I'm in the middle of Season 5 and I'm fed up with Sam never taking care of Dean. Sure he asks how he is, but he never follows up when Dean says he's fine. Maybe it's about time. Set somewhere in Seasons 1-5. Rated T for swearing.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. I am just borrowing them for fun. Any errors are mine.
I'm still fairly new to the fandom, so if you see any continuity or other errors, or if you want to beta any future stories, please drop me a line. Thanks!
It was a simple salt and burn. Dean was relieved and surprised that the spirit went without a fuss - no flinging him across the room, no beating Sammy senseless with a 2 by 4. He had just decided to chalk this one up in the easy win column, and told Sam so, when he realized that his voice was giving out.
Sam, slouching next to him in the Impala with his arm over his eyes, noticed too. He lowered his arm and gave his brother a squinty look. "You all right?"
Dean took a quick inventory: scratchy throat, burning eyes, pain in his sinuses. Nothing I can't handle.
He swallowed hard and nodded at his brother, clearing his throat. "Yeah. Fine. You?" He chanced a glance at Sam before turning back to the rain-soaked windshield. The young hunter's mouth was set in a hard line, and Dean frowned when he didn't immediately reply. "Headache?"
"Yeah."
"Bad?"
"I'm fine, Dean." The older hunter could hear the wince in Sam's voice.
Dean ground his teeth. Just frickin' perfect. "You need me to stop? The med kit's in the trunk."
Sad puppy eyes met his and Dean sighed. He pulled over at the next wide shoulder and put the Impala's hazard lights on. "Stay put," he ordered Sam and stepped out of the car. Rain pelted him and the subsequent gusts of wind made him shiver. Dean started to walk to the trunk when a wave of dizziness hit. Trembling, he blinked at the two Impalas before him. With effort, he forced his eyes to work together. Opening the trunk, he found the med kit and unzipped it, hoping for some daytime cold medicine. NyQuil, narcotic cough syrup, Benadryl ... Dean sighed. There was nothing he could take that wouldn't impair his ability to drive. He found the Advil and dry swallowed two before adding another set of pills to his pocket for Sam.
The walk from the trunk back to the driver's side seemed longer, although Dean suspected that might have something to do with the headwind blowing sheets of rain against him. The night wasn't cold, but the fat drops soaked right through his clothes. Dean could feel his teeth chattering as he sneezed.
Not good. Whatever this illness was, it had come on fast and it was hitting him like a ton of bricks. Dean chewed his lip as he opened the door. Sam was curled against the passenger side door, his aching head propped on one elbow. No way he can drive.
"Here, Samantha." Dean handed his brother the tablets.
Sam glared at the nickname before his eyes widened. "It's really pouring out there." He grabbed a can of soda from the footwell of the car and took a sip to swallow the pills.
Dean cleared his throat. "No shit, Sherlock." He turned the key in the ignition and pulled back onto the highway. His throat felt raw and scratchy, too painful for conversation. Before Sam could start in, Dean cranked the stereo. "Highway to Hell" burst from the speakers at ear-piercing decibels.
"Dean!" Sam glared at his brother and whimpered.
"Oh, sorry." How could I forget about his headache? Dean frowned in consternation and turned the stereo down to a more acceptable volume. "That okay, Princess?"
Sam scowled and curled into his jacket. "Jerk."
"Bitch." It was said without heat, though, and Dean was relieved when Sam finally settled into the bench seat, his breathing slow and regular. The Advil must have kicked in. "Get some rest, Sammy."
Five miles down the road had Dean scrubbing at his own temples. Despite the Advil, the headache came from nowhere, slamming his skull like a force of nature. Fortunately, Dean thought, I've got a lot of experience with migraines. Which was a really sad statement when you thought about it.
But this wasn't a migraine. The pain wasn't localized in any one place and Dean was having trouble pushing it aside while also ignoring his burning throat and blurry eyes. He tried blinking but it didn't help clear his vision. Everything was slightly fuzzy around the edges, as if he was wearing the wrong prescription contacts. Maybe glasses would work better? Dean hated the things with a passion. No way. In order to take his contacts out, he'd have to pull off the road again. He'd just get soaked a second time. And then Sam would wake up and want to know what was wrong.
Dean shivered. Would that be so bad? He glanced over at his sleeping Sasquatch of a brother and tried to stifle a sneeze.
HACHOO!
Sam rolled over but didn't wake. Dean wiped his nose on his sleeve and tried to focus on driving. It was so hard to concentrate. His arms felt heavy, as though the mere act of holding them up was too much work. Dean's joints ached the way they did when he was running a high fever. He sneezed again and coughed into his arm. Damn it.
His vision was so unreliable that he almost missed the little neon sign on the side of the road.
Vacancy. Thank God.
Sam woke up in front of a non-descript little motel. He peered out the rain splattered window of the Impala into the darkness. There were maybe eight rooms total, and their Impala was the only car in the parking lot.
Where's Dean?
The man in question suddenly appeared at his window, waving a key. "Go unlock the door so I can unload." There was something off about Dean's voice and demeanor, but Sam wasn't processing on all cylinders just yet. His head still ached, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up under a soft blanket. He pushed himself to his feet, closed the car door, and walked slowly toward their room. As soon as he entered, he found the twin bed furthest from the door and collapsed in it.
Unfortunately, he couldn't get back to sleep. Whether it was his headache or his older brother being inconsiderate, Sam couldn't tell. Dean made several trips to and from the car, each more loud than the last.
"Keep it down, Dean. I have a headache, remember." Sam put a pillow over his head.
"I'll keep that in mind, Princess." The words came with a bit of a rasp; Dean was breathing heavily. His brother closed the front door and locked it. "I need a shower," he announced.
