Title: Fever
Author: Mahtalie
Rating: K
Characters: Dean, Sam
Summary: E/O Challenge: Dean has a fever. Set six weeks after "Pilot" - Sam is preoccupied, which suits an ailing Dean just fine, thank you.
A/N: Happy (late) Birthday, Mad Server! This is for you - I'm sorry it's late, and it's far from finished, but I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate all your encouragement and inviting me to joing the Drabble Challenges :) Hope you had a great day!


Dean watched Sam work with glazed eyes, too tired to sleep, too early to take more medication. This had to be the part he hated most about having the flu - sleep all you want, but you still wake up feeling achy, exhausted and completely useless. And Dean hated being useless, more than the sore throat, persistent headache, runny yet simultaneously blocked nose, and oh, don't forget the fever and chills that had him kicking the sheets from him one minute, grabbing blindly for them the next. Yes, he hated feeling useless.

He dragged a heavy hand over his face. "Missed one," he rasped.

Sam looked up from the careful inventory of weaponry that had kept him occupied the better part of an hour. "Hey." A smile tugged the corner of his mouth. "How you feelin'?"

Dean gave a half-hearted thumbs-up and snatched a tissue from the bedside table, chest hitching with an impending sneeze. Sam laid the shotgun across his knees. Patience, where his ailing older brother was concerned, was definitely a virtue.

Several breaths and half a minute later, Dean gave up on the stuck sneeze and leaned back against the headboard, scowling. He swiped dejectedly at his pinkening nose and aimed the kleenex in the general direction of the trashcan by the table. Miss.

Sam shook his head and tried again. "Good thing you never tried out for the team," he noted. "Feeling any better?" He already knew the answer; if Dean's congested snoring and incoherent mumblings, barely audible over the low volume of the television, were any indication. "I've got dinner," he suggested mildly, knowing the answer to that as well.

Dean aimed not one but two thumbs-down at Sam. "You missed one," he said again, pointing now at a silver bullet that had rolled off the rickety table and lodged under the table leg. Sam had spread the entirety of their arsenal - knives, ammo, charms, herbs, the like - across the tiny surface in an effort to keep his mind occupied, away from thoughts of fire, from bright blue eyes and soft blonde hair, from accusations running mad through his skull: this is your fault, you should have stopped it, you could have told her... He shook his head, tossed those thoughts to the side. He grinned at Dean and bent to grab the bullet from the stale carpet. "Thanks, man."


Just a snippet, but I hope it was enough for a review? *hint hint* The forehead-feeling will come later, I promise!

Again, Happy Birthday, Mad Server!