A/N: Welcome to the brave new level of plotlessness. Feel better, NT.
"Thank you so much for your time. Please let us know if there's anything we can do."
In the grieving parents' living room Sam gets up to go.
Beside him Dean doesn't move. He's planted on the floral couch, palms on his thighs. His skin's bright white against the red and purple blossoms.
Sam sizes him up and dips in closer. "Hey," he murmurs. "You coming?"
Dean's head tips up. His eyes on Sam's are shiny. "Uh." His hands rove to the couch back, the arm. "Yeah." He braces himself, strains upward.
Sam grabs his elbow, scans the man and woman and turns back just as Dean's eyelids flutter. "Whoa, whoa." He grips Dean's thin suit at the waist. "Hey. 'SOK."
"Oh my god," says the husband behind him.
"I'm calling 9-1-1," adds the wife.
Dean's warm and still and heavy against Sam. His breath crackles faintly. Then he twitches and stumbles back.
"Hey, easy, easy." Sam's still gripping Dean's elbow and Dean's frowning, leaning into it hard. "Shh, shh, you're good."
Dean's hair is wet with sweat. His chest heaves. He blinks and squints at Sam, at the others. "What...?"
"You fainted, man. It's fine. I got you." Sam inches in to support him better, feels Dean's hot forehead find his shoulder. "Ouch. ...Sorry. Flu. Thought he was over it." He shuffles his brother gently toward the door. "We'll get out of your hair."
"Do you need anything?" the woman blurts.
"He could rest on the sofa," offers the man.
"No. Thanks. Uh." Sam shifts Dean's weight as Dean rips a button off Sam's cheap dress shirt and sneezes explosively into his jacket. "We're not far from here. Really, we'll be fine."
And after a mountain of tissues and Tylenol, they are.