A/N: I probably shouldn't start another fic since I have about a half-dozen incomplete stories lounging around, but I'm fresh to the supernatural fandom, and I just couldn't resist. Besides, what's better than some hurt!Sam, protective!Dean, and a big helping of angst and fluff? That's right. Nothing. At all.

"Enjoying the view, sunshine?" Dean said.

The eldest Winchester grunted, knee-deep in a pile of dirt. With a short groan, he swung another scoop of mud behind him, watching as it flew half-haphazardly into the grass. Sure, Dean was fit – he'd the spent the majority of his life chasing demons and running after stray spirits – but even he had a limit. "It's a simple salt and burn," Sam had said.

Yeah, simple. Except for the part where they had to dig the hell out of a grave.

His back ached, his muscles straining from the long day of work. It was dark out; the trees were an eerie group of fugitives, huddling together with entwining branches. From his peripheral vision, Dean could see Sam with his hands on his knees, shovel resting on his left shoulder.

Damn if that kid wasn't helping.

"Don't worry, Princess," Dean said. "I'll dig this whole thing up for you. Wouldn't want to get dirt on that pretty face of yours."

Sam didn't say anything. He'd been oddly quiet during the hunt. Usually he'd be blathering on and on, talking about famous historical figures, geographical phenomena, the art of learning Latin. You named it, and Sammy launched into a long lecture about it. But today… Dean's eyes swerved over to Sam, where his little brother had his lips set in a straight line. Dirt smudged Sam's cheeks, and his hair was a wild mess on his forehead. He breathed heavily; eyelids fluttering with fatigue.

Dean paused, resting the shovel on the ground. "You okay?"

Sam blinked. It took him a moment to break out of whatever spell he was in. "Yeah." Sam took a deep breath, and stuck his shovel into the hard dirt. "I'm fine, Dean." He eyed his brother. "Just tired."

"Let's speed things up then," Dean said, concerned gaze still on Sam. "We'll be here all night if you don't pitch in."

"Right – uh – sorry." Sam tossed dirt over his shoulder, pushing the shovel deep into the soil. "I was just…"

Distracted?

Tired?

Hiding something?

Dean squinted, trying to gain some ground on what the hell was wrong with Sammy. But Sam was stone-faced, swinging dirt out of the way in a newfound rapid pace. Maybe the kid was telling the truth. Maybe Sam was just tired.

Shrugging, Dean nodded in approval, and returned his shovel to the ground. With both of them working quickly, the salt and burn was done before midnight. After preening the grave back to perfection, the both of them stumbled wearily into the Impala. The moon was high in the air as Dean turned on the engine.

Sam sat in the passenger seat, shivering in his beige coat.

Dean ramped up the heating, and started down the twisting road. "You cold?" Dean asked.

"A little," Sam said, still distant.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and Dean forced a grin. "Maybe it's because you're literally a bean pole. Geez, Sammy, what do you eat all day, salad?" It was a joke, yeah – but not completely. Because as Dean watched the slope of Sam's neck, the long, lanky limbs that were his legs, he couldn't help but notice how thin Sam looked.

He'd definitely lost some weight. Dean had presumed it was from all of the exercise from hunting, but he suddenly wasn't so sure.

"I'm ordering a party-sized pizza when we get back to the hotel," Dean said.

"I'm not hungry," Sam said.

"You're not a hungry my ass," Dean said. "I'm shoving pizza down your throat if it's the last thing I do tonight."

Sam's gaze flickered – a mixture of annoyance and fatigue – and he slouched in the Impala's leather seats. "I'm not hungry," he repeated.

One hand on the steering wheel, Dean shot his brother a precarious look. There was clearly something off with his little sibling, but for the life of him, Dean couldn't figure out what. Tired? Yeah, okay, they'd had a long day. But never hungry? Losing weight? Worry gnawed in his stomach, a churning sensation of god, this poor kid.

"It's about Jessica, isn't it?" Dean finally said.

Sam tensed – then his shoulders relaxed. "No," he mumbled. "It hurts about her. But it's not that. I'm just not hungry."

Dean had known Sam long enough to know when he was lying and when he was telling the truth. Unfortunately, Sam had spoken with nothing but honesty. Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, speeding past a blur of forests and empty land. He'd been certain Sam's unusual behaviour had to do with Jessica's death, but now… Dean's eyes unwillingly flicked over to Sam again.

The younger Winchester had his head resting on the windowsill, eyes closed. He looked ghostly pale.

Dean swallowed. "I'm going to crank up some Zeppelin. That okay?"

Sam lifted his head, and shot him an incredulous look. "Dude, it's midnight!"

Dean was relieved to hear the sassiness in Sam's tone. It brought color to his face. "It's never too late for Zeppelin," Dean reasoned.

