"That sucked." Sam groans, rolling his neck.

"Easy for you to say." Dean closes and locks the door with his right hand, cradling the left to his chest. "You didn't just get the shit beat out of you by a ghoul." Dean sniffs and rubs the back of his hand against his nose.

"Gross."

"What?" Dean coughs into his elbow a few times.

"That." Sam points at him. "You're sick."

"No, I'm not." Sam takes a step forward. "If you touch my forehead, you'll wish the ghoul had gotten you." Sam smiles, amused. "I'm going to take a shower," Dean says. He sniffs again. "And you're going out to get food."

"Alright," Sam replies in a way that seems suspicious.

• • •

Sam's already back by the time Dean gets out of the shower. Dean walks over to the table where the bags are. Bags. Plural. "What is this?" Dean's points accusatorially.

"Uh, food." Sam reaches past Dean to get his own meal.

"You know what I mean."

"Well that is the logo for a national drugstore by the name of Walgreens. Ever heard of it?"

"Yeah, I have, smartass."

At the threatening look he gives him, Sam answers truthfully. "You're sick. Wait wait before you bite my head off – you're coming down with something," he amends. "Better? I wanted to get ahead of it, is all." He rummages through the bag. "I think we left our med kit at a motel, so I picked up some stuff." Dean groans and rolls his eyes when Sam takes out a thermometer. Then he takes out an array of medicines. "I'll just leave these here for when you're ready to admit you're sick."

"Thanks, Sam," Dean says sarcastically.

"Anytime." Sam grins, and sits down to eat his food.

Dean forces himself to eat half his food before he says, "I'm gonna hit the sack." It's way earlier than he usually goes to bed, but he just got beat to hell so why not? Dean goes to his bed and flops down on it.

"Here." Sam opens a couple bottles and takes out some pills.

"C'mon, man. Only pussies take something for headaches."

Sam sets the pills down. "Don't blame me when you feel like shit in the morning."

• • •

But Dean wakes up just hours later to a splitting headache and rolling stomach, and he knows he's going to throw up. He gets up and runs to the bathroom. He doesn't even have time to turn on the light.

Sam, only half awake hears coughing coming from the bathroom. When it occurs to him that his brother is probably puking his guts out in there, he jumps up and goes to the bathroom. He flips on the light. Dean groans and spits in the toilet then coughs some more. He closes the lid, flushes the toilet, and then presses his cheek against the cool plastic. "You done?" Sam asks.

"Maybe," Dean answers. He looks at his kid brother, and it kills Sam to see how pathetic he looks.

"I'll get you a glass of water."

As Sam leaves the room, he hears his brother say, "Thanks," sincerely. He fills a glass of water and grabs the pills off the table. When he gets back, Dean is sitting on the toilet with his head in his hands.

"Hey, man, I brought you water and some meds if you think you can keep 'em down."

"Thanks," Dean says, his voice rough. He gets up and takes the water from Sam. His hands are shaking. All the movement from throwing up must've been hell on his bruised (broken?) ribs based on how stiff Dean's movements are. The small cuts on his knuckles have reopened and started to bleed, probably from his tight grip on the toilet. Sam makes a mental note to wrap that later, possibly in the morning. He leans in the doorway, keeping a watchful eye on his brother as he brushes his teeth and then downs the medicine.

Sam follows Dean closely as he makes his way back to bed. "I should take you to the doctor in the morning." Sam knows its pointless since his brother will say no.

Dean shakes his head. "No." There it is. Dean lays on the bed, on top of the covers; he still has his jeans on. His face is pale, freckles standing out and there's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. "You're not still denying there's something wrong with you, are you?"

"No." Dean exhales slowly. "I have the flu and doctors can't do shit for that. It'd be a waste of time and money, and you know it." Dean rolls over in bed. "I just wanna go back to sleep."

"Sure." But Dean can hardly breathe because of the congestion, so he sits up and when he reaches for a second pillow, clearly in pain, Sam gets it for him. Sam helps Dean prop himself up; hopefully this will fix the congestion and lessen the pain in his ribs.

"I'll be back," Sam says.

Dean looks around and notices the box of tissues on the table that Sam must've put there. He leans over, wincing at the pain in his ribs. He blows his nose a couple of times, leaving the crumpled tissues beside him on the bed. Sam comes back and sets a trashcan beside the bed. "In case you need to, you know, again."

