So, there were requests for a second chapter to this story, and I hope I did alright!

Thank you to Guest, keraell , and dljensengirl88 for reviewing!


Besides the nonstop vomiting and the remnants of a splitting headache, Dean couldn't remember anything that had happened while he was sick. He remembered his dad holding him in his arms the night he'd gotten back (because how could he forget that?), but past that everything was just a big blur. Finally, after what had to be day five or six, Dean felt the meds his dad had scored him starting to kick in. He started to be able to keep some foods down, and though most still came up, it was a slight relief as the constant puking did not help his sore throat. His dad was still taking care of him, but all Dean wanted to do was to sleep in his arms again. He'd felt so warm and protected. He missed that feeling.

But hugs weren't going to happen, he could tell. As his health improved, his father had less a need to keep coddling Dean. He figured his dad would only show affection when a son truly needed it.

But, dang it, did Dean need it now.

He wanted to feel wanted. Like he wasn't just a soldier in his dad's corps. Like his dad actually loved him. Like Dean wasn't just a stupid, disappointment of a son.

Sammy always got Dad's praise. Whether it was good grades or being a well-behaved kid while Dad was gone, Sam got all the kind words, all the acclamation.

Dean looked down distastefully at his soup. He still felt like crap, though not so much like run-over crap. His stomach churned in warning as a vaporous wave of heat rolled off of the soup. His head pounded in agreement: there was to be no food eaten at this moment, unless Dean wanted to watch it make a reappearance in the porcelain bowl. He rose from the couch, still wobbling heavily on his bad ankle, and dumped the chicken noodle in the sink. He didn't even like that kind anyways.

Dad was on a supply run, going to get more food that Dean might be able to stomach and Gatorade, which seemed to be the only drink that stayed down. Dean was left in the same motel they'd been staying at since they'd moved here, stuck with his festering germs and that gnarled looking mold growth in the shower. Throat lozenges and their wrappers were scattered all over the place, as well as sweat-soaked blankets and Advil bottles. Dean still had a fever, it settling at 100.3 and not refusing to go down. He guessed that in the midst of all this they were extremely lucky that Sammy hadn't caught whatever Dean had. Hopefully he didn't.

Dean rested his head down on the kitchen table, closing his eyes slowly. He probably had some kind of flu, since it wasn't gone by now. That would explain why he felt like he was dying. Also Sammy had gotten the flu earlier this year, so maybe it was the same strain and he was immune. Breathing a deep breath through slightly rumbling lungs, Dean let his consciousness drift off. He was so tired...


John Winchester walked into his motel room, nose crinkling at the ever-staying smell of sickness. He had bought out the pharmacy, taking whatever they had fighting cold and flu. Liquid, pills, nighttime, daytime, drowsy, non-drowsy. He'd give Dean all of them if it meant him finally getting over this sickness. John's heart went out for the kid; he'd been in and out of it for days, barely coherent, and now that he was feeling better, John was taking that as a sign that things were going to work out for once. Except that he had a stubborn fever that wouldn't break, and the vomiting was a constant threat that could easily lead to dehydration. With all of his being, John wished he could take away all aliments and make his baby boy feel better again.

He entered the room, smiling softly as he saw Dean passed out over the table. The kid looked peaceful, so much that John didn't want to wake him. His face was still far too pale, making his freckles stand out like dirt scattered across his skin. Judging by the way his eyebrows were creased even in his sleep, he still had one heck of a headache.

Dean hadn't been getting much sleep, so John wasn't really keen to wake him. However, he needed medicine in order to feel better. Slowly, John nudged Dean's shoulder. Dean groaned in his sleep, eyes flicking wildly under his lids. He drowsily opened one eyes after another, looking up at his father in undisguised agony. Poor kid.

"I got you some more meds, we'll see if these can kick this bug." Dean blinked in response. John began rummaging through his bag, and asked, "Pills or liquid?"

"Pills." John knew it was a dumb question, as both of them knew that pills stayed down better, but he wanted to ask anyway, just in case Dean's throat was too sore to swallow anything today. Also, the liquid stuff tasted like another form of torture.

"Alright then... Headache still, right?" Dean cringed and nodded stiffly. John grunted in acknowledgement. "Fever, sore throat, vomiting. That about sum it up?"

"Yeah." Dean's voice was soft and garbled, but at least it was there. The last thing John needed was a sick kid who couldn't tell him what was wrong.

