Dean knew something was wrong when Sam starting singing to the motel radio.
Sam never sang.
And to make it worse, it was an 80's song.
A really, really bad 80's song.
"God, Sam, c'mon," Dean all but begged him to stop..
Sam leaned his head on his palm, elbows resting on the table.
"Whip it, whip it good…"
It was more than Dean could take.
"Sam, you're delirious. I'm going to get the thermometer and some medicine."
"I'm not dehhlirriouss Dean, I jussst like the sssong."
"Mhm, whatever you say Sam."
Dean slammed the door.