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"How can you not be hungry?" Sam had asked, his brain stuck between emphasizing the, "you," or the, "not." He sat perched on his bed, a lucky yellow phonebook, on which his impatient fingers tapped on incessantly, occupying his lap. Dean, while holding an icepack in one hand, patted his abdomen.

"I don't know." The aforementioned teenager admitted with a shrugged shoulder. He toyed with the hem of his shirt before lifting it up to reveal his navel. "It's like it has a mind of its own." Although it was, or at least Sam thought so, cold in the room, Dean had the covers kicked down to the end of the bed, half drooping off.

"I bet." He opened the phonebook to the middle. "How about Chinese? I can order you soup, and you can slurp it later, once it's cooled down and you're famished." Sam wasn't sure if it was the meds that were causing him lose his appetite, or if, by chance, he just wasn't hungry. Yeah, right, definitely not the latter, he decided.

"Order me soup? You mean, like broth, right?" He blinked; nodded slowly. Dean had this whole, "bitch, please," look going on. "Dude, no, I—just no. I don't want freakin' broth." He'd lost his lisp, but there was a slight slur starting to escape.

"You're saying "broth," as if I'm suggesting acid." The younger brother stated with an exasperated sigh. He flipped through the yellow pages, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Something was bound to stick out.

"You've got acid?" Sam's dark eyes flicked up, and they were void of any amusement.

"No, not that… ah, never mind." He thumbed through a few pages, barely even skimming. "This is stupid." One-handedly, he slapped the book shut, allowing it to slip off his lap. It landed on the ground with a dull thud. "Dad should've stayed." He absently nudged the discarded phonebook with his toes.

The older of the two snorted out, "please," as, "puh-lease," along with Sam's name. "I got four freakin' teeth out; it wasn't brain surgery." He sniffled loudly, blinking rapidly. The bruising in his cheeks was starting to darken. "Now, if he stayed, that would've been stupid. I'm a big boy, dickweed, and you are, too, kind of, I guess."

The brunette leaned forward on his elbows, his lips slowly stretching back into a smile. There was suddenly a twinkle in his eyes, which seemed to brighten them, and he chuckled ever so softly. "What's that, Dean, finally wising up? Finally admitting that I'm not a kid anymore?"

"You wish." There was a pause, and then a sharply punctuated, "kid." He scratched at the top of his head. "Guess that's pretty synonymous with Sammy, huh? That why you act all bitchy like you've got diaper rash when we call you that?"

"Synonymous?" Sam repeated, not used to his brother using so many syllables—and that was when he wasn't on any medications. "And I don't act bitchy!" His voice cracked comically on the second syllable of the last word. He childishly frowned, grunting, "shut up."

Dean pursed his lips, not wanting to smirk, smile, or grin, whatever, just as long as he didn't laugh. He figured if he did that, his jaw would just snap off. His jaw was incredibly stiff, but, as a Winchester, it would take more than that to shut him up. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. "Goddamn. I'm thirsty."

Sam jumped up like a puppy that just heard a door open. "Water? We have water—bottled. I'm pretty sure it's not holy water. That'll do, right?" The faucet water tasted funny, but there was only a bottle or two in the kitchenette. "I'll need to get more."

"No, you need to sit your ass down." Dean was on his feet in a second, and sitting back down in two seconds. He blinked rapidly and hard, muttering, "whoa," with a hand to his face. "Tha' was a lot of stars." He admitted, eyes slightly crossed. "And th' stars had fangs." He drew out the last sentence in a slur.

Wordlessly, Sam pressed the back of his hand to his brother's forehead. Unfortunately, his hands were cold; the room was still a bit on the freezing side, as the heat (still) had barely kicked on yet. "You must have a fever." He decided. "I don't think seeing vampire stars is a good sign, either, so how 'bout we stay put, yeah?"

"They weren't vampire stars." Dean rubbed a palm over his eye, wondering why his eyelids felt so heavy all of a sudden. His stomach was cramping up, as it had been earlier, which was making him feel nauseous. "Did dance, though." He admitted softly, lying down on his side, an arm curled around his midsection. "Weird bastards."

