"Stay right there."
He closed the passenger door and rounded the car, closing his eyes for just a second to gather his thoughts. Sam was drunk like a skunk and okay, he could handle this. His dad was often drunk like that and hell, even he'd been drunk out of his mind a few times, so yes. He could deal with this.
"Alright now, let's get you back to the motel, get you to bed, how's that sound?"
He thought he wouldn't get an answer, but Sam proved him wrong when he groaned.
"You gonna puke?"
They were already at the first crossroad in the town and he turned right.
"'s mmmm'vin', 'low downnnnnhh."
He didn't expect actual words to come from Sam's mouth, so hearing them nearly made him drive right onto the sidewalk.
"Deep breaths Sam."
Sam sounded like misery personified. His voice was a rasp, his breaths deep and not very controlled, his face turned to the passenger window. The right turn he'd just made, made his brother's forehead hit the glass.
"Dude, you okay?"
Yeah, he supposed the glass was nice and cool on his brother's skin; maybe that would get Sam not to throw up.
"We're almost at the motel, just hold on."
"'m gonna throw up."
"No, no, no, no, you won't. Come on," he detached one hand from the steering wheel and placed his palm, fingers spread wide, on Sam's curved back, "keep breathing."
"'s all movin'…" Sam whined and he knew - could sense it in his own belly - that at that moment Sam's stomach made a really big somersault, revolting against all the alcohol in there. He knew how that was; it sucked big time.
"My hand's not moving. Can you feel it? It's not moving, just ... concentrate on that, okay? C'mon, buddy, just a minute more."
Pressing his palm harder on Sam's back, making Sam feel how steady his hand was, how heavy it was, how opposite of all the moving it was, he hoped that it would work. He really didn't want to clean the car come tomorrow, and he was sure that he wouldn't be able to give that task to Sam for at least a couple more days until his stomach would completely settle down. And his Baby couldn't have puke staining her beautiful insides for that long. He was lucky their Dad went on a hunt with Travis and the man's beast of a car and left them the Impala, damn lucky.
"Oh God Dean ..."
Sam was more coherent now than he'd been a few minutes ago and that was - maybe - a good sign. Turning into the motel's parking lot and steering the Impala slowly to room 45, he parked her right in front of the bright yellow door. He didn't need two hands to do that, his Baby obeyed him no problems even if he only had one hand on her. The other one was busy being steady on Sam's back, busy trying to keep Sam from puking all over.
He let out a breath. They were home. He got Sam here and now he just needed to get his brother into the room, get him to bed and tomorrow, he'd tease him mercilessly.
"Let's get you inside, kiddo."
Detaching Sam's forehead from the cool glass was harder than he thought, but a promise of a nice, soft, warm bed got the job done, even if when Sam finally managed to get his head up straight, his body with all his coltish limbs spilled right out of the car. If Dean hadn't been there to catch him, Sam would be a puddle on the ground. Not a nice sight right then, but in the morning, it would've been just another thing to tease Sam about. But Dean was there to catch him and he got a nice hit into his sternum with one of Sam's bony elbows for thanks.
"'kay, 'kay gotcha. Man, you're heavy. Don't look like much, but you're heavy."
They went the same tactic as before; one hand across his shoulder and his fingers in Sam's belt loops. The only difference was that now Sam did his part and moved his legs a little too. The ride must've sobered him up a bit.
He knew the feeling; his Baby sobered him up plenty of times too.
"Gotta unlock the door, hold onto me."
Sam's grip was weak, but it was just strong enough that they didn't face plant into the room when the door opened.
"Whoah, good, I gotcha, the bed's right there."
They stumbled into the room and he maneuvered them both towards Sam's bed that was all neatly done, except for some books lying scattered all over the top of the covers. He sat Sam down on his own bed, while he gathered the books and carried them to the little table in the kitchenette.
When he turned back around, Sam was already lying down on the bed, curled up on his left side, head barely up on the pillow.
Well, okay then. Sam'd just sleep this off and then in the morning, he'd be allowed to do his big brother thing - teasing. Teasing, because otherwise he'd either beat the shit out of Sam for doing something as stupid as getting drunk in a strange town with strangers or, beat himself up for allowing all of this to happen in the first place.
He walked back to their beds and stopped in the open space between them to turn off the bedside lamp that – weirdly - turned on the same time when someone turned on the main light. The motel had some electricity issues that, strange enough, didn't come from ghosts or poltergeists. Just fucked up wiring - said so on a sign behind the motel clerk. In literally those words. Made them all smile when they booked the room.
But now the fucked up wiring came in handy, because he was too tired from worry and anger, to walk back to the front door and turn off the light.
The room didn't fall into darkness; there was dim light spilling in from the parking lot lights, there were cars driving back and forth, their headlights illuminating the ceiling here and there. There were people shouting in the close by rooms, televisions turned on too loud, coughing, sneezing, doors shutting closed. Normal sounds of a normal town. When the room lost its own light and got illuminated by the outside, he didn't go to sleep right away. He sat down on Sam's bed, now sans books, and scratched his hands down his face; needing to get some blood going into his cheeks and eyes. He scrapped his scalp to stop his brain from shutting off; there was clarity of the mind needed here, he couldn't afford to get sleepy or tired.
When the call came, he'd been dozing off on the bed, just getting some shut eye before Sam'd call and ask him to come pick him up. Well, he got a call alright, just not the one he expected. Placing his elbows on his knees, he let his hands fall between his thighs. He couldn't look away from his brother. He knew it was a bit creepy, watching Sam like that, but ... he had to make sure that Sam was really with him. Back with him. The only fear now was, if Sam drank enough for his stomach needing to be pumped. He hoped not. They couldn't afford a hospital visit right now, couldn't afford to get on anyone's radar. But Sam had been somewhat coherent when he spoke and he hadn't thrown up yet, and ... Sam was just really bad at holding his liquor. The kid was only thirteen. Half a beer and he was already wasted.
