No. 22: DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU?

prompt options: Poisoned, Drugged, Withdrawal

setting: a later season

"Holy crap, will you please kill me now?" Dean begged, slumped over the toilet. He chanced lifting his head, trying to get a glimpse of his brother. The room was empty. "Where are you?"

Silence responded to him.

"I'm going to die either way."

More silence.

"I can't believe you're going to ignore me as I die." Dean rested his forehead on his crossed arms.

"You're talking a lot for someone who's dying," Sam commented, floor creaking as he stepped into the bathroom.

Dean started to respond, but instead puked out another internal organ.

Sam said something behind him, then there was a cool cloth being pressed to the back of his neck.

"I'm not gonna make it, Sammy," Dean said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Take care of my Baby for me, ok?"

"Dean. You're not going to die."

It sure felt like he was.

Dean slumped down to the dirty tile. It disgusted him, but he was too sick to care. The germs on the floor weren't going to kill him any faster than the poison he'd ingested was going to do.

"You want to go back to bed?" Sam asked, flushing the toilet.

"I won't make it. I'll die halfway there."

Sam had the audacity to laugh.

Dean groaned.

"I'll just refrain from saying I told you so until you're feeling better."

Sam sounded disturbingly amused for a man whose big brother was in the process of dying a miserable death on a grimy bathroom floor.

"Never gonna feel better," Dean mumbled, stomach giving a lurch.

Next round, starting now.

Sam helped drag him upright. Once he was propped against the toilet, Dean endured another vicious round of vomiting.

"We're going to the hospital if this doesn't let up soon."

Sam's voice sounded distant even though he was still standing right next to Dean. He also sounded a little less amused so maybe Dean's impending death was beginning to concern him at last.

"No hospital," Dean choked out, dizziness sweeping over him even though his head was still pressed against the toilet seat.

"Then stop puking."

To spite him, Dean puked until he saw stars.

"We're going to the hospital."

Dean peeled heavy eyes open. He was flat on his back and Sam was above him, frowning.

Sam was wearing his jacket. He hadn't been wearing it a moment ago...or maybe it was several moments ago?

"I'm fine," Dean mumbled.

"You're really not."

"Dying?"

Sam shook his head, crouching down. "Not dying, but we are going to the hospital. You just passed out and you've been vomiting for over twenty four hours now. And you can't keep anything down."

Hearing it listed out that way did sound a bit more serious. Dean stared at his brother, wanting nothing more than to argue vehemently against the idea of a hospital visit. But he didn't. Because any hint of teasing was gone and Sam looked worried. If the roles had been reversed and he'd been the one standing over his brother like Sam was, Dean would've already been dragging them toward the car.

So he lifted a shaking hand.

Sam nodded, a bit of relief in his eyes. He eased Dean upright and Dean wanted to give him grief for the gentleness, but didn't. Because if Sam hadn't been gentle, he probably would have passed out again. It was a close thing, anyway.

The trip to the hospital was a blur of misery. Dean didn't remember anything clearly about the trip, but he had the horrific suspicion he'd puked in his car. He hadn't asked yet; didn't really want to know.

Slowly, things began to make more sense. He was in a bed, uncomfortable and lumpy. His head was pounding and he still felt queasy, but it wasn't as bad as before. A bleary glance around revealed an IV in his arm. A bag of fluids hung above him and Sam was in the chair beside the bed.

"Dean?"

Blinking, Dean met his brother's gaze.

"How're you feeling?"

Dean started to answer, but his mouth was too dry to form more than a croak.

"Here," Sam said, offering him a cup with a straw. "Just a sip."

Feeling like an idiot, Dean took a sip. Swallowing hard, he said, "Better."

"You feel better?"

Dean rocked his hand back and forth. Better was a loose term.

Sam's smile was brief. He set the cup aside and said, "We shouldn't have waited as long as we did. Your electrolytes were completely out of balance."

"Told you I was dyin'." Dean regretted the glib comment at the guilty expression on his brother's face. "Hey, come on. I wasn't gonna die of freakin' food poisoning, Sam. I've survived cardiac arrest. Woke up from a coma. Been to hell and got the t-shirt."

"You killed Death," Sam added, the guilt fading a bit as he smiled.

"Yes I did. I also killed Hitler!" Dean grinned.

"And you have that t-shirt, too."

"Damn straight. So as you can tell from my track record, I'm not the kind of guy who lets a bad burger take me out."

"I did tell you not to eat it," Sam raised his eyebrow, guilt completely gone now and replaced with smug little brotherness.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm in a freakin' hospital bed. You couldn't wait just a little longer before starting the I told you so's?"

"I could not."

Dean couldn't help but smile. He closed his eyes, the brief chat already wearing him out.

"Get some sleep," Sam said softly. "We're not going anywhere for awhile."

"Next time, I'll listen to you about the burger."

"No, you won't."

Sam was probably right. Dean mentally shrugged.

"But I'll still tell you not to eat it," Sam added.

"I know you will."

"And when you wake up, I will be saying I told you so for the next few days."

Dean opened one eye to glare at his brother. Sam just stared back at him all too smugly. But there was still that hint of worry underneath which was why Dean closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep.

It was also why he'd be enduring his brother's I told you so's for the next few days.

Thanks for reading!

Tomorrow's theme/Prompts: No. 23: WHAT'S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE?, Exhaustion, Narcolepsy, Sleep Deprivation