"Right. I'll go get you some ice, and that water." Dancing fanged stars. With his eyebrows arched high, Sam turned away, clicking his tongue. How randomly bizarre—but at least he knew to lie back down, Sam realized, grabbing a water out of the small fridge. And not to go hunt the… "Dancing fanged stars." He chuckled.

Dean lifted his head. "Are you making fun o' me?" Sam nearly choked on his tongue, biting back any further laughter. After all, a dizzy-ridden Dean wasn't something to laugh about. But come on… fanged stars! At the disco! "You're making fun o' me!" He dropped his face back into his pillow, which muffled his uttered, "little shit."

"Am not." In one flick of the wrist, he twisted off the bottle's white cap. "On both accounts." He tapped his brother's shoulder blade with the bottom end of the bottle, causing some to slosh over the rim and drip down the side. "Water." He called out loudly, "get'ch your water. Drink it while it's fresh, cold, and not the brown faucet water color."

Like a fish, Dean flopped onto his back, eyes half-lidded, staring up at his brother through long, dusky eyelashes. "It's rust, and drinkin' it builds character." He turned his head to the side.

"Yeah, okay, dad." Still grasping the bottle, Sam waited, impatiently tapping his foot. Dean remained inertly prone, though with a noticeable hitch in his breathing. "Come on, you goin' to drink this or what, Dean? I thought you said you were thirsty." He leaned over to see if his eyes were opened. They weren't.

"M' sleeping now, go away. There's probably a wounded possum outside that needs your help."

"I don't need an injured possum, I have you." He pressed the end of the bottle to Dean's ear, which ended with water spilling out when the older brother jerked his head away and blindly threw an arm at him.

"Don't do that." He sounded more awake now. "Wait, are you comparing our everlastin' fraternal relationship t' road kill?"

"Um—I, uh." He helplessly shrugged a shoulder, firmly planting down the water on the small bedside table. "Eh. Not metaphorically, or even literally, it was—I was just." Sam let out a humorless laugh, and patted Dean's shoulder, feeling the heat radiating through the thin t-shirt. "You just, ah, go back to sleep. Sound good?"

Dean hadn't answered him; he slipped back off into sleep, which Sam was glad for. He wasn't used to insistent babbling from Dean. It was just a little too much. His brother was only eighteen, and Sam never wanted to get used to seeing him doped from prescribed narcotics. It was unsettling. He hated it.

Sam, while his stomach loudly reminded him of what he was neglecting it, shook his head. Dancing fanged stars. Come on now. He stared at Dean for moment, hoping that he was just, as the blonde would probably put it, "fucking with," him. He reached down hesitantly, softly ruffling the tousled tips of his hair. "Jerk."

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It was raining outside, but it was only a light drizzle. The wind, however, was blowing ominously strong. Sam stumbled down the motel's concrete stairs, burying his hands into the deep pockets of his green and white striped jacket. "How the hell did he convince me to leave?" He asked aloud, grumbling, hair messily in his eyes.

Dean was inside the motel room, dry, warm, and probably watching television. "Dude." He had said, dragging out the vowel sound with a flat sigh. He'd been up for almost a half hour, but was only coherent for less than half of that time. "It's getting late. You're hungry. Just run to the store. I promise not to do anything…"

"Anything…" Sam hastily provided, "stupid?"

"My list of 'stupid things to do,' is rather limited right now, in case you haven't noticed." A tanned arm hung over the edge of the bed, fingers inattentively flexing.

The younger sibling snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "You'll still manage. I didn't just fall off a turnip truck, you know."

"Jesus, how old are you? Fifty?"

"The phrase isn't that old."

"Yeah, sure, now get off my lawn, whippersnapper."

"Cute, real cute. How 'bout we go back to shoving that gauze into your mouth?"

Minutes had passed, mostly in silence, but that never was anything new. Sam had begun to rummage through his patched up duffel bag, looking for a book, or anything really, when Dean told him to, "just go already." His voice sounded almost hoarse, and had come out rather wearily flat. "Not goin' anywhere, Sammy."

