"Sam… Saaaaaam…. Sammy… Ssssaaaaammmmmyyyy," was the miserable, hoarse call that woke Sam Winchester up.
He cracked open an eye and looked towards the motel window. No light was seeping through the spaces in the curtains so it must have been still night time. He swore he heard someone calling his name but he wasn't sure so he waited. He glanced at the clock; it was six in the morning.
There was a horrible sniff and cough. "Samuel Bitch Winchester," Dean's voice called him. Sam could tell that he was trying to sound demanding and mean, but all Sam heard was pathetic pleading.
Shit.
Dean was sick.
Sam angrily shoved the blankets off of him and swung his long legs out of bed. He stomped to the bathroom where the light was bleeding into the motel room from the two inch opening. He blinked against the harsh bare florescent lighting. "What?" he asked rubbing his eyes and shoving the door open with a shoulder.
Dean was sitting on the floor in front of the toilet, wrapped up in a motel towel. Sam let his eyes adjust for a second before he took in Dean's sickly appearance. Dean's face was pale and wet. His freckles stood out like someone had Sharpie'd them on his nose. His eyes were red rimmed and bleary, making them look a sickly green. His teeth were chattering as he shivered, clutching the towel around his shoulders like a frail old woman with an afghan blanket.
"'M sick," Dean said gruffly. He was visibly agitated by this fact.
"What do you want me to do about it?" Sam asked even though he knew full well what Dean wanted. But Dean had to ask for it.
Dean looked away and shrugged.
"I'm going back to bed," Sam said and turned to leave the bathroom despite all of his instincts to gather Dean up and bring him back to bed and spoon feed him soup and applesauce and all other foods Dean hated but had no energy to fight.
"Wait," Dean practically whined. It was the single most pathetic thing Sam had heard in five minutes.
Sam stopped and returned to the bathroom, fighting the knowing smirk that was trying very hard to dance on his lips. "Yes, Dean?"
"Help me?" Dean croaked before puking up his life story into the motel toilet.
Sam hated everything about puking. Even when it was someone else being sick. But this was Dean, so he didn't let Dean see him gagging almost every two seconds. He took the towel from Dean's shoulders and rubbed the damp material of his dark grey t-shirt. Dean's muscles seized under Sam's hand as he rubbed in soothing circles.
Finally, Dean finished and sat back on the tile floor. He groaned and Sam reached over and flushed the toilet.
"Better?" Sam asked.
"No," Dean said, his voice was no more than a wobbly whisper. "You just flushed my soul down the toilet."
"How very melodramatic of you," Sam said sarcastically and helped Dean up to the sink.
Dean slowly brushed his teeth and used the little bottle of Listerine. He was still shivering and sweating when Sam helped him back to his bed. Sam piled his blanket onto Dean's bed as well. He wasn't cold and knew he wasn't going to be getting any more sleep with a sick diva on his hands.
Dean was sprawled out on his stomach, face pressed into the mattress. Sam went through his duffle and found a hoodie. It was Sam's hoodie that he wore occasionally on days off or in colder motel rooms, but Dean needed it.
"Sit up," Sam said.
Dean flopped himself over with a groan and sat up, his head lolling. He was being dramatic. Sam freaking hated when Dean was sick.
"Oh, shut up, you're not dying," Sam huffed.
"Sammy? Is that you?" Dean feebly joked.
"Arms up," Sam said and Dean obliged with heavy limbs.
Sam stripped the sweat soaked t-shirt off of Dean. Dean kept his arms up, waiting for the hoodie. Sam tugged the oversized hoodie over Dean's head and arms and down over his torso. Dean immediately pulled the hood up and it drooped in the front, covering all but the tip of his nose and his mouth. He gave a horrible, wet sniff and flopped back on the bed. Sam pulled the covers up to Dean's chin.
Dean swallowed roughly. "I want something hot on my throat," he said.
"Want me to call Cas?" Sam asked. Cas would probably fly off to get Dean some soup and tea faster than Sam could clear the snow and ice off the Impala and navigate to the nearest CVS.
Dean snaked a hand out from under the covers, lifted his hood to glare at Sam and said "Now that was rude and uncalled for."
Sam snorted. He hadn't meant it that way, but if that's where Dean's mind went first then so be it. "I meant do you want me to call him to fly and get you some soup?"
Dean looked thoughtful. "Nah. He'd probably get too grossed out and then never come when we call ever again," Dean settled.
"Fine, I'll go," Sam sighed before going to tug on some thick jeans and as many shirts as he could fit.
An hour later Sam stomped snow off of his shoes as he opened the motel room door. Dean had propped himself up with all of the pillows in the room and was watching tv. He looked like a sickly king on his throne. Which was the perfect way to describe a sick Dean.
