AN1: I wasn't quite happy with my previous sick-Dean story 'Abrupt', so I opted to make a new one! I want to really focus on how Dean would handle this type of situation.

AN2: 'Phil Taylor' is the drummer of Motorhead ;P I thought Dean might use that for the *hiding spoiler*!

AN3: This takes place a little while after 1x12 "Faith". I wanted this also to take place especially after that episode, because it's the most likely time (barring the last few episodes of Season 1) that Sam would attribute Dean's 'moodiness' to the heart attack-healing from the Grim Reaper (aka. "he's been moody since the heart attack"). Meh, seemed the most plausible ^.^

AN4: As with all my fics, be prepared for some major OOC-ness. You have been warned!

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Dean's not a sissy

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Dean isn't a sissy.

Because sissy's are afraid of pain and don't hunt fugly poltergeists.

No, not a sissy. But the pain in his side is driving him up a wall.

He takes his thumb and forefinger and measures the McBurney's Point again. It's between the top of the hipbone and the navel, right? It's the fourth time he's measured it tonight.

Yep. It's right there in the middle. Still… could be anything, right? It doesn't have to be what all his instincts are yelling at him it is.

But, of course, he doesn't have a fever and he doesn't feel nauseous. No. Because that little bugger comes with both by the bucket-load. So, it couldn't be that. It could be a hernia, or a fractured hip bone or a pulled ligament…. Yeah. That's it. It's one of those. Besides, he's pretty sure, that he isn't a dumbass. Dumbasses wouldn't know when it's serious. And this isn't serious. No. Not a sissy and not a dumbass either. But this wrenching pain is like a spanner to his internals and he's pretty sure that this is not normal.

And, let's face it, Winchesters excel at not normal. So, figuring this little bitch out will be a cinch.

That's why, when he climbs into the shower and turns up the heat of the spray -because he's so damned cold all the time- he also decides that Sam doesn't have to know.

He'll figure this out, fix it, then be done with it. Because he's Dean Winchester, dammit.

And he's neither a sissy nor a dumbass, but he's still the Big Brother of Sammy Winchester.

The spray is never as hot as he hopes it to be in a motel, but it's still a notch above lukewarm, so he's good. It's bugging him that the damn fog the water's creating is way too much for the temperature of the liquid gold, but he ignores it and stands in the shower for another ten minutes before shutting it off.

He's sure Sam won't appreciate him using the entire motel's hot water supply, especially when Puppy needs a shower as well.

Halfway into his long black sweatpants Sam's knocking on the door, "Uhh… Dean, are you okay in there?"

"Fine, princess, and I didn't use up all the hot water either," Dean answers the coming question.

"What? No. UGH – Can I come in?"

"Buy me a drink first, you cheapo!" Dean jokes, but finishes up with his pants before he reaches forward and opens the door anyway.

Sam, hand in front of his eyes, cautiously moves his hand to be sure Dean is, in fact, decent before gaping at the bathroom, "Holy shi-" he looks around then looks worriedly back at Dean, "Dude, are you sick or something?". Sam steps sideways to miss most of the billowing mist coming from the bathroom.

The older brother starts but tries to smile as convincingly as possible, "Of course not, why?"

"It's like a hundred and eighty twenty degrees in here!" Sam puffs and opens one of the bathroom windows, he sticks his head out and breathes in some of the slightly cooler night air. He takes in a big gulp of the refreshing coolness before returning to the misty bathroom.

Dean grins at Sam's inability to 'take the heat' in both senses of the line.

Sam just scoffs and fans his t-shirt with short breaths as he exits the bathroom, feeling a bit dizzy from the temperature and humidity. Dean follows, but he kinda wishes he was still in the bathroom, somehow the heat just made him feel better.

Sun Rock Inn it was called. Not so much an inn as a stay-and-go, if you ask any of the guests. There were only three rooms left at this place. Two rooms, both with a King-size bed and a kitchenette. That OR the lone three-single-bed room. The latter option was the best. All-in-all, not too bad. The rooms were clean and the bedding was actually pretty good, considering the price. But the walls were thin and the music and TV's were too loud.

