"When You're Feeling Empty"

Mystic25

Summary: Prompt from ohsam's comment fic about a projectile vomiting Sam. Humor with depth, because I can't get Linkin Park out of my head.

Disclaimer: ERIC KRIPKE, ERIC KRIPKE, ERIC KRIPKE. Thank you.

RATING: T for language and violence.

A/N: Oh my—I saw the "teaser snippet" for the Season Premiere, and gahh….I can't wait now! Looks so awesome.

xxxxxxxXxxxxx

"..trust me when I say the things you don't remember, could KILL you, that's no joke."

-"Dean Winchester" "Like a Virgin"

"…l don't want a memory, just a memory."

-"Lyra Silvertongue" The Amber Spyglass

xxxxxxxXxxxxxxx

Sam knew that other things existed about him besides his stomach. The last IQ test he had taken back in Stanford had ranked him somewhere just under Einstein and some physicist at Stanford who was working on a thesis entitled: "String Theory in Practical Application to the Advancement of Teleportation within the Los Angeles Public Transportation System by 2012." So, Sam knew that other things existed – his eyes, hair, face, But, to be fair, all of those things were currently coated in a sheen of sweat because of his stomach; making him shine so much under the suspended halogen lights above him, that he was sure the shine could be measured in watts.

Yeah, so right now he didn't give a flying fuck about being smart. That Physicist was a first class doshbag anyway, and idiot who's idea of "testing his thesis" was to drill a huge crater like hole into the center of the campus roadway and say some "Aliense" over it to "open up" a worm hole into LA. So, his ass was arrested after a massive ten car, and one city bus pile up Sam's sophomore year.

No, Sam didn't want to be smart, or as Dean called him: "a world class Geek Boy." Because, right now, his world had reduced to one single phrase, something so primal and basic:

Do. Not. Vomit.

Out of all the things Sam had had happen to him, including child hood up to his "hunting years incidents," vomiting ranked up there as the top 50. It wasn't a demon attack, or ghost possession, or any of those numerous things he and Dean kept from going bump in the night;

But, sitting in a well lit bar, full of patrons, on a Saturday night, with the contents of his stomach threatening to make an appearance all over his jeans - it was its own form of horror.

Sam wasn't drunk. He had one and a half beers in him, hilariously enough Sam Adams, given to him by a leggy, long haired brunette bartender who looked like she wanted to get in him too. No, Sam wasn't drunk, he started to sing really bad renditions of classic rock covers when he was drunk. Dean had recorded it for him one day after a triple shot of Yeager mixed with Absinthe. Sam hearing his loud, cracking off key rendition of Joe Crocker's "The Letter" coming out of Dean's phone swore him off the hard stuff.

Now, beer on the other hand, beer he could drink like water. So it wasn't the beer that left him feeling like something alive was trying to climb out up through his esophagus.

The word "sick" flew around the warmth that had, up until that point, settled comfortably around him from his choice of beverage.

Of all the idiotic, lame, stupid things, Sam had to go and catch a fucking cold, TWO WEEKS after losing his wall from Castiel's touch. And not even from doing something cool, like stopping heaven from treating them all like dicks, oh no, from simply talking to the hacking 87 year old grandmother of the victim of their latest ghost-kills-for-vengeance cases. Sam had no idea how a cold would be handled on his psyche that now lay like ruins in his skull. But, so far, there had just been the normal things, chest congestion, sore throat, headache, and with Sam, the need to hurl, which happened to him when he got a fever. The fever did bring on its fair share of nightmares, of leaping fire and a demented laughter lurking somewhere in the shadows. But, each time Sam awoke with a gasp that stole his breath, he lied to Dean, telling him that he was dreaming about clowns. Dean, of course, didn't believe a word of it, but Sam laid down and closed his eyes to feign sleep before his brother could counter. But, each time before sleep claimed her hold on him, he could feel his brother weaving fingers through his hair.

Dean had not let him out of his sight since the cold had come on two days ago. Not even when Sam went into the bathroom, or, god help him, to take a freaking shower an hour ago, to wash the layers of sweat off of him. Sam had huffed, crossed his arms, affixed his face to his "bitch face" glare. But, when Dean didn't budge, giving Sam his: "not a chance Sammy" face, Sam had resorted to drastic measures.

Strip the fastest he had done since that night so long ago when Jessica had first invited him up to her dorm room to spend the night. Dean held his ground until Sam, down to nothing but his gray boxer briefs, hooked three fingers under the waistband; eyes on his brother, in a silent threat to remind Dean that he was still his little brother, but he wasn't physically four years old anymore.

Dean finally backed out with a remark of buying him a drink first before the showcase, and how he had twenty minutes, or, clothes or no clothes, he was coming in after him.

Sam had taken the fastest shower he had done since that aforementioned night at Jessica's. (She liked to cuddle, and Sam didn't want to smell like his own semen while he did it.) He was somewhat shaky from the fever, but he dressed again in a clean blue plaid button up shirt, jeans and navy blue jacket. He left the water running in the shower, slid open the frosted over window that overlooked the grimy parking lot, and slid out as carefully as all 6'4" of him would allow. He didn't land as lithe on his feet as he wanted, and he coughed a few times. But, none of these sounds brought out his older brother with his looks of "What the hell Sam?" So, Sam walked the 500 yards to the bar he had seen at the beginning of the exit that led off to a strip of several hotels, and one family restaurant that boasted a motto of: "Fishtastic Family Fun!"

