Sasquatch and Squash (Part 2 of 2)
Title: Sasquatch and Squash
Author: Swellison
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: 3rd season story, takes place after Dream a Little Dream of Me, references Dean's deal. Content warning:
To quote My Favorite Year: "Women vomit, men throw up." Much spewing of bodily fluids occurs here, do not read close to meal time. Angst & yuckies abound.
Disclaimer: Sam, Dean and all the other elements and players of the Winchester Universe are the property of Eric Kripke et al.
Word Count: 6,830 words
Recipient: Termite
Prompt: at the end of the story
Once they were out of the cramped bathroom, Dean slipped Sam's right arm over his shoulder and put a hand around Sam's waist, supporting him from the side as they trudged down the hallway. Almost halfway there, Sam halted, pushed Dean's hand away and spun around, walking rapidly toward the bathroom.
What, again? Dean trailed Sam back to the bathroom, then he kept on walking, going into the living room. He strode towards the sofa, illuminated by the light from the open bathroom door. He yanked open the weapons bag that Sammy'd left on the couch, grabbing their medicine kit. Returning to the bathroom, he waited patiently through another round of Sam's ralphing, then cleaned up his little brother. They walked slowly down the hallway, again, Sam leaning more pronouncedly against Dean this time. That's it. As they approached the doorway to the first bedroom, Dean steered Sam towards his room.
Sam balked. "That's your room, Dean."
"I know that, Sammy. I wanna keep an eye on you, you're sick. Besides," Dean added the clincher, "It's closer to the bathroom."
Sam didn't resist as Dean guided him into the first bedroom and settled Sam on the bed. Dean then retrieved a fresh t-shirt for Sam and watched as his brother slipped it on.
"No covers," Sam said as Dean started pulling the blankets up.
"Sammy, it's less than forty degrees outside," Dean argued. "And it's not much warmer in here."
"No covers," Sam said, "I'm hot enough already."
"Just one blanket," Dean compromised, pulling the sheet and lightweight green blanket up almost to Sam's chin. "Be right back." He slipped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, returning with the medkit and a glass of cold water. Setting the water on the nightstand, he withdrew two aspirins from the medkit. "Here, take these." He held out the pills to Sam.
"No, it won't stay down, Dean." Sam protested.
"You need to take those pills, Sammy. You're sick and I think you've hurled more than that time you were stinkin' drunk at that hotel in Connecticut. Now, open up." Dean held out the two pills and watched as Sam reluctantly swallowed them. Then he handed Sam the glass of water, nodding approvingly as Sam drank almost all of it.
"There. Feel better?"
"Not really," Sam's expression twisted and he tossed the covers aside, lurching out of bed and clambering down the hall.
"Sammy?" Dean followed, pausing only to switch on the hall light, the closed bathroom door dimming the hall lighting considerably. He yanked open the door to find Sammy seated miserably on the toilet. The room reeked worse than if Sam had eaten ten burritos. Dean closed the door and strode quickly to his room, extracting the Pepto-Bismol carton and a box of wooden matches from the medkit. He returned to the bathroom, stepping inside long enough to wordlessly place the two small boxes by the sink. Dean left, closing the door behind him almost completely, leaving it cracked open less than an inch.
Dean loitered patiently in the hall, hearing the toilet flush, then running water. In the night-time quiet, he also heard Sam opening the box of Pepto-Bismol and tearing open the packaging around the tablets. Then he heard Sam strike a couple of matches and finally the bathroom door creaked open. Sam stood silently in the door frame.
"Ready to try again?" Dean asked and gently walked his sick brother back to the closer bedroom. He got Sam resettled under the blanket. "Wait a sec." Dean popped into Sam's bedroom and snatched up Sammy's current paperback. Re-entering his own bedroom, Dean pulled the straight back chair from its position in front of a rough pine desk and placed it next to the night table, between Sam's side of the bed and the door.
Dean sat down, adjusting the lamp on the nightstand so that it shone more on himself and less on Sammy. Then he glanced at the back cover blurb of Evil Under the Sun. "Poirot? I thought you liked that old bat, Miss Marple best," Dean teased.
"Actually, Tommy 'n Tuppence are my favorites-a real partnership, but Christie didn't write nearly as many stories with them as the protagonists."
