Sometimes guys say it too!
The smell of gun oil mixed with the faint after tinge of powder and lead shot tickled at Sam's nostrils and he surfaced, the imprint of the lap-top's keys creasing his cheek, from his unintended slumbers. At some stage, as he had theoretically stood his watch, his contented cyber musings had lulled him into a much needed sleep. He shook himself, annoyed that he had neglected his duties and glanced, with urgent concern, across the dimly lit room to his sibling's bed.
He'd expected to see his maybe-concussed, bruised and bandaged brother still peacefully sleeping off the after effects of the more-violent-than-routine salt and burn they'd concluded just a few hours before. That would have been the expected, usual, hell normal, outcome of the ordeal Dean had just endured.
However...
That's wasn't what he saw.
But then, on reflection, what would really posses him to think that expected or usual or normal would be something he could expect of his currently slightly-fuzzy, but still over-protective older brother?
It was apparent that as Sam had snoozed, Dean had awoken and in his wakefulness, found an occupation for his idle hands, or more technically, at the moment, hand.
Dean was seated cross-legged on his bed dressed only in his sleep clothes, a geometric sprawl of blades and deconstructed sawn-off parts arranged around him on the stained comforter like a Spirographic pattern of imminent destruction. Cleaning rags and honing stones and oil bottles littered the floor beside the near empty weapons bag.
He was humming softly, his naked toes wiggling to the beat of the barely audible tune as he went about the difficult task of, one handedly, polishing the blade of his lethally sharp throwing knife and Sam noted, that even hampered by a heavily bandaged left hand Dean was making a better job of it than he ever did.
Sam watched as strong, capable fingers soothed the oiled rag against the gleaming silver and he smiled as he remembered the delight he had seen on his brother's too-often troubled face when he had first presented him with the expensive weapon.
Winchester birthdays were often a poor excuse for a celebration but that year Sam had seen the ornately-etched and perfectly weighted blade in a pawn shop a few days days before Dean's upcoming 27th. He knew on sight that it was the perfect gift and a secretive night of hustling pool, and one serious bartering session with the recalcitrant store owner, had finally secured it.
Dean had turned the small blade over and over in his powerful hands, his face alive with pleasure at the lethal perfection of the weapon and Sam had glowed with pride at his find.
He saw that same pleasure on his brother's bruised face now and he rose, walking over to seat himself on the other bed as Dean's eyes left the knife and swung to dizzily track his movements.
"What the hell are you doing, Dean?" Sam's tone was gently indulgent despite his words and Dean raised his hand, the gleaming blade nestled lovingly in his palm as he smiled drowsily at his brother.
"Isn't she pretty, Sammy?"
Dean extended his arm moving the blade close enough for Sam to reach toward the proffered weapon, only to snatch it back determinedly, a petulant frown on his face as he slapped it flat against his chest.
"No! You can't have her..."
Dean shook his head dramatically and his face paled a little as the movement set him in slight, but vertiginous motion.
"Ewh...dizzy!"
The older man mumbled and Sam watched as Dean's hand, still pressing the blade flat to his T-shirt, rubbed at his stomach as he swayed.
"You gonna puke?"
Sam asked recognizing the signs as he shifted over, one hand sweeping the sparkling weapons aside, so he could sit on the bed next to his brother as the other hand went to Dean's shoulder to steady him.
"Oww! Hurts, Sam..."
Dean flinched as Sam's hand landed on his shoulder. Landed right on the newly emerging purple bruises that dappled him from his cracked collar bone, all the way down his chest to his popped and groaning ribs. His swaying increased, and he hiccuped in pain as Sam twisted so he could reach over and grab instead for his uninjured right arm.
"Lean back, Dean."
Sam eased his brother back against the headboard, wriggling the thin pillow behind him, his hazel gaze worriedly studying Dean's pale face.
The older hunter had his eyes shut and was huffing out little breathes as his hand made circles over his stomach, the tip of the blade catching his T-shirt on each circuit. Sam leaned in and gently grasped Dean's hand, prying it away from his belly.
"Let me have the blade, Dean."
Sam felt fingers tighten on the wired leather hilt and he looked up into possessive green eyes.
"No, Sam. S'mine...You dn't look af...ter her proprly..."
Dean's words were a bit slurred but Sam got the 'try take it if you dare, bitch' tone and he shook his head, amusement on his handsome face.
"I'm not gonna take it, Dean. I just don't want you gutting yourself!"
He pulled his brother's cheap old T-shirt away from his stomach so the dagger picks were obvious in the fabric even for Dean's blurry eyes to see and watched as the concussed man's bruised brain struggled to make the connection.
"You're rubbing your gut with the same hand as you're holding your darlin' in..."
Sam explained patiently and he was relieved to see understanding dawn on Dean's face.
"Oh...'kay..."
He let the small but heavy blade drop into his brother's waiting hand but still watched with lingering suspicion as Sam leaned across to lay it on the other bed.
As Dean seamed steadier now he had the bed head at his back, Sam took the moment to clear the other weapons, depositing them next to the knife, out of the way of Dean's bare feet which he noted were looking rather blue.
"Your feet cold?"
Sam nodded towards the cerulean digits as he spoke and Dean's focus shifted slowly from Sam's face to the comforter.
