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When Sam finally came to, it wasn't to the gentle rocking of the impala speeding down the highway, or the familiar hum of soft rock playing on the radio. Rather, it was to the steady, rhythmic tapping of raindrops hitting the window of a room he didn't remember entering, a sudden, involuntary shiver running down his spine as a cool draft of air brushed against his skin, goosebumps arising all down his exposed arm.
He let out a muffled groan and buried himself deeper under the soft, thick duvet draped over his shoulders, curling further into himself and nuzzling the pillow beneath his cheek for warmth.
Sam lay perfectly still for a moment, basking in the simple yet precious comfort only his hazy, half-asleep mind could provide. When he finally allowed himself to open his eyes, however, that fragile illusion of peace shattered almost instantly, replaced by a sinking feeling deep in his chest as the events of last night all came back to him at once.
He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid as to let his older brother mess with his mind like that. Dean had manipulated him, taken advantage of his vulnerability and coaxed him back into the gilded cage that was his arms. And worst of all? Sam had fallen for it. How could he have done that? How could he have made it so easy for Dean to strip him of his autonomy?
Sam was in the midst of his downward spiral when the sudden sensation of fingers threading through his hair made him freeze up. There was a slight chuckle from beside him at Sam's reaction, the hand in his hair sliding down to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. "Hey, it's okay, Baby. It's only me," a low, familiar voice soothed, giving Sam's shoulder a gentle rub.
"Dean," Sam said under his breath, exhaling deeply to compose himself now that he knew he wasn't in any immediate danger. Shrugging off the remnants of his initial unease, he dragged his tired body into an upright position, leaning back against the headboard for support and running a sluggish hand through his hair. His gaze idly wandered around the room, then fell back on Dean, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Wha-? Where are we?"
It wasn't up until that point that Sam had bothered to properly pay attention to his surroundings. They weren't holed up in some grimy, sketchy, back-road motel like he had first assumed. No. This place was much cleaner than their typical accommodation, with a notable freshness to the air that could only mean they were somewhere out in the countryside.
Dean's expression softened at Sam's uncertainty, though the flicker of amusement that flashed in the corners of his eyes didn't go unnoticed by Sam. "Bobby's cabin. I thought you might benefit from a little break," he said smoothly, his steady voice never wavering.
"A break?" Sam repeated unsurely. The furrow in his brow deepened.
Dean smiled weakly. "Yeah, Sammy, a break. Some time away from the rest of the world. I think we deserve that much."
Sam caught on to the true meaning of Dean's words almost instantly, averting his gaze downwards as he mumbled, "you mean time away from Dad."
Dean's smile turned sad, and he gave Sam a single, solemn nod. "I know what you two are like after arguments. You'll be at each other's throats the second you walk through the door. I wanted to give you some time to cool down first. Figured the best way to do that was to put a little distance between you."
"But Dean-"
Sam's protests were cut short by a careful finger pressed swiftly against his lips. "Shhh, I don't wanna hear it. Big brother knows what he's doing, okay? Trust your Big brother."
Sam groaned in indignation, glaring weakly at the hand that held his mouth hostage. Upon realising that Dean's finger wasn't budging from his lips until Sam agreed to trust him, though, he begrudgingly gave in with a half-hearted nod.
Dean hummed in satisfaction, letting his hand slide down from Sam's lips to gingerly cup his jaw. "That's my boy," he murmured proudly, planting a soft kiss on his forehead.
Sam could feel the heat radiating from his skin as his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. If Dean noticed, he didn't say anything, instead choosing to intertwine his fingers with Sam's hair, combing tenderly through the messy, chestnut locks. Sam instinctively leaned into the touch, hating how good it felt and yet reaching out for it all the same.
Dean took advantage of Sam's momentary weakness, looping his arms tightly around his middle and pulling Sam flush against his chest. He saw the wires in Sam's brain short-circuit in real time, chuckling to himself as he leaned down to nuzzle his hair affectionately. "What's the matter, Sammy? Don't tell me you thought you were too old for cuddles."
"Dean-!" Sam squeaked in disbelief, prying desperately at Dean's arms to try and free himself. All of his efforts ended up being in vain, though, for his frustrated grunts and kicks had the opposite effect to what he had hoped for, Dean's iron vice grip on him only tightening as he waited patiently for Sam to inevitably tire himself out.
It took longer than Dean had anticipated, Sam's stubborn nature surprising him with how long it could fuel his fight, but eventually his persistent struggling slowed, and, with a soft, defeated exhale, Sam finally slumped back against Dean, exhausted.
His heavy head flopped down tiredly to rest in the crook of Dean's neck, his hand clutching weakly at the soft, worn fabric of Dean's flannel, testing his grip. His weary fingers struggled even at that.
