Author's Notes: Why is Dean always hurt or sick? Because I like it that way!

Author's Notes II: I'd just like to say 'Hi' to anyone that has decided to read this. I'd like to say that this story is my second attempt at SN fanfic and that it's by far not one of my best (and as anyone that has read any of my other stuff written after this was written already knows) I'm only posting this because I'm sick of e-mail barrage from a certain person that shall remain nameless. Anyway, please enjoy the sick!Dean as much as I do and thanks for reading.

Chapter 1

Sam awoke from his deep sleep feeling more rested then he had in a very long time. It had been a long night, chasing a damn puck through the Wisconsin forests. But they'd gotten it, killed it, and made it back for a burger and a beer.

Looking at the clock, Sam was surprised to see it was a little after ten in the morning. Glancing over and seeing Dean still sleeping, Sam used Dean's slumber to his advantage, and hit the shower first.

Ten minutes and most of the hot water later, Sam emerged from a cloud of steam, dripping wet and wrapped in nothing but a towel. He dried and dressed, and sitting on his bed, decided it was time to wake Dean. Launching a pillow in Dean's direction, Sam smiled when it hit it's mark, Dean's head.

"Rise and shine, it's almost ten-thirty. We gotta check out of here in a half hour, and you haven't showered yet. Get a move on!"

Sam frowned at the lack of reaction. He knew the projectile alone should have elicited the sort of verbal barrage that included a few choice four letter words, but instead he got silence. Taking a good look at Dean, he tried to remember the last time he saw him sleep in the fetal position. He was usually sprawled out from edge to edge, occupying most of the space he had. This time, his knees were pulled up so tight to his chest, Sam wondered if he was reliving his gestation. He was pretty sure he could stuff him into one of the duffels with room to spare.

Standing up and taking the short step between beds, he grabbed the pillow he'd thrown from off of Dean's head and tossed it aside.

The sight before him scared Sam. Dean's face and chest was covered in sweat. His face contorted in pain, his breathing coming in short, quick pants. Sam almost thought he was hyperventilating.

Grabbing Dean by the shoulder, Sam tried to gently roll him over. The groan of agony instantly stopped him, and shocked him even more.

"Oh Shit Dean, what's wrong? You're burning up man. This is not good."

"Sam…….." his voice was barely a whisper, "Help me."

Those were the two words that struck more fear in Sam then the whole supernatural world combined. If Dean was asking for help, Sam knew it had to be snowing in hell right now. Dean never asked for help.

Rifling through the duffels, Sam grabbed the thermometer from the first aid kit.

"Dean. Open your mouth, I need to take your temperature."

"Can't.."

"If you don't open your mouth, I'll have to take it from the other end, and I gotta tell you dude, you're in the perfect position for it."

Without a sound, Dean opened his mouth just enough for Sam to slide the thermometer under his tongue. Then he waited the short eternity for it to register. Sam took a look at it, and if possible, got more worried.

"104! Shit Dean, I need to get you to a hospital."

"Sam……sick……….gonna be………."

Sam took that warning instantly, grabbing the little wastebasket next to the bed. Quickly sitting against Dean's back, he rolled him over into his lap, lifting his head and shoulders enough to shove the basket under his chin. Amazingly, Dean was able to hold it in long enough to not throw up all over the bed, but the instant Sam brought the can up, he let it rip.

He wretched for what seemed like hours. Mercifully, the heaving finally stopped, and Dean relaxed just a little. The excruciating pain in his stomach subsided enough for him to slightly uncurl himself.

Sam eased Dean back down onto the bed. His own shirt was now soaked through, but not from his own sweat. It was all Dean's.

"Dude you gotta let me get that fever down, or I gotta take you to the hospital. I'm gonna put you in a cold bath. Can you roll over and hang your face over the side of the bed? I don't want you to throw up on yourself."

Dean just laid there, unable to move, face buried in a pillow.

"I'm fine Sam. I feel better already.

