Right then. I started this fic in Jan 08 and sort of put it on the shelf, waiting until inspiration struck again- which it did after all the lovely feedback and reviews that I received for my drabble, "Bad Burrito".

Special thanks to Enkidu07 for encouraging me to carry on writing this story and for giving me an idea where to go with it. (I hope it's better than the first version that you read, my friend!)

Anyhoo, on with the sickly goodness. I don't know why a Sick!Whumped!Angsty!Dean! is so appealing – best not to analyze such things too much.

As always, this was just written for fun and not profit. Sadly, I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters – I only own the order that the words are written.

Enjoy!

Supernooodle,

21st Dec 08

Imperfect Design

By Supernoodle

1

Sam Winchester was dreaming.

Actually, it was more of a nightmare – which was nothing new. Nearly every dream Sam had these days turned bad in the end and this one was no different. He and Dean were being chased by Sam's least favourite corporate mascot, keeper of the great tits of America: Ronald McDonald. He had them backed into a corner, but Dean had pulled out a flamethrower from somewhere and had begun to gleefully toast the white faced bastard, and Ronald was moaning and whimpering miserably.

"Dude, don't! - Stop it!" Sam yelled at his brother, covering his ears with his hands, wincing at the pitiful noise. He wanted Dean to burn him – he hated Ronald McDonald with a passion, but the noise the clown was making was horrible. Dean seemed not to hear it though, either that or he didn't care, and he carried on toasting away with a maniacal grin on his face.

Sam had always had nightmares and he'd always been an insomniac. Dean told him he'd grow out of it eventually but he never had. Most nights Sam woke covered in sweat and breathing heavily with the vestige of whatever had been trying to get him or his brother still haunting him. During those almost intolerable weeks back on the road immediately after Jess' death he'd barely slept at all, but he'd struggled on anyway, running on coffee and sugar, until Dean began to notice that something was really wrong and had forced him to slow down. And although his brother did nothing other than just stay awake in the dark with him when he'd woken up drenched in sweat and screaming Jess's name, it was surprising to Sam what a comfort that had been. Just to know Dean was nearby was enough to make everything okay, always had been.

"Die, Ronald!" Sam yelled into the darkness, sitting up in bed with his heart pounding heavily against his ribs and legs almost completely tangled up in the rough, slightly itchy sheets. He could still hear the god-awful whimpering, and running a hand through his sweat soaked mop of hair, Sam unwound himself from the sheets and shuffled to the edge of his bed, where he sat, scrubbing at his eyes with his hands.

It was still pitch dark in the room and Sam glanced at the clock - 3.10 am - too early even for him to get up, and glancing towards the bathroom, thinking that a quick splash of water on his face might help, he noticed a thin bar of light escaping from under the closed door. Then he looked over at his brother's bed and realised that it was empty.

Yawning, Sam got to his feet and shuffled towards the bathroom. "Dude, you in there?" He called out, knocking on the door, but there was no reply.

Frowning, Sam pulled open the curtains and peered outside into the darkened parking lot, the Impala was still sitting out the front and it was unlikely that Dean would have gone off walking anywhere. They were out in the middle of nowhere. Besides, Dean wouldn't have gone off on his own without telling him. Things were pretty screwed up lately between them, but some things never changed. They always let each other know where they were headed. It was an unspoken rule and after spending best part of a year chasing after a missing father, it was a rule neither brother was in a hurry to break.

Walking back to the bathroom, Sam knocked against the flimsy chipboard door and called his brother's name once more.

Getting no reply, he tried the door and to his surprise, he found it was unlocked. Pushing it open slowly, hoping not to be greeted with the sight of his brother asleep on the can or something equally as unpleasant, he stuck his head round the door, blinking in the brightness of the bathroom's harsh fluorescent lights.

Dean was lying curled up on the floor, in between the bathtub and the toilet and Sam's first thought was that his brother had just fallen asleep down there. He had found Dean asleep in some strange places after a night on the Purple Nurples, but he was pale and shivering, and Sam knew for a fact that Dean wasn't drunk – not unless he'd made a midnight trip to the local 7-11.

Squeezing into the small room, Sam knelt down next to Dean on the cold floor and touched his brother's shoulder gently. It was freezing in the room, but heat radiated from Dean's body and the boxers and faded black Metallica T-shirt he had worn to bed earlier that evening was drenched in sweat. "Hey? Dean, you alright, man?"

Dean moaned and curled up even further, pulling his knees up to his chest until Sam shook him and he opened his eyes and looked groggily up at him.

"Dude?" Sam said. "What are you doing on the floor? Are you okay? What's the matter?"

"I threw up, then I threw up again and on the tenth go I thought I might as well just stay here." Dean croaked, burying his face under his arm and Sam winced in sympathy. It had been a long time since he had seen his brother look so sick. Reaching over, he put a hand to Dean's forehead to check his temperature, only to have his brother bat it away irritably.

"You can't stay in here all night, Dean. It's freezing - come on, let's get you up, okay?"

Dean cracked open his eyes again and gave his brother a mournful look. "Just leave me down here and I'll die quietly, Sammy." He murmured in reply.

