A/N: So I'm on this train ride, right? And there's this kid that just won't. shut. up. First, I don't think too much about it, kids being kids and all, but it's a 6,5-hour train ride and after a while it's starting to seriously grate on my nerves. So I do what I always do when I feel like the universe is out to get me – I make my favorite characters suffer with me. Hope you enjoy, my fellow sadists!

Warnings: Not really. In my head, this takes place sometime in the early seasons (2? 3?) but there are no spoilers.

Disclaimer: As much as it pains me, I don't own these wonderful characters.

Cephalalgia: from Greek kephale (head) + algos (pain). Because I wanted something prettier than "headache" or "migraine". And because I'm a sucker for medical terminology.

.:. Cephalalgia .:.

It's only been twenty minutes – Dean knows, because he just risked scorching his entire optic nerve to glance at his watch – and he's already this. fucking. close to move from his slumped position against the window and tell Sam that, you know what? let's stop this madness and get back to that slimier-than-shifter-skin motel, because nothing can possibly be worse than this torture called public transport.

He spares a mournful thought on his Baby, confined in Bobby's salvage yard and in as much a condition to be driven as Dean, if he's being completely honest with himself, is to drive.

Not to mention that the kid three rows back is doing a pretty damn good Rob Halford impression – Painkiller version: the irony isn't lost on him – which really isn't helping matters.

"Hey," comes a soft voice from beside him. "You doing okay, man?"

Dean considers answering, considers lying, but then the shrieking behind them reaches inhuman decibel levels and it's all he can do to try to keep his nausea in check.

When he risks opening his eyes again, reasonably sure the passing scenery won't cause his stomach to make a renewed attempt at a salto mortale, there's a bottle of water inches from his face. He goes cross-eyed looking at it before he can finally get his limbs working enough to take it.

Damn poltergeists and their tendency to throw perfectly good garden statues against the heads of perfectly innocent people, he thinks bitterly. It's a wonder he didn't crack his head open after his unfortunate close encounter with "Toby the Gnome."

Not that Dean's feeling particularly grateful at the moment, since whatever damage remains unseen on the outside is wreaking havoc inside his skull, sending tendrils of torment down his spine and all the way to his friggin' toes. Even his eyelashes are in fucking agony.

He can feel Sam's worry rising in tandem with his own mounting discomfort, and painstakingly turns his head towards his brother, not at all surprised by the combination of bitch-face and frowned concern that he encounters.

"Dean," he begins, and it's his I'm-being-serious-so-don't-even-think-about-lying-to-me with a touch of I'm-starting-to-get-really-worried-about-you voice. Dean smothers a sigh. As if his day isn't bad enough as it is. "We still have three hours to go. Are you sure you can manage?"

"Yeah, well… short of ganking the kid, I don't see a lot of options, Sammy," he quips back. Or that's what he intends to do, anyway. What comes out is more of an unintelligible groan.

Luckily, Sam has had plenty of experience in deciphering all and every variant, dialect, and vernacular of Dean-speak, and possesses an extensive knowledge of its unique lexicon. Now, his eyebrows twitch unhappily, eyes roaming the space around them as if the answer to killing Dean's headache, or to at least silence the damn kid, will somehow materialize before him.

Dean sighs and closes his aching eyes.

"It's only a headache, Sam…"

His brother humphs doubtfully, but doesn't say anything. Dean turns back against the window, leaning his overheated forehead against the cool glass.

"And it's only a few hours, so quit worrying. I'll be fine."

Approximately forty minutes later, when the next bout of shrieking adds a chorus of untuned violins and what feels like a concrete drill to the cacophony of agony inside his head, Dean's prepared to retract that statement. He can't help the low moan that tears itself from him, which is not only embarrassing in itself, but also does nothing at all to temper the nausea welling like volcanic acid in his throat.

Sam looks about ready to go over and waste the kid.

Dean just wants to die.

Of course, that's when they hit a pothole, big enough to jar the whole friggin' bus, and every fiber of Dean's body goes rigid.

He swallows convulsively and promptly gags.

Nonononono…

Before he can even think to work his mouth open – which he's not even remotely sure is a good idea to begin with – there's movement from next to him, and then he's being unceremoniously hauled to his feet.

How he doesn't throw up right then and there is nothing short of a fucking miracle.

"Hey! We're not stopping here!" their driver shouts from the front, but still eases up on the pedal.

Dean is grateful beyond words when Sam doesn't yell back, but only steers him along the aisle with a steady grip on his elbow.

It's the only thing keeping him from face-planting to the floor.

"Steps," Sam mumbles, moments before the floor dips beneath Dean's toes.

The heat hits him like a dry slap as he stumbles out the door, and he almost gags again. But Sam is there, half-leading, half-dragging him from the metallic monstrosity and its demonic little minions. He's deposited leaning against something – a post? a tree? he sure as hell ain't opening his eyes, eyes that feel like they're developing fucking blisters, to find out – and then the grounding feeling of Sam's hand on his back is gone.

