Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite

Dean decides Christmas at the beach is the perfect opportunity for Sam to recover from a terrible curse. Unfortunately, the break turns out to be anything but restful.

AU set somewhere in season one, after Faith.

Hurt Sam. Brotherly fighting and angst.

Written especially for my usual readers and friends as a 'thank you' for all your support during the last few years or so. You were all there for me during some seriously shitty times, including when I was seriously ill in hospital, and this story just doesn't seem like nearly enough.

But especially, much love and thanks to Neats for your wonderful friendship, and for the beta read. Your insight is always invaluable.

Warnings: Bad language, blood, violence, etc.

Note: Medical facts? What medical facts? All made up!

The location is also completely made up, as is the weather, etc. and I've messed with the timelines a bit. Couldn't find the time or motivation to do any research so it's all a load of nonsense straight out of my messed up head.

I admit outright that the plot is pretty crap. It's purely for the Hurt Sam value, so:

On with the farce…

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Chapter One

"Sammy? We're here, dude."

Sam sighed but didn't otherwise stir.

Dean frowned and studied his sleeping brother. Sam was still pale, his cheeks sunken, dark smudges set in deep semi-circles under his eyes. The sickness had taken a lot out of him, and Dean couldn't help but worry that it wasn't over yet. Bobby's reassurance that Sam was now safe wasn't sitting too well, but maybe that was just Big Brother paranoia.

Perhaps Pastor Jim was right. The poor kid just needed to rest up for a few weeks, take it easy, kick back and chill. Christmas was on the way, would be the first the brothers had spent together in years, and it was the perfect opportunity to hide out in peace, quiet and safety.

Sammy would heal, if he was just given the time.

Well, no problem there, thought Dean. No more hunts, no more panicked phone calls, and no more mysterious text messages from their dad. A few strong words from Pastor Jim Murphy had apparently silenced the stubborn John Winchester for now, and it had been two weeks since the brothers had received any co-ordinates or orders.

Scrubbing a hand over his stubble, Dean blew out a breath and stared ahead. He didn't see the palms trees swaying gently in the sea breeze, or the ocean waves rolling lazily on the beach.

No. Instead, his mind's eye replayed Sam's face right before his sudden collapse.

Dean had wrongly assumed it was just pure weariness. Sam hadn't slept properly since Jess, he'd lost weight, and any time he did nod off, the poor kid was plagued with nightmares about the fire.

But he should have known. He should have guessed.

Pissing down rain and slippery mud had been a huge hindrance on that particular hunt, making it hard to see and even harder to hear over the noise. Such conditions made an already dangerous hunt all the more lethal.

The hunt had been successful, another salt and burn, same old, same old, blah, blah, blah. One dead Celtic warlock, a ten year old vengeance curse lifted, with extra onions on a sesame seed bun.

But the flames hadn't even died down before the brothers returned to round three of their heavy weight fight entitled "Stanford Sam".

And it ended abruptly as those terrible words left Dean's big, Grand Canyon sized mouth:

"Ya wanna know something, Sam?" he'd sneered and ignored the little voice at the back of his mind telling him to shut the fuck up.

"Not really," Sam had replied, jaw clenched tight, eyes blazing with anger. "But you're gonna tell me anyway, huh?"

"You're a fucking snob," and a tiny part of Dean had actually relished the way his brother's face lost all colour. "That's why you really left. We were beneath you, and you were too good for us. Ain't that the real truth?"

Sam had been shocked and hurt – in all honesty, Dean could see that now - and his eyes had immediately misted over right before they rolled back, and his body dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Dean reflected, with bitter hindsight, that Sam's suggestion of postponement until the apparent monsoon had passed hadn't been such a bad idea after all. But, at the time, the constant college arguments had turned his common sense around. Dean had refused to give in to the whimsy of bad weather, let alone a snot-nosed kid brother trying to use reason of all things.

Dean paid the price too, of course. He had been forced to struggle with his kid brother's gigantic limp form, keeping his head clear of the rain soaked earth and holding him close, still convinced the culprit was physical and emotional exhaustion.

But the small, pagan looking dart buried in the kid's neck, just under his ear, told another, far more sinister story.

The warlock was dead, but the bastard had left a grim little gift in his wake. The dart had been anointed with a sleeping spell, but 'sleep' wasn't really the word for it. More like 'coma'. A real heavy, supercharged coma.

Dean had lit on out of there like all the hounds of hell were after them, and headed straight for Bobby Singer's place.

