A/N: This is a self-indulgent excuse for sick!Dean. Rated PG-13 for language. Also, it's gross. Sorry!

They're eating breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall diner somewhere in Wisconsin and Dean is making sex noises to his plate.

Sam clears his throat. "Would you like me to leave you alone?"

"The French toast is stuffed with bacon," Dean says, around a mouthful of food. "Bacon. In the French toast." He takes another bite and moans again.

Sam shakes his head. "All the shit we've been through and you're going to die of a heart attack at age 30."

Dean smirks. "At least I'll die happy."

An hour or two later, they're on the road and Sam is sweating. He's already ditched his jacket and one of two shirts when Dean nudges the heat a notch higher, almost full blast.

"Would you quit that? I really don't want to be naked in the car with you."

Dean snorts. "Trust me. I want that even less than you do." But he doesn't turn the heat down. "It's cold in here, isn't it?"

"No," Sam says, eyebrows narrowing. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine. Keep your pants on."

Twenty minutes later, it's obvious that Dean is not "fine." He's shivering and fidgeting and Sam is just about to ask him again if he's okay when he whips the car off the side of the road in a cloud of gravel and dust.

"Dean?"

But Dean has one hand clamped over his mouth. The car is barely in park before he jumps out and starts puking.

Sam wonders if Dean is re-thinking that double side order of hash browns yet. He takes the keys from the ignition and grabs a bottle of water, walking around the front of the car. Dean is still hunched over, but seems to be done. He stands and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Sam hands him the water bottle.

"Don't say it," he warns, like he can see the "I told you so" behind Sam's smirk.

"Fine. I won't." He dangles the keys from one hand. "But I'm driving."

They're not even a mile down the road when Dean starts twisting in his seat. "Sam," he moans.

"Again?" But one look at his brother's green complexion is enough of an answer. Sam pulls off the road, and this time Dean doesn't even make it out of the car, just opens the door and leans over.

It sounds awful, like the next things to come up from Dean's stomach will be his toenails. Sam keeps one finger on the belt loop of Dean's jeans, ready to grab him in case he decides to face-plant in his own puke. "Breathe, Dean," Sam says at one point when he realizes that Dean's not.

Eventually, the heaves stops. Dean stays put, shaking and breathing hard.

"You all right?" Sam asks.

Dean sits up slowly, one arm wrapped around his midsection. "Peachy." He closes the car door, leans back, and closes his eyes.

Sam takes the opportunity to palm Dean's forehead, unsurprised to find the abnormal heat of a fever there. "Think you got food poisoning, man." He puts the car in drive and checks his mirrors, waiting for traffic to clear so he can pull out.

Dean groans. "You ate there, too. Why aren't you spewing?"

"Probably because I didn't eat the bacon-stuffed French toast."

And apparently those were the wrong words to say, because Dean flings the door back open and starts hurling. Again.

"Oops."

Ten minutes later, Dean's stomach is empty. He's doing nothing but dry-heaving.

"You're all right," Sam says, patting his brother's back. "Breathe. Settle down. You're all right."

It takes another minute or two, but Dean stops. He groans and spits. When he sits up and closes the door, Sam just stares at him. "What?" Dean eventually snaps. "Why aren't you driving?"

"Are you finished?"

"I think so," Dean says.

"You think so?"

Instead of answering, Dean sneezes twice, hard and fast, belches once, and groans.

"Gross," Sam says, wrinkling his nose and sliding a few inches further away from his brother.

"Throat hurts," Dean says.

"That's why stomach acid is supposed to stay in your stomach."

Dean pokes at the glands in his neck with one hand and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. He grunts.

"So…are you good?" Sam asks.

Dean sniffles. "No." His tone is somewhere between congested and pouty.

"Great," Sam says, and pulls back out on the road.

They make it almost two miles before Dean starts to squirm. And whimper. Sam sighs. "Dean, just breathe through it. There's nothing left for you to puke up."

"Not going to hurl," Dean says, but his voice sounds pained.

Sam glances over at his brother, who is doubled over, clutching at his middle. "Then what's wrong?"

"Stomach cramps," he admits through a nasal groan. Instead of ghostly pale, Dean's cheeks are now flushed, almost maroon. "Sam…need a bathroom…"

This shit's gone south, Sam realizes. Literally. "There should be an exit in another mile or two." Sam hits the gas pedal a little harder. "We'll…"

Dean coughs and shakes his head. "Not going to make it."

"Dean, I'll get there as fast…"

"Pull over."

The noise that comes from Dean's intestines is enough to make Sam obey. This time the car isn't even in park before Dean's out the door and running for the nearest tree, hunched over and clutching his ass with both hands, as if that's really going to help anything.

Sam sighs and turns the car off. He shuffles through the glove box for a map. The closest town looks to be decent-sized, but it's almost 30 miles away. At this rate, they may never get there.

