"Dude, are you sick?"
Sam looked up, tissue clamped over his mouth to muffle the coughing. " No."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not sick." Sam insisted. " Just a cough."
"Fine, whatever." Dean went back to rewatching Game of Thrones.
"Sam, seriously, are you sick?"
Sam scowled and pushed his food around. He'd had no appetite for days. " No, your cooking just sucks."
Jesus, was he, a 32 year old man, really complaining about his brother's cooking? "Alright, bitch, tomorrow you cook." Dean took Sam's food and dumped it onto his own plate, unfazed by his little brothers petulant complaining.
"OK, it's almost 11."
Sam was rudely woken by his brother loudly stomping into his room and turning on the lights.
" You're usually up before me, man." Dean said, ripping off the covers. " And If you were sick, I'd say, hey get your sleep, and keep your germy ass away from me."
Sam sat up slowly and rubbed his aching head.
"'M not sick." He said stubbornly. To prove his point, he rolled out of bed and began to get dressed.
"Whatever, dude." Dean raised his hands in surrender.
"Shit, Sam!" Sam felt the light switch on, but couldn't raise his head from the toilet long enough to tell his brother to very kindly fuck off.
Dean crouched behind him, holding his sweaty hair off of his neck. It was 3:30 in the morning,they were in a seedy motel in the middle of nowhere, and Sam, who had vehemently denied being sick, was puking his guts out.
Twenty minutes later, Sam finally sat back, exhausted. Dean handed him a wet washcloth and a water bottle.
"You done?" He asked his little brother kindly.
Sam nodded.
"Wash your mouth out, and let's get you back to bed. " If he had the energy, Sam would tell his brother that he was fine.
Slowly, Sam made his way back to the bedroom and collapsed on the twin bed.
"So, you sure you ain't sick?" Dean teased as he threw a blanket on Sam.
"'Fuck you, Dean." Sam groaned into his pillow.
Dean laughed.