Yesterday when they were just routinely cleaning their gear, and Dean's Taurus' slide snapped back into play, they could hear someone from the room next to them say, "Did you hear that? … It almost sounded like a gun!"

Of course, Dean's short-tempered instinct was to show the woman exactly how right she was, but Sam stopped him. Sam also asked him what was wrong, because he seemed to be in a bad mood all week. But, Dean's not interested in a soap-filled afternoon with shared tears and hugs, so he just takes it upon himself to get them some chow from one of the restaurants across town. Yes, across town, and he's going to walk too. 'cause he's pretty sure it'll take that long for him to get himself in order.

It was well past six when he got back, but the break didn't improve his mood. In fact, it made it worse. He mutters one string of X-rated curses from one end of the room to the other, only briefly pausing between bites of his Chicken-a-la-something to yell at the neighbours to shut up.

Still, Dean's a reasonable guy. It takes a lot for him to freak – usually. At least, it takes a lot of 'normal BS' to get him to freak. But, for the last few months he's been like this. On and off.

Now, from an outside perspective: Sam's got the brains in the family, Dean's sure. Sam went to Stanford, got a full-ride. He's like Pentium six-thousand when it comes to numbers and facts. But, he doesn't have the people skills or observance – Dean's not sure yet which one- to figure out that there was something wrong with his brother. Or, maybe he did, but he wants to give Dean his space. Either way, both of them know that those couple of years at college caused a canyon of misinterpretation between them.

Before Sam left, Dean knew the difference between a Sammy- playful shoulder nudge and a Sammy- power shove; a wink to tell him to go with the lie or a wink to start an argument; a nod of 'yes' I understand or a nod of 'I don't know what you're saying, but sure I'll play along'. But now? It's a bit of trail-and-error between them.

Of course, this is just basic stuff. Their hunting affirmations and codes never changed, at least that was one aspect that stayed the same. They still were in perfect sync when they were hunting. It's one of the few times he wishes he and Sam was closer, and not just a pair of Gemini hunters.

Still, it's now ten at night and both of them are sprawled out on their separate beds, quite content to just talk about nothing and everything. It's getting colder outside as winter sets in, but the rainy season hasn't started yet. They unanimously decided to pick up another hunt as soon as it comes their way… but they're also taking a break after the whole Dean-just-got-a-heart-attack-then-got-healed-by-the-Grim-Reaper gig.

Their gear was arranged on the third empty bed next to Dean's, all ready to bug-out within thirty seconds if need be. They're not yet comfortable where the cops are concerned, unfortunately. Especially cops with links to federal agents.

"So, have you seen Solid State yet?" Sam asks, absently highlighting a segment in the book about werewolves he's currently reading.

"Is that a XXX flick, or what?" Dean says and grins when Sam's red face shoots up, "Nope."

"Ugh, jerk... It's about these two guys who-" Sam starts but Dean's intentional yawn cuts him off, "Can I finish?"

"Be my guest," Dean says and lazily pages through the Top Gear mag he 'borrowed' from the gas station.

"Thank you…. So! They're two thieves who break into the Swiss bank-", Sam starts again, but Dean's yawn cuts him off once more, "DEAN!"

"Sorry, sorry…" Dean chuckles and waves his hand dismissively. But, that small chuckle sent a stab of pain down his right leg and right up into his right shoulder. He sits up immediately and draws up his right leg to stop the pain. He keeps up the chortle until the pain dies down, then finally looks over at Sam and waggles his eyebrows, "You're so easy to irritate!"

He allows Sam to fill him in, one by one, all the movies he's missed over the past few years… how much cooler Rock music has gotten… how much the Internet has improved, as well as how Dean should definitely consider getting a myspace account, or at least, an email account. Halfway through the proclivities of college soccer, Sam drifted off.

Dean doesn't really mind.

