A/N: Not that I'm (remotely close to being) done with sneezy Dean, but I'm finding the scrolling chapter list a bit cumbersome at this point, and Chapter Fifty seems like as good a place as any to sign off. I'm gonna post future sneezy Dean as separate stories. Everybody who commented on this ficlet-pack at any point, you made me smile like a goon, again and again. Thank you times seventy-six. :)


Sam looks up from the newspaper spread out over the diner table. Dean won't meet his eyes, just sniffles and pokes a key on the laptop.



Dean's been fucking with the photo for a good twenty minutes, lining it up just right. A small queue of students is forming behind them at the copy machine, wearily shifting in their winter coats.

"Tape," Dean barks. Sam rips him off a piece.

"HuhhH..." Dean freezes, then blows out a hard breath and wiggles his nose. He smoothes the tape along one edge with his thumbnail. "Ihh... hhHH-TCHSHSHOO!"

The picture's spotted with liquid. Its ink's running.

"Son of a bitch."

When Dean picks Sam up at the cemetery there's a six-pack of boxes of Kleenex sitting in the backseat, and Dean's nose is suspiciously red.

Sam's eyebrows go up. "Everything OK?"

"Fide." Dean snuffles. "Find the grave?"

"Yeah. He's here all right."

"Good." Dean pulls out and Sam watches him, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the whiteness of his face.

"You feel OK?"

"Deja vu."

"You are taking an unnecessary risk."

Dean whips around so fast he stumbles into the flimsy motel desk. It creaks under his palms as it takes his weight.

"Jesus, Cas. What the hell?"

Sam turns, halfway out the door. "Hey. You made it."

"Made it?" Dean chokes and then coughs until his face is red.

"Sam told me you were ill." Castiel sizes Dean up. "He was correct."

Dean sneezes messily into his sleeve. "And you're here to cure me?"

"No." The angel steps forward and presses two fingers to Dean's forehead. Dean flinches and slumps into his arms.

Sam helps Cas roll Dean onto his bed, peel off his jacket and tuck him in. "I owe you one."

"One what?"

Sam smoothes back Dean's hair and puts a box of tissues beside him on the bed. "One of something good."

Prompt (from LJ): Gen. Dean gets the worst cold ever, refuses to admit he's sick, and Sam conspires with Bobby and Cas (or anyone really) to get him the rest he needs.