Dean sat in the Impala, silently shivering. It was February, and they were in the middle of Maine. John was huntin' some ruga-something. Sam was curled up in the back seat, fast asleep. John drove, not saying anything. Dean shivered again, this time harder than the previous shiver. He wasn't feeling very well, if we're being honest. He felt congested, his head was full and heavy, and his throat burned uncomfortably. He cleared it and swallowed. A wince, followed by a dry cough thanked him for his efforts. John looked at Dean, and then reached out to place a palm on Dean's appearing to be sweaty forehead. Dean tried to move away from John, but realized a little too late that he was buckled into his seat.
"A little warm, kiddo," John slyly said to Dean. Dean grimaced. "I'm fine," he grunted with an uncomfortable layer of congestion and an unhealthy rasp. John smirked, "Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England." Dean coughed, and cleared his rough throat again. "Just sleep, we'll be there soon." Dean hunched down and quickly fell asleep.
Dean awoke to Sam calling him. "What, Sam?" Dean groaned. "We're here. Come on out." Dean coughed, harder than before. Then he got out of the car. He sniffled and walked into the motel room. John was attempting to start research. "Feel better?" John asked. Dean shook his head miserably, as he fought back coughs. He immediately was rewarded with a wave of dizziness. John walked over, and helped Dean to a bed. "Fever's a little higher. Rest up, kiddo." Dean coughed when he hit the pillow. John ruffled Dean's short hair.
"I'll be back, Sammy. Watch out for your brother. Make sure he rests." Sam nodded. Dean sniffled, his nose twitching He sneezed twice, and sniffled wetly. Sam got a roll of toilet paper. "Just until Dad gets back," Sam explained. Dean nodded, and lay back against the headboard. He blew heavily, coughing just as heavy. Sam's brow knitted with concern for Dean. Even at 14, he knew that Dean was sick. Dean looked like complete crap, and he probably felt even worse. Dean hated being sick and when he did get sick, it took him out completely for days on end. The reason had to be that Dean hated to rest or take it easy. Dean was constantly on the move, had been since infancy (according to John). The only times he was listless was when he was hurt, sick or upset—which made sense.
Dean had fallen fast asleep by the time Sam finally pulled away from the daydream. That was another sign altogether. Dean could pull 3 all-nighters in a row and still be on the go. Sam realized then that Dean acted abnormally when he was sick, tired, hurt or upset. Or maybe that was when he was truly himself because he simply didn't have the energy to restrict himself.
Sam tucked Dean in, and lay down on the other bed next to his brother. Within minutes, he was also asleep. John came in to find both boys passed out at opposite ends of the room. Dean coughed in his sleep, and flipped onto his stomach. The cough was getting worse. Sam was curled up, a tattered book lay forgotten next to his face. Dean was on his stomach, legs sprawled out like a starfish, snoring softly through his completely blocked nose. John unloaded the bags of groceries while his boys slept. Tissues, Robittussin, Nyquil, decongestants, cough drops, and food. He'd also gotten popsicles because he knew exactly how raw Dean's throat would be. He even bought some Airborne for Sammy and himself. Digging around in the old medical kit ('Ole Reliable' Dean liked to call it) for the thermometer, he sat down on Dean's bed when he found it.
"Hey dude, let's get some meds in ya,"
Dean flipped over, and coughed heavily. John swiftly slipped the thermometer in Dean's mouth. Dean scowled but kept it in his mouth. "If it gets any higher, we're goin' to the clinic," John ordered. Dean nodded, sniffling liquidly. His breath hitched, and he sneezed threw times in the crook of his elbow. "Can I have a tissue Da—"he started to say as another sneeze quickly stole what he was trying to say. Dean snuffled miserably. John handed him the whole box. Sam shifted, but stayed asleep. "Alright, kid, take these and go back to sleep," Dean nodded again; his head throbbed with the movement. He bit back a groan. He swallowed the cold medicine, and slid back under the covers.
John carded his hand through Dean's sweaty hair, and then got up to lay down the salt lines. Once done, he got a few of his research books and sat down on Sammy's bed. Unable to focus, he closed the big textbook and grabbed the book Sam had been reading. "Catcher and the Rye…?" John flipped it open and read. Sam scooted over subconsciously to make room for John, but stayed completely asleep.
John remembered one of the first times Dean had gotten sick, way back when Mary was still around. All the things John did now was taught to him from Mary…