Title: Back in the Saddle
Author: Enkidu07
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
A/N: I am not sure how this happened. But I blame Shannanigans. Because I want to. This isn't exactly where I was going, but it is where I ended up.
A/N2: Early Season 1.

Sam curls restlessly on the bed. Too little sleep and not enough appetite and it's kind of his own fault that it's come to this. His stomach cramps painfully and he buries his face in the musty pillow, willing back exhausted tears.

The sunny morning illuminates his blood shot eyes and haggard posture. He ducks his head under icy spray in an effort to pull it together.

Dean keeps up steady banter as they drive to the warehouse, but Sam can feel his worried gaze and the unspoken concern lacing his words.

"You sure you're up to this?" Dean finally asks as they crowd the trunk to load up on salt and iron.

Sam blinks as Dean shoves a water bottle into his hands. "Open and shut case. Purification sigils in each corner. No problem." Sam takes an extra pocketful of rocksalt, just in case, Dean's eyes tracking his movements. He opens the water, takes a small mouthful, cautious of his rolling stomach.

"You don't have to dive back in headfirst, Sam. It's been a while."

Sam doesn't comment, just tosses the water into the trunk and turns to head to the shadowed door. When Dean hesitates, Sam calls, "You've still got my back, right?"

Dean huffs and hurries to catch up. "Just make sure you watch your front."

The warehouse is huge. Cavernous rooms are connected by intricate hallways that carry whispering echoes throughout the building. They scout the layout first; find the shortest routes to the four compass points. Once they start, they'll have to work fast. And they'll have to split up.

"Don't forget to watch yourself, Sam. It'll use anything it can find to stop you."

"Yeah."

"If anything moves, you shoot first, ask questions later."

"Okay."

"Don't worry about me. Just concentrate on getting yours right."

"Yeah."

"You sure you're okay? You haven't been sleeping and I know…"

"Dean. You can't do this by yourself. Just. Just back off. I won't screw it up."

Dean scans his face critically. "I know Sammy. Just be careful."

"Yeah."

The empty rooms are a blessing and a curse. There isn't much for the poltergeist to use against them, but there isn't any cover either. Once Sam finishes the sigil on the first wall, he is pounded my wind and dirt and debris. Tiny stones and wooden splinters hammer like needles into any exposed skin. He tucks and starts to run, hopes that Dean has reached his first corner as well.

He covers ground fast, mostly evading larger chunks of rubble that are blasted his way. A room full of lumber and shutters creates the biggest obstacle and he pushes himself harder. Sliding into the second corner, he uses broad strokes to paint the wall. The onslaught doesn't cease, so Dean must still be en route. The hunter in him knows he has to cover his brother so he pushes off the wave of dizziness and heads to the third corner at a dead sprint.

A slamming door catches his ankle, making him stumble. He can't quite catch his balance and slams shoulder first into the cement. The air is forced out of his body on impact and he pushes up hard, valiantly trying to bring air into his battered lungs. A laborious breath pulls in more dust than air and he is hunched on hands and knees, coughs wracking his frame when the air finally stills around him. He lets his arms buckle and collapses thankfully on the floor.

At the Impala, Sam is still hunched over, winded and dizzy. His ankle is throbbing and his lungs demand shallow breaths even as his body is crying out for his to replace the oxygen in his bloodstream.

Dean loads the trunk and then pounds his back, forcing him into another coughing fit.

"Not bad, Sammy. You've still got it."

Sam drums up a grin and drops gratefully into the car. Dean's grinning, high from the hunt, but Sam's still aware of his assessing gaze.

"Some bacon cheeseburgers and a good night's sleep and you'll be back to form in no time."

Sam's stomach protests the thought of food and he rolls his forehead onto the cool window, humming out a groan.

He feels Dean pat his shoulder and let's himself drop off for a few minutes of oblivion.

For all of Dean's bluster, when he wakes Sam up back at the hotel, there is a grilled chicken breast and mashed potatoes waiting for him.

Dean doesn't make eye contact, just gets them inside and bustles around the room, washing up and getting the food ready.

Sam drops to a chair and watches him. As he sits, Dean shoots him a hopeful gaze and Sam does his best to eat the meal. It's good. Warm and filling and not too heavy, but his stomach starts to protest before he is even a third of the way finished. He pushes the rest around his plate, taking smaller and smaller bites.

"Sam."

Sam startles at Dean's voice, looks up feeling guilty.

"It's okay. You're exhausted. Why don't you shower and call it an early night? I can box that up for later."

Relief and gratitude fill Sam's chest, overwhelms the nausea for a few minutes, and he gets his things for a shower. Before he closes the bathroom door, he calls to his brother, "Dean."

"What?" Dean's mouth is full of burger, juice dripping into the napkin on his plate.

"Thanks." He starts to close the door but Dean's voice stops him.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"It's okay if it takes some time. We'll get there."

Sam nods and shuts the door.

After a shower and more food than he has consumed in a long time, Sam is dead on his feet. He falls into bed and feels like he might actually sleep. He listens contentedly to the sounds of Dean cleaning up and lets himself drift.

Dean showers and then Sam feels his weight settle beside him on the bed. He cracks an eye but lets it close when he sees the first aid kit open on his pillow. "What're you doing?" He mumbles, not fighting it when Dean's fingers put pressure on his chin to turn his face toward the light.

"You got any scratches or punctures that need to be disinfected?"

Sam assesses, thinks he got them all when he was in the shower. "Nah, nothing too deep."

He lets Dean turn his arms, check for any damage, then asks, "You?"

"Already cleaned 'em. I'm okay. What about your lungs? Finish hacking up the dust yet?"

"Dean. Gross. My snot is a delightful shade of brown, if that's what you're asking."

Sam can hear the grin in Dean's voice without even opening his eyes, "You know that's what I like to hear, baby." He's quiet for a second, finishes assessing the scattered scrapes on Sam's face. "You still feel sick?"

Sam shifts, sighs a breath, then shrugs, opening his eyes and meeting Dean's gaze. "Stomach's a little upset. Just. I guess. I don't know."

Dean pats his shoulder. "It'll get better Sam. I promise."

He lets Dean's gaze steady him, then admits, "I think I wrenched my ankle."

Dean shakes his head, grin slipping back into place as he moves down the bed, "So out of shape, Sammy-boy." His hisses out a sympathetic breath as he looks at Sam's ankle. "Scraped it up pretty good. How'd this happen?"

"Caught it on a slamming door."

Dean pulls out the peroxide, douses the cuts. "Think it's sprained?" He palpates it gently.

Sam winces, flexes it cautiously. "Maybe just bruised."

Sam lets Dean bandage the cut and tolerates an icepack nestled against his foot. "Maybe it's time we trade your Sketchers in for some real shoes."

Sam narrows his eyes, "Don't touch my shoes, Dean. They can still kick your ass."

Dean smirks, "You think so, Nike-boy? We'll see about that." Dean pats his leg, pushes up into a stretch and then falls into his own bed. "You think you can sleep?"

Sam blinks, eyes scanning Dean's face. "Yeah, I think I can."

Dean smiles. "Wake me up if you need anything." He switches off the light and shifts around getting comfortable.

Clean and warm and comforted, Sam drifts off to the sound of Dean settling in close by.

end.