TITLE: Tribute
AUTHOR: mad_server
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean
PAIRING: None
RATING: PG13
SPOILERS: Nada
WORDS: 700
A/N: For the meme at my LJ.
SUMMARY: Dean flies his geek flag.

:::

"Mnnserk."

Sam listens to Dean rolling over in the backseat.

"Gerk."

"You callin' me a jerk?" Sam shakes his head, taking in lush green Iowa. "I clean up your barf and this is what I get?"

There's a wheezy sigh and then Dean's tousled head appears. His eyes are bloodshot, skin damp with fever. "Kirk."

"Kirk," Sam repeats. "Ohhh, like Captain Kirk?"

A sign depicting the Enterprise indicates a turnoff and Dean chokes, coughs into the creamy leather of the seat. Sam keeps driving and he whimpers, bats at the back of Sam's head.

"Hey! What?" Sam takes a careful look at his brother in the rearview mirror. "You want to go to the Star Trek tourist site?"

Dean drops his cheek to the bench seat in relief.

:::

"Future Birthplace of Captain James T. Kirk," Sam reads through the windshield as he kills the ignition. He scans the gravel lot but there's nothing there except for the sign. "Guess this is it." He twists around, cranes his neck for a look at the mound of blankets that is his brother. "Hey, Trekkie."

"Rrr." A nose emerges from the spread and sneezes. Face and shoulders are birthed out slowly. "Trrrkrrr."

"Trekker." Sam smiles in disbelief, watches Dean yawn into the window crank. "Oh my god. You're one of those? The Star Trek fans who are so hardcore that they take offense at being called the wrong name?"

"The name WE chose." Dean points up so high he almost nails Sam's eye. "Not the name you gave us."

Sam opens his mouth, closes it. "Wow."

Dean's gone very still again, propped up with his covers rippled out around him like warm caramel. His eyes are closed, head lolled back against the seat. Any second he's going to start snoring.

"Hey, hey. Sleeping Beauty. We doing this thing or what?"

Dean flinches and pushes away from the support of the seat, stiff as an old man. He passes a palm down his face, snuffles. "Beam me up."

:::

Dean's face as he stands before the stone marker is redder than before. Sam's got him by his hot little elbows, has a blanket tucked under his arm just in case, because it's chilly out here and Dean is sick and should they really be doing this and oh god why is he shaking?

"Dean?" Sam rubs a cautious arm up and down his back, moulds the backs of his fingers to Dean's temple. "Dude, you're an oven."

"Shh," Dean breathes, his eyes shiny. Oh, whoa. Dean's crying.

"Hey." Sam sidles closer, wraps an arm around his brother and shores him up. "What's going on?"

"The man," Dean manages in a high, thin voice. "Was a legend. He was a frigging god, Sam."

"Okay." Sam flicks a tear from Dean's burning cheek. "Well that's good, right?"

Dean sniffles and the muscles in his face jump through a series of pained expressions. "He's not here."

"Captain... Kirk?" Sam pets a circle into Dean's chest, feels it hitching and heaving with strangled breath. "Well, I mean. He's kind of everywhere, right?"

Dean goes quiet, lets Sam tuck his head underneath his chin.

"He's in everybody's imagination. The whole world's, man. He's in mine." He gives Dean's forehead a light tap. "He's in yours. And we're here. So he's here too. Sort of." He fumbles at the comforter and spreads it around Dean's shoulders. "As much as he can be."

Dean quivers, sick and spent. He wipes his shiny nose on the blanket. "Guess he is."

Sam gives the scruff of his neck a quick squeeze. "We done here?"

In answer Dean shakes himself as if waking from a dream, draws up straighter. He steps forward, shifts inside the quilt like he's digging in his pocket. He squats down, slowly, dizzily, and Sam's poised and ready to spring. But he makes it back up, leans heavily on the monument for three or four breaths, and then brushes past Sam toward the car.

Sam squints at the base of the sign, stares at Dean's offering. It's a condom.

:::

They stop on the way out of town and Sam picks up Captain Kirk jammies for Dean. Dean wears them until they smell like old sweat and soup stains and he's all better.

:::

END

ORIGINAL PROMPT: Dean's a closet Trekkie, so when they drive through Riverside, Iowa, future birthplace of captain James T. Kirk (TRUE STORY!), Dean's insisting on seeing the little place marker that's down little alleyway "downtown". Except he's retardedly sick and dizzy and stuff. So it takes Sam forever to figure out that the feverish ravings coming from the back seat actually mean something. Sam parks the car and helps his invalid brother to the nerdy little monument. What Dean does when they get there is up to you!


TITLE: The Bottomless Pockets Of Sam
AUTHOR: mad_server
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean
PAIRING: None
RATING: PG13
SPOILERS: Nope
WORDS: 750
A/N: For the meme at my LJ.
SUMMARY: Dean infiltrates a hospital. Sam backs him up.

