The boys are not mine!

Here are the things Dean had: an arsenal, ten fake IDs, three pairs of shoes, five ties, two suits, a toothbrush, a shaving kit, two pairs of jeans, the car, an extensive first aid kit, the reflexes of a fighter pilot, two bottles of whiskey, a hero complex fed into by a startling amount of self loathing, eleven and a half pairs of socks, a laptop, a cell phone, about five or six thousand in small bills he'd won in bars, an awesome tape collection, a half dozen well-worn shirts, two jackets, an almost encyclopedic knowledge of movies-that-had-been-shown-on-cable, two whiskey glasses stolen from a dive bar in Baxter Springs, a passing familiarity with Latin, a hoodie, a whole wallet full of fake credit cards, three photographs, a little brother no one else would call "little" and what was maybe not a low grade fever anymore.

Sam wouldn't have been surprised by all of these, except for the latter.

Here are things Dean didn't have: a high school diploma, a winter coat that was heavy enough, a mattress, a permanent address, particularly healthy coping mechanisms, health insurance, and the desire to give his brooding little brother something else to worry about.

Dean had been feeling increasingly like crap for about thirty-six hours. At first, he thought he was just getting a little run down. He and Sam had been working at a breakneck pace without any real down time for at least a month, maybe longer. Dean liked to work hard—it kept him from having to think too much. But lately Sam had been flinging himself into it like he had nothing left to lose, which was one of those things Dean was happy not to have had too much time lately to think about.

So at first, Dean just thought that maybe he was tired. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and it was getting a little bit harder to bounce back from the knocks he was taking, particularly on a diet of whiskey, cheap fast food and way too little sleep. So if he woke up feeling a little under the weather, well that seemed pretty par for the course to Dean. And the last case they had worked had been rough—a vampire nest that had been particularly difficult to put down, all the more so because Dean wasn't quite as quick as usual.

Dean had thought for sure that Sam would suggest a little R&R. Sam had taken some good knocks too, but he'd fired up his laptop the moment they got back to the room, looking for another case. If Sam needed them to work that badly, Dean wasn't about to force him to stop. Even at 80%, Dean was still a better hunter than most.

But that was yesterday. They had only been on the road for an hour of the seven or eight they planned to put in today, but Dean felt like he'd been driving for ten. He had a major headache, and the air in the car felt very hot and stuffy. He glanced over at Sam, who was reading a book on skinwalkers.

Dean signaled to get off at the exit. He needed some caffeine, but mostly he needed some fresh air.

Sam looked up, surprised. "We are stopping?" They'd gotten gas before they'd gotten on the road, and Dean usually hated to stop before lunch.

Dean put on a cheerful voice. "That coffee didn't quite take." Which was true, actually. He pulled into the cleaner looking of the two gas stations. "Want anything?"

Sam didn't glance away from his book. "I'm good, thanks." Dean slid out the car, a little surprised at how stiff his muscles had gotten on the short drive. The cool March air felt nice, and Dean felt a little better as he pushed open the door.

The nineteen-year-old working the counter was the only person in the gas station. It was still morning, but the coffee looked pretty old. Dean sighed and poured himself a cup anyway, before walking towards the pharmacy section. He had plenty of pain killers in the car, but going into the back for them would have tipped Sam off, so he grabbed a packet of Advil for his headache. He also grabbed some caffeine pills—he didn't think the coffee was going to be enough. Plus caffeine was good for headaches, wasn't it?

He took everything to the counter, where the kid didn't even bother to look up from his phone as he rang Dean up. Dean handed him a twenty and then opened both the caffeine pills and the Advil and washed them down with the stale coffee. It tasted even worse than he had expected.

"Hey kid, can you toss this for me?" The kid rolled his eyes, but held out his hand for the empty pill packets. Dean didn't want Sam to find them later and give him a hard time about it. Not that Sam had been focusing on anything outside of the hunts lately, but old habits die hard and Sam didn't like when Dean took caffeine pills. He'd have been really upset if he knew that was the least of all the things Dean sometimes took to give himself an edge on the job, but Dean hid that from him, too.

Sam was still deeply engrossed in his book as Dean walked back out towards the car. The air cut through his flannel shirt in a way it hadn't before, and Dean shivered as he got in.