Sam, still hidden under the pillow and blankets, waved a finger at him. A middle finger. Woo-fucking-hoo.
"You lay the salt lines."
At this, Sam sat up. "Dean. My head's killing me." He flopped back on the bed. "I need more Advil."
Dean sighed. He turned off the lamp by Sam's head. "Better?"
"Yeah." Sam had burrowed under the pillow again. "Could you get me a Sprite too?"
He heard the bedsprings squeak on the other side of the room. "Sure, Sammy."
Sam lay there for what seemed like an eternity, dozing in that uneasy space between sleep and wakefulness, needing something stronger to fight the pain. But relief wouldn't come. Something didn't feel right, but he couldn't place a finger on it. Finally, he forced himself awake.
The room was bathed in semi-darkness. But even in the low light, Sam could tell that things were off. There wasn't a can of Sprite at his bedside. No pills sat on the nightstand. Their weapons bag was open, the guns inside still muddy and wet. Sam glanced at the door. No salt lines. His eyes found the only other occupant of the room sitting on his bed.
"What the hell, Dean?"
His brother slowly turned to look at him, face unreadable.
"What, are you punishing me for not laying the salt lines? You said you'd bring me some Advil." Sam winced and rubbed at his temples.
The look Dean gave him could best be described as incredulous. "Whatever." He sniffed and threw the entire med kit at his brother.
Sam frowned at him, classic bitch face, as bottles, tubes, and bandages scattered everywhere. "What the hell is your problem? You could have hit me with this." Sam waved a small pair of scissors at Dean and used them to point at the mess. "I am so not cleaning this up."
His brother shrugged and walked slowly toward the shower.
"What about my Sprite?"
Dean turned, his fists curling and uncurling. He raised his eyebrows over fuming eyes. "Get ... your own ... goddamn Sprite!"
"You are such an asshole. How hard would it be to get me a Sprite? The machine's just outside the door."
Dean coughed and glared at his brother. "Did it ever occur to you" -another cough- "that I might not feel well?" He entered the bathroom, slammed the door, and locked it. Within minutes, Sam heard the distinct sound of his brother retching.
Sam bolted out of bed. He ran across the room and pounded on the bathroom door. "Dean?"
No answer.
"Dean!"
There was a click as the lock was released, and Sam opened the door to find Dean on the floor, curled around the toilet. Now that he took the time to notice, his brother looked terrible. Dean was so pale that his skin looked almost gray, save the bright red fever spots on each cheek. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. And he was shaking.
Sam knelt by his side. "God, Dean, why didn't you say anything?" He helped his brother to his feet.
"Didn't ... ask." Dean mumbled with effort.
"Actually, I did," Sam replied. "You said you were fine." He sighed as Dean's knees buckled. Sam gripped him tighter and began to lead him across the room, back to his bed.
"S'mmy?"
"Yeah?" He set his brother down on the bed and helped him out of his damp clothes and into a clean T-shirt and sweats.
"'m sick." His brother's green eyes glittered with fever.
Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes and gave his brother a sad smile instead. He set the trash can on the floor near Dean's head in case his brother threw up again. Tucking the blankets over him, Sam studied Dean's face. "Did you take anything?"
"Threw it all up." His brother's eyes closed.
"Wait. Before you fall asleep, we need to get your contacts out," Sam said, thinking of Dean's bloodshot eyes.
One said eye popped open. "'m fine. Salt?"
Sam sat by Dean, holding saline and a small case. "Contacts first. Then I'll lay the salt and clean the guns."
Dean's face contorted slightly. "Headache?" He pointed at Sam's temple as he coughed.
"I'll be okay, Dean. It's you I'm worried about. This hit you pretty fast, didn't it? Or were you feeling bad earlier too?"
Dean shook his head. "Fast," he managed to choke out, before another coughing jag rendered him unable to speak. With shaking hands, he managed to remove his lenses and Sam got them dosed with saline and stored.
"Better?" Sam asked his brother.
Dean nodded. "Blurry." He coughed again, hard, and Sam patted him on the back.
"You don't need to see right now anyway. Get some sleep." Dean gripped his arm and Sam got the message. His brother wouldn't rest unless he knew he could defend himself. "I'll get your glasses and your knife, okay?" Dean nodded. When Sam set Dean's glasses on the nightstand and his brother had the knife safely tucked under his pillow, Dean finally relaxed.
After getting his brother to swallow two NyQuil tablets with a sip of Sprite, Sam grabbed the container of salt and sprinkled lines before the door and on each windowsill. Then he sat and methodically began clean the guns.
His head still ached and Sam wished, more than anything, that he could curl back up in the blankets. But he had to take care of his brother - his older brother who never asked for help. He needed to do this right. He flicked a glance at Dean. The other hunter was studying him, eyes slightly unfocused.
"Hey." Sam crossed the room. "You okay?"
Dean nodded. "Hurts," he whispered.
Sam looked down at him worriedly. "Hurts where?"
Dean blinked: Everywhere.
Oh. Sam sat beside him. "I think you've got the flu, Dean. In the morning, I'm going to extend our stay." He gently massaged Dean's back.
"No food here," Dean croaked out.
"Well, then I'll drive us to the next town and we'll rest up there, okay?"
Dean blinked at him. His freckles stood out on his pale face, making him look about six years old. Either the fever or the medicine was really doing a number on him, Sam realized. "It's okay, Dean. I've got you." He squeezed his brother's shoulder. "And the next time you get this sick, you're going to tell me, right?"
Dean shrugged. Probably not, Sam thought.
The younger brother dried his sibling's sweaty skin with a towel and placed a cool washcloth on his forehead. "I'm here, Dean. Go to sleep. I've got this."