"Huh." Trust Sammy to use three-dollar words, even when he's sick as a dog. "Close your eyes and relax, Sasquatch, I'm gonna read to you, pick up where you left off." He quelled Sam's incipient protest with a classic big brother glower, found Sam's bookmark and started reading aloud.
It worked for almost half an hour. Dean started reading Chapter Five when Sammy squirmed, then sat up in bed. "I'm gonna-" he warned, but Dean was already in action.
Dropping the book, Dean rose from his chair and pulled back the covers, grabbing the room's wastebasket and placing it on Sam's lap. Sam grasped the trash can's edge, leaned forward and puked. Four lengthy spurts this time, Dean noted with concern. What is going on with you, Sammy?
Dean removed the trash can when it seemed that Sam-and his stomach-settled down. He took the thankfully lined trash can to the bathroom and flushed the revolting contents down the toilet, seeing a couple specks of pink in the disgusting yellow-green glop. So the Pepto didn't work either. Fan-freakin'-tastic. Leaving the trash can to soak in the tub, he walked to Sam's room, grabbed that room's trash can and returned to Sam. Placing the trash can in easy reach at the side of the bed, he said, "Take it easy, Sammy. I'll be right back."
Leaving the bedroom, Dean strode towards the kitchen, hunting up the trash can liners in short order. He scrubbed the first can clean, re-lined it and then returned to his bedroom, pretty sure he'd need the backup bucket before the night was over. Sam was sprawled on top of the bed, uncovered in the chilly night. "Samm" Dean almost growled, and Sam reacted, quickly resituating himself under the sheet and one blanket. Dean sighed, preparing to resume his seat and start reading. He glanced at Sammy's sweat-glistening face. Oops, change of plans. He quick-marched to the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth, a new glass of water and Sam's toothbrush and toothpaste.
Sam sat up in bed, and Dean wiped the damp cloth over his younger brother's face. Then he handed Sam his toothbrushing gear. Sam brushed his teeth, spitting into the initial, almost empty water glass still on the night stand. Dean cleared away the stuff after Sam finished, and picked up the Christie paperback, still lying on the floor.
About to reseat himself, Dean changed his mind. Keeping a hold of the book, he walked around the double bed to its far side and climbed under the covers. He remembered little Sammy taking comfort from his mere presence, and he still had plenty of big brother mojo. Dean refused to think about how his permanent absence would affect Sam in the future, instead he opened the book. "Now, where'd we leave off?" He grinned to himself as he felt Sam settle more comfortably in the bed. Big brother still knows best.
They made it through the rest of a rocky night, Sam upchucking once or twice an hour, Dean methodically dealing with the results and coaxing Sam back to bed. Just before dawn, Sam started snoring and Dean took advantage of his temporary respite, hopping quietly out of bed. He grabbed his cell phone and walked down the hall into the dark living room. The fire was on its last legs, but he ignored it, flipping open his cell and dialing 9-1-1.
"I'm sorry, the number you have reached-"
Dean ended the call, cursing small towns and their limited access to crucial emergency services. Then he hit speed dial #2, their own personal 9-1-1 number.
"Whatta ya want?"
"Sam's sick, Bobby."
"What's the matter, how sick?"
"He spent the whole night barfing. Ya wouldn't believe the number of times the toilet's been flush-"
"TMI, boy. I get your point, tho'. What do you need?"
"Directions to the nearest ER or clinic. We're in BF Egy-Erin, Tennessee, but Sam said you already know that."
"Okay, gimme a few minutes and I'll call you back in ten."
"Thanks, Bobby. Bye." Dean clicked his cell off and lowered the ringtone volume, since he didn't want to wake Sam any earlier than necessary. He padded back into his bedroom and quietly dressed, grabbing his boots and returning to the living room. He sat down on the sofa, slipped into his boots and laced up the grommets. Still no call from Bobby. Dean went to the kitchen and half-heartedly opened a couple of cupboards, striking gold when he found an unexpected can of coffee in one. Spying a cheap home coffee maker on the counter, Dean started making a batch of coffee. He really needed some caffeine; he'd been keeping an eye on Sammy all night long and he had to drive Sam to the hospital or clinic or whatever, soon.
Smoke on the Waters played softly from his jeans pocket, barely discernible over the bubbling coffee maker, and Dean eagerly snatched up his cell. "Bobby?"
"Nearest hospital is in Waverly, about thirty miles southwest of Erin. Take Main Street-also known as Tennessee-49-to Tennessee-13 and stay on the highway. Three Rivers Hospital's right along the highway, on the feeder road, in Waverly. You can't miss it."