Dean noticed Sam's hold gradually slipping and reached over to cup his hand with his own, keeping his little brother's fingers curled delicately in his shirt. He gave his knuckles a gentle squeeze, lips curving upwards in quiet adoration. "Tired yourself out doin' all that wigglin', huh, Sweet boy?"
Sam shot him a pathetic attempt at a glare in return, which only made Dean's smile widen. He ducked his head down to nuzzle Sam's cheek with his nose, pressing a teasing kiss there with a loud, exaggerated 'mwah' sound. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as the ticklish feel left behind on his skin threatened the release of an involuntary laugh, willing himself not to react so as to avoid any further encouragement towards Dean's ridiculous insistence on babying him.
When Dean realised Sam wasn't giving him the reaction he was after, he sighed lightheartedly and pulled away, tucking his little brother's head snugly under his chin. "Y'know," he began casually, voice as soft and silky smooth as ever. "My original plan for today was to take you out exploring; let you spend a couple hours reconnecting with Mother Nature, but looking at how tired you still are, I don't know if maybe you'd be better off staying inside for now."
Sam's brows knitted together in confusion. "Exploring?" He repeated, a little dazed but still focused enough to latch onto that one word. "I thought you said we were at Bobby's cabin..?"
"That’s right, Sammy. We are. But it's not the one we used to go to as kids. You've never been to this one before," Dean told him, and Sam, whose ability to focus was gradually ebbing away the longer Dean held him, completely missed the placating nature of his voice that would, under normal circumstances, have him snapping at his older brother for being so condescending.
"Oh," he said instead, accepting that explanation. "Have you?"
"A handful of times, yeah. Mainly for training. Good spot for that kinda thing. It's mostly untouched woodland around us, so no nosy civilians poking their noses where they don't belong. Kept CPS off of Dad's back after a few too many close calls."
"Oh," Sam said again. He let out a long, deep yawn, his grip on Dean's shirt briefly tightening as he tugged himself closer before his fingers went slack, relying completely on Dean's hold to keep them in position.
Dean breathed a soft, warm laugh, relishing in the feel of Sam willingly snuggling closer. "Yeah, I think we'll have a lazy day today," he told Sam affectionately. His gaze briefly flicked over to the window, which was still being assaulted by the steady, persistent on-pour of rain from earlier. "Probably for the best, huh, Baby? Weather doesn't seem to be playin' nice. Wouldn't want you gettin' a cold now, would we?"
Sam didn't respond with words, settling on a simple hum of agreement instead.
Dean smiled, endeared, and slowly — carefully — let his hand drop from around Sam's, taking extra care not to jostle him as he reached over to rummage through the nightstand's top drawer, retrieving an old, worn paperback. He held it up for Sam to see, letting his weary eyes scan the title. It was a beaten up copy of 'the secret garden', no doubt fished out of the bins of a thrift store from their childhood. It had been Sam's favourite book growing up, read from cover to cover a hundred times over and then some. Dean hoped Sam's love for the story hadn't died out now that he was older.
"You want me to read to you?" Dean offered gently, flawlessly concealing his anticipation as he waited on an answer.
Sam looked down at the book, then back up at Dean, considering. "Okay," he mumbled finally, curling further into himself while maintaining his position tucked safely away under Dean's chin.
Dean smiled and planted a delicate kiss in Sam's hair. "You're real sweet when you're all sleepy, Kiddo. You know that?"
Sam didn't dignify that with a reply, so Dean opened the book, its creased spine allowing for easy page-turning. The soothing cadence of Dean's voice as he read aloud the words on the page had Sam's eyes fluttering shut in no time, and before Dean had the chance to start on the second chapter, Sam had already dozed off into a fit of soft little snores, fast asleep.
Dean silently put the book down, satisfied. The hand still circled around Sam's waist loosened as the risk of him escaping went from slim to none, his thumb slipping under the hem of Sam's sleep shirt to trace gentle circles around his belly button.
Sam stirred at the contact but didn't wake, his head lolling sideways as he subconsciously shifted in his sleep, prompting Dean to nudge it back into place with his spare hand.
"Just you wait, Sammy. A couple days out here with your big brother, and you'll be this cuddly with me all the time," Dean whispered, smiling at the thought. "That's a promise."
--
The second time Sam woke up that day, it was to the sharp, striking absence of warmth from beside him. He opened his eyes and rolled over in bed, his suspicions immediately confirmed by the empty mattress he was greeted with.
He exhaled slowly, turning over again to lie flat on his back. He'd done it again. Like an idiot, he'd let Dean and his insane, twisted obsession with treating Sam like a child win one over him. And so easily too. It was like Dean didn't even have to try anymore. With the right words and a couple tender touches, he could have Sam tucked up in his arms and fast asleep within the space it took Sam to blink.
He wiped a hand down his face, frustrated beyond reason. He felt like yanking at his hair until it all came out. He wanted to scream into his pillow until his throat felt raw. He wanted to punch Dean's stupid, smug face for being so damn good at playing these mind games.
