(no subject)
Title: Eating Away
Rating: PG-13
Words: 573
Notes: Just a little something for flusteredspeech, who has the flu herself. <33
Summary: Dean's got the flu, and Sam is sure to remind him what the worst part about having it is.
Round number four of scrambling off the motel bed with a hand clapped to his mouth and making it just in time to dry heave little bits of nothing into the toilet and Dean was thinking that dying right then and there would be the greatest reprieve ever. This seriously sucked. He moaned and then blinked, wondering at the weirdness of his voice echoing around the bowl.
He was going to kill Sam.
"Kill you, Sam," he mumbled most probably to himself because his brother was God know's where, and seriously, Sam had better been out getting some really awesome drugs for his poor big brother because yeah, killing. Dean pulled himself as best he could across the floor and back to his bed without looking like a total pathetic heap of queasy misery, but probably failed in more ways than he knew was possible.
That had been a goddamn tasty plate of porkchops, too. The one diner in the entire country who didn't undercook, overcook, or otherwise mangle a piece of meat until it tasted like rubber, and Dean didn't even get the pleasure of digesting it. It was so sad it almost made him cry.
Sam took that moment to walk in, slamming the door shut as annoying loud as he could possibly could, striding his dumb ass in as cheerfully as he could possibly be, a grocery bag in hand.
"Feeling better?" he asked, not stopping to look at Dean as he pulled items out of the bag, placing them on the table.
"Just as soon as I kill you," Dean grumbled as menacingly as he could as he shivered under the comforter. Sam tsked as he held up and shook an industrial size bottle of NyQuil in one hand and what looked like... oh hell no, a bottle of vitamins in the other. "Be nice or you won't get the good stuff," Sam said.
"'The good stuff' would be vicoden or morphine. This is not 'the good stuff.'" He narrowed his eyes at Sam while giving an almighty sniff. "I'm not taking vitamins."
"Shut up," Sam said cheerfully. "You're like, the worst patient on the face of the planet."
"Fuck you," Dean rasped. "You coughed on me." Sam just shrugged, his lips quirked into a smile as if he was trying to hide it. He opened up the bottle of NyQuil, not bothering to check the side for the required dosage, and poured a generous amount into the little plastic cup that came with it, and handed it to Dean.
"Drink up," he said. Dean frowned at the nearly overflowing little cup. He was a little suspicious that Sam was just trying to knock him out. He drank it all down anyway.
Dean blinked and coughed once more, and then settled down again into the scratchy sheets and comfortor, willing his aching muscles to relax. He was just about to drift off when he heard the rustle of the plastic bag again, and opened his eyes just in time to see Sam pull something else out of it.
"Oh Jesus, Sam," Dean groaned, turning over and planting his face into his pillow just so he couldn't smell it.
"What?" Sam said, and Dean could almost see the large, innocent eyes. "Can't a man enjoy a piece of pie every now and again?" Dean moaned something angrily into the pillow.
"Yeah," Sam replied with a grin. "Apple's my favorite too."
Rating: PG-13
Words: 573
Notes: Just a little something for flusteredspeech, who has the flu herself. <33
Summary: Dean's got the flu, and Sam is sure to remind him what the worst part about having it is.
Round number four of scrambling off the motel bed with a hand clapped to his mouth and making it just in time to dry heave little bits of nothing into the toilet and Dean was thinking that dying right then and there would be the greatest reprieve ever. This seriously sucked. He moaned and then blinked, wondering at the weirdness of his voice echoing around the bowl.
He was going to kill Sam.
"Kill you, Sam," he mumbled most probably to himself because his brother was God know's where, and seriously, Sam had better been out getting some really awesome drugs for his poor big brother because yeah, killing. Dean pulled himself as best he could across the floor and back to his bed without looking like a total pathetic heap of queasy misery, but probably failed in more ways than he knew was possible.
That had been a goddamn tasty plate of porkchops, too. The one diner in the entire country who didn't undercook, overcook, or otherwise mangle a piece of meat until it tasted like rubber, and Dean didn't even get the pleasure of digesting it. It was so sad it almost made him cry.
Sam took that moment to walk in, slamming the door shut as annoying loud as he could possibly could, striding his dumb ass in as cheerfully as he could possibly be, a grocery bag in hand.
"Feeling better?" he asked, not stopping to look at Dean as he pulled items out of the bag, placing them on the table.
"Just as soon as I kill you," Dean grumbled as menacingly as he could as he shivered under the comforter. Sam tsked as he held up and shook an industrial size bottle of NyQuil in one hand and what looked like... oh hell no, a bottle of vitamins in the other. "Be nice or you won't get the good stuff," Sam said.
"'The good stuff' would be vicoden or morphine. This is not 'the good stuff.'" He narrowed his eyes at Sam while giving an almighty sniff. "I'm not taking vitamins."
"Shut up," Sam said cheerfully. "You're like, the worst patient on the face of the planet."
"Fuck you," Dean rasped. "You coughed on me." Sam just shrugged, his lips quirked into a smile as if he was trying to hide it. He opened up the bottle of NyQuil, not bothering to check the side for the required dosage, and poured a generous amount into the little plastic cup that came with it, and handed it to Dean.
"Drink up," he said. Dean frowned at the nearly overflowing little cup. He was a little suspicious that Sam was just trying to knock him out. He drank it all down anyway.
Dean blinked and coughed once more, and then settled down again into the scratchy sheets and comfortor, willing his aching muscles to relax. He was just about to drift off when he heard the rustle of the plastic bag again, and opened his eyes just in time to see Sam pull something else out of it.
"Oh Jesus, Sam," Dean groaned, turning over and planting his face into his pillow just so he couldn't smell it.
"What?" Sam said, and Dean could almost see the large, innocent eyes. "Can't a man enjoy a piece of pie every now and again?" Dean moaned something angrily into the pillow.
"Yeah," Sam replied with a grin. "Apple's my favorite too."