"Another one?"

Sam looked up from the roller coaster ride his stomach was taking, to the dark eyes of the bartender. Her black shirt was low cut enough for her cleavage to be showcased, and she had a lot to showcase, and add that to her smile, it all made her a beauty.

But, Sam shook his head. "I think I reached my limit," he tapped the neck of the brown glass bottle in front of him. This earned him a pouting smile from the bartender, and Sam's eyes did a quick eye roam over her, because she was a looker. He may not be as amorous as Dean about women. But, it wasn't like someone shot off the best part of him, he noticed women too, he had desires towards women.

It was just hard to do when he dealt with going to Hell, coming back, coming back again, THIS TIME with a soul, and having a Wall erected by Death himself, then broken by an angel who he had deemed a friend, a freaking brother, who just promoted himself to God. And, now having to deal with a shit load of repercussions from falling of the said Wall. No, being with women somehow took a back seat with all of that going on.

The woman's pout was still there, but she accepted her defeat. "Just let me know if you need anything hun. I'll be here until we close." The jute box that sat against the wall played a White Snake song adding to the background noise of people laughing, most of them with drunken shrillness.

Sam gave her a smile, and swore he saw her both brighten and melt just a little at the same time. "I'll do that—" he hung on the last word because he didn't know her name.

"April," the bartender finished for him, her smile showing pristine white teeth this time.

"April." Sam repeated. "Thanks-" he broke off when he heard a shrill ring from his pocket.

The first one Sam ignored, than the second.

The phone rang a third time.

April cocked her head at Sam, with a quick curious laugh. "Your phone's ringing sweetheart."

"Yeah," Sam dug out the Blackberry, reading the display.

'D'

Sam heaved a sigh, like he was about to rip out shrapnel from his skin bare handed. He connected the call. "Hey,"

"Don't you DARE 'Hey' me Sammy, where the hell are you? I swear, if you pull this crap on me again, I'm going to tie you to the bed with your intestines!"

Oh the joys of having an older brother who loved you so much that he threatened you with your own disembowelment. "Calm down, I'm fine-"

"Yeah, and I'm freakin' Harry Potter! Dude, you can't just crawl out the freakin bathroom window, and expect me to sit around knitting-"

"D-"

"Sam! Don't, just DON'T!" Dean did not sound happy. He sounded worried, he sounded, pissed. "A name, where are you?"

"Rodeno's"

There was the sound of breaks squelching, then screeching tires as the Impala turned around to a completely opposite cardinal direction then what it had been driving at previously. "That bar at the end of the damn EXIT?"

Yeah Dean was defiantly pissed. Sam had heard that tone from Dean enough times to recognize it. But, he also sounded more worried than pissed, because Sam had done a pretty assed lame move and escaped out the window to drink at a place called: "Rodeno's"

He couldn't tell if Dean sounded more like an angry parent catching their teenager out partying illegally, or a pissed off spouse finding out that he wasn't at the store buying milk after all.

"That's the one," Sam could see April's eyebrows raising at hearing Sam's end of the conversation.

"You risked going through memories of HELL in a puddle of some barfly's piss!-"

No, scratch that, Dean sounded like a pissed off Dean; a singularity unique entity that would never be called by any other label.

"Dean, I said I'm okay-"

From the corner of his eye Sam could see the sudden huge arching of April's eyebrows at the mention of Dean's name. It finally dawned on him that all this time he sounded like he was talking to a girlfriend or spouse. Now, he could see the gears in April's head whirr in a totally unthought-of of direction.

But, he didn't have time to give her the:"He's my brother" speech. Not when it sounded like Dean was doing 250 when the Impala's speedometer didn't go above 170.

"Dude, you're going to have an aneurysm if you don't calm down!" Sam didn't realize that he was yelling into the phone until he saw several people raise their heads from their drunken stupors to stare at him.

Sam turned away from the bar and lowered his voice. "Dean, I swear, if you wreck trying to get back over to me, I'm going to come through this phone and beat your ass-"

"I'll be there in 15 minutes Sam, don't you freakin' MOVE, you understand me?"

"You're not my mother Dean!" Sam snapped.

"You got that right Sammy." Dean growled into the phone. "You know what I am to you, so you'll know what I'll do." those words did not spell 'brother' or 'oldest' They spelled so much more.

And, Sam heard that spelling loud and clear. "I'm not going anywhere -" he looked around at all the curious stares all watching him. But, he still didn't it let it all deter him from his last line. "Just, be careful coming back, alright?"

" I'll be there in FIFTEEN minutes Sam," Dean repeated, and ended the call.

Sam laid the Blackberry down beside his beer bottle, meeting the "look" still planted on April's face.

April, for her part, at least had the decency to look uncomfortable at hearting the one side of Sam and Dean's argument. She polished a clean spot on the bar with her white rag, before flipping it over her shoulder.

