Dean turned slowly in his bed towards the noise coming from the door of the motel room. He pulled the covers over him, shivering even in the hot summer desert weather, his teeth chattering, trying to figure out what interrupted his sleep. Even this slight movement hurt his stiff neck in a sharp pain that seemed to go all the way to his brain.

He almost went back to sleep after a few seconds, when he heard the noise again. Someone was trying to unlock the door. It was only then that he realized that his dad was not in the room and that it was almost morning out side – the soft sunrise light coming from outside was hurting his eyes. Was his dad gone the whole time? He tried to remember if John had come back to the motel room last night, but he really wasn't sure.

He pushed himself off the bed with tremendous effort wrapping the covers around him. He was freezing even though he was wearing a long sleeved shirt and a sweatshirt and it was summer and he was in the frigging desert. He wobbled slowly towards the door, using the wall for support, squinting his eyes in pain from the light and pulling the drapes closed as he passed by. As he passed his duffle he decided to take out his gun, which turned out to be a much more complicated task than he had originally thought. Bending over sent waves of sharp pain to his back and neck and looking down made him so nauseous he almost gagged. But he got the gun and painfully stretched up reaching for the door knob he finally opened the door.

"Dad?"

Dean managed to catch his father before he hit the ground, unable to support his own weight. He put his father's arm around his shoulder and the both of them stumbled back to the bed. As he lowered his father onto the bed he did a quick inventory of his injuries, well the ones he could see anyway. His father was favoring his right side, his left arm wrapped around his ribs, and he avoided leaning on his left side as much as possible. That meant that he probably had some cracked ribs, if not broken. He could visibly see the gash on his father's forehead, but it was not bleeding at this point. His shirt stuck to his back, but was it from sweat or blood – he couldn't tell. He'll have to make his father take off his clothes for a better look. John's eyes were half closed and he didn't speak to Dean at all, and he hardly changed position from when Dean had put him on the bed, which probably meant that he had lost some blood and was showing early signs of shock.

Dean laid his hand on his father's shoulder and pinched the bridge of his nose with his left thumb and index finger. He could barely stand up himself – the headache from the last few days had reached a new level and he could tell his fever has picked up a notch or two since last night and was still climbing. All he wanted to do was to crawl back to bed and go back to sleep; let his father take care of him for a change.

"Dean?" His father's voice interrupted his thought. He didn't sound hurt, just tired.

"Yeah. Let's get you out of these clothes so I could patch you up". He said and started to pull his father's shirt off, but John waived him off.

"Get the first aid kit from the car." He instructed, and Dean appreciated his efforts to somehow protect him from all of this, to not show him how badly he really felt.

Dean nodded and went out side, shivering in the slight desert breeze that brushed past him as he opened the door. Once he was outside he felt even worse. It was almost fully light out side now and the sun hurt his eyes so much, he could barely keep them open. He also felt so nauseous and the world was spinning slightly around him. He stumbled towards the Impala telling himself that he could not fall apart now or afford to be sick. Not when his father is back in the motel room injured or worse and was counting on him. He took a few more unstable steps until he reached his beloved car and leaned heavily on the trunk. Another waive of nausea suddenly hit him and he doubled over and retched violently on the floor, but only bile came out, considering he hadn't had anything to eat in almost two days. Once he was finished he painfully stretched up and retrieved the first aid kit from the car, grateful that his father was too injured to witness his display of weakness. He then made the painful journey back to the motel room, ignoring the way the world kept spinning and tilting on it axis as he walked.

When Dean got back to the motel room John was sitting on the bed in the same position he was when Dean had left him, except he wasn't wearing his shirt anymore. He also looked quite pale and his breathing was a little fast, as if getting his shirt off was as hard as running a few miles. Dean also noticed that his eyes were glassy and he wondered whether his injuries were more than superficial.

Dean examined the long gashes and the bruises on his father's back. A few of the gashes were still oozing blood and would require stitches. The bruises covering his father's chest confirmed his initial worry that he had several broken ribs – the bruises were a deep purple color.

"Dad, I need you to lie on your stomach" Dean said as he helped John lower himself on the bed as gently as possible. He knew that lying flat on your stomach with broken ribs will cause his father a great deal of agony but he couldn't risk any further damage if he were to press on the fractures a little too forcefully – he didn't want to cause a punctured lung.

"Wait. Here. Take these." He handed his father 2 oval shaped white pills and the bottle of Jack from the nightstand.

"It'll help with the pain".

John took the pills from his son's hand, not noticing the heat radiating from him, and downed them with a long gulp of the whisky his was handed. He took several more long sips before he put the bottle back on the nightstand and painfully poisoned himself lying on his stomach on the bed.

