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Sam lay in bed for the third consecutive day, the heaviness he'd felt in his chest only now starting to loosen. He wiped his nose with a crumpled up tissue, sniffing a little to clear his airway.
Children really were germ magnets, he huffed. Luckily, he'd gotten away from them with only a case of the flu and the horrible nightmare of being chased by a clown.
Dean had unobtrusively been caring for him non-stop since he'd nearly collapsed at the nightclub in Derry, Maine. Fluids, cough drops, chicken soup, and Tylenol capsules appeared before he'd even asked for them. Sam smiled, there were times that he believed Dean could read his mind; when he was hungry, a tray was placed in front of him. Thirsty—a tall glass of orange juice. And his favorite, cherry-flavored cough drops were dropped in his palm at the first sign of discomfort.
Throughout it all, Dean refused to acknowledge Sam's 'thanks'. "The only reason I'm helping you is so that I don't have to listen to you hack up a lung all night." He made it sound selfish. It was so Dean to divert the attention away from himself; it was something he'd always done, either by making stupid jokes or twisting the conversation back to focus on Sam instead.
Take for example this morning. Dean looked pale and his voice kept breaking as if he was in puberty again, but he ignored Sam's observations by instead running out the door to get them breakfast.
Sam got up out of bed to take a shower. He was sweaty and he felt like he hadn't bathed in a week. Flushing with embarrassment, he briefly remembered that his brother had put him in the tub to lower his fever. It was pretty bad, he figured, his skin was raw from scratching and there was blood under his fingernails.
Dean hadn't talked about it, but from the slight look of concern he'd given him, whatever happened must've scared him. From the state his face was in (red, lined with scratches), it would've scared him too to remember.
Letting the rush of water hit him in the face, he let it all just wash over him. All of the tiredness that had seemed to seep in his bones over the last few days…just melting away, giving him a refreshed feeling. The warm mist helped clear his sinuses as well. He was feeling better, not quite a hundred percent yet, but nearly there.
He stayed in the spray for a few more minutes, just relaxing. There was one thing to be said about hotel rooms—the hot water almost never ran out.
Climbing out of the tub, he changed into a t-shirt and jeans, tired of wearing only his boxers and undershirt. He was putting on his socks when the door opened. Sam bounced up and down to pull up the sock before rushing over to help Dean with the bags of groceries that he'd bought.
"I hope you bought a cereal with more nutrients than sugar this time, Dean." He'd joked half-heartedly; knowing that his brother ALWAYS bought the sugar-filled Lucky Charms. The laugh was cut short as he stared into Dean's face.
Taking a second to glance out the window, it didn't seem that hot outside—Hell, it looked cold from the way the wind was blowing the trees. And yet, Dean was sweating as if he'd run a mile being chased by a hound from hell.
"Dean?" Sam asked, "You alright?"
Dean looked up, his eyes were red and irritated; Sam also didn't fail to notice how he gulped several times, rubbing his neck before speaking. "I'm fine." It came out in a breath, right before his entire body starting shaking as he coughed. The cough was deep, leaving Dean hanging onto the tabletop as he heaved and tried to breathe.
Sam immediately came up behind him, thumping his back until he stopped coughing. "Yeah, you're fine, alright." He mumbled, watching him closely. Dean'd stopped coughing, but he was still leaning against the table; his face was almost completely beaded with sweat and he was losing color—becoming incredibly pale. "Dean?" He asked again, concern tingeing his voice.
Dean didn't answer, instead leaned more heavily against the table. Sam watched his brother's shaking hands gripped the top as if to keep himself from falling. His eyes were closed as he leaned his head closer to the table. Reacting immediately, he grabbed him around the waist and guided him down to the floor. He kept Dean's head cushioned against his shoulder until he was lowered, pulled off his jacket to cool him off, and then gently rested him flat on the carpeted floor.
There was no response. His hand flew to Dean's neck to check his pulse. It was rapid but gradually slowing to its normal rate. He was breathing. Sam ran to his bed and grabbed the pillows, lifting up Dean's legs to elevate them. There a small moan a few seconds later, then a hard gulp.
Thanking his brother silently for making things easier for him, he ran to get the bottle of water Dean had left by his bed and the package of paper towels. He wet the towel thoroughly and began running it down his face and neck. Sam was unbuttoning the first few buttons on his shirt when Dean stirred.
His voice was barely audible. "Sammy?" a cough "What happened?"
