Author's Note: After a very long hiatus and some big changes, here is a drabble to make a COMEBACK with! I doubt I will write much Supernatural, though I do love reading it.
Enjoy!
Word Count: 250
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I owned it, I would be IN it.
Dean sniffled, his eyes were red and bleary; his head was pounding and he felt as though he was drowning... Suffocating might be more accurate. He hadn't moved in days, choosing to hole up in the usual crummy dive motel. His eyes ran, stinging his raw, sensitive skin and Dean winced because he couldn't even be bothered to gently clean his face at this point. He thought of Sammy. Cursing, Dean's head lolled back onto the pillow. Damnit Sam! He didn't deserve this!
Dean refused to call Bobby, or Ellen, or even his dad. John Winchester was the last person Dean wanted to see him this way. Helpless. No one could help him now. Dean blamed himself, for being weak, for being vulnerable, for trying to prove a point.
There was a quiet knock at the door. Dean tensed, then silently picked up his pistol from the bedside table and readied it, hidden from the door side of the room by his leg. He cocked the gun and eyed the doorknob as it turned easily. Sam came in with a paper bag full of groceries balanced in one hand, while the other was pulling the key from the door, and rolled his eyes.
"You know," he said teasingly, "It's just a cold. Take a nap, watch some crappy daytime TV, and you'll be better in a few days."
Dean grumbled some unintelligible under his breath, then spoke loudly enough for Sam to make out: "This is why I hate kids."