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The problem with shifters was that they loved taking Sam and Dean’s look - not the end of the world; flattering, even - the problem was that Sam and Dean were big guys and excellent fighters.
Not many people experience fighting themselves, but it really isn’t fun. How hard is it to beat yourself in a fight? Not like you’re perfectly and evenly matched or anything.
So, Sam really wasn’t having a good time grappling with himself.
He was throwing and dodging punches from the shifter, panting and sweating at the amount of effort fighting himself took.
They were in some random old lady’s house - floral wallpaper, vintage furniture that was definitely ruined by now, a bunch of creepy cat figurines - the works.
Dean was across the room punching himself in the face, eyes fierce as he pummeled the shifter taking on his form.
Sam grunted as his copy shoved him back, stumbling into the brick of the fireplace. Before he could spring back, the shifter was on him, body pressed up against him, pinning him to the wall. He didn’t waste a second in reaching up and cupping Sam’s head in his hand.
Sam realized, distantly, what was going to happen as it happened. The shifter yanked his head forward, and Sam barely had a moment to think ‘Oh, shit’, before his head was being slammed into the brick.
Fiery hot pain bloomed on the back of his head, and he let out a cry of pain, hands scrabbling uselessly at the shifter's wrist, trying to pull him off.
“Sam!” Dean cried from the other room where he’d pinned down his doppelganger and had a knife to his neck. He dug it into the thing’s throat and practically flew towards Sam, but it was too late.
Sam moaned in pain as his head was slammed back once again, stomach twisting as he felt warm liquid running down his neck.
Suddenly, the shifter was gone, yanked off by Dean and flung across the room into a bookshelf. Dean followed, eyes blazing with fury, but Sam barely followed it.
He tried to take a step away from the brick, but his legs gave out beneath him without warning. He landed on his knees and curled forward with a groan, eyes squeezed shut as his head throbbed. He braced himself against the floor with one hand and lifted the other to the back of his head.
“Sam!”
Sam flinched at the noise, head pounding.
“Gah - Dean-” he choked out, eyes still squeezed shut. Dean knelt down beside him, one hand steadying his shoulders and the other reaching out to remove Sam’s hand from his head.
“Hey, hey,” Dean said, voice gentle. “Alright, alright, you’re okay. Let me see.”
Dean’s hands were impossibly gentle, but the second he probed the wound, Sam let out a hiss of pain, jerking away from the offending hand.
“Shit,” Dean breathed, face paling as he observed the injury.
“Hurts,” Sam managed, attempting to reach up and touch it again. Dean caught his wrist and guided it gently away.
“Don’t touch,” he instructed. Sam cringed, ears ringing at even the quiet words. Dean tensed, grip tightening minutely on Sam.
“Alright, we need to get out of here,” he said, looking around cautiously. Sam’s entire body protested the idea of moving, but he knew Dean was right.
“‘M fine,” he slurred, shifting so that he was on his knees, blinking furiously as the world swam around him.
“You’re a terrible liar, Sam,” Dean said, looping his arm around Sam’s waist and slowly guiding him up. Sam let out a strangled groan of pain, again attempting to clutch at the back of his head. Dean stopped him again.
“Don’t touch, Sam,” he repeated, firmer this time.
“It hurts, Dean,” Sam said, voice teetering dangerously close to a whine.
“I know it does,” Dean said, softening. “We’ll get you fixed up, yeah? Just gotta get to the car.”
Sam forced his eyes open, grip tightening on Dean. He stared at the floor, legs trembling as he forced them to move, swaying as he took tiny steps towards the front door. Dean moved with him, staying stuck to his side.
“Alright, you got it,” he murmured.
Sam stayed silent, focused entirely on not falling on his face or puking all over Dean - Dean loved him a lot, but Sam knew he wouldn’t appreciate that.
They made it out of the house slowly, Dean supporting most of Sam’s weight as they wobbled to the car. He propped Sam up against the side and opened the door, ushering him inside gently.
Sam sank into the seat, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood as his head brushed against the back of the leather seat, pain blooming behind his eyes. Dean circled around the car and slid in quickly, eyes glued to Sam in concern.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, hand hovering near Sam’s shoulder but not quite touching.
