'You've got to stop sniffling,' Sam snaps. He's not sure if Dean's heard him, wants to know if he's said anything or, Sam thinks morosely, even cares that he exists. Sam might not have had much reliability in his long, long life but he knows that Dean has always had him in his peripheral vision, as if he's a kite attached to Dean's soul. It's a rather nice analogy, actually. So when Dean ignores him, it feels like recovering from a poisonous spider bite, as if you're moving through the world when it's actually still and it all aches in a vaguely prickly way.

'Dean, are you listening?' he tries again. He looks at his brother, wearing a knitted beanie that's slipping over his eyes, cheeks crayoned warm and his nose, oh his poor nose, it looks like it's been attacked by some tiny supernatural fanged creature. It's a sad conclusion. 'I told you we should not have driven this far up North, Dean, I told you,' he sighs, leaning his head back and blowing his fringe off his forehead, watching as it falls back into his eyes, 'Why don't you listen?'

Dean sneezes enormously loudly. Sam feels like he's been mildly electrocuted.

'I thought you were asleep!' he yells. You can't blame him. He was just sitting there, contemplating how long his hair was going to take to grow out again, because Dean kept stealing his hair bands or making these childish comments about how girly it was, when everyone in the world (except Dean) knew that men having long hair was rather stylish. It was Dean who was old fashioned, with his shaved sides and ridiculous sneezes.

'You' Dean mumbles 'told me' sniffs 'that' clears throat 'we should' coughs.

'We should what?' Sam interrupts murderously. He cannot take this assault upon common language, above everything else.

'Notgofurthersouthbecauseitwouldbetoohumid,' Dean splutters and then, obviously –why is Sam never prepared for this, when he knows what happens- sneezes. While he calculates the decibel of it, he appreciates that the mirror across him didn't shatter. He feels deeply rattled, as if his bones have all knocked together.

'It's my fault now, isn't it? I knew it. That's unfair, Dean. It's against the rules.' He knows he sounds young, referring to a notebook with the title 'rules that must always be followed by Sam and Dean Winchester' in uppercase letters with the doodles of cars, monsters and x and o. Sam remembers writing, when his script was all neat schooled letters 'Sam will never, from this hour onwards, be blamed for Dean's sneezing.' It has been sometime but that rule should still be adhered to. They had decided (certainly not only Sam, besides Dean was the driver, if anyone was to blame it was him) that they had to leave, because Dean could breathe where the air was less muggy.

It worked for a few days. It always did. Dean was normal and Sam liked the quiet. He searched for paint colors, Double Velvet Sapphire Baby Porpoise and Cashmere Phantom Moss and Toffee Fudge Freckle, because he liked the names and maybe he wanted to paint a wall. Dean the aspiring astronaut read up on the latest happenings at the Milky Way, which he cheerfully shared with Sam. They caught a spirit that needed an especially complicated spell, which they found on a withering parchment with blurred words. Sam was trying his scholarly best to read it out clearly, but obviously stuttered a bit and so when Dean shouted 'give it over here' he'd indignantly slapped it into his hand. Then Dean had been shoved into the wall and managed to read the last few words upside down. They got lucky, that was it.

'The once famed Winchesters' Dean cackled, 'we should censor our journals for the next generation. We really cannot corrupt them with all this unprofessionalism.' They were not as hardcore as they once were. At least when it came to earthly cases, they made their own decisions.

'I prefer it this way,' Sam murmured . He'd hated those orders and regulations.

'Me too,' Dean replied, after a moment. So he did not much miss the elders of the past and he preferred Sam's company, Sam had thought, rather gratefully. He grinned at Dean, which Dean returned with a sneeze. It was one of those introductory sneezes, barely violent. Sam stared at him.

This plan did not work indefinitely.

Why does he constantly forget? He pinches at the bridge of his nose. He should be sick, with all those hurricane germs, and yet besides the rare flu, he never got like this.

'I'm sorry Sammy,' Dean sighs. He rubs at his nose with the back of his hand and throws the napkin at the bin. He misses. There are scrunched up tissues everywhere, along with printed napkins that Sam saves from all over the country for this reason. Burger joints, taco huts, pizza take-outs, homely diners and this one quirky restaurant, where they called it serviettes.