"Thanks, Bobby."
"Call me when you know more about Sam."
"I will. Bye." Pocketing his cell, Dean headed for his bedroom. He crossed to the bed and nudged Sam's shoulder. "Sammy. Rise and shine, bro."
"Mmphrggg," Sam mumbled, but at least he stopped snoring.
"Sammy." Dean prodded his brother again. "Let's go. Now."
Sam woke, sitting up in bed and gazing blearily at his brother. "Dean?"
Dean recognized the all-too-familiar expression that crossed Sam's face and he had the trash can positioned just in time as Sam upchucked again, beginning the day on a sour note.
"I was afraid of that. Sorry, Sammy.” Dean helped Sam out of bed and down the hall towards the bathroom. "Get cleaned up and I'll bring you your clothes."
Ten minutes later Dean, already in his leather coat, kept his eye on Sam as his fully dressed but wobbly brother entered the kitchen. Dean finished guzzling his cup of coffee. "Ahhhhh," He placed the empty cup on the counter. "Let's go, Sammy."
"Where're we going?"
"Hospital. Nearest one's in Waverly, so grab your jacket. I left it on the sofa."
"Hospital? Why?" Sam questioned, then his face tightened. "Did you injure your back some more?"
"I'm fine, Sammy.” Dean shook his head. The dude is up all night ralphing and he's worried that I need to go to the hospital. That's my kid brother, all over. Dean urged Sam towards the sofa. "You've been barfing all night, and that's not natural, bro."
Sam froze, one sleeve of his brown microfiber coat in place. "Y'mean it's supernatural?"
Dean's eyebrows rose; he hadn't even thought of that, but it wasn't that long since their run-in with that Coven in Sturbridge. He eyed the cabin's rafters above them. Should I be looking for hexbags?
First things first. Dean helped bundle Sam into his jacket. "You've been barfing non-stop for the entire night. My medkit cures aren't cutting it, Sammy-so I'm taking you to a doctor, now." He jingled the Impala's keys in emphasis and then shepherded Sam out the door.
Dean quickly loaded Sam into the passenger seat, then slid behind the wheel. Turning to face Sam, he instructed, "Warn me if I need to pull over. Barfing and my baby don't mix." Then he swung the Impala around, heading slowly down the driveway, speeding up when they got back on blacktop. Once they merged onto TN-13 Dean opened up the throttle and booked. They were five miles from Waverly when they had to pull over to the shoulder for a barf break.
Minutes later, Dean drove into the hospital's parking lot and unloaded Sam. Directing Sam to wait inside, out of the cold, he parked the Impala in the first legal space he found and tramped back to where he'd left Sam. Dean strode through the automatic doors, following the signs to the ER/admitting room. The room only had four occupants, so he easily singled out Sammy, sitting in one of those ubiquitous plastic cafeteria chairs, staring at a clipboard. Giving Sam a hasty pat on the shoulder, Dean approached the admitting desk.
He smiled at the middle-aged nurse seated behind the counter, quickly reading her nametag. "Hi, Doreen. Do you have a barf bag?"
The nurse frowned. "Excuse me?"
Dean gestured behind him, towards Sam. "My brother's been sick all night, and he's due for another round in a few minutes."
"Oh." Doreen rolled her chair back, rummaging in a cupboard for a minute, and then handed a kidney-shaped emesis basin to Dean.
Dean accepted the small bowl, shaking his head. "Thank you, but I don't think that's big enough."
"Come back if you need another one."
"Ah, yes, ma'am." Dean strode over to Sam, dropping into the empty blue plastic chair next to him. "Keep this handy." He presented Sam with the emesis basin and took the clipboard with the admissions forms on it. "I'll fill out this, you just try not to spew until the doctor can see you." Dean quickly started reading the form, surreptitiously checked to see what insurance ID he was currently toting and starting filling in the form's many blanks. This time Sammy was Sam Turner, an innocuous, forgettable name. When the form was finished, he walked back to the admitting desk and handed it to Doreen. Behind him, he heard the all-too-familiar sound of retching. The nurse shoved another emesis basin in Dean's hands and rose from her station. "I'll see if I can hurry things along for you, dear." She left the waiting area, passing through a set of swinging doors with an Authorized Access Only sign prominently displayed.