"That's not…" His voice had trailed off when he turned around, eyes landing on his older brother. Dean had been in a sitting position, his pallor face turned toward the window, and the light caught him gracefully, bringing out his freckles and the green in his eyes. He looked so young. Sam had licked his dry lips, and nodded once. "Okay."

So, now, there he was, wandering into Walgreens, cheeks wet, hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, ears, and back of his neck. There was a tall elderly man behind the nearest register, and he smiled kindly at him, commenting in a soft voice, "some weather we're having out there, huh?"

Dean would've nudged Sam forward, ignoring the old man, mumbling something about old people and the weather, but Dean wasn't here, so Sam's eyes darted around before he matched the smile. "I'll say." The cashier continued to stare at him, almost expectantly. He tried again. "It's, uh, raining cats and dogs out there."

A woman with long, dark brown hair practically jogged to the opened register, balancing a two year old on her hip while pulling a plastic cart filled with items. This took the man's attention away from the Winchester, and to the customer, who he warmly greeted with, "some weather we're having out there, huh?"

In a matter of minutes, Sam was waiting in line, a plastic basket nestled in the nook of his arm. He had grabbed three hoagies (one ham and cheese, the other two turkey and cheese; it was all that was left), strawberry jell-o, chocolate pudding, both already made, a red and blue Gatorade, a pint of Neapolitan ice cream, and a bottle of Pepsi.

"Is that all?" The cashier asked after glancing down into the cart basket. He was teasing, but Sam kept a solemn expression and nodded his head. He could, and would, come back later. The man's nametag read "Greg," in bold, capital letters. He seemed nice, although he was quite the talker. "Having a sleepover?"

"Huh?" Sam dug the money John left out from his pocket as Greg slowly began to scan the sandwiches. "Sleepover?" How old did he look, five? Not that he ever had a sleepover, even when he was younger. John never let him sleep over anyone's house, either. "Um, no. Just a snack, I guess."

"'Just a snack'? Your stomach must be a bottomless pit!" Sam forced a smile when the older man grinned, chuckling, because what he said was so freakin' hilarious. "My son, Billy, now he had quite the stomach when he was about your age. Always eating something, that boy." The person behind Sam sighed loudly.

"Wow." The brunette stated unenthusiastically, not bothering to resist the urge to roll his eyes. It was rude, yes, but he hadn't the time to stand there, mindlessly conversing with the employee, who was supposed to be ringing him up, not giving him tidbits from his autobiography.

Outside, the rain hadn't let up. Sam offered one last smile at the cashier as he took his bags from him, but the older man's pale lips remained tightly compressed. He shrugged it off, feeling guilty for insulting him, but he believed he was in the right there. It would still bother him for a while, though.

The walk back to the motel took about four hours, or so it seemed. He had to cross the street, and the stupid traffic just wouldn't let up. The people who hadn't bothered to turn on their turn signal before they turned pissed him off. "As soon as I get home, I'm cursing you!" He almost yelled, remembering when Dean had once said that.

He pushed his body weight heavily against the door after he unlocked it and turned the doorknob. Sam stumbled into the small room, dropping the three bags on the nearest bed with a tired groan. He was freezing and wet from the rain. "Man, Dean, you wouldn't…" He kicked off his boots, trailing off when he saw the empty, unkempt bed.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Dean causally stepped out. "Wouldn't what?" He asked, the tone of his voice meek. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing with the movement. Sam knew something was wrong, and immediately asked him about it. "What, am I not allowed to go to the bathroom when you're not here?"

"You didn't answer my question." He unzipped his jacket, tugging it off in one swift move. He tossed it onto a chair, not caring when it slipped off and fell to the ground. "How do you feel?" The medication would be wearing off soon, and Dean's swollen cheeks were noticeably flushed. "I got you Gatorade, and stuff, like pudding—"

The blonde visibly cringed. "Not hungry, dude. Really."

"Jell-o?"

"What did I just say?"

"It's strawberry, Dean." He hissed "strawberry," as if it were gold, and not the fool's kind.

"Goddammit, Sam, I'm—"

"Ice cream!"

"Would you—"

"It has the three flavors! You like that kind, remember?"