"I'm not listening to your loud-ass music," Sam grumbled. He sunk lower in the seat, trying to get comfortable with his long legs crumpled underneath the car space. But then the light left his face, and Sam's eyes closed again, a barely visible frown creasing his mouth. Dean stared at him for the longest time, hand resting on the music player.

"It's called quality entertainment," Dean said.

Sam didn't reply.

Dean's hand stayed on the music player, but they drove the rest of the way home in silence.

…..

"At least eat one slice," Dean pressed.

"Dean," Sam said, and he rubbed his face in frustration. He knew Dean meant well – his big brother always did – but that didn't mean it didn't get on Sam's nerves. They were sitting on opposite twin beds in their current hotel of residence, and Sam's body was begging for sleep. He was exhausted- from the strands of coconut brown hair on his head to the nail of his big toe. His eyes were like heavy weights, and his joints ached.

"Don't Dean me," Dean said, stuffing another slice of pizza in his mouth. "We can sit here all day Sam, but you're not hitting that bed until you eat one slice."

"You're not my boss," Sam said, but he wasn't really trying to start a fight. He was just so damn tired. The warm comfort of the bed was tantalizing, and Sam stretched his legs out against the blanket. His socked toes reached the end of the bed, and he allowed himself to close his eyes just for a second.

"Sam!" Dean barked.

Sam sighed, eyes fluttering open. Dean was like a second Dad – which meant a second drill sergeant. With grudging reluctance, Sam picked up the slice of vegetable-topped pizza, scrutinized it as if it was covered with beetles, and took a small bite. All he could taste was cardboard, and he swallowed down sandpaper.

"I'm not – look, I'll eat something." Sam's shoulders were hunched. "M'not hungry right now." His words slurred at the end, but he was too sleepy to be embarrassed.

Dean stared at him with a face full of uncertainty. "Damn it Sam…"

"Rest is good," Sam pointed out. "Very healthy."

Sam earned a smirk from Dean there – but it was more of a twist between a smile and a frown. He could see the wheels in Dean's head turning, oily machinery debating: Should I let Sammy off the hook? Am I horrible big brother if I do that? Is sleep more important, or food? Finally – and thankfully – Dean said in a resigned voice:

"Fine. But tomorrow morning, I'm making my famous eggs, and you're eating them no matter what."

Sam smiled drowsily. "Your eggs suck."

Dean pretended to be dramatically shocked and hurt, and Sam snorted, shaking his head. Still dressed in sweatpants and his jacket, he immediately pounced under the covers. Warm enveloped him immediately – and heat radiating into his tired body. "Mmm…" Sam moaned, and buried his face in his pillow. "So good."

"You sound like you're having sex," Dean said impishly.

Sam didn't respond – sex sounding like too much work at the moment – and let sleep blur his consciousness. Behind him, Dean was putting salt around the doors and windows. Then the lights shut off, there was mild cursing, and a stretch of silence.

"Hey Sam?"

Sam didn't respond, engrossed in warmth.

"Night," Dean said.

There wasn't a reply right away, but then Sam mumbled something between "Dean" and "Nnghh" and Dean grinned into darkness.

….

"Now that's just nasty."

It was 5 AM in the morning, and Sam's face was flushed pink. He felt disgustingly sticky, heat radiating off of his gangly body. His white shirt was soaked to the bone, and his bed sheets were pooled in excess sweat. Sam shivered; then snorted at his own actions – and wondered how someone could ever sweat that much in under five hours.

Body flushed, Sam stepped out of the bed, letting the covers drop to the floor. He knew he smelled like sweat and grime, and he wanted badly to take a shower.

But he was still tired, and he trembled on his feet.

On the other side of the room, Dean just stared at him like Sam was an unearthly Cyclops. In contrast to Sam, Dean was fresh-faced, clad in new clothes, and strapping guns into his duffle bag. Heaving the bag over his shoulder, he shot Sam another once-over.

"Pretty gross, Sammy," Dean said.

"Yeah, well," Sam said, unable to come up with a comeback. Because it was gross. His sheets were sweat-soaked, and so was his shirt. "I guess it got hot."

"Sure, with the air conditioning going full-blast," Dean said. His face was wary. "Dude, are you on something?"

"No." Sam fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeve. "I'm going to take a shower. I'll be out in ten."

Dean eyed him critically. "Better make it twenty."

Sam flushed darker, and hurried into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. Stupid Dean. Now that he was behind closed doors, Sam's tense shoulders unravelled. He slumped forward, hands clenched around the edge of the sink counter. Head down, Sam stared at the white sink bowl.

Dizzy. Exhausted.

He thought getting a good night's sleep would have helped, but he was just as tired as he'd been last night.

He didn't know what had been going on with him lately. Every day, he woke up lethargic and lazy. His legs refused to move. His eyes refused to stay awake. His head refused to not spin. Pushing back his hair with his hand, Sam stared at himself. He'd lost some weight. He no longer looked like Dean's badass sidekick (sidekick – Sam was not fond of the term, but admittedly, Dean usually called the shots), but a weary, exhausted college student who'd been pulling all-nighters for exam after exam.