A few minutes later, the nurse returned, a wheelchair and an orderly in tow. "Sam Turner? The doctor can see you now." The orderly, who was wearing gloves, discretely removed the emesis basins from the unoccupied seat next to Sam as Dean and Doreen got him comfortably arranged in the wheelchair. "Do you want to accompany your brother?" Doreen asked.
"Of course," Dean said, and followed behind as the nurse wheeled Sam through the double doors. Doreen pushed Sam's wheelchair to a smallish room with a hospital gurney in its center, and various pieces of medical equipment along or attached to the surrounding walls. She and Dean helped Sam onto the bed, then Doreen took Sam's temperature, asked him if he still felt nauseous. Doreen noted Sam's answers on a clipboard. "Dr. Corrigan will be in to see you shortly, Mr. Turner," she said and then left.
Dean stood next to Sam. "You feelin' any better?"
"About the same," Sam said as the door opened and a white-coated man walked in.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Hal Corrigan."
"Dean Turner, and this is my brother, Sam."
The doctor walked over to the foot of Sam's bed and picked up the clipboard that Doreen left attached. "So, Sam, you're still feeling nauseous?"
"Yes, sir."
"And when did this start?"
"Last night, around midnight, I guess."
Dean straightened. Midnight, the witching hour? Maybe this *is* a supernatural problem, after all.
Dr. Corrigan checked over the chart. "You've also experienced stomach cramps and diarrhea?"
Sam nodded yes.
"Do you feel dehydrated? Did you drink any water recently?"
"Tried. It wouldn't stay down."
"Neither would the aspirin or Pepto-Bismol he took with the water," Dean expanded on Sam's short answer. "So, yeah, he probably is dehydrated a little-he didn't get much sleep at all last night, too busy hurling."
The doctor nodded. "Have you been out West recently?"
"Uh, Colorado and Wyoming."
"When were you there?"
"About a month ago."
"Doc, what does our travelling have to do with Sam's illness?" Dean asked.
Sam answered. "Lyme disease, Dean."
"That's right, Sam. And you don't have it, the symptoms would've manifested before now if you got infected while in Wyoming or Colorado. Now, what have you had to eat in the last twenty-four hours?"
"Ah, the Swedish Passport breakfast at an IHOP in Ohio, then a turkey sandwich and a Coke for lunch, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chicken noodle soup, beans and beer for dinner."
"That last sounds like a home-made meal, right?"
"Yes, we were on the road most of yesterday, didn't even get to Erin til almost sunset." Dean explained, then frowned. "But I had the same dinner that Sam did last night and I'm feeling fine." He didn't mention his back, which was grumbling after his busy night, and he sure wasn't telling any doctor that he was functioning with a three day sleep deficit.
"Squash," Sam said suddenly. "I forgot about the squash. Dean didn't have any, he doesn't like it."
"Canned?"
"Frozen. There was a bag in the freezer."
Dr.Corrigan glanced sharply at Sam. "Your brother said you just arrived in Erin yesterday. You're not locals, then."
"No, our job involves a lot of traveling," Dean said smoothly.
"So you weren't here two weeks ago, for the big storm."
"No," Dean said cautiously.
"We had a large, freak blizzard-rare for these parts. Most of the area lost power for a day or two, even longer in the more remote towns, like Erin."
"The squash must've thawed out and then refroze after the power came back on. And then I ate it."
"Giving yourself a nasty case of accidental food poisoning." Dr. Corrigan concluded. Dean saw him walk over to a locked medicine cabinet, unlock it and remove something from its contents. The doctor then shut and relocked the cabinet's door and approached Sam's bed. He swabbed Sam's arm, explaining, "Since you're still nauseous, I'm giving you a Dramamine shot to quell that, and an antidiarrheal shot, too." He efficiently dispensed both shots. "I want to keep you under observation for a couple of hours, see if the shots are working. Meanwhile, get some rest, Mr. Turner. I'll be back later and then you can go home. Take it easy for the next few days, don't drink any fruit juices, but do drink water regularly and try to start eating your usual meals as soon as you can." The doctor scribbled a note on the chart and put it back in its place, then left the room.
"Accidental food poisoning-from squash." Dean shook his head, dragging a chair next to Sam's bed. He ruffled Sam's hair. "Only you, Sasquatch." Dean settled in the chair, keeping watch over his recuperating little brother.