As that last thought popped into his head, the faint sound of footfalls from down the hall caught Sam's attention, his ears perking up in a similar manner to that of a wild animal. He shoved the covers back with an unnecessary amount of power and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, more than prepared to follow through on giving Dean a well deserved beatdown.
As Sam approached the door, however, his steps began to slow, the sudden bout of courage that had been propelling him forward fizzling out like the bubbles in a freshly opened can of fizzy pop. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath to steel himself, but his hand could do little more than hover hesitantly above the door handle.
Sam wanted to yell out in anger at his own cowardice, but he quickly decided against it when the tail end of a mumbled conversation between his older brother and whoever he was on the phone to drifted in through the wall, piquing his interest and leaving Sam straining to pick apart the words in an effort to make sense of what was being said.
"...with me. We're at... Bobby's got a cabin there. Yeah, that's right... No. He's not ready yet... needs his space... got it all handled."
Thanks to Dean's low, hushed tone and the lack of input from the other side of the conversation, Sam wasn't able to decipher much. What limited information he was able to pick out, however, left him feeling physically sick in his mouth.
"...oh it's working alright... fully dependent on me soon... won't be able to leave again. Won’t even think to."
Sam's stomach lurched in discomfort, and he slammed both hands over his mouth to stifle a gag. Dean must've heard the wet, ugly grimace of Sam choking down his own bile, as he promptly hung up the phone and rushed into the room, eyes frantically searching the perimeter for anything askew.
"Sammy, Baby, what's wrong?"
Sam shook his head furiously, shoving straight past Dean as he ran out of the room, clutching desperately at his midriff with one hand as if by doing so he could keep the nausea threatening him with its release contained.
He stumbled down the unfamiliar hallway on shaky legs, the clear absence of a bathroom anywhere within his line of sight only making the turning in his stomach intensify. The feeling of pure, crazed panic that came with being unable to reach the toilet in time was what finally sent Sam over the edge, and he collapsed onto the floor in a heap of heavy limbs and muscles too weak to hold his own weight.
The retching began without a moment of delay, pulling harshly at his throat and leaving him gasping for air between heaves as his stomach fought to empty its limited contents out onto the hardwood floor. The sickly, slightly sour tang left in the air wafted right up his nose with every unsteady inhale, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight to avoid making eye contact with the puddle of vile green in front of him, knowing it would only set him off more.
A warm, steady hand rubbing circles into his back was what alerted Sam to Dean's presence, who shushed him gently as Sam continued helplessly chucking up bits of half-digested dinner.
"That's it, Baby boy. Just let it all out. You're doing so good for me," Dean encouraged softly, using his spare hand to brush Sam's bangs away from his face while his other still worked at unwinding the tense muscles in his back.
"De-"
"Shhh. Don't try to talk, Sweetheart. You gotta focus on calming down. Your muscles are all tensed up and it's making this more painful for you."
Another wave of nausea hit him in that moment and Sam's body violently jerked forward, a pathetic dribble of spit hanging from his lips as he began dry-heaving up nothing. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, his cheeks burning from the humiliation of being so helpless.
Dean clucked at him sympathetically, reaching into his jacket pocket for a tissue and gingerly dabbing at the corners of Sam's mouth to help clean him up a bit. "My poor baby. Something's upset your tummy, huh? You eat something funny at college?"
"No," Sam croaked weakly, voice hoarse from the rawness of his throat.
"No? Okay. That's okay. We'll figure this out. I'm gonna take care of you, just like I promised. Your big brother's got you," Dean soothed, returning to rubbing delicate circles into Sam's back as the latter continued to retch.
Eventually, after another three painstaking minutes of gagging up nothing, Sam's immune system finally relented, his muscles going completely slack with exhaustion. If Dean hadn't been there to take the weight of Sam's body, he would've fallen face-flat into the pool of his own sick.
Before that could happen, however, Dean's arms moved in swiftly to loop around Sam's middle, being mindful of his still sensitive stomach as he carefully lowered his baby brother to slump against his chest.
He reached up a hand to stroke Sam's now sweat-slicked hair, humming in thought. "You need a bath, Sweetie. C'mon, let's get you in the tub."
"No, Dean-" Sam moaned in protest, throwing his head back in a poorly executed display of refusal as Dean gathered him up in his arms and eased him off the ground.
The disorientation that came with being moved despite the extra care Dean had taken to ensure a smooth transition made Sam's head swim with lightheadedness, black dots clouding his vision as his eyes struggled to adjust to the overhead lights shining above, which he was now forced to stare up at as Dean carried his limp body down the hall.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, verging on the edge of tears once more. He felt like being sick all over again; at least then Dean would put him down. This whole situation was a nightmare. A long, demeaning, humiliating nightmare that he couldn't seem to wake up from no matter how hard he tried.
