Title: Five times Dean has said "I'm not sick" to Sam
Author: Mad Server
Rating: T
Pairing: None, sorry.
Disclaimer: I didn't create Supernatural and I don't own these characters.
A/N: A big thank you to my superfantastic beta, susannaheanes. heart
Summary: Dean can be so stubborn...

1.
Dean sneezed five times into a wad of kleenex, blew his nose and stuffed the wad into the garbage bag. I raised an eyebrow at him from the driver's seat.

'What?' he said. 'I'm not sick, all right? Quit looking at me like that.' His voice was deep with congestion, his face pale, his nose a glaring red.

I rolled my eyes. 'Whatever.'

2.
'I don't feel like it.'

I stared. 'You don't?'

'Nah.'

'You don't feel like playing pool? At a bar? Where there are girls and drinks and a Metallica cover band?'

'Not really.'

I blinked. 'You feeling OK?'

'Look, I just want to stay in tonight and watch some cable. What's the big deal?' He looked irritated.

'Dean. You never want to stay in and watch cable when there's girls and drinks and a Metallica cover band. Come here.'

'Why?'

'I want to see something.'

'No.'

'Please?'

'Screw you.'

'Fine.' I crossed the room and put a hand on his forehead. He struggled weakly.

Yep. 'I knew it.'

'Come on, man, I'm not sick. Can't a guy watch TV?'

'You can watch TV, Dean. I'll even watch it with you. But yeah bro, you're sick.'

3.
The interview had gone well; suits and fake IDs had got us inside, and charm had done the rest.

Dean stumbled on the way out. I grabbed his arm, surprised, but he said, 'Dude, I got it.'

In the elevator I noticed how pale his face was, how dark the circles under his eyes. 'Did you sleep last night?'

'Like a kitten,' he told me, but when we stepped outside he blinked and squinted against the late-afternoon light like it was noon.

By the time we got to the car, Dean's face had completely drained of colour, and he'd broken into a sweat. I swallowed.

'Why don't I drive,' I said.

He shrugged, reached into his pocket and took out the keys, then stood looking at them absently, like he'd forgotten why he had keys in his hand.

'Dean?'

He looked at me quizzically, seemed like he was about to say something, and then all of a sudden his eyelids drooped and he reached for his head with one hand and the Impala with the other.

'Are you OK?' I asked, but then he started listing to one side and I knew he wasn't. I rushed him, grabbed him just as his knees gave out, fumbled with the keys and the door and laid him out in the back seat, my heart pounding. There was too much heat coming off him. He was only out for a couple seconds, and while I was loosening his collar he started coming around.

'Hey,' I said. 'Why didn't you tell me you were sick?'

He blinked up at me from the back seat. 'I'm not sick.'

'Dean. You just fainted. You're running a fever. You're sick. We didn't have to do the interview today, man. I want to see you safe; help me out here.'

With some effort he managed to turn onto his side, then drew his legs up and shut his eyes. 'Whatever, let's roll.'

4.
'I'm not sick.'

'Yeah you are.'

'Am not.'

'Dean.'

'What's the matter, Sammy, can't a guy wear a sweater every now and again?'

'Yeah Dean, but when he wears four of them at once it usually means there's something wrong with him. Unless he lives in fucking Antarctica.'

'Oh come on, it's a cold night and you know it.'

I looked down pointedly at my T-shirt. 'No Dean, actually it's not. So how about popping a couple of Tylenol and hitting the sack?'

'What, and let you have all the fun? I don't think so, bro.'

'Come on, man, it's research. It's not exactly Disneyland. Catch a few hours and see how you feel.'

He opened his mouth to rebut, but hesitated as a bout of shivers shot through him.

I threw him the Tylenol bottle. It bounced off his chest and hit the ground.

'You're losing your touch,' I joked.

He glared at me with glassy eyes, and when he didn't bend down to pick up the bottle it occurred to me that maybe he was too dizzy to do it without falling on his face.

'I got it,' I said. I went over to him, crouched down and picked up the bottle. 'Here. Seriously. Go to bed. I'm cold just looking at you.'

He was asleep inside of twenty minutes, his face in a book.

5.
The sore throat had hit Dean on Sunday. I could tell because his voice went scratchy and a couple times I saw him wincing when he swallowed. By Tuesday his voice had dropped half an octave and his nose was blocked up. Friday he couldn't stop coughing, and I guess he figured the jig was up, because he stopped being surreptitious about the pills he was popping.

'Why do you do that?' I asked, watching him chase his cold meds with Buckley's.

'Do what?'

'When you're getting sick, you always pretend you aren't. What's that about?'

His face was red from coughing but it went redder. I couldn't think when I'd ever seen Dean blush. Maybe in other circumstances it would have been funny, but this wasn't, and I started backpedalling, perplexed. 'Hey, forget it.'

'I'm not sick,' he mumbled.

'Look, it's OK, really.'

Another coughing fit took him, tearing up his throat, and I winced in sympathy. 'Ouch.'

Dean shot me a warning look, then turned on the TV and threw me the remote, still coughing like a fiend.

I felt sad for him all of a sudden. What had happened to him, that he thought he had to be so strong and silent? Why couldn't he take a little kindness every once in awhile, especially now when he was so obviously having a shitty time?

I wanted to go over and squeeze his shoulder, put him to bed with a cool cloth on his face and just let him sleep. He would never let me do that though, so instead I picked up the remote and flipped through the channels until I found a movie we both liked. I glanced over at Dean and he gave me a thumbs-up.

All right. He was an adult and I had to respect his wishes. I settled back against the headboard. Maybe for now, just hanging out with him was enough. It certainly seemed to be all he was prepared to accept from me. Maybe with time I could teach him to accept more.

end