Sam was drooling into the pillow and that would be one pillow Dean would never lay his head upon again.
"Fuck, Sam..." he muttered into his hands and nearly missed his brother's moan.
"Oh God, ohgodohgodohgodohshit..."
Jumping up from the bed, he leaned over to place his hand on Sam's shoulder. The kid was rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around his stomach, eyes tightly shut.
"Deeeeean ... ohgodohgodohgodohgod."
"What's wrong? Sam? What's wrong?"
Sam's eyes opened and even in the dim light, Dean could see them be full of tears.
Oh. He squeezed Sam's shoulder and winced at Sam's groan. He knew it wasn't directed at him and his touch, but at Sam's stomach that was probably having the time of its life.
"Sammy, I really think you should."
"Don't wanna, Dean, don't wanna ppp-please..."
Sam rocked forward, mumbling the words in the spit soaked pillow and Dean grimaced. Drunk people were fun for a while, but then their bodies caught up and the fun turned into nasty.
"Sam, don't be stupid man. Throw up and you'll feel better, I swear. I promise."
His brother was stubborn, he knew that, but this was a whole new level of stubborn.
"Don't wanna, don't... no... ohgodohgod, Dean..."
But stubborn or not, he knew why Sam didn't want to puke, he knew what that always did to his brother, but damn it, why couldn't the kid just listen to him for once? It was just them here, no one else. There was no one else to see Sam, no one else to hear him, no one to feel embarrassed in front of. Being a teenager with all the mood swings and awkwardness – God it got exhausting sometimes, taking care of his brother.
When Sam's breathing picked up again, getting deep and fast, and when the groans turned into sounds not even a wounded animal could produce, he'd had enough.
"Sam, I swear if you don't throw up, I'll shove my finger down your throat, so help me."
"I know Sammy," he slid his arms under Sam's knees, "but it'll make you feel so much better," picked him up and carried him into the bathroom, "trust me."
Sam was heavy, but it was either carry him or clean the carpet later. It was a no-brainer.
Slowly putting Sam down in front of the toilet, he all but ordered: "Okay now hug the toilet and let's get this show on the road."
It was nearing three am, someone had just flushed the toilet on the other side of the wall when Dean had had enough. He grabbed Sam's head non too gently, one hand holding the back of his brother's head and the other prying the kid's mouth open. There was no going back now, and when Sam's mouth finally opened, he shoved his finger in, grimacing at the wetness and softness of Sam's tongue.
"You bite me, I'll bite back."
He didn't know if Sam heard him, but when he wiggled his finger as deep down as he could in Sam's throat, he was rewarded with a struggling cough and hot, putrid smelling liquid spilling out of Sam's mouth. There was just enough time for him to lean his brother's head forward otherwise it would all get splashed on the toilet seat.
They would never speak of it. Never. Ever. Never.
They used three towels and probably a bucket worth of cold water, but five flushing of the toilet later, Sam was starting to puke only spit and no more chunks of food and what Dean hoped was water, but knew different.
When Sam started shivering, he got him a blanket that'd been thrown over the back of the couch. When Sam was more or less falling asleep, but still puking his guts out, Dean let him lean on his chest and smear puke and spit all over his shirt. That would be a shirt Dean would never ever wear again and he'd need a thorough shower, because he could feel the wetness seep right through the fabric and onto his skin.
When Sam was starting to whine that he couldn't do this anymore, that he had nothing else to give and that he wanted all of this to stop, Dean pulled him closer and started whispering stupid stuff, promises of better days that he followed with a wet towel all over Sam's sweaty, pale face.
"Just get it all out, kiddo. 's just you and me here." he whispered into Sam's ear and held the kid's limp head above the toilet worried that Sam would lose muscle control and split his forehead apart on the toilet's seat.
Dawn was already way into early morning when Sam was more or less a limp sack of bones leaning heavily on his chest, Sam's right elbow poking into his stomach. His brother had been still for a while now, sleeping and snoring softly.
He should've taken Sam to bed some time ago, he knew that, but they'd made a cozy little nest of blankets and towels there on the floor of the bathroom and if he ignored the god awful smell, it was pretty nice. He flushed the toilet one last time - what was it? tenth? - and decided that enough was enough. He was seventeen, sure, but that didn't mean he couldn't get back problems and he was starting to feel his muscles seizing up. It felt nice to have his brother in his arms like that, didn't happen all that often anymore. The kid was growing up, didn't need to be hugged all the time or held hands when crossing the road. His brother didn't need a lot of things from him anymore and he guessed it was the sign of his baby brother growing up. Maybe this was that feeling all parents got when they saw that their kids were growing up. It sucked. Big time.
But he wasn't Sam's parent, he was his big brother. He shouldn't feel like this. He let his head hit the tiled wall behind him and he tightened his grip on Sam's left side, pulling him even close to himself. They were brothers; they'd never lose each other.
"Alright Sam, let's get you to bed." he whispered to the mop of sweaty hair, getting some into his mouth, but it was okay. It was just Sam.
He got his legs under him, sighing a little when his muscles finally got into another position, and raised himself and Sam up from the floor. Training every day, sparring, boxing, some martial arts - it made him strong and he knew that all of that would make Sam strong one day too. His little brother would soon grow into his skin, grow up, get some muscles on those skinny arms, and fill out. He just hoped that when that would happen, he'd still be able to carry him like this. Probably yes, because there would be no way Sam would grow up to be taller than him.