If Dean had to guess when it all started, he would have to say it happened after Famine. Funny thing, defeating the horseman responsible for insatiable hunger had made Dean work up an appetite. Well, once the whole demon blood detox thing was over, yet again. But Sam was a different creature. Maybe it was because food was always Dean's responsibility when they were kids, but he never quite got the pressing need for it that Dean did.
In some cases, it was useful. Because Sam was like some exotic wild bird or something. As soon as he got stressed, he went off his feed, and sometimes that was the only way that Dean could tell if something was wrong. Especially now that everything was wrong.
Hell yeah, Dean liked his burgers and his fries and a whole lot of bacon piled on top of both. And sure, Sam still ate his weird salads and fruit smoothies and vanilla lattes, but he ate other things, too. He occasionally ate part of Dean’s fries, or stole some of his bacon while he picked through his Cobb salad, but after Valentine’s Day, that all stopped.
Well, okay. Some of that was a lie that Dean liked to tell himself. Because Sam hadn’t stolen any of Dean’s bacon since Ilchester, and the more recent burger and fried egg was all Gary and none of Sam. And yes, there were still some chicken club sandwiches, but Sam had taken to peeling them open and eating them layer by layer, piling up bread and onions and whatever else he was wrinkling his nose up at in a mess on the side.
What Dean did notice was that Sam wasn’t as big as he had been. Which was okay. During the whole thing with Ruby and the demon blood and the Seals, Sam was a brooding giant, and it was hard for Dean to look at him and remember how he had been before everything happened. And it wasn’t like the weight loss was that big of a deal. Sam was just... less giant, a little narrower across the shoulders. Although, when they sparred Dean could still feel the muscle underneath. So it wasn’t a problem.
Until it was.
In the month after Famine, Dean found himself really watching what Sam ate. The boy seemed almost constantly hungry, but he didn’t seem to eat much. At gas stations, he picked up pretzels and the occasional cheese burrito, the few times Dean didn’t automatically veto it, and started drinking whole milk instead of cheap coffee. When Dean offered him some jerky, Sam wrinkled up his nose and waved it off.
And then Sam got sick.
It started off as just some sniffles and a cough, but then it rapidly turned into something else. He whistled and wheezed when he breathed, the coughs sounding more like a dog barking than coughs, and then his temperature spiked.
In two days, Sam lost a lot of weight. Dean bought him some chicken noodle soup from the gas station and heated it up in the microwave in their motel room. Sam wrinkled up his nose again and tried to shove it away.
“It doesn’t taste right,” Sam mumbled, his eyes wide and helpless and fever-bright.
“Shut up and drink it.”
Sam obeyed, which was just another sign of how low his defenses really were. It was just a fucking cold, nothing big or serious, but Dean couldn’t understand why his body wasn’t fighting it off.
Shortly after that, Sam puked up the chicken noodle soup. Now, Sam wasn’t like Dean, he didn’t puke with his fevers. Hell, Sam only ever really puked when he was hung over or had a migraine, and Dean sure as hell knew that no alcohol had passed those lips in the last few days. Nor was the light bothering him.
Dean looked at the can of the chicken noodle soup and really thought about what Sam had been eating since it all started, thought about Sam and that nose-wrinkle of his.
“Was the soup bad?” he finally asked.
Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t taste right,” he repeated. He grabbed Dean by the sleeve and leaned close. “Don’t make me,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to taste it. Please?”
A lump formed in Dean’s throat, and he tried to swallow it down. “Taste what?” he asked. Sam turned his head and coughed, long and hard, until he was gasping for breath. And Dean asked him again, with a little more force, “Taste what, Sammy?”
“The blood,” he whispered. “It tastes like blood. I know it doesn’t, Dean, not really, but it does. You understand, don’t you?”
FILLED: To Taste, 1/2
In some cases, it was useful. Because Sam was like some exotic wild bird or something. As soon as he got stressed, he went off his feed, and sometimes that was the only way that Dean could tell if something was wrong. Especially now that everything was wrong.
Hell yeah, Dean liked his burgers and his fries and a whole lot of bacon piled on top of both. And sure, Sam still ate his weird salads and fruit smoothies and vanilla lattes, but he ate other things, too. He occasionally ate part of Dean’s fries, or stole some of his bacon while he picked through his Cobb salad, but after Valentine’s Day, that all stopped.
Well, okay. Some of that was a lie that Dean liked to tell himself. Because Sam hadn’t stolen any of Dean’s bacon since Ilchester, and the more recent burger and fried egg was all Gary and none of Sam. And yes, there were still some chicken club sandwiches, but Sam had taken to peeling them open and eating them layer by layer, piling up bread and onions and whatever else he was wrinkling his nose up at in a mess on the side.
What Dean did notice was that Sam wasn’t as big as he had been. Which was okay. During the whole thing with Ruby and the demon blood and the Seals, Sam was a brooding giant, and it was hard for Dean to look at him and remember how he had been before everything happened. And it wasn’t like the weight loss was that big of a deal. Sam was just... less giant, a little narrower across the shoulders. Although, when they sparred Dean could still feel the muscle underneath. So it wasn’t a problem.
Until it was.
In the month after Famine, Dean found himself really watching what Sam ate. The boy seemed almost constantly hungry, but he didn’t seem to eat much. At gas stations, he picked up pretzels and the occasional cheese burrito, the few times Dean didn’t automatically veto it, and started drinking whole milk instead of cheap coffee. When Dean offered him some jerky, Sam wrinkled up his nose and waved it off.
And then Sam got sick.
It started off as just some sniffles and a cough, but then it rapidly turned into something else. He whistled and wheezed when he breathed, the coughs sounding more like a dog barking than coughs, and then his temperature spiked.
In two days, Sam lost a lot of weight. Dean bought him some chicken noodle soup from the gas station and heated it up in the microwave in their motel room. Sam wrinkled up his nose again and tried to shove it away.
“It doesn’t taste right,” Sam mumbled, his eyes wide and helpless and fever-bright.
“Shut up and drink it.”
Sam obeyed, which was just another sign of how low his defenses really were. It was just a fucking cold, nothing big or serious, but Dean couldn’t understand why his body wasn’t fighting it off.
Shortly after that, Sam puked up the chicken noodle soup. Now, Sam wasn’t like Dean, he didn’t puke with his fevers. Hell, Sam only ever really puked when he was hung over or had a migraine, and Dean sure as hell knew that no alcohol had passed those lips in the last few days. Nor was the light bothering him.
Dean looked at the can of the chicken noodle soup and really thought about what Sam had been eating since it all started, thought about Sam and that nose-wrinkle of his.
“Was the soup bad?” he finally asked.
Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t taste right,” he repeated. He grabbed Dean by the sleeve and leaned close. “Don’t make me,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to taste it. Please?”
A lump formed in Dean’s throat, and he tried to swallow it down. “Taste what?” he asked. Sam turned his head and coughed, long and hard, until he was gasping for breath. And Dean asked him again, with a little more force, “Taste what, Sammy?”
“The blood,” he whispered. “It tastes like blood. I know it doesn’t, Dean, not really, but it does. You understand, don’t you?”