He'd become quite adept at predicting their arguments these days. He couldn't help it; he'd heard enough of them over the past few weeks, no months, to know pretty much exactly how they would go. It didn't matter which crappy motel they found themselves in, or which one of them started it, but it was invariably the same. Dad would bark out the latest orders, and then Sam would question it, or refuse to comply. Of course, then it would begin all over again. Dad would talk about the 'family business' and 'duty' and Sam would generally bring out the old favourites of 'it's my life, not yours' and 'you always ruin everything for me.' And every time, it would end with Dean caught in the middle of two freshly slammed doors; Sam having locked himself in the bathroom with one of his beloved books, and Dad having left them alone to go and cool off elsewhere.

Today, it seemed, was no different. With a start, Dean jerked awake, immediately checking his watch with bleary, screwed up eyes; 6pm. He'd been asleep for hours but the throbbing headache that had settled behind his eyes the day before still hadn't shifted, and for some reason, his chest hurt like hell. As he stretched and sat up, retrieving his boots from where he'd discarded them hours before, the sounds of Sam and Dad arguing began to drift in from the next room. Rolling his eyes and involuntarily wincing at the pain this caused his already throbbing head; he grabbed a crumpled shirt from his duffle and hurriedly pulled it on over his tee shirt, shivering slightly at the cold. With a slightly longing look back over his shoulder at his recently vacated bed, he hurriedly made his way into the adjoining room, hoping that today would be the day when his role as the mediator would be successful.

Just as he suspected, he found Sam sat at the small kitchen table, almost completely hidden behind a sea of books and papers. Dad, of course, was stood beside him, bearing down upon his youngest son with that familiar, impatient expression. So intent were they in their well-rehearsed routine that neither noticed Dean sidle in and sink into the threadbare sofa, snatching up an old magazine and listening to them carefully behind it.

'It's simple,' John was saying, frowning as Sam, continuing to do his homework or whatever, refused to even look at him. 'Just a vengeful spirit and it's a simple matter of burning the remains. I talked to the old lady this morning – it's her son's spirit causing the trouble – and he's buried out the back of their old house at the edge of the woods just out of town.'

'No thanks,' Sam said with an almost distracted air, still scribbling furiously.

John's eyes narrowed as they so often did these days. 'I wasn't asking you,' he said coldly, 'I'm telling. Get your stuff and let's go.'

'I'm not going,' Sam said calmly, finally laying down his pen.

'Like hell you aren't.'

'I've got a big test coming up, Dad, and I need to study.'

Dean sighed as they raged on, not even realising that he'd been staring at the same page of the magazine for ages without actually taking a word of it in. Again he was faced with his constant dilemma of wanting to stop his father and brother arguing, but not knowing how. Maybe it was because he could clearly see and understand where each side was coming from. He wanted to remind Dad that Sam was still a kid, all floppy hair and wide eyes and gangly legs. He wanted to tell him that Sam was a really bright kid who genuinely wanted to do well in school and had the brains to do whatever the hell he wanted. Just because Dean had chosen this as his life didn't mean that Sammy had to as well. But at the same time, he wanted to give Sam a good slap upside the head and tell him to stop being so damn disrespectful towards Dad who, after all, was just trying to protect them and kill the thing that had killed Mom.

Dad and Sam were more alike than they realised, Dean thought grimly, as he watched them over the top of his magazine. Both were firmly set in their ways and neither was willing to admit that they could be wrong. He rolled his eyes again, ignoring the short stab of pain in his head as Mom's name was dragged into the argument as he knew it inevitably would.

'In case you hadn't remembered, Sam, we are trying to hunt down the monster that murdered your mother!'

Sam scowled. 'No, I hadn't forgotten,' he said coolly, regarding his father with narrowed eyes. 'I just don't see how a vengeful spirit in Minnesota has anything to do with Mom!'

John took a menacing step towards his younger son, practically spitting out the words now. 'Three people have already been killed here, Sam, three innocent people, and who knows how many more if we don't put a stop to the damn thing.'

Sam had actually stood up now, and was practically nose to nose with Dad. Even at fifteen, he was almost the same height as Dad, and Dean had had to grudgingly admit that Sammy had caught up with him in the height department and would probably overtake him any day now. Dean realised that he had to intervene now, reluctant as he was, because it was generally at this point that things began to get really ugly. He had barely stood up and half formed what he was going to say when a loud cough he was unable to suppress silenced him, the force of it pushing him back down onto the sofa. He watched as the sound finally broke Dad and Sam out of their argument for a moment and they turned to look at him, aware for the first time that he had entered their midst.