"Did you get soup?" Dean asked.
"Yeah," Sam said, pulling off his gloves after setting the bags down on the scratched, wooden table.
"Chicken noodle?" Dean narrowed his eyes.
"Chicken and stars," Sam said. "It was all they had on the shelf. And don't you dare pout, because I will shove it down your throat without second thought." Sam learned his bedside manner from his dad.
Dean mumbled something under his breath.
"What about the pie?" Dean asked.
"Where was I going to get pie at seven in the morning, Dean?" Sam sighed.
"Cas would bring me pie," Dean sulked.
"Then call him," Sam snapped as he ripped the plastic seal off the liquid ibuprofen. Dean refused to swallow pills.
Sam poured the appropriate dose of medicine in the supplied cap and gave Dean a tumbler of orange juice as a chaser. Dean wrinkled his nose at the offending purple medicine.
"On the count of three," Sam said. Dean held the medicine at the ready. "One, two, three." Dean threw the thimble full of medicine back like it was a shot, made a horrible face, then immediately drank down all of the orange juice. They would have to do this counting thing every time. They'd had to do it for as long as Sam could remember. Dean could stitch up his own chest with dental floss and a blunt sewing needle, but he couldn't take his cough medicine like a man. It would forever mystify Sam.
There was an old microwave in the room. Sam was sort of nervous about using it, but he used his pocket knife to open the can of chicken and stars soup and poured it into a bowl he bought at the drugstore and stuck it in the microwave for a minute. When it came out it was steaming and Sam tested the temperature on his lip like it was baby formula. Which it basically was.
He handed the propped up and still miserable looking Dean the bowl. Dean slowly lifted the plastic spoon to his mouth. He hummed in approval as he swallowed the hot soup. While Dean ate and coughed and sneezed and complained about nothing on the tv and how his pillows were lumpy and his throat hurt and he was thirsty and his back hurt, Sam opened a box of tissues and brought the garbage can over to Dean's bedside. Sam microwaved some hot water in a ceramic mug that said "Kiss Me" on it and was decorated with hearts. It was fifty cents on the clearance rack now that Valentine's Day was three weeks past.
"Is that tea?" Dean asked.
"Yes," Sam said as he dunked the tea bag into the water.
"Is it peppermint tea?" Dean continued.
"Yes, Dean," Sam said and put in about ten sugar packets.
"Lotsa sugar?" Dean tested.
"Of course," Sam sighed and stirred the tea and brought it to Dean who traded the empty soup bowl for the tea.
"It says 'Kiss Me,'" Dean observed.
"It does, indeed," Sam replied.
"That's weird," Dean said.
"Just drink your damn tea, Dean," Sam snapped. He was grumpy. He didn't get enough sleep and now he had to take care of Queen Dean of Diva Snot Island.
"Bossy," Dean said into the cup before taking a tentative sip. "Too hot."
"Then let it cool off," Sam said moodily and climbed onto his bed and turned on his laptop.
Dean got about halfway through his cup of tea before the coughing fit began. He coughed hard twice and Sam didn't even look up from his laptop. Then when he continued even harder, Sam set his laptop down and watched with raised eyebrows as Dean's trachea extracted his left lung.
"You alright?" Sam asked and moved towards Dean's bed.
Dean shook his head, doubled over and coughing. His eyes were streaming and his coughs sounded so painful that Sam's chest and throat ached in sympathy. Sam knew that he could breathe. If he couldn't breathe he wouldn't be coughing. So Sam simply waited as Dean coughed and coughed and coughed like he couldn't even control it.
Sam felt bad now for being so sassy and sarcastic with Dean about being sick. Yeah, Dean was a complete pain in the ass to deal with when he was sick but he didn't get sick often, thank God. Sam grabbed a cough drop from the nightstand between their beds and opened it, waiting for Dean's coughs to subside. When they did after what felt like a half hour, Dean grabbed the cough drop and his tea like they were the last ones on Earth. He took three hurried gulps of his tea before putting the cough drop in his mouth with shaking fingers.
"You okay now?" Sam asked touching Dean's shaking arm.
Dean tried to groan in response but it came out as a dry squeak. It was a funny sound so Sam couldn't help but laugh. Sam laughing got Dean going so they slumped together laughing in the middle of Dean's bed. Once their laughter subsided, Dean moved closer to Sam.
"What're you doing?" Sam asked, looking down to see Dean nuzzling up against him.
"This room is freezing and you're like a furnace over there," Dean said, his teeth chattering for effect.
Sam sighed and slid under the covers next to Dean. Dean pressed himself against Sam and rested his forehead in the swoop of Sam's neck. "Never speak of this again," Dean ground out between teeth clenched against the chattering.
"Sure thing," Sam said and wrapped an arm around Dean.