* * * * * *
Prompt: Sam comes down with severe food poisoning.
Author: Swellison
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: 3rd season story, takes place after Dream a Little Dream of Me, references Dean's deal. Content warning:
To quote My Favorite Year: "Women vomit, men throw up." Much spewing of bodily fluids occurs here, do not read close to meal time. Angst & yuckies abound.
Disclaimer: Sam, Dean and all the other elements and players of the Winchester Universe are the property of Eric Kripke et al.
Word Count: 6,830 words
Recipient: Termite
Prompt: at the end of the story
Once they were out of the cramped bathroom, Dean slipped Sam's right arm over his shoulder and put a hand around Sam's waist, supporting him from the side as they trudged down the hallway. Almost halfway there, Sam halted, pushed Dean's hand away and spun around, walking rapidly toward the bathroom.
What, again? Dean trailed Sam back to the bathroom, then he kept on walking, going into the living room. He strode towards the sofa, illuminated by the light from the open bathroom door. He yanked open the weapons bag that Sammy'd left on the couch, grabbing their medicine kit. Returning to the bathroom, he waited patiently through another round of Sam's ralphing, then cleaned up his little brother. They walked slowly down the hallway, again, Sam leaning more pronouncedly against Dean this time. That's it. As they approached the doorway to the first bedroom, Dean steered Sam towards his room.
Sam balked. "That's your room, Dean."
"I know that, Sammy. I wanna keep an eye on you, you're sick. Besides," Dean added the clincher, "It's closer to the bathroom."
Sam didn't resist as Dean guided him into the first bedroom and settled Sam on the bed. Dean then retrieved a fresh t-shirt for Sam and watched as his brother slipped it on.
"No covers," Sam said as Dean started pulling the blankets up.
"Sammy, it's less than forty degrees outside," Dean argued. "And it's not much warmer in here."
"No covers," Sam said, "I'm hot enough already."
"Just one blanket," Dean compromised, pulling the sheet and lightweight green blanket up almost to Sam's chin. "Be right back." He slipped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, returning with the medkit and a glass of cold water. Setting the water on the nightstand, he withdrew two aspirins from the medkit. "Here, take these." He held out the pills to Sam.
"No, it won't stay down, Dean." Sam protested.
"You need to take those pills, Sammy. You're sick and I think you've hurled more than that time you were stinkin' drunk at that hotel in Connecticut. Now, open up." Dean held out the two pills and watched as Sam reluctantly swallowed them. Then he handed Sam the glass of water, nodding approvingly as Sam drank almost all of it.
"There. Feel better?"
"Not really," Sam's expression twisted and he tossed the covers aside, lurching out of bed and clambering down the hall.
"Sammy?" Dean followed, pausing only to switch on the hall light, the closed bathroom door dimming the hall lighting considerably. He yanked open the door to find Sammy seated miserably on the toilet. The room reeked worse than if Sam had eaten ten burritos. Dean closed the door and strode quickly to his room, extracting the Pepto-Bismol carton and a box of wooden matches from the medkit. He returned to the bathroom, stepping inside long enough to wordlessly place the two small boxes by the sink. Dean left, closing the door behind him almost completely, leaving it cracked open less than an inch.
Dean loitered patiently in the hall, hearing the toilet flush, then running water. In the night-time quiet, he also heard Sam opening the box of Pepto-Bismol and tearing open the packaging around the tablets. Then he heard Sam strike a couple of matches and finally the bathroom door creaked open. Sam stood silently in the door frame.
"Ready to try again?" Dean asked and gently walked his sick brother back to the closer bedroom. He got Sam resettled under the blanket. "Wait a sec." Dean popped into Sam's bedroom and snatched up Sammy's current paperback. Re-entering his own bedroom, Dean pulled the straight back chair from its position in front of a rough pine desk and placed it next to the night table, between Sam's side of the bed and the door.
Dean sat down, adjusting the lamp on the nightstand so that it shone more on himself and less on Sammy. Then he glanced at the back cover blurb of Evil Under the Sun. "Poirot? I thought you liked that old bat, Miss Marple best," Dean teased.
"Actually, Tommy 'n Tuppence are my favorites-a real partnership, but Christie didn't write nearly as many stories with them as the protagonists."
"Huh." Trust Sammy to use three-dollar words, even when he's sick as a dog. "Close your eyes and relax, Sasquatch, I'm gonna read to you, pick up where you left off." He quelled Sam's incipient protest with a classic big brother glower, found Sam's bookmark and started reading aloud.