Stepping into the bathroom was a shock to Sam's system to say the least. The dim hallway lights paled in comparison to the fluorescent white bulbs that reflected off of every tiled surface in the room, burning through his eyelids and leaving his head throbbing.
Dean carefully lowered Sam to sit down on the closed toilet lid, the cool porcelain a pleasant presence against his warm, clammy skin. The sound of running water filled Sam's ears as Dean turned on the bath taps, drowning out all the other noise in Sam's head until he was attuned solely to the steady trickle of water entering the tub.
For a fleeting moment, the world around Sam seemed to quiet. He could focus simply on the act of breathing, all earlier complicated feelings escaping his mind as easily as the water flowing from the taps.
The bath filled quickly; the water was shut off. Dean stuck his hand in the tub to check the temperature, ensuring it was to his liking. Once he had deemed the water an acceptable level of warmth, he turned to Sam, kneeling in front of him with a soft, sympathetic smile.
"Alright, Kiddo. Tub's ready for you when you are. Arms up for me."
Sam stared at Dean, confused and way too out of it to comprehend the implications behind the request. There was a moment of delay as Sam processed the simple instruction before he wordlessly lifted his arms, the movement as sluggish and slow as his current state of mind.
Dean smiled approvingly and reached out to grasp the bottom of Sam's t-shirt, tugging it over his head smoothly and efficiently and without making a fuss.
Sam let him do it without protest, watching through bleary eyes as the soft cotton fabric was tossed to one side in the corner of the room. Dean's smile gentled placatingly as he looked up to meet Sam's gaze, unsure on how the younger man was going to react to what he had to say next.
"Alright, now, Baby, I need you to stay nice and calm for me while we get through this next bit, okay? Can you do that? Stay nice and calm for big brother?"
Sam gave him a confused look, though his eyes widened in realisation when Dean reached for the waistband of his joggers, his leg instinctively jerking out to kick Dean square in the nose, scrambling to get away with a terrified yelp.
Dean reeled back from the force of the blow, clutching at his nose with a pained grunt. "Shit, Sammy, don't do that!"
Sam wasn't listening. His other foot connected with Dean's stomach the second Dean let go of his face, watching his brother keel over through panic-stricken eyes.
"Dammit, Sammy! Quit it!"
The third kick was met with resistance, Dean's hand shooting out to grab Sam's ankle before it could do any further damage. Sam whimpered, twisting and turning in Dean's grip in a desperate attempt to free himself, but the elder Winchester's hold remained firm, never wavering.
"Calm down, Kid! What do you think I'm trynna do to you, huh? I'm getting you in the bath for Christ's sake! You think you can do that with your pants still on?!" Dean yelled. He took a deep breath to compose himself when Sam fixed him with those wide, dewy puppy eyes of his, so full of fear in that moment it had Dean instantly regretting his decision to shout.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I just- it really hurts that you think I'd ever do something so... horrible." He trailed off to take another deep breath, running his fingertips through his shortly cut hair. "I'd never, Sammy. Not ever. I need you to know that. You're my kid. I'd never even dream of it. Tell me you know that."
"I know," Sam mumbled quietly, cautiously retrieving his ankle from Dean's loosened grip. "Doesn't mean I want you helping me undress like a toddler. I'm not a toddler, Dean, and I'm not completely useless, either, no matter how hard you try to push that narrative."
Dean swallowed, visibly struggling to maintain eye contact. He directed his gaze to the floor for a moment, considering Sam's words, and when he looked up again, something in his expression had shifted entirely. "You're right. You aren't a toddler," he said solemnly, and Sam sat up a little taller, hopeful that maybe, just maybe, Dean was finally coming to his senses. "So why are you acting like one?"
The words were deceptively soft-spoken, and yet the harsh, biting remark left its mark all the same, Sam's breath catching in his throat and his face scrunching up with hurt. "What?"
"Oh c'mon, Sam. Don't act so oblivious. Kicking and whining and throwing a tantrum over somebody trying to provide you with the help you so clearly need? That's toddler behaviour," Dean said pointedly, unmistakably assured in his assessment.
Sam's forehead creased as his brows furrowed deeper, clearly taken aback. "I don't understand-?"
Dean cut Sam off with a gentle hand to his knee, rubbing up and down in a motion meant to soothe, but right now only felt like a mockery. Maybe Dean had intended it to be that way. "Awh, that's okay, Baby. You need big brother to dumb it down for you?" His voice was dripping with condescension, and there was an almost predatory glint in his eyes as he spoke, making Sam's stomach twist with unease.
"No," he mumbled quietly, hanging his head low in resignation as he gave in with a shaky, humiliated exhale.
"No?" Dean parroted, tilting his head inquisitively. "So you do understand?"
Sam nodded.