It hadn't been easy, trying to find the counter spell to a curse that was thousands of years old and even predated the druids. Bobby and Dean had searched through every journal and grimoire at their disposal, been in touch with Pastor Jim and even sent word to John Winchester, begging for help.

Two weeks into their stay, Sam slept on while his body began to waste away at an alarming rate, never stirring, not a murmur nor a whimper.

It seemed that no amount of IV fluid was going to save the poor kid and Dean was fast approaching his wits end.

It was their father who came through for them. A package was delivered to the salvage yard via courier, with no return address. It was a tiny, ornate silver and glass phial of blue liquid, with only a small note attached in John's familiar scrawl.

"Two sips a day, one in the morning, one at night. Keep talking to him; keep him sane."

The reason for the ominous advice became apparent a few days later when Sam woke up and tried to scramble from his bed, only to drop heavily to the floor when his weakened limbs failed him. Eyes wild with fear, bordering on madness, Sam had shakily crawled away and tried to bury himself in the corner of the room, body shaking, tears streaming down his thin face.

Dean had gently coached the kid back to awareness, talking softly to him, inching closer and closer as Sam calmed down and became more approachable. Finally, he'd closed his arms around his little brother and rocked him slowly, crooning soft words of comfort and reassurance. This was a rarity, Dean had reflected at the time. Not since Sammy was knee high to a grasshopper had he snuggled up to his older brother like that. It was strangely worrying yet comforting at the same time.

Recovery took time. Way too much of it for Dean's happiness, truth be told. Felt like it was going on for-fucking-ever.

Day in, day out, and every night, Dean sat with Sam in the corner of the bedroom, holding him, watching the kid's eyes dart about, filled with terror and unseeing of the real world. Panic suffused the older brother more than once and it was only Bobby Singer's constant, familiar presence that kept Dean from slipping loose the threads of his own remaining sanity.

But Dean had a niggling little doubt in the back of his head, the kind that grows like a fungus and comes back to bite you on the ass if you don't pay attention.

Something was wrong with all this.

It couldn't have been just a deep coma.

Eventually, that doubt was realised. Sam was coming back, bit by bit, day by day, but as reality crept into that searing, blue-green gaze, so did wariness and trouble.

Dean decided to ignore it for as long as possible while he tried to get Sam to eat, but he knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time.

More reality, more awareness pounded Sam's inner walls, until the kid was almost crushed by it. Fearing the worst, it was about this point that Dean began his campaign to get Sam to open up.

And so he braced himself.

Because when insanity meets reality there's bound to be conflict, and someone nearly always gets hurt in the crossfire.

That conflict became a blazing row when Sam told Dean to back off and leave him alone, followed by:

"Believe me, Dean, you don't wanna know!" He'd lowered his head, tears rolling down his face, and mumbled: "I wish I didn't know."

Breaking point finally reached, Dean resisted the urge to dance the victory dance, and merely grabbed Sam up in a fierce, tight hug. One he hoped would convey all the love he felt for the kid without ever having to say it.

"Don't you worry 'bout me," he'd whispered into Sam's ear, trying not to feel the wasted muscle and sharp bony edges sticking out of his brother's body. "Just… talk, kiddo. Ok? Not for me. For you."

Even then it wasn't immediate, but it did happen.

Once he was fully back in the real world, Sam came clean with great reluctance. Dean had stayed by his side morning and night, kept him from going crazy, soothed his nightmares, fed and watered them both.

Sam admitted he owed an explanation but Dean was in no way prepared for it.

Turned out, Sam hadn't slept at all in that time.

At least, not in the normal sense of the word.

The sleeping spell had kept Sam imprisoned in a state of perpetual fear, torturing him with primal, evil, bloody dreams of his loved ones dying, grisly rains of blood, visceral, tormented screams and agonised wailing.

Voices told him he was helpless, useless, couldn't save his brother, his father, his mother, Jess… himself.

And didn't that just blast open one big fucking can of worms.

So, here they were, just weeks away from Christmas, at a beautiful old fashioned beach house on a private stretch of sand. Jim and Bobby had both invited the boys for Christmas, but Sam couldn't handle being around anyone other than his older sibling right then, and even that was a stretch for him sometimes.