It worked for almost half an hour. Dean started reading Chapter Five when Sammy squirmed, then sat up in bed. "I'm gonna-" he warned, but Dean was already in action.
Dropping the book, Dean rose from his chair and pulled back the covers, grabbing the room's wastebasket and placing it on Sam's lap. Sam grasped the trash can's edge, leaned forward and puked. Four lengthy spurts this time, Dean noted with concern. What is going on with you, Sammy?
Dean removed the trash can when it seemed that Sam-and his stomach-settled down. He took the thankfully lined trash can to the bathroom and flushed the revolting contents down the toilet, seeing a couple specks of pink in the disgusting yellow-green glop. So the Pepto didn't work either. Fan-freakin'-tastic. Leaving the trash can to soak in the tub, he walked to Sam's room, grabbed that room's trash can and returned to Sam. Placing the trash can in easy reach at the side of the bed, he said, "Take it easy, Sammy. I'll be right back."
Leaving the bedroom, Dean strode towards the kitchen, hunting up the trash can liners in short order. He scrubbed the first can clean, re-lined it and then returned to his bedroom, pretty sure he'd need the backup bucket before the night was over. Sam was sprawled on top of the bed, uncovered in the chilly night. "Samm" Dean almost growled, and Sam reacted, quickly resituating himself under the sheet and one blanket. Dean sighed, preparing to resume his seat and start reading. He glanced at Sammy's sweat-glistening face. Oops, change of plans. He quick-marched to the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth, a new glass of water and Sam's toothbrush and toothpaste.
Sam sat up in bed, and Dean wiped the damp cloth over his younger brother's face. Then he handed Sam his toothbrushing gear. Sam brushed his teeth, spitting into the initial, almost empty water glass still on the night stand. Dean cleared away the stuff after Sam finished, and picked up the Christie paperback, still lying on the floor.
About to reseat himself, Dean changed his mind. Keeping a hold of the book, he walked around the double bed to its far side and climbed under the covers. He remembered little Sammy taking comfort from his mere presence, and he still had plenty of big brother mojo. Dean refused to think about how his permanent absence would affect Sam in the future, instead he opened the book. "Now, where'd we leave off?" He grinned to himself as he felt Sam settle more comfortably in the bed. Big brother still knows best.
They made it through the rest of a rocky night, Sam upchucking once or twice an hour, Dean methodically dealing with the results and coaxing Sam back to bed. Just before dawn, Sam started snoring and Dean took advantage of his temporary respite, hopping quietly out of bed. He grabbed his cell phone and walked down the hall into the dark living room. The fire was on its last legs, but he ignored it, flipping open his cell and dialing 9-1-1.
"I'm sorry, the number you have reached-"
Dean ended the call, cursing small towns and their limited access to crucial emergency services. Then he hit speed dial #2, their own personal 9-1-1 number.
"Whatta ya want?"
"Sam's sick, Bobby."
"What's the matter, how sick?"
"He spent the whole night barfing. Ya wouldn't believe the number of times the toilet's been flush-"
"TMI, boy. I get your point, tho'. What do you need?"
"Directions to the nearest ER or clinic. We're in BF Egy-Erin, Tennessee, but Sam said you already know that."
"Okay, gimme a few minutes and I'll call you back in ten."
"Thanks, Bobby. Bye." Dean clicked his cell off and lowered the ringtone volume, since he didn't want to wake Sam any earlier than necessary. He padded back into his bedroom and quietly dressed, grabbing his boots and returning to the living room. He sat down on the sofa, slipped into his boots and laced up the grommets. Still no call from Bobby. Dean went to the kitchen and half-heartedly opened a couple of cupboards, striking gold when he found an unexpected can of coffee in one. Spying a cheap home coffee maker on the counter, Dean started making a batch of coffee. He really needed some caffeine; he'd been keeping an eye on Sammy all night long and he had to drive Sam to the hospital or clinic or whatever, soon.
Smoke on the Waters played softly from his jeans pocket, barely discernible over the bubbling coffee maker, and Dean eagerly snatched up his cell. "Bobby?"
"Nearest hospital is in Waverly, about thirty miles southwest of Erin. Take Main Street-also known as Tennessee-49-to Tennessee-13 and stay on the highway. Three Rivers Hospital's right along the highway, on the feeder road, in Waverly. You can't miss it."