'Dean!' They spoke his name in unison, each relieved, each believing that he came to defend their side.

Dean, however, was unable to answer, overcome by another loud cough that tore at his chest and left his moth dry and his heart racing. He instantly tried to cover it up, but he saw Sam's expression instantly change to one of concern, and inwardly cursed himself.

'What's wrong with you, Dean?' Sam asked at once, his voice considerably softer.

'Nothing, Sam, don't worry about me,' Dean replied at one, though the hoarseness of his voice slightly alarmed him, and Sam too by the looks of him.

'Your brother's right, Sam, we're talking about you here, not him.'

Sam rolled his eyes, pushing his hair off his face. 'I can see that,' he said, his voice immediately hardening once again. 'I can see that you don't even care that Dean's feeling sick. All you care about is this stupid, damn hunt. As usual.'

'Stop it, Sam,' John said sharply. 'There's nothing wrong with Dean. He's fine – aren't you?' he added as an afterthought, glancing over at his eldest son.

Dean nodded, pressing the palms of his hands on his forehead in a futile attempt to ease his goddamn headache. They had some aspirin somewhere, rattling round in the glovebox of the Impala he though, but he didn't think that was going to cut it. As if in sympathy with his throbbing head, another loud cough wracked through his body, feeling like it had cleaved his chest in two. Rubbing his chest to ease the pain, he looked up to see both Dad and Sam staring at him, almost suspiciously.

'You've been coughing for weeks,' Sam said suddenly, turning his head slightly as though to get a better look at his brother.

Dean frowned. 'So?' he asked, frowning.

Sam rolled his eyes. 'So,' he said slowly and clearly as though Dean was being deliberately stupid, 'you're obviously sick, dude.'

'It's nothing, Sam,' he said quickly, bending down to tie his bootlaces and resolutely ignoring the fresh, throbbing pain in his head. Little lights were popping in front of his eyes and he tightly clutched the sofa's armrest, willing himself not to pitch over and land headfirst on the stained carpet. Not in front of Dad and Sammy, anything but that.

'You're sick, Dean!' Sam burst out. 'You just went dizzy there, didn't you? Didn't you?' he added, more insistently.

'No,' Dean muttered defiantly, finally unclenching his fists once the room had stopped spinning.

Sam rounded on his father once again, his jaw set and grimly determined. 'This is all your fault,' he spat.

'What the hell are you talking about?'

Sam pointed at Dean, who was coughing loudly again. 'I bet you didn't even realise he was sick even though he's been up every night coughing.'

Dean suddenly felt a blush creeping into his cheeks. He'd tried to be as discreet as possible, disappearing off to the bathroom whenever he felt his chest tightening and had even run the shower and flushed the toilet to mask the sounds of his coughs.

Sam didn't appear to be aware of Dean's discomfort but ploughed on regardless. 'See, you didn't even notice and now you want him to go out hunting in the cold and wet.'

'Leave it, Sam,' Dean hissed.

'No, Dean!' Sam shouted. 'I know you don't want to hear it, dude, but you're sick and you can't even admit it. You're scared to tell me or Dad.'

Dean scowled. 'What the hell am I meant to be scared of, Sam? You?' he muttered.

Sam shook his head. 'It's Dad you're scared of. You don't want to admit that you're sick in case he thinks you're weak.' Sam broke off, thinking for a moment before adding, 'And you didn't want to worry me, did you? When are you going to get it into your thick skull that I'm not a baby anymore and you don't have to protect me every minute of the day?'

Dean leaned back in the sofa. 'Shut up, Sammy,' he said, not meaning for it to sound as weak and feeble as it did. 'Don't start having a go at me for not wanting to worry you. And besides, it's just a cold or something. I'm fine.'

Sam snorted derisively. 'Come off it, man. Your cheeks are bright pink and you're shivering so you're obviously running a fever. You need to go to bed.'

Dean glared at him, not least because his loud volume was doing nothing to alleviate his headache. 'Quit fussing, Sam, I'm fine.'

'No you're not!' Sam cried in frustration. He turned back to his father. 'Dad, come on, you're not seriously going to let him go on a hunt like that?'

'Your brother's a big boy, Sam,' John said stiffly. 'He can make his own decisions.'

'So Dean can make his own decisions and I can't?' he asked angrily. 'He can have his own life and I can't?'

'Dean's older than you are.'

'Sam, shut up,' Dean muttered.