She then proceeded to take a load of empty liquor bottles to the recycling bin. Then she started polishing all the beer pilsner glasses that hung over the bar, at least all the ones above Sam's head. She kept up this act of pretending she had work to do just near Sam, until she was finally brave enough to talk.

She cleared her throat. "So, ah, Dean's-"

"He'll get over it," Sam cut in, twirling the beer bottle in his hand.

Sam had yet to confirm or deny the status of he and Dean's relationship, leaving April to skirt around the ideas in her head like they were a closely packed group of barstools that she was trying to weave around.

"He sounded concerned," April was met with a patented Sam Winchester look, the puppy dog eyes with the battle worn ending. "I mean- how you were talking to him. He-" she had to clear her throat, she felt like she was trying to step out on a fissuring glacier. "Both of you – you obviously care about each other."

Sam laughed dry as desert sand. "You don't know the half of it." He took a hit from the beer bottle swallowing several warm mouthfuls before returning it to the bar top. He coughed in his hand, bringing up some of the beer and yellow tingled phlegm.

April reached under the black wood bar and a second later a stack of napkins hovered in front of Sam's face. "Maybe not. But, I know a nasty sounding cough when I hear one." She watched as Sam accepted her gesture by talking one of the brown napkins from her, and coughing loudly into it.

The act of coughing made the nausea jump like a trained seal in Sam's throat, he had to swallow away the vomit before it had time to fully come up.

"Hey! Take your TB infested ass outta here!" A man in a dark denim jacket shouted this leer from the end of the bar where cigarette smoke had settled around the air like a fog.

Sam coughed once more, a barking, hacking cough, breathing out a low, but still audible: "Go to hell."

The man's eyes turned feral. "What did you say shit face?"

"Don't act like you didn't hear me," Sam was too nauseous to deal with this crap. He watched as the man came out of the nicotine fog and approached him. Sam countered this by standing up from the barstool to his full, 6'4" height, so that he was able to look down at the man five inches shorter than him.

"Yeah I heard you," the man was so close to Sam's face that he could smell the heavy tang of Jack Daniels on his breath. "Heard every pansy ass inch of your high and tight voice too, talking all that lube talk to your scank on the other end of the line." The man may have been five inches shorter than Sam; nut he made up for it in sanctimonious attitude. "I just wanted to make sure you like hearing the sounds of your own bones breaking," he threw back his fist to hit Sam with what would have been a brutal uppercut jab to the jaw had Sam not blocked it with his own hand, grabbing at the shorter man's fist like he was palming a baseball.

Sam applied heavy, bone crushing pressure to the man's fist. It was partially because the man had just taken a swing at him, and his natural instinct to protect himself kicked in. But, it more because of the way the idiot had basically just called his brother a whore. He spun the other man around, locking his arm behind his back, elbow bent up almost backwards.

Sam leaned down so close to the man's ear that he blew hot, billowing air into it with each of his next words. "Just because I'm not homophobic doesn't mean I won't kick your ass!"

Despite the vise grip Sam had on his arm, the denim clad man still had a snarl on his lips, trying to look up at Sam over his shoulder. "You talk a lot of smack for a cheap ass bitch-"

There was a heavy sound of a cocking gun.

April stood at the bar, a double barreled sawed off shot gun in her hands."The only cheap ass bitch here is you dude. So how about you back up off this guy before I shoot lead up you where lead shouldn't go." She kept the gun under the bar for just such occasions as this. Her aimed was accurate, calculated. She had handled a gun before that night, and everything about her poise and stance with it, showed that she only missed if she wanted too.

The man laughed, a leering, snide filled laugh like oil snaking its way down a clean patch of land. "Doll Face, it's the gargantuan Moose here that's got me up for rape. So how about you just drop your pretty little Lady Pistol-"

Another gun cocked, a quieter sound, but still heavy, demanding , the maw of a pistol pressed against the short man's temple.

Dean stood on the other end of that gun, his hand poised on the trigger on the pearl handle of the Colt. "You heard her. And you heard my brother. So I suggest you listen or the next sound you're gonna hear is your brains hitting the wall behind you."

Between Dean's cocked gun, April's cocked shot gun, and Sam's bone breaking grip on his arm, the man finally started to heave a pent up fury like a trapped animal. But, as hot headed and idiotic that he was, he recognized when he was outnumbered.

"Call off you're "brother" Clint Eastwood," The man hissed in a growl. "And let me walk away."

Dean looked over at Sam, seeing how hard, how fierce his grip on the man's arm was. Like he would break his bone if he applied just the slightest increase in pressure. Sam was a big softie, a guy who cuddled fury woodland creatures and got to know women, even before one night stands. But Sam was also 6'4", 200 pounds of raw muscle when he was pissed, and Dean knew that his brother wasn't about to have a puppy dog "let's talk about your feelings" moment with this asshole.

"Sam, let him go."

Sam applied harder pressure, causing the man to hiss in a scream before pitching him forward like a sack of rancid meat bound for an incinerator.

The man whirled on Sam, cradling his bruising, torqued arm against him. "You always let your bitch fight your battles for you?-"

Sam lunged at the man like leaping pit bull going for the jugular. He was only stopped from his attack by Dean pushing him back with both hands on his shoulders.

