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Sammy's got this thing, right, this thing 'bout healthy shit. Morning runs and side veggies turned main dish and fresh-fruit-smoothies that they've really got no money for 'cause what's wrong with the occasional sugary soda here and there?
Or, you know, tap water. That shit's cheap, healthy and something they don't gotta pay extra for.
Personally, Dean's of the opinion that a little bacon and some one-on-one night fun with Sammy can go a long way in staying healthy, but it's not like Sam cares about that when he gets out of bed at the ass crack of dawn, about one and a half hours after they've finally tired themselves out. (And not even Sam's glorious naked ass in the barely there morning light can remedy Dean's just-got-woken-up-at-5 am grumpiness. ...Fine, that's straight-up a lie, Dean's man enough to admit that, and maybe Sammy's sleepy pre-morning-exercise exercise that he likes to rope Dean into ain't too bad either.)
Sam, well. He likes to force healthy shit on Dean on a regular day, but when Dean's down for the count, vulnerable and defenseless to his nefarious intentions?
He chances a look from the corner of his eyes, lashes sticky with sweat, and when he gets a good look at Sam standing at the little table stirring something in a glass with even circles and a tablespoon because there's nothing fancy like tiny teaspoons in a motel like this, he barely muffles a cough into his fist.
God, do his ribs hurt. And he didn't even get used as an oversized dog toy by some rugaru or anythin'. This sucks.
Dean's sick, and he might be a lil' delirious, but when he hears the telltale clinking of cheap ice machine cubes in even cheaper motel crockery, his head rolls lazily to the side so he's got Sammy in his direct point of view. Sweet-cheeks, puppy-bangs, awkward sixteen year old limbs full of gangly teenage inexperience Sam decidedly doesn't have (Dean's made sure of that) the most beautiful thing in existence, and it's fucked up, alright, he knows, but then again Dean's sick, got a fever up so high you probably could'a convince him he's secretly been shitting glitter without knowing all these years, so he guesses he can get a free pass this once.
"Get that 'way from me," he mumbles, knows it's useless 'cause Sammy's already holding the glass under his nose, four cubes clinking together in the lemon-black liquid.
"'S good for you," is all Sam says to Dean's quite heroical attempt at protest, something his little brother would realize if he wasn't such a little bitch, and he presses the glass against Dean's cheek who's eyes involuntarily flutter closed 'cause his face feels like it's on fire and, shit, the cool of Sam's shitty home remedy is heaven sent, okay.
When Sam tries to press the rim against his cracked lips, Dean turns his head away, petulant five year old's no, and not even Sammy's soft coo of, "C'mon man, just a sip," is gonna change his mind. Kid can keep that good-for-body-mind-and-soul crap far, far away from him.
'Nother try, and, look, it's not like it smells unpleasant or anything, okay? 'S just black tea with a lil' sugar and a dollop of honey and lemon juice, and knowing Sammy, he probably got a fresh one too, none of that bottled shit, it's just, the thought of swallowing his own spit's making something unpleasant roll in his mind, so how does Sam expect him to—
Huh, he thinks, as he watches Sam take a huge sip of the glass himself, suck in what must be a third of the tea, an ice cube too, and then his fingers dip into the rest of what's left in the glass, grabs another cube between thumb and pointer, and Dean only gets a second to wonder about the motel shine caught in the translucent icy beauty before Sam sticks it into Dean's mouth, Dean's mouth that must've been open because suddenly the cold cube is resting on his tongue and he has to suppress the reflex to swallow 'cause knowing his luck, he'd probably choke on it or somethin'.
He lets the cube roll around his mouth, presses it against his gums because now that he actually has the cool thing pressed up against them, he realizes they've been kinda hurting, but the cold balances it out, makes it a bearable kind of pain, throbbing where before it felt like hot-fire needle pricks.
Dean's still debating the utter genius of ice cube vs mouth ache when Sam puts a hand on his cheek, kind of grabs him, kind of caresses him, and hey, Sam's got pretty eyes on every day ever, but up this close they're really beautiful, actually. Kaleidoscope wonder or something girly like that. Then Sam's pressing his mouth against Dean's, teeth clacking, and Dean really wants to point out that this isn't exactly the time for a make-out session cuz it's no use if they're both out cold (well, hot, heh), but Sam's tongue is being real insistent and Dean's a weak, weak man on the best of days (nevermind that those are practically nonexistent), so he obligingly opens his mouth.
It's healthy-bitter, at first, and so utterly Sammy because duh, was in Sammy's mouth, after all, but it's also the sweetness of honey and sugar and the sour freshness of lemon and then there's two ice cubes in his mouth, and Dean instinctively bites down, ice-crush under his teeth. Sam lets off and his hand goes from Dean's cheek to his chin, pushes his mouth shut and keeps it that way.
"Swallow," Sam says, and if Dean's mouth wasn't kind of full and busy and, you know, purposefully kept shut at the moment, he'd have loved to point out that that's the exact same thing Sammy said yesterday. (Wink, wink.) As it is, he just does as told, forces the liquid down around the ice chips, and it hurts, god, does it ever, but it's also sort of relieving because the pain in his throat is the tiniest bit numbed down, now, and maybe Sammy isn't actually an evil nurse intent on increasing his pain any way possible. Maybe he's actually pretty damn smart and knows what he's doing. (Not that Dean'd ever say that out loud, because Sam would get this little pleased smile but roll his eyes since he doesn't need his big brother's approval, okay, he's not a kid, but the pretty blush on his cheeks would betray all of that and then Dean would have to ravish him and never stop and where would they be then?)
When Sam holds the glass in front of him again and quietly asks, "You gonna drink on your own now?" Dean just curls his fingers 'round Sammy's little caretaker-face and licks the sticky sheen from his lips.
Fever or no, he's damn sure he doesn't imagine the amused sound that echos against the ice shards in his mouth, and just for that Dean bites down on Sammy's bottom lip a little too hard.
Kid-sniffles, baby cheeks. Apple-red and hazy eyes.
Dean laughs, because he's Dean and he loves his Sammy-doll beyond measure but he's got an image of asshole older brother to uphold. When Sammy's body is wrecked by an absolutely unpleasant sounding coughing fit, he does crouch down next to the bed and sweep Sammy's sweaty bangs back, though; presses his other hand against Sam's rosy cheek and his baby gratefully leans into the coolness of big brother's palm.
"Guess a get-well-soon blow job ain't gonna fix this, huh?"
It's adorable how Sammy can rack up a bitch face even while he's on the verge of dying, Dean, this sucks sick.