"Dammit, Sam; you've got the worst timing in the friggin' world."
The bed squealed in protest as the beaten backpack bounced twice and then settled on top of the occupant's foot.
A feeble kick barely moved the offending bag.
"Leave me alone, Dean…"
A half snort, half chuckle echoed from the tiny motel bathroom.
"Leave you alone? You can barely make it when you're not dying from the plague-"
"-It's influenza, Dean," the lanky blanket bundle croaked, "The bubonic plague ended over five hundred yea-"
"Boob what?" A face far too cheerful for the circumstances emerged from the bathroom, toothpaste dripping from the corner of an upturned grin.
"Man, a boob plague! I never learned about that in high school…"
"Dean, you barely went to high school…"
The idiotic grin failed to wane in the face of the cold facts.
"Ha! I wonder what else they didn't tell me…"
Blankets flipped upward only to fall and bury the ill victims head amid a loud moan.
"This sucks."
"Well, it could be worse," came the peppy echo, "You could be growing boobs…"
The motel comforter flipped down again, revealing a fever-reddened face.
"Dean, I'm sick, I'm tired. My head hurts. I can't swallow. I got a freaking cold from slogging around in a swamp looking for a ghost for crying out loud. Now I'm stuck in this disgusting hotel room and I'm too dizzy to even walk to a gas station and buy Tylenol-"
"-Poor Sammy…"
"-And you're laughing about boobs like a four-year-old!"
Dean leaned halfway out of the bathroom, his white teeth still bared even though his tone had sobered.
"Aww, c'mon Sam, I'll take care of you."
A cough that had been intended as a laugh erupted from the bed.
"Oh GOD. Kill me now."
A merciful silence followed; it was only broken by the occasional clink of glassware from the bathroom.
The ceiling tiles started to blur.
"Here, sicko, drink this."
Cold metal jerked Sam awake and he instinctively drew away from the cup pressed to his lips.
"Hey. Open up."
"What is this? Dean, wha-"
Warm mush ran down Sam's throat.
His antagonist sat back, a satisfied smile stretched across his face.
"Now finish it," he ordered, pushing the glass into Sam's hand.
Meekly, the patient obeyed, watching as his brother began rummaging through the backpack at the foot of the bed.
"Swallow this, too."
A rattling bottle hit Sam's chest.
He inspected it through blurry eyes.
"What is this?"
An emphasizing pause followed before Dean answered.
"Tylenol."
"Dean…you didn't have to go get-"
"-I didn't. I've had it since I saw you were getting sick. Here, have one of these, too."
A packet of throat lozenges slapped Sam's chest.
"…And drink that tea." Dean jerked a thumb at a steaming mug on the nightstand.
Sam choked on a hoarse laugh.
"Dean the doctor? Seriously dude, I thought your medicine would be a shot of bourbon."
Finally the indomitable smile faded, replaced with furrowed brows.
"What?"
At the sudden change in tone, Sam looked from the tea back at his brother and frowned, his eyebrows pinching slightly.
"What?" He echoed.
"Who did you think took care of you when you were sick as a kid?"
Sam's eyes lowered.
Dean looked thoughtful for a moment - but the expression vanished before comment could be made, and the goofy grin was back.
"Yeah, that's right - me. So drink up, sicko."
The bed shifted as the doctor rose.
Sam sat up.
"Hey, Dean…"
"What?"
"...Thanks. For taking care of me."
Dean disappeared into the bathroom, his voice taking on the ring of an echo as he did so.
"Hey, I just don't want your snotty nose running all over the upholstery in my baby…"
"Yeah sure...Jerk."
"Bitch."