Sam put the cloth on his forehead, patting the area before answering. "You passed out, Dean. How are you feeling?"
Eyes at half-mast, Dean whispered. "Just tired. I'm okay, though. Just give me a few minutes, alright, Sam?"
With a steady hand, Sam cupped his brother's jaw, letting his fingers palpate the soft tissue. Unsurprisingly, his fingers found several lumps on both sides of his neck. Dean flinched at the touch, pulling away. "Dean, your lymph nodes are swollen and you've obviously lost your voice-"
"I'm fine." He huffed again, trying to sit up but unable to do so because Sam kept holding him in place.
"Dean, just lie still. Or do you want to pass out again?" Sam tried to sound strict, but it ended up sounding unsure. He straightened, "Just stay here for a few minutes until you're not as pale as the last ghost we hunted. I'm going to get you some juice. I'll be right back."
Standing up, he went over to the small fridge in the corner of the room to pull out a small bottle of orange juice. He did a double-take, surprised that the label said "100 fruit juice" instead of the cheap sunny 'citrus drink' they'd always bought. His brow crinkled as he remembered that vitamin C was supposed to help aid the immune system… thinking how'd Dean remember that fact?
Kneeling beside Dean, he lifted up his head, making sure that he wasn't going to pass out before bringing the container of juice to his lips. Dean's hand flew to hold the bottle himself—not wanting to look weak in front of his little brother. He barely took a sip before launching up to a sitting position in order to cough. Sam patted him on the back, waiting until he stopped coughing in order to have him drink more juice.
Dean waved the bottle away, re-capping it and letting it roll away from him. "Dean, you need to drink something!"
"I can't—." His broken voice blurted, "it burns."
Sam closed his eyes in sympathy. "Your throat, huh?"
Again, Dean insisted, "It's fine."
Just nodding, Sam let him have his own way for now. Sometimes it was just easier to let things happen. Dean was sick—if he didn't want to admit it, Sam wasn't going to force him. But it didn't mean that he wasn't going to take care of him—whether he wanted it or not.
Lifting Dean up from under his arms, he helped him to bed. Dean toed his shoes off and crawled under the cover the moment he hit the mattress. His eyes closed and he instantly fell asleep; Sam had expected it. He'd fainted before—once after he'd given a blood donation and a couple of times after he'd been injured. Once he regained consciousness, all he wanted to do was to go back to sleep—as if fainting had robbed him of all the energy he had. So, it didn't surprise him that Dean had fallen asleep so quickly.
While Dean slept, he put the groceries away and cleaned up around the hotel—picking up tissues that hadn't made it to the wastebasket and things like that. It was quiet and the waning adrenaline rush was making Sam feel tired again.
He went over to his side of the bed, then lay down next to his brother. His eyes closed of their own accord as he too succumbed to the healing call of sleep.
...
Sam groaned softly, kicking off the blanket that covered his body. "God, Dean. Why couldn't we get a motel room with air conditioning? It's gotta be at least eighty degrees in here." He threw an arm over his face and groaned again. There was no response from the lump lying next to him and it annoyed Sam to no end. His brother was really a big pain. He never had any sympathy for his 'geek boy' little brother. He shoved Dean's shoulder, wanting to bring his attention to his current plight.
The instant his hand touched Dean, Sam's eyes flew open. Dean was burning up! It wasn't hot in the room; the heat was coming off of the body pressed against him. Sitting up, he leaned against the arm he'd rested over Dean's body. "Dean?" He called out, shaking his shoulder, "Dean, wake up!"
Dean's eyes fluttered open, then quickly shut a moan escaping his lips. Concerned, Sam placed his hand on Dean's forehead. His concern only grew when Dean didn't push him away, as he'd been expecting, but leaned into the touch.
Taking on a hushed tone, Sam couldn't help but whisper "Are you alright, Dean?"
Dean swallowed hard, his hand flying towards his neck with a grimace. Finally, when the 'frog in the throat' feeling had lessened, he mouthed that he was fine; the lack of voice contradicting him with absolute certainty.
Gently pushing Dean's hand aside, he placed his fingers along his neck, palpitating the area underneath. The swollen glands he'd felt before seem to be even larger. "Dean, open your mouth. Let me see your throat. You might have strep or something."
For a minute, Sam thought that Dean was going to be stubborn. But after a few moments of indecision, Dean realized that it'd be easier to just do as Sam asked that to have to brokenly whisper his arguments.