"Just make it quick" He finally spoke before he allowed himself to relax and to be taken care of by his son, wishing he could just pass out already.

Once his father was lying on the bed Dean stumbled to the bathroom and filled a bucket with lukewarm water. He then threw a couple of towels in and returned back to the main room, ignoring the heaviness of the bucket, willing himself not to drop it. He felt so weak, and he was shaking so bad he really didn't think he would be able to suture his father's wounds. But then again, they had no other option. It's not like he could just drive his father to the nearest hospital. So he took several deep breaths, swallowed hard against the nausea and forced his body to be as stable as possible. He was thankful that his father's head was turned away from him, so he could just pretend for the time being that everything was alright. And anyways, it was all about his father now. John needed him. He can put off his own illness for a couple of hours, until John was back on his feet.

Dean took one of the towels from the bucket, squeezed it and began to wipe all the dirt and the dried blood from the wounds on his father's back. He tried to be as gentle as possible, and if he was hurting John, his father didn't utter a sound. After only a few seconds the towel was already the shade of pale pink, and Dean could clearly see that only two of the gashes would actually require stitches. The other gashes could just be bandages. He decided to start with the gashes that were still bleeding; the rest can wait a little longer. He took the needle from the first aid kit, dipped it in alcohol and than sterilized it by burning it with his lighter. He was then ready to begin.

"Ready Dad?"

John did not reply. Nor did he acknowledge Dean at all when he worked, though it must have been as painful as hell. Dean worked in silence for almost an hour, only stopping to take a few deep breaths to stabilize his trembling hands. Bending over to be able to suture his father's wounds while he was lying on the bed caused his back and neck to protest in sharp waives of pain and he had to stop every few minutes to stretch up. Each movement seemed to be more and more painful. He also felt nauseas again at the sight and smell of blood, his father's blood, even though he threw up before by the car and he had to swallow hard to stop himself from throwing up all over the bed.

After about an hour he stopped again, one hand resting on his father's broad back. His hands trembling so bad he didn't think he would be able to continue. He swallowed a couple of times against the nausea but even that didn't seem to help.

"Dean?" John finally asked. Now that Dean had stopped suturing his wounds he was able to think past the pain. He could also feel the way his son's hand was shaking, now that his hand was resting on his back. But worse than that – he could feel the heat radiating off his son's body. He instantly felt that Dean's fever was a very high one, definitely higher than it was yesterday afternoon when he last took it. And if yesterday Dean's fever was almost 104, he didn't want to think how high it was right now.

"Dean?" He asked again, when Dean didn't answer him the first time.

John began to stir as he tried to push himself off from the bed to take a better look at his son. The sudden movement jerked Dean's body, but it was that slightest movement that finally broke Dean's attempts to push his sickness aside. The dizzy spell that hit Dean was so intense and so sudden that he had to drop the needle and silk thread he held in his hand to grab onto the head board of the bed to prevent himself from falling.

The waive of nausea that followed was no better. Dean didn't even try to make it to the bathroom. He just doubled over and threw up violently into the bucket now filled of lukewarm water mixed with his father's blood.

"Christ, Dean". John mumbled but went back to his lying position, unable to watch his son bring up nothing but bile.

"Sorry, Dad." Dean managed to say between the heaving.

The heaving subsided after several minutes and Dean got shakily up to wash the bucket in the bathroom. He filled the bucket with water again and went back to his father. Noticing that the shaking wasn't as bad as it was only a few minutes before, he resumed his stitching.

Dean finished stitching his dad's wounds after another 15 minutes. He than spread antibiotic cream on all the gashes and bandaged them. He then shook John gently not sure if his old man had finally fallen a sleep or passed out.

"Dad? Dad, I need you to sit up so I could wrap your ribs." John didn't move.

"Dad?" He asked again and this time shook him harder.

"Yeah. Okay."

John pushed himself painfully to a sitting position and allowed Dean to wrap his ribs. He was then able for the first time since he stumbled back to the motel to scrutinize his son. Dean was pale, his freckles standing out against his pale skin. He also had a slight flush from the fever over his cheeks and his eyes were fever bright and glassy. John also noticed that he wasn't sweating, which meant that not only had the fever not broken yet, but judging from the tremors and shivering that wrecked Dean's body every few seconds, it will probably go up more.

"What?" Dean asked when he felt his father was staring at him.

"You look like hell."

"Yeah. You don't look better yourself." John couldn't argue with that.

"Did you take something for the fever?" He asked quietly, the worry quite evident in his voice.