"And you know what's expected of you now that you realise your behaviour was wrong?"
Sam nodded again, but a glance up at Dean's expecting face told him that wasn't enough, so, sucking up the last of his pride, he murmured, "I'm sorry, Dean. I shouldn't have- I shouldn't have kicked at you."
Dean smiled, satisfied with that answer, and gently patted Sam's knee. "Good boy," he drawled, smirking a little at the way Sam actually flinched upon receiving such childish praise. "Now, are you ready to let me help, or are you still planning on being difficult?"
--
The warm, bubbly water had worked wonders in soothing Sam's stomach pain, offering a kind of relief that no other medicine or pill could provide. His muscles went lax as he slowly allowed himself to relax into the foamy safe-haven, eyes fluttering shut as Dean's careful fingers worked the sweet apple scented shampoo through his hair, rinsing it out with all the tenderness of what Sam could only imagine a mother to be like with her child.
He had actually whined when it was time to get out, (something that he was not at all proud of), earning him an amused chuckle from Dean, who pressed a fond kiss to Sam's temple before offering a hand to help him out of the tub.
Now, as Sam sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed he'd first woken up on, clad in a pair of soft, navy, plaid pyjamas pants and one of Dean's old hoodies, his fuzzy, indolent mind couldn't help but forget all about why he'd even felt sick in the first place, filing that particular piece of information away for another day.
Instead, he hummed contentedly as Dean began working a towel through his wet hair, catching all of the drips to ensure the back of his hoodie stayed dry.
Dean smiled in amusement at the younger man's reaction, taking pride in his enjoyment. "You like that, huh, Kiddo?"
"Mhm," Sam mumbled without thinking, tilting his head back to lean into the touch.
"Well, I'll tell you what then, if you're good for me for the rest of the day and we don't have anymore hiccups, I'll give you a head massage before you go to bed. How's that sound?"
"Mm. I'll be good," Sam murmured in reply, his head and neck floppy and flaccid in Dean's steady hands as he continued to pat out the excess water from his hair.
"Yeah. We'll see," Dean said, though his heart was thrumming on the inside, a heavy satisfaction settling deep within his chest at Sam's compliancy.
He finished drying Sam's hair and withdrew the towel, giving the damp, unruly locks a gentle ruffle as he slung the sheet of fabric over his shoulder; still soft and warm from its time in the tumble dryer prior to Sam getting out of the tub.
The second Dean withdrew his hand, Sam let out a long, petulant whine, turning around to face Dean with a sad little pout. "Deaaann."
Dean grinned widely, bending down to meet Sam's sitting form at eye level as he thumbed a stray curl out of his eyes. "I know, Baby boy. You'll get it again later, if you're good."
Sam's bottom lip only jutted out further at that, and Dean let out a light, elated laugh at the sight, tapping the end of his nose teasingly before standing to his full height again.
"Alright, I'm gonna cook you up something to eat, get some food in that empty stomach of yours. You wanna go chill out on the couch while I do that?"
Sam hesitated, the idea of eating anything on his weaker-than-weak stomach enough to provoke a small whimper out of him.
Dean's features softened in understanding. "Don't worry. I'll make sure it's something my Sweet boy's tummy can handle. I know you're probably still a little sensitive right now, but Baby, you have to eat. You'll only feel worse if you don't."
Sam bit the insides of his cheeks, contemplating Dean's words. "Okay," he eventually mumbled in reply, so quiet Dean almost didn't catch it.
"Okay?" Dean confirmed gently.
"Okay."
"That's my boy," he praised adoringly. "C'mere, Angel."
Dean was pleasantly surprised when Sam not only allowed him to lift him from the bed, but actually reached out for it, hooking his arms securely around Dean's neck and rubbing his cheek against the soft cotton of his older brother's t-shirt; a self-soothing method he'd often used as a little kid, but had long since grown out of. Not anymore, it seemed.
Dean's smile reflected perfectly the smug pride he felt ignite inside his chest at Sam's conformity with a behaviour he didn't yet realise was all perfectly devised by Dean's careful manipulations, the mask that concealed his true intentions slipping, if only for a moment.
"Well look at youu, being all sweet and cuddly. Who knew a bubble bath could help bring out your soft side like this?" He practically cooed the words. His voice was saccharine sweet — almost as if to taunt Sam. Because Dean was smart, and he knew that Sam was too. It was no coincidence that Sam had come down with a bout of sickness directly after overhearing the phone call, nor was his sudden docility following his time spent in the tub.
And while Dean's efforts to conceal the truth from his little brother had been executed flawlessly, leaving Sam oblivious as to what was really at play behind all the soft smiles and gentle petnames, Dean knew it was only a matter of time before Sam caught on. He'd spent enough time with him to know that if Sam suspected something was amiss, he would not let it go. It was in his blood, after all. The patented Winchester way.
