This week has been nothing but chaos and strange happenings.

I haven't had the proper time to focus on the drabble and when I did, I focused too much. It's one big story and it's about 230 words.

This is for SalchanTheWitch, who wanted good witches, and Musica Diabolos, who wanted my favorite genre: sick!Sam.


Badass

Dean awoke to rapid-fire barking of dogs choking on rocks. He blinked to find this new, hulked-out version of Sam erect in a chair, gun and knife in respecitve hands. Shielding Dean's bed like he was some delicate thing.

Dean had massive problems absorbing the ressurrected-groped-by-an-angel thing, so he focused on the classics: Sammy.

Sam was silver from sweat and paleness.

"You look like fermented roadkill, dude. Bed, now."

"…no-no, demons come at night…" Sam muttered, chair creaking from the severity of hacking coughs.

Dean stared into blown pupils, finding only delirum. He forgot his shoes in haste to get Sam help.

**

It was more than a virus. Placating smiles were traded for rough-handed urgency once they'd checked his vitals and removed his clothes.

Dean clutched Sam's jacket, cataloguing the rips and bloodstains. Dean had died; Sam had done his best to be like his big brother.

Dean began his vigil.

The witch suspected of killing cheating hustands with viscious glee arrived in a raven blur with green heels and greener eyes.

"You're not welcome, lady."

"I can help, man."

Dean stared, baffled.

"He's psychic. I like my fellow freaks."

"If you hurt him…"

"I read about the Salem Witch Trials. Got the rocks in my purse."

It was quick, swipes of potions to Sam's forehead, chest and eyes.

Sam healed, not immediately, but fast. And Dean decided that some witches were badass.