Vicinity
Spoilers: Set Mid-Season 3
Had Sam not been floating in a haze of codeine-laced cough syrup and sweat drenched bedsheets, coughing his lungs out and feeling like the most miserable piece of shit on the world, he might have felt guilty about inadvertendly forcing Dean to take care of him once the Bronchitis had set in instead of searching for ways to stop Lilith and her Deal before it was too late.
As it was, Sam barely remembered his older brother force feeding him medications, urging him to eat soup, a gentle hand rubbing some kind of jelly on his chest during odd hours of the night (whatever it was, it made it easier for him to breathe, though it burned a little) and the occasional moment of lucidity in which he was only coherent enough to bitch at Dean to turn the television down because his cough-induced headache was making it hard to concentrate on anything with the sound of melodramatic soap operas as ambience.
He woke up Thursday morning a week after the Bronchitis had set in to find himself buried in a mound of sheets with all of the lights turned out and blankets draped over every window. Groggily, Sam sat up and glanced around in search of Dean. He was too tired to think much past the fact that he had to find his brother, had to make sure he was there because Dean was always there when he woke up.
Sam untangled himself from the sheets, hazily rolling to the edge of the bed with a weak cough. He sat up, squinting through bleary eyes to see the television playing a muted informercial, the very top of Dean's head peeking out over the arm of the tiny motel couch.
Sam pushed himself to his feet, rubbing the ache in his chest and coughing again before shuffling over to the couch. He stopped, staring down at where his brother had dozed off and was suddenly overcome with the need to just be /near/ him. Without thinking, Sam made his way around the couch and knelt in front of it, watching Dean for a moment and then leaning forward like he was drawn in. He pressed his cheek against Dean's lower ribs, eyes falling shut and sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, exhaling with a huff of contentment.
Dean's breathing shifted, waking up, and Sam groggily turned his nose into Dean's belly, rubbing his face against the soft fabric of the man's faded tee. He inhaled the scent of his brother, comfort washing over him at the simple action. Dean squirmed and Sam blearily peeked an eye open, blinking to focus through the sleepy veil that had remained constant since he'd gotten up.
Dean had the softest smile on his face Sam could ever recall seeing. His brother brought up the hand that had been sitting on his chest, letting go of the remote he'd been clutching to press his palm against Sam's forehead. Sam closed his eyes, absorbing the feeling and taking comfort in the small action while Dean started running his hand through Sam's bangs, petting his hair gently.
"You know, you used to do this when you were two." Dean said softly, something in his voice that Sam couldn't really pick out in his half-asleep state. He cracked his eyes open again, lips weakly quirking up in response to the tiny, happy grin on Dean's face. Dean's words registered a second later and he furrowed his brows in confusion.
"Did I?" He croaked, voice hoarse from days of nothing but violent coughing. Dean nodded, still gently carding his fingers through Sam's sweat-damp hair.
"Yeah. Every morning you woke up." Dean muttered fondly. Sam hummed deep in his throat, eyes sliding shut again. He sunk deeper into the haze that pulled at him, falling asleep curled up next to the couch with his brother's stomach as a pillow, Dean's gentle petting and steady inhale/exhale lulling him into slumber.
"Love you, Sammy." Was the last thing Sam registered before he slipped off.