Dean squints at the handwritten notes in the margins of the police report, looking for any clue that might lead him to discover which of the museum's artifacts has a homicidal spirit attached. His headache from earlier is back with a vengeance and his neck is stiff and achy as well, probably from leaning over a table all day.
He hears a series of successive clunks and gets up from the table to investigate. He finds Sam at the bottom of the stairs, vacuum in hand. "I did the upstairs. Now can we have dinner?"
"Only if you're making it," Dean answers, walking back in the kitchen.
"I don't wanna cook," Sam whines.
Dean crosses his arms. "I don't wanna cook either. So now what?"
"No fair! I did all the vacuuming."
"What do you want, a medal?"
Sam glares at him. "Quit being a jerk and make dinner."
"I don't take orders from you," Dean retorts. "You know where the stove is, make it yourself."
"No!"
"Then I guess we're not eating." Dean turns and takes a step toward the table.
"I hate you!" Sam shrieks. Before Dean knows what's happening, he's falling. He tries to grab onto the back of the nearest chair but misses. His head connects with the edge of the countertop and everything goes black.
"--ake up. Dean?"
"Nnrrrghh."
"Dean! Open your eyes."
Dean does as he's told, but that turns out to be a very, very bad idea. The pain is hot and bright and sharp, like a lightning bolt inside his head. It lessens slightly when he squeezes his eyes shut, but not that much. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears and he feels like he's going to be sick. He swallows convulsively and tries to breathe slowly and steadily through his nose.
"Dean?" Sam's voice is small, scared. "Are you...okay?"
He can't nod and he's afraid to open his mouth, so he gropes around until he finds Sam's arm and pats it, hoping Sam will get the message.
Sam grabs Dean's other hand and guides it to the bit of paper towel stemming the bleeding from the cut on his forehead. "Hold this. I'm gonna go get the kit."
The brightness beyond Dean's eyelids dims substantially. "I turned the lights down," says Sam. "It should be okay now."
Dean carefully pries one eye open. When his head doesn't immediately explode, he opens the other. Sam roots around in their huge first-aid kit until he comes up with the butterfly bandages. He bites his lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
Dean grunts noncommittally. He's not going to let Sam off the hook that easily. He bites back a moan as Sam painstakingly applies the Steri-Strips. When Sam finishes, he puts the kit back together and sits back on his heels. "You need anything?"
"Ice," Dean answers quietly. Sam jumps up and hurries over to the freezer. When Dean moves to sit up, pain flares in his neck and he groans.
Sam spins around, eyes wide with concern. "You all right?"
"Peachy." Dean rolls over and gets up on his knees. The movement makes the floor tilt crazily and he has to put out a hand to keep from falling back over. He swallows hard against the rising nausea. If he even has a goddamn concussion, he's gonna kill the kid.
Dean struggles to his feet and drops into the nearest chair. Sam hands him the ice pack and he presses it with a wince to the gash on his temple. He leans heavily against the back of the chair. "Get me some Tylenol, willya?"
"Sure," replies Sam. He grabs a bottle from the first-aid kit that's still open on the floor and sets it down on the table in front of Dean. Without any prompting, he gets a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water, then opens the bottle of Tylenol and shakes four capsules into his hand. Wordlessly, he holds them out to Dean. Dean smiles weakly and accepts them. He swallows the pills and water carefully, not wanting them to make a return trip.
Sam hesitates, then sits down in the chair across from Dean. "I'm really, really sorry. I swear, I didn't mean for you to fall. I just...was mad 'cause you picked a fight."
"So this is my fault?"
"Yes! I mean, no. I mean--" Sam trails off, clearly flustered. "I wouldn't have pushed you, except you were being such an ass about dinner."
"Oh no," Dean replies, sitting up straighter. "No. This is your fault. You took the cheap shot, like a coward."
"Did not!" Sam's cheeks redden. "You should have seen it coming!"
"You're supposed to be watching my back, not--" Dean stops mid-sentence when pain spikes in his head and the room starts spinning. He doesn't realize he's leaning forward until his neck pulls painfully and his vision blurs. He drops the ice pack and grabs the edge of the table with both hands to keep himself from toppling off the chair. Looking down at the table is out, so he fixates on the wall clock and breathes shallowly, concentrating on not throwing up. The blood is rushing in his ears again and he just barely hears Sam call his name in a panic.
The next thing Dean knows, he's looking at Sam's worried face inches from his. He reaches out and tries to push Sam away. "G'toff me."
Sam tentatively takes a step back. When Dean doesn't immediately fall over, his face softens a little. "You should be on the couch or in bed or something," he says, words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "Think you can get up?"
"'Course I can," Dean grumbles, but his body seems to have other ideas. When he stands up, his knees buckle and it's only Sam's quick reflexes that keep him from hitting the floor. Dean leans heavily on Sam as he makes his slow, wobbly way to the couch. Once Dean's sitting down, Sam rushes back to the kitchen and comes back with a full glass of water and the thermometer. "What the hell?"
"You've got a fever," Sam replies, handing the plastic instrument over.
"Do not."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "Wanna bet?"
Dean wants to roll his eyes but decides that under the circumstances, that might not be the best idea. He snatches up the thermometer with a low growl and glares at Sam the entire time it's in his mouth. When it beeps, Dean looks down at the readout and goddammit, Sam's right: 102.7. He shows it to Sam, who nods sagely and hands him the glass of water with an admonishment to drink it all.
"Tyrant," Dean mutters under his breath, handing the empty glass back.
"Invalid," Sam retorts. "Lie down before you pass out again."
Dean has to admit that it's kind of a relief to finally lie down and rest. He must have the flu or something; whatever it is, it's a bitch. He can't remember ever having a headache this bad, and he's had a couple of concussions. Of course, it's entirely possible that he has a concussion now on top of whatever virus is kicking his ass. When he gets better, Sam is so dead.