"Good coffee?" Sam teased.

"You know it." Dean took another sip. It didn't taste any better the second time, but at least it was warm. He started the car and turned the heat up before pulling back onto the interstate. Sam turned the page, and didn't notice Dean shiver.

But Sam couldn't help but notice that Dean kept fiddling with the heat and opening and closing his window, no matter how subtle Dean tried to be about it.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Dean was pretty sure at this point that he was not okay. He didn't look away from the road. "I'll be better when I get around this asshole who won't let me pass." Dean could feel Sam giving him a Look.

"Because you have put on and taken off that hoodie like three times in the last two hours and you keep screwing with the heat." Sam was still starring at Dean, evaluating him.

Dean wasn't quite ready to admit anything. He was still holding out hope that he could just power through it. Maybe something to eat would make him feel better. The Advil had made a little dent in his headache, and the caffeine pills were keeping him awake enough to drive.

"I'm hungry. Let's stop for lunch soon."

Sam's eyebrows knitted together, but he decided to let it go, for now. "Sounds good." He started a new chapter. "Not burritos."

The diner Dean had chosen was nearly full, which was usually a good indication that the food would be better than usual. Ordinarily Dean would have been thrilled with his good fortune, but he couldn't really find anything on the greasy plastic menu that he really wanted. Even the bacon cheeseburger didn't particularly appeal to him.

"I'll have the whole wheat turkey wrap and a side salad," Sam ordered, handing his menu back. He looked at Dean, waiting for the customary snark on his order, but Dean wasn't up to it.

"And I'll have a cup of the tomato soup and half a grilled cheese on white." Dean didn't want that anymore than he wanted the burger, but he was pretty sure he could make himself eat that much. The waitress wrote down his order and walked away, promising to return in a minute with waters.

"Seriously?" Sam was starring at him again.

"What? I don't like wheat bread."

"Are you kidding? You told me you were hungry like twenty minutes ago, and we sit down and not only do you not order a bacon cheeseburger, you order what on an ordinary day you would consider an appetizer. What the hell?" The waitress returned with their waters and gave Sam a disapproving look at his use of "hell."

Dean was starting to get hot again, and grabbed his water gratefully. "I'm just a little tired, I guess."

Suddenly Sam saw what he had ignored before. Dean looked like hell. There were deep circles under Dean's eyes, and they were glassy. Dean looked a lot worse than tired.

Sam reached across the table to feel his brother's forehead, just as the waitress dropped off their food. She harrumph at the sight and Sam shot her a glare that would melt glass. Small town bigot. Ordinarily Dean would have batted his little brother's hand away, but he was feeling miserable enough that he allowed it.

"Jesus, Dean!" Sam pulled his hand away, shocked. "You are burning up. Why didn't you tell me?"

"It is just a fever. We were just driving. I haven't felt so hot in a few days, but I can push through it."

"A few days? Seriously, dude? " Sam suddenly felt both pissed and incredibly guilty for not noticing until now. "Why the hell didn't you say something?"

"Why? It wasn't affecting my work!" Dean looked down and pushed his soup around his cup.

"You think I wanted to know because of work?" Sam was incredulous. Dean's inability to understand the need to take care of himself—let alone Sam's need to take care of Dean—was infuriating.

"I'll be fine. Look you can drive this afternoon and I'll sleep." Dean took a bite of the sandwich he didn't want, to prove his point.

"We are not going to stay on the road. We are getting a room. You need to rest." Sam stood up and threw some bills on the table, wrapping his uneaten sandwich up in its wax paper and putting it in his pocket.

It was a sign of just how bad Dean was feeling that he didn't protest. Instead he just handed Sam the keys and followed him out the door.

The motel Sam had picked—well, the first one he had come to—was a little nicer than most. Dean collapsed gratefully on his bed, kicking off his boots and jeans. He was still hot.

Sam was searching through the first aid kit for a thermometer, which he was pretty sure he hadn't seen since Utah. Damn it. Well, he'd been planning on going to the drugstore anyway.