Dean couldn't decide how he felt about a warm, sunny Christmas, surrounded by sand rather than snow, but figured it wouldn't do to look a gift horse in the pie hole. The place had been left to Pastor Jim by one of his more affluent parishioners some years ago, as one hell of a 'thank you' for his assistance with an ancestral ghost. The priest and long-time family friend had offered it to the Winchesters as an alternative to grungy motel rooms with bad, noisy neighbours, and Dean didn't want to appear ungrateful.

In any case, it was kind of perfect. Quiet and peaceful, the nearest neighbour around five miles away, no one was likely to disturb them here.

The house hadn't been used in some years, and required a little fixing up; nothing major just a few roof tiles in need of replacing, a lick of paint here and there. It was all on one level - no stairs for a sleepy Sammy to worry about – so every room was on the ground floor, including three bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, living room and library, all of decent size. There was also a small attic space in the sloped roof and a wine cellar in the basement.

All the windows were full length French windows with ornate handles, each opening out straight onto decking, which ran all the way around the house like a kind of beach veranda. The veranda itself wasn't in too bad condition but clearly needed treating before the salt, sea, wind and sand wore it away completely. A couple of wooden shutters hung crooked on their hinges here and there, possible storm damage Dean suspected.

The lawn and gardens were a little overgrown, but otherwise the place was pretty decent. Not one to sit idle for long when work needed doing, Dean's hands itched for a hammer and nails and that surprised him. He had never once been inspired to renovate any of the dives and hovels the brothers had been forced to inhabit over the years while growing up but, in ways he couldn't even begin to define and ran deeper than just the surface aesthetics, this place was different.

Mind made up, Dean nodded slowly as his gaze swept over the place again, calculating and cataloguing each and every square metre. The brothers would be here for a while, into the start of the New Year at least…

There were some tools in the trunk, but he also knew from Pastor Jim that there was a garden shed somewhere on site worthy of investigation; there were bound to be more specialised tools available for use. He was more than ready to get started, needed the distraction of hard, physical labour, and once Sam was feeling stronger, more like himself, a few light duties wouldn't do him any harm either.

"Sammy," Dean softly called again, and gave his brother's shoulder a gentle shake.

He'd learned to be careful around Sam, not to spook him or startle him too much. Kid was still a lot freaked out by his ordeal and needed gentle handling.

"Hmmmwha?" Sam mumbled, and rolled his head along the seat back. Two slithers of blue-green peered wearily up at Dean from between half open lids.

Dean smiled and brushed a few strands of unruly hair out of Sam's dopey eyes.

"We're here, at the beach," he pointed out the windshield towards the house. "And there's a nice, warm bed in there with your name on it."

Sam blinked slowly and tried to sit up, but slouched sideways instead, head landing heavily on Dean's shoulder.

"Ssssounsgoooo…" he nodded off mid-sentence.

Even all grown up, Sammy could still be downright adorable. Dean suppressed a chuckle and gently manoeuvred the kid back into his own seat. It would be a little while yet before Sam was fully back with him; Bobby's homemade sleeping draft was hellish powerful, but it protected Sam from his nightmares, and made the journey all the more comfortable for him.

It pretty much ticked all the protective big brother boxes, as far as Dean was concerned.

But the drugs were slowly wearing off and the kid would soon be hungry, if the muffled growling in Sam's stomach was anything to go by. There were some nice, juicy steaks waiting for them up at the house, along with a sack of good baking potatoes. Pastor Jim had stopped by a couple of days ago to check the place was clean and tidy, change the sheets on the beds, and restock the fridge, freezer and cabinets.

Dean glanced at his brother again and sighed. "Guess I'm carrying your ass again, huh?"

Twenty minutes later, the steaks were soaking up a spicy Texan marinade on the kitchen worktop, and Dean was wrestling his brother into a pair of blue, striped PJs he'd found on one of the beds. They were clean, neatly folded, and most important of all a perfect fit for Sam's tall frame, if a little big around the waist and shoulders.

Sam sat on the edge of the master bed, gazing around the room with dazed eyes like a lost little boy, while Dean buttoned up his shirt.

"Where'r'we?" he mumbled a question. His wandering gaze stopped its travels and fixated on the wall behind his brother.

Dean patted him on the shoulder. "At the beach, Sammy. Remember I told you earlier?"

Sam blinked, slowly. "Uhuh."

Dean frowned slightly, and turned his head to see what Sam was staring at.

"Nice," he grimaced. "Someone liked a little sea fishing, huh?"

Evidently, the previous owner had enjoyed it a lot. There were hundreds of trophies lining the wall, none of which Dean could name but he recognised a large sword fish, a couple of giant sized crab claws, sea horses, and a big set of sharp looking teeth.

