A/N; Might be just me, but I feel like I managed to write an accurate section of Dean and Sam banter in this one. X)

Appendix C

Section B

Alex age 17

"I don't like it," Dean growled.

"Lay. Down," Sam pushed his brother back onto the bed, causing Dean to flop comically, sheets and pillows bouncing off agitated springs.

"I've told you, Sam, I'm fine," rebutted the elder. Sam commenced removing Dean's shoes for bed. "Hey, put that back on!"

"You have the flu."

"I've had worse."

"Not the point."

"Oh, the point is you can run around with Hell-Gate Fever and get doused in an ice bath when your temp boils at a hundred and seven, but I can't even get out of bed when I hit a hundred!" barked Dean.

"And three," amended Sam.

"Whatever."

"You run low, too – that's like a hundred and four for a normal person," Sam pressed, throwing a cool rag at Dean's face. "Cool it down."

"I don't run low! You run low," Dean moved the rag off his eye and nose and onto his forehead, which resulted in an involuntary sigh of relief.

"I don't run low," returned Sam.

"Yes you do."

"Doesn't matter."

"No, let's settle this – here," Dean held out the thermometer to his brother, "take your temp."

Sam cringed. "Ew, no. Get your germ stick away from me."

"Fine. You don't want it in your mouth, we'll take it the baby way," Dean teased.

"That's not that kind of thermometer."

Dean looked thoughtful, "I suggest taking your temp via rectum and your protest is the type of thermometer?"

"Dean, it's a routine hunt," Sam assured his sibling, leaning with his knuckles on the bed, "you can sit this one out."

"It's a routine hunt," Dean flipped the argument, "I can come a little under the weather."

Just then, Dean coughed, then choked, then coughed again, then made a retching sound and grabbed the bedside waist bin, into which he divulged a gigantic loogie that had nearly halted his breathing and his life.

"Ugh, gross," Sam breathed.

"Oh my God," Dean murmured. "What is that thing? Do we need to kill this? Get the salt and lighter fluid."

"It's just phlegm, Dean," Sam took the bin from Dean's hands and put it back in its place. "It's supposed to be helping you, but it's just getting stuck in your windpipe. Which should be a good reason for you to stay in bed," with this, Sam one handedly pushed the elder onto his back. It was an easy move; his admittedly large brother didn't offer much resistance at the moment.

"Maybe you're right," Dean finally relented after having a near death experience with the loogie. "I still don't like it though," he persisted, at the same time moving to get under the covers while Sam adjusted the comforter over him. "If I'm holed up here, who's got your back out there?"

"Hey, Dad," Alex appeared in the doorway, dressed to hunt. "Feeling any better?"

"Nope," Dean immediately flipped his mind back, snapping the blankets off himself and popping out of bed. "Not happening."

It was then that he tottered on the spot, his face going blank, then fainted. Sam caught him before he fell far, grunting with the sudden exertion used to sustain his sibling's dead weight. He and his niece exchanged looks communicating both concern and disbelief in their kin's stubbornness. Not long after, Dean rallied.

"Whoa," he slurred, "that was one hell of a head rush." He regained his feet. "It's fine, though. I just stood up too fast."

"Uh-huh." Sam was not amused, hands on hips. Then he half shouted, "Stay here."

"And let her go out hunting on her own? I don't think so," Dean retorted.

Sam waved his arms emphatically in front of his brother's face, "HELLO! She's not on her own! I'm going with her! And I'm second best to you. And the normal you, not this drippy, oozy, barfy, sweltering thing that currently occupies your body."

"Hey, three heads are better than two," persisted Dean.

"Who's the third head, Dean, since yours is rendered nonfunctional with mucus?" bit back Sam.

Dean jabbed a finger at the younger and growled, "That is bullshACHOO!"

The aftermath was not pretty, although it undeniably proved Sam's point.

But not for Dean.

"Must be allergy season," he asserted.

"Okay," Sam said in his tense yet calm tone, "Plan B. Alex, get the rope."

The larger Winchester ducked down, grabbed the comparatively smaller Winchester about the thighs and dumped him onto the bed.

"Ow," was Dean's one comment as his sinuses throbbed with the impact.

"Um, Uncle Sam?" Alex suggested. "Wasn't tying him down Plan C?"

Sam, looming over his brother, looked at Alex, confused. Then his face lightened in realization, shortly thereafter turning dark in a delightedly evil kind of way. Dean inspected his brother with concern.

"Oh, right, I forgot," replied Sam, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "We'll stay here a bit longer; talk it out. You want to get your dad something to drink? We need to keep the fluids going."

Alex nodded kindly, then turned and left. Sam then turned to Dean with a gentle look on his face. Dean returned it with an expression of shocked suspicion.

"What the hell do you two plan to do to me?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sam swept the suspicion aside. "Just talk a bit."

"Aw, hell."

"No, really. I get it's hard for you," Sam spoke honestly. "She's your only daughter. I can imagine… and can't imagine… how hard it must be to let her go out and do dangerous things. She's my niece; I'm worried about her, too. But… she has to go out sometime. We can't always protect her. She's almost an adult now. And let's be honest; she's clever and strong and determined. She'll probably be fine."

"Or not," retorted Dean.

Sam shook his head, "We just can't think that way, Dean. We have to have faith in her. I know we Winchesters have trust issues, I get it, but at some point we're just going to have to get over that. Because we can trust her."

Dean was stony, "I had a dream about a week ago. We were on a hunt; she died. Right in my arms, Sammy. I know it's just a dream, a stupid friggin' dream, but….

"I'm tellin' yah… I don't like this."

Sam was saddened, looking away. He gave a sigh, grappling with the thoughts in his head. At last, he returned his gaze to his brother and fastened a firm grip on his sibling's shoulder.

"It's going to be okay, Dean," he said softly.

"How do you know that?" his voice was quiet, and he looked frightened.

Sam breathed for a moment. "Because Cas has got his ears on."

Dean's expression didn't change. Sam doubted his disposition did, either.

It was then that Alex returned, water glass in hand, "Okay, Dad! Here you go." She handed it to him.

Dean took it, peered into the glass's contents, then up at his brother again.

"What the hell is in here?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sam sounded resigned. "The play was Cas.

"Drink up. Maybe you'll feel better in the next couple hours; you can come with."

Dean still looked cautious, but took a drink anyway. He was thirsty.

"You bet I'm coming with," Dean persisted feebly.

"Dad, really, I'm going to be okay," Alex said. "I learned from the best."

"You hitting your targets where you should?"

"The bullets go where I want them to."

"'Kay, good. And hand-to-hand combat?"

It was then that he fell unconscious.

"Dean?" Sam inquired. He lifted up an eyelid briefly, then exclaimed, "Awesome! Let's go!"