"You may feel better Dean, but if we don't get your fever down, you're gonna cook your brains. I'm running the tub, and you're going to get in it, and I don't wanna hear a word from you other than 'Yes Sam'."

"Whatever, dude. Do what you gotta do."

"I'll take that as a 'Yes, Sam'."

He started running the cold water, then added just enough warm water to make it slightly tolerable. This was not going to be fun, and Dean definitely wasn't going to like it. He already had chills, that was obvious to Sam by the way he was shaking uncontrollably.

By the time Sam came back in the room, Dean had rolled onto his side, knees firmly plastered to his chest again.

"Dean, can you sit up?" He just shook his head no.

"What if I help you?" No again.

"Is it bad again?" Yes.

"Alright, I guess I'll have to carry you." Sam bent over, fully intent on doing exactly what he'd said. He reached for one of Dean's arms, and started to pull him up.

"Sam…just shoot me, please?"

"I can't, it's against the law. Fratricide pretty much gets you a life sentence whatever state you're in. Are you gonna help me, or do I need to do this myself?"

Dean gathered every ounce of strength he had, and made a good effort to stand. Until he actually tried to put his weight on his legs, that is. Sam had an arm under his, and caught him before he went face first to the floor, and lifted him up, taking all of Dean's weight. He practically dragged him to the bathroom, awkwardly lowering him down into the frigid water. Dean actually screamed then, sending chills up Sam's spine.

Grabbing a washcloth, Sam sat next to the tub, trying to cool down Dean's face and neck. He was just too damn big for the little motel bathtub. And it didn't take long for his body heat to warm up the water. Sam pulled the drain, letting the water out, and started filling the tub again. If there was one thing motels had, it was overabundance of cold water.

He pulled Dean out of the tub after he'd thrown up again, twice, each time more violently then the last. He thought he'd heard Dean's back cracking, the heaving was so hard. He was probably going to give himself a concussion too. He dried him off, and just laid him back on the bed in wet boxers.

"Dean, I need to take your temp again. If it's not down, I'm taking you to the nearest hospital."

Thermometer in hand, Sam received no resistance this time. Dean was quiet and compliant. In this case, that wasn't a good thing either. The mere mention of a hospital usually had Dean throwing a tantrum like a two year old when you take away his cookie.

"Aw, fuck me! It's 104.3. It's up. That's it, we're outta here."

Sam frantically started gathering their meager belongings, and haphazardly threw them out in the car, not caring where they landed. Coming back in for Dean, he was in no way attempting to put clothes on him. He just wrapped him in the ugly motel comforter like a baby, and clumsily carried him out to the car. He laid him across the passenger seat, head hanging down, trash can on the floor. Sam was pretty sure Dean would never throw up in his baby, but why risk it.

Sam had one rather large problem, he had no idea where the nearest hospital was. All he knew is that they were in some crappy town outside of Madison, with only one cheap motel, one gas station, and four bars. Pulling out his cell, he dialed 411. Scavaging a pen from the glove box, he told the operator what town he was in, and asked for the number and address of the nearest hospital. With nothing to write on, he jotted it down on his hand, hung up, and started the car.

Attempting to dial, he was shocked at the strength of the hand that closed around his wrist. He squeezed with all the strength he had, and fueled by the pain he was in, was quite a bit. "Sam, no hospital, please."

"Dean, I need to get you help. You've got a 104 and rising fever, and you're throwing up lunch from two weeks ago. Do you realize the last time you threw up, there was blood in it? You need a doctor, and you need one now."

"No hospital Sam, please."

Sam was getting frustrated with his brother now. "Dean, do you want to die in the front seat of your car, because if I don't get you help, you probably will."

"Not the hospital Sam, please."

"Dean, spit it out, I can't read your mind when it's baking in it's own juices. Where the hell are we gonna go if we aren't going to the hospital?"

"Lou………….'

Sam didn't need to be told twice. Punching the buttons on his phone, he sent the text message from hell, Dean's hell, that is. 'Dean 911/2 hours/Sam.'

End Notes: Reviews are always appreciated. I'm open to suggestion too.