Title: Tangle
Author: Mad Server
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word Count: 1700
Summary: Dean's got a cold and a cracked rib. Sam makes him soup.
A/N: This is more or less an expansion on a drabble I posted back in July, "Anti-Dependent." Big thank you to followthesp1der for a thorough, generous and thought-provoking beta job, and to NativeStar for the cyberspace-thwarted beta that almost was; thanks too to Enkidu07 for the cheering on, and to the people who liked "Anti-Dependent" and said, "Make this longer." Bit of language in this one so be ready for it.
Disclaimer: I don't own these guys.

It would be funny if it would just let up a little. Or if the end was in sight. Or if Dean wasn't making those sounds in between -- the sick strangled pain sounds, which he can't keep a lid on as hard as he seems to be trying. Or if he would fucking say something. But he's been quiet the last few minutes, all his bad jokes, funny faces and drama queen complaints abandoned, and now there's just the groaning, and the wheezing.

And the sneezing, which is the whole problem to begin with. A cracked rib's got Dean bitchy and worn out from sleeping sitting up the last two weeks, and from probably continual pain since he insists on Keeping His Edge and thus has been mostly refusing painkillers. If Sam knows him at all, it's also eating away at Dean that he can't defend either of the Amazing Fighting Winchester Brothers the way he wants to should they get in a tussle. Throw in a chestful of mucus and a headful to match, courtesy of the Mystery Virus from Hell -- coughing and sneezing that tug at Dean's cracked rib hard enough he's actually gone cross-eyed a couple times -- and it's just, not cool anymore.

There have been forerunners for days, but the cold-flu-whatever has only come on in full force tonight, since they got back to the motel after interviewing the family who live in the haunted house they're here about. Sam's pumped Dean full of meds already, pills that claim to tamp down cold symptoms plus their old friend Mr. Codeine. He is in fact a little alarmed at the readiness with which his brother accepted the drugs, which they both know are going to space him out plenty. If they ever kick in, that is. Clearly they still haven't, because here's Dean, pasty and pinched-looking, propped against the headboard on a jumble-stack of pillows, breath rattling with congestion, nose already a tired red. His eyes are shut, forehead creased and beaded with sweat, one hand resting protectively, uselessly, over the rib in question. He coughs once, lightly, pain tugging his eyebrows down, curling his fingers, and for Sam, it tips the scales.

"Hey, listen," Sam says, perched on the other bed, not entirely sure what he's about to say. "Maybe you should eat something. Make the pills kick in faster."

Dean snuffles, opens bloodshot eyes and peers at Sam.

"I'm gonna make you something," Sam goes on when Dean doesn't answer, talking to fill the void. "Soup?"

Dean wipes his eyes, gets a look of intense concentration, and then turns away and sneezes into his palm. He stays perfectly still for a few seconds afterwards, not even letting out a whimper this time, and Sam wonders what it cost him. Then he wipes his palm on the bedspread and sniffles tiredly, turning back to Sam with a grey face.

"No offense," he says thickly, "but I really don't wanna hurl right now."

"Chicken soup," Sam repeats, suddenly finding himself within spitting distance of desperation. "You won't hurl. Come on, man, I can't watch this. You're like a basket of drowning kittens over there, or one of those charity ads about leprosy."

Dean's jaw clenches, his chin jutting out just a little. "I am not kittens," he asserts, his voice gravelly and congested. Something seems to occur to him, wheels turning behind dark-ringed eyes, and he points a finger skyward. "Except maybe if they're tiger kittens." His eyes go squinty and he sucks in an urgent breath, then twists away and sneezes juicily into his elbow, following it up with a series of rough coughs. Sam can see sweat on the back of his neck.

"I'm making soup," Sam says, standing up.

Dean just groans into the crook of his arm.

"So what do you make of Anne?" Sam asks as makes his way into the kitchen. Now that he's got Dean talking again, he's not willing to go back to that strained silence; he wants Dean here, engaged, focused on something other than snot and pain. "You think she was murdered?" He rips open a package of instant soup mix, eyeballing Dean; watches him rub a hand over his forehead, pluck three kleenexes out of the box and layer them together and slowly, cautiously, blow his nose. "Or do you think she's really just pissed about not having been buried in consecrated ground?"

"She's pissed. That's all that matters. She's pissed, she's gotta go." Dean drags a hand over his scalp, slowly, like his head hurts. Then he frowns, breath hitching again, face screwing up, and sneezes into his handful of kleenex, his whole body rocking forward. He hisses, eyebrows shooting up, and stifles a moan.