Sam frowned at the sight of his brother's inflamed throat. No wonder he said that it burned. "Dean, I'm going to get the thermometer. Be right back." With that said, Sam ran to get his bag—he rummaged around through it for the small plastic object.
Returning to his brother's side, he was surprised to see that Dean had dozed off once again. Not wanting to wake him, he gently turned his head to expose his ear, then inserted the digital thermometer.
It beeped a few seconds later, the display proving what Sam had already known, Dean was really sick and had a high fever. He stared at his brother's flushed face, considering the next option. From his own experience of the past week, Dean most likely had come down with the flu. A doctor wouldn't prescribe anything but fluids and rest (antibiotics wouldn't work on a viral infection).
So, it left Sam with only one remaining option.
….
Dean had been sleeping for more than eight hours. That in and of itself was a rarity. Dean usually didn't sleep more than five or six a night, preferring to stay up late to either bar hop or watch the 'funnies' on T.V. Sam kept a close eye on his brother, worried about the fever and the congestion that had abruptly developed in his lungs. He could tell that—even in sleep, it was getting harder for Dean to breathe. Sam watched as Dean took in another shuddering breath, his chest wall expanding as he fought to release it: both the congestion and his swollen throat working together to make the process as hard as it could for him. Every breath made Dean pale, made the sweat drip off his face and down his neck to soak into the yellowed pillowcase.
The decision to wake Dean was quickly made. Flicking the light switch, Sam went about getting things prepared—the more prepared he was, the easier it'd be for the both of them. Entering the small bathroom, Sam plugged the tub, then went about filling it with lukewarm water. Once he'd gotten Dean in the tub, he'd gradually make it colder, not wanting to shock his system. While the tub was filling, he grabbed the shampoo and soap from his brother's bag and placed them on the side of the bathtub, before laying a large towel on the floor. Another one was placed on the toilet seat. A change of clothing for Dean was put up on the shelf above the toilet.
Sam scrubbed his face with his hand, tired—his own recent illness making him feel weak. He pushed the tiredness he felt off, Dean needed him right now. And Dean never needed anyone—it was as if, from the tender age of four, he'd been transformed into an adult. He'd been both a mother and a father to Sam; it was Dean who took care of him on a daily basis. It was Dean who was always there for him—no matter what. And now, for the first time, Dean was really sick and their father was not a phone call away.
Taking a deep breath, Sam went back into the 'bedroom' area of the small motel room, which was the same area as the living room, dining room, and kitchen—if a small three cubic foot refrigerator and banged up microwave counted. "Dean?" Sam called out softly, not wanting to scare him. "Dean, I need you to wake up, alright."
Slowly, Dean cracked his eyes open, wincing as the light entered them, making them water as he blinked rapidly. "Sam?" It was a croak, barely understandable if it wasn't for Sam's ability to read lips. The effort of waking also took a toll on his lungs—Dean levered himself up, bending forward in order to catch his breath as if he'd just run a mile. Sam placed his hand on his back and just waited. Once the color had come back in his face, Dean looked up as if to ask his little brother what he wanted… 'Why did you wake me? What's going on?' his eyes asked for him.
Sam bent over so that they were eye to eye. "I'm just trying to help you, Dean. You're running a pretty high fever and I know that you're probably feeling sticky, so I think a bath's in order." Sam waited for Dean to argue, to shake his head 'no' and be his stubborn self; he thought up fifteen different rebuttals in the time that it'd taken him to realize that Dean hadn't said a word. He'd just slumped back into the cushions, closing his eyes as he focused on regulating his breathing. "Dean?" He asked again, quietly, "You okay?"
"Tired…" It was the only thing that he was able to say.
Sam stood up, pulling off the damp blanket that covered Dean. "Dean, do you think you can sit up?" Dean just blinked at him. "Okay, then. I'll help you. We'll do this really slowly. I'm just going to get my arm under your shoulders. You can just lean against me, alright? Let me do all of the work." Slowly, Sam levered Dean up, making sure that he was stable before sliding his other arm under his knees. With the same sliding motion, he let Dean's legs fall off the side, so that he was now sitting up on the edge of the bed. Dean clutched at his head, the change in position made him dizzy. Sam watched as his head rolled, automatically moving closer so that Dean was leaning against him; Dean let his head fall on Sam's shoulder.