"Did you take anything yet?" Sam hadn't seen Dean go in the kit, but if he could hide a frigging fever from Sam for days, he could certainly have hidden that. Sam mentally kicked himself again. He couldn't believe he'd been so dense. In Sam's place, Dean would have picked up almost instantly. Of course Sam wouldn't have hidden it from Dean for days, either.

"Some Advil at the gas station this morning. And some caffeine pills."

"You took freaking caffeine—" No. Sam swallowed his irritation. At least Dean was being honest. "Okay. Take some more Tylenol now." Sam shook a few pills out of the bottle and then placed it on the bedside table where he could find it again. He handed them to Dean and walked towards the bathroom to get him a glass of water, which he set next to the bottle. Dean took the pills.

"Thanks."

It was already chilly in the room, but Dean was sweating under the thin sheet. Sam went to the bathroom and wet a washcloth. Dean though about protesting, but it felt so good, so cool, on his forehead that he allowed it. He closed his eyes. He shouldn't have been able to sleep with all that caffeine, but he felt like he hadn't had any shuteye in years.

With Dean asleep, Sam wasn't sure what to do. He needed to get a thermometer, they were going to run out of Tylenol quickly, and there were a few other supplies he wanted to stock up on, too.

He didn't want to leave Dean alone. But there was no way around it. So he wrote a note Went to drugstore, be back in 20, sat Dean's phone within his reach and left.

Dean was going to die. He was on a plane and there was a big hole in the side. Cold air was rushing through the cabin and everyone was screaming. Through his window, he could see the ocean rushing up to meet him. Everyone on the plane was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

A woman across the isle was holding a baby. Both were sobbing. But where was Sammy? Dean struggled to get out of his seat to look for him. Where was Sammy? Dean called his brothers name again and again. Dean was going to die, and he couldn't find Sam.

Sam knew something was wrong the moment he walked back into the hotel room. It had taken longer than he'd thought—it turned out the nearest drugstore was on the other side of town and there had been an incompetent cashier and a line— he'd been frantic to get back the entire time, nearly abandoning his basket twice before realizing that if he left now he'd only have to leave Dean again later. The only thing worse than leaving him once would be leaving him twice.

Dean had managed to pull the comforter around himself, but he was shivering enough when Sam walked in that Sam could make it out from across the room. He was also very clearly having a nightmare, or delirious, or some combination of the two.

"Dean!" Sam dropped his bags at the door and rushed to his brother. "It's okay. Your okay." Sam pulled the blankets off the other bed and heaped them onto Dean. He touched Dean's forehead, which felt warmer than it had at the dinner. Dean's eyes shot open.

"Sam! I couldn't find you!"

Sam realized Dean was talking about whatever fever dream had been playing in his's head, but it still made Sam feel awful for leaving. Dean was so much better at this. "It is okay now, you found me." Dean visibly relaxed. Sam crossed to the closet for the spare blanket and added it to the pile.

"I thought-" Dean shook his head, bringing this world back into focus.

Sam cut him off. He didn't need Dean to tell him whatever dark thing his brain had conjured up.

"I was at the store. I'm sorry. I'm back now. Are you still cold?" Dean shook his head. Not so much cold as just totally miserable.

Sam retrieved the bags from the floor, and pawed through them finally finding the thermometer. He handed it to Dean. "Let's see what the damage is, huh?" Neither of them really wanted to know. They didn't go to doctors for something like this—they didn't even always go for bullets-but silently, Sam decided if it was over 103.8 he'd force Dean. The thermometer beeped.

103.7. Frigging perfect. Okay, no doctor, not yet, but they had to bring this fever down. Dean still had few hours to go before he should take another pill, so Sam was going to have to get more creative.

Sam was worried Dean was going to get dehydrated too.

He pulled a Gatorade out of the drugstore bag, thankful he'd bought the already cold ones out of the case, instead of the six pack. He handed it to Dean.

"Drink this." Dean started to protest—he just wanted to go back to sleep-but must have seen the concern in his brother eyes because he shut up and took the bottle. Now what? Keeping busy made Sam worry less. Ice. Sam could use some ice. He grabbed the ice bucket. "I'll be right back Dean, okay?"

"I'm not a freaking infant," Dean grumbled, sinking into his pillows. Sam must have run to the ice machine and back, because he was back in less than two minutes. Sam noted that Dean had drunk half the bottle of Gatorade. Good. Sam dumped the ice into the plastic bag that had the rest of the juice and Gatorade in it. Makeshift refrigerator.