Sam's got the soup mix and some water in a mug in the microwave and he's hovering beside it, waiting for it to boil. He winces in sympathy, presses on with his line of distracting questions.

"But aren't you curious? Or here's a better question: why now? You've been dead for a hundred and fifty-four years, hanging out in your old house pretty much the entire time, stirring things up once in awhile but never getting violent. Then one day you decide to up and butcher the family dog? I think if it was vengeance she was after, she'd have been hurting people years ago. And I think being murdered would have made Anne a vengeful spirit. If you ask me, she wasn't murdered. I think being buried outside of consecrated ground -- or maybe just being pissed about it -- she just, hasn't been able to get into the afterlife the way she was supposed to. And I'm thinking it's just taken her until now to get lonely for her friends in the next world, or to get tired of hanging out here."

"Speaking of which," Dean rasps, squinting blearily across the room at Sam, "shouldn't we be doing something about that? Like, now?"

"Family's out of the house," Sam says, his eyes roving over Dean's splotchy face, mildly unsettled that Dean doesn't remember. On the other hand, if Dean had been contending with the beginnings of this when they'd discussed it, it's really no wonder he hasn't retained everything. "Nobody's on the line tonight. Figure I'll hike out tomorrow and consecrate the spot where they think she's buried."

"We," Dean corrects. After a couple of false starts, he sneezes into that same damp ball of kleenex, exhaling with a frustrated growl. He sniffles and wipes his stuffy nose with the soggy tissues, then drops the wad into the trash, looking teary-eyed and faintly disgusted.

Sam's still rolling his eyes at his brother's outdated Protect Sammy drive when the microwave finally dings. He brings the steaming mug over and puts it down on the bedside table, where Dean eyes it warily, like it's a one night stand who's tracked him down and is asking for child support.

"It'll make you hurt less," Sam maintains.

A crackling cough, hand fisting at his ribcage, and a quick, desperate glance at the ceiling, and then Dean's nodding, bright-eyed, and motioning for the soup. Sam passes it over and stays close, ready to grab it if it looks like Dean's going to have another mucus attack and spill it everywhere.

"Pretty reasonable, really," Dean comments after a few mercifully uneventful sips. "For a ghost. Shafted by a bunch of fuckin' bigots. We're sorry, you're too aboriginal for our graveyard." He sniffles, shakes his head. "Patient. She shouldn'ta gone after the dog, but considering how long she's been waiting around, it coulda been a lot worse. She coulda cut 'em all up. Torched 'em. Whatever she wanted. An' it's good she did something, 'cause otherwise we wouldn'ta known to come. Maybe this one hasn't gone crazy, Sam. Or gone too crazy at least. Anyway, I'm glad we're gonna send her off. Out of all of 'em, you know, all the ones we send packing, maybe she deserves it the most. Hell, maybe she'll even appreciate it."

The words are flowing too freely, and there's a glimmer in Dean's eyes that Sam doesn't like. He takes the pillow off his own bed, moves to put it behind Dean's shoulders, and uses the opportunity to surreptitiously gage the heat coming off Dean's head. No question he's running a fever, but Sam breathes a little easier when he senses it isn't scary-high: the drugs must just be kicking in. "Maybe she will," he agrees.

A few more sips of soup and Dean's eyelids start drooping; experimental snuffles and his sinuses seem to be coming clearer. The creases blow off his forehead and he doesn't look like he's in pain anymore.

"Here," Sam says, gently taking back the mug. Warm, dopey eyes blink up at him, and the hand guarding Dean's ribcage slides down to his lap.

"Huh," says Dean. "Soup worked."

"Let's hear it for soup," says Sam.

"You're not goin' alone," Dean murmurs, his eyes slipping shut. "Dangerous."

Sam's a little taken aback. "I'm not going anywhere tonight," he says carefully.

"Tomorrow," Dean slurs. "To Anne. We're going together. Me an' you. Going away party." He drags his eyes open, bloodshot; pins Sam with a look, and Sam can't lie.

"You do realize it's a hike," Sam says. "And that you're like, sick and broken."

"Fuck you," Dean smiles.

Sam shakes his head, half-smiling back in spite of his concurrent urge to choke his rude, overprotective brother. "Fine. You're invited." Shape Dean's in, Sam figures he probably won't even remember this tomorrow.

After that, Dean's out like a light. Sam strips the comforter off his own bed and drapes it carefully over him, then presses the backs of his fingers briefly against Dean's temple. Satisfied, Sam blows out a deep breath, rolls his shoulders. He grabs his cell phone, throws on his jacket, and steps out into the crisp late summer night to call Bobby for his thoughts on consecration spells.

TBC