Oh man. This isn't really much. It's a response I posted over on LJ for a prompt on hoodietime's comment-meme. If you haven't gone over there, DO. In fact, you should probably just not bother with reading this and head straight over - there are some frigging amazing comment fics over there. Enough to blow your socks off your feet. This was my first stab at doing a comment-fic, and it was really fun!

Anyhoo, the prompt was that John was out of town and Dean gets sick (anything but appendicitis) and Sam helps while his older brother pushes through. I loved the title the prompter had going for it, which was "Why, Yes, I Do Enjoy the Classics." I loved it, and I thought I'd give it a go. This is unbeta'd, and all mistakes are mine, but at least I did a better proofread before posting this here than I did over on LJ!

Disclaimer: They're somebody's alright. Just not mine.

It's a little too good of a set up. That's exactly why Sam doesn't want to stay here for the winter, house sitting for some people Dad knew, like, twenty years ago, instead of the usual crummy string of motel rooms. Deep down, Sam gets that Dad's just trying to give him and Dean some semblance of stability, and that the offer to live in an actual house, rent free, for three months is actually a generous one. It's too good, that's why Sam doesn't want to be here.

It isn't because the house is decorated like how old people usually did their homes, with glass cabinets displaying old bowling trophies, framed photos, potpourri baskets, and a pair of rooster-shaped oven mitts dangling above the kitchen stove. It isn't the fact that Dean will definitely bring a girl from school over the first chance he gets, when their Dad will eventually blow town on a hunt, leaving Sam to put up with the sounds of his brother having noisy, enthusiastic sex. It isn't even because of Bob, the parrot the Guthries left under their care with strict instructions while they vacation in Florida. Bob doesn't talk, which is weird because apparently this kind of parrot is supposed to talk, but he screeches a lot. He's also a biter.

Sam knows it's none of these things the first night they stay there, when he walks from room to room, hand brushing over bed quilts adorned with flowery patterns, dressers covered in lace doilies. Breathing in the smell of occupied space, of old, faded cooking smells and linen closets, he knows.

He doesn't want to stay here because he doesn't want it to start feeling like a home to him.

That same night, he pulls a thick hardcover from the bookshelf in the Guthries's living room. He settles down on the floor with the book opened across his knees while Dad and Dean flip through the channels. They don't stay in places with cable very often.

"Blue-fronted Amazon," Sam says as he points at one page. There's a picture of the parrot in question. "Amazona aestiva," and he starts listing its habitats. "Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil…"

Dean chucks a decorative throw pillow, narrowly misses him on purpose. "Hey, National Geographic," he calls, chin lifting in Sam's direction. "Shut it and let us watch tv, yeah?"

Dad chuckles, looks back at Sam. "So why do you think they gave an exotic animal such an ordinary name like Bob?"

Sam shrugs, mulls it over for second. "Maybe so he's not reminded that he doesn't really belong here?"

Suddenly, Sam feels really sorry for the animal, which only an hour ago was happily munching on the unsalted crackers he was offering it through the bars of its cage.

/0/0/0\0\0\0\

Dad has to leave on a hunting trip pretty much right away, just like Sam knew he would. Dean is pissed that he can't come.

"Dad, you can't be serious about leaving me behind on this," the teen protests as he watches Dad packs his duffel. Sam hangs back, only because he knows that complaining won't change anything. It never does, and Dad always leaves.

The response Dean gets from his father is gentle but implacable. "Sorry, kiddo. But this isn't just a short weekend trip, and you boys have school."

Dean looks like he's going to argue further but he's cut off.

"And before you say it, I've got plenty of backup on this one, so don't worry about it. This isn't the first vampire nest I've gone after without you, you know."

Dad rests his hand on Dean's shoulder to soften his words but Sam sees his brother flinch, anyway. It makes Sam angry, reminds him how Dean only feels he's worth a damn unless he's out there sticking his neck out for his father and little brother. He's pretty sure Dean's always acted like he's the one responsible for the family's safety, and he hates it. What he hates even more, though, is that their Dad just seems so okay with it.

He may only be thirteen, but Sam knows there's something wrong with that.

/0/0/0\0\0\

"I mean, it's North Dakota. Who keeps a South American bird in a place like North Dakota?"

