The shot of whisky slid down his throat smooth as silk.
Unlike his brother, Sam wasn't one to drown his sorrows in alcohol. His preferred method of dealing was to brood until the meninges in his brain could take no more and erupted in a rebellious migraine.
But today the amber liquid suited his mood.
:
Dean was bed-ridden; high fever, sore throat, pain clenching his muscles. The older Winchester had picked up a nasty bout of influenza on his last night out on the town.
Though Sam was worried for his sibling, he couldn't avoid seeing the flu as a kind of 'divine intervention' for the uber-randiness which had taken control of Dean recently. Every night, a different girl!
Sam wondered where he found the energy. Hunting by day, sex by night.
Maybe this was his body's way of getting some rest!
:
'Sammy.' A feeble whine echoed down the silent corridors. 'I'm gonna puke.'
Sam pushed back his chair and rushed to Dean's bedroom, but the sound of retching told him he was already too late, not that he was bothered. Rarely did he get to fuss over his big brother, Dean always brushed off any hint of weakness, so Sam was rather enjoying his role of caretaker.
He wouldn't have the job for long though, for as soon as Dean felt a little better, he'd be back to his no chick-flick, no fussing self!