“No,” Sam whispered, screwing his eyes shut. “My head-” he cut himself off with a hiss, drawing up his knees and lowering his head so that his forehead was almost touching them. Dean’s hand landed between his shoulder blades, rubbing small but firm circles there.
“You feel sick?” Dean asked.
“Yeah,” Sam whispered, refusing to move at risk of making the pain in his head worse. Dean quietly turned and dug through his door for a moment before Sam heard a small crinkle and felt Dean pressing something plastic into his hands. He peeked his eyes open and let out an almost distressed huff at the blue emesis bag Dean handed him.
“It’s all I’ve got,” Dean said apologetically. “Just - if you gotta puke-”
“Dean,” Sam moaned, quieting him instantly.
“Right,” Dean said, forcing himself to turn to the wheel, hands shaky as he started the car. “Right. Okay. You’ll be fine. Motel’s only fifteen minutes out, I’ll patch you up when we get there,” he rambled, mostly to himself, Sam figured, considering he was hunched over with a fucking puke-bag tucked under his chin.
The engine purred to life and Sam groaned, clutching at his temple as the noise made his head throb.
“Sorry,” Dean whispered, already easing onto the main road. “Sorry. Just fifteen minutes, alright, Sammy?”
His voice was gentle, but Sam couldn’t respond. He swallowed thickly as the car rumbled down the road, stomach churning hot and fierce.
He pressed the emesis bag closer to his mouth as bile crawled up his throat, dread filling every bone in his body at the prospect of vomiting with his head pounding like this.
Dean noticed the shift, easing off the gas and reaching a gentle hand over to brush Sam’s sweaty bangs out of his face.
“Just breathe, Sam. Let it happen,” he soothed.
Sam shook his head as he rocked forward with a sick hiccup, mouth filling with saliva that he swallowed down.
“Gonna hurt,” he choked out.
“No way around it,” Dean said, and he sounded somehow more upset than Sam did. “I’m right here. You’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”
Sam let out a loud moan before he retched harshly, spit gathering on his lower lip as he continued dry heaving, stomach twisting almost painfully.
“Damn it,” Dean breathed, moving his hand to Sam’s back and rubbing gentle and comforting circles into it.
Sam gagged again, nausea heating up his body as he pressed the bag to his mouth and threw up violently, burning liquid splashing into the bag. The sound of it hitting the plastic mixed with the sour smell of it all, and Sam gagged again, so hard that he choked, coughing as he tried to catch his breath.
“You’re alright,” Dean soothed from beside him.
“Ugh - Dean,” Sam choked, lifting his chin and clutching at his temple, eyes wet with pain. Dean’s eyes burned at the sight.
“Fuck, Sammy,” he muttered, still rubbing Sam’s back. “I’m sorry it hurts so bad. I - Fuck, I should’ve stopped him sooner-”
“Nuh-” Sam coughed out, silencing Dean instantly. He swallowed thickly and forced his head up to give Dean a weak glare.
“Not your fault,” he slurred. Dean pursed his lips but didn’t argue, instead reaching up to gently press Sam back against the seat, careful with his head. Sam’s breath hitched in pain, eyes screwing shut, but he allowed Dean to move him, leaning against the seat with his head cradled forward by Dean’s hand on the back of his neck.
Sam’s hands were shaking, adrenaline wearing off now that he was safe in the car.
“We’re almost there, Sammy,” Dean soothed.
“Stop- talking,” Sam choked, clutching his head as it throbbed. Dean listened without question, keeping one steady hand at the ready and the other on the wheel as he searched for the motel.
Sam focused on breathing and trying not to retch from the fire behind his forehead. After a few more minutes, the car slowed as Dean turned into the motel. He parked haphazardly and was out of the door before the car even shut off all the way.
Sam squinted up at him as he opened the door, leaning in and taking the emesis bag from Sam, turning and disposing of it in a nearby trash can. He was back quickly, grabbing Sam under his arms and shifting him up.
Sam groaned, clutching desperately at Dean’s sleeves but not fighting. Once he was standing, Dean pulled him into his chest and shut the car door behind him. Sam clung to his shirt, unsteady on his feet.