"Nah...Toasty!"
Dean started to shake his head to emphasize his point, but stopped hurriedly as the room began to spin. He closed his eyes briefly, only to open them in surprise as Sam's hand closed around his foot.
"Dean, you're frozen!"
Sam let go his brother's foot and moved his hand to Dean's thigh, then his exposed forearm, testing his temperature.
"Hey. HEY!"
Dean protested, slapping un-coordinatedly with his good arm at Sam's giant hands.
"No feeling it up unless you're gonna buy it!"
Sam laughed, easily fending off the feebly counterstrike.
"Easy there, Dude..."
He clamped on hand over Dean's, pinning it to the bed cover.
"I'm not after your body. I just wanna see if you're running a fever."
Sam's free hand moved to his brother's forehead as he continued, noting with dismay the ease with which he held Dean still.
"Mmm, maybe a bit hot."
Sam mused. Dean's feet and body were freezing but his forehead was warmer and a little sweaty. Sam groaned inwardly, recognizing the too familiar indicators of an incipient Winchester fever. He let go Dean's arm as he wondered if they had a thermometer in the fist aid kit.
"They all say that, Sammy..."
Dean's comment drew Sam back from his musings and he looked into dilated green eyes, confused at his brother's seemingly random comment.
"Say what, Dean?"
Dean's eyes rolled at his brother's slowness as he rubbed absently at his bandaged hand.
"Girls say it all the time."
Sam shook his head still not understanding his brother's ramblings and worrying that Dean's concussion was perhaps worse than he thought. Dean sighed and leaned forward conspiratorially. He gestured Sam in closer and Sam obligingly leaned in to hear the whisper.
"Don't tell anyone, Sam..."
He paused, waiting and Sam eventually took the cue and nodded his assurance of secrecy.
"Sometimes, guys say it too."
Dean's face was a nervous mixture of surprise and embarrassment with an added touch of what might be increasing pain and Sam noted how his good hand had moved to cradle his bandaged left. But still understanding didn't dawn. He looked back to Dean's face and was dismayed to see an expectation of a meaningful response. Sam's mouth quirked in apologetic contrition.
Dean tutted loudly, his raised eyebrows confirming the unspoken 'Sam, for a college boy you're not the brightest cookie in the jar', sentiment.
"That...I'm...hot...Guys say it too, sometimes..."
Dean spoke slowly and carefully like he was talking to a child. A huge, long haired child and Sam grimaced, finally understanding the older man's train of thought.
"Well, when you're not looking like you just got run over by a semi, I guess you do scrub up okay."
Sam's smile held for a moment before switching to concern as he watched his brother's eyes start to flutter with tiredness.
"How do you feel?"
He reached for the comforter from the other bed as he spoke and carefully draped it over Dean's feet, pulling it up his body as the older man sighed.
"I'm cold, Sam."
Tiredness had replaced the childish giddiness of his earlier comments and Sam nodded, watching how Dean was rubbing at his wrapped hand.
"Does your hand hurt?"
Sam rose without waiting for the answer, knowing his brother well enough to recognize when he could no longer mask his discomfort. He picked up the pillow from his own bed and the tylenol bottle, measuring out a dose of pain pills into Dean's trembling hand. He held the water bottle from the nightstand as the pills were swallowed.
"You ready to sleep?"
Weary green eyes answered as he eased his brother down, propping his sore arm and shoulder with the other pillow.
"Tired..."
Dean's voice was soft, exhaustion and pain heightening his youth and Sam drew the comforter up around him.
"I know. Get some sleep now."
Dean nodded but still didn't close his eyes. Something was eating at him. Sam could feel it, see it in the frown creasing his forehead.
"What's wrong?"
No answer but Dean's eyes still held Sam's.
"Why did you get up before? I don't get it. Why the weapon drill in the middle of the night?"
Dean shook his head, his eyes were drooping but still they held Sam's.
And suddenly he knew.
"I fell asleep, I was supposed to be watching you and I fell asleep."
Sam's words dripped guilt and Dean struggled stiffly to sit up.
"You were tired,Sammy."
Sam heard no reproachment only forgiveness but he was angry with himself.
"So were you!"
Dean's smile was weak and Sam could see him trembling,
"But even so you watched over me."
Dean didn't have enough breath to answer.
"You got the guns out and cleaned them to keep you awake so I could sleep. Didn't you?"
Dean was starting to gasp for breath, discomfort written all over his face. Discomfort that didn't come just from his bruises but from the conversation.
"S...Sam...it..."
Sam held up his hand knowing what his big brother was going to say and smiling to show he understood Dean's life long need to look out for him. He stood and with care eased Dean down under the covers.
"Your turn, now, Sleep, Dean, I'll keep watch. Okay? Don't want you getting sick on me."
Dean nodded, his eyes fluttering as Sam put his hand to Dean's forehead checking again for fever.
"Hot..."
Sam mumbled unhappily.
"What...they...all say, Smmy!"
Dean whispered and Sam remembered his brother's earlier concussed revelations. He laughed.
"Yeah, Dean. Sometimes guys say it too, huh!"
That was one he would so have to explore with Dean with when he was better!
The end.
Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.