"I'm not—"

"Please." He reached into a white bag, and pulled out the small carton of ice cream, and held it out, his eyes wide and pleading. His facial expression relaxed and softened, and his lips even sort of pouted. "You need to eat something. A little something, okay? Please, for me, Dean?" Oh, yeah, he knew what cards to play.

Dean sighed, defeated at last, although he had yet to reach for the ice cream. "Should've sold you to the circus after you grew half a foot over the summer."

"Oh, yeah, puberty? I'm such a freak."

"I hear clowns like 'em tall."

"Shut up."

"And brunette, with long girlish hair."

"Just wait until the next time we have to get on a plane." Sam pushed the small carton of ice cream into his brother's hands.

Reluctantly, Dean accepted it. "Shut up."

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It was after midnight, and Sam's eyes popped open. He propped himself up on an elbow, squinting over at the alarm clock's glowing red digits for the time. It was five after one in the morning. He let out a sharp, long breath of air and collapsed back down, mind set on more sleep, but that thought was instantly lost ten seconds later.

The bathroom door opened, and Sam hadn't even realized that it was shut, or that Dean wasn't sleeping either. Whatever, he thought to himself, relaxing into the sagging mattress, eyes now closed. Suddenly, he heard an odd, rasping sound, and staggering footsteps. He shot up, his brother's name readily on his lips.

Dean stood in front of the doorway, slightly bent over at the waist. He tried to say something, but it came out as a weak groan. A curse flew out of his mouth, clear as day. He swallowed a few times, blinking hard, a hand clutching at his abdomen through his t-shirt. "I feel… it… my stomach… like that one time… in Mexico."

Sam had scrambled out of bed, kicking to loosen the white sheets that had wrapped lovingly around his long legs. "Dean, god, Dean—what?" He clapped a hand lightly to his shoulder, bending over so that he was face-to-face with him. "That time in Mexico?" He asked, confused, his mind suddenly blank.

The shorter male sounded breathless. "The… all you can eat… buffet." His voice faltered on the last word, and Sam's eyes widened as he quietly asked, "the time you got food poisoning?" Dean nodded, grimacing. "You and… dad told me not to eat the shrimp, but fuck, it tasted good." Yeah, at the time.

"We were in Mexico. In July, and they weren't even kept on ice—wait, you feel like you have food poisoning? All you had was the ice cream, and some Gatorade."

"Felt sick… since this afternoon." He admitted, trying to straighten up. Dean took a few deep breaths, but ended up gagging, and groaned, "oh, god, I'm goin' to… goin' to… Fuck." Quicker than lightning, Sam grabbed the garbage bin by the bed, getting it to his brother just in time.

Three heavy waves of nausea tore Dean apart. He gagged, and then spit into the trashcan, wiping his chin and mouth with the back of his hand. His face was flushed, and his eyes were rimming with forced tears, which he quickly wiped away. For several seconds, he remained still, eyes wide, tense, but then moaned, cursing. "My mouth…"

"Are you…?"

"Fuck, that hurt, fuck. Sonofabitch."

Sam, all of a sudden, felt sick, too, but still held up the trashcan, his hands shaking. "Maybe I should call dad." He suggested, waiting and wanting to see the action to his statement because that would help him determine how badly Dean hurt, but his brother ignored him, rubbing his bruised cheeks.

"Feels like I tore my freakin' stitches." He hissed to himself, turning away, stumbling into the bathroom. He let out another curse, stomping a foot. "Do not want to do that again. Jesus Christ." The pain that had flared up in his gums hurt, and ached through the medication he had taken with Gatorade. "I'm not taking that shit again."

The younger brother was still holding up the plastic bin as Dean stood in front of the mirror, mouth opened, looking for any bleeding. "I—uh, what shit? The pain medication, that shit, you're not taking it again?" He asked skeptically, and confused.

"The antibiotics—that stupid pill. Yeah, that's what made me feel like shit." He looked around for a cup to rinse out his mouth. God, he hated throwing up.

"The hell, Dean? You have to take it, or else you'll get an infection." Now, Sam put down the trashcan, holding his breath. He set an impatient hand on his hip.

