Disclaimer: Don't own, more's the pity.

Song Lyrics: Metallica - Nothing Else Matters (which applies to the scope of the boys' relationship, if you think about it)

Dean and Sam are sitting in front of two ancient-looking microfiche machines, having to check each and every April 30th this podunk little town had experienced in the past 150 years. So far it looks like every five years something bloody happened. Sam still wants to check every single year.

The microfiche machines, of course, are in the library basement, which smells of dust and mildewed dampness, of newspapers left in the rain. The fluorescent tube lights flicker and hum incessantly above their heads, the glare reflected back into their eyes on the old cathode monitors in front of them.

It's bad enough that since Sam's gotten back from Stanford he seems to have forgotten why Dean doesn't sit around moldy, dust-filled rooms unless it is to kill a ghost, and even then it is – get in, get out. Sam's seemingly forgotten that Dean enjoys breathing. He's trying not to be pissed off about that as the ache in his chest gets deeper. They have awhile before it is a problem– he's not actually wheezing yet. And damned if he's going to bring it up to Sam.

By the way, little brother, you've forgotten what a wuss I am - let me remind you.

Anyway, as he said, that whole thing is bad enough.

At first, Dean thinks it is the glare that is messing with his eyes. He blinks hard and sits forward in the hard wooden chair, trying to focus on the words on the screen in front of him.

A definite shimmer flickers across his vision, red sparkly lightening.

Fuck.

He has about fifteen minutes tops before a rock concert is going to start going off in his brain. (And not good rock either - shitty indie prog rock where he's praying the instruments are haunted so he can light them on fire.)

Dean tries to think about what meds they have, if there's something in the car that can help him head this off. He remembers mentioning to Sam that they were out of triptans a few weeks back – no Imitrex, no Maxalt, no Frova. Just Fioricet – and that makes him all kinds of loopy.

Once again – fuck.

He glances at Sam a couple times, trying to figure out how to ask if they can call it a day now.

Sam doesn't even move his head, just keeps staring at the rolling screen in front of him in his search for April 30th.

"What's up, Dean? You find something?"

"Um, no."

"Then is there a reason you're just sitting there?" Sam shifts and turns toward him. "150 years of April 30th, man. You're not foisting it all off on me."

Half of Sam's face is obscured by the trippy aura that's dancing around the right half of Dean's field of vision. Maybe that's why he only looks half as pissy as he sounds.

"We're almost done. We'll be out of here in thirty – then we can get dinner, okay?"

Dean just nods and turns back toward his machine, keeps trying to push himself through screen after screen of yellowed newspaper. He can do thirty minutes. He's not a complete pussy.

:::
:::

Forty-five minutes later, Dean kind of wishes he was a complete pussy – because he could be a pussy who was lying down. Fierce throbbing has taken up residence directly behind his right eye, a spiked fishing hook tangled in his retina and yanking backward with each pulse. It's a marvel that a library – a place guaranteed to be quiet – still has sounds making him cringe his head downward like he's a turtle. He's been sitting there in silence, trying to be useful, waiting for Sam to say they're done for the day.

Sam does finally call it a day, but not before Dean's teeth are clenched, his shoulders tensed so high they practically touch his earlobes. His brain feels swollen in his skull, every fiber of his being, every breath feeling too tight.

They are coming up from the basement, walking through the children's section of the library when Sam adds: "Stop sulking, Dean, Jesus."

It takes everything Dean has to not start swearing at his little brother, loudly, in front of a group of kids having Beatrix Potter read to them. Fuck Mr. MacGregor and his stupid fucking garden.

Dean gets behind the wheel of the car, which he shouldn't do – but the way Sam is acting, no way is he getting the privilege of driving his baby. He turns the key in the ignition, never more thankful in his life that Sam had been bitching about the music on the way to the library. That's the only reason the volume isn't cranked all the way up once the car turns on.

"What do you want for food, then?" Sam finally asks, breaking the silence.

Dean just shrugs, turns toward his shoulder and coughs a couple of times. The motion of the car was amping up the nausea that had already started from the whirling newsprint that swept by his eyes. Food was the last thing he wanted.

