realize that Estelle had returned and was hovering over him.
“Here, dear,” she murmured. “Sip some water, rinse out your mouth. Don’t worry about the trash can, it needed to be emptied anyway.”
Sam wanted desperately to apologize, to thank her, to say something, but his voice got lost in another straining heave, this one rougher than the last, bringing up only a small amount of bile.
“I think there might be a bug going around,” Estelle offered warily, obviously hoping this was not the case. “Laura - from the city council, she lives right down the street - said something about her grandson being sick this week as well.”
Dean chose not to comment, more focused on his sick brother than Estelle’s fretting. “Hey, Sam. You think you’re done?”
Sam thought he might be, for now. He spat a long thick string of drool and mucus, eyes streaming, and accepted the tissues offered to him, wanting to bury his burning face in a hole. “Yeah…” he panted, finally able to speak. “Think so. Mrs. Stevenson, I am so sorry-”
“It’s all right, Detective,” Estelle assured him, unable to stop herself from giving his back a rub. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of sick fishermen. There’s a bathroom down the hall, to the left - I’m sure you’d like to freshen up. I’ll take care of the can, don’t worry.”
“I got it,” Dean piped up, abandoning professionalism and going into Big Brother mode. “But thank you, Estelle. You’re a good woman.” He gave her a real smile, then, and turned back to Sam. “Hey, how bout you take the can and go wait in the car? I’ll be right behind you.”
Sam gladly accepted the offer of retreat, picking up the trash can and pausing before leaving. “Thank you, ma’am,” he mumbled to Estelle like a shy teenager, face burning with shame.
“It’s all right, dear,” she replied, putting a warm matronly hand on his shoulder. “You go get some rest. Sip something clear, rest your stomach.”
Sam put on a small, brave smile. “Will do.”
--
It didn’t take long for Dean to wrap up their faux investigation and attempt to console Estelle with a few folded bills, for the trouble (and for her to graciously refuse him, as expected) before he was able to hurry out to the Impala, where Sam sat languishing in renewed nausea, having removed his suit jacket and tie and rolled down his window for some air.
Dean swung himself into the driver’s seat, discarding his own jacket and reaching out for Sam. “All right, Linda Blair, what gives?” He demanded. “It can’t be food poisoning, I feel fine.”
Sam closed his eyes, groaning. “The salad, Dean. Don’t make me repeat it, please.”
“We didn’t…oh.” Dean suddenly remembered Sam’s own addition to their lunch. “Well, just goes to show why I never order rabbit food. Shit’s raw, dude.”
“Dean,” Sam gritted out, panting with a fresh wave of queasiness, hand over his stomach. “Shut…up.”
Dean nodded, mouth set in a thin line, and started the engine. The Impala snarled to life, revving and rumbling like a sultry predator. Over the noise, Dean spoke to Sam. “Sammy, I love you like a brother, but you gotta toss that smelly trash can. I’ll pull over for you, promise.”
Sam hoped Dean wouldn’t have to honor that promise as they pulled away from the curb, leaving the residential area and heading back downtown to their motel.
“Seriously, Sam,” Dean spoke up, glancing warily over at him as they approached the Sumner Grove - Village Limit, pop. 2380 sign. “Lemme know if you gotta hurl, okay?’
Sam nodded minutely, keeping his mouth pressed closed. Sweat beaded freshly on his brow, and the thick, ugly swell of nausea returned, creeping up his belly and throat. He sat very still, focused on the horizon again, on the distant stoplight far downtown. “Let’s just…talk about the case,” he pleaded.
Dean spared him another glance, jaw set, and finally spoke. “All right. So, Estelle says Tom wasn’t showing any signs of distress before he disappeared. If it’s the banshee we’re thinkin’ it is, he’d be acting real distracted and dead-set on going down to the water the day of, right?”
