I guess because there's no plot that makes it a drabble, right? Okay, first drabble, it's all mush.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't own, don't own… where did I put my Prozac…

Apologies for any inaccuracies or mistakes, they're all mine.

Set during a random hunt, in any season.

……………………………..

What's in a Word

Sammy needed him.

See? That was a coherent thought, Dean cheered himself on. He didn't need to have all of his blood in order to get the job done. Didn't need a big college educated brain either; just a few simple priorities.

And Sam did need him.

Now, if only he could form some more of those clear thoughts. Like, where his brother needed him to be, or where he was, or where he was going…

Any of those concepts would have been helpful. Unfortunately, all he had to work with was instinct. But he was a hunter. So as chance would have it, working on instinct was something he could do pretty well.

So he was gonna find Sammy…

Yup, that was the point. His head was leaking. But sadly, there wasn't much he could do about that besides tie a bandana around his forehead and hope it kept too much of the drippy, warm liquid from running down his neck.

Speaking of running; he had places to be, things to do, stuff to see. He should be moving a lot faster.

Dean picked up the pace. A little lightheadedness didn't bother him much. After all, he wasn't a girl.

Speaking of girls. There was someone important he had to save. Not exactly your average damsel in distress, but still important to save. The victim didn't have the preferable torn up dress, huge knockers and long hair… Well, maybe he did have the long hair…

But this analogy was starting to get disturbing. So the thing to do now was to keep running – faster – in the same direction he was going. No Spidy Sense for him; just some pure animal instinct. Predator ESP.

Hey, what do you know? There was Sam. Ripped up jeans, multiple wrinkled shirts, dazed expression; that was his little brother in all of his mussy-haired glory.

And this was what Victory felt like.

Victory was emptying his clip of sanctified iron bullets into the bastard that had managed to drag Sam out of his sight. Nope, he wasn't letting the kid out of his sight. Always got into trouble when he wasn't kept track of. Always. Dean was going to be the one keeping track.

Elation, was watching the son of a bitch splatter its not-so immortal soul all over the night sky. And hearing Sam say his name, a little bedraggled sounding but more or less normal. And very definitely alive.

He didn't say it out of surprise, Dean noticed. He seemed to have been waiting for him, or expecting him, or at least hoping for him. It wasn't fear either. Nope, his brother wasn't scared, too tough. It was just something that he did.

The oldest Winchester shrugged it off. Maybe he'd think about it later. Maybe he wouldn't.

This was what Worry felt like. He felt that too much.

Sam tried pushing himself up with his hands, only to fall straight back down once halfway up. It was quite a ways to go, from the ground to his standing height, and he thunked ungracefully against a nearby tree. He let out a small moan as his head made contact with the bark.

Great. Dean had just saved him from a spirit and now he's already hurting himself on a tree. A big brother's work is never done.

With a firm grip around both arms, Sam finally made it to his proper place in the stratosphere, grimacing and squeezing his eyes shut all the way.

Dean always expressed his concern: "Which got you worse; the malevolent spirit or the tree?"

"Up yours, Dean." Little brothers were so petulant.

Dean dug into the leaf and dirt infested hair, feeling – more or less carefully - for any serious injury not caused by the tree. There was nothing noticeable besides a tiny bump, which the guy yelped and howled at when he pressed.

That was pretty much a good sign. If there was something wrong with him there wouldn't be any telling whines, just dying, pain-wrenched silence. Little bastard.

Anyway, since Sam was fine, it didn't matter if he happened to smack his bruised shoulder on the way to the car. And more importantly, since Sam hadn't gotten hurt in the process, it was okay to tease him about being knocked down and dragged off.

Winning Sam's annoyed huff was what Mischief felt like.

Once Sammy's eyes were properly opened again, the first thing to gain his attention was the more than conspicuous bloody bandana. Dean managed to keep the anxious ministrations at bay until they reached the motel, though he couldn't find a way to avoid the worried glances and the lecture on driving and blood loss.

Once inside the comfort of their roach-motel the brain binding tourniquet was removed, with many a glare from its wearer, to expose an irritated, swelling cut demanding some serious disinfection.

Dean accepted antibiotic, bandages and ice from the hovering Sam with the most impossible mixture of Annoyance-Satisfaction. Little Brother got to clean up first while he nursed the ice.

Seeing the blackened shoulder after Sam got out of the shower made him a tiny bit guilty for smacking the hidden injury earlier. And in order to ease that uncomfortable feeling, it was imperative that he was the one to clean and wrap the gash that had found its way to Sam's wrist, despite protest that it didn't need the attention.

Especially despite protest. Here was another opportunity to prove that not only did he know how to take care of Sam better than Sam himself, but he was going to do it no matter what his brother thought about it.

No kidding. Those could be some serious psychological undertones. Or they could be blatantly obvious.

Once Sammy's wounds were dressed and by the time he had finished dripping all over the place, the shower was Dean's newest prey and water and steam became the sole objects of his attention.

Amusement, was walking out of the shower and finding his exhausted brother passed out at the computer with his hand on the space bar.

A few possible scenarios involving internet porn passed through Dean's mind before he decided Sam had had enough today. And he put the laptop to sleep, setting it somewhere safer than teetering on the edge of the bed.

Flopping into a bed, warm, after a good clean hunt, not in an empty room, but with a little brother snoozing away quietly in the bed beside him, safe and alive. It was all too easy to fall asleep without a worry.

And that, he wouldn't admit it, but that was Contentment.

…………………….

It's a cross between Smack and Mush, I like to call it Smush. I'm kind of ashamed of myself for writing it, but I figure, if it gives one person the revoltingly warm and fuzzy feeling a have right now, it will be worth it! Please review if you enjoyed ;)

Luvs