John fished out a package of pills, it covering all of Dean's symptoms and then some. "Here, take some of this." Dean obeyed, blindly taking whatever his father was handing him, but his motions were slow as if he were still half asleep. John was about to grab him a glass of water, but Dean swallowed all three dry. That must have done wonders to his throat. "You wanna drink something?" He shook his head. "Did you eat that soup?" Another negative response. John sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Okay, kiddo, I can't have you getting dehydrated, and you haven't eaten much all week, so you need to be taking what I give you."

"I know," Dean whispered. "I just didn't want to puke again."

John winced at his son's defeated tone, feeling ashamed at reprimanding his son in this state. He couldn't criticize him; he would have done the same thing if it meant avoiding vomiting. Praying kneeled to the porcelain god was not fun at all.

"I'm sorry, Dean. It's okay." John rubbed his son's back. The fourteen year-old closed his eyes again and relaxed under his father's touch. "But promise me you'll eat something later, okay?"

There was a long hesitation, but Dean nodded. John kept his hand on his son, as it seemed to soothe him. Before he knew it, Dean had fallen asleep again.

John had never been good at taking care of his sons when they were sick. Dean would always help Sammy, and vice versa. John had minimal experience in caring for sick kids. It had always been Mary's job to soothe a fevered forehead or keep them calm through bouts of sickness. John's more hardened, rugged nature didn't allow for him to do those things as easily. Still, though, he tried.

"Dean-o," he whispered, shaking his son slightly. When he saw him begin to stir, he continued, "No, you don't have to wake up. I'm just gonna move you back to the bed."

His only response was a deep sigh, and so John lifted him out of the rigid chair and carried him all the way back to his spot on the bed. He didn't miss how Dean tucked his head into the crook of his father's neck, like he used to do when he was four. John blinked the sorrowful tears out of his eyes as memories of his past life before all of this crap surfaced. No, he couldn't think of this now. He had more pressing issues now, like making sure his son stopped puking his guts out. The transfer to the bed almost didn't work, as Dean was growing in height everyday, but he accomplished it. After tucking Dean under his mountainous blankets, John went to watch the telly before his son woke up again, whether from an oncoming wave of puking or just general discomfort. John could only hope that this new medicine would kick the illness's tail. The label had said that it was extra strong stuff, so maybe it could put this nightmare behind them.

John got to watch a whole hour segment of news before a rustling sound caught his attention. He looked to his son to see him a moving lump under his fifty pounds of covers. Looks like whatever rest he'd been getting was over now.

He made his way over to Dean. He was blinking sluggishly up at his father, and John was alarmed to how ragged his breathing was becoming. That, along with constant swallowing, could be a sign that he was about to puke. "Dean? You alright?"

"Yeah." He looked at his dad through not-as-glassy eyes. "I think that new stuff's working. My head isn't about to explode as much."

"That's an improvement." John nodded, mentally patting himself on the back. Finally, he got something right. "You feel up to a Gatorade or can of soup?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno, maybe."

John knelt down and felt his son's forehead. "You know what? I think your fever may have gone down a bit." Now that he was closely scrutinizing Dean, he noticed the fine sheen of sweat across his face, indicating that his fever had broken. Thank goodness. It was about time. "Let's try some drink. Red or blue?"

Dean's face shone with the smallest grin. "Blue, of course."

"Right, right." John chuckled, grabbing the requested bottle of Gatorade for his son to sip on. Later he'd force down some soup, but right now he'd settle for Dean willingly drinking something. "I forgot, your mutated taste buds don't like the red."

"You're the mutant one, red tastes like licking the sidewalk," Dean shot back, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. John helped him, as his arms had to be weak and shaky. His heart warmed when Dean looked at him gratefully, and he handed him the drink. Dean shuffled out of his blankets, no doubt feeling the heat of his fading fever now. He drank one or two sips, before setting the drink down. John was relieved to see some of the lost color returning to his face.

John checked his watch. 2 pm, Sammy would be getting home in an hour or so. "Hey, you might want to rest up a bit more before you-know-who gets here."

"Yeah, good idea." Dean took a few more swigs of his drink before sinking back into bed, kicking all covers to the side. "Can... can you turn the air on or something?" John heard the clear hesitation in his son's voice, as if asking him this simple task was forbidden and he was going to get beaten for it. "It's getting really hot in here."

"That's your fever," John said. "I can get you a cool rag, if it'll make you feel better."

Dean looked down. "Nah, it's fine. I'm fine."

John nearly snorted. Dean looked anything but 'fine'. "Okay, I'll turn the air on, see if it helps at all. You sleep, you can have more drugs when you wake up."