"Sam! Sammy! Let him go!" Dean had to push hard to keep Sam from moving. His brother had over 50 pounds of solid muscle on him, and apparently being sick and having a fractured Hell Blocking Wall hadn't deluded that one bit. Dean felt like he was pushing against a moving freight train.

"Yeah Sammy," the other man's pronunciation of Sam's name was a like a filthy sewer. "Let me go, act like the woman that your whore here knows you are-"

"You shut your mouth you filthy demented asshole!" Sam's rage was in every single one of those words, burning like acid.

Dean pushed harder this time on Sam, almost crushing his brother's sternum with the force he was using. "I said back off Sammy!"

"I gotta say, you picked a smart whore, Sammy-" the denim man snarled this retort, his lips practically waving under his dirty words.

Dean whirled on him, one hand was on Sam's chest to hold him off, but Dean's eyes were like Death."You say my brother's name like that one more time you cretin, pus filled dick, and me and him are going to each pick a side of you to rip apart!"

The man pursed his lips, like he was actually debating the validity of Dean's threat. "Fine," This time his 'fine' had some credence to it, at least a tiny bit that made him sound less like a scum sucking, asshole, for at least those few seconds. "You tell your bitch there to back off," the man blew rancid, beer and Rot Gut smelling breath in Dean's face."And I won't have to beat down his limp little ass-" he eyed Dean long, slow and leering. "Or get all in yours-"

Sam threw Dean's arm off his chest like it was a piece of paper thrown against him in a wind. He charged at the man, with all the combined forces that made ghosts and monsters give just a flash of fear in their inhuman eyes before Sam took them out.

"Sam!" Dean's hold came up with nothing but air as Sam was now toe to toe with the other man.

Sam opened his mouth, and Dean thought his brother was going to curse the other man out, or take a deep breath in preparation for a crushing hook to a body part that would've left it both bleeding and dislocated.

But, instead, there was a stomach twisting, ear ringing sound as Sam threw himself forward and vomited all over down the front of the man's shirt.

The man jumped back like he had been electrocuted. "What the FUCK?" He made disgusted noises in the back of his throat, and wiped at the huge, smelling stain on his shirt. The noises turned into a low, menacing growl. "What the fuck is that you ragged ass-"

The ringing sound of bone on bone tore through the bar as Sam's left fist connected solidly with the other man's temple. The blow threw the man flat on his back onto the floor, right into a warm sticky puddle of Sam's vomit, eyes closed, knocked unconscious by Sam's blow.

"Talking time is over asshole." Sam's growl was low, angry.

"Okay Sammy, " Dean placed a hand on his sibling's shoulder, to pull him away from the man's prone form. "Feel better now?"

Sam turned in the direction of Dean's touch, and there was something in his eyes that made Dean say:

"What?" Dean didn't like the look he saw. "Sam?" He watched Sam suck in a painful breath, like he was gasping for air that had suddenly been stolen from his lungs by a large, menacing hand. "Sam!"

Dean grabbed his brother's shoulder when he started to pitch forward, but Sam didn't fall, instead, he threw up again. This time all over Dean, and his jeans. Dean didn't even waste one minute to be disgusted because the next second Sam was pitching forward for real.

"Whoa, hey man, easy, easy-" Dean lowered his brother's massive bulk to the floor. Or rather he cushioned the landing as Sam fell on his own.

Dean ended up on his knees, his jeans slick with his brother's warm vomit, arm around Sam's shoulder. "Had a little too much adrenaline their kid," Dean tried for banter, but when Sam's head lolled forward, the joking fell away. "Sammy! Hey! Stay awake, you hear me? Stay with me!"

"Dean," Sam felt like he was losing it, shapes were beginning to blur into shadows and grays, noises in the bar were becoming fainter. But other noises, louder scrapping ones were becoming audible. But, he latched onto Dean's voice like it was a calling and the end of a long dark tunnel. "Why would I want to sleep in my vomit?"

Sam's attempt a dry humor, lying on the floor of a bar, basically in his brother's arms.

"Yeah, and that's why you're a little premadonna, bitch," Dean's voice held no humor. But, he tried, for Sam's sake, and his own. "Keep your eyes on me Sam, okay? Watch me."

Sam tried to watch Dean, he tried, even with all the other noises he heard around him, screams, cries, and was that April saying something about hospitals, and 911? And Dean's angry bark of 'No one is calling 911 damnit! I got this!" But, underneath the anger all Sam could hear in his brother's voice, was fear.

"Sam!" Dean's fist shaking a section of his shirt snapped Sam more into consciousness. But, not by much. "Come on damnit-"

"Dean-" Damn his voice sounded pathetic, not at all like the growl he had used to take out 'mouth shooting off dick man'.

"I'm here man," Dean's voice was all fear now, Sam could hear it beneath everything he threw up in front of it as a shield. Dean wasn't afraid of the damn cold Sam had. It was just a cold. But Sam's psyche was a ruined waste land, it was shredded paper that could be torn apart at the slightest thing.

