HAPPY (late, late, late) BIRTHDAY MAD SERVER!
So… I wanted to write you something funny… no angst or anything, because I'm just not feeling like writing any angst or seriously hurt!boys right now and well it was your birthday and I can't give you something where Dean almost dies. LOL
The other participants of this bday!fic thingy are: Miyo86, PADavis, Sidjack and NewspaperTaxis. They will probably put up their fics a bit later today so… go check out their fics too :)
I own nothing, and all the grammar/spelling mistakes are mine.
Enjoy.
So he sneezed, so freakin' what? No big deal, it happens to everyone and it ain't gonna bring forth the end of the world. Well, again, that is.
Sam was just making an elephant out of a fly.
's not like he's gonna die of a little sneeze, well okay, when he sneezed his brain all but rushed out of his nose in a sticky goo like thingy and his eyes were watering apparently just because they liked doing that or something and his head was throbbing and his throat tickled whenever he tried to swallow and his body hurt everywhere… skin, flesh, muscles and all the way down to his bones, bones he didn't even know existed, but that's not the point.
Sam was just making a big deal out of nothing.
-:-
"Dean," Sam sighed and threw a box of tissues in his brother's lap, "the thing," he dropped the newspapers on the table and sat down on the too hard chair, legs spread, left forearm on the table, sticking to the newspapers, right forearm on his thigh, "sticking out of your nose's making me wanna puke."
"What?" Dean frowned and crossed his eyes to see what his little brother was yapping about before he had a chance to dip his tongue in his morning coffee.
"Wipe your nose, dude."
Sam said and unstuck his forearm from the stack of newspapers; it was hot outside, a true summer day and he started to sweat even before he left the room. Hell even before he left the bed.
He looked at the underside of his forearm and started to rub the black ink off of his skin, startling a little when his brother coughed and sniffled.
He huffed, because Dean had managed to get sick in the middle of summer.
His brother was clearly a genius.
"Dude."
Dean sneezed and coughed as a reply, sending whatever Sam saw hanging out of his nose fly from there and getting stuck on his jeans, smack in the middle of his thigh.
"Eww..." he wiped off the white-green-gooey-sticky thing with Sam's offered tissues, looked at it and declared is snot.
"Little bugger."
"Man, you're sick."
"I'm just wiping off the snot."
"No, I mean, well yeah that's disgusting, but I mean you're sick as in sick sick."
"'m not sick."
His brother is such a dick sometimes.
Dean sneezed and caught his brain in the tissue.
"Dude, I think I'll need some more tissues."
Sam rolled his eyes.
Genius.
-:-
Dean was trapped between a hard place and a rock.
Well, actually he was stuck between the toilet and the sink, which is really not all that better when you think about it.
And that green moss growing where wall meets floor, glaring right back at him, was seriously not making him feel any better: "Whatcha looking at, pal?" he asked it and got no reply.
Stupid moss.
He threw up in the rust covered toilet; some brown fluid that was probably coffee once upon a time and it tasted sour, burning his throat and after that he started coughing out a lung, because apparently the organ decided that it had enough abuse and wanted the hell away from him.
He coughed and coughed until he was almost choking, his head handing in the toilet.
"Oh, fuck…" he shuddered when he could catch enough air in his fucked up lungs and wiped the drool from his parted lips with the back of his hand, wishing the room would stop spinning.
"Need anything, man?" Sam's voice was muted coming through the bathroom door; it was made out of thin wood, but still… Sam's voice was heard like it came miles away.
Or maybe… maybe the roar of blood in Dean's ears just made him hear Sam so.
"Need you to shut up, 's what I need."
He muttered to himself and kept on glaring at the green moss that was growing behind the toilet, stretching up the tiled wall.
"Dean?"
Oh right, Sam didn't hear that.
"Nothing, go 'way."
"I have tissues and coffee and pills, man. I have lots and lots of pills."
Dean groaned. He wanted those pills, he wanted those tissues, because the toilet paper was long gone and towels… well he needed those to wipe away his sweat 'n' puke.
And coffee?
He rose up, supported his weight on his knees and forearms and puked into the rusty toilet again, whishing Sam would just go away.
Son of a bitch, it burned his throat and yeah… he needed to sneeze.
How was he so lucky!
"Dean?"
Shut it, Sam, ugh, son of a bitch!
He sneezed into his hand three times before slumping down the wall, saying with a raspy voice: "Screw you, buddy." to the stupid moss.
He wiped his hand on his jeans, grimacing and thinking to himself that the pants will have to be salted and burned.
He'll leave that for Sam to do.
-:-
The night was the worst thing ever. Seriously, sick people should never ever have to go through a night… the day should never end for sick people. Or people who deny that they're sick.
He was twisting and turning; left side and right side were no good because his nose kept leaking and leaking and he drooled all over his chin and pillow, sleeping on his stomach was even worse because he couldn't breathe then, and sleeping on his back… made his calf cramp.
The fun never ended.
He settled on his back with a pillow behind his back to keep his head elevated, so that all the snot in his noise dribbled into his throat instead of down his face, but his whole left nostril hurt so bad, he felt like someone was poking inside it with a stick.
He sneezed, and son of a bitch, but if he sneezed one more time, he'll punch himself into unconsciousness.
He was hot and he was cold and he was pretty sure he wasn't wearing a shirt anymore and that there was something wet all over his chest. Awesome, he'll drown in his own sweat. Super.
He was sure that his lips were moving and he just hoped that whatever he was saying, wasn't anywhere near the dirty talk he loved to use in bed. Oh, please God no.
"s'm… sam.. demons… demons… s'm.. sammmysammmysams'm… demons…"
There was a hand resting heavily on his forearm… he could feel that, but everything else was just blur and shapes in and out of focus.
His left nostril hurt. So bad.
There was pressure behind his eyes, he wanted to rub it out, but the hand on his arm stopped him.
Okay, okay… won't move.
"s'm… samm, sammysammmmyyyy, sam…"
He lips were dry, his whole mouth was dry.
"sammm, samsamsam… sammmyyy… sam…demons, demons… luc'fer, sammyammysammmy.
His voice sounded weird.
-:-
When the morning came, he wanted to die.
"Sammy. Gun. Naow."
Sam laughed at him, the little bastard.
"So? You sick or not?"
"'m not siiiick, I can't be sick, I have monsters to kill, things to hunt, stuff to shoot." He drawled out somewhere between a sneeze caught in his throat and an urge to breathe in the snot he was feeling crawling out of his nose.
He sneezed.
It wasn't fun.
It sucked.
It made his stomach hurt and his throat… he was pretty sure it was bleeding.
"Okay, look man," Sam adjusted his hands on his hips, twitching a little with his right shoulder, "you. are. sick, okay? And the only monster you're gonna fight is the flu, alright? Once you shoot that dead, then we'll talk, okay? Alright? Man, you have a fever, understand? I had to use all the towels to cool you down last night, man. Remember?"
He remembers very, very vaguely something cold and scratchy on his chest and arms and really, really brown eyes looking at him, and lips moving but other then that… no.
"'m. noth. sich." He groaned, his throat burning and his chest wasn't feeling any better either.
"Dude, you puked on your shirt, you've sweated through five tee shirts, you used eight boxes of tissues, three rolls of toilet paper and I can see you looking at the towels, but those are still wet, so..."
Dean sighed.
Well, when you put it like that… maybe he was a bit sick. Just a little bit.
He sneezed his throat out and something in his ear popped.
Maybe he was a little more then a little sick.
His brother's an ass.
He covered his head with the blanket and wheezed out a: "'m cold."
"Yeah, I bet you are."
THE END.