Phlegmy

(for the E/O challenge "Fever")

By EB

©2009

"I don't have a fever," Dean said.

Sam looked at him. Cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, no jacket in chilly March --

Yeah. The dumbass had a fever.

"Here." He held out the thermometer.

"What, you went deaf in the last fifteen seconds?" Dean snapped. He crossed his arms and looked over Sam's head. "No fever. Ix-nay on the ever-fay."

It wasn't worth the effort. "Fine," Sam sighed, and dug the aspirin out of his bag. "Take two of these."

"No headache," Dean said.

"So that little headache line on your forehead is... just a wrinkle? Damn, Dean, old before your ti --"

"I am not wrinkled!" The line got deeper, and Dean reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "I'm fine. A-okay. Peachy. Fit as a --"

"Dean," Sam said stonily. "I know you're sick. I can hear the congestion from across the room, man, so --"

"Dairy makes me all phlegmy."

Sam blinked. "Phlegmy?"

Dean waved a hand weakly. His fingers had a pronounced tremble to them. "You know. Snotty. Juicy."

"Dean, you're -- phlegmy -- because you have the FLU."

Dean turned his dull-eyed gaze Sam's direction. "I do NOT HAVE AaaaCHOO."

"I rest my case."

"Allergies."

"Your temp is at least 103. You get irrational when it goes over 103."

"I am not irrational! I'm -- I'm --"

Sam propped his chin on his hand. "Yes? What are you, Dean?"

Dean drew a breath, and sneezed again. And another four times. "Fide," he said nasally when he was done. "Fide ad daddy."

"When you lose the ability to pronounce the letter 'n,' you have a cold or the flu, man. Why don't you just admit it?"

Dean's nose was dripping. He ignored it, although a muscle in his jaw twitched.

"All right," Sam said wearily. "Walk a straight line."

"I'b dot DRUNK."

"No, but you have a fever, and you're always clumsy when you have fever. Prove it to me: Walk a straight line. Three or four feet, that's all, man." He gestured. "Piece of cake, right?"

"How do you dow aboud the fever tink?" Dean peered at him with bloodshot eyes. His nose dripped onto his upper lip.

"Walk."

Dean lumbered to his feet, and swayed alarmingly. "I'b FIDE," he said, and took two steps. He smiled, his eyes rolled up, and Sam leaped out of the chair, caught him in time to roll him onto the nearer of the two beds.

Dean lay like he'd just taken a tranquilizer dart. Out for the count. Just like clockwork.

"I know," Sam said, gently pulling the blanket up over Dean's feet, "because I pay attention, you asshole." He laid the back of his wrist against Dean's forehead, and winced. "Because you do this every single damn time you get sick. And then I get to take care of your stupid ass."

"Sabby?"

Sam looked up. "Yeah, Dean?"

"Think I'b sig."

"Yeah," Sam said softly. "Think you are, man."

"Thangs."

"No problem."

END