True to his nature, Sam's brows scrunched up in confusion at Dean's words, searching his eyes intensely for some kind of hidden meaning. His softened, mellowed demeanour had gained back some of its unwanted edge, hazel eyes clouded with an almost fearful realisation that hadn't been present just moments ago.
Dean smirked, tilting his head quizzically. "What's the matter, Sweetheart? Is it something I said?"
"I-" Sam's voice faltered, face screwing up in concentration as he continued to scan Dean's face for anything out of place. In the end, however, Dean's quirked brow and probing stare — daring Sam to challenge him — was enough to break him, and he sunk back into the crook of his neck with a simple, soft "no."
Dean hummed, thoroughly enjoying the surge of power he got from toying with Sam's head like this. Giving him the smallest snippets of the truth to cling on to only to make him question what he was told straight after. Planting the seed of doubt in his mind and watching it flourish, until there was nothing — not even his own thoughts — that he could trust one-hundred percent.
"Thought so."
--
The spell of drowsiness that had hung over Sam like a raincloud ever since he'd first woken up at the cabin, (and never quite seemed to disperse no matter how much sleep he got), only intensified as he lay curled up on the plush, rich brown sofa in the living-room, wrapped up in a soft, fuzzy blanket with his cheek smushed against one of the mismatched decorative cushions.
A nature documentary was playing on the flickery shit-box of a TV, which he watched with mild interest. David Attenborough's careful narrating of the flock of colourful birds on screen was like a balm to his soul, providing him with the sense of normalcy he'd desperately been in need of these past few days. If he unfocused enough, he could almost pretend he was just holed up in another crappy motel, waiting on their Dad to finish up a hunt so they could move on to the next.
The delicate ding of metal against porcelain rang out in Sam's ears, drawing his attention away from the TV and towards Dean, whose footsteps were muffled against the thick, woollen rug as he approached with a bowl of watery soup in hand.
Sam's eyes followed Dean's movements carefully as he placed the bowl down amongst the minimal clutter sat atop the low, wooden coffee table, nudging Sam's legs over a little so he could sit beside him.
"What's in the bowl?" Sam asked as he dragged his body up into a half-sit, eyeing the funny coloured broth warily.
"Chicken broth," Dean answered, picking up the bowl again and giving it a stir with the spoon. "There was a couple cans of the vegetable stuff too, but I wasn't sure if you'd be able to keep your solids down yet, so we're playing it safe."
Sam's gaze flicked up to Dean, then back at the alleged soup, regarding it with suspicion. "It looks funny."
"It's canned soup, Sammy. It's not supposed to look particularly appetising."
Sam still wasn't sure. "I don't want it," he mumbled, pushing the bowl away.
"Oh, c'mon, Sam. It's not poisoned. Look." Dean dipped his pinky finger in the steaming liquid without so much as a wince, then raised it to his mouth to lick it clean. "See?"
It was all the proof that Sam needed to see it was safe, and yet he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the back of his mind as he stared at it, something about its consistency throwing him off. Slightly too thick. Not fluid enough for a broth. "I can't. I'll be sick again," he excused, and it wasn't entirely a lie. His stomach had tied itself up in nervous knots again, worry eating at him from inside.
"Baby, if that's the case, it doesn't matter whether you eat or not, it's gonna happen either way. Only difference is if you eat something it'll be less painful, because you'll actually have something to throw up instead of just dry-heaving," Dean reasoned. He lifted up a spoonful to blow on before holding it out for Sam. "Now open up."
Sam flushed a little and shook his head, putting on his best, pleading puppy dog eyes. "De, please don't make me eat it. I can't- I don't wanna-"
Dean took Sam's desperate pleas as an opportunity to slip the spoon into his mouth, the warm, salty liquid melting on his tongue against his will before sliding down his throat as easily as hot butter in a pan.
"There we go," Dean drawled. "That's better. Tastes good, huh?"
Sam's eyes widened in shock, flinching away from Dean as if he'd just been burned.
"Woah, hey, chill out a little." Dean held up a placating hand, taken aback by what he considered to be a serious overreaction. "It can't've tasted that bad, surely." It was a bad joke, a poor attempt at making light of Sam's response to try and calm him down. It didn't work.
"You just- you- why would you do that?" Sam stammered, clawing at his throat as if he could somehow rip the broth from his oesophagus.
"Because you weren't gonna eat it otherwise," Dean said, frowning deeply at Sam's obvious display of panic. "It's just soup, Sweetheart. It's not gonna hurt you."
"No it's not!" Sam burst out. "You- you put something in it. I know you did! It's too thick to be chicken broth. You did something to it!" He was hugging his knees to his chest now, backed up against the sofa's armrest to put as much distance between him and Dean as possible.
Dean blinked, taken aback. "What? Are you feeling okay? Have you got a fever?" The back of Dean's hand was pressed up against Sam's forehead in an instant, checking his temperature.