Dean was no expert on the marine environment, or indeed on any of its inhabitants for that matter, but he suspected the teeth came from a Great White. He'd seen Jaws enough times, after all, not to mention the crappy sequels. There was no mistaking it.

"Sure hope his dentist was paid well," he muttered, grinning at his brother, and finished fastening the top button on Sam's shirt. "Ain't enough money in the world to make me stick my hand inside that thing's mouth."

He sat back on his heels and worriedly studied Sam's face, as the kid now gazed with droopy-eyed fascination at the trophies. Sam looked pale and exhausted, but he also seemed morbidly curious about the wall of dead fish.

"S'kinda cool," he said, words still slurring. "Retro… or somethin'."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure it's not," he held out his hands in supplication when Sam opened his mouth to protest. "But whatever. Each to his own, dude."

Sam's scowl made him look all of five years old but he didn't say anything more, just returned his attention to the fish wall.

"C'mon, let's get you comfortable," said Dean, and gently pushed Sam back onto his pillow. "Then you can stare at that thing all you want 'til you fall asleep."

The brothers had stayed in some pretty weird motel rooms over the years, but this was the weird to beat all weird.

"Sammy, why the hell would someone put that on their bedroom wall?" asked Dean, absently, while plumping the pillows behind Sam's head.

"Dunno."

"The Man from Atlantis, maybe," Dean pondered, and noticed the small twitch of Sam's mouth. "Or…I know! Could this place once have been Flipper's beach house?"

"Jerk," Sam said, snorting softly.

"Bitch." Dean ruffled his hair, relieved to see his kid brother smiling again, even if only a little.

Sam let Dean pull his legs up onto the bed, and then cover him in the soft sheets and blankets.

"You get some sleep," said Dean. He moved across the room and drew the curtains closed. "I'll come get you when dinner's ready."

"'Kay."

By the time Dean turned back around, Sam was out, snoring lightly, the side of his face mashed into the pillow, hair flopped over his forehead.

"Sleep well, little brother," Dean whispered, fondly, as he pulled the bedroom door to.

Out of habit, he left it open just a crack in case Sam needed him, but he hoped the kid would sleep right through 'til dinner.

He spent the next few hours pottering about the kitchen, sipping beer, baking potatoes, grating cheese and preparing homemade ketchup. Then, after one last quick check on his sleeping brother, he took a stroll in the gardens; keeping one ear open for Sam and trouble in general (the two weren't mutually exclusive, after all). He breathed in the pleasant scent of sea salt and tropical flowers, and smiled. The beach was literally a hop over a little stone wall, and Dean's bare feet sank into soft, golden sand. This was as far as he was prepared to go for now, at least until Sam was feeling more himself, but he stood staring out to sea and listening to the waves crashing gently on the beach.

A wonderful sense of calm stole over him, carrying with it a sedative effect, almost dulling his senses.

Ya know somethin'? I could happily live here forever.

Almost.

Dean turned sharply, frowning. "Is someone there?"

If that's what you want, then that's what we'll do.

Soft, childish laughter echoed around him and faded away, followed by the tinkling of what sounded like sleigh bells.

"Oh for fuck sake!" Dean hung his head, despondent and pissed.

Of course they weren't going to catch a break. They were Winchesters, and Winchesters just didn't get that lucky.

He pulled out his cell phone and gloomily punched a few keys.

"Hey, Pastor Jim," said Dean, trying but failing to keep all trace of sarcasm at bay. "Yeah, Sammy's fine. No, we're both ok. Listen, did your 'friend' happen to mention any, ya know, ghosts around here?" His smile was strained. "Really? That's strange. 'Cos I could swear I just heard one."

More giggling, light and cheerful, came from behind him, along with those damn bells again, and he whirled around just in time to see his younger brother stumbling onto the beach, heading for the shoreline.

"Sammy? Sam!" Dean broke into a run, ignoring the tinny, frantic shouts of Pastor Jim coming through his cell phone as he tossed it carelessly onto the sand.

Sam didn't seem to hear, kept on putting one foot in front of the other, and didn't stop even when he hit the water's edge. He carried on moving, wading onwards, the water line rising up and soaking his PJs inch by inch, until his chest was completely covered. By the time Dean made it out to the waterline, Sam was fully submerged, the water closing over his head, hair fanning out in the gentle swell of the sea.

TBC…