The touch of his brother's burning skin against his sparked Sam into action. With a grunt, he lifted Dean's knees with one arm and then wrapped his other arm around his back so that he could carry him into the bathroom.
He set his burden down on the toilet seat, then set about undressing him. The task turned out to be a bigger ordeal than Sam had expected. It was incredibly difficult to undress someone who really didn't want to move. The sweat-soaked clothing that was sticking to his body hadn't helped either. He pulled the t-shirt off of his head first, then went about getting his arms untangled in order to slip it off. The pants were a little harder to get off because Dean didn't want to stand. He didn't want to do much of anything but to lie down once again. Deciding that the best course of action to just remove everything. Once Dean finally stood, he pulled down his pants and underwear in one swift move. He let them slide to his knees, then let him sit back down on the seat. Sam kneeled in front of him, honestly not caring about his brother's nakedness, as he lifted one foot to free his legs from his discarded clothes and then the other.
Dean was looking at him with clouded eyes, but too tired to care what his brother was doing to him as long as he could go back to sleep afterward. "Come on, Dean. Let's get you cleaned up, huh?" Sam gripped Dean under his arms, then lifted him to his feet—this time, Dean actually stood on his own. Using slight pressure, he led Dean to the edge of the tub, then helped him to sit. The minute his body touched the water, Dean's breath caught and he was sent into a coughing fit. Sam kneeled by the tub, patting his back until the fit had passed. Dean panted for several minutes afterward, letting his back, neck, and head rest against the edge of the tub. He would've slipped under the water if Sam hadn't kept a hold on him.
Sam pulled the plug, letting the lukewarm water flow out. He adjusted the tap, gradually decreasing the amount of hot water that mixed with the cold until only the cold remained. The cooler it got, the more discomfort Dean felt; the cold water was shocking to his system, but it was necessary to get the fever down.
Sam grabbed a washcloth from the drawer under the sink, then lathered it with the soap he'd pulled out earlier. He stared at his brother before starting, the situation was a bit awkward for him; he'd never bathed anyone in his entire life—the showers he'd shared with Jessica had…other reasons besides cleanliness. To mask his own discomfort at the obvious intimacy of the action, he started telling Dean about his first couple of weeks at Stanford. "…Oh Dean, I'd thought I was a big shot—you know, winning that scholarship and getting such good grades. Ha! I was a real idiot. Did you know like, practically half of my classmates were the best students in their class? The only way that I describe it to you is by putting together a group of competitive coffee-addicted, hyperactive intellectuals, and waiting for them to kill each other. I'm serious, Dean. My Latin class nearly killed me when I 'threw off the grading curve' and got a 100 on my exam…"
As he spoke, the cloth seemingly moved by itself. He made himself forget that he was bathing his big brother and let the cloth move across his body. It started at his neck, moving in small circles down his shoulders and chest. Lifting up his arms, he used a little more pressure to scrub his under-arm region—his brother was ticklish there, he remembered. He used to jump on his back and tackled him to the floor in order to tickle him. Dean would counter, of course, rolling them over until he straddled his hips, then attacked his neck and sides. They'd wrestle on the ground until neither one of them could breathe. The memory brought a smile to his lips as he moved down his sides and over his stomach. He stopped before he'd reached his private area—he shot a look at Dean, who'd not quite yet fallen asleep. Bypassing the area, he continued down his legs until he was done with the front.
"Did I ever tell you how I met Jess?" He started on another story as he pulled Dean up so that he could scrub his back. Dean moaned softly, for once, not in pain as he relaxed under Sam's touch.
It made Sam stare at his brother in wonder. Their family wasn't one to hug or give physical comforts—it was too 'chick flick' for his brother and father. But, was this the first time anyone had given his brother a back rub? When he'd been at the University, Sam reveled in the action of both giving and receiving back rubs. It was something incredibly common—even strangers found comfort in the action. Stressed out college students kept the pressure of their studies (of being the best) in their shoulders, their backs; the stiffness often caused them pain—the only course of relief, while temporary, was to ask a friend for a massage. The wealthier students often flaunted their professional massage therapists and had them set up in the student union.
Perhaps it was time to share the experience with Dean, it wasn't every day that he could teach his brother something. He put the idea aside temporarily and went about shampooing Dean's short hair. He put a dime-sized amount of the shampoo in his hands, lathered it up, and then gently cupped Dean's head. Starting at the sides, he let his fingers explore his head, tipping it up slightly so that the lather didn't drip into his eyes. Dean became pure jelly in his hands, giving up any resistance to the idea that his little brother was bathing him, nearly falling asleep again in the bathtub. "Dean, can you sit up again? I'm going to wash out the shampoo and then you can go back to bed, alright?"