He was scared that this is how it would end. In some dirty little bar off the interstate, no redemptions, no one to give a crap at Dean Winchester holding his baby brother in this mess. His baby brother – Sam Winchester, who had gone to hell save the whole goddamn world, and the whole goddamn world didn't want to save him.

"Dean," Sam was scared too, that this fucking cold had broken his shards into dust fragments, into something worse than nothing. Something where he wouldn't die. But, he wouldn't live, where he would be trapped forever from the world.

"Dean-" Sam could feel the tremors travel through him, he could feel a seizure coming on. Sam was never epileptic, so he knew where these seizures were coming from. Oh god. His eyes were so frantic trying to find his brother. "I'm cold-"

He heard a rustling, then something was draped over his body, something that smelled like whiskey, and gunpowder, and orange mechanic's soap. "I gotcha Sammy."

Dean's jacket, over his body, it felt warm, it felt like comfort.

Sam wanted to say thanks, to make some sort of off handed joke to take away all this fear. But, his grip on the world was dissipating, and all he could say was the one thing that he was forcing to get out: "Dean, I -"

"Shut up Sam!" Dean's words were too hurt to be angry. He knew what the rest of Sam's word were going to be. "You don't get to say that, you understand!" Dean's fingers were pressed hard into Sam's chest, gripping and rubbing in some thrown together medical aide he invented. But, more to be touching Sam.

Sam beat one fist angrily to his side, his eyes glared up at his brother, watching his eyes, a brown he had learned the color of before anything else. "Dean-" he tried to get the words out again. Something wet and hot – a tear- rushed down his face. He didn't know what was going to happen, he didn't want to leave, because Dean was there, arm around him. This was his life, rundown, and broken but his.

The last thing Sam heard before he was overcome with convulsions before being thrown into blackness, was Dean screaming his name.

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Screaming, an unearthly heat, an evil laughter.

Rivers of blood. Flesh being torn off, being used to tie his hands down with.

More screaming, so much more. Then:

"Are they cuddling?" a teen's voice.

"Go to hell!" a voice deep with whiskey.

"Kenny get out of here!" April's voice.

Something broke, a glass maybe.

Eyes became unglued, slowly, like peeling paint in humid air.

"Sammy?"

Something shifted underneath Sam, then his eyes came open fully.

He was lying on a sofa, it smelled like mold and was made of lime green peeling leather. His feet were hanging off the end, obviously the couch was under six feet.

"Dean?" Sam's senses became confused. He could hear Dean, he just couldn't see him.

"Behind you Sasquatch."

Sam turned, or half turned, on the narrow sofa, and saw his brother sitting back against the cushions of the lime green sofa, Sam's back and shoulders pressed up against his. Sam also felt his brother's legs entangled up with his down the sofa cushions.

"Dean-" Sam's voice felt like gritty sand paper, and tasted like rust. He wiped at his lip, and his eyes widened at the sight of old coppery colored blood.

"You bit into your lips during you're seizure," Dean's voice was gravely. April there had a belt, but she didn't get to it in time before you did some damage," Dean's fingers traced the blood on Sam's lip that had congealed there.

Sam blinked at the contact, feeling the warmth from Dean's fingers. He found April staring at them from across the room. She was still wearing her black bar outfit. And Sam could hear the sounds of rock music coming from a wooden door ten feet in front of him.

They were in a back room of Rodeno's. One made of old weathered clap boards, and filled with street signs tacked to the walls, one broken pool table, and this green sofa.

Sam watched April watching him and Dean. She still had that look on her face, like she didn't know what they meant to each other. But, she also looked like she was starting to find out. And, it wasn't what she thought it was, but it also wasn't what she suspected it was either.

"Did you buy me a drink first?" Sam's retort was so dry it almost didn't come out. But, Dean obviously heard it, because there was a shoving motion.

"Shut up bitch," the shoving motion increased, and Sam found himself being lowered roughly, but at the same time gently onto the cushions of the couch.

Dean stood above him. He looked terrible, his eyes were red rimmed, his knuckles were raw, like he had punched a wall or two, or four. And he was holding half an empty bottle of Jack in his hands.

His brother basically looked how Sam felt.

"You look like shit." Sam told him.

"Back at you." Dean took another hit from the bottle. He offered it out to Sam.

Sam shook his head. "How long was I out?"

"About two hours," Dean's voice sounded like it had gone through a fight, it was weary and worried and exhausted all in a single tone.

April came over with a glass of water moment later. "Here hun," she held it out to Sam, a look of worry creasing her forehead. She looked to be only a few years younger than Sam, but she held the concerned look of someone much, much older. Someone used to caring for someone else.

Sam sat up from the sofa, wincing as he did so. His muscles had knots upon knots; he felt like he bad bare knuckle boxed the entire population of the bar. His hand shook the glass of water.

A moment later he felt Dean's hand gripping the other side of the glass, his fingers brushing the tips of his brother's and a hand slid his back. "Slow sips Sam, we don't want it making a reappearance."

Sam drank three mouthfuls, then pushed the glass away. "Thanks." His eyes met Dean's, and they held that look before Sam blinked it away with a hacking cough.

