A/N: I wrote these awhile ago as language exercises for somebody very fabulous who wanted to practice when to use demonstrative-it and when to use demonstrative-that. Today I looked at them and thought, "Hey, I still like them." I don't think I ever posted them. *shifty eyes* If I did I'm officially embarrassed.

"You gonna eat that?"

Sam looked up from his book. He glanced down at the half-eaten apple in his hand. "What? This?"

Dean licked his lips and scratched his arm above the cast. "Yeah, that. What, you think I wanna eat your paperback?"

"OK... first of all it's half-eaten, second you don't EAT fruit unless it's cooked into a pie, and third... how can you already be hungry again?"

Dean scowled. "Being cooped up gives me an appetite. I can't help it."

Sam took in his brother's pale face above his plaster-covered arm and frowned. "You OK? Is that itchy?"

"Not unless you talk about it." Dean dug a finger fruitlessly down inside it. "Ugh. I hate that." His face crumpled up and he sneezed helplessly. "And that."

Sam sighed. "Are you really hungry? You look sort of crappy. Maybe you do need something."

"Something like pizza." Dean blew his nose and threw Sam the car key. "Get extra onions on it. And bacon."

Sam huffed. He got up and shrugged into his coat. "Yeah, all right. And then you're gonna take your cold pills and go to sleep."

Dean started to raise his broken arm to wave, and winced. "Mmh." Sam was out the door.

"We'll see about that."

A/N2: And then, unrelatedly...

There was a thermometer between Dean's lips, the long thin glass thermometer from Bobby's medicine cabinet. Sam could hear it bouncing off Dean's teeth. The patchwork quilt that was usually folded over the back of the couch was tucked sloppily around Dean, leaving his neck exposed but pulled tight and smooth at his ribcage. Its ends, dangling over the edge of the sofa, swayed a little as Dean shivered.

Sam checked his watch, got up from his chair and held out his hand. "Here. Gimme that."

Just then, Dean's face scrunched up and he sneezed a huge sneeze, spitting the thermometer onto the dusty wood floor. "Ugh. Special delivery."

Sam frowned and moved the Kleenex box onto Dean's lap. "Yeah. Thanks, I think." He bent down, picked up the slippery thermometer and dried it on his jeans.

Bundled up, Dean ignored the tissues and just sniffed once, hard. "Well? What's it say?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. He sighed. "It says you're sick."

"Is that a fact." Dean shuddered harder, teeth clacking in his white face.

Sam set the instrument down and adjusted Dean's blanket so it snuggled up to his chin. "Yeah. It says to drink your tea and get some sleep and that maybe, just maybe, when you wake up, there'll be tomato rice soup."

"Wow, it says all that? Must have cost a fortune." In spite of himself Dean yawned, then sneezed on the tissue box.

Sam grimaced. "Just lie down, man. It'll do you good."

"Only because I like tomato rice soup." Dean sniffled, tipped over and buried his face in the soft red cushion.

Sam draped a heavy wool blanket over Dean. "Feel better."