"I'm eighteen, dude. I don't have to do anything I don't want to." Dean flung open the medicine cabinet, making a face at what people before them had lazily shoved into there before. Condom wrappers, possibly used tissues, an empty toothpaste tube… a stretched out, maybe used condom. "Ugh." Bile rose in the back of his throat.

"Yeah, well, according to dad's insurance, you're seventeen." Dean's narrow shoulders rose with each deep breath he took. His lips looked more pink than usual, and there were beads of perspiration on his brow. Sam thought he looked younger—in a childishly stubborn way—but maybe that was the lighting. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure I'm eighteen."

Sam rolled his eyes. He liked to give sarcasm, not take it. "Kudos." However, he shrugged a shoulder, failing to look nonchalant. "But whatever, man. You don't want to take it, fine. Am telling dad, though." His tone changed at the end, as if telling their father was a threat. "You know he won't like it." Oh, it was.

"Forget it." Dean muttered, stalking past his brother, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just doesn't understand." The room was so small, and he was beginning to feel so big, so claustrophobic. "I need to lie down." His jaw was aching, and the throbbing pain infuriated his headache. His mouth also hurt, especially around the corners.

Sam frowned, feeling a bit pissed off, albeit guilty. "Dean, I—"

"'Night, Sam." Dean was already pulling back the single sheet that remained on the bed. The younger brother sighed, defeated, and tied up the bag of his brother's vomit. There was a wooded area behind the motel, so he carelessly tossed it out the bathroom window.

Before climbing into bed, he set down the two pill containers on the nightstand beside Dean's bed. The older sibling was on his stomach, but he was facing away. His eyes were closed, maybe a little too tightly. Sam, biting back words, turned away, hands cold, mind troubled. "Good night, Dean."

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"Why's the inside of your elbow bruised on both arms?" It was random, but Sam had just re-noticed the brown band-aids when Dean, with a yawn, stretched out his arms. Dean flicked a glance at him, verbally unresponsive. Sam, however, waited patiently, sniffling. He pulled the quilt tightly around his shoulders. "Aren't you cold?"

Dean, who still had only the sheets left on the bed, ignored the last question. "'Oops.'" He stated, wetting his lips. He inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a quick sigh that almost sounded like a gasp. "That—" He stated, raising both brows. "—Was the last thing I heard before getting knocked out."

"What does—?" Sam squinted and rolled onto his side.

"Doc screwed up putting in my IV the first time, Mr. M.D." The older brother sarcastically stated, grunting as he sat up. He pulled off each band-aid in a haste movement. The skin the bandage had covered was deeply bruised, although his left arm's bruise was much bigger. "Oh, that's lovely. To match my face, I guess."

"Eh, no, not really. They're not swollen." The younger sibling pointed out with a wry smile. "Don't give me that look, if you bothered to ice—"

"Enough words, dude." Dean swallowed thickly, standing up, his feet moving before they even hit the ground. A weirdly pitched sound erupted from the back of his throat and he closed his eyes tightly, seeing brightly exploding stars over a red tinged background.

"Maybe you should sit down—"

"Why, you goin' to piss fo' me, Sam?" The blonde loudly snapped out, hands clenched into fists, his words in a stumbled smear.

"That's not physically possible, so, no." Cautiously, like an idiot tiptoeing through a bear's pen, Sam, who had gotten up seconds earlier, put a gentle hand on his brother's arm. He wrapped his fingers around his elbow loosely, considerate of the ugly bruising, and sucked in his upper lip between his teeth.

"Hands off." Dean cracked open an eye when Sam placed a firm hand on his lower back in a rebellious response. "I knew you were attracted to me."

"You bet. Like a moth to fire."

Dean opened his other eye, eyebrows slightly rising. "Jesus, when you'd get so mouthy?" Seemed like only yesterday Sam would whine, as if totally disgusted, "am not!" Hell, Dean scratched the back of his head. Maybe that was yesterday. Shit, what day was it, anyway?

"No idea where I got it from." Sam admitted, feigning uncertainty. He smiled slyly as Dean, who felt like he suddenly aged by over half a century, sat back down. "Not a flippin' clue."

