Title: There's Nothing I Wouldn't Do For You
Author: OpheliacAngel
Pairings: Dean/Sam
Genres: Romance/Hurt/Comfort
Rating: Teen
Summary: Sam flipped back to the first page, adjusted the candle on the bedside table and started reading.
A/N: Written for sinfulslasher (Gaby) for Fandom Stocking. Also a fill on my h/c_bingo card for the prompt 'head trauma.' Just an excuse for shameless Dean whump and cuddles. I'd like this to be set early series, but really you could set it whenever. Also, see the translation into Russian by la_Distance here: (archive of our own dot org) /works/5670658
Dean was digging his thumb into his temple when Sam walked into the room, carrying a tray of soup and packets of those saltine crackers he swiped from the last diner they were in. That was just a few days ago, and a week ago Dean was thrown head first into a tree, courtesy of a poltergeist. One too many times, Sam figured, because somewhere deep down he always knew the day would come. They've both had their fair share of concussions but somehow Dean's had more over the years. Who knows why, but the things they hunt usually always go for the older Winchester brother.
"Hey, man, how ya doing?" Dean's eyes were closed as Sam approached the couch, and he jumped slightly when Sam put the tray down on the table.
"Peachy," Dean grunted, thumb seeming to dig deeper into his forehead. Sam winced on behalf of his brother and sat down next to him, simply there if Dean needed him without expecting anything. After a long minute he grew tired of watching Dean suffer and gingerly put his hands on either side of his brother's head, first feeling for lumps or anything out of the ordinary. Dean, out of habit, opened his eyes and didn't grumble or try to pull away while Sam checked his pupils to make sure they weren't dilated, and also checked for any signs of burst blood vessels.
His hands went to Dean's neck last, palpitating the skin. Dean's mouth twitched but he didn't further comment; regardless, Sam could read every single one of his ticks and Dean knew it. His brother's eyes lowered when Sam looked up at him. "Your neck stiff?"
Dean turned his head so he didn't have to look at Sam, but the small groan from the movement betrayed him. His face took on a sour look, and Sam couldn't help but nitpick when he noticed how pale his brother still was. "A little," Dean admitted. Sam nodded and let him be. He knew how hard it had been for Dean this past week to admit to how he was feeling. The vomiting, exhaustion and tremors had been obvious, yet the blurred vision and dizziness Sam relied on Dean to tell him about. Only so he could make it better and ensure Dean didn't get worse. Sam kept detailed records of Dean's symptoms from the concussion, as was instructed by the doctor he had been forced to take Dean to. Most of the symptoms had tapered off, or at least not gotten worse, yet judging from today Dean wasn't out of the water yet.
"Just try to eat what you can, De. If your appetite's shot then I still have some cups of applesauce left in the fridge."
A week ago Dean would've griped, "What am I, two?" Now he just nodded and tried to show Sam that he was making an effort on the soup. Sam hated to see him like this but he knew Dean hated it if he hovered, so he went back to the kitchen to clean up. While he washed dishes he made a mental checklist that he would get down on paper later: lethargic, appetite still hasn't fully come back, stiff neck, headache. He sighed and tried to remember how many days it had been, though Dean was getting better. Twenty-four hours after the concussion he was disoriented and having difficulty swallowing much of anything. Then he had been assaulted for days by migraines, ear aches and itchy eyes. None of these horrendous side-effects had come back, thank god.
Sam just wanted Dean to be one-hundred percent, to be Dean again.
Dean wasn't Dean when he wasn't complaining or insisting that he was fine or ready and rearing to pick up another hunt. It broke Sam's heart to see Dean lying on the couch and not wanting to eat and eyelids drooping already when it was only eleven in the morning. He tried to stay with him most of the time because Dean didn't mind it, as long as Sam kept the hovering to a minimum. Sam only went out to get groceries or do laundry, and every second he missed his brother like a physical ache in his chest. He managed to keep his intense worry at bay when he wasn't near Dean, but after a few hours his nerves were so frayed that he had to go back or be forced to lose his mind.
Dean was everything to him. His entire world. He wanted to shield him from what had happened and kiss his headaches away and hold Dean in his arms until he was better again.
But he let Dean be. If Dean wanted him then he was there. Otherwise, Sam wasted time by researching and trying to think up ways of how he could make his brother more comfortable and help him to relax. Things like bath soaps and scented candles and 'girly' classical music and super soft blankets and Sam's hoodies. If Dean's complaining was minimal than he didn't scratch it off the list and expanded from there. Dean seemed to like the hoodies best.
Only if Sam wore them in first.
"Sam," Dean whispered in the dark, hand brushing against Sam's arm. Sam stirred, climbing out of a light sleep. He lifted his head up, blinking until his eyes adjusted enough to the dark so he could check on his brother. "Think my leg's fallen asleep again."
Sam panicked. His heart clenched and blood rushed in his ears, an assault of terror and sound. He felt as if the whole world had been opened up, about to swallow the both of them whole. Being unable to move one of more of the limbs was a more severe side-effect of head trauma, and it was the one Sam had been stressing out the most over. "Can you move it?" He swallowed thickly, unable to believe he got out any words at all. Dean had already gone through so much because of this - they weren't even able to hunt anymore - and another sign that Dean wasn't himself was the last thing he needed.
"Yeah," Dean breathed, loudly. "Hurts a little, but I can move it."
Sam exhaled and pulled Dean closer to him, squeezing him tightly to his chest. He could care less about Dean's 'no chick flick moments.' He would take care of Dean for as long as he had to, it was Dean's state of mind that he was worried out. Considering he was letting Sam coddle him without protest, Sam decided not to worry too much right now. "Don't scare me again like that, jerk."
"Bitch," Dean quipped, nuzzling his head against Sam's chest.
For all that was still wrong with Dean, that Sam couldn't fix magically with a wave of his hand, Sam couldn't help but love Dean's clingy-ness. He kissed the top of Dean's head before moving down the bed to examine his leg. Dean seemed okay for the most part but Sam would have to keep an extra close eye on him. It was actually a job he loved best. He pulled Dean into his arms again and kissed him, massaging his brother's scalp out of habit. Usually it helped with the headaches, if not then it at least got Dean breathing easier again.
"Just try to keep moving it, okay? I don't want any surprises tonight." Or ever, Sam added to himself, but Dean got that anyway. He could feel Dean tense as he did what Sam asked, leg shifting slightly under the sheet, letting out a tired sigh as he collapsed back against Sam again, spent. The exhaustion was most likely because Dean hadn't got any sleep last night. Sam would have to try to change that tonight, get Dean tired enough so sleeping wasn't an option.
He hated to do it but he poked Dean lightly in his side as he dozed every five or so minutes, checking to make sure Dean could still move without increasing pain. After an hour of this Dean was sleeping, drooling against Sam's chest, and as Sam looked down at him he realized he wouldn't wake Dean for the world. His big brother looked so small and young and innocent lying there, free from the pain of the past week. He rested his head against Dean's and shifted his brother carefully into a more comfortable position, content to fall asleep with his big brother nestled safely in his arms.
Sam had a restless night. Dean's symptoms weighed heavily on him and rather than chew his fingernails down until they were bleeding, he lit a candle, picked up a book and forced himself to concentrate on the page instead. It worked for a while; he didn't even hear Dean stir beside him.
"Read me a few pages, Sammy?"
Sam flipped back to the first page, adjusted the candle on the bedside table and started reading.
FIN