Dean rolls his eyes as he stirs the pot of noodles he's got boiling.

"I don't know, Sam. People?"

"But it gets cold in North Dakota, Dean!"

Dean points the wooden spoon at his younger brother. "You seriously going to tell me that bird is cold? It's like friggin' Hawaii in that room!" He turns back to his cooking, gives the spaghetti sauce a quick stir. "Why do you care so much about the stupid parrot, anyway? All it does is shit and make noise."

Down the hall, Bob instantly starts up as if prompted. From the confines of his "bird room" (and Dean can't believe how gay that sounds), the parrot starts squawking. It's a god-awful racket once it gets going. First, Bob begins with this weird sort of warble, and that builds up into a lurching call and then finally it breaks out into a screeching crescendo that goes on for a good fifteen minutes or so. As noisy as these evening serenades of Bob's are it's nothing compared to how loud it sounds at six in the morning, when it does the same thing. The bird operates like clockwork. Four days in, and already the brothers have learned Bob's timetable.

Dean cringes under the sound of the parrot's caterwauling, and Sam laughs.

"Really?" he says, incredulous. "A parrot is making too much noise for you?"

Dean glares at Sam. "Not everyone loves Tweety Bird there as much as you, midget." And it's true. Sam has pretty much taken over all bird-care duties. It turns out that their Dad is allergic, and his brother just plain doesn't like Bob. "Stupid parrot," Dean mutters as he covers the sauce and turns back to the noodles, flipping off the stove burner.

Sam smiles, watching Dean for a second before he turns back to his algebra homework.

/0/0/0\0\0\

The next night is Friday night, and Dean's brought a girl home, just like Sam knew he would. Dad won't be home for at least another few days, and it just wouldn't be Dean if he didn't take advantage of the fact. Except the night didn't exactly go as he figures his big brother must have planned, and Sam's wakes up at one in the morning to the sound of someone coming in through the front door. He recognizes the surreptitious sounds of Dean bumping around in the darkness and he pads out of his bedroom sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

"Wha's going on?" Sam's jaw cracks as he yawns around his question.

Dean's kicking his shoes off in the foyer. "Nothing, Sam," he says. "Just drove Amanda home in her car, is all." Dean stops and makes a face. "Dude, she puked in my bed."

"Really?" Sam can't keep the amusement out of his voice. "Why?"

Dean gives him a look. "I don't know, Einstein. Maybe because she's sick?"

"So you guys weren't drunk?"

"Didn't I just say I drove her home? No, we weren't drunk!"

Sam pauses for a moment, and then, "If you get me sick, I'm going to kill you."

"Thanks for your concern, bitch."

"Jerk."

Sam stays up with Dean while he washes his bed sheets, all the same.

/0/0/0\0\0\

It's the following Monday evening, and Sam comes home from the library to find Dean hanging up the phone in the kitchen.

"What's going on?" Sam asks as he reaches for an apple out of the fruit bowl, thinking as he does how weird it is for him to even be staying in a place that has a fruit bowl in the first place. The thought instantly puts him in a bad mood, and he frowns. "Was that Dad?"

Dean glares over at Sam as he walks into the living room, stretches out on the couch and picks up the remote. "Geez, Sammy. What's with the bitchface? Yeah, it was Dad. Just checking in. Hunt's taking longer than he thought."

"What else is new?" Sam grumbles around his apple, which he holds in his mouth as he starts going through the cupboard, pulling out a cracker for Bob.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean replies, clearly not in the mood. "I gotta headache. Don't start with that. You'd rather he turn around and come back instead of finishing the hunt?"

Sam doesn't answer. He just takes the cracker he's grabbed down the hall to the Guthries's bedroom where Bob is kept. The parrot's blue-crested face ducks up and down when it sees Sam's offering, making scratchy cooing sounds as it bobs on the rope it's perched on. Sam sticks the cracker through the bars of Bob's cage and the parrot sidles up immediately, grabs it in its hooked beak before taking it into one dexterous foot and nibbling eagerly, amber colored eyes fastened on the youngest Winchester as it eats. The radio that stays on in the bedroom for Bob's benefit plays softly in the background.