Dean nodded, before closing his eyes again. The room was filled with no sound but his soft snore. John tried turning the motel room's A/C unit on, but it merely sputtered and died. So much for that idea.

At least he was sleeping now, his body finally healing itself. John couldn't ask for anything more.


As the days went on, the extra-strength medicine kicked Dean's illness out of his system, and John was glad to see his baby boy begin to eat relatively solid foods and talk without wincing at his sore throat. His headache he could not shake, however, but John knew that would last for a while even after he was fully healed. John started searching for hints again, knowing that he could resume his job now that Dean was back to his normal self. Sammy had managed to not pick up the bug, much to John's relief. He could handle a sick Dean who was reclusive and chose to rest during his enlistment, but Sammy whined at every little thing that was bothering him and never sought to leave his caretaker's full and undivided attention. Dean closed in on himself while sick, but Sam exploded in a loud tornado that sucked everything and everyone in to help and make him feel better.

John squinted at the newspaper in front of him, entitled "Group of Campers Mauled in Bear Attack." It looked like it could possibly be a wendigo, since said "bear" had been attacking campers on a steady cycle. He was trying to examine the minimal clues that the article listed when Dean came up to him and whispered in his still hoarse voice, "You're leaving soon?"

John eyed him cautiously. Dean was swaying slightly, trying to remain upright on his busted ankle, and his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration and slight headache. The boy looked lonely, lost, though he tried to hide it through a brave mask he'd put over himself.

"Yeah, I think so." John saw Dean's face fall a bit, though barely noticeable if John hadn't been observing him closely. "Why, what's up?"

"Don't know, just wondering." And with that, Dean walked away.

John frowned. Something was off with Dean. His son never questioned his orders, yet he had just upright disapproved of John's going on another hunt. He might not have said it verbally, but John had seen his disappointment.

However, instead of dwelling on it, John went back to analyzing the wendigo.


"Dad's gonna be really mad, Dean."

Dean swallowed thickly. "Yeah, Sammy, I know." They were walking home at a dawdling pace, due to both Dean's crutches and the fact that Dean was in no hurry to get home and confront his father. He didn't want to be ridiculed any more due to his poor actions, as much as he knew he deserved it.

"Why'd you have to fight him?" Sam asked, in full petulant little brother mode. "I mean, you know Dad doesn't like us to draw attention to ourselves."

"I know that too." Dean sighed, wishing he hadn't lost his temper at Kurt. He'd finally gone over the edge, and now that Dean was feeling better, he'd had no problem attacking him. Except for his ankle, of course, which had started throbbing uncontrollably, hence Dean using the crutches again. A quick jab to the windpipe had put Kurt down, whimpering uselessly. As much as he acted like he was an invincible force not to be reckoned with, he sure cried easily. He'd only landed one punch on Dean, giving the latter a black eyes that was to be explained to his dad.

Oh, and the fact that he was suspended for the rest of the week. No big deal, really.

"So why'd you do it?" Sam pestered. "Was he threatening you? Or me? He looked like a bully."

"He was just being a jerk, and I needed to deal with him." Dean looked at the ground. After humiliating him with all of his insults, yes, Dean had to deal with him. He hated being called stupid, even if it was true. Heck, his dad had called him stupid before, so why in the world couldn't it be true?

Dean tried to push the depressing thoughts out of his mind when he felt tears welling up in the back of his eyes. He couldn't cry. Winchesters don't cry. They suck it up and keep pushing on like whatever pain they were feeling was nothing.

Sam was looking at him oddly, but didn't say anything. They walked the rest of the trek in silence.


Oh, yeah. Something is off.

John watched Dean, Dean who was now sporting a shiner, shuffle, crutches discarded, to the bathroom, closing and latching the door shut behind him. John stared in stunned silence. "What's up with him?" he asked Sam. "Who hit him?"

"Some jerk at school, I think." Sam shrugged. "I thought I saw him starting to cry when we were coming home, but I don't know." He looked imploringly at his father. "There's something really wrong with him, Dad."

If John hadn't known better, he would think that Sam was blaming him for whatever Dean was going through. John wanted to smack some sense into him. This was Dean's fault for getting in a fight, for drawing attention to himself. John needed to talk with him.

He knocked on the bathroom door. "Dean, open up. You have some explaining to do!"

No answer.

"Dean!" John knew he shouldn't raise his voice, with the motel walls being as thin as they were, but he was mad. First he learned that Dean was in a fight at school, and now the kid wasn't answering him. "Don't make me break down this door!"

