It's not the worst night of Dean's life, but it's pretty damn close.
He's huddled in bed, shivering under a sheet, two blankets and a comforter, trying to gather the strength to pick up the glass of water on the bedside table and take a few sips. He's been puking for hours now and he's pretty sure the pounding headache that recently made itself known is a sign that he's dehydrated. It's just that the table is so far away, and the glass is so heavy, and it's just going to make him puke again anyway, so what's the point?
He lies there for a few more minutes until his stomach twists and he has to drag himself into the tiny bathroom to heave bitter strings of yellow bile into the toilet. He wishes desperately for Jedi powers so he can telekinetically retrieve his blankets and pillow. It's fucking cold in here.
Suddenly the fluorescent light above his head bursts into life and Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the roaring pain in his head. He tries to yell at Sam to turn it off, but all that comes out is "Hrrnnrhhgh."
"Fuck, are you okay?" Hands on his shoulders pull him up off the floor and huge, rough fingers press against his forehead, then both cheeks. "Jesus. You're burning up."
The requisite wisecrack flits through Dean's conscious mind, but his fevered brain can't grab onto it. He moans again and leans into the touch.
"You've gotta drink some water, you're not even sweating." The solid presence at his back shifts and then disappears altogether. Dean doesn't have the strength to keep himself upright, so he topples gracelessly on his side, shivering convulsively when his exposed skin comes in contact with the cold linoleum floor.
"Hey, hey..." He's lifted off the floor and held up by strong arms. A cold glass is pressed to his lips. "Take it slow. Small sips."
Dean drinks as much as he can, then shakes his head slightly to let Sam know he's done. Dean slumps against the warm, solid wall of his brother's chest, taking comfort in the strong, steady beat of Sam's heart under his ear. A hand slides across his back, the other slips under his shirt and gently massages his aching, abused stomach muscles. Everything is silent and still and somehow right in a way it hasn't been since before Dad died.
Some time later--it could be seconds or hours, Dean doesn't really know--Sam puts the glass to Dean's mouth again and coaxes him to drink in soft, gentle tones. He finishes the glass and it returns a few moments later filled to the brim. Sam meters out the water in doses that won't make Dean sick and soon the malaise and distress give way to something like calm and contentment.
Finally, Sam eases him up off the floor and guides him back to bed. Sam tries to disentangle himself from Dean, but Dean moans and clutches Sam's hand with all the strength he possesses and soon Sam gives in and climbs into the bed beside Dean. Dean finds Sam's heartbeat and lets the slow, rhythmic pulse lull him into sleep.