Dean was too ill to make soup.
Not that Dean made soup on a regular basis or that he was deathly ill; it was basically that the snot-covered pile of tissues on the bed meant that Dean was just ill enough for Sam to take pity on him. And to Sam's great amusement Dean basked in being waiting on – not because he like be babied, nah, no way not Dean Winchester – no, it was because, as Dean so frankly put it, he liked watching Sam be his bitch.
It was sometime after a run next door to the bakery for pie and before drive out to the drug store for a vaporizer that Dean put on Sam's hoodie.
He wasn't even lounging on the couch, more of pathetically sprawled out across the width of the bed, head buried in the crook of his folded arms, faded-brown fabric of the long sleeves pulled over his hands.
Sam resisted the urge to spoon him from behind, to tuck his brother's curled body against his chest. He wouldn't of course. Dean would kick his ass if Sam ever made him the little spoon.
"Hey," Sam called when Dean groggily squinted his glassy eyes open; his nose was pink and raw, his hair stuck up in all directions. "Hey," he called, but Dean buried deeper into the sweatshirt.
"Hey," Sam said with a slap to Dean's ass. "You want any more soup?"
Dean weakly mumbled something that sounded vaguely like fuck off.
"Don't fall asleep before you take your meds."
"Nrghhhhhh."
"I mean it, Dean. I'm not doing this for another whole week."
There wasn't even a response this time, not even a moan. Dean was sound asleep; his heavy breaths puffing out like a steady heartbeat.
Sam pulled the hoodie down to cover the bare part of his brother's back. He soaked in the picture before nestling up beside him, one arm slung around Dean's waist. He'd allow himself to get girly just this once; he wouldn't even tease Dean in the morning about the way he grasped Sam's hand as they slept.