When Sam comes back out, Dean's gone to bed already, which is strange because Dean hardly ever goes to bed this early. His homework is still open on the coffee table, unfinished. Sam eyeballs it as he pulls his own homework out of his backpack and sits down on the sofa.

/0/0/0\0\0\

The next morning Dean is dragging himself around in the kitchen, bumping his way through the cupboards and pulling out a box of cereal. Sam comes in and announces his entrance with a loud yawn.

"Hey," is all Dean says, but that's all it takes for Sam to hear how off Dean sounds. His voice is hoarse and gravelly sounding.

"Hey," Sam returns simply, looking Dean over quickly. "You sick or something?"

"I'm good," Dean answers, his back turned. "Come have some cereal before we go."

Sam shrugs disinterestedly, but he takes the box of corn flakes Dean's shaking at him. "What about you?"

"I already had some. Hurry up, 'kay Sammy?"

"It's Sam, Dean!" Sam may be irritated at his brother for always having to correct him, but really he's looking at the kitchen sink, expecting to see Dean's cereal bowl in it.

The sink is empty.

The walk to school is miserable in the November weather. Sam hunkers down into his jacket as best he can and casts swift looks at Dean, who hasn't been saying much.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam asks, feeling a little uneasy. Dean looks paler than he should, and he's shivering.

"Yes, Sam," Dean says, annoyed, around chattering teeth. "Would you quit asking me?"

"Excuse me for caring," Sam mutters under his breath, looks down at his shoes as he walks for a few seconds before he lifts his head again. "Dean?"

A sigh. "Yes?"

"You don't think that Dad would ever just…leave us, do you?"

Dean stops and looks at Sam like he's growing horns. "Why would you ever ask such a stupid question, Sam?"

Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot, unsure how to answer. It gets hard to tell how angry Dean is going to get, sometimes. He takes a step away, just in case his brother does decide to take a swing.

"You don't ever think about it?" he asks his big brother. "If Dad would ever just not come back for us?"

A strange expression clouds Dean's face and for a second Sam isn't sure what's going to happen, but Dean just spins on his heel and keeps walking.

"Stop staying retarded shit, Sam," Dean growls. "You're thirteen, not a fucking baby."

Sam feels resentment swell in his stomach, and he walks slightly ahead of Dean because he's right: He's not a fucking baby and he doesn't need to walk in his big brother's shadow.

/0/0/0\0\0\

That night, Dean puts together chicken and noodles with cream of mushroom soup sauce. He trudges into the living room and sticks a plate of it on Sam's lap. Sam looks up from his homework he's got spread out on the couch next to him, squinting. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, runt. And turn on a lamp before you go blind." Dean reaches over the couch and turns on the lamp. When the light hits Dean's face Sam can see just how awful his brother looks. Dean is definitely pale, now. Dark circles ring his eyes and there's a thin sheen of sweat on his face.

"You don't look too good, Dean," Sam tells his brother. "Maybe you should lie down?"

Dean flops down into the recliner on the other side of the living room. "Maybe I will in a bit."

"Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"Maybe I will in a bit." Dean repeats wearily.

Sam frowns. "So, no, then."

"Shut it, Sam."

/0/0/0\0\0\

The next morning – Wednesday – Dean trudges out of his bedroom and into the kitchen after Sam, something that normally never happens. Dean's always the first one up in the morning.

"You really do look like crap, you know," Sam tells Dean as his older brother shoulders past him on the way to the fridge. Dean doesn't respond to it, just opens up the carton of orange juice and pours a glass. He drinks it but almost ends up puking it up when he bursts into a fit of coughing and nearly chokes.

Dean glares and wipes his mouth on his arm when he's done hacking and gasping. "Thanks," he says, voice heavy with sarcasm.

On the walk to school, Dean actually does manage to puke up his orange juice. Sam watches, helpless, as his older brother stoically bends over at the edge of the sidewalk, hands on his knees as he leans forward and retches. Sam hedges, unsure, until he finally decides to come over and put a tentative hand on his back. Dean doesn't react until he's done heaving, and then he straightens and shrugs off Sam's concern.

"Quit it, Sam," he says. "Fuck, it's just a bug."