Sam shook his head - Dean knew full well that that would be the last thing he would do. But Sam didn't know that only reason Dean was still laying on the floor of the bathroom was that it hurt too much to move.

He'd felt kind of off for the past couple of days, tired and headachey and he'd had a niggling cramp in his belly all day, starting just before he'd thrown his McBreakfast in the trash a minute after buying it, and getting progressively worse since then. He'd tried to put it down to all the gas station junk that they had been living on over the past few days - especially the half frozen burritos that they had shoved down their throats on the way home from their last hunt, but by 10pm that night Dean had been just about ready to pass out. Only of course, he hadn't breathed a word of it to Sam, hoping that the stabbing agony would just go away on its own. When it came to his health, Dean was nothing if not optimistic. He had his fingers crossed, hoping it was just a dose of food poisoning or even a nice case of stomach flu, but then he never got that lucky.

Sam sighed and got to his feet, then reached down and took hold of Dean's arms. "Come on, dude, I'm not gonna leave you in here. You're sick and you'll end up with pneumonia lying out here all night."

Dean closed his eyes and nodded. "Okay, Sam…" He replied weakly and gritting his teeth, he let Sam pull him to his feet, trying to stifle the cry of pain that threaten to rip loose from his throat and only partially succeeding. Groaning, he staggered forward, doubling over as the pain flared white-hot down his side, and he would have fallen back down to the floor if his Sam hadn't grabbed hold of him.

"Hey – Hey?" Sam cried, startled by Dean's cry which was so unlike his usually stoic brother, and manoeuvring Dean down onto the edge of the tub, he crouched down in front of him to get a good look at his face. Knowing that if he looked Dean directly in the eye, he wouldn't be able to lie to him. "Dude, what's wrong with you?"

Dean wiped a shaking hand down his face and gave Sam a crooked, thin-lipped smile that was obviously meant to reassure him, but instead, it just made Sam more worried. Taking a deep breath, Dean opened his mouth, ready to tell Sam that he was okay but another wave of pain ripped through his gut, stealing the breath from his lungs. Doubling over, clutching his hands to his stomach, Dean moaned weakly instead and let lose a string of curses that would have made even their Dad blush.

"Dean?" Sam cried, talking hold of his brother's arm, feeling him shiver violently. "Tell me what's wrong!"

"Pain in my side." Dean panted in reply, scrunching his eyes shut. "Ah crap, Sammy… It's freakin' killing me."

Sam frowned, brain racing, trying to think of any time that his brother could have been hurt during their last hunt, or if he'd eaten anything in the past day or so that was more unsanitary than the crap he usually consumed. Dean had been thrown around a little by the spirit they had been hunting on the last job, but nothing that would cause any real damage, and they had eaten pretty much the same things all week, it didn't make sense. There was nothing Sam could think of, apart from one thing. "Which side hurts, Dean?"

Dean squinted up at him, his face completely colourless, and the big dark circles that he got whenever he was really sick stood out like bruises under his eyes. "What? - My right side... Oh, crap - it can't be."

Sam sighed, getting up again. His knees creaking and popping just like their old man's used to. "Sounds like your appendix to me, Bro."

Dean shook his head, wiping away the sweat from his face with the hand that wasn't clamped to his side. "Ah, no way, Sammy. C'mon…"

"Well, you haven't eaten anything all day, you didn't drink the beer I bought – which in itself tells me that you're pretty sick. You have a fever, nausea, a pain in your right side and you look like you're about to keel over any second. I'm not a doctor but I'd put money on it being your appendix."

Dean looked unhappily up at him. "What the hell?… Really?"

Sam nodded sympathetically and clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder. He wanted to be wrong – he really did, but it was unlikely. "Sorry man, but I think I should get you to a hospital."

And instead of arguing, like he had expected him to, Dean just hung his head and nodded – proof enough that he wasn't joking about how bad he felt. Dean had to be in a bad way before he would even let Sam bring up the H word.

"Man, this sucks." Dean murmured, holding his arm up and letting Sam help him to his feet. "What the hell did I do to deserve this?"

-o-

Dean struggled to pull on his jeans and t-shirt for a good five minutes, swearing and cursing, before he gave in and let Sam help him get dressed. Then more surprisingly, he also let Sam help him out to the car, hobbling and bent double like an old geezer before willingly climbing into the passenger seat. He didn't even reach for the tape deck as Sam started up the Impala, pulling the big old Chevy out onto the blacktop. Instead, Dean just sat huddled up, resting his head against the passenger door window, his quick breath leaving misty white ghosts on the cold glass.

Sam glanced over at his brother, frowning. Dean looked pretty bad, he'd obviously been sick all day – maybe even for a few days, and yet for some reason, he still felt the need to try and hide it from him, which just pissed Sam off and made him sad all at the same time. He never understood why his brother couldn't just ever let him in? Why couldn't he ever let anyone in?

"You're an idiot, Dean!" He sighed, slapping his brother on the knee.