:::

"Three people," Sam says, cold air seeping off his clothes in the warm motel room. "In the last six months. Three, Dean." The white paper sack in his hands crinkles with promise.

"What, they all disappeared from the hospital?" Dean admires the greasy translucence spreading up from the bottom of the bag. "Did you get us burgers?"

"They're for the drive over." Sam's smile looks tight.

Dean blows his nose to buy time, searches out the little creases in Sam's face. He clears his throat and lobs the tissue over his shoulder. "What changed your mind?"

"What?"

"You said I shouldn't be hunting."

Sam shifts his weight, rubs the back of his neck. "Well, like you said. You're doing better. Right? No fainting since... what, Thursday? You've got your color back... and besides, it's just a little recon."

"Recon." Dean snorts, suppresses a wheezy cough.

"Safe as houses." Sam spreads his arms.

:::

"No, no, dude."

At the tone of Sam's voice Dean freezes, sawed-off nosed partway up under the trunk's fake bottom. He makes a quick scan of the yellow-lit parking garage. "What?"

"It's a hospital, Dean. No weapons."

Dean grips the shotgun, cheeks heating up. "Oh yeah."

"I've got salt and holy water." Sam pats his bulging coat pocket. "You know, just in case."

"Right." Dean wrinkles his nose, gasps and sneezes. The trunk clatters shut. He eyes it, snuffling wetly. "And the plan one more time, please, for the kids at the back of the class?"

Sam produces a travel pack of tissues, waggles them at Dean. "Those people who went missing? They disappeared from the exam room. You pretend to be sick, like really sick, and they'll take us in." Sam tilts his head back appraisingly. "You sure you're up to this?"

"You kidding me?" Dean fumbles a Kleenex out of the shiny plastic wrap. "Do demons poop sulfur?"

"Good." Sam leans closer, lowers his voice. "'Cause I got us walkie-talkies and I really want to use them."

Dean blinks at Sam. "You're my favorite brother."

:::

"Want your juice?"

Dean rubs his chilly hands together, sits forward in the plastic ER chair and angles his face up at Sam. There are a couple of him superimposed and Dean jiggles his head, passes his fingers down over his eyes. "I'm not eleven, dude."

"Oh, I just didn't want you to be jealous of mine." Sam pops the top off a bottle of grape juice and swallows it all in six neat gulps. He smiles wide at Dean with purple lips. Dean swipes at the stains with his fingers.

"Hey," Sam chuckles, fending him off. He tugs Dean's coat up over his head. When Dean works his way out there's a glass bottle of orange juice in cupped in Sam's hands like a baby bird.

:::

"Symptoms?"

Dean rubs the slippery shell of the walkie-talkie under the blanket. "Uh. You know."

Sam makes a rolling motion with his hand over the doctor's shoulder, passes his EMF meter over the exam room's sink.

Dean's too tired to brainstorm. "Fever. Cough. Aches and pains." An icy thermometer slips into his ear. "Hey, I already said fever, okay? Take it easy with that thing."

Sam's face is pinched above the MD's coat. He shakes his head and mouths, "Play along."

Dean sighs, watches Sam rummage silently through the contents of the cabinet above the sink. "Uh. I guess I passed out once or twice?" He considers the examiner for the first time, gets lost in the man's white bushy eyebrows. "I dig your look," he confides, sniffling into his wrist. "Very mad scientist."

The man looks at him for a moment, then writes something down. "How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?"

Dean submits to the arctic stethoscope. "A week?"

"Three," Sam blurts. His meter's out of sight and the cupboard is all back together. He eyes Dean nervously as the doctor turns to face him. "It's been three weeks."

Dean blows a rattling cough into his palm and narrows his eyes.

:::

"Nobody disappeared, did they."

"What?" Sam leans over the guard rail, fingers the hospital bracelet on Dean's wrist.

"There's no hunt, is there."

Sam flushes. He clicks the button on his walkie-talkie. Dean's crackles against his gown.

Dean picks up the instrument and presses it to his mouth. His voice resonates out of Sam's hand, bounces around the hallway. "Copy that."

Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out Dean's walkman. He settles it on Dean's chest, smoothes the folds from his blanket. "Make you some toast?"

:::

END

ORIGINAL PROMPT: Dean is sick and Sam wants him to see a doctor. Dean's being a dick about it. Sam fabricates a hunt at a hospital and is all like hey Dean let's just pretend you're sick for the purposes of the hunt, look, we'll just have this doctor take your temperature just to keep up appearances, right? Look, Dean, this hospital bracelet makes your disguise look more authentic!


TITLE: Catnip
AUTHOR: mad_server
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean
PAIRING: None
RATING: PG13
SPOILERS: Nope
WORDS: 400
A/N: For the meme at my LJ.
SUMMARY: Sneezy Dean crack. With cats.