“Alright, come on, kiddo,” Dean coaxed, turning Sam around and guiding him forward. Sam’s breathing picked up, but he made it to the door without falling, much to Dean’s relief. Dean shouldered the door open and helped Sam inside, depositing him on the closest bed.
He steadied him before he could fall over, grabbing a pillow and shoving it behind him and giving him a firm look.
“You gotta stay sitting, Sam,” Dean said. Sam gave him a weak glare but listened, planting his hands on both sides of him on the bed to keep himself up.
Something in Dean’s chest loosened - Sam could sit up by himself - that was good. He was already better than he had been.
“Alright,” Dean said, squatting down in front of Sam and snapping in front of his face. Sam blinked blearily at him.
“This is probably gonna suck,” Dean admitted, lifting a little penlight into Sam’s view. Sam let out a long-suffering sigh but didn’t attempt to hide. Dean let out a quiet breath of relief.
Dean clicked the light on, one hand tucked under Sam’s chin as he shone it in his eyes. Sam cringed back a bit but managed to keep his eyes open.
Dean had to take a moment to close his eyes and breathe before letting himself accept it.
“Pupils are the same size,” he murmured, flicking the light up and down a bit. “Little big. I’ve seen worse.” Sam made a face at him.
“You’re annoying,” Sam murmured. Dean couldn’t hold back a huff of amusement.
“You’re concussed. And you make stupid choices. Like getting your head cracked open on a brick wall,” Dean shot back lightly, lowering the penlight and hurrying to his duffel to grab the first aid kit.
“Didn’t do it on purpose,” Sam grumbled, shooting him a mild glare.
“Mhm,” Dean hummed, crouching down in front of Sam again, this time with a handful of pills.
“Gotta take these,” he said firmly. Sam forced himself a bit straighter and held out a shaky hand in acceptance. “Thank you,” Dean breathed, almost unconsciously. The fact that Sam was listening, better, calm - thank. fucking. god.
Dean pressed a cool glass of water to his lips and Sam swallowed the pills. Dean urged him to take a few more sips before Sam turned his face away and Dean set the glass down.
“Gonna hurt,” Sam mumbled, leaning forward into Dean, who caught him without a thought.
“The pills will help,” Dean murmured. “Hospital grade. Might even knock you out.” Sam hummed into his chest, already beginning to untense as the pills kicked in.
“Alright, come on, lay on your side,” Dean instructed, easing Sam down. Sam let out a quiet whine, clutching at Dean’s shirt, but Dean shushed him and removed his hands, urging Sam onto his side.
He propped a pillow under his chest and chin and worked carefully around the wound.
“Only gonna need a few stitches,” Dean muttered to himself. He leaned forward a bit when Sam stayed silent. “You okay, Sammy?”
“Sleepy…” Sam murmured. Dean’s heart throbbed for his baby brother.
“Go to sleep,” he urged. “When you wake up, I’ll be right here waiting, and you’ll feel about a million times less shitty.”
“...night, Dean,” Sam slurred, and then his body went limp. Dean caught him and eased him forward, already moving to work on Sam’s head.
He worked quickly and carefully, cleaning the wound with alcohol and cutting as little of Sam’s hair as he could safely manage. He could apologize later - right now, all that mattered was Sam being okay.
He pressed fresh white gauze to the stitches, adjusting Sam’s hair as best he could to cover it, finally allowing himself to relax and just breathe for a second. Sam slept on, undisturbed at the lack of Dean’s presence - thank god.
The next few days of painkiller hazes and intense pain were gonna suck for both of them, and Dean was already preparing himself for the amount of clinging Sam was sure to do.
But he was okay.
His breathing was fine, he was sleeping peacefully, he wasn’t bleeding anymore - he’d be fine. Dean would wake him a few times during the night to check on him, and Sam probably wouldn’t even remember it in the morning.
All of Dean’s strength seemed to leave his body at once. He sagged back onto the opposite bed, elbows on his knees as he rubbed his face.
“Jesus - fucking - Christ,” he choked, lowering his head and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Fucking shifters.”
From the bed, Sam let out a soft huff in his sleep, leg pulling up as he slept on, oblivious to Dean’s state. Dean let out something that could’ve been a laugh - or maybe a sob.
“Fucking. Shifters.”