Dean's really enjoying his holiday ... maybe just a little too much!
Jolting awake, Sam blinked wetly through the dusky moonlight. He rolled over, glancing at the clock; 4.00 am.
Arching into as stretch, he wasn't sure what had woken him from such a deep and dreamy sleep, until he heard a sound. A sound which wasn't right.
Against a backdrop of quiet shuffling of bedclothes, the hum of the a/c and Bobby's snores, he heard it again.
He sat up, rubbing the heel of his hand across his tired eyes, and squinted across the dark room to the sofabed, seeing the lump beneath the bedclothes shift uncomfortably, giving another pained groan which turned into a gasp.
"Dean?" He whispered, glancing across at Bobby to see if he had heard ithe sound. A stuttering snore rose from the older man's bed. Obviously not.
As his eyes gradually adapted to the darkness, he could clearly see the quilt over the sofabed tremble.
Hopping blearily out of bed, Sam was across the room in two strides.
"Dean, you okay man?" He crouched down, and folded the bedclothes back down off Dean's face.
He got a shake of the head for his trouble.
"Sammy …" Dean ground out between clenched teeth; "oh, God, Sammy …"
Sam ghosted a hand across Dean's forehead, sucking in a sharp breath at how clammy and cold it felt.
"What is it Dean, you sick?"
He was rewarded with a weak nod.
"M'guts Sammy. O-on fire."
Dean rolled over onto his side, curling in on himself, and let out a choking grunt.
"Something you ate?" Sam asked quietly, carding his fingers through Dean's sweat-dampened hair.
"Mus' be…" Dean gasped in reply.
Sam gently eased Dean onto his back, slipping his hand under his crossed arms where they tightly hugged his midriff, and immediately felt his brother's rigidly distended abdomen through his damp T shirt.
"What did you eat yesterday?" he asked, trying to glean some idea of Dean's condition.
Dean took a long shuddering breath.
"Breakfast," he mumbled, voice muffled as he turned his head, smooshing his face hard into the rumpled pillow.
"Yeah, I remember that," Sam replied, gently kneading Dean's fractious belly.
"Th-then an ice-cream, cho-chocolate I think,"
"Then I wen' and met Leylaani."
Sam nodded, waiting patiently as Dean let out a panting gasp and drew his knees up to his chest.
"We ha-had some olives and - uh - breadsticks, then a prawn cocktail."
Sam nodded again.
"Th-then swordfish with salad and I had …" he paused for a moment, taking a deep panting breath, " … a side of fries."
Sam watched his brother through the hazy moonlight, feeling the cool, fragrant breath of the breeze through the open window across his shoulders.
"An, I think I had a couple of beers."
"Uh-huh," Sam's eyebrows started a slow march upwards.
"An' ... an' then we had a fruit salad afterwards, then I tried the strawberry gateau."
He paused in thought for a moment, brows knotted in pained concentration, "then I came back here."
Sam continued to stare.
"You had all that fruit off the evening buffet," he reminded Dean.
Dean nodded pitifully.
"Then I g-got peckish later and got a burger and fries from the diner."
"Oh, an' another ice-cream - a strawberry one."
Sam's jaw began to drop.
"Then I couldn't resist; I had some more of those peaches from the buffet."
"How many?" Sam asked hesitantly, "one, two?"
"Six," croaked Dean; "with cream."
Sam's hand moved from rubbing Dean's forehead to rubbing his own in pained exasperation.
Dean stared wide-eyed through the darkness at Sam; "so not that much, really!"
Now it was Sam's turn to groan.
Dean's pallid face glistened with a cold sweat as another cramp ripped through his belly, He rolled onto his side again, curling up around Sam's flat palm still resting across his midriff.
"Sick Sammy," he moaned quietly.
"I can see that," Sam replied dryly.
He turned on hearing a sound behind him, to see Bobby sitting up in bed, yawning.
"Whassup?" He grunted, barely awake.
"Dean's sick," Sam replied economically, his spare hand returning to Dean's forehead.
Both brothers were stunned into mute shock at the speed at which Bobby leapt out of bed, moreso when he lost his footing in the discarded bedclothes landing in a sprawling faceplant across the floor.
"What's wrong?" he gasped, clambering to his knees; "he breathin' okay? No chest pain?"
Dean uncurled slightly, looking quizzically at the older man; "no, guts ache!"
Bobby sighed with relief; "oh good."
Dean's brows twitched, unknotting briefly, "good?"
Shaking his head, Bobby cleared his throat, "sorry, I mean, good that it's not anything - uh - more serious."
He tried to change the subject; "what did you eat?" he asked, eyes full of concern for the obviously distressed figure lying before him.
"Easier to ask what he didn't eat," replied Sam with a cocked eyebrow, threading his long fingers through Dean's soaked fringe.
Dean jacknifed inward, gasping loudly when another cramp ripped through his stomach, crushing sam's hand as his arms tightened their grip around his tortured belly.
"Shall I go down and see if they can give me anything for him?" Bobby asked, "what 'bout some of that pink stuff that's supposed to be good for stomach upsets."
"Hey, quit talkin' 'bout me like I ain't here …" Dean weakly grumbled, as Bobby rose to his feet among a symphony of crackling joints.
Sam looked round and nodded his agreement; "good idea," he smiled, tugging his crushed hand out from under Dean's arms.
They watched Bobby go as the door slowly closed behind him.
"Ugh, I'm never eatin' again …" Dean moaned miserably, swallowing back a rising nausea.
Sam shook his head with a wry smile, "well that should make you feel a whole lot better."
By the time Bobby made it back up to the room, he saw the sofabed empty, quilt discarded all over the floor indicating it had been vacated in a hurry, and from the bathroom came the unmistakable sounds of someone being violently sick.
Bobby's shoulders slumped as he sighed.
Sam's muffled voice sounded from the bathroom; 's'okay Dean, take it easy; there y'go … deep breaths, 's'okay man …"
Bobby knocked gently, "everything okay in there?"
"Awesome," came Dean's broken voice, barely audible between panting breaths.
It was a few moments before the door opened and Sam stepped out, strong arms supporting his grey-faced brother, timidly clutching his stomach and seemingly unable to stand under his own steam. Together, they stumbled back toward the bed.
Bobby fussed and fretted, bringing a glass of water and gathering up the quilt, helping Sam to make Dean comfortable. "They're sending some medicine up with their duty first aider, then they can call a doctor if necessary.
"Okay, thanks Bobby," Sam smiled, propping Dean up against his shoulder to help him take a drink from the glass of water.
Sam and Bobby stood around the bed watching as Dean seemed to settle a little, his eyes drooping closed as he sunk deeper into the mattress, despite his muttered protestations about 'havin' a friggin' audience.' They both turned upon hearing a knock on the door.
"Thank goodness," sighed Bobby, trudging across the room; "that'll be the first aider."
He opened the door and his jaw dropped in horror as he saw the concerned face of the figure standing in the doorway clutching a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
It was Leylaani.