"C'mon, dude, you're seriously that pissed that I kept your dinner waiting?"

Dean swallows hard. He feels like a toothpaste tube being wrung out, the contents of his stomach being pushed to the surface, his chest tight, his head about to explode. "Don't care, Sam."

"Fine, well – I'm hungry – can we hit a drive-thru?"

Without a word, Dean pulls into the next fast food franchise along the stretch of road they're driving. Rolling down his window nearly has him losing his lunch right there, the stench of burgers and fries and grease overpowering. He white-knuckles the steering wheel as Sam yells his order at the speaker.

It's worse once that paper sack filled with food is actually in the car.

"This isn't all for me, y'know. I got you a couple burgers." Sam says, his tone a little bit apologetic as he paws through the bag to check the order. "You want one now?"

"No!" Dean flinches at the booming quality of his own voice. He coughs a couple more times into his shoulder – aware the wheeze has finally crawled up in there - before answering more calmly. "Um, thanks – just leave it in the bag."

"Oh, okay."

In the oh-so-glorious silence, he's aware the Sam is studying him, frowning, but the only thing Dean is willing to focus on is getting the hell out of an enclosed space with that greasy sack of food.

Teeth clenched the entire time, Dean pulls into the motel parking lot, gets out of the car and marches several long strides into the room. He doesn't stop walking until he's in the bathroom, locking the door quickly behind him and twisting the sink taps full blast as he leans over the toilet. There is barely enough time to aim before the battle with nausea is lost.

Throwing up when your head is pounding is miserable under the best of circumstances. Dean's eyeball is a ticking time bomb, the thud-thud-thud of his heart is the countdown of the timer, and every time he hurls – it's like someone is trying to disarm the bomb by throwing a brick at it. He kneels over the toilet, gasping and choking on saliva, tries to catch his breath.

For a panicky moment, he can't and his fingers automatically go to his pocket, searching for his inhaler, coming up empty. It's in the car – the glove box.

Sometimes even Dean can't believe Winchester luck.

Fuuuuuuuck.

The stabbing in his temple cranks up more, his pulse racing as he spits bile. Dean lets himself puke, trying to clear his airway as involuntary tears stream down his face. Underneath the gasping inhalations are tight, wheezy breaths, punctuated by abbreviated moans as he struggles to get some air down his pipes.

Sam is banging on the door – saying something, but Dean can't make him out over the beating in his eardrums.

Whatever. He is so not in the mood for Sam right now.

After a moment, Dean calms himself down, breathing easier once it's not interrupted by the urge to puke. He figures he can walk out to the car and grab the inhaler, hopes to Christ he can convince Sam to leave him alone for the rest of the day so he can curl up into a barbiturate-codeine haze until the agony thrumming in his temple recedes.

Dean opens the door with that intent - but Sam is standing there, all nervous posture as he waits for his older brother with the inhaler clutched in his hand.

Without a word, Dean snatches it greedily from his little brother's gigantic fist and presses down, sucking down on the wonders of science. His lungs greatly appreciate the contributions nerds have made the world.

"Dean-" Sam starts, but Dean walks past him and sits on the bed.

Praise the Albuterol Gods. Another sharp hit of bitter chemical tang enters his mouth, sticks to his tongue as he manages to suck it into his lungs, the boa constrictor that was binding his rib cage slithering off somewhere.

Sam's staring at him like a wounded puppy. A wounded puppy who has just been smacked on the nose with a newspaper and told he's a very 'bad dog.'

"What?" Dean growls out. So, Sam remembered – apparently. Somehow he was more okay with the pain driving into his skull when he had anger to hold onto. Now that Sam is still the caring little dork he's always been, Dean doesn't quite know what to do it with that. Certainly not when his head hurts so friggin' much.

"Why didn't you tell me it was that bad? We could've left, or I could've stayed and you could've left."

Truth was, they were still figuring each other out. There was a time when Sam would be able to hear the impending wheeze in Dean's voice before Dean even knew there was going to be a problem, and he'd be herded into the fresh air and have an inhaler shoved into his hand before he could even think to make a fuss about it. He'd had the one huge asthma attack he'd been hospitalized for – Dad hadn't been there and from then on – Sam had tried to be the parent about it. Until he left to go to college, that is.