Except that Sam can tell that Dean's only saying that for his benefit. Dean only barfs when he's really sick. "I don't know, Dean," Sam says. "Maybe we should tell Dad you're sick the next time he calls."

Dean spits on the pavement, grimacing. "I'm seventeen, you know. I can take care of myself."

Sam shakes his head, frustrated. "I know, Dean. That's not what I'm saying."

That's exactly what he's saying.

/0/0/0\0\0\

Thursday evening, and Dean's a sweaty, shivering mess on the couch. He's curled up under a mass of blankets, coughing endlessly. Sam's tried giving him soup, but the results were flushed down the toilet only minutes ago, leaving Dean exhausted and shaky from the effort of so much throwing up.

"Maybe you should stay home from school tomorrow," Sam suggests in a soft voice.

"Can't, Sammy."

Sam doesn't correct Dean. "You should drink some water, at least," he says as he tries pushing a glass on his older brother, who only shakes his head.

"Not now, okay?" Dean says, closing his eyes. "Lemme sleep first."

Sam backs off, but leaves the glass within arm's reach.

/0/0/0\0\0\

Friday morning, the phone rings. It rouses Sam out of his sleep. He's already tired from being woken up intermittently at all hours throughout the night by Dean's coughing down the hall, and he feels justified with his annoyance at this early morning caller.

But the kitchen is directly overhead of the bedroom Sam's staying in, and he can hear Dean talking to whoever it is that phoned.

Dad.

Dean's already hanging up the phone by the time Sam comes up the stairs, and even though he tries to hide it from his younger brother, Sam can see that Dean's shivering even harder than he was before. His eyes look funny, too, kind of glassy and dazed. He's still holding onto the phone, even though he's put it back on its cradle.

Sam takes another furtive step into the kitchen. "Dean?"

Dean raises his face, flushed and yet still pale. He manages somehow to both smile and wince at Sam. "Hey, Sammy," he says. "You're up early. Want some cereal?"

"Was that Dad?"

Now Dean's definitely flinching. "Yeah," he answers, coughs.

Sam feels anger flare up into his chest. He almost doesn't want to ask it, because he doesn't want Dean to answer and prove him right. Dean must obviously see what Sam's thinking, because his older brother answers him before he even asks the question.

"The nest split up. Half of 'em went over the border. Dad's in Manitoba. He'll call back when he's got them tracked down."

Of course, is all Sam thinks to himself. He's too sleepy to put up much of a fight and instead he opts to go back downstairs and get some more rest before he has to get ready for school. Still, he's not totally willing to just let this latest stunt of Dad's slide, either.

"Sure he will," Sam mutters. "Maybe the next time he calls, he'll be in Paris or something. He'll be anywhere but here."

"Sam!"

It's Dean's angry-big-brother tone, and Sam hates it when he uses it. He turns around and faces Dean with a melodramatic sigh.

"What's your problem?" Dean demands, red faced. Sam sees how Dean's got one hand behind him, propping him up against the counter. Another reason why Sam's mad – Dean's obviously sick and now is not the time for Dad to be running around after a bunch of vampires in Canada. Sam opens his mouth to say something along those lines when Dean instantly goes white as a sheet, the blood draining out his face. Then he turns positively green.

Dean dashes down the hallway and Sam follows hesitantly after. By the time he gets to the doorway to the bathroom Dean already has his head buried in the toilet bowl, retching loudly.

"Dean?" Sam asks, feeling strangely uncomfortable and unsure if he's welcome. He hardly ever sees Dean sick like this, and it's a little more than unnerving.

"Hmm?" It's the only response Dean can get out around heaves. It's almost lost in the ruckus Bob is making. The parrot has started its morning routine of loud, squawking calls.

"I really think you should stay home from school today."

Dean groans faintly as he drops his head over his crossed arms, leaning against the toilet seat. "You know I can't," he manages, his voice a rough croak. "Sam, I'm two inches away from not graduating. Dad would kill me."

There it is again: Dad making the decision, and he's not even home this time.

Sam sits back against the wall and waits out Dean's bout of nausea while he thinks about how unfair it all is.