"C'mon Sam," Sam told himself. "Get it together."

He wanted to get it together. Jessica's killer was still out there, and Sam had to find it. He felt a bubble of rage under the layers of apathy, and Sam smiled briefly. Even dead, Jessica made him feel alive, if even for a moment.

Stripping off his sweaty clothes, Sam stepped into the shower. He turned the cold water on full-blast, and relished as the sweat slipped away into the drain. He shampooed his floppy hair, and came out fifteen minutes later, towel wrapped around his waist. The cold water had given him a morning boost, and he felt a little better.

Until he looked in the mirror and saw the dark purple bruise on his lower abdomen.

Sam stared at the bruise for the longest time, beads of wetness trailing down his nape from his wet hair. Since when did… since when did that get there? He got bruises all the time, but this was distinctly visible, and Sam didn't remember it at all. He lightly brushed the purple area. Maybe he'd gotten hurt and hadn't realized it? Sam swallowed, hand falling back to his side. The heavy cloud of fatigue came back, and Sam's eyes stung.

He was so confused and tired and sick of everything.

He had no idea what the fuck was going on with him.

Unable to tear his eyes away from the bruise, Sam stared, wallowing in his own pity. He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Get your ass moving, Sam! We've got an angry spirit to hunt down!"

Right.

Spirits. Hunting.

Sam took a deep breath. He brought the towel up to his shoulders instead (like a chick, as Dean would say), and got out of the bathroom. Dean's back was facing him, and the distinct smell of eggs had filled the room.

Sam wrinkled his nose as a fit of nausea overcame his stomach.

Eggs. Gross.

"Hey," Dean said, but he had a weird look on his face. "Hurry it up. I've got a lead on this next case."

"Oh yeah?" Sam asked as he tugged a sweater over his head.

"Yeah, uh – there's this local legend. Something about this guy who killed his wife by slitting her eyes out." He grimaced.

"Pleasant," Sam hummed.

"I know," Dean said. He pointed to the simmering white and yellow globs on the pan. "I made my famous eggs."

"They're not famous."

"Well, you're eating them."

There was a moment of silence.

Sam had finished getting changed, and now stared morosely at the eggs like Dean had told him to eat a pile of vampire piss. Dean wasn't sure what was up with his baby brother, but something was definitely wrong. Sam still looked tired, for one thing, and all of that sweat? Dean had acted like it was all gross and shit, but deep down, Dean was worried as hell.

It wasn't normal to sweat that much at night.

But Dean forced the issue away, and swallowed it down. He didn't want to be overbearing – not until it was necessary.

"You're eating," Dean repeated.

Sam shrugged, hands shoved in his pockets. "I dunno. I was thinking we could just grab something on the way – y'know, coffee, a donut."

"Seriously?" Dean faced him. "I already made the damn food. I know they're not all that good, but they're eggs. I can't mess 'em up that bad."

"Yeah, but… I just don't like eggs."

Dean studied him. "Since when?"

Sam squirmed uncomfortably. "Since… now?"

It was a pathetic excuse if Dean had ever heard one.

Wiping his greasy hand against the side of his pants, Dean set the plate of eggs on the table. "Eat," he commanded.

"Dean." Sam shifted his weight. "I'm 22. You're not…"

"I'm not what?" Dean asked, fire in his eyes. "I'm not allowed to make sure my baby brother doesn't starve himself to death?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not hungry."

Dean threw his hands in the air. "Great! He's not hungry, he says. Dammit, Sam. You weren't hungry last night either."

Sam offered a meek look of apology. "Maybe I'm catching the flu."

"Yeah." Dean rolled his eyes. "Maybe."

There was a tense moment in which Dean slammed pots and pans in the kitchen sink, and Sam was too tired to laugh at how domestic his big brother looked. After Dean was done, Dean grabbed dad's journal, and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Alright, let's go see if we can talk to some of the locals," he said.

Sam nodded, grateful that the eggs had been avoided for the time being.

As Dean locked the hotel room, Sam felt his stomach lurch, and a wave of dizziness ran over him. For a moment, he stumbled – but caught his balance as he steadied his vision. He was glad Dean hadn't noticed, walking in long strides in front of him. Pushing away the pressing whatever the hell was going on with him, Sam straightened up, and trailed after Dean to chase their next hunt.

Sam was sure he was fine.

Yeah, he was dizzy, sweaty, thin, and had unexplainable bruises, but it wasn't a big deal.

It was probably just the flu or something.

Nothing serious.

Nothing Sam couldn't handle.

There was a pressing weight in the back of his mind that said this could be worse than you think but in true Winchester fashion, Sam ignored the warning signs, squared his shoulders, and followed his big brother out into the open air.