Dean leans his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes. Sam leaves but comes back right away. Sam taps him on the shoulder. "Leave me the fuck alone, Sam," Dean says, stressing each word. He hurts like hell all over. He's hot. His nose is somehow runny and congested at the same time. He's done; he just wants sleep.

"As soon as you let me take your temperature and you drink something." Dean keeps his eyes closed and turns his head away. "Stop being such a baby." If Sam has to resort to taunting him, so be it.

"Jerk," Dean says.

"Bitch," Sam respond automatically. "C'mon, man." The bed sinks beside Dean. Sam's knee nudges Dean's hip.

"Go away." Dean opens his eyes to see a thermometer an inch from his face. Dean puts his right hand on Sam's knee and tries to push him away. He raises a fist threateningly.

"Stop being so stubborn, dammit." Dean pushes harder against his leg. "I'm just trying to help you."

It takes a few minutes of coaxing before Dean finally accepts it. As soon as Dean takes the thermometer, Sam goes off to the kitchen. Dean watches his brother warily, making – what the fuck is that? – tea? Fuck that shit; there's no way Dean Winchester is drinking tea. He's putting honey in the mug now, stirring it in. Where in the hell did he even get honey? Then he pours some whiskey from a flask in it; that's more like it. Still not drinking it though.

Sam comes over and sets the steaming cup on the bedside table. The thermometer beeps. Sam takes it out and looks at it. "Fever," he states simply. Sam sets the thermometer down and slides the cup of tea toward Dean. Dean lays back down and pulls the covers over his head, blocking out the light.

"It has whiskey in it."

"Yeah, but it has honey in it too." Sam rips the covers off.

"Give it back," Dean demands. He turns around and grabs the blankets, trying to yank it out of his brothers hand, but the movement made him dizzy and nauseous so he has to let go. "God." He presses the tips of his fingers against his closed eyes, attempting to ward off the headache.

"Sorry."

"Fuck you. I'll sleep without the blankets." The statement is punctuated with a single cough.

Sam waves him off. "Whatever." It's, like, one in the morning, and he's tired. He lays the blanket on Dean (he's not a complete ass). He goes to the kitchen and turns off the light, but leaves the bathroom light on for Dean. Sam lays down and goes to sleep immediately.

• • •

Dean wakes up later. Somehow, the room is lit up despite the blackout curtains. He feels nauseous, but not so nauseous that he thinks he's going to puke right away. He makes his way quietly to the bathroom so as not to wake Sam up. He closes the door quietly. Hoping to ward off the nausea, he splashes some cold water on his face.

The feeling in his throat, the one that means he's going to throw up, is getting stronger. He kneels in front of the toilet waiting for the feeling to pass or for him to throw up. The latter wins.

He stays there for a few minutes after it stops, just in case. He rinses his mouth and brushes his teeth. He feels disgusting. Sweat makes his shirt stick to his back and torso, and he feels the fever rages through his body. A shower sounds nice right about now.

Dean turns the water on cold. He gets in. His arms won't cooperate; his limbs move slowly. He stands under the water for a minute, just letting it wash the sweat off his skin, cooling him down. Dean washes his hair slowly and one handed since using the other one hurts. Well, both his hands sting under the water, but his left is worse off. Not to mention, lifting his left arm even a little sends shooting pain through his ribs. Not that he'd tell Sam any of this.

He leans his head back, letting the water rain down on him. Sam's voice outside the door makes him jump. He starts banging on the door. "Dean?" there's urgency in his voice.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean says just loud enough for his brother to hear. "I just threw up and I wanted to take a shower. I'll be out in a minute." The water stings against the cuts on his face and hands. Getting the shit beat out of you and having the flu sucks ass.

• • •

It's a rough week for both Sam and Dean, what with Dean basically incapacitated and Sam having to take care of him 24/7, giving him cool washcloths to help him ride out the fever, giving him medicine every few hours, checking his temperature every few hours, keeping him hydrated and fed, making sure he has tissues, and comforting him through the racking coughing fits that keep him up at night.

Dean may have been forced to be the father when they were growing up, but Sam was the mother and that hasn't changed.