Drought and flood
A/N: Well, Dean's unconscious for this one, so no delirious ramblings. But I still hope you have an awesome birthday Phoebe!!
Word Count- *Gasp, shock, and awe* What? You mean I actually managed to keep it to the limit this week? Look out! It's a sign of the Apocalypse- oh wait, the boys have already started that… XP
And no, I still don't own them.
Crinkled furrows of discomfort rise across his forehead, desert dry and barren of moisture. Two days of hospital worthy illness and Dean's fever has yet to break. His skin is parched, eyes sunken.
Sam thinks he hears thunder, or perhaps that's only the pounding of incessant worry inside his skull.
He presses a thumb to his lips, brushing the digit along his brother's cheek, as if invoking the childish healing properties of kisses.
A single drop surfaces, rolling along Dean's brow to fall, absorbed by thirsty cotton. Others soon follow.
The drought is over. From Sam's eyes, the flood begins.