He'd adjusted the tap and turned the shower on, "Dean, can you stand up?" Dean tried, he really did, but it was as if the water was Jello, thick and heavy. Dean stared up at him, the frustration of not being able to get up on his own making tears pool in his eyes. "It's okay, Dean. Don't get upset. That's what I'm here for…to help. Give me a second." Sam stood, quickly peeling off his layers of clothing (the boxers were left on), and then stepped into the tub with his brother. It was a difficult task to get Dean on his feet when they were both wet. He pulled Dean closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him steady as he washed the shampoo off. Dean was shaking, literally trembling as the cold water hit him. He started coughing again, gripping Sam as he tried to remain upright.
Quickly, Sam turned off the faucets, then pulled Dean out of the tub to sit on the towel he had placed on the toilet seat. Dean leaned his arms against his thighs; his head was down as he continued to cough. Sam rubbed his back, waiting until he stopped coughing before continuing.
A towel was wrapped tightly around his shoulders and Sam set about drying him off. Once he was dry, he grabbed the clothing he'd placed above. At this point, he decided, it would be easier for Dean if he'd just put him in his boxers. Once the boxers were secure on his hips, Sam grabbed a towel for himself. He wiped himself off, removing the wet article of clothing before throwing on the pair of pants he'd dropped on the floor. He really needed to get Dean back into bed.
"Dean? Are you going to be okay in here for a little bit? While I go make up the bed?"
Dean looked up, his eyes puffy, barely open. "Yeah." He whispered.
"Okay, I'll be right back." Sam dashed out of the bathroom in order to change the sheets on the bed. The small closet had a spare set on the top of the shelf—just in case. He removed the old set and with military precision, crisply made the bed.
Returning to his brother's side, he wasn't surprised to find that Dean was exactly where he'd left him. "Alright, Dean. The bed's made and it's calling your name." He helped Dean to the bed, but did not let him lie down as he wanted, instead of propping him up with pillows.
Dean tiredly whispered his disappointment, "I juss wanna ssleep, Ssammy." The words slurred together as he spoke.
Sam wiped the sweat from his forehead before answering. "You haven't eaten since yesterday, Dean. And I'm getting the distinct impression that you lost whatever you ate the day before as well…I don't understand why you just don't tell me when you're not feeling well…Well, you bought us breakfast. Let's eat some of it, then." Sam went to the grocery bag that Dean had brought in with him earlier and rummaged through it. The pudding would probably be the best bet, he thought, especially with Dean's throat.
"Well, Dean. Guess what? Pudding it is." Sam stopped as he watched Dean start to shake his head. "No? Why not? It's chocolate, your favorite." Dean clutched his throat, again, shaking his head in the negative. "Dean, just try. Please, just try it. Okay?" He gave him what Dean referred to as his 'puppy-dog' eyes. Sam smiled as Dean nodded, no one could resist the puppy dog eyes.
Holding out a spoon, Sam handed Dean the small container along with it. He watched on with concern as Dean's hands shook and he dropped the spoon. The plastic container nearly popped with the pressure that Dean held it. Gently, Sam reached over and took it from him. Dean refused to look at him, his eyes firmly focused on a stain that marred the sheets. Most times, Dean was a hard one to read; he kept firm control of his emotions at all times. This time, the exhaustion of taking care of his sick little brother and his own illness made Dean an open book. The misery was rolling off of him in waves.
"Dean, listen to me. It's okay." His brother ignored him. "Dean, please, look at me." Cupping his face, Sam drew him up so that their eyes met, "I know. Okay. I know that this is one of the hardest things you've had to do in a while. I know that you trust me and I know how hard you work to protect and take care of me. But you need to let go…just for a little while. Just let me take care of you. Just let me help." Dean bit his lip, still fighting him, not wanting to give up control. And Sam knew this; he could see it in his glistening teary eyes. "Dean… Please, man. Just let it go."
"I can't, Sammy." His voice was breaking and tears started leaking from his lids. "I can't…you don't understand. You—this is killing me." His shoulders started to shake and his breath came out in heavy gasps. He was rapidly losing the color in his face as he struggled to breathe.