:::

Dean's collar is popped against the wind off the field. He kicks idly at a stone, watching Sam shine a flashlight down the well.

"S'another brisk one," Dean comments. He tents a tissue around his nose with stiff fingers and blows.

"Not that brisk." Sam's voice resonates a little in the hole. "You're just sick, sickie."

"HH-" Dean lets his face go slack, caught up in sensation. "Heh-hh-hh-HIDGSHSHuh!" He folds his Kleenex over, blows again. "No comment."

Something lands on the well and Dean slams his shotgun up, opens his mouth to bellow Sam's name before his brain catches up to his eyes.

"Ugh." He lowers his weapon, watches Sam look from the newcomer to Dean. "Cats. Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em."

Sam rolls his eyes and leans back over, leaving Dean and the sleek brown tabby to stare into each other's eyes.

"What?" Dean finally asks. "Hh-ihh-"

The cat meows, a long, weird sound.

"Heh-hh-HH-AH-AH-XCHSHHH! Hoo, that was a good one." Dean pulls two used tissues from his pocket and forces them together around his nose. The cat rubs up against his ankles, purring. "What's with you," he asks it through his paper barrier. The itch starts up again and he gasps, rubs his nose with the Kleenex. "Ah-hhh-"

"Jeez. You going for the Olympics?" Sam calls, buried to his ass in the well.

"HH-h-h-ohgod-HHHHH-HISCHCHHoo! Heh-TZITCHRR-kh-KH!"

When Dean finishes spattering the tissues and clears his streaming eyes, he sees two more cats twining around his boots, the tabby and a matching pair of white cats with luminous green eyes. The sound of purring is almost deafening. "Uh."

"Found it!" Sam emerges and straightens up, his hair puffed out, eyes gleaming in victory as he holds up a piece of fingernail for Dean to see. He cocks his head at the felines. "Who're your friends?"

Dean snuffles and shivers in the wind. "Damned if I know. Just torch it and let's go. Ehh-UGH. HH-HH-HH-HXHRRSHSHsh!"

The tabby bites Dean's bootlaces. A white cat stands on its hind legs to butt its head against Dean's knee. Dean glances toward the car and sees six more shadowy shapes running toward him.

Dean licks his lips. "Sam..?"

:::

END

ORIGINAL PROMPT: Cats like it when Dean sneezes.


TITLE: Dean Sandwich
AUTHOR: mad_server
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean, Cas
PAIRING: Sam/Dean/Cas
RATING: PG13
SPOILERS: Nuh-uh.
WORDS: 500
A/N: For the meme at my LJ.
SUMMARY: Dean's sick in bed. Sam and Cas treat him real nice. ...But less dirty than that sounds.

:::

Dean's cheek is hot under Sam's lips. It's prickly like Dad's old nail brush, the one that always used to leave the sink speckled with garage grease.

"Poor furnace," Sam murmurs into the stubble. He smoothes a hand down the polyester quilt, chasing a crease down Dean's belly and thigh.

Dean heaves a wheezy sigh that puffs across Sam's hand. His breath is hot. He slurps back a snuffle and says in a voice like a television static, "S'nice."

"Nice?" Sam grazes his mouth over Dean's temple, his damp hair. "You don't want to talk about how crappy you feel?"

Dean blinks glassy eyes, gives his head the faintest of shakes against the creamy pillow. "What's the point?"

Sam props himself up on both elbows. "Oh my god. You're really sick."

Dean rolls his eyes and curls toward Sam. "Just..." He nudges his hot face into Sam's chest, pulls Sam closer with a hand in the small of his back.

"Yeah." Sam cards through Dean's bedhead, rubs between his shoulder blades. "C'mere." A shiver runs through Dean and Sam kisses the top of his head.

:::

"Shhh," Sam breathes as Cas flaps in. He points to where Dean's breathing long and slow in his arms. "He's sleeping."

Uncanny blue eyes consider the sick man, then bore into Sam's. The angel tilts his head.

"He's gotten worse," Sam whispers. "Can you fix him now?"

Castiel's face is dark. He gives Sam a guilty look, lowers his gaze. Just then Dean snuffles against Sam and shakes with a thick, reverberating cough. The angel disappears, reappears with a plastic shopping bag in hand.

Sam raises his brows as Cas produces a humidifier and primly unfolds its instruction manual. He sighs.

"Okay, yeah, that's something. That's great, Cas. Just fill it up with water and plug it in."

To the low hum of the device, Castiel sits on the edge of the bed. He cups the back of Dean's head and closes his eyes, then frowns.

"What?" Sam murmurs.

Cas' voice is low like footsteps through gravel. "He is having a nightmare." His face tightens in concentration, then he smiles a grim smile and opens his eyes, stroking down Dean's spine. He gives Sam a conspiratorial smile. "Now he's at the Grand Canyon, with you."

