'I hate Florida,' Dean sentenced, fiddling with the Impala's air conditioning. 'Even with the fan at full blast, I'm wilting like a snowman in the Sahara.'
Sam studied his sibling. Effectively, Dean's face was covered in a damp sheen of sweat.
:
'It's not that hot, Dean,' Sam observed. 'Maybe you're coming down with something.'
So saying, he passed a hand over his sibling's forehead. Dean's skin was practically crackling with heat.
:
The older man pulled away. 'Stop feeling me up, dude.'
'You're on fire,' Sam said, concerned.
'That's because it's friggin' hot, doufus.'
'I think I know the difference between hot and a raging fever, Dean! Draw in at the nearest motel,' Sam ordered, ignoring his brother's objections.
:
Though he'd be slow to admit it, Dean enjoyed these moments. Just him and Sam. No monsters, demons or angels; the two of them together in some anonymous motel room.
He even enjoyed Sam's coddling, though that was torture material to admit to!
Dean didn't get fussed over much, so, outwardly grumbling, he allowed Sam to have his way, pills, cool cloths on his forehead, thermometer stuck under his tongue, orange juice sucked up with a straw.
Sam's ministrations over, Dean fell into a dreamless sleep.
His little brother would watch over him like a doting mom. One of these days he'd call him that, just for the pleasure of seeing a pissed-off bitch-face.