A soft sigh echoes within the toilet bowl, and then a scratchy, tired mumble. "Jus' leave m'alone."

"No." Brown hair flops forward as he leans towards his brother, pulling his shoulders away from the porcelain and holding a glass of lukewarm water to dry, chapped lips. "You know how much I love rubbing your back."

Dean drinks slowly, the water like hot acid tearing and shredding through his raw throat. As soon as the liquid hits the ring of fire, his stomach churning with relentless rage, yet another spasm of nausea forces real acid up through his oesophagus. He's used to the taste after five hours of constant sickness, but god damn does it suck.

"Didn't even eat anything." Dean continues to grumble, taking his position once again as the spasms force his head into the basin. "Fucking ow." He hisses, wraps his arms against the cool white in a grotesque embrace.

"I know." Sam shakes his head, lips pursed in concern and furrowed eyebrows topping off the image of worry. "Either your body really hates you, or..."

"Hex bags?" Dean suggests, still on his knees. "Make sure you look everywhere."

"I've looked." Sam shakes his head again, brushing long fingers through the chocolate brown strands. "I've looked in your bed, the Impala... Although I draw the line at rifling through your dirty laundry."

Dean's head jerks in Sam's direction, face pale and perspiration dotting his forehead.

"I've looked everywhere, Dean." Sam concedes, holding up his hands in surrender. "No freakin' hex bags this time."

"Well you better start bustin' some balls, Sam. Because this..." Dean pulls his head back for a minute, sits back on his knees. "This can't go on. I'm going to fucking die."

Sam can't help but roll his eyes. Yeah, it does suck pretty hard, but death? Death is a long way off.

"Do you want to try the bed again?" He speaks slowly, softly. "I think I've cleaned it up."

The thought of a motel bed soaked in hours old vomit is enough to send Dean's stomach into overdrive, and again he's forced forward, pulling his head deeply into the rim as nothing but clear bile leaves his lips.

"Fuck." He hisses, swiping at his mouth with a sleeve. "Stop talking about it, Sam. Jus' leave me to suffer."

"I'll come back to find your stomach hanging out of your mouth." Sam forgets to be mindful with the choice of words. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I don't want you here." Dean tries, leaning back again but this time pressing his head against the coolness of the porcelain.

"I'm staying." Sam shrugs with little room for digression. "Deal with it."