"No!" Sam smacked Dean's hand away with his shaking one. "I'm not delirious, Dean! You're the crazy one!"
Dean's eyes narrowed. "You're being unreasonable, Sam. I suggest you cut it out," he said sternly, tone full of warning.
"No I'm not! You are crazy! You did something to me. You- you made me sick. I don't know how but you did." Sam's pupils were blown wide with adrenaline, his chest heaving with every unsteady breath. It reminded Dean of a rabid animal.
"I did nothing, Sam. Whatever this is-" he gestured vaguely to Sam. "-it's all in your head."
Sam's breath hitched in his throat. He shook his head fervently. "No. I'm not- I'm not the crazy one. You are."
"Are you trying to convince me of that, or yourself?"
Sam's expression faltered.
Dean leaned in closer to rest a hand on Sam's knee, ignoring the way the latter shuddered at the contact. "Look, Sammy, I don't know what's gotten into you, but you're clearly not well. There's absolutely no need to be throwing absurd accusations around like that. I didn't make you sick. You've probably just got a bug or something. A pretty nasty bug that's seriously messing with your head, but a bug all the same." He said it slowly, as if he was explaining something simple to a small child. It only made Sam all the more antsy.
His eyes welled up with tears, and he shook his head again, though it wasn't clear to either of them what exactly he was shaking his head at. "No.."
Dean reached over to gently cup Sam's cheeks with both hands, smoothing his thumb over the soft skin there. "Shhh, it's okay, Baby. It's okay," he soothed, gentler now. Slipping back into his habitual baby-talk. "You don't know what you're saying. That's not your fault. It's the sickness talking, but you can't listen to it. You know I would never do anything to harm you. I'm your big brother. Your De."
It was so tender, so sincere and carefully spoken in a way that had Sam really questioning the possibility that he'd actually lost his sanity, and in that moment he couldn't help it. One single, watery hiccup, and just like that he lost all control. Tears ran down his face in a never-ending stream, sticking to his cheeks like a second skin and causing his shoulders to shake with every broken sob.
Dean cooed at him sympathetically, gathering Sam up into his arms until he was cradled safely in his lap. He began to gently rock him from side to side, pressing little kisses to his forehead, his hairline, his cheek.
"I'm crazy..." Sam whimpered the pathetic confession into Dean's neck, fingers curling into Dean's shirt to grip the fabric tight.
"No, Baby," Dean murmured softly, pressing another kiss to the crown of his head. "Your mind's just playing funny tricks on you. That doesn't mean you're crazy. Just... hurting."
Sam sobbed harder, his grasp on Dean's shirt tightening to the point where, had his nails been any longer, he'd have torn holes into the fabric.
Dean continued to rock him, letting the slow, comforting back-and-forth work its magic on the distraught boy in his arms, shushing him when his cries interfered with his breathing but otherwise just letting him wallow.
Sam lost track of how long he stayed there, forced to listen to the sound of his own pathetic snivelling. When he finally managed to get his breathing in check, Dean's heartbeat thumping quietly beneath his palm doing most of the heavy lifting when it came to calming him down, he shifted away from his hiding spot wedged under Dean's chin and risked a glance around the room, embarrassment starting to set in now that he wasn't too busy choking on his own tears.
Dean shifted with him, slowly releasing his hold on Sam to allow for the movement. "You okay now?" He asked lightly, voice velvety smooth.
Sam wiped at the remaining moisture still clinging to his cheeks, sniffling quietly. "M'fine."
Dean gave him a tight, reassuring squeeze before letting him slip fully from his lap. "Do you think you could give that chicken soup I made you another try now that we've confirmed it's not poisoned?"
Sam exhaled slowly, gaze flicking to the offending bowl. "It's probably gone cold..."
"It wont've. I warmed it up real good," Dean told him in earnest. He picked up the bowl and lifted a spoonful of broth to Sam's lips, coaxing it into his mouth with an encouraging smile. "There we go. Good job, Baby," he praised when Sam swallowed with minimal fuss, spooning another mouthful of the soup in immediately after.
As the third spoonful was guided towards his lips, Sam reached out to grab the handle, only for Dean to lightly bat him away and continue to feed him himself.
"Dean, I can feed myself-"
"I know you can," Dean cut him off gently. "But I want to do this. You're sick, Sammy. Let me take care of you."
Sam sighed. "Dean-"
"-I'll give you that head massage after you finish eating if you let me do this."
Sam paused, chewing gingerly on his bottom lip as he considered it. "Promise?"
Dean smiled, nudging the spoon against Sam's lips to slip it into his mouth. "Promise."
--
Sam finished the rest of the soup without complaint, looking to Dean expectantly as he scraped up the last of it from the bottom of the bowl. He swallowed it down quick despite Dean's repetitive warnings to take it slow, more than ready to be done with eating.