In the midst of hell memories, and bar fights, Sam had actually forgotten that he had a cold.

Dean pounded his back until the cough settled. "You good?" He handed the glass off to April when she held out her hand for it.

Sam nodded, but he coughed again, louder and wetter, coughing up sticky phlegm into his hand. "Awesome." He stared in disgust at the gross, snotty mess streaked across his palm, having nowhere to wipe it because he felt too exhausted to stand up. And, he had had tons of various body fluids on himself over his years as a hunter with his brother. But, he was not about to purposely wipe snot on himself.

Dean saw Sam's internal dilemma. He dipped a handful of brown napkins into the water glass that April had set on the red felt topped pool table, leaving the bottle of Jack there.

He crouched down next to Sam, and took his dirty hand, wiping down the fingers with a gesture that had come from years of practice. "You're 28 dude; I can't believe you still got me doing this."

"You took the initiative," Sam countered, swallowing the burning feeling in his throat, from the cold, and from the after effects of stomach acid that had burned its way up his esophagus when he had vomited.

"You slimed all over yourself Sam, and it's not like you're wobbly moose legs could exactly handle sitting up right now."

Sam sat still while Dean cleaned off his hand, feeling like that time when he was 6 and had tried cotton candy for the first time at a school fair in Ohio. His hands had been stained a neon blue from the sugar's dye, and Dean went through a whole roll of paper towels "unstickifying" Sam's filthy hands. Sam had eaten a huge ball of the blue fluff himself, and had the worst stomach ache all night. He had thrown up on Dean then too.

Sam could smell the dried vomit on Dean's jeans, he could see it too, a tan splattered stain on the denim.

"Sorry, about sharing my lunch with you, dude." Sam apologized. If Sam didn't still feel like shitted on shit, he would've felt more embarrassment about this whole situation.

"Don't worry about it," Dean had stopped wiping off Sam's hand, and used the reversed, clean side of the damn napkin to blot the side of Sam's neck. "At least it's on me, and out of you right?" Dean offered Sam his 'half look with an almost smile' The kind of thing he did when he was hovering a statement between being upset and making a joke.

Dean hovered the napkin over Sam's lip. "You want me to keep up the 'Florence Nightingale treating the forlorn and sick thing' or are you gonna do it like a big boy?"

"Give me the damn napkin asshole," Sam retorted, snatching it from Dean and wiping the blood off his lip.

Dean smiled a small amused smile, that pushed itself up from his pain. "I heart you Sammy."

"I'll bet you do," Sam's remark was almost like a knee jerk response. Bantering with Dean was the same as talking.

"I've got to be getting back," April's voice broke into the air. She had her hands in the pockets black bar apron around her waist. "Rodger Millgian, he's the sherriff. He arrested that jack ass who started the fight. But, he wants to take a statement from me about what happened. But, I told him I was helping out the 'victim' " She looked at Sam apologetically when she said this. Even down on his back, soaked in sweat and weakened from seizures and fever – one wouldn't just look at the 6'4" stacked like a brick house form of Sam Winchester and think: "victim."

Dean looked over his shoulder approvingly at the woman. "You got a dead on aim."

April actually smiled at bit at Dean's words. She wasn't one of those 'gun happy' people, but she was proud of her ability to defend herself. "Took shooting classes after I was mugged from work two years ago. Only had to fire that rifle twice. But both times, those guys didn't darken the light of this bar again." She looked from Sam to Dean, like she was daring these men to question the authority of a woman.

Neither one of them did.

April's respect for these went up a degree higher. "My dad owns the bar. Stay as long as you need too okay?" She eyed the form of "Kenny" Her 16-year-old brother, skinny kid, with ear length black hair, dressed in a Three Days Grace concert tee and ripped jeans. Who looked like he wanted to protest, because he hung out in this room at night with his friends.

"Kenny!" April voice snapped Kenny out from his staring of Sam and Dean. He looked like he was three seconds away from 'defending territory' "These guys are gonna hang here for a while. Give them whatever they want okay, including privacy." Despite her harsh words she took a moment to rough up her brother's hair when he passed her. He ducked in embarrassment, but she still smiled at him.

Sam watched this exchange, feeling Dean watching it as well from his crouched position. There had been such a long time of them both worrying about Sam's Wall coming down, doing all they can to keep it erect. But, now the wall lay in ruins around Sam. Letting him into memories of such agony that he could even describe it in words.

They never had time to 'just be'. To be brothers, to goof around like April and Kenny. With the wall demolished, Sam had no idea how long he would even be around. And, this didn't feel like any of the other times when he 'died' (other times, damn, their lives were weird).

Because they were supposed to be done, Sam and Dean, done with heaven and hell, and losing each other. They were just supposed to hunt things, and ride around in the Impala, and drive each other insane, leaving behind candy wrappers, and insults, and echoing banter.

It wasn't supposed to be Sam as a basket case, a breath away from seizures, and hell torture leaving Dean to scream for him, and beg for each time to not be 'that time.'

They were supposed to be together. Not just Sam leaving behind a trail of memories, of rare laughter, stupid jokes, and Dean being able to watch him sleep for one more night.