Dean had pushed most of the blankets aside.

"Do you want to take a shower? Or a bath?" Sam asked.

'What, I don't smell like a rose to you?" Dean cracked a weak smile. Sam could see it took effort.

"I mean to bring down your temperature. It could help."

"Sure." Dean did not want to do anything but sleep for the next five to eight years, but he'd take a shower if it made Sam feel better.

Dean pushed out of bed and was surprised at how dizzy he felt. He'd been walking and talking just fine a few hours ago. Sam rushed to his side to help.

"I'm fine, Sammy. Just gimmie a second." Sam hovered, but Dean made it across the room to the bathroom by himself. Sam turned on the water.

"Bath or shower?"

Dean knew bath was probably the right answer given how dizzy getting out of bed had made him, but he had more pride than that. Plus making a show of standing would probably make Sam feel better. "Shower."

Sam turned the water on, testing it until it was exactly as he wanted, while Dean leaned heavily against the doorframe.

Sam turned to Dean, who was still wearing his t-shirt and his boxers. "Do you—"

"No!" Dean cut Sam off. "Get out, Sam." Sam started to protest. " I mean it. I'll keep the door open, you can sit right outside. Okay?"

"Fine." It was totally the wrong call—Dean could pass out and hit his head—but it was clear to Sam that this was a point Dean considered nonnegotiable so long as he was conscious and had use of his own limbs. Sam turned around and sat down on the floor, listening as Dean laboriously undressed and got under the water.

Dean leaned against the cool titles, and felt better—less fuzzy-as the lukewarm water ran across his hot skin. Sam had nailed it on that particular point. Eventually he turned off the water—he wasn't sure if he'd been in the shower for ten minutes or an hour—and began slowly drying off with the towels.

Sam still had his back to the door but was sitting up straight, listening for even the slightest hint that something was wrong—that something was more wrong- as though his over attentiveness now could make up for his lack of it the last few weeks.

Sam was beating himself up for not noticing before, and Dean realized he'd been a jerk not to level with him. He hadn't saved Sam any worrying after all. He'd probably compounded it. Dean was exhausted again. He wrapped the towel around his waist and sat on the toilet lid. "Hey, do you mind getting me something clean to wear?" he called.

Sam scrambled to his feet. "No problem!" Dean's duffle was a mess—usually he folded everything but he hadn't felt up to it the last few days . After some digging, Sam found a clean shirt and boxers and brought them back to Dean. Dean stood up, slowly this time, and shrugged into his shirt and slipped the boxers on under his towel. The effort cost him something, but he felt a tiny bit more human than he had before. Sam was hovering anyway, so Dean slug an arm around him and allowed Sam to help him back to bed.

"Thanks, Sammy. You were right, I feel a little better." Sam smiled, relived, and grabbed the water glass to refill it. Dean grabbed his wrist. He was going to be asleep in a minute, but he wanted to say this first. " Look, I'm sorry for hiding this from you. I should have told you okay?" Dean's eyes were closing. "I just didn't want to worry you. I… never…." And then he was asleep.

Sam brushed his fingers across his brothers forehead. Still hot—there was no doubt Dean still had a fever—but not quite as alarming as it had been. It was nice that Dean had apologized—he didn't do that a lot—but Sam still wouldn't forgive himself for not noticing that Dean was sick until he was this sick.

And Sam felt responsible for Dean getting rundown enough to get sick, too.

Sam had been in a dark place lately, a really dark place, and work was the only thing that distracted him enough to keep him from it. Dean could drink his problems away, but Sam, well, if he didn't keep busy enough Sam ruminated. So he'd been working hard, working both of them hard, he corrected, to keep himself from thinking. He'd been so successful at it, he'd even missed what was right in front of his face. Dean was his brother, his partner, his best friend, and he'd let him down. Again. He pushed that thought aside.

But this, this he could correct, and that helped. Sam could take care of Dean. He could make sure he was hydrated and not too hot and not too cool, and Dean would get better. Sam wouldn't make this mistake again. Dean wasn't the only one who had a brother he wanted to take care of.