Title: Caring

Rating: K

Summary: While on a hunt, Sam gets an illness. The catch: it's a disease that reverts you to your childhood self. Dean is not amused.

Words: 2217

Notes: So, after two exhaustingly long weeks of exams and a way-over-extended-than-intended hiatus, I'm finally back with a new story, which I hope is good, because, honestly, when it comes to judging my stories, I'm hopeless. Enjoy and remember: reviews are always appreciated!

Thanks to Salted Shotguns for her amazing beta! Any and all mistakes in this story are purely mine. Head over to her profile and give her stories a looksie.

Okay, this was seriously disconcerting. Dean was used to Samantha; the overgrown-girl Sam had a tendency to channel in some of his most girly moments. Dean was used to emo-Sam; the predecessor of Samantha, the one with the Eyes. Those dreaded puppy-dog eyes that could make Dean do anything and feel absolutely fine about it. Hell, Dean was also used to angry-determined-hunter-Sam; the hunter their father had wanted him to be. What Dean was not used to was this version of Sam; this child-Sam, the innocent little brother Sam used to be. The one that looked to Dean to have every answer, to solve all problems. The one that had plain, unmasked adoration in his eyes every time he looked at Dean.

Yeah, Dean finally had to concede, this was disconcerting. He barely just remembered how to deal with this Sam.

This is where one would ask why Dean had to deal with that Sam. Surely, since Sam was all grown up, child-Sam would just be a memory to be perused fondly and maybe to mock adult-Sam with.

If only…

The infamous Winchester-luck had struck again. Long story short: Sam and Dean had been hunting a witch. Said witch turning out to be a lot more powerful than its victims' bodies gave it credit for (of course). The not-witch cursing Sam, giving him the mentality and physical appearance of a seven-year-old, and making him sick to boot, then mumbling something about "stubborn Winchesters" and "fix it" and leaving, probably to bad-mouth the Winchesters to the rest of its kind and telling them to curse anyone they came across that had the name "Winchester".

Dean couldn't possibly care less about that, only, he needed to find a counter-curse to revert Sam back to his normal age and demeanor. And naturally, that counter-curse could only be performed under two very specific circumstances. First, Dean needed to know what the creature was. A strange requirement, but there you go. That was cleared when a phone call to Bobby had had him good-naturedly grumbled at and an answer, at which point things went to Hell because Sam decided he wanted to talk to "Uncle Bobby". He figured maybe he was sick because he hadn't heard the voice of their surrogate-father. After getting the phone away from Sam – which involved a lot of bribery, coaxing and tears – and getting cussed at for being "mean" to Sam – and Dean was still getting over Bobby's use of the word "mean" – Dean ended the call and realized he still had to deal with a sick, sad, overly emotional and open, innocent Sam. And of course the other step was that Dean had to spend a minimum of twelve hours with this Sam to get his version back. Sometimes, Dean really questioned their sanity and decision-making abilities.

"Dean," Sam said, voice slightly cracked and incredibly hoarse. "I don't feel so good." He pouted, using his puppy-dog eyes. And… they were starting to water. Awesome. Just stab Dean with a dagger why don't you? It would hurt a lot less.

Dean did his best to not mother-hen Sam. At least even more so than he was already doing, but, hey, if Sam wasn't complaining, Dean wouldn't either. He moved towards the bed on which Sam lay curled up and sat down next to him. "I know, Sammy. Sucks, huh? We'll get you better, I promise." Dean stroked his little brother's hair. Sam snuggled into him.

"But, Dean, I really don't feel good." Dean absently wondered if Sam was conscious of the fact that he sounded like a whiny kid. Then decided that he really didn't care. Moving away from the bed, shushing Sam's whimper at the loss of contact, Dean got out the medicine that he remembered put Sam to sleep as easily and effectively as getting hit on the head with a mallet. With a lot less pain, obviously. He grabbed a glass of water from the kitchenette and turned towards the bed again. Just because Dean had to stay in Sam's company for twelve hours didn't mean he had to listen to Sam's inner girl. So far, Sam had said 'I love you' at least five times and 'You're the greatest big brother ever!' at least as many times if not more. While Dean did love his brother (though God forbid he say so out loud), he couldn't spend any more time with this version of Sam because he was too afraid of what would come out of his mouth next.

Returning to the bed, Dean sat down once more and, in soothing tones, spoke to his sick baby brother. "Hey, Sammy. Why don't we take some medicine for that nasty fever you got going, huh? It'll make you feel a whole lot better." 'And might spare me a lot of painful soul-baring.'

To his utmost surprise, Sam's fever-bright hazel eyes filled with tears. Worried his brother might be in pain, Dean opened his mouth to ask a question that was cut off with a dejected half-sob.

"You really think I'm a burden, Dean? Am I really that awful to deal with?" Fat tears slipped unchecked down Sam's cheeks. He trembled in Dean's arms, like saying even that much hurt.

Dean was, to say the least, shell-shocked. "Why would you think that? Hey, no, look at me," he said, as Sam made to turn away. "You can't just say something like that and then pretend nothing happened. Why would you think something like that, Sam?"