"Leave me alone," came Dean's voice. John's eyes were about to pop out of his head. He might expect this kind of behavior from Sam, who was already showing signs of a rough adolescence, but definitely not from Dean. His good son Dean.

"Dean Winchester." John made his voice dangerously low. "You get out here this instant or I swear..."

He left the threat hanging in the air. There was silence from the tiny restroom, and finally John heard the soft clicking of the lock. Dean was glaring at him. "What, Dad?" he spat out.

"What do you mean, 'What, Dad?'" John growled. He wiped a hand over his face. "Dean, I want to know what possessed you to think you had to fight this kid, jerk or not."

Dean's eyes flashed to Sam, but hurridly back to his dad. "He had it coming," he said, "though he punched first."

"Does it look like I care?" John sighed, exasperated. Dean's eyes were downcast, though John couldn't tell if it was from shame or fear of his dad's wrath. "Why did you fight him? I can't imagine it was just because he was annoying you."

"It's none of your business," Dean mumbled. "I took care of it."

"With violence?" Dean was hanging his head now so that John couldn't see his face. "Dean, what happened to staying under the radar? I would think you'd know this by now, but instead you continue to disappoint me."

Dean looked up at him, eyes wide with shock and... were those tears? John started to reach out a hand to him, but Dean retreated swiftly back into the bathroom.

"Dad, why do you have to do that?"

John turned to his other son, whom he'd forgotten was even there. "What?" he asked.

"You treat him like he's worthless, like he doesn't do everything you say and so much more!" Sam looked extremely angry, though John didn't blame him. "So he screws up one time. Big deal!"

"I..." John's voice trailed off, and he glanced wistfully at the bathroom door. As much as he hated to admit it, Sam was right and he was wrong. Dean was his good soldier. He'd been through so much in his short life, so much more than a teenaged boy should have to, and yet John was tearing him down. His boy deserved to be loved and cared for, like he had been when Mary was still alive.

Shaking his head in frustration, John tried opening the bathroom door. To his shock, he found it unlocked. Peeking in, he saw Dean curled up on the grimy floor, shoulders shaking. John's throat constricted painfully; his baby boy was crying.

He bent down and wrapped Dean in a warm hug, as he had when Dean was sick. To his relief, Dean leaned into his touch, sobbing into his shoulder. They sat together on the germ-infested restroom floor, and John felt like he could never let his son go. He was unsure of what to say, but was glad that his son was accepting his comforting motions.

"I'm so sorry, Dean," John whispered when Dean had calmed down a bit. "You are not stupid. It's all my fault for saying so."

Dean looked up at his father with disbelief. "You're just saying that," he murmured, resting his head on John's chest. "I messed up, I'm sorry."

"Don't make me slap some sense into you," John threatened, though his tone was light. "You are anything but stupid, and it's my fault if I've made you think so. You deserve so much better than this, Dean, and I'm sorry. I love you so much, both of you."

Dean didn't say anything, instead pulling away from his dad's arms. He wiped madly at his eyes, as if trying to eradicate any evidence that he'd been crying. His new black eyes looked painful, though Dean hardly seemed to acknowledge it as he rested his head in his hands. "You really... I'm not stupid?" Dean stammered, not daring to look up at John.

"Of course." John wanted nothing more to hold Dean in his arms forever, to protect him from all the dangers of this world. From him. He hadn't realized Dean's self-esteem was this screwed up. "You do everything I tell you to, and you take my crap, all while taking care of Sammy. I don't know how you do it."

Suddenly, Dean hugging John again, shaking with pure emotional exhaustion. John didn't dare say anything, just held him. They stayed there for a while, until Dean finally stood up and said, "I'd better go do my homework and get dinner started. Sammy's probably hungry."

"I'll fix dinner," John cut in, knowing that Dean's idea of supper was probably some stale ramon noodles and a glass of tap water. "I'll head down to the diner and pick us up some grub. Bacon cheeseburger?"

Dean smirked. "Heavy on the onions."

John stood beside his son, giving him another one-armed squeeze. "Of course, how did I forget?"

"Cause you poison your mind with red Gatorade," Dean chuckled, a beautiful sound.

John grabbed his keys and was about to head out, when he heard Dean say, "Oh, Dad?"

"Yeah?" John turned to Dean, who was sitting at the table.

Dean smiled. "Thanks."


So there it was! Thank you for anyone who read this, you guys rock.

Please take a moment to leave a review, it would be very much appreciated.