WOW week and/or weak. As I used both words, I did a 200 word drabble.

Dean's just recovering from the 'flu ... we all know how Dean does illness with such good grace and dignified fortitude.

a/n sorry for the late posting, I'm afraid my poor brain is frazzled as I have spent the weekend having obscene amounts of fun at the Asylum 8 convention with the lovely Edina Clouds and Amberdreams and as well as hi-fiving Castiel, buying Guy Bee a drink, having the biggest hugs EVER with Rufus and Lucifer, talking rubber ducks with Crowley, and falling in love with Garth, I got a great big beardy bear hug from Bobby!

Excuse me just one moment ... SQUEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Thank you.

Disclaimer: I don't own them, I clearly need to work harder on my nefarious plans.


Leaning wearily over the bathroom basin, as weak and colourless as the water trickling from the tap, Dean's teary, unfocussed eyes stared into the mirror from charcoal-grey smudges that framed a wet, crimson-tipped nose.

Being ill totally sucked.

He cringed as his rattling breath misted the mirror; jeez, what in hell had crawled into his mouth and died? He grimaced, swallowing back a sudden urge to salt and burn his own tongue.

Post-sickness morning death-breath sucked too.

He scraped chilly fingertips through his hair, half of which was plastered damply against his scalp, while the other half seemed determined to spend the rest of eternity pointing magnetic north.

And bed hair sucked; oh, but sick, sweaty bed hair really sucked. Big-time.

This 'flu or cold or friggin' flesh-eating-zombie-death-bug, whatever the damn thing was, had started as an annoying sniffle almost a week ago and then BAM! It had left him feeling feeble and pathetic, and it sucked ass. Totally.

So did chapped lips, armpit sweat-stains and joints that felt like lead.

And through it all, Sam had ridden the storm without succumbing to so much as a sniffle, the smug bitch.


And that was the thing that really, REALLY sucked the most.