Dean gave him a narrow, sideways glance. "Nice Sam, kick a guy when he's down why don't you?"

Sam ignored him. "You always do this. You've been sick all day and you've said nothing. Every time you get sick or hurt you try to hide it from me, or you make a joke of it. You used to do it with Dad too. I don't get it. Why do you do that?"

Dean groaned and pulled the hood of Sam's borrowed sweater over his head and even this gesture was painfully familiar. Dean didn't really do sportswear – he wasn't really an Adidas kind of guy, and he only ever borrowed the hoodie when he wasn't feeling good. It was like some sort of comfort blanket, only Dean seemed not to be aware this himself. He had a poker face to rival the best, but even the great Dean Winchester had his tells.

"Sam, please. I really don't want to do this right now. I feel horrible, okay? Feels like someone shoved a hot poker in my guts and gave em a good stir. How's that for sharing? You feel better now?"

Sam looked over at his brother. "All I'm saying is you don't have to be the hero all the time, you know?" He said quietly. "You're not Superman."

Dean let out a little snort of laughter. "Nah, Sammy – I always thought I was more like Batman… Which makes you my Boy Wonder."

"Dude? Robin?... Please!" Sam replied, smiling despite himself. Dean was doing it again, using humour to hide the hurt, but he knew he should give him a break. This wasn't the time to nag. At least Dean had been sensible enough for once not to argue about going to the hospital.

"Yeah, you're Robin alright. You're totally my bitch." Dean chuckled, then doubled over, his laugh becoming a moan of pain.

Sam slowed the car slightly, peering over at his brother worriedly. "Dean? You okay?"

Dean was silent for a moment as he clutched his knees to his chest, visibly shaking, then groaned, "Sam, stop the car!"

"But we're not that far away-" Sam replied frowning, and he took his foot off the gas, slowing the car down further but not stopping until he saw Dean fumbling for the door handle. Then he quickly pulled over, realising that his brother was going to get out whether the Impala was stopped or not and a moment later, Dean was out the door.

Sam followed, quickly running round the other side of the car in time to see Dean drop to his knees on the grass verge at the side of the road, heaving as his body tried to vomit up his empty stomach.

Sam sighed heavily, giving Dean a moment to pull himself together, then went over to him, helping him back to his feet and walking him slowly back to the car. Dean was a mess, shaking and stumbling and Sam was beginning to get really worried. Appendicitis was one thing, a ruptured appendix was something else entirely. "You alright to carry on?" he asked him.

Dean closed his eyes and leaned back against the Impala, wiping across his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "Yeah - Yeah, I'm okay. Just no way I was going to risk puking in my car," and as Dean crawled back into the Chevy, Sam jogged back round to the driver's side and folding his legs back until the steering wheel, he pulled the door shut, it's familiar loud creak sounding deafening in the silence of the night.

The brothers sat in silence for a few miles, Dean didn't really seem up for talking and Sam was concentrating on driving. He didn't know the area and was keeping his eyes peeled for road signs and he almost jumped when Dean started speaking.

"This totally sucks, you know?"

Sam smiled. That was an understatement if ever there was one and risked a glance over at Dean who was curled up, his feet up on the seat, hoodie pulled up over his head again so only his chin and nose were visible. Even so, he looked thoroughly miserable. "It'll be okay. We have the fake insurance – they can whip your appendix out and you'll be right as rain in a couple of weeks."

"Weeks?" Dean groaned. "I can't be out of commission for weeks – we said we'd help Bobby out at the weekend with that haunting in Philly-"

Sam shook his head. Yet again, Dean was worrying about other people and not himself, and he knew he had Dad to thank for that. It was times like that this that he realised just how much their Dad had put on Dean's shoulders – the sense of responsibility that had been drilled into him from when he was just a little kid.

"Dean, I'm sure Bobby will understand. You can't help getting sick."

Dean answered with a growl that could have meant pretty much anything and he tucked his knees up tighter and looked out the side window into the darkness. Illuminated in the pale glow from the dashboard, he looked dreadful and Sam put his foot down on the gas pedal. The sooner he got his brother some medical attention, the better he would like it.

"Hang on Dean, okay? The hospital can't be that far. Well get you fixed up right as rain. A little emergency surgery, you'll be fine."

Dean was silent for a moment, then a tiny "Can't wait" floated across to Sam, followed by another moan of pain, and Sam winced in sympathy once again. He hated it when Dean was hurt or sick because he just felt so useless. Dean would let him stitch him up when he was cut, let him pop back dislocated joins, splint broken fingers, but the moment he tried to offer any emotional support, any concern or kindness, Dean shut down.

When the shoe was on the other foot however...

"You should have told me you were sick earlier, Dean." Sam said quietly, trying to keep the nagging tone out of his voice as much as he could. But there was still a little anger, he could hear it himself. Anger that Dean could end up in such a state and not breath a word of how he felt to him.

"I still think it's just something I ate." Dean replied quietly and Sam opened his mouth to start threatening to knock some sense into him, but shut it again quickly. This wasn't the time and he didn't really want to make Dean feel any worse than he already did.

The yelling could wait.