"Sam," a tired and heavily congested voice breaks through your thin layer of unconsciousness from across the room. "Sammy,"
You groggily turn over, finding the side table lamp on and the washroom door open, this undead figure leaning against the dark stained wooden frame of it. It's startling slightly, the way he stands there, staring at you with these tired, dilated eyes. "Hey," you stutter, sitting up slowly and glancing over at the clock. "It's 2:30, what are you doing up?"
He coughs in return, then groans a sick and sleepy, "we don't have any medicine, do we?"
You reach for your bag beside the bed, but it's not there.
"I already looked," he stumbles a bit making his way back to the bed and sprawls out atop the untouched sheets. "All you have are narcotics."
You push yourself up and put the back of your hand against his forehead.
Dean faces away from you and coughs a few more times.
"Why don't you get some sleep, okay?"
"No," he's slow to turn over, but as he does he gives you this utterly desperate look. "I can't."
"Why?"
"'Cause I'm dying, Sam."
You put a hand back into him, running it gently down to just below his jawline. "Your lymph nodes are swollen."
"I don't know what that means."
"It means," you take the box of tissues from the night stand and put them on his chest. "You're sick."
He nods. "I kinda figured that out when my insides came up in the sink."
You stare at him for a second—he looks like, for lack of a better word, a zombie. Red eyes, flushed cheeks, messy hair and unattended to stubble. It's brutal, but it's strangely adorable. "How bad is it?" You ask.
He sits up as you pull him to. "Whatcha mean?"
"Like," you catch him as he starts to topple over. "Do you need medical attention?"
"No," he glances over at the door briefly. "But I do need some medicine."

"Aisle three," the unenthusiastic cashier tells you, pointing towards a vacant row of brightly colored bottles. You thank him briefly and find your way towards them. One orange bottle and one dark blue bottle of thick and more than likely sticky liquid you place down on the counter. "Have a nice day."
You rub your eyes as he hands you a few coins. "You too," you take a plastic bag from him and make your way into the freezing cold. No jacket, no shoes, a nearly transparent white shirt over your chest—you're surprised they even let you in in this half conscious state. The druggies down in an alleyway look better than you. Well, at least they have shoes.
"I'm back," you announce, letting the door close behind you. A tired and distant body sits up at the foot of the bed farthest from the window, staring at a dimly lit screen broadcasting some late night infomercial. "And I brought you something."
He briefly glances at the bag as you place it down and then glances up at you. "Sam," he gestures towards the screen. "Sam, he touched the fire but it didn't burn him."
You nod slightly.
"Crazy, right?"
"Crazy,"
The bag catches his attention again. "Oh," he says. "You got drugs."
You nod. "I walked down the street and got them for you."
He stares blankly at you.
"Six blocks."
"But Sam," his eyes find their way to your feet. "You don't have shoes."
"I know." You take the dark blue bottle and open it, pouring a dose into the plastic measuring cup. "Here,"
He downs it quickly, the sour look that comes about him making you smile. "Yummy,"
"I bet."
"How long does this take to work?" He asks, briefly running his tongue over his lips afterwards.
You sit down beside him. "About twenty minutes."
He nods in return.
"So until it does, we should watch this crazy guy touch the fire."
Dean sleepily rubs his eyes and sniffles. "It's crazy, you have no idea."