Sam reaches over Dean to pat the angel's cheek.

Dean shudders in his sleep and Castiel stretches out, flattens his whole length against him.

"It's winter at the Grand Canyon," Cas confides. "His internal temperature dictated that particular point."

"Yeah, he's got the chills." Sam shimmies even closer and drags a palm down Dean's biceps. He kisses his pink nose. "Poor icicle."

"Poor icicle." Cas tucks his trench coat over the three of them and nuzzles into the base of Dean's skull. He lays an arm over Dean, lightly fists Sam's shirt. "He will be well, Sam. Sleep."

Sam does. Angels are like that.

:::

END

ORIGINAL PROMPT: Sam/Dean/Cas; Dean doesn't get sick, like, ever, so when it happens it knocks him on his ass. So maybe strep throat or something really uncomfortable, and Sam knows that it's really bad because Dean isn't complaining at all, he's just quietly miserable and can't get warm (naturally Sam has to wrap his giant body around him like a blanket), and Sam is all "Cas can you fix it?" and Cas is all "I can't reverse something natural." So Dean is sick and just wants to feel better, damn it, and Sam and Cas hang with him while he lives through it and there is slash.


TITLE: Peanuts
AUTHOR: mad_server
CHARACTERS: Drunk Sam, Drunk Dean
PAIRING: None
RATING: I guess R for language.
SPOILERS: No way no how.
WORDS: 550
A/N: For the meme at my LJ.
SUMMARY: Drunk Dean takes care of Drunk Sammeh.

:::

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Yeahhhh." Dean giggles, balances his empty can on top of the pyramid. It's at waist height and Sam is impressed. Dean is impressed also. "I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD," he crows at a level Sam is pretty sure will have a neighbor calling the manager on them so he reaches for Dean's mouth to cover it. His fingers slide inside Dean's mouth by mistake and he startles at the warm wetness, laughs as Dean paws him aside.

Dean spits on the carpet, wipes his mouth in an exaggerated gesture. He wrinkles his nose. "Salty."

Sam lies flat on the couch and watches the ceiling jitter and spin. "Mmmm. Salty." He licks his hand. "Best part of the peanut."

"There are no peanuts." Dean teeters above him, steadies himself with a hand above Sam's head on the armrest. He frowns. "No peanuts anywhere. Why would you say that?"

Sam rolls onto his side and grabs Dean's knee.

"Do you want peanuts Sammy?" Dean pats his shoulder, stumbles and drops to his ass on the carpet. His nose is inches from Sam's. He pokes it. "Peanuts?"

Sam twists a clump of Dean's hair until it stands up from his head at a different angle from the rest. "It was a figment of... a figure."

Dean nods sagely. He pokes Sam's nose again.

The Bad Lines pop in between his eyebrows. He clamps a hand over Sam's face. Sam flutters his eyelashes to tickle Dean's palm but Dean doesn't laugh.

"Hey," Dean says. He uncovers Sam's face and the room is brighter than before. "Hey. Sam." He lays the flat of his hand across Sam's forehead. "Something's wrong."

Sam goes cold. "What?"

"Your face." Dean pats Sam's head. "You're a fever, Sam."

Sam shivers and curls closer to Dean. "Oh."

"Don't worry." Dean smiles magnanimously and spreads his arms. "Dean's here."

"Dean," Sam sighs, letting his eyes droop.

"First things first." Dean jabs a finger into Sam's neck, stares solemnly at the back of his own wrist. Sam watches him concentrate. After awhile Dean sniffs and looks at the inside of his wrist instead. "Hmm."

"What?"

"Your pulse, uh..." Dean strokes the back of Sam's hand. "It feels okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean beams down at him.

"Yeahhhhhh." Sam shudders happily. "I'm cold."

"Ohhh." Dean pushes himself up on rickety legs. "No problem." He reappears with the polyester quilt off Sam's bed and a sheet trailing from it. All of it gets tucked around Sam. "Feel better, Sammy?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck yeah."

"Fuck yeahhhh."

Dean totters off again and slaps a dripping wet cloth onto Sam's face. He picks at it and rearranges it until it's on the forehead part of Sam's face. "You used to love this."

"What?"

"The cloth." Dean plunks down on his ass with a whoosh of breath. "You'd be sick, or you'd be crying. Sometimes you'd just miss Dad." Dean flattens his palm over the rag on Sam's head. "I'd put one of these on your face. Tuck you in close, right up against my side. My poor little kid." He rubs Sam's arm up and down through the comforter.

Sam melts into the sofa, and then it's the morning, and his mouth is rancid and his stomach's sick and his heart is happy.

:::

END

ORIGINAL PROMPT: They're both really drunk when they realize Sam's running a pretty significant fever. Cue very sloppy caretaking.