He gets out of the car and tries not to listen to the symphony of disgusting sounds coming from his brother's direction. He digs through the trunk and finds an old towel that Dean might be able to use to clean himself up. He also pulls out the first aid kit, thankful to find that it's decently stocked.

Sam waits until Dean quiets down some, then walks over, making sure to keep Dean's bare ass out of his line of sight at all times. "Dean?" he asks. "You alive?"

The reply is delayed by three sneezes. "Barely."

Sam tosses the towel to Dean from a safe distance. "Use that to clean yourself up," he says, then winces before asking the question that needs to be asked. "You need any help?"

Dean coughs and says, "Fuck off, Sam."

Which is exactly the answer Sam wanted to hear. "Okay. I'll be in the car. Yell if you need me."

Sam sits in the driver's seat and gets everything he'll need from the first aid kit. About ten minutes later, Dean appears from the trees. He's still hunched over, walking very slowly, one hand on his abdomen, the other wiping at his nose. He collapses into the passenger seat and shivers, looking like he wants to die.

"Here," Sam says, handing over a thermometer. Dean puts it under his tongue and Sam checks the clock. "There's a town not too far from here," Sam says. "We just gotta get you settled down long enough to get there."

Dean just sniffles in response.

Which makes Sam think. "Does your throat still hurt?"

Dean nods.

"Food poisoning shouldn't cause a sore throat or sneezing. Maybe you're coming down with something."

The glare Dean shoots speaks volumes. No shit, Sherlock.

Sam sighs and checks the clock again before taking the thermometer out of Dean's mouth. "It's right around 103,"he says. "Think you can manage some medicine?"

Dean eyes Sam warily. "Maybe."

Sam pops open a foil pack and hands Dean two pink pills. "Pepto. Chewable."

Dean makes a face as he chews the pills. "Gross."

Sam ignores the comment and holds out three Tylenol and a bottle of water. "For the fever."

"Throat hurts too much to swallow those," Dean whines. Sam just holds the pills out farther. With a dramatic sigh, Dean takes the pills one at a time with swigs from the water bottle. He winces with every swallow. Next, Sam pours some liquid medicine into the tiny measuring cup. "What's that?"

"Benadryl."

"No." Dean's voice is so nasal that it sounds more like "dough." "That shit makes me tired."

"Dean, at this point, I'm okay with you being knocked out for a few hours. Aren't you?"

Dean coughs and considers.

"Plus, it might help with that nose-throat- cough stuff you've got going on."

Dean relents and throws the Benadryl back like it's a shot of whiskey.

Sam puts the thermometer and the medication back in the kit, throwing it in the backseat, not too far out of reach. He eyes Dean, who is already curled up against the door with his eyes closed, shivering slightly and sniffling.

Sam starts the car and turns on the heat. "Just try to sleep, okay? We'll be there soon."

Five miles in and Sam thinks Dean is asleep. He thinks they're going to make it to a motel where Dean can sleep in a bed and have an actual bathroom to be disgusting in.

He keeps on thinking that until mile 6, when Dean moans. Sam ignores the noise, hoping that it's just a dream. But then Dean's eyes are open and he's breathing hard and clutching his stomach and swallowing convulsively.

"Breathe through it," Sam says gently, putting a hand on his brother's knee. "I know you feel sick, but you gotta keep that medicine down long enough for something to work."

Dean nods and tries breathing through his nose, but he's too stuffy. Sam pushes the needle on the speedometer to 90. Mile 8 and Dean is still holding on, but looking pale. Mile 9 and he's positively green. Mile 9.5 and he's puking all over his jacket and jeans, gagging and coughing and possibly even crying.

"Shit," Sam says, slamming on the brakes and pulling over. Again.

Dean nods between heaves. "Yeah." Gag. "Shit. That, too."

Sam realizes what Dean means and has to fight not to gag himself. He turns off the engine and jumps out of the car. In the trunk, he digs out two more towels, a pair of Dean's jeans, boxers, a T-shirt, then one of his own hooded sweatshirts. He also grabs a plastic bag.

It takes another minute or two, but Dean eventually opens the car door. His head is hanging in misery or shame. Probably both. Sam feels a pang of sympathy. "Put your coat in here," he says, holding out the plastic bag. "We'll try to salvage that later. But the rest of those clothes are being burned."

Dean nods, shrugging out of his jacket. "Think I'm dying, Sammy."

"Not dying," Sam says as he ties up the bag and tosses it in the trunk. "Just sick. Here," he says, handing over the towels and clothes. He nods to the trees a few feet away. "Go get cleaned up and change. And seriously. Leave those clothes."

Dean nods miserably and walks like and 80-year-old man towards the woods. Twenty minutes later, Sam is just about to go see what the holdup is when Dean appears, looking exhausted but relatively clean.

"You okay?" Sam asks as they get in the car.

The response Dean gives is a sneeze.

"Is there anything left in your stomach?"

Dean palms his gut. "No." (Dough.)

"What about in your intestines…or your colon…or…anything?"

"Don't think so."

"Good." And Sam pulls out onto the highway, yet again.