"Thanks, Bobby."
"Call me when you know more about Sam."
"I will. Bye." Pocketing his cell, Dean headed for his bedroom. He crossed to the bed and nudged Sam's shoulder. "Sammy. Rise and shine, bro."
"Mmphrggg," Sam mumbled, but at least he stopped snoring.
"Sammy." Dean prodded his brother again. "Let's go. Now."
Sam woke, sitting up in bed and gazing blearily at his brother. "Dean?"
Dean recognized the all-too-familiar expression that crossed Sam's face and he had the trash can positioned just in time as Sam upchucked again, beginning the day on a sour note.
"I was afraid of that. Sorry, Sammy.” Dean helped Sam out of bed and down the hall towards the bathroom. "Get cleaned up and I'll bring you your clothes."
Ten minutes later Dean, already in his leather coat, kept his eye on Sam as his fully dressed but wobbly brother entered the kitchen. Dean finished guzzling his cup of coffee. "Ahhhhh," He placed the empty cup on the counter. "Let's go, Sammy."
"Where're we going?"
"Hospital. Nearest one's in Waverly, so grab your jacket. I left it on the sofa."
"Hospital? Why?" Sam questioned, then his face tightened. "Did you injure your back some more?"
"I'm fine, Sammy.” Dean shook his head. The dude is up all night ralphing and he's worried that I need to go to the hospital. That's my kid brother, all over. Dean urged Sam towards the sofa. "You've been barfing all night, and that's not natural, bro."
Sam froze, one sleeve of his brown microfiber coat in place. "Y'mean it's supernatural?"
Dean's eyebrows rose; he hadn't even thought of that, but it wasn't that long since their run-in with that Coven in Sturbridge. He eyed the cabin's rafters above them. Should I be looking for hexbags?
First things first. Dean helped bundle Sam into his jacket. "You've been barfing non-stop for the entire night. My medkit cures aren't cutting it, Sammy-so I'm taking you to a doctor, now." He jingled the Impala's keys in emphasis and then shepherded Sam out the door.
Dean quickly loaded Sam into the passenger seat, then slid behind the wheel. Turning to face Sam, he instructed, "Warn me if I need to pull over. Barfing and my baby don't mix." Then he swung the Impala around, heading slowly down the driveway, speeding up when they got back on blacktop. Once they merged onto TN-13 Dean opened up the throttle and booked. They were five miles from Waverly when they had to pull over to the shoulder for a barf break.
Minutes later, Dean drove into the hospital's parking lot and unloaded Sam. Directing Sam to wait inside, out of the cold, he parked the Impala in the first legal space he found and tramped back to where he'd left Sam. Dean strode through the automatic doors, following the signs to the ER/admitting room. The room only had four occupants, so he easily singled out Sammy, sitting in one of those ubiquitous plastic cafeteria chairs, staring at a clipboard. Giving Sam a hasty pat on the shoulder, Dean approached the admitting desk.
He smiled at the middle-aged nurse seated behind the counter, quickly reading her nametag. "Hi, Doreen. Do you have a barf bag?"
The nurse frowned. "Excuse me?"
Dean gestured behind him, towards Sam. "My brother's been sick all night, and he's due for another round in a few minutes."
"Oh." Doreen rolled her chair back, rummaging in a cupboard for a minute, and then handed a kidney-shaped emesis basin to Dean.
Dean accepted the small bowl, shaking his head. "Thank you, but I don't think that's big enough."
"Come back if you need another one."
"Ah, yes, ma'am." Dean strode over to Sam, dropping into the empty blue plastic chair next to him. "Keep this handy." He presented Sam with the emesis basin and took the clipboard with the admissions forms on it. "I'll fill out this, you just try not to spew until the doctor can see you." Dean quickly started reading the form, surreptitiously checked to see what insurance ID he was currently toting and starting filling in the form's many blanks. This time Sammy was Sam Turner, an innocuous, forgettable name. When the form was finished, he walked back to the admitting desk and handed it to Doreen. Behind him, he heard the all-too-familiar sound of retching. The nurse shoved another emesis basin in Dean's hands and rose from her station. "I'll see if I can hurry things along for you, dear." She left the waiting area, passing through a set of swinging doors with an Authorized Access Only sign prominently displayed.