Not that Dean can find it in him to care too much at the moment, all of his focus on controlling his rebelling stomach and trying to convince his throbbing brain it really would be better for everyone if it stayed inside his cranium.

He keeps his eyes closed and his breathing slow and shallow, hears the tell-tale sound of a door slamming shut somewhere off to his left.

A few more, careful breaths and he thinks he's finally past the worst of it. He gratefully leans more heavily into whatever it is that's keeping him from collapsing in a boneless heap, the slowly dissolving tension leaving his limbs oddly weak and tingly.

Then the bus groans back to life, the vibrations traveling through the ground and shooting straight up his brain, the thick smell of greasy fuel invading his nostrils.

Next thing Dean knows, he's on the ground, puking up things he's sure he remembers from last year.

Distantly, he registers a familiar presence – Sam – arriving at his left, but agony brought on my seemingly incessant heaving soon cancels out everything else.

Dean doesn't know if he blacks out, but he thinks that he might have because when he's next aware of things, he notes that his head is not submerged in the sickly smell of vomit – as he had half expected it to be – but instead resting against soft flannel, the steady, slightly fast thumping of a heartbeat beneath his ear. There's the familiar feeling of Sam running his big, Sasquatch hand over his back, quiet words of comfort filling the space around them like a cocoon.

It's almost comfortable.

And completely unacceptable.

He intends to push himself away from Sam's hold, but none of his limbs are working properly, weak and spent as if he's just been through one of his dad's obstacle courses, twice. He makes the mistake of cracking his eyes open and almost dives right back into the dark bays of oblivion. In the end, he settles with a quiet groan to signal his displeasure.

Sam's hand stills momentarily.

"Dean? You with me?"

Dean hums grumpily, presses his face deeper into his brother's chest to escape the torturous light. He swallows, mouth thick with the acrid remnants of vomit, and exhales shakily.

"Man, that sucked."

Sam's quiet chuckle vibrates through his eardrum and down his spine. Amazingly, it doesn't reawaken the symphony of mass destruction in his head and he relaxes further.

"Yeah, I bet. Just relax for a bit, man. I gotcha."

The back-rubbing has started up again, up and down in wide, circular motions, long fingers kneading gently at the base of his skull. Dean is about to tell Sam to stop feeling him up, because this situation is embarrassing enough as it is. He just needs a minute to get reacquainted with the laws of physics – namely, what is up and what is down – that's all. He'll tell Sam to stop. Any moment now.

"You okay?" Sam inquires softly, minutes later when they have yet to make any attempt at moving.

Dean hums again, reluctant to speak, and even more reluctant to move. The agony that was his head has reduced to mere pounding, but he isn't about to try his luck – because obviously, it friggin' sucks.

But his little brother is nothing if not persistent.

"Dean?"

Dean sighs into his brother's shirt, and puts all of the big brother annoyance he can muster in the answering, "Sam."

"Think you're up for some water?"

Despite the sour taste on his tongue, Dean really doesn't want to, because his stomach is still making it pretty clear that it is not happy with life at the moment and if he has to suffer through another full-body purging it's going to fucking end him, but he's aware enough to realize that he has little choice in the matter. He manages a weary nod against Sam's chest, and carefully maneuvers his head to the side. Opening his eyes still feels like an extremely bad idea though, so he suffers through having Sam coax small sips into him like he's a toddler, only somewhat convinced it's preferable to the unconsciousness lurking just out of reach.

He manages four meager swallows before his stomach starts rolling, and moves his head away with a shiver that sends tiny shards of rusty glass through his skull.

"Shallow breaths, bro," Sam murmurs. "You're okay."

It takes some time, and several unsatisfactory breaths, but eventually the feeling of building nausea withdraws enough for Dean to relax again. He can feel Sam getting ready to speak, but his little brother graciously gives him a few more minutes to get himself together before breaking the silence.

"You about ready to get going?"

"Yeah." Let's end this chick-flick moment. "Yeah, I'm good."

He pushes himself from his slump against his brother, grudgingly allowing Sam's help because his bones have turned into friggin' jelly, and straightens. He rubs at his eyes with a groan.

"Man, I could do with a shower." Now that the impending implosion of his head has been averted, Dean feels every single speck of dust and drop of sweat coating his body, and it's downright disgusting. "A shower'd be awesome."

"Uh, yeah… Think that'll have to wait, bro," Sam says, tone a tab bit…

Embarrassed?

Dean frowns and finally manages to blink his eyes open. The wobbling field of lines and colors is annoying but not unexpected, as is the quick stab of lightning to his brain. What is slightly more surprising, however, is what he can make out of their surroundings.

He looks down one end of dusty, far-stretched road, barren Arizona landscape on both sides, and then slowly turns his head to find a similar view in the other direction.

"Uh, Sam?"

Uncomfortable shifting.

"Yeah?"

"Where the hell are we?"

A/N: It's possible I'll return and add an epilogue at some point, but for now, I'll mark this story as complete. Hope you enjoyed.