'So you're taking his side?' Sam asked furiously.

'I'm not taking anyone's side.'

'Well I'm still not going,' Sam said stubbornly.

'We've already been over this,' John said through gritted teeth.

And they were off again, same as always. The subject of Dean's sickness was gone as Sam and John once again butted heads. He'd been stupid to think that they would be arguing over his wellbeing, and for a moment, he wished that maybe they could, just for once. He immediately told himself off for having such a thought. Get a grip, Winchester, he told himself firmly, you didn't want their pity, remember? You don't need it.

He listened to them arguing, and if his head hadn't been so friggin' sore and his chest didn't feel like it had been snapped in two, he would have recited the repetitive arguments since he knew them by heart now.

He couldn't say how much time had passed. All he knew was that he had to stop them shouting somehow because his head was about to explode, and he needed to cough again and he didn't want Sam's pitying looks or Dad's disappointed stare.

'Shut up,' he said quietly, 'both of you. Now.'

Sam and Dad both turned to look at him at once, their faces displaying identical looks of surprise.

'I'm fed up of it, ok?' Dean admitted, not entirely aware that he'd shut his eyes tights against the glare of the fluorescent strip lighting. 'Just shut up, both of you. I can't take it anymore. Every single freakin' day, you two start fighting and I can't listen to another damn word.' Both of them turned to start up a rebuttal but Dean kept speaking, ignoring the increasing pain in his throat. 'Sam, go back to your books, Dad do whatever the hell you want. I don't care. I'm going out.'

'Where the hell do you think you're going?' was mingled with 'Dean, you shouldn't go out in the rain if you're sick,' but he ignored them both. Getting to his feet much too quickly, but ignoring the lights popping in front of his eyes, he grabbed the keys to the Impala. Feeling it was about time he got to do some door slamming of his own for a change, he did just that – slamming the door hard, not caring about the wave of pain flooding his head as he did so.

Dean knew it was a mistake almost as soon as he'd pulled out of the motel parking lot. For one thing, it was indeed bitterly cold, the rain thundering down and he hadn't even grabbed a jacket on the way out. He knew he'd have to go back and face Sam and Dad soon, and neither would be pleased with him. He preferred to put that off for as long as he could. He knew if he went back now he'd be greeted with a silent motel room, Sam buried in his books and Dad off hunting the damned spirit. He couldn't go back to that just yet.

Except shit. He had just driven the Impala with the arsenal in the trunk away from Dad. Dad might have had his handgun on him, but that was no use against a vengeful spirit. Dad needed the shot gun loaded with rock salt, the lighter fluid and the matches, all of which were currently residing in the trunk of the Impala. Dean swore furiously under his breath, punching the steering wheel in frustration and immediately regretting it as a new pain was added to his already aching limbs. He would have liked nothing more than to pull over to the side of the road, curl up on the back seat and sleep for several hours, possibly days. He knew he couldn't though; he had a job to do, because didn't he always have a job to do? Swearing again, he swung the car round and sped off in the direction Dad had mentioned earlier, consoling himself with the thought that the sooner he did it, the sooner it would be over. With each bump in the piss poor excuse for a road, his head gave a corresponding thump and twice he actually had to pull over as he coughed, his chest heaving, his breath coming in gasps. The second time he removed his hand from his mouth, he could have sworn that he saw a few, faint speckles of blood but he hurriedly wiped his hand on his shirt before he could dwell on it.

He wasn't sure how long he drove for, but he was grateful to see the tress that marked the edge of the forest, so the grave that Dad had talked about wouldn't be far off. He quickly parked the car by the edge of the road, ignoring his body's aching protests as the relentless rain poured down, instantly plastering his hair to his head and making him shiver uncontrollably. He squared his shoulders and gritted his teeth, marching off into the trees. He stamped around in circles for ten minutes, continually stepping into puddles that send waves of icy water into his socks and boots, making his teeth chatter loudly. It was only then he realised that he hadn't actually lifted the salt gun or the matches from the Impala's trunk. How the hell was he supposed to get rid of the spirit without them? As another wracking coughing fit took hold of him, he almost sank to his knees, but grabbed hold of a nearby tree trunk to steady himself. Unfortunately, the rain had made the trunk too slippery to get a good grip. Bent almost double, he began to cough again as a sickening wave of dizziness washed over him. The pain in his head actually causing him to cry out this time, he lost his balance completely. Pitching forwards, he felt something sharp strike his forehead before, mercifully, the darkness enveloped him and he knew no more.