What does bother him though, is no matter how much water he drinks, it doesn't seem to be affecting his fever. He read once that 'drowning' a fever is supposed to be the best way to lower it. For a second the thought crosses his mind that literally drowning is what they meant… but he's not that desperate.

Sometime after three Dean's awake again. He can tell that he's picked up a bug 'cause he's sporting a good fever, at least, by the looks of his soaked tee. After a detour to the head he stops by his duffle. He strips off his sweaty navy tee and dresses in a Sum41-tee. Rock on. A gift from Emilee from Washington. Sweet girl. Legs for days. Always loved art museums more than rock concerts. What a deal-breaker.

He heads back to bed and just when he sits down his phone's vibrating, the caller ID tells him that Bobby's on the line. Weird. First time in…. how long? "Hey, Bobby?"

"Dean, good to hear your voice son. How're you doing?" Bobby asks. He's probably one of the few who actually mean it when he asks that.

"Pretty good. Sam's took a while to realise I won't just drop dead by my own accord," Dean jokes and slowly lowers himself down on the bed, making sure to keep his right leg hoisted into his chest."So, what's with the late night call, Bobby?"

"I wish I could say 'nothing' just once…" Bobby's tired voice replies.

"That doesn't sound promising," Dean says and looks over to see if Sam's awaking up from their conversation. But, Sam's knocked out like a zombie. Good. Dean's not looking forward to shuffling anywhere anytime soon.

"You're telling me," Bobby says and stifles a yawn away from the receiver for a moment, "… Alright, you boys are where right now?"

"Sun Rock Inn," Dean says and grips his side when another stitch suddenly grabs hold of him.

"Where the hell is that?" Bobby wonders out loud, but when Dean doesn't answer right away, he asks if Dean's okay.

It's not often that Dean doesn't appreciate Bobby's attention or concern. Bobby's kind of like, in a manner of speaking, the winner of the World's Greatest Dad. If Dean had a say in it, he'd probably have chosen Bobby as his caretaker instead of Pastor Jim. But, of course, if he didn't have John or Pastor Jim, he's never had met or appreciated Bobby as much as he does now.

"Somewhere between limbo and Nowhere's Diner," Dean mumbles and rubs his brow tiredly.

"-what?"

"Between Springfield and Boston, Massachusetts …" Dean says, feeling a bit agitated at Bobby's insistence. Does it really matter where they were? They'd drive to wherever Bobby would send them anyway.

"I'm not even going to try and find out what crawled up your ass," Bobby growls back and Dean can imagine Bobby shaking his head now, "In Fall River-"

"Where's that?"

"It's about a fifty miles south of Boston," Bobby answers after a few moments of paper shuffling, "Look, there's been another death, fourth one this week, the police are trying to pass it off as a wild animal attack, but even they're starting to become suspicious. You mind checking it out?"

"We just finished a 'cry wolf' case here in Athol, it took us a week to investigate it. Damn college students. It's a week of my life I'll never get back…" Dean snaps and sighs. The sigh turns into a wide yawn, reminding him how damn tired he really is.

"Well, this ain't a false alarm," Bobby says and clears his throat, "So… how's Sam -"

"Thanks, Bobby. I'll let Sam know tomorrow morning," Dean says and hangs up abruptly, effectively ending the conversation.

The clock on his phone reads three-thirty. He locks the phone and drops it on the counter between his and Sam's bed.

"Hey, was that Bobby?" Sam's sleepy voice suddenly asks him.

With a sigh Dean looks over, "Yeah. Sorry I woke you up… I'll tell you in the morning. Go back to sleep," he says and shuffles deeper into his own bed in a small attempt to convince Sam to listen to him.

"Hmmm…" was the only reply he got out of Sam. Within a minute Sam's breathing went back to deep, long inhalations.

With Sam asleep, aka. Sir Bitch-o-lot, Dean's left with no-one to keep him entertained. Which kinda sucks. TV after three in the morning sucks, there're no games on his phone to keep his mind off of the pain in his side.