"Flippin'?"

"Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Fucking."

"That's my boy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Idiot."

"Hey now, don't make me wash your dirty little mouth out with soap."

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

Sam was at a loss as to how someone with a mouthful of stitches could talk so freakin' much. Intervals of mindless prattling sliced through the unsettling silence; when the older sibling wasn't snorting his ass off, he was talking—not just talking but actually babbling on and on. Damn, maybe that stupid silence wasn't so unsettling.

The medication made Dean drowsy, or, in Sam's eyes, inebriated. "Sort of reminds me of last summer, when you got drunk." Sam reminisced, but only once he was sure Dean was asleep; the evened breathing and light snoring confirmed it. He smiled as he verified, "for the first time. You babbled a lot, and then passed out."

He blinked a few times, hands twisted under the covers. He pressed his cold palms to his warm, soft abdomen. Yeah. Right. It seemed funnier at the time; a drunk, seventeen year old Dean—haha? Not so much, Sam suddenly realized, thinking back on it. Great parenting, John.

John's ears must've started to ring because not five minutes later, the motel phone was dancing off the hook. Dean made a slight noise in annoyance as he rolled onto his back. "Don't you move another muscle, I'll get it." Sam announced, a small hint of sarcasm in his voice. Dean idly waved a fuck off hand at him.

It, as previously stated, was John, who was finally calling to check up on his eldest son. "He givin' you any trouble?" Sam opted not to tell him about Dean's refusal to take the antibiotics. He figured that maybe, later, he could change his brother's mind, so he stated, "all is well, sir."

Twenty-two seconds after Sam hung up with John, the phone rang again, and this time it was the surgeon's office. A receptionist (maybe a nurse? Sam had no idea) was calling to check on Dean, and the younger brother warmly smiled. He thought that was nice of them.

"My dad? He's not here—he left, like, two minutes ago, to, you know, pick some stuff up at the store for Dean." He answered without hesitation when asked about John's whereabouts. They started to say they would call back in a while, but Sam cut them off, honestly telling them about how Dean was feeling.

Fortunately, Dean wouldn't have to continue taking the antibiotic pill since it made him sick. Instead, he was to, starting as soon as possible, rinse his mouth out with saltwater every three hours. Sam, aloud, repeated the instructions once he hung up the phone, waiting until he heard the sharp click. "Not too bad, right?"

Dean flopped over onto his back, wearing an expression that quite easily read, "I've had more fun getting a filling done." He remembered, during one appointment a few years ago, they hadn't given him enough Novocain before the dentist started drilling. Damn, Dean suddenly wondered if he has ever gotten any dental work done without "opps" being said.

"So, when's that supernatural aspect of this coming to play?" The brunette teased as he, all of a sudden, thought back to how sure Dean was that something hunt-worthy was going to come out of all this.

"Humph."

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

"You're hurting." Sam, ever so causally, told to his brother after he had gurgled the saltwater for the second time that day. Dean just looked at him, his brow twitching uneasily as he shrugged a tense shoulder, stating that he was, indeed, "fine." Sam wasn't convinced, only skeptically suspicious. "I don't get it, you're turning down medication—painkillers, man?"

"Quit lookin' at me like you're searchin' for a lobotomy scar." He started to speak again after a short pause, but stopped abruptly, wincing as if he had stepped on a nail. "Shit, dude, come on." He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then made a face at the smear of red on his hand. "I keep biting my stupid freakin' cheeks."

Sam winced in sympathy. "Then don't talk?" He hesitantly suggested, wincing again as he stared at his brother's plump cheeks, which were unusually shiny like a black eye and decorated with a streak of ripe bruising. When Dean looked up at the ceiling, rubbing a cheek with a cranky scowl, Sam saw that even his neck had slight bruising. "Damn."

"Bet you're lookin' forward to this, huh?"

"Oh, totally. Already have it scheduled."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Your wisdom teeth haven't even started growing in yet." With a perilous flash in his eyes, Dean shot a look at Sam when the taller male unexpectedly grinned, and asked, "jealous?" Little brothers—yeesh. "Insanely." He mumbled with sarcasm, wrinkling his brow.

