Dean lies in bed, snuggled under the covers, hot and cold, and miserable, and feeling sorry for himself.

He feels like death.

No, scratch that.

He knows what death feels like, and this is worse.

If he moves, he feels the mucus that has been draining from his sinuses slosh around in

his stomach, making him nauseous.

If he sits still, his joints all scream out at him in an achy chorus of misery.

Either way, he is stuck in the wretchedness of it all, and there is nothing he can do.

He wants his Mommy.

He wants his Sammy.