And to be fair to Sam, since they've been back on the road together - any time his little brother would try something remotely in the way of taking care of him, Dean would shirk him off. It made sense, that after being repeatedly blown off, he would wait for Dean to make a move, or assume Dean wouldn't be stupid about it – maybe would go and get his inhaler him damn self.

But no one likes to admit when they are wrong – especially a Winchester.

"It wasn't that bad."

"You were apparently coughing hard enough that you were puking." Sam counters.

"That's not-" Dean falters, leans his throbbing head forward into his hands. Migraines do not like it when you talk about them – they get revenge. He is suddenly all too aware of the stabbing pain in his right eye, like the members of a prison gang have lined up to shiv his orbit repeatedly. The stench of the fast food is powerful in the room, churning his stomach.

"That's not what? Something else is wrong?" That furrowed concerned brow of his brother's is in full swing.

"Headache. No big." Dean shrugs with his tense shoulders. Maybe this is like the first Nightmare on Elm Street flick, maybe if he just doesn't believe in the power of the monster, it'll go away, the pain will shrink away into the darkness.

For a moment, Dean is really on board with this idea - until the next throb, and until he remembers the ending of the movie, that Freddy came back and took out Heather Langenkamp's mom.

And yes – not the best time to be thinking about knife-laden gloves going stab-stab-stab-stab, because it is not pleasant imagery to dwell on.

"Headache, huh? We have any-? Oh." Sam stops himself, obviously remembering that they don't have squat of the decent meds right now.

The younger Winchester stands up and Dean feels him walking away, can't bring himself to look up to find out where his kid brother is going when he hears the door shut. Figures it is better, because there is nothing Sam could do anyway.

Dean berates himself – that this isn't the old days, and what was he expecting? Sam to drop everything and hang out by his side? That's fucking dumb.

But then Sam comes back within minutes, with a handful of pills, a bottle of water, and an ice pack. "Get comfortable," Sam orders.

"How?" Dean asks. And he's not trying to be difficult – he's honestly asking how to get comfortable when you're hoping an axe murderer stops by for lunch.

Sam's face twists in sympathy, but he just holds out the medicine and the water expectantly.

"What is all this?" Dean asks after he swallows the pills.

"The Fioricet, some ibuprofen, and some Benadryl."

"Uh, the first two I get, but Benadryl?"

Sam catches his eyes for a moment and then stares at the floor, uses his foot to poke at the end of the bedspread that is dragging on the carpet. "Uh, yeah, Jess had migraines too. One time we were at the ER, they gave her Benadryl by IV. It, uh, helped."

Dean is kind of sorry he asked, knows his younger brother is still caught in a tidal wave of grief that's ebbing away very slowly, but Sam seems to shrug it off easily enough and keeps talking. "Anyway, if it doesn't help your head, it'll help to knock you out until you can sleep it off. So, lay down already. The case isn't going anywhere..."

The way Sam stands there, arms crossed – the words are unspoken, but his little brother says them anyway. "...and neither am I."

Dean uses his feet to shove his boots off and stretches out on the bed, already feeling the warm buzzing from the Fioricet that doesn't quite take away the pain, but certainly make him not give a crap.

"Get on your stomach," Sam dictates, squeezing the ice pack into activation with a sharp snap.

Dean flips over obediently – also flips his brother off with both hands while he does so. "Alright, Moody Blues, bossy much?"

"Shuddup and fall asleep already. I'm tired of your face." Sam cracks back with a quiet chuckle, his hands gently applying the ice pack to Dean's neck.

"What?" Dean murmurs into the pillow, "No lullaby?"

A few seconds later, he hears the surprising guitar strains of a familiar song coming from Sam's crappy laptop speakers.

"So close, no matter how far.
Couldn't be much more from the heart.
Forever trusting who we are...
And nothing else matters."

Yeah, Dean thinks – once he's able to get beyond the idea of Sam downloading Metallica, That about sums it up.