"Dean, hey. Don't do that. Hey, just breathe, okay? Dean?" Sam moved onto the bed in order to pull the pillows out from under him. Dean was quickly laid flat. Sam lay down next to him, resting his head right next to his brother's ear. He put his hand flat against Dean's chest, willing him to slow down his breathing. "Dean. Listen. Calm down, just breathe." Slowly, Sam started rubbing Dean's chest with small circular motions while he guided his breathing. "Just breathe in. Hold it for a second. Then let it out slowly. You can do it." He kept it up for a few breaths, sighing in relief when Dean's color returned and he was able to breathe again. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
Sam shook his head, "You're such a liar. Okay, we'll do it your way. Just let me help you sit up." Sam moved and replaced the pillows behind Dean.
He picked up the pudding cup he'd put on the nightstand. He gave him the spoon, while he opened the seal. "How about I hold the cup? You can use the spoon." He waited for Dean to nod, then sat quietly as Dean slowly swallowed the pudding. It was a small cup, they usually could eat the entire pack of eight in less than five minutes—this time it'd taken Dean nearly ten minutes to finish off one of them. He'd refused to eat another, turning his head to the side when Sam brought it out.
"Dean, I'm going to get you a couple of Tylenol for your fever. I'll be right back." Sam walked away from Dean, hurt that Dean couldn't—just trust him. He went through the nightstand drawer where Dean had stashed the medications he'd purchased for Sam during his bout of flu. Sam just stared at the packages—he'd never noticed how many things Dean bought until now. There was literally a medication for every symptom he'd had. Cough drops, cough syrups, Tylenol, Ibuprofen, menthol rub, and flu medications filled the small drawer.
Sam shook his head, Dean took care of him. He'd made sure he was comfortable, that his fever was lowered and bought food, medications, and fresh orange juices to his side, not once complaining or denying him anything he'd asked. Why was it so hard for Dean to let him do the same?
There was a way around it.
This Sam knew for a fact. If there was one thing that Sam knew, it was how to manipulate his brother into doing what he wanted.
...
"Dean?" Sam called out softly, "I brought you a couple of pills for the fever." He held out his hand, the white pills moving from his palm to his brother's. Reaching over he grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand, cracked open the top, and then held it out. Dean stared at it for the longest time, as if he wasn't sure what he was going to do with it. Blinking, he finally nodded, putting the pills in his mouth before taking a sip of the offered water.
Dean grimaced, coughing up the pills in his hand. He coughed for a minute, then tried again with the same result. "I can't—," his voice was rough, "I can't get it down." By then, the pills were a soggy mess, the horrible taste lingering in his mouth. Dean's breath turned ragged as he tried to swallow against the sudden taste of bile. Sweat beaded across his forehead and lip.
Sam saw him and grabbed the wastebasket that was next to the bed and quickly placed it in front of Dean. Almost as soon as it was in place, the basket was filled. Sam watched helplessly as Dean expelled every morsel of food that he'd eaten throughout the day—which, as memory served consisted only of a half-eaten pudding. Dry heaves shook the already weakened body, making him tremble uncontrollably. Sam rested his hand on his shoulder, "Oh, Dean…I think it's time to find a doctor."
"No." He tried to shout; it fell short and ended up a moan. "No, doctor."
"I know you hate doctors, Dean, but you haven't eaten in almost two days—you're becoming dehydrated. You know how dangerous that is—Dad drilled that in our heads from the time we started grade school."
The retreat—the way Dean's eyes became shuttered as he tried to hide how miserable he felt made Sam's heart break. "I'm fine, Sammy." He whispered it, obviously fighting against the wave of fatigue that flowed through his body.
"No, Dean. You're not fine. Right now you are very far away from fine." He paused, giving him a moment to catch his breath. "I'm taking you to the hospital."
An anguished cry flew from Dean's lips—startling Sam. "Dean? What's wrong?" He leaned over, grasping his shoulders tightly. "Dean! Answer me!"
There was a struggle on Dean's face as he tried to get his words across. "I told you—I'm fine." He gasped for breath for a few seconds before continuing, "Please. No hospital. Please, Sammy."
He was begging. His big brother was begging him.
"God, Dean," he whispered, feeling his own eyes fill, "Why does everything have to be a fight with you?" He held his face in his hands, forcing him to look into his eyes. "Okay, you win. I won't take you to the hospital—with one stipulation. From now on, let me take care of you. You trust me to know what's best for you and you promise not to argue with me. I'm leaving it up to you, Dean. Either you see a doctor or you let me take care of you. It's your choice."