"It's been eight hours, Dean. You can take another pill, you know."

"What the hell? Why are you keeping track—making a schedule or what, dork? This isn't your job." Oh, wow. Sam hitched up his brows, his mouth soundlessly working out, "defensive much?"

"What the hell's the matter with you?" was what Sam wanted to say, but instead he moved toward Dean, leaning in real close, his index finger rested against his chin. Maybe the surgeon had confused "impacted teeth surgery" with "lobotomy procedure." "Huh—there's got to be a scar—ah, well, stitches, not a scar."

"I take back that dork and raise you a get the fuck out of my face before I—"

"Puke again?" Judging by the glare that foreshadowed a slow, torturous and exceedingly painful death, Sam decided to zip it and back off. He offered his brother a wide and incredibly forced grin. Wordlessly, he shuffled around, holding out a tiny pill and a half-empty mug of Gatorade to his older sibling. After another glare, he set the two items on the nightstand and stepped back, hands clasped behind his back.

"I don't need a nurse—or a butler. Just a brother's fine, man." His face hardened as he spoke, and he looked longingly at the tempting pill before leaning over and swallowing it dry. Feeling Sam's eyes glued to him, he picked up the navy blue mug and brought it to his mouth, resting his lower lip against the sweetened rim. He titled his head back, but just barely, and a small calm wave of the blue juice splashed against his lip. "There's somethin' seriously wrong with a person when their brother's sick and all they want to do is—"

"Be a hypocrite?"

Dean wrinkled up his nose. He knew what he meant, but ignored it anyway. "Why Sam, I don't think you're a hypocrite. Well, much of one anyway." The gene sort of ran in the family. John's side, presumably; they got their "good" genes only from their mother's side, or, at least, that was what Sam had joked once. Neither John nor Dean had laughed.

"Right." Sam muttered, rolling his eyes. He fished around for the remote control in his bed for about a minute before turning on the television manually. He turned up the volume before he took a seat at the end of the bed, hunched over, elbows rested on his bony knees. "I hope a good movie's on." Something distracting, he meant, and Dean knowingly nodded. He cleared his throat.

"There's a Blockbuster down the street. Why don't you go rent us a movie? Or four?"

Sam hesitated. "But—"

"You're fourteen. Sammy. I think you can handle it." Then he asked voice coolly even, "don't you?" It was a dare, a dirty, dirty dare. Sam wanted more freedom, more responsibility, and here was his brother, dangling it in front of him.

"What if dad calls?"

Dean leaned back, one arm causally folded behind his head. "Run? Pack, too. Double protection. If anything or anyone's going to take you out, I don't want it to be a hungry hobo with Scope and a sharp stick."

"What if it's a hungry possessed hobo with…" Realizing how ridiculous it sounded, Sam made a face, continuing, "Scope and a sharp stick?" What the hell?

"Dude, do you want to go or not?"

"What if…"

"You know what? Forge' it." In the snap of a finger, Dean was back to slurring, which was harder to notice since his speech was already muffled enough as it was. The Winchester looked exhausted and quite moody as he stared at Sam through half-shut eyes. Sam let out a long, low sigh, shaking his head. His brother made a small scoffing noise, as if to say 'I knew it,' and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nostrils. Sam stood up, eyes darting around the floor in search of his sneakers.

"Anything in particular you want to watch?"

Dean lifted up his head. "Dude, just don't get another foreign movie." Sam shoved his bare foot into the laced-up sneaker.

"The Care Bears Movie it is. I know how giddy the Care Bear Stare makes you. Just imagine how much more you'll enjoy it when you're actually stoned."

"Piss off."

"'Pith off'?" Sam questioningly mocked, throwing back his head with a loud laugh. He was lucky to make it out the door before the Bible kept in the small nightstand between the beds struck him in the back of the head.