"Yeah, Dad. I'm fine…" Dean answered but his voice was shaky and hardly convincing.

"Here, take another one of these for the pain. " He handed John another one of the white pills. This time John swallowed it dry.

Once his ribs were set and he could feel the affect of the pills and the whisky, which made his whole body feel a little numb, John repositioned himself on the bed in a semi-sitting position. It was the least uncomfortable position as his ribs would allow him. His eyes felt heavy from the painkillers and the lack of sleep and he closed them, convincing himself that just for a few hours he could put his needs ahead of Dean's. Just before sleep overtook him he mumbled: "But it your fever doesn't break by tomorrow I'm dragging your sorry ass to the doctor".

---

After his dad had fallen into a drug induced sleep, Dean cleaned the motel room a little bit. He picked up the bloody towels from the floor and went to bathroom to wash them. It was either that or to burn them, but even the thought of going outside let alone start a fire made him nauseous again. Truth was, he just hurt all over. Even the small task of tiding the place up seem to suck all of his energy and he felt really dizzy no matter how hard he tried to focus. It was like being drunk, without all the fun stuff that came with the buzz.

Once he was finished he hung the towels over the shower's bars to dry and staggered back to the main room. When he had finally reached his bed he nearly collapsed on it, missing it just a little bit and nearly fell to the floor. Cursing silently, trying his best not to disturb his father, he pulled himself onto the bed and finally laid back down, stifling a groan. Even lying down the room didn't stop spinning and his headache, which he was successfully able to avoid for the last hour, made itself known again. He gagged a little and nearly threw up, but quickly got it under control. Now that everything had been taken care of he could finally go back to his much needed sleep. Dean pulled the covers over his shivering body, tightening the sweatshirt around himself and closed his eyes, finally allowing to let sleep to over take him.

Dean woke up a little while later, feeling that something was wrong. His head hurt so much he was sure it would explode and what little light that penetrated the drapes hurt his eyes so badly that he could barely open them. He was also unable to move his neck and back at all without crying out in pain. He was also so dizzy he nearly fell over, even though he was now sitting in his bed trying to kick the motel's cheap blankets off. The cold sensation he had felt for the past few days seem to have been replaced with the feeling of being set on fire. He was too hot, though he was still shivering violently.

He tried to pick up the glass of water that laid on the nightstand as he tried to get himself to calm down, but he must have misjudged the distance from his body to the glass, because he ended up knocking the glass over to the floor. Luckily it did not break. Dean blinked hard a few times trying to get his eyes to focus but everything just seemed bleary.

His first instinct was to call out to his dad to load off some of the burden, to allow himself to be taken care of. But looking over to where his father was peacefully resting, he couldn't bring himself to wake him up. John Winchester needed the rest as much as his son did. So Dean just pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, swallowing hard as his stomach protested the movement and slowly made his way to the bathroom, leaning heavily on the wall for support; he didn't even bother to close the door behind him.

He turned the faucet on and splashed some water on his face, but it didn't help, if anything it just made it worse. The feeling of the lukewarm water against his hot skin made him feel cold again and he shivered uncontrollably. And once he closed his eyes against the water it was extremely difficult to open them again. Dean tried to hold onto something so he wouldn't trip and hit his head again, but his hands didn't seem to cooperate and grasped nothing but air. He felt that he was falling but he was too weak and too disoriented to do anything about it, so he just gave up and sank ungracefully to the floor. The sudden movement from falling made the dizzy ten times worse and his stomach clenched painfully. He tried to swallow to avoid vomiting but he could already taste the bile. Unable to control himself any longer Dean heaved violently. He tried to roll onto his right side but felt a sharp stabbing pain that started in his neck and exploded in his brain, making the nausea even worse, if it was even possible, so he just leaned back against the wall. Once the heaving started he was unable to stop, and since he couldn't find the strength to move Dean ended up throwing up all over himself, which made him gag again.

He tried to call his father now, trying to will his voice to work but no sound came out, only a few tears from the pain slid from his closed pained eyes down his cheeks. He heaved a few more times before his body gave up, he lost consciousness as his body slid on his right side luckily preventing him from choking on his own vomit.

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A/N – so that was the end of chapter 2. since no one responded to my challenge to continue this fic, I started to get creative and decided to continue it myself. For those of you that are still up for the challenge, you are still more than welcome to do so – you can continue from chapter 1 or 2 – whatever suits you.

Next chapter will be from John perspective, and we'll find out what happened to him during the time he was separated from Dean (and I say "we" because I don't know yet what happened, I haven't thought this story up yet….)