Dean didn't want to just have memories of Sam to leave behind for him to miss. Memories weren't anything, not when the living breathing thing was all you ever wanted.

"April-" Sam's voice made Dean's head turn to him, catching sight of the thin kid as he did so.

Sam was no Kenny, not anymore. He had stopped being the 'kid brother' a long time ago. Dean didn't know what Sam was, but it went all the way down to the marrow.

April turned to face Sam.

"Thanks," Sam told the woman he had just met that afternoon. She had gotten the back of a complete stranger, a stranger who had beaten someone up in her father's bar. If Sam knew nothing else about her, that would be enough.

"You're welcome." April didn't smile. Her words said it all. She flipped the apron up on her waist by the pockets, a habit of hers, because she was a tactile person, she had to be touching something. "Yell if you need anything okay?" She turned and left, pushing through the wooden door.

Dean watched her retreating, well portioned figure leave, before turning back to his brother. "Now that the lady and the civilian are gone, the truth, how do you really feel?"

"Like I remember Hell," Sam told him. That one phrase held a meaning so deep and painful. "Like I'm back in the Cage with Michael and Lucifer-" Sam's eyes rose to meet his brother's, and that pain was a hole where his pupils should be. "The things they did, Dean-" Sam shifted his eyes up, fighting to keep what wanted to fall from them away. "I could go outside and get run over by a truck, and it wouldn't hurt like this," the tiniest of laughs escaped Sam. He balled a fist and pressed it into his sternum to the place where he felt an ache so deep it was endless.

Dean had no words, he only had his aching gaze, and his brother's pain. Nothing to give but an encompassment of hurt. "Sam-"

"When you got back from Hell Dean, you wished you couldn't feel anything – I wish I could feel something, anything -" He breathed in a heavy hitch of a breath. "Anything but this." His eyes lowered back down, back to Dean. And his second tear finally fell, hard and angry, and more painful than a person or a world should know.

Another tear fell, then another; Sam's shoulders shook.

"Hey," Dean placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, feeling the shaking, feeling the pain that shook it. "We'll beat this Sam alright?"

Sam's shoulders shook with a sob before he managed to get it back under control. That one noise drew Dean's hand to the back of his neck, and he pulled Sam over to him in one huge movement.

Then there was the sensation of Sam's arms locking across his back, then the pins and needles sensation of a lack of circulation to his legs as Dean took on his brother's massive weight. Then a second sob, not even trying to be controlled, and it made Dean forget his legs, forget everything else but Sam.

No matter where they found themselves, what they hunted, where they ate, fought, and bled – it always ended with Dean and Sam holding to each other; something as intrinsic as a heartbeat.

"We'll beat this," Dean's repletion of his words was rough, raw and aching. But he said them again, to give them power when he felt one. When he felt no way to help his brother.

He felt Sam nod once against his shoulder, remaining there for long moments, seeking comfort that only Dean could give.

Sam then pull back, scrubbing away at the tears with the heel of his hand. "God, man you smell like vomit."

"I wonder why Projectile Boy," Dean threw back, taking Sam's silent plea to change the subject to something that wouldn't reek of Hell. "I get why you horked all over that asshole in there, but me? You owe me two pairs of jeans for this dude."

"Just go chase after April, I'm sure she has an extra pair in her closet you could wear-"

"Shut up Sammy," Dean snapped, but there wasn't any anger to his words. He knew that Sam would have to live with these memories for a long time. If they even had a shot of normal, everyday bantering, Dean would take it.

The door at the other end of the room opened with a heavy sound. Kenny stepped back inside, but slowly, eyeing the two men who were also eyeing him. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Oh yeah," Dean gestured between himself and Sam. "Sam here and I decided, 'screw being brothers, we're going to make out.'" he fixed his eyes on Kenny, and squinted a patented Dean Winchester 'look' at the kid.

Kenny stood there, in the most awkward of silences.

"Dean, I already threw up twice today," Sam said in disgust at his brother's comments of incest.

Okaaay. Kenny still wasn't sure what to make of these two guys. So, he shut off trying to avoid toxic melt down, and held out what was in his hand. "April wanted you guys to have these on the house." He held out a six pack of bottles of Red Irish lager. "She also told me if either of you caught me drinking any of this she wants you to tell her so she can-," Kenny paused like he was searing for the words. "make sure I'll sing the best soprano ever in a church choir. She very liberal with working that stick high up her ass."

Sam couldn't help but smile at this. April sounded a lot like Dean. Sam heaved himself off the couch, feeling and hearing his muscles scream in protest. He had no idea how long he had seized in those two hours, but it must've been a long while, because he felt like something trampled upon by elephants. Dean, was right by his back, and Sam felt the pressure of Dean's hand there, as his older brother hovered.

"I think she's just looking out for you man." Sam took a shuffling step forward, stretching out his muscles. He stepped over to Kenny, and pulled out two of the bottles. "It's not always a bad thing." He tossed one of the bottles to Dean, who caught it, as a look passed between brothers. Neither one of them drank the beers, but they weren't about to turn down hospitality, not from a woman who had stuck her neck out for them to extreme measures.

