not mine

oO*Oo

Dean just needs to buy some friggin' groceries because all they have in the motel room is coffee and a handful of crumbs left in the box of Lucky Charms. Sammy, having spent the last two days puking his guts out, is not well enough to go out – is, in fact, only just well enough to be left alone, briefly. So, Dean is on a quick in-and-out mission for soup and juice and whatever the hell else you shove down sick kids' throats. He just wants to get back to Sammy and make sure the kid hasn't croaked.

Unfortunately some dick, wannabe bikers decide that taking him down will be some kind of proof of their manliness. What-the-hell-ever. Three guys against a fifteen-year-old? Like that proves anything. Focused on the supply-run, he avoids their shoddy attempts to hustle him into an alley, but they doggedly follow him. Morons can't see that Dean is nobody's easy prey. He's had about five hours of sleep out of the last forty-eight and is pretty much only alive because of the three cups paint-stripping coffee he'd downed in lieu of breakfast. If these assholes don't get out of his face, he's going to break their heads.

Finally, completely pissed off, he decides that he'll do some community service and take these assholes down. He lays the big one out before his buddies can blink and drops into the familiar fighter's crouch before throwing the weedy one to the ground. The third guy, a rat-faced loser in a stupid shirt, goes for Dean and he's pretty fast. Except that Dean's used to fighting things that can frickin' teleport. Rat-face is down for the count and Dean turns in time to finish off the last guy.

He feels even shittier than before because he's just used up more energy than he can really afford just now. Blinking away the dizziness, he manages to make it to the store before taking a breather.

He picks up the soup, and the juice (apple, because Sammy likes it) and some Gravol and a case of ginger-ale, because the lady at the pharmacy said it helps with nausea. He walks out of the store with the grocery bags in his hand and fifty-two cents in his pocket. Fan-friggin'-tastic. Looks like chicken noodle soup is on the menu until he can hustle up some cash.

His head is spinning when he finally makes it back to the motel and he's pretty sure he kinda passes out while making the soup and he feels like crap and, God, he better not catch whatever Sammy's got.

It's – all of it – kind of worth it, though, later, when he's lying in the hard motel bed with Sammy's warm little body curled into his side and the eleven-year-old's contented, sleepy noises in his ear.