Pulling away, Dean covertly wiped his eyes before nodding. "Okay. I won't fight anymore."
Sam agreed, "Okay. We have a deal." He gripped Dean's forearm tightly, giving him a small smile. "Don't look so scared, Dean. I won't cover you in pink calamine lotion and send you to school like you did to me in the third grade." Of this, Sam was deadly serious. Dean wasn't one to give up control—he didn't trust easily. If you hurt him, he'd never trust you again.
His brother didn't say a word; he looked almost defeated, his chest was almost heaving—the congestion draining all of his energy until he looked like a limp noodle, not even able to lift his own head off the pillow. When he was able, he whispered, "Not my fault—you were the one who fell in the poison ivy and then wanted to go to school."
Smiling, Sam laughed silently at the memory. He'd been trying to achieve perfect attendance after one of the older students told him that he'd get an award. He never missed a day—even after he'd fallen into a huge patch of poison ivy. He honestly didn't remember where their father was, most likely on a hunt. So, Dean took care of him and literally covered every exposed part of his body with the pink sticky stuff to stop the itching and then walked him to school after he begged to go. He'd been so disappointed that they didn't get to stay until the end of the school year to receive what he'd worked so hard for. Dean made it up to him though—they'd spent an entire day in the amusement park riding all of the rides and eating all the candy they could get their hands on.
Sam stood, walking over to the small fridge that stood in the corner of the room, and then pulled out a bottle of lemon-flavored Gatorade. It was the only kind he would drink and Dean had stocked the refrigerator full of the electrolyte enriched liquid when he'd been sick.
Everywhere he looked Sam saw all of the ways Dean cared for him. It made him slightly ashamed that he'd never noticed it before. 'You take your brother for granted'… it was what the Skin Walker taunted him with as he sat tied up to the post.
It was right.
It'd never be right again. This Sam promised himself.
Returning to his brother's side, he'd found that Dean had curled up on his side and had thrown his arms over his face. "Dean? I need you to get up for a minute." Grabbing the bottle of Tylenol, Sam poured out two pills and then broke them in half using a pocket knife. He held out the pills and the bottle of Gatorade. "Hopefully, you should be able to get them down now…if you can't, I'll crush them and mix it with pudding."
Dean's face contorted from the struggle to swallow the pills. It had taken two attempts but finally, he was successful in keeping them down. Afterward, he slumped into the cushions of his bed, completely exhausted by the effort. He sounded awful; the congestion seemed to be getting worse, his lungs wheezing with every breath.
Sam stared at him worriedly, an idea springing into his mind. Maybe there was something that he could do for Dean…
Dean buried himself with pillows shortly after spending half an hour in the front of the toilet, praying to the porcelain god, as the saying goes. Afterward, he was as weak as a newborn; Sam literally had to carry him back to bed, where he hid his face with a pillow to mask his moans. Dean was trembling but refused a blanket—saying he was too hot. From the squinting, Sam could only guess that he had a headache from all of his other symptoms.
It was as good a time as any to put his idea into play. 'Hell, it might even help Dean's headache,' Sam thought. He pulled out the small blue container, opening it and then scrunching up his nose at the pungent odor. Visibly, Dean's back tensed as he sat down next to him, a small moan escaping. "Sorry," Sam whispered, touching his back lightly. Frowning, he wasn't surprised that Dean's fever hadn't gone down—after all, all of the medications and fluids had fed the toilet bowl.
"Relax, Dean. Just take a breath and relax your muscles." Continuing with the soft litany, "That's it, just relax." He rubbed Dean's back lightly as he spoke, a small smile forming after he felt the tension drain away. Once he felt that Dean was relaxed he dipped his fingers in the menthol rub. "Dean, this is just menthol, okay? It might tingle a little."
He started at the junction between his neck and shoulders, rubbing the medication into the stiff muscles before moving towards his neck. Letting his fingers trail down his spine, he continued the massage, stopping only occasionally to apply more of the menthol. As he worked, Dean's breathing became less strained, the medicine doing its job as a natural decongestant.
To his surprise, his brother didn't complain, didn't pull away, or claim his usual anti-chick flick moments, but relaxed and let him continue the comforting massage. "You doing okay there, Dean?"
"Mmmm." It was the only response.