It's times like these when he knows just why Michelangelo painted those murals on the ceiling. It wasn't to show-off or anything like that. It's because Michael was also the kind of guy who had this type of insomnia, who laid awake at night starting at a fugly water-stained ceiling. What's worse, it wasn't like the stains could even form a pattern or picture that he could use to entertain himself with.

He starts awake the next morning when he hears Sam opening the motel door. Only, he's emerging, not going. Dean's inner-hunter is freaking out at the thought that he was so out of it as to not notice a simple door opening and closing. Especially when the door's not greased and the hinges creak like a Scooby-doo remake.

A cup of the good stuff in hand and he explains everything to Sam. They didn't really plan on getting back on another hunt this fast, but now rest for the wicked.

They're packed and paid within the hour, Dean deciding to let Sam drive for the first couple hundred miles. Of course, Sam being Sam, he couldn't just let well enough alone. "Are you sure you're feeling alright, I mean… you let me drive…." He says, as if the fact wasn't obvious to his brother.

Worcester, 60 miles, whizzes by Dean's vision. 'Not like I can operate the clutch with my right leg' he thinks morosely. "So what? Most county's down here are men anyways," he shoots back, regretting it instantly. He thinks for a minute then finally nudges Sam in the arm, "We can switch when you see a chick, kay?" he says cheekily and lifts his foot up to rest it on the dash. He hates sticking his boots on the dash, but they're clean and the angle's relieving some pressure off his side.

Sam shoots a dirty look at Dean's boots, probably thinking 'He never lets me do that', but he lets it go and drives on.

They pass a couple of hic-towns on their way to the hunt, but Dean starts twitching ten miles away from Worchester. He swaps legs on the dash, shifts in his seat, adjusts his belt and pulls his jacket tighter around him.

"You need to take a leak or something? I can always pull over…" Sam says, not sure whether Dean'll slap him for the remark.

Dean grunts and shakes his head irritably, "No, thanks," and snuggles deeper into his jacket –as well as his seat.

Sometime before they entered Worchester he probably fell asleep, because the next thing Dean registers is Sam's hand on his forehead. He bats at Sam's hand and quickly sits up, brushing his hands over his face.

"Sorry, it kinda looks like you've got a fever," Sam says and guiltily focuses his attention back to the road.

Dean's about to give him to give him the bird, but pauses halfway to grab his stomach. By the time he even thinks about asking Sam to pull over, Sam's already edging the Impala to the curb. Surprised motorists blare their horns, but Sam switches on the Impala's hazards apologetically.

Dean, however, stubbornly swallows down the nauseating feeling, "Why'd you pull over?" he snaps, hoping to heaven and beyond that Sam just wanted to hop into the Fabric Store they just stopped in front of. Yeah, because sewing is Sam's type of thing.

"You looked like you turned green there for a minute… I thought you were going to be sick," Sam mumbles and slowly edged the Impala back into Worchester traffic.

"What the hell's wrong with you? I'm not sick!" Dean snaps, a bit more bitingly than he actually intended. He bites his lip to stop himself from yelping when Sam hits a bump in the road. He forces his breathing down. Slow in. Slow out.

If Sam noticed there was something wrong with him, he's got the sense to shut up about it.

With a glance at the fuel guage, Dean starts looking for the saving pair. He needs a gas station that's relatively close to a pharmacy or chemist or something. Gas station and butchery. No, thanks. Gas Station and hairdresser. What? Clothing store. I got enough jackets. Belly-dancing Class. Not today, ma'am.

He sighs and wonders if he shouldn't just check his phone's internet for a map or something.

As luck would have it though, they pass a gas station with a pharmacy just a few shops away. Jackpot. Dean tells Sam to fill up.

There're another four patrons in front of them, but neither of them actually mind. Sam apparently needs to "negotiate the release of some chocolate hostages" –according the attendant who supervises the "Porcelain Super Bowl" at the station. Dean couldn't help but laugh at Sam's reaction and says he'll stay with his baby until it's their turn.