A few minutes later, the nurse returned, a wheelchair and an orderly in tow. "Sam Turner? The doctor can see you now." The orderly, who was wearing gloves, discretely removed the emesis basins from the unoccupied seat next to Sam as Dean and Doreen got him comfortably arranged in the wheelchair. "Do you want to accompany your brother?" Doreen asked.
"Of course," Dean said, and followed behind as the nurse wheeled Sam through the double doors. Doreen pushed Sam's wheelchair to a smallish room with a hospital gurney in its center, and various pieces of medical equipment along or attached to the surrounding walls. She and Dean helped Sam onto the bed, then Doreen took Sam's temperature, asked him if he still felt nauseous. Doreen noted Sam's answers on a clipboard. "Dr. Corrigan will be in to see you shortly, Mr. Turner," she said and then left.
Dean stood next to Sam. "You feelin' any better?"
"About the same," Sam said as the door opened and a white-coated man walked in.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Hal Corrigan."
"Dean Turner, and this is my brother, Sam."
The doctor walked over to the foot of Sam's bed and picked up the clipboard that Doreen left attached. "So, Sam, you're still feeling nauseous?"
"Yes, sir."
"And when did this start?"
"Last night, around midnight, I guess."
Dean straightened. Midnight, the witching hour? Maybe this *is* a supernatural problem, after all.
Dr. Corrigan checked over the chart. "You've also experienced stomach cramps and diarrhea?"
Sam nodded yes.
"Do you feel dehydrated? Did you drink any water recently?"
"Tried. It wouldn't stay down."
"Neither would the aspirin or Pepto-Bismol he took with the water," Dean expanded on Sam's short answer. "So, yeah, he probably is dehydrated a little-he didn't get much sleep at all last night, too busy hurling."
The doctor nodded. "Have you been out West recently?"
"Uh, Colorado and Wyoming."
"When were you there?"
"About a month ago."
"Doc, what does our travelling have to do with Sam's illness?" Dean asked.
Sam answered. "Lyme disease, Dean."
"That's right, Sam. And you don't have it, the symptoms would've manifested before now if you got infected while in Wyoming or Colorado. Now, what have you had to eat in the last twenty-four hours?"
"Ah, the Swedish Passport breakfast at an IHOP in Ohio, then a turkey sandwich and a Coke for lunch, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chicken noodle soup, beans and beer for dinner."
"That last sounds like a home-made meal, right?"
"Yes, we were on the road most of yesterday, didn't even get to Erin til almost sunset." Dean explained, then frowned. "But I had the same dinner that Sam did last night and I'm feeling fine." He didn't mention his back, which was grumbling after his busy night, and he sure wasn't telling any doctor that he was functioning with a three day sleep deficit.
"Squash," Sam said suddenly. "I forgot about the squash. Dean didn't have any, he doesn't like it."
"Canned?"
"Frozen. There was a bag in the freezer."
Dr.Corrigan glanced sharply at Sam. "Your brother said you just arrived in Erin yesterday. You're not locals, then."
"No, our job involves a lot of traveling," Dean said smoothly.
"So you weren't here two weeks ago, for the big storm."
"No," Dean said cautiously.
"We had a large, freak blizzard-rare for these parts. Most of the area lost power for a day or two, even longer in the more remote towns, like Erin."
"The squash must've thawed out and then refroze after the power came back on. And then I ate it."
"Giving yourself a nasty case of accidental food poisoning." Dr. Corrigan concluded. Dean saw him walk over to a locked medicine cabinet, unlock it and remove something from its contents. The doctor then shut and relocked the cabinet's door and approached Sam's bed. He swabbed Sam's arm, explaining, "Since you're still nauseous, I'm giving you a Dramamine shot to quell that, and an antidiarrheal shot, too." He efficiently dispensed both shots. "I want to keep you under observation for a couple of hours, see if the shots are working. Meanwhile, get some rest, Mr. Turner. I'll be back later and then you can go home. Take it easy for the next few days, don't drink any fruit juices, but do drink water regularly and try to start eating your usual meals as soon as you can." The doctor scribbled a note on the chart and put it back in its place, then left the room.
"Accidental food poisoning-from squash." Dean shook his head, dragging a chair next to Sam's bed. He ruffled Sam's hair. "Only you, Sasquatch." Dean settled in the chair, keeping watch over his recuperating little brother.
* * * * * *
Prompt: Sam comes down with severe food poisoning.