"Dude, she's so over protective, it's fucking insane!" Kenny argued. "It's like she thinks I'm going to get sucked down toilet every time I go to take a piss! She's got issues!"

"She cares Kenny," Sam's voice had an edge to it. He remembered being Kenny, wanting to break free from his older brother, not understanding just how important that brother was. "She cares about you, you moron! That's worth something, believe me! It's worth everything!" Another look from Sam to Dean, this one resonated for a long, long time.

"When you drop off this place kid, she's the reason you'll be missed. She's your memory Kenny."

Sam didn't want to be just someone's memory, just Dean's memory. Memories were poor carbon imitations, holograms of what was once solid, what you once felt, warm and alive, in your hands.

Sam wanted to stay a link, a living, breathing, FUNCTIONAL link to his brother.

That's what scared him the most, severing that bond and becoming a drooling mess, a ghost in Dean's mind, haunting him, never being able to truly reach him again.

Sam took the rest of the beer from Kenny, and the kid relinquished it without a word of protest. He tucked it up under his arm and walked it back over to where Dean stood. "Think I'm good to head back."

Dean eyed Sam like he was about to pass out or, seize or both. "You sure? You might be better laying low here Sam."

"Dean I need a shower, and Tylenol." Sam protested. "And I need to burn these clothes."

"No protest on either accounts Sammy." Dean watched Sam's 'bitch face' slide onto his face. "You smell like a barn."

"Man, I'm sorry I stood up for your ass," Sam said.

"Yeah, I know you are." Dean shrugged into a smile, the same one he used when he got the meaning of Sam's words behind Sam's words. He clapped a hand on Sam's right shoulder. "Come on Stinky Cheese Man, bath time."

Kenny watched them leave, not understanding their complex relationship. But, after seeing it up close, suddenly wanting to.

Dean steered Sam to the door of the back room, and Sam actually didn't protest, walking back out into the noise of the bar, and the jute box, turned off. Instead, a wifi satellite radio played a different song this time, a new cover release for a hard rock band.

The contact between the two was felt by both of them, that intrinsic need to not be separated amplified because of how many times they already had. The love, family 'whatever this is between us' Dean had called it once, couldn't live on memories. Memories were empty to such a bond, like feeding a fire with drops of water.

Dean had stopped steering Sam, but Sam placed a brief hand on his brother's shoulder, and his: "Thank you." didn't carry over all the din, but it did carry to Dean.

Sam didn't say "thanks man." or "thanks Dean." He said "thank you" in that way he only ever did when he was really truly hurt, and Dean had done his damndest to fix it, even if it didn't work.

Dean's look was two parts painful, and one part sad. The Wall had been held up so flimsily before, stick and dab and duct tape to block out Satan and hell and torture in an Ancient Cage. Now it was gone completely, and Dean had no idea what would happen as a result, how much longer Sam could exist in tattered tortured fragments.

They made their way through people, through April asking concerned questions, and back out to where Dean parked the Impala in between a light pole and a dumpster – the only spot that Dean could squeeze her in. The sky overhead was cloudy and had the smell of an impending storm.

"Sam-"

If Sam didn't exist, then Dean couldn't either.

Sam was on the passenger side of the car, and their eyes met over the roof. "Dean-"

Their names said all the things they dared not say aloud, for fear it would come true, like a demented wish not wanting to be made, but granted just the same just because it was thought about.

Sam breathed, thick and heavy, and tired. He climbed into the car.

Dean followed suit, watching his brother settle into his familiar spot, watching with eyes that suddenly burned.

When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed

Dean touched Sam's shoulder, no sarcastic remarks, no need to check for injury. No other reason than he could.

Sam breathed again, and cleared his throat with a loud echoing sound, sighing like it hurt, because it did. Because this it felt like being home,

Home, home for Sam wasn't a brick thing sitting on some lawn with a fence and a dog, hotel rooms, or even the Impala. Home for Sam was Dean.

And this,

This felt like coming back home, and then being told he had to leave, and that he could never come back, not even to see it one last time, to only have a memory of it.

And don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest,

The Impala engine came on. Sam waited with such tense rigidity for another seizure that his muscles felt locked.

Dean turned to him in the darkness of the car. He reached out and cuffed Sam's bicep, but his hand stayed locked on his arm when he felt out tight it was, how the shiver traveled up Sam's arm from being sick, from exhaustion, from everything he was forced to carry around like a burden.

"Me too Sammy." The words that Sam couldn't say earlier, because Dean refused to let him. Because they didn't say that. Dean still didn't speak the words; but he meant what he couldn't say.

And Sam knew he did, and he let himself relax, if just for a moment, because life was measured in incremental moments such as these. The ones you wished would never become memories, because you wished that they would never stop existing at all.

leave out all the rest.

xxxxxxXxxxxx

End.

And there's my answer to the comment fic. Vomiting Sam with enough depth to drown in. I really didn't know how exactly to end it. It could go on and on, because it's an ongoing thing with Sam and Dean, this type of pain, this need to exist and not just remember existing.

So hopefully, it worked out. The lyrics at the end are: "Leave Out All The Rest" by Linkin Park.

R/R please.

Peace

Mystic.