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Twenty-five minutes later, Sam was back, knocking on the door because he had forgotten his key. "I got The Silence of the Lambs—" He waved it in front of the peephole. They had already seen the movie once or twice, but Sam liked Sir Anthony Hopkins and Dean thought Jodie Foster was hot. It was a movie they both would agree on, even if for different reasons. "—And Batman Forever." They had caught some of it on TV once, before John shut it off because they had to go desecrate a grave and do some salting and burning with a corpse. Fun.

"That's it?"

"Blockbuster is family-oriented, Dean. No porn for you."

"Could've at least gotten Titanic."

"What? Why? Does the heart-breaking, romantic story of a rich girl and a poor guy on the ill-fated ship put you in the mood?"

"No. There are boobs in Titanic. Naked boobs, Sammy."

Sam wanted to say something—really, there were hundreds of remarks bouncing up and down on his tongue, but he shook his head and swallowed thickly. "Whatever." The removal of his brother's wisdom teeth actually seemed to have de-aged him. "What do you want to watch first, Lambs or Batman?"

Dean tugged down on his bottom lip, peeling off the dried and cracked skin. Jodie Foster or Nicole Kidman? "Batman." He took the VHS tape from him. "Next we're watching The Shining." The 1980 Jack Nicholson movie was the only movie they owned. Dean had taken it from a garage sale. He had only wandered into the yard for the free lemonade that was being passed out. Sam made a face; it wasn't his favorite movie, but he agreed, hoping Dean would be sleeping before the Batman movie ended.

Of course, there was no such luck. Just before the credits started to roll, Dean was already reaching for his beloved tape. Sam, who was lying prone on his bed, groaned into his pillow.

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John came back the next day, arms full of KFC. Caleb had called him about a hunt, presumably werewolves, but he'd hesitantly turned it down. "Right now I need to get back to the boys." He knew Dean would be fine—Sam would hold it against him if he went out on another hunt. Hell, he even came back early—skipped out on drinking. "I'm home." He announced, grinning as he set the food down on the table.

Dean was sprawled out on his bed, head tilted back and eyes closed. The only light turned on in the room was from a bedside lamp. Sam was sitting on the opposite bed, reading. He ignored his father, but glanced up once he caught a whiff of the food's mouth-watering aroma.

"How's your brother?" He asked his youngest son quietly. Sam folded in the corner of the last page he read in his book before tossing it aside. His stomach growled, mind caring more about food than the book for now.

"Insufferable as always." Dean answered for him, propping himself up on his elbows. The swelling in his face had gone down a little. His speech wasn't any clearer, even without gauze in his mouth. "What did you bring me?"

"Mashed potatoes and gravy." He ignored the eye roll from his oldest son. "I need to go put some gas in our girl—I'll be back in a few minutes. No feeding scraps to Dean. Got me, Sam?"

"Dude, I'm not a dog."

"I won't. I don't feel the need to watch him choke today." He also wasn't in the mood to hear Dean bitch after tearing out his stitches. He wasn't letting his brother near a chicken wing. John left and Dean glared at his younger sibling.

"You just wait, Sam. You think you look goofy now? Just wait 'til your face swells up."

Sam went through the bags, carefully taking out the food. It was still hot. Usually food was cold by the time John got it to them. "Yeah, yeah, you're too sweet, Dean." He wasn't worried about when his time would come.

"I don't know. Maybe a bigger face will make your huge fro look less stupid." Sam whipped around, tossing a plastic spoon at his brother. It bounced off Dean's chest.

"I do not have a fro!"

"Man, how do I put up with you?" Dean asked, shaking his head as he sat up, crossing his legs. He nodded his brother a thanks when he was handed a Styrofoam bowl of mashed potatoes and a smaller bowl of gravy, which had a biscuit soaking in it.

Sam took out an extra crispy chicken leg and sunk his teeth into it. "You're a regular ol' saint, Dean." He sarcastically admitted through a mouthful of chicken. Dean absently stirred his biscuit around in the pool of gravy.

John was back a few minutes later. They all ate in silence as the news played on the television in the background. Within 48 hours they'd be back in the Impala, driving God knows where. Dean loudly slurped on his gravy. Sam narrowed his eyes at him. Dean continued to slurp even louder. Everything was okay for now.

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Everything's mostly from experience. Especially the "opps" part. Oy.