"Can you roll onto your back?" The question was asked quietly, not wanting to disrupt the fuzzy warm feeling of the moment. With a small moan, Dean turned to face his little brother. His eyes had a dopey look in them; it was the only way to describe it. He kept blinking as if keeping his eyes open was truly challenging. Sam dipped into the rub again, rubbing his hands together before placing them gently on his neck. The area was still quite swollen; he ran his fingers down his neck, making sure that his touch was as light as possible to not hurt Dean. He took a small amount and dabbed it under his eyes and nose, in hopes that it would clear his sinuses and help him breathe easier.
Dean's eyes slipped shut as he placed his hands on his chest, patting him before continuing the massage down his chest. The rubbing was rhythmic, warm, and gentle. It sent Dean off to dreamland, a small smile on his lips. "Thanks, Sammy."
"You're welcome, Dean." Sam smiled back at him, giving in to the girly temptation, and placed a small kiss on Dean's forehead. Blinking, he stepped back in surprise at himself. Dean would kill him if he knew—'Oh, well,' he thought, 'what Dean doesn't know won't hurt him.'
It had taken almost a week for Dean to recover, his strength was slowly returning, he was able to breathe without that tightness in his chest, and the coughing had all but disappeared. His voice was slowly returning to him—but still made Sam laugh when it'd cut out in mid-sentence, giving him a slightly adolescent squeak.
The decision to leave their hotel room was made unanimously; both of them were starting to feel the walls close in on them. Sam took the keys from Dean and drove them to a small park. He pulled over near the small pond and then sat outside on the grass with his big brother and soaked in the sun.
"Sammy?" Dean asked after a few minutes of peaceful quiet.
"Hmm?"
"I—um—I never said 'thanks', you know. I know that, uh, I gave you a hard time…so, um, thanks for taking care of me."
Sam turned to look at Dean. He was lying on the ground, staring up at the clouds rolling overhead. "Dean, you don't have to thank me. Hell, I should be the one thanking you." Sam gnawed at his thumb before continuing. "Dean…you probably got sick taking care of me. We worked that damn Clown Case for over a week without a break—then you spent nearly another week taking care of me. It only made it easier for that virus to latch on to you."
Dean turned his head, a frown on his face. "Dude, can you possibly get any more egotistical?"
Mouth falling open, Sam could only say, "Huh?"
He sat upon his heels, putting out a hand to lift Sam to his feet. "I mean, come on! You're responsible for a virus? What are you—some sorta germ-collector? Or a biological terrorist? Give me a break!" He walked away, leaving Sam staring at him in shock.
Shaking his head, Sam followed behind—just like always. "Dean…uh, that wasn't what I was trying to—."
"Aahh, whatever!" Dean's hand flew up, smacking his brother on the shoulder. "Let's get out of here. I'm still sick enough to milk this—let's hit a small restaurant or something. Maybe a chick'll take me home and 'nurse me' back to health…if you know what I mean." He waggled his eyebrows, a sly smile on his face.
"That's disgusting, Dean! Do you ever think about anything else?"
"You know—you're just jealous because I was born with the looks."
"No! I'm not. And trust me, Dean. You're not all that! I mean—it's not like you're—Tom Cruise or anything."
Dean stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his brother. "Dude, you think Tom Cruise is sexier than ME?"
Sam's mouth flew open again. He shut it quickly, making his teeth clatter with the force before rubbing his face. "Dean. Are you serious? The guy got voted sexiest male-like five years in a row."
Dean's finger appeared in his face, "Sammy, the fact that you know that is scary. You need help."
Sam snatched the finger in a tight grip, smiling. "I know what you're trying to do."
"What? What am I trying to do?" He asked as he tried to pull out of Sam's reach, instinctually knowing what his little brother was planning.
He wasn't quick enough as Sam wrapped his gigantic arms around his body and squeezed. "Dude, get off. This is no time for a chick flick moment. I mean—if I was dying or something—that's a different story. Sam, I mean it, let go." Sam didn't let go. "Sammy. Sam. Samuel. Fine, god! I'll hug you back, you big dork." He returned the hug quickly, pretending to be happy when Sam finally pulled away. "You are such a woman. I swear it—." He shook his head, then walked away again.
Sam laughed as he watched his brother climb into the car.
Before walking over, he pulled out his cell phone and thumbed through the pictures he'd snapped of Dean slumped over the toilet seat—naked. "Oh, yeah. He's going to so regret saying that."
THE END