'Thank you,' Sam rolls his eyes, not because he's mean, but rather that Dean is miserable enough to say it, the way he says it every single time he gets like this, which was two weeks ago where it was neither humid nor cool and Dean had choked on the earth. 'You know what? You should actually apologize to the environment. You're a tree ender.'

'No' Dean pulls off the dumb beanie which Sam bought from this artsy stall, because he thought it was funny, Dean wearing something from a five hundred years ago knitted in a cave and then Dean actually admitted that he liked it, which is just sad 'the trees are ending me, you know, with all their sweet pollen and generous greenery. So it's an equal relationship.'

Sam supposes it is a warped sort of surprising logic and he'll let Dean have it. You can't even argue with him, when he looks this sorrowful. Sometimes his eyes water dangerously and Sam suspects that he might be crying too and nobody can call him out on it. This time, they are an unsettling bright green staring at him and as Sam watches him back, they blink closed for a nanosecond and he sneezes. It's cosmic shattering.

'Bless you,' Sam's stunned.

Dean's chest might be recovering but Sam's soul is too.

'Give me,' Dean reaches out somewhere around the world, mostly to Sam. Sam is still trying to recover from that eventful sneeze but his arm passes the box of tissues over to his brother, who grabs it with vicious speed.

'That's the last box.'

'It was free,' Dean sniffles, 'I charmed it out of the pharmacist.'

'I doubt that,' Sam snorts 'probably gave it to you out of ice-cold sympathy. I've got to get you a new box and maybe some tea? Do we have money?' Dean has always handled the financial side of their ventures and he should, because he sneezes them out of essentials, like those sequels Sam is desperate to read.

'Obviously,' Dean manages to sound sarcastic, through all that phlegm and mucus and whatever jungle of germs he has in his lungs, because of course Little Sam Winchester should never go hungry, even if said Sam can fend for himself and would rather starve and buy those sequels, 'you'll have to look for it.'

Dean is a champion at hiding things. He does it so well, that he forgets where he's put them. Sam has told him, on so many patient occasions, that he should just tell him or better yet, give it to him. He never loses things and he won't use the money on anything frivolous. Sam will have to hunt through all this disarray. When have they last done laundry? The money could be in Dean's jeans, the ones with all the blood on them, in Sam's jacket pocket because a freezing Dean was wearing that over his own, in that disastrously untidy trunk or between the seats and maybe even underneath them.

'I want to strangle you,' he glares at Dean.

'I wouldn't mind,' he sounds miserable, all the fight gone, the way it does when these flues finally get to him, his bravery like mist now 'my head hurts. It's all spongy. It feels like one of those mini cakes, with the chocolate in the middle.'

'Twinkies,' Sam hums, 'you ever tried drinking coffee through it? It's the best of both worlds, seriously. I'll get you one when I go out. Actually,' he pauses, 'you need vitamins. You've got to start eating vegetables.'

'I eat them in burgers and,' Dean's voice is all crackly 'pizza.'

'Pizza?'

'Tomatoes and basil.'

Dean has not shared this fascinating information with him before. Sam is a proudly healthy millennial, eco friendly and helpful to badgers and owls, but even he will not slur this ancient creation of genius.

'You're crazy. Besides, neither are proper vegetables. Tomatoes could be considered fruit and basil is an herb. Have you even tasted a pizza that doesn't have pineapple and commercial cheese?'

He continues speaking, even if Dean isn't paying much attention (as usual). He's used to rambling on like this when Dean is bodily there, brain incognito, for instance three months ago when the seasons changed and Dean had woken up at two-thirty-seven gasping, clasping at his throat, cursing spring like a sailor, of which had made a befuddled Sam think through for a moment, both of poor spring and that Dean still had enough breath to swear like that, then he'd found the inhaler next to the holy water and shoved both of them at Dean, just to be safe. Dean couldn't sleep and so Sam told him about the architect of the world's tallest tower. The one in Dubai, you know. Maybe it wasn't practical or calming for a midnight natter. It was interesting anyway.

