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They had been driving for hours.
The Impala hummed along a worn two-lane road, old asphalt vibrating beneath the wheels. The sky was nothing but a wide, pale stretch of cloudy blue, and Led Zeppelin was blaring so loudly through the speakers that the windows trembled in their frames. Dean was drumming on the steering wheel, belting out the lyrics like he was performing for a crowd of thousands instead of just his long-suffering little brother.
Sam Winchester, meanwhile, was regretting every single life decision that had led to this moment.
Namely: breakfast.
He’d ordered his usual—pancakes, eggs, bacon. Harmless. Reliable. Safe. Where he went wrong was letting the chirpy waitress talk him into trying the diner’s new signature “Holiday Chocolate Peppermint Dream.” It had tasted like someone had melted a candy cane into warm sour milk and added a dash of cheap cocoa powder on top.
But Sam, frugal because they lived as hunters and because Dean would make fun of him for “wasting perfectly good money,” had forced himself to finish it.
Big. Mistake.
He didn’t know a human stomach could create this much gas. It felt like bubble wrap was popping violently under his ribs every few seconds. Worse, the nausea was rising—slow, snakelike, and relentless—climbing toward his throat with every bump in the road. The Impala suddenly felt like a sauna despite the AC blowing in his face.
For over an hour he tried everything.
Changing positions.
Drinking water.
Breathing.
Praying—yes, actually praying.
The nausea said nope. Fuck you, Sam. I’m still here.
He swallowed miserably and dared a glance at Dean, who was blissfully unaware that Sam was five seconds from redecorating the interior of his beloved car.
“Dean,” Sam croaked, the word thick, weak, and absolutely desperate.
Dean didn’t hear him. Too busy being Robert Plant.
Sam shut off the music.
“Hey!” Dean barked, whipping his head toward Sam—only for the irritation to instantly melt into alarm. “Dude. What—Jesus, Sam, you look like you’re about to pass out. Or puke. Oh God, please don’t puke.”
Sam swallowed again—and gagged. “Dean… pull over…”
He didn’t have to finish. Dean loved Sam, absolutely—but he also loved his car. And Sam’s face was currently a live threat.
“Oh, hell no—hang on!” Dean shouted, swerving so sharply onto the shoulder that Sam nearly fell out of his seat. The car jolted to a stop.
Sam was out the door before it fully opened.
He staggered onto the grass, dropped to his knees, and with absolutely zero dignity, vomited violently. It hit the ground with force, bitter and watery and unmistakably chocolate-peppermint scented.
Dean stopped a good three feet away, made a face, then sighed and came closer anyway. “Okay, that’s… that’s nasty,” he muttered, grimacing as he reached to keep Sam’s hair back. “Dude, it smells like a minty chocolate crime scene.”
Sam coughed hard, choking on the last of it. His entire body trembled. “It’s—ngh—not funny,” he rasped.
“Oh, it’s a little funny,” Dean argued, though he rubbed Sam’s back in firm, reassuring circles. “Damn, Sammy. That looked like it came from your soul. What the hell did you eat?”
Sam spat bile, wheezing. “T-the diner drink—gghh—worst thing ever…”
Dean blinked. “It was a drink? A drink did this?” He shook his head, awed and horrified. “You have a stomach of steel, man. That thing must’ve been brewed in hell.”
Sam groaned, slumping in the grass, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He looked drained. Pale. Sweaty. Absolutely done with life.
Dean jogged back to the car, grabbed a water bottle, and returned. “Here. Small sips.”
Sam obeyed, rinsing his mouth, sipping carefully. He breathed slowly through his nose, trying to settle his churning stomach.
“You good?” Dean asked.
“I… I think—” Sam tried. Then he thought about breakfast.
And immediately gagged.
He lurched forward and puked again.
“Oh, come on,” Dean groaned, rubbing Sam’s back again but leaning his head away dramatically. “There can’t be anything left in you!”
Sam didn’t respond until the nausea finally ebbed. He leaned on his heels, panting. “If there is any more,” he croaked, “I’ll lose all my weight.”
Dean snorted. “Not possible, Sasquatch.”
With Dean’s help, Sam slowly stood.
“You done?” Dean asked seriously.
Sam gave a weak thumbs-up.
“Because if you puke in Baby, I swear to God—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam muttered hoarsely. “No throwing up in Baby. I know.”
As soon as they got back in the impala, Dean handed him the water bottle and a plastic bag. “Just in case,” he said sternly. Then his tone softened. “But seriously… if you feel even a little sick, tell me. Okay?”
Sam nodded, too exhausted to argue.
Dean restarted the music but turned it down this time. Sam leaned against the cool window, breathing evenly, lulled by the hum of the road beneath them.
He fell asleep within seconds.
He never ate chocolate anything for years after that.