Sam blew out a breath, shifting in his seat, and shook his hair out of his damp face. “Yeah….yeah. According to lore, banshees lure their victims to their watery graves with a siren song that they can’t get out of their heads.” He paused, bringing a fist up to his mouth to stifle a foul-tasting burp. “Ugh…so, apparently, it’s gotta be something else.”
“Obviously,” Dean agreed, slowing to a stop at the downtown light. “But what else?”
Sam tried to rack his brain; he really did.
Outside, the late afternoon sun beamed in through the windshield, creating a greenhouse-like effect despite their windows being rolled down. Cars lined the street on either side, all waiting at the red light, and exhaust fumes drifted into the air. Seagulls circled the drive-in Sonic across the street, searching for treasures among discarded French fries and burger wrappers.
“Aw, come on!” Dean suddenly exclaimed, throwing an incredulous hand in the air, gesturing to the fresh pile of whitish-brown disappointment on the Impala’s windshield. He pulled the washer fluid lever, muttering about “damn sky-rats” and “the hell is this light gonna turn?”.
Sam’s heart pounded a staccato rhythm in his chest; he felt saliva beginning to pool again. “Dean,” he gasped shortly after they accelerated from the stoplight. “I gotta-”
“Huh?”
“Pull over,” Sam gritted out, unbuckling his seatbelt and slipping a hand over his mouth.
Dean revved the engine, gunning ahead to an empty curbside spot, and threw the car in park just in time for Sam to wrench his door open and lean out to vomit on the asphalt with a splattering retch. This time was worse than at Estelle’s house; not much was on his stomach save for some water and soda, and after that came up like two cupfuls of hot water, the rest was mostly acid and bile that strained his stomach and burned his nose on the way out.
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean murmured, reaching out to splay a hand on Sam’s sweat-soaked back. “You’re gonna hurt yourself hurlin’ that hard.”
Sam gasped, trying to catch his breath, chest heaving. His shoulders braced against the frame; his whole face was wet with tears and sweat and drool, eyes streaming, nose running. His arms shook, and he suddenly wished - longed, even - for a bathroom floor to curl up on. He moaned, wanting nothing more than to just die, right now.
“Oh God…” he mumbled, spitting thickly and coughing, pressing a hand against his stomach as a vicious cramp rolled through his abdomen, making him screw up his face in a pained grimace.
“Easy, Sammy,” Dean coached, settling into the routine as easily as he did when they were kids. He grabbed a handful of fast food napkins and a water bottle from the backseat floorboard, offering them to Sam with a gentle clap on the back. “Here you go. Wipe and rinse.”
Sam did as he was told, wiping his eyes and mouth and blowing his nose, grimacing again. “Ugh, gross. Dude…my stomach’s killin’ me.” He rubbed his sore midsection, moaning softly. Another cramp seized his insides, and he moaned again. “Oh, God…”
Sam’s lamentation tapered off into a thin, liquid retch that took more effort than usual, and left him panting and shaking in the aftermath. His shoulders trembled with exertion, and he struggled for air, helpless to his body’s whims. He was sick as hell, no denying it at all.
“Sam,” Dean spoke again, voice low and steady (but not commanding, as John’s would’ve been). “Just breathe. Take it easy.” He rubbed Sam’s back, stilling when Sam stiffened and hissed through another cramp. “I know it hurts, man. Gonna get you back to the motel and get you set up with some A/C and some ice. All the orange Gatorade you can drink. How’s that sound?”
With some considerable effort, Sam managed to straighten up and resettle into the seat, tipping his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes, hand still resting on his stomach. “Sounds awesome,” he mumbled.
“All righty,” Dean agreed, revving the engine and pulling forward. “Just hang tight, Sammy. We’re almost there.”
Sam kept his eyes closed for the remainder of the voyage, taking comfort in the rumble of the engine beneath him and the solidity of his brother’s presence beside him. Dean always knew what to do, and he’d always been there to take care of him, ever since they were kids.
As long as Dean didn’t mention anchovies ever again, Sam knew he would survive.