Sam's lower lip was quivering. "We-well, you never meet my eyes, you never look at me directly, you always look uncomfortable and flinch when you think I can't see you whenever I t-try to say something," Sam let out a heart-wrenching sob and continued. "Whenever I do manage to glimpse your eyes, there's something in them that wasn't there before and, a-and," another sob, "I don't want to lose you Dean. You're my only brother. I can't… what will I do if you decide you don't want me with you anymore?" Sam looked at Dean, eyes completely open, showcasing his emotions, highlighting the anguish that had no business being there. "Was it something I said? Did I do something wrong, Dean? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I swear. I-I… just… let me…" Sam choked on his words, and Dean, in desperation, hoped he would be unable to continue. But naturally, he was wrong. Sam went on. "I'm really sorry, Dean. Please don't make me leave. I love you, please don't leave. Please-"

"Stop, Sam. Just… stop. Please. I'm begging you, stop."

Dean had heard enough. This wasn't seven-year-old Sam talking, that was for sure. And suddenly the point of the stupid curse made sense to him.

This was his Sam, talking without his regular inhibitions, nothing to stop him from saying all he wanted, and nothing to stop him from saying what he so desperately needed to say. And, while Dean would normally do anything to have Sam do just that, this… this was just too much for Dean to deal with in the short time period he was being given. And he got the gist of it. If said gist was enough to let tears escape his eyes – without him even noticing until they splattered on his jeans – he figured he couldn't handle the full truth in painful detail.

"Sam… why would you think that?" Dean understood that Sam was sick, but he also understood the curse now. The only way to get rid of it was to clear the air between himself and his brother. He felt guilty and ashamed that it had taken a supernatural being to make him notice that this was eating away at Sam from the inside. Usually, Dean prided himself on being able to read Sam's mind. Now he just felt echoing, aching sadness.

Sam said nothing, face buried in the blankets.

Dean gently cupped Sam's jaw, forcing his little brother to face him. Only when their eyes met, did he speak. "Sam, you were never a burden. No, you weren't," he insisted when Sam made a small, derisive noise. "You're the only person I ever actually want to spend my time with. I like taking care of you. I like looking after you. I like being the one you bring all your problems to. You could never be a burden to me, Sammy. I don't look at you like I used to because I'm worried. The weird thing you see in my eyes is worry. I worry about you, doofus, because that's what big brother's do. I don't meet your eyes anymore because I don't want you see the worry in them and get mad at me."

Well, Dean figured, if insecurities were being shared, he might as well share some of his. He continued in a whisper. "I never want you to be mad at me, Sammy, I hate it when you get mad at me. I hate it when we fight and I'm sorry it took me so long and a friggin' curse to see what was bothering you… Sam," Sam's eyes, that had started wandering away again, snapped back to Dean's. "I don't know why you would think so, and I don't want to know, but I could never make you leave and I could definitely never leave you. As if I was ever the one who'd done any of the leaving." Sam flinched. Dean realized his mistake a second too late and rushed to rectify it. "Hey, you know I didn't mean it like that. I…" he swallowed, then continued, "yes, it hurt when you left, but Sammy, I'd never hold that against you. I was happy for you, remember? I wanted you out of this life. I'd never hold that against you, I swear. I'd also never ever make you leave or leave you alone. I will always want you with me, Sam, because I love you, too. Can't you see that? Just because I don't say it, doesn't mean it's not there, Sammy. I loved you the moment I knew I was going to have a little brother and I will love you till the day I die. And that can never change. I need you to see that. Do you understand?" If Sam didn't, Dean was pretty sure he'd drown in all the sadness he felt.

Sam nodded, sniffling. "I'm sorry I made you cry, Dean. Don't cry." Sam moved his hand to wipe the tears off his big brother's face.

Dean let out a weak laugh, hiding the lump that built up in his throat. "Yeah. We should do that. Stop crying. That's a wonderful idea." After they were done, Sam comfortably snuggled into Dean, head lying on Dean's shoulder, while Dean lay on his back. Dean spoke. "Hey, don't you want the medicine, Sammy?" Because, seriously, the kid had a fever for crying out loud.

"No, I'm good, Dean," came back the sleepy response.

"G'night, Sammy."

"G'night, Dean."

Just as Dean was slipping into the throes of sleep, Sam twisted in his grasp and leaned to lightly kiss his big brother's temple. "I love you, Dean. Always. No matter what." And then Dean was gone.

Dean woke up to a Sam that was considerably bigger than the one he'd gone to sleep with. That made a ridiculously goofy grin appear on his face. He blamed Sam, who was grinning at him with an equally goofy smile.

"Why're you smilin' at me like that, Samantha?"

"No reason."

"Then quit it. Bitch."

"Jerk."

END

Author's Note: Yeah… I don't think this is one of the best things I've written, I can admit to that. But, this was in my head and it wouldn't leave so I had to type it out. Here is the fairly poor result. Eh, can't do much for that now. I hope you enjoyed this mediocre piece of writing and don't forget to review!