Sam lazily watched the drip, drip, drip of IV fluid as it left the bag and wound its way through the cannula and eventually into his arm. The IV itself was a hard won victory, as the paramedics had had a tough time finding a viable vein in their severely dehydrated patients.

They'd arrived at the hospital some time ago, finding the emergency room surprisingly busy. Because it was so busy, they'd both been placed, with their permission, in the same exam cubicle and were now waiting to be seen. With the introduction of some fluid into his parched body, Sam was feeling marginally better, though the cramping and nausea persisted.

Turning his eyes away from the mesmerizing drip his tired mind found so soothing, Sam looked at his brother. He'd hoped the IV running into Dean's arm would result in similar improvement, but so far it didn't seem to be helping him as much.

"Dean?"

"Hmmm?" Dean murmured without opening his eyes. Thanks to the IV, his face was starting to glisten with sweat.

"How ya doin', man?"

He saw his brother frown, a deep furrow carved between his eyebrows.

"Umm . . . not sure."

Before Sam could say anything else, the cubicle curtain was shoved aside and a short young man, likely a resident, in green scrubs sauntered into the room carrying their patient questionnaires on two metal clipboards. The scrub-clad man wrinkled his nose at the stale sick smell emanating off both patients.

To Sam, it looked like he stopped just short of waving a hand in front of his face like a fan and he bristled.

"I'm Dr. Sheridan," the short man announced, without really looking at either Winchester. He sidled closer to Dean's exam table and spared a quick glance at the man before scribbling something on the clipboard. Swiveling toward Sam, he repeated his actions. Then, without further ado, he scurried toward the curtain, throwing over his shoulder, "Looks like you both have simple food poisoning. I'll send a nurse in with a cooling blanket for him." On the last word, Dr. Sheridan cocked his head in Dean's direction and disappeared from view.

Stunned at the doctor's callous treatment and nonexistent bedside manner, Sam growled, "Jerk." He was surprised to hear Dean offer a small—very small—chuckle. It was followed by a groan as his brother's abused, overworked stomach muscles protested the sudden movement.

It was several minutes later when the curtain was again whisked aside. A gargantuan woman, easily six feet tall and 300 lbs. if she was an ounce, strode purposefully into the cubicle. Powder blue eye shadow decorated her lids from lash to brow and red lipstick plumped her full lips. She yanked the curtain closed behind her.

In her gaily-patterned pink scrubs, she reminded Sam a little too much of a clown, and he swallowed convulsively against the irrational, but well-established, fear. He did, however, unconsciously pull the white sheet up toward his chin.

"All right, gentlemen, I need you both to roll over for me." The woman held up the two items she carried in her left hand that looked suspiciously like small turkey basters.

At her words, Dean's eyes popped open.

"What?" both boys squeaked in unison.

She looked from one to the other and replied, "I need you both to roll over. We need a stool sample from each of you."

"No! No freakin' way, lady!" Dean growled, though its usual menace was unmistakably missing.

Sam said nothing and pulled the sheet a little higher. His nausea increased with a sudden, and unwelcome, intensity.

"Now, listen here, boys—we suspect you're suffering from food poisoning, and we've a few other suspected cases occupying space in this emergency room. So—we need to isolate the cause and see what we're dealin' with."

She pulled the privacy curtain closed between the two exam tables and marched to Dean's bedside. "C'mon, hun, it won't hurt you know. In and out. I'm an old hand at this after all these years."

Dean glared at her name badge, opening his mouth to crack a Nurse Rachet joke.

D. Monnick, R.N.

His vision was a little blurry so he squinted at the badge, sure he hadn't read it correctly.

D. Monnick, R.N.

"You've gotta be kiddin'. What's the 'D' stand for? Devil?" he mumbled.

From the other side of the curtain, Sam called out, "Dean! Seriously—now is not the time!"

Seeing that he was eyeing her badge, she laughed. "Ah, hun, you hurt my feelings. Actually, it stands for Delilah. You know, Delilah, the temptress."

A shiver wracked Dean's body.

"Now—roll on over. I'm not gonna take no for an answer an' I'm bigger than you." Delilah smiled, but it did nothing to take the threat out of her words.

Dean glared at his torturer but did as she ordered. He was surprised at the effort it took for him roll on his side. He lay panting and dizzy, and in dejected gloom, as she took her sample. When she was finished, he shifted onto his back and glared at her some more.

Huh? Why're there two of her?

She pulled off the latex gloves and dropped them in the red biohazard trash can. "Glare all you want, hun. But just think, your brother's next. And when I'm done with him, I'll bring you back a cooling blanket."

Though he was still embarrassed and miserable, he couldn't help the tiniest of smirks at thought of his brother experiencing the same humiliation.

Misery loves company as they say.

TBC . . .