Disclaimer: The characters, story, plot of Supernatural are NOT mine; they all belong to Kripke, that magnificent bastard. I just like to play with his action figures sometimes. :B
A/N: I have a sickness, and the only prescription is more cow bell... uh, I mean... more delirious!doped up!whacked out!Dean. :B
Summary: Dean's got a fever he can't sweat out. So he hallucinates instead.
Chicken Noodle Soup
"Fuck that shit, Sammy. I was an eagle scout..." Cool hand on his forehead, and he's trying to explain, but it's no good. Eyes opened, the light bends a halo around Sam's head. Dean forgets what he was trying to say.
He takes the pills and the water offered, swallows them down with a grimace. It makes his head hurt. "Get me off the merry-go-round."
Suddenly he's falling so slowly backward, head landing softly on the pillow. "I had a dream where you were a fish." And he had. And they swam in the ocean for hours, and they didn't even need to breathe.
The morning is bright, like the sun decided to come greet them in their motel room. Every muscle aches with heat and restless sleep.
"Dean."
"Elvis?"
"Take these, buddy." His new friend's voice sounds strained, and Dean thinks he's a chump. But there's a vice gripping his skull in quiet agony, so he takes the pills anyway.
Life is a tilt-a-whirl, throwing technicolor water from his mouth into a tiny little pool. Everything is off-white and sad looking. His gut clenches hard. A cool, wet cloth shocks the back of his neck.
"Sammy?"
He smiles at his brother, who's grimacing worriedly back at him. Tries not to barf on his shoes.
Everything is blessedly dark.
His brain feels less like hamburger meat, more like a functioning organ. Dean tries to reach the bottled water on the night stand, and succeeds in bringing it to his side before his weakness gets the better of him.
Sam snores gently in the hours before sunrise. Dean can wait a few more minutes to get a drink. Licks his dry, chapped lips. After what seems like hours, only half of what's out of the bottle has actually been ingested by him, but the rest feels good on his skin so he doesn't complain.
He wakes up dry and rested. For once in his life he's not tired, and it almost would've been worth it for that feeling alone, were it not for the parts that came before.
"How you feeling?"
"Like ass." His voice is raw and gravelly.
"Feeling better, I see." Dipshit sounds amused.
"Bite me, princess."
He turns over, away from Sam's too-bright smile; dude is such a chick.
Buries his face in the pillow to block out the sun. Hears the gentle clunk of a bowl, a savory smell making his stomach gurgle in appreciation. Chicken noodle soup.
"Thanks, Sammy."