A/N: Massive massive happy birthday to Hanson's Angel, who writes pretty things and lets me fantasize at her. Big shiny thank yous to hoodietime for the deliciously analytical beta and to sidjack for the delicious love. And to Enkidu07 for buying a house. Yes. Yes it's related. Shh.
One night Dean wakes up crying and doesn't stop.
Sam brings him water in the dark. He sits by Dean's feet and rubs a sole cautiously through the blankets. It's all he's got.
When Dean wakes up later that morning it's with a violent, shuddering cough. His eyes are red, his face like skimmed milk as he drags a knuckle under his nose and spreads a palm across his chest.
"You don't look so good."
Dean loses a staring contest with his oatmeal. "What?"
"Feel OK?"
Dean barks into a balled-up napkin. He tries to answer but only squeaks.
The scarf's made from plain grey wool. Dean runs it warily through his hands.
"It'll help. Trust me. Plus if there's a snowstorm, you're covered."
Dean winds it around his throat. He burrows back into the couch cushions, hacking against his wrist.
The pharmacists all know Sam by name.
Nothing tamps down Dean's temperature and nothing pulls the junk out of his chest. He starts to sleep sitting up.
When he's not sleeping he picks at the scarf, slowly breaking it down to yarn.
"I did things."
Sam's mixing mustard and flour in a chipped mug. "Hey. Rest your voice."
Dean sniffles, forlorn.
Sam sighs, peels the cloth from Dean's forehead and flips it over. "Tell me."
"There was this lady who made jewelry. Nice lady. Don't know what she was down there for." Tearstained, Dean coughs tiredly into the headboard. "I got her intestines out in one big loop. Touched all four walls and went back inside her. Looked like a big bracelet."
"That's..." Sam can't think what.
Mustard plasters work. Who knew? Not Sam.
He watches, after that, but Dean drinks instead of crying, and he doesn't get sick again.