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“Boys! Front and center!” John calls out from the kitchen. Dean shoves himself up from where he’s sprawled out on his bed, leafing through a magazine. He glances over at Sam, burrowed under the blankets on his own bed, fast asleep, before heading out of the room.
“Hey, Dad.” Dean steps into the kitchen and leans against the doorframe. John lifts his head from the pile of papers he’s been leafing through, eyes lighting on Dean then darting past him to the living room beyond, expectantly.
“Where’s your brother?”
“Sleepin’. He’s sick.” Dean shoves his hands in his pockets as he follows his father’s eyes that dart back to the living room, a brief, panicked expression crossing his face before he looks back to Dean. “Just a cold.”
John lets out a brief huff before turning his eyes back to the research on the table.
“Got a wraith outside of Portland. A day’s drive. I’m heading out in an hour. Be gone a week.”
“Okay.” Dean shifts where he stands, straightening his posture. “Can I borrow the car before you go? Need to pick up a few things.”
“We just stocked up yesterday, what do you need?” John looks up at Dean, his brow furrowed.
“Just some cold meds for Sam. And we’re getting low on Tylenol, in case he gets a fever.”
Dean watches his father’s expression soften from irritated to a mix of resignation and concern, maybe a little bit of relief mixed in as he realizes Dean is, as always, watching out for Sammy. John leans back in his chair to dig the car keys from his pocket, then tosses them over to Dean.
“Be quick. I want to load up in 30,” John says as Dean catches the keys easily and steps away from the doorframe.
“Yessir.”
***
Dean hears an explosion of coughing coming from the bedroom and sets the wooden spoon he’s been stirring the pot of stew with on a paper towel and turns the heat down under the pot. He glances at the clock - 6:30. Sam’s been out for almost five hours - poor kid’s wiped out already. He rifles through the bags on the table then heads to the bedroom.
“Hey snot-boy, how ya feelin’?” Dean tosses a box of tissues at Sam where he’s sitting up in bed.
“Like crap.” Sam tears into the box, immediately going through three tissues clearing out his sinuses.
“Here.” Dean sits on the edge of Sam’s bed as he pours out a measure of cough syrup into the little plastic cup. “Take this.”
Sam swallows down the thick, red liquid with a slight grimace at the taste, then hands the cup back to his brother.
“Thanks.”
“Dinner’s almost ready. Think you can haul your butt out of bed?” Dean reaches out to press a hand to Sam’s forehead.
“Not hungry,” Sam mumbles, brushing Dean’s arm away.
“Yeah, well, you’re eating anyway. I made chicken stew.” Dean smirks as he sees Sam’s face briefly light up at the mention of stew, then quickly darken again when he reins in the expression.
“Fine,” Sam says just as he falls into another coughing fit. Dean gives his leg a pat as he stands up and heads back to the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, as Dean is scooping stew into two bowls on the kitchen counter, Sam shuffles from the bedroom wrapped in the blanket from his bed and flops on the couch, grabbing up the TV remote as he sits. Dean walks in from the kitchen and hands Sam a steaming bowl.
“Here you go, squirt - eat up.”
“Quit callin’ me that, Dean.” Sam glances up, glaring, as Dean plops down on the other end of the couch with his own bowl and starts shoveling a spoonful in his mouth.
“Man, you’re grumpy!” Dean rolls his eyes as he chews. Sam just lets out a congested grunt before starting in on his stew, turning his attention to the television.
***
Sam wakes up to a cool hand on his forehead, noticing the clammy feeling of sweat coating his body as he peels his eyes open and sees his brother hovering over him, a barely-masked look of concern on his face.
“Time s’it?” Sam murmurs as Dean pulls his hand away.
“Almost eight.” Dean twists the cap from the cough syrup bottle.
“Crap…’m late…” Sam hauls his body up to sitting, grimacing at the ache that shoots up and across his limbs.
“Late for what? You’re not going to school like this, Sam.” Dean hands Sam the dose of medicine then picks up the bottle of Tylenol from the nightstand. “You’re burning up, buddy.”
“But...have a test…” Sam takes the two pills from Dean’s extended hand and drops them into his mouth.
“Too bad.” Dean hands a glass of water to his brother, watching as he swallows down the pills. “You can make it up, geek boy.”
Sam groans and flops back down against the pillow, eyes falling shut and slipping back into sleep seconds later. Dean just smiles as he tugs the covers back up over his little brother.
***
It’s nearly eleven when Dean hears Sam shuffling up behind him from the bedroom. He turns from where he’s sitting on the couch to see his brother, wrapped up in his blanket again, slightly greasy hair sticking up in a million different directions as he crosses the living room and falls down on the other end of the couch.
“Heya, Sammy...feelin’ any better?”
“No. Think I died in my sleep.” Sam tugs the blanket tighter around his body as he wriggles down on the couch until he’s half laying down.
“Well, you do kinda look like death.” Dean chuckles at the glare that gets him. “You hungry?”
“No.”
“Thirsty?”
“Yeah.” Sam stifles a yawn as Dean gets up and heads for the kitchen, dropping the remote into Sam’s lap as he passes.
He comes back to the living room and sets a glass of ginger ale on the coffee table and, grinning at Sam’s shocked expression, hands him a popsicle.
“Dude, I’m thirteen, not a kid anymore.” Sam wraps his fingers around the stick, immediately bringing it to his mouth.
“Yeah? I don’t see you not eating that popsicle,” Dean says, smirking.
“Whatever.” Sam gives Dean a light kick to the thigh after he sits back down on the couch. “Why do you always do all this stuff when I’m sick?”
“I dunno.” Dean shrugs. “Guess ‘cause it’s what Mom used to do when I was sick.”
“You never told me that.” Sam slurps at the orange ice. “What else did she do?”
“Popsicles, ginger ale, toast and scrambled eggs if I’d been throwing up.” Dean leans his head back slightly as he runs through the memories in his head. “A new coloring book, like every time I was sick enough to need medicine. And we had this old blanket, an afghan - I guess her mom made it. It was rainbow striped, zigzags...and she only ever dug it out when I was sick. Wrapped me up in it on the couch, then she’d sit there with me watching cartoons.”
“How do you remember all this stuff?” Sam’s attention is fully on his brother now. “You were like...four years old.”
“I dunno...I guess, once she died I just held on, y’know? Like I knew I wouldn’t have any more memories of her, so I latched onto the ones I had.” Dean looks over at Sam, a sad smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Guess maybe that’s why I do it for you. So you can remember her, too.”
Sam watches as his brother turns his gaze from him, eyes settling on empty space somewhere in front of the wall next to the TV. He feels his eyes sting as they grow wet, something he’ll blame on being sick, not on the overwhelming swell of warm affection he feels coming from his brother.
“Thanks, Dean.”
“Anytime, squirt.” Dean glances over at Sam, smiles briefly as he nudges Sam’s knee with his fist before they both turn their attention back to the television, the soft slurping sounds of Sam eating his popsicle filling the air until there’s nothing left but an orange-stained stick.