A/N: Okay. I was egged on to expand this by none other than Mad Server and Meggin Lane! Three more drabbles. Four in all. I have no shame.
Typical fugly.
Big time hunter, aren't you boy?
It's mouthy.
You're nothing. My kind is eternal.
The fever warms Dean's skin. His chest is too tight. Sam fusses over him like a mother hen, props him up in bed with pillows like he's friggin' four or something.
And that damn alarm clock doesn't know when to shut the hell up.
We were made to torment you humans.
Dean smiles at it.
You do what we say, when we say.
Sam frowns. "Dean? You okay?"
" 'm super."
Nothing to worry Sammy about, Dean thinks. It's all good. I got this.
Three more after this one.