"Well, would you look at that. You managed to finish the lot off," Dean said, setting the empty bowl down. "Must've been hungry after all."
Sam didn't offer a reply, just continued to hold Dean's gaze hopefully.
Dean laughed; a light, breathy sound. "Alright, Sweetheart. Message received. C'mere."
Dean shifted so his legs were crossed beneath him, then patted the empty space on his lap. Sam's response was immediate, lying down so his head was positioned in the crook of Dean's knees.
Dean stroked a hand through Sam's bangs before going all in, his thumbs a gentle pressure against Sam's temples as he kneaded the skin there in careful, controlled circles.
Sam hummed happily, closing his eyes.
"You enjoying that, Baby?" Dean murmured around a smirk, a wave of satisfaction washing over him as Sam continued to melt under his attentive touch.
"Mhm," Sam mumbled lazily in response, blinking up at Dean for a moment to offer him a hazy smile before his lids drooped shut again.
Dean chuckled, increasing the pressure slightly as he shifted to massaging Sam's scalp. "You're adorable. You know that?"
Sam huffed at that, clearly not impressed."M'not."
"Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Angel," Dean drawled in amusement as he continued working gently with Sam's scalp, threading his fingers through the soft, silky locks of hair and smoothing out any knots he came across with such tenderness that Sam didn't feel so much as a tug as he pulled them loose.
Fifteen minutes ticked on by in a blissful, sleepy haze. Sam was just barely clinging on to consciousness, one soothing touch away from slipping into a dreamless sleep, when a soft, mumbled, “Sammy?” pulled him back from the edge.
Sam couldn’t find it in him to reply, his mind too fogged up to come up with anything close to coherent. He felt Dean’s hands carefully slide out from his hair, then nudge his head so it was tilted sideways in his lap, all the while checking for any signs of awareness from Sam. “You awake, Baby?”
Still receiving no reply, Dean huffed out a quiet laugh, his smile audible in his voice as he murmured, “Guess not.”
It was hard to make out exactly what was going on with his eyes closed, but Sam felt the movements as Dean began rustling around, searching for something.
When the rummaging stopped, a typing sound appeared in its wake, followed almost immediately after by the telltale buzz of Dean’s phone ringing.
“Hey, Dad,” Dean began in a hushed tone, and it took everything in Sam not to stir at the mention of his father, wanting to see where the conversation lead.
“…yeah, Sammy’s doing fine. He’s actually asleep in my lap right now. Poor Baby’s always tired at the moment.”
Sam’s face went hot with embarrassment at what Dean had just told their Dad. John Winchester; a hunter, a fighter, the most obnoxiously manly man he knew, had just been told his youngest son had fallen asleep in his big brother’s lap like a total pansy. Yikes.
“…Mm. I think it must be one of the side effects. Nothin’ in comparison to the crazy mood swings he’s been having lately. Man, they’ve been driving me up the freaking wall,” Dean continued, absentmindedly tracing the curve of Sam’s ear with his thumb as he spoke.
Sam stopped breathing, scared that if he took another inhale, he’d choke on the air that filled his lungs and immediately give away that he was awake. His heart was beating a mile a minute, thumping far too loudly for his liking. Or maybe that was just the sound of the blood rushing to his ears. He couldn’t tell.
“…Oh yeah. It’s like one minute he’s the sweetest, softest little thing since Bambi, and the next he’s screaming and kicking and fighting me tooth and nail over any kind of affection I offer. It’s exhausting, honestly. I never know what to expect with him.”
The low rumble of their Dad’s familiar voice sounded on the other end of the line, nothing more than a muffled jumble of nonsense from Sam’s perspective, but Dean must’ve understood, because he chuckled, shaking his head.
“…I don’t know. He’s definitely a fighter, that’s for sure. Must’ve gotten it from you. Don’t worry, though, Dad. I’ve got it all under control, I promise. He’s got no idea what’s really happening, bless him.”
John spoke again, and Dean laughed a second time. “…Yup. It’s cute, really. Watching him try to piece things together when he’s so completely clueless. He actually thought I did something to his soup earlier. Threw a whole hissy fit over it and everything. Didn’t think to question the bubble bath I used, though.”
Sam’s stomach had tied itself up into nervous knots not unlike a pretzel, dreading each new word that came out of Dean’s mouth. He was filled with a sickening sense of Déjà vu as he recalled the phone call from earlier — the one that had brought on his illness in the first place. Or now that he thought back on it, maybe it hadn’t been the phone call at all. Maybe he had been right. Maybe Dean really had made him sick.
It didn’t register to Sam that Dean had stopped talking until it was too late. The sudden hot breath of air right by his ear sent the hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight as Dean’s low, controlled voice whispered directly into his eardrum:
“I know you’re awake, Sam.”