Once Sam disappears to the head, Dean practically jogs to the pharmacy.

He's praying halfway up to the counter that they don't have a junkie for a chemist and that they'll have something other than illegal shit to take care of the stitch in his side.

When he stops at the back of the pharmacy, the back of a white coat's facing him. But, then the coat turns and Dean's daydream instantly shatters. The chemist is a thirty-something brunette – guy. Somehow, even wallowing in pain, Dean's disappointed.

Nametag: 'Tommy' smiles, "Yes, can I help you?" he says and scribbles down some chicken-scratch on the notepad behind the counter.

'What can be so important that they're always busy writing shit down when I come here?' the hunter asks himself before plastering on his 'business face', "Yeah, look, I've got …." He thinks for a moment before just saying the first best option that pops into his head, "just a pain in side, so can you just give me something for the pain?"

"Where exactly?"

Dean points to the spot, doesn't miss the look of concern of the pharmacist.

"What type of pain is it?"

If Dean hadn't been in hospitals so much because of hunting, he'd probably have thought the guy was giving him a hard time. "It's like a someone's got my intestines in a clamp … " he says and nods after a moment of thought. Yeah, gripping was the best way to describe it.

The pharmacist nods thoughtfully and held up one finger in the 'one minute' sign before disappearing to the back.

With a glance to his watch, Dean knows Sam should be heading back to the Impala at any second. He needs to be back before that. He decides against tapping his foot against the floor, just in case this guy is a temperamental chemist – who might decide to let him suffer for revenge.

He's back within a minute with a small bottle of beige pills, "One four times daily. If that pain gets worse… or you get nauseas at all, you should really see a doctor… " Tom instructs sternly and hands the medication over, "You can pay at the counter".

Two minutes later, Dean's in the passenger seat, one less tablet in the bottle of prescribed meds. He shifts over and slowly eases the Impala closer to the station when the car in front of him pulls away. It kinda surprises him that it doesn't feel like his intestines are trying to rip him apart when he depresses the clutch.

The attendant, Phil, doesn't give him half as much of a hassle he prepared for and the account is settled with good ol' "Mr. Phil Taylor", which the jockey finds so funny. Since, "hey! Our names match!". Dean smiles, nods and scoots back to the passenger seat.

When Sam gets back and slides behind the wheel, Dean's already yawning. "Took you sweet time," Dean mumbles and searches the glove box for his shades.

"There're lines everywhere in this town," Sam growls and jabs his safety belt in place.

Dean follows suit not a moment too soon, 'cause Sam's driving like Fast and the Furious and it's not often when Sam's this determined. Good thing Sam doesn't have a lot of determination in this respect, and his itchy foot is lost somewhere between Worchester and Boston.

It's a definite somewhere, since Dean fell asleep even before they exit Worchester. He wakes up a couple times with a stab in his side when his foot falls from the dash, but he juts it back in place with a stomp each time. Sam finds it amusing though, and each time tries his best to supress his laughter.

Even with the bumps in the road and the roadwork, Dean's actually quite impressed with the meds the chemist gave him. The pain was only a dull stitch now, instead of the searing clutching pain of before. He's tries codeine, aspirin and even whiskey… but this trumps all of it –combined. He makes a mental note –which he knows he'll forget later on anyway- to thank that guy whenever he passes Worchester again.

But, not an hour into the sleep, and Sam's shaking Dean's shoulder, "Dean! Wake up!" he says, louder than normal.

Dean, blinks awake, a bit surprised that his arms are up in a defensive pose, "Y-yyyeeeah?" he asks with a yawn.

"I think you were having a nightmare…" Sam says sheepishly, trying to keep an eye on both Dean and the road at the same time.

'No, Samantha, that's your department', Dean wants to quip, but he decides against it to save the peace, and end with a well-placed: "Whatever…"

…. This is the start of a looonnnggg week.

Thanks for reading! This'll be the start of a series – think ;P

I really hope you liked it! Please let me know what you think!