/0/0/0\0\0\

That day at lunch, Megan Collins comes up to Sam and asks if he'd like to come over and watch a movie after school. And he would. He really, really would. Sam's kissed a couple of girls before, but that's it. He's definitely pretty sure that Megan would let him do more, plus he does really like her. He opens his mouth to tell her yes, but something completely different comes out, instead.

"I can't. My brother's sick."

Megan gives him a weird look, and she almost could be laughing when she takes a slow step back and says, "O-kaay," like he'd just told her that he had raging case of crabs or something.

When she walks away, throwing him another strange glance over her shoulder, Gareth nudges Sam sharply in the ribs with a bony elbow.

"Dude, she probably thinks you're gay now," he tells Sam.

Sam shoves his books in his locker with a sigh.

/0/0/0\0\0\

The walk home from school takes even longer than the walk there had that morning. Dean is definitely sick, and he's at the point where he can't deny it anymore. He coughs and coughs the whole shuffling walk back home, Sam hanging around nearby, uncertain what he should do to help. As soon as they get home, Dean has to run to the kitchen sink and throw up. That night Dean barely moves from off the bathroom floor. Sam still feels unsure what to do. Dean's burning hot to the touch, but he's shivering and his teeth won't stop chattering. Finally, Sam drags in a pillow and a blanket from his bed and brings it into the bathroom for Dean to sleep with. Dean accepts them gratefully, pulling the blanket close around him and hunching over on the floor. Sam brings Dean water and turns off the bathroom light when Dean asks him to, the light from the hall enough for the older brother to see the toilet. After a time, Dean relaxes and dozes, the sound of Bob playing with his bell filtering down the hallway. Sam straightens his legs out, his back getting sore from sitting against the tub. He's reluctant to leave Dean alone for some reason though, and he's willing to put up with the discomfort.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean's voice sounds painfully raw, even though he's whispering.

Sam bites the inside of his cheek before he says anything else. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

Dean sighs a little, shifting. It's clear that he's waiting for Sam to continue, too worn out to ask him to explain himself further. He's still shivering, even with the blanket.

"About asking you…what I did about Dad," Sam says hesitantly. "If…if you thought he would ever leave us."

"Sam, why are you bringing this up?" Dean's voice is muffled from the blankets and the pillow, but the misery rings loud and clear. "I'm tired, I'm sick. And I'm really fucking cold."

"Do you want me to turn the thermostat up?"

"Fuck, yes."

Sam does, but an hour later Dean is still shivering uncontrollably. He's not able to get anything down, not even water. The last sip Dean tried taking came promptly back up five minutes later. Sam's getting really worried. He's definitely never seen Dean this sick without Dad around to look after it, and he's not sure if he's doing anything right. Sometime around seven in the evening he sticks a thermometer in Dean's mouth and is shocked when the reading tells him that his brother has a fever of over a hundred and three.

"Dean, I think we should-"

"Sam, if you even finish that sentence, I swear to God I'm going to puke on you."

Sam thinks about calling an ambulance when Dean starts dozing on and off again, mumbling nonsense words. But then he thinks about how betrayed Dean would feel when he woke up, and he knows he can't do that to his brother. So instead he brings Dean wet rags to hold against his forehead when his headache gets really bad and he can't keep Tylenol down, helps Dean sit up long enough to rinse his mouth out each time he vomits, and sits nearby in case there's anything else needed from him.

At one point, Dean wraps his arms around himself and moans.

"God, I can't get warm," he says, even though Sam feels like he's sitting next to a furnace, his brother is giving off so much fever heat.

It's then that Sam finally gets up to his feet. "Come on, then," he tells his brother, tugging gently on him.

Dean obediently drags himself up laboriously, lungs rattling. Dean slumps against him, and that alone frightens Sam, that his brother is that weak. As mad as he is at him, Sam still wishes that their Dad would walk through the front door right now.

Dean's head drops down, eyelids drooping. "Where we goin'?" he asks, voice a breathy slur. Sam takes a determined step forward, and Dean allows himself to be walked out of the bathroom and down the hall to the Guthries's bedroom.

"In here," Sam tells Dean, hand pushing the door open. They are met with a noticeable change in temperature, the air in here warmer due to a space heater that is set up for Bob. The parrot instantly drops the bell it's playing with, head cocked and attention instantly focused on the brothers. The toy jingles as it clangs against the bars of the large cage.