Dean sneezes. Sam feels his hair flutter. Surely it has a purpose. It could be a new form of eco energy. Perhaps the laptop could somehow use it when it's running empty, he thinks brightly, there's an idea. The future asset to Sam's empire has a hand on his chest, trying to make it work through extraordinary willpower but even a Winchester needs help from the lower species sometimes.

'I got it bro, I got it,' he goes out to the car, checks through all the stuff in the trunk, some of which is totally unusable but they're keeping it because well, no reason other than it needs a spring (ha) clean, and finally finds the nebulizer. He takes it back to the room, plugs it in, and fills it with the expired liquid medication, which definitely works and switches it on. He puts the mask over Dean's face, none too gently mind, and waits.

Dean breathes and breathes and breathes.

'That sounds like a werewolf arguing with a polar bear.'

Dean snickers.

'It's euphonious, rather.' Then he sneezes four times. Sam worries they'll get kicked out of the motel. Dean doesn't look like he can move and Sam doesn't want to either. It's blistery and murky out, as if the weather has stolen the day away from them.

'Sternutation,' Sam pokes Dean's shoulder, 'Latin for sneezing. Maybe there's a spell for it.'

-/-

That evening he does the laundry and reads a history magazine. It is inaccurate and he circles all the mistakes and writes on the sides to properly educate the next person who comes to the Laundromat. He buys a few boxes of tissues, laments that he could afford at least one sequel instead. He gets a small margarita pizza (to each his own vegetable) and a gorgeous gourmet gen-z stir fry. He buys some fries too. Dean always orders an extra-large pack and kindly does not mention that Sam eats half of them.

You know, vegetables.

When he gets back, Dean seems reasonably recovered. The room looks more human too. Dean's always been a bit of a neat freak, especially when he feels likes he owes Sam a favor. And he does, because Sam had to go out into winds whipping from the mountains, pay teenagers in dying one dollar notes and mostly, endure those sneezes. They should be labeled as sound and air pollution.

He puts the pizza down, switches on the kettle, opens the chopsticks. Dean has almost two slices, steals the mange tout from Sam's stir fry and appreciates the fries.
'You have to swear not to tell anyone this, but I rather enjoy tea,' Dean stirs in sugar, about five teaspoons of it.

'Even if I wanted to, I could not. We don't know anyone.'

'Would you like a friend?'

'I absolutely would not like a friend. I've had a few and they've all wanted me deceased. Besides, who would take care of you if I was with my new friend, playing rugby and having quinoa with sautéed ants?'

Dean chews at his lip, runs a hand through his hair, takes a sip of tea, kicks Sam's foot and Sam watches him, all these steps Dean takes through his head, like a staircase built over hundreds of levels, some constructed carefully, some treacherously haphazardly shoved together, until he finally settles on the mask to wear and the lies to tell.

'Thank you for being my friend then?'

It's these artisanal jalapeños in the stir fry, that's all.

Dean sneezes.

'Ephemeral,' he says, into his tea.

-/-

Dean falls asleep with the mask still on his face, the nebulizer like an old steam engine. Sam pages through the prequel again, closes his eyes, thinks of possible positive scenarios, the ones he'd most prefer, knows they are chimerical.

'My bag,' Dean's awake, his breathing susurrus.

'You need the inhaler?' Sam frowns, almost tripping over his dinosaur sized shoes to reach for the bag. There's a box on top though, and he picks it up, curious. It's come from freight post and addressed to 'Winchester.' He opens it, carefully, in case there's a taxidermied ferret in there. Instead, there are three books in hardcover. He holds his breath and looks at the titles, oh all those wanted sequels.

'Breathe Sammy.'

Yeah, okay, yeah.

'Shall I read to you? This writer is a raconteur.'

-/-

Dean is all sun and hopefully exquisite breathing.

'I don't know what to say,' Sam taps his (exclusive edition) books.

'Redamancy,' Dean smiles and sneezes happily.

Sam says 'bless you' and means it with all his heart.