"Everything hurts," Dean whines.

"I know. We'll be there soon. Get you in bed."

"No, Sammy, everything hurts. My back and my legs and my skin and my damn hair hurts. Think I'm really sick. Bubonic plague."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I don't think you have the plague."

"Typhoid fever. Diptheria." Dean coughs. "Cancer."

"Cancer?" Sam asks, raising his eyebrows. "Cancer of what, exactly?"

"Every organ in my body," Dean says, shivering and wrapping Sam's sweatshirt tighter around himself.

Sam notices and palms Dean's forehead again. It's even warmer than it was before. He's probably dehydrated, too, and showing no signs of the ability to become hydrated anytime in the near future. "Hey, maybe we should find a clinic. Get you checked out." The fact that Dean doesn't argue lets Sam know exactly how bad Dean is feeling. "Almost there, man. Almost there."

Dean nods and struggles to find a comfortable position. "Tuberculosis," he murmurs. "Polio. Ebola."

Sam sighs. "Sleep, Dean."

They make it to town without further incident, and Sam finds an urgent care before even looking for a motel. Luckily, it's not busy, and they take Dean in right away. A check of his vitals shows that his fever is at 103.5, his blood pressure is low, and his pulse is up. The nurse gets Dean settled in a bed and says that the doctor will be in soon.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asks.

"Like road kill."

There's a knock on the door and a tall, thin woman in a white coat enters the room, carrying Dean's chart. "Dean Brooks? I'm Dr. Andrews. What seems to be the problem today?"

"I'm dying, doc," Dean says with a cough.

"You're not dying, Dean," Sam says.

Dr. Andrews raises her eyebrows in Sam's direction. "And you are…?"

"Sam. His brother. He was totally fine this morning. Then he started puking, running a fever, got a sore throat, runny nose, diarrhea, pretty much the works."

"The plague, Sammy," Dean says from his bed. "Did you tell her about the plague?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "He's also feeling a bit dramatic."

Dr. Andrews smirks. "Clearly. Well, Dean, let me take a look." The doctor checks his throat, listens to his heart and lungs, and palpates his abdomen.

"What is it, doc? Cancer? Meningitis?" He sneezes.

"I'm not sure what it is yet. Your throat's red and swollen. You're definitely dehydrated. We'll do a throat culture and some blood work, and we'll get you some IV fluids and medication while we wait for the results. How's that sound?"

Dean blinks owlishly. "You'll test for the Ebola virus?"

Dr. Anderson pats Dean's arm and winks at Sam. "Absolutely."

The nurse returns to swab Dean's throat, draw a few vials of blood, and start and IV. "This is for the pain and fever," she says, pushing a syringe into the IV port. "And this will help your stomach. It might make you a little sleepy." She turns to Sam. "Dr. Andrews said that might not be such a bad thing."

And Sam decides he likes Dr. Andrews. Dean falls asleep within minutes, congested but breathing deep and even. The nurse checks on them a few times until Dr. Andrews returns.

"How's he doing?" she asks.

"Better, I think."

"Good," she nods, checking the IV bag, which is almost empty.

Dean stirs and moans before opening his eyes. "Doc?" he asks softly. "What is it? Salmonella poisoning? Typhoid fever?"

Dr. Andrews smiles. "Nope. It's the flu."

Dean's eyes widen slightly. "The flu? Are you fucking kidding me? No. No way. You better run those tests again, because I'm way too sick…" he breaks off into a coughing fit.

"Dean…" Sam says, patting Dean's leg through the blankets.

"I'm 100% sure it's the flu, Mr. Brooks. The flu can make you feel pretty awful."

Dean groans and closes his eyes. "Understatement."

"So, what now, Dr. Andrews?" Sam asks.

She is already writing on a prescription pad. "The good news is you caught it early enough that I can prescribe Tamiflu. It's not a cure, but it will lessen the length and severity of the symptoms." She tears off the prescription and hands it to Sam. "I'm also going to prescribe something to help settle his stomach. That should allow him to take in some fluids and prevent dehydration." She hands that prescription to Sam as well. "Other than that, give him Tylenol for the aches and fever. Sudafed and Robitussin work well if the congestion and cough get bad. He should be feeling better within a week."

"A week?" Dean demands from the bed. "I'm going to feel like this for a week?"

"Sorry," she says. "But look on the bright side. It's not the plague!"

Dean groans in response.

"I'll have the nurse bring your discharge papers and take out that IV." She turns to Sam. "Bring him back if he gets any worse or gets dehydrated again, okay? And good luck."

"Thanks," Sam says with a forced smile.

Half an hour later, Dean is discharged, his prescriptions are filled, and they're on the road, trying to find a decent place to spend the next week.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean asks. He's still sleepy and out of it from the medication, but at least he's not puking or shitting himself.

"Yeah?"

He coughs. "It's a good thing it's not food poisoning. That means I can have the bacon-stuffed French toast again."

Sam just sighs.

It's going to be a long week.