Dean coughs and shivers. "What're we doin'…in here?"

Sam gently guides Dean onto the queen sized bed, pulling the blankets over him as his brother gets settled. "You said you were cold, didn't you? This is the warmest room in the house."

Sam leaves and comes back with a puke bucket and more water and Tylenol, in case Dean feels like trying again. After he puts everything down on the bedside table he walks into the kitchen and pulls out a can of soup, which he plans on making Dean eat after he's had a chance to fall asleep for a while, something he clearly couldn't do when he was shivering on the bathroom floor.

A few minutes later, Sam is topping up Bob's food dish and changing his water. Normally, Bob makes lunges for Sam's fingers whenever he goes near the dishes. This time is different.

Bob is sitting in the highest part of his cage, eyes fastened solely on Dean. Dean, for his part, has rolled onto his side and is quietly observing the bird back.

The next time Sam sticks his head in the bedroom Dean is sleeping, lying on his back with his mouth open, nose too congested to breathe through. Bob is likewise asleep, head tucked and eyes closed.

/0/0/0\0\0\

Dean dozes through most of the weekend.

Sam feeds him copious amounts of soup, crackers, and ginger ale once he can start keeping things besides just water down. He's feverish all the way up till Sunday afternoon, when Sam comes in the room to find him soaked through with sweat, the fever broken. After that, Dean sleeps like the dead. Sam spends the rest of the Sunday puttering around quietly, trying to not wake Dean. By some miracle, Bob has also gone quiet, has been ever since Dean's been camping out in there, as if recognizing the need for silence. Looking to pass the time, Sam pulls an old photo album off the shelf, starts thumbing through it idly.

He doesn't recognize a single face, of course, so he gives his own names to the people in the pictures, tries to figure out their stories as he stares at their bland expressions. It's when he comes across a picture of a familiar face that he freezes.

It's Dad staring at him from the album pages. It's an old photo, it looks like it's from the seventies, and he's wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, grinning loosely with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He looks young. Sam squints at the person standing next to Dad, another man about the same age. From their easy and relaxed body language they look like they're friends. Sam turns the page in wonder, expecting to see more mysterious photos of his Dad.

Instead, a newspaper clipping flutters out, yellowed and crispy with age. When Sam opens it he sees it's an obituary, and from the photo it includes Sam can easily see that it's the man in the photo with his Dad. Sam squints at the date, sees that the date from the obituary is from the spring of 1984, a year after he was born. When he reads it, he feels his stomach sink at the cause of death.

Killed in a tragic hunting accident, Matthew Guthrie is survived by his parents Reginald and Margaret Guthrie.

Sam closes the photo album. He doesn't want to know anymore.

/0/0/0\0\0\

Dean somehow manages to drag himself through the following school week.

He's back on his feet by Monday, even though he's still coughing until tears come to his eyes. He's tired and worn out, especially in the evenings, so Sam makes them Kraft Dinner. When Dean falls asleep on the couch, Sam wakes him up and convinces him to go to bed. Dean always listens after some initial grumbling, and Sam settles down and finishes his homework in front of the tv afterwards.

At the end of the week Sam comes into the living room, expecting to see Dean parked on the couch, watching tv. Although the tv is on and blaring, his brother is nowhere to be seen. Sam pokes his head down the hall and sees that the door to the Guthries's bedroom is ajar, soft lamplight spilling out. Sam quietly pads down the hall and sticks his head in the room. He's met with the sight of Dean and Bob, the parrot perched on his brother's forearm like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Dean looks up, smiling, at him.

"Hey, Sammy," he says brightly, then turns his eyes back to Bob. "Check this out." He reaches over to the radio and turns it up slightly. The sounds of Led Zeppelin floats through the room, and Bob immediately starts ducking his head up and down, making soft noises and half-fluttering his wings. Dean bobs his arm up and down gently in response, and this time Bob spreads his wings and flaps them, begins making chortling sounds, like the parrot is actually laughing. Dean's smile breaks wider, and he looks back at his brother, pleased at Bob's acrobatics.

"Whaddya know? Stupid parrot's into the classics!"

End.