Just a fluffy, plotless, weechester one-shot. Hope you enjoy!

The way Dean saw it, he was weak. Dad had't even been gone for a week, and Dean was already struggling. With making sure that Sam got safely to and from school and had enough food on the table for his ever-growing Sasquatch fourteen-year-old body, Dean was exhausted. Tewlfth-grade was a nightmare, and Dean didn't know how he would survive until graduation. Thoughts of dropping out occasionally went through his mind, as surely he didn't have half the credits needed to graduate due to their constant moving, and he didn't think that Dad would necessarily mind. No more school meant more time for hunts, and John Winchester would be all over that. However, the more he thought about it, the more he covinced himself that he would graduate. He'd pull through somehow, show his dad and Sammy that he could do it.

Dean never slept well while Dad was away, maybe four to five hours if he was lucky. Sam was already complaining about their lack of food. They were practically living off of the pizza joint down the road and whatever frozen chicken nuggets were left. Dad hadn't bothered to leave behind a surplus of cash, so whenever Dean wasn't stuck in the Hell that was high school, he was working at the local garage for wages that couldn't be completely legal, but it at least provided for the two brothers. But the rent was coming up soon, and Dean wasn't sure there was enough money. He worked as many hours as he could snag, but it hardly made a difference. His boss was a jerk who assumed that Dean was an inadequate teenager who couldn't hold his own, so any time Dean attempted to approach him to ask for a raise in pay, he was harshly shot down.

All of this, not to mention the sickness that had managed to sneak up on him. It was nothing at first, just a few sniffles that probably came from his being dunked in a lake by a poltergeist a few weeks ago. Lately, he'd developed a nasty cough that sounded like a graveyard dog barking and a throat swollen to the point that he could barely speak anymore.

And finally, like the icing to the cake, Dean got fired the day after Dad left. Something about not enough cash to continue paying him. Now he and Sammy were stuck together in a rundown motel, with exactly fifty-seven dollars to their names, not even close to enough to pay for their room and food. It was only a matter of time before Sam realized that there was no food left and that there was no way for Dean to get more, unless he stole it. And Dean wasn't going to risk it, especially when he wasn't feeling one hundred percent.

And Sammy... He was fourteen-years-old and all attitude. He and Dad had had a huge argument over who-knows-what that had escalated into an all-out screaming fest, before Dad had finally announced that he was leaving for a few weeks, tops, and slammed the door angrily. While Dean had wanted to follow him, since the plan had been for all three of them to go on that hunt, not just Dad, but one look at a moody and irritable Sam made him rooted to the spot. They heard Dad's truck pull out of the parking spot, leaving Dean with the Impala, and Sam huffed in rage, laying down on his bed and covering his head with a pillow.

"Sammy...," Dean had tried, sitting down on the bed next to his vexed brother.

"It's Sam," was the only response, muffled by the pillow.

Sam hadn't said a word to Dean since then, and Dean knew that Sam was annoyed at how Dean, as usual, hadn't sided with him against Dad. Dean tried not to take sides, normally, unless he felt like either Sam or Dad needed backup in whatever they were trying to prove, instead choosing to remain the peacemaker. He'd separated his dad and brother more times than he'd like, but it was for the best, as some nights it looked as if John wanted nothing more than to throttle the youngest Winchester. Sam was only at the base at what was sure to be a bumpy adolescence, and Dean was honestly a little scared for the later years. Still, having to live in the same room as a pissy teen wasn't even close to Dean's idea of fun. The least Sam could do was talk to him, since Dean was working his butt off trying to provide for the two of them.

When they got home from school on day five of Dad's absence, Dean laid on the couch, turning on some crappy daytime drama that he was hardly paying attention to. His mind was whirling, wondering what they could eat for dinner tonight, because Sam was sure to start complaining of his hunger soon. Dean's stomach growled almost painfully, but he knew that he wouldn't be eating again tonight. Simply swallowing his saliva made him cringe in pain, and he knew that any solid food would not be tolerated. Not that he minded; it meant more food for Sammy.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam's voice was soft and hesitant, breaking Dean out of his reverie.

Dean looked to his baby brother in shock. He immediately wondered if something was wrong since Sam was breaking his vigil of silence, then saw that he was hunched over a paper, pencil in hand. Oh, so he was having trouble with homework.

"Yeah?" he replied hoarsely, wincing and deciding that he didn't really want to talk from now on.

Sam mimicked him with a cringe of his own. "Your throat still hurts bad?" he asked.

Dean shrugged, even though he was honestly miserable. He rose from his lax position and sat down at the table next to his brother. "What's up?" he croaked, because this was the longest conversation he'd had with his kid brother in almost a week.

Sam shook his head, shoving his paper away so that Dean couldn't see. "Never mind, it's no big deal."

Dean frowned; Sam was obviously hiding something. "Sam," he said, letting a hint of fierceness enter what little of a voice he had left.

"You want me to make you some tea?" Sam offered, avoiding the question. "I'll walk down to the store and get some, cause your throat sounds awful, dude."

Dean shook his head. He didn't really enjoy the taste of tea, but the thought of a soothing, warm liquid lavished with honey travelling down his throat made him wonder if maybe it would be worth the bitter taste and nauseating smell.

"We have some cough drops that might help," Sam tried, but Dean shot him down again. If he recalled correctly, they were that nasty honey-menthol flavor, and Dean didn't think he could withstand that kind of torture. "Well maybe you should at least lay down," Sam said. "Sorry for bothering you. I can figure it out by myself."

"What?" Dean asked, voice grating. "Figure what out?"

Now Sam shrugged, mouth clammed shut again. He pulled out some textbook from his backpack, a thing that had to be twenty pounds, at least, and flipped open to a random page, reading intently on the chemical configuration of atoms, or whatever.

"Lemme see," he murmured, to grab Sam's homework. He probably wouldn't understand it anyway, as Sam was taking practically the same classes as a freshman as Dean was as a senior. The kid was too freaking smart for his own good sometimes. Dean hadn't been able to adequately help Sam with his homework since the elementary years when everything was addition, subtraction, basic history, and where to put commas. Now, however, when Sam was in everything AP and honors, and Dean was in some intensive courses at this school, Dean found it harder to assist him with things like he used to be able to.

He was pleasantly surprised when the homework sheet was math, one of Sammy's weakest subjects, though he still excelled at it. Sam was in Geometry, admittedly of Dean's least favorites, but still fairly simple. "What's up?" he asked.

Sam sighed. "I just...I don't understand it. I thought that maybe you could help, cause you're so good at math, but you aren't feeling well..." His voice trailed off, looking up at Dean with puppy dog eyes.

Dean scoffed softly, looking down. Dean wasn't necessarily good at math, just better at it than all of his other subjects. He still had nothing higher than a "C" on his report card, and he wouldn't exactly call that good. Still, though, he looked at Sam's paper, trying to decipher the numbers and symbols through the fog clouding his brain.

Seeing Dean's delay and slightly sluggish movements, Sam said, "It's fine, Dean. I can get it by myself. You should get some rest."

"'M fine," Dean protested, voice cracking horribly and sending him into a coughing fit. His vision blurred and he struggled to breathe, but he felt Sam's hand rubbing on his back, a calming ministration as he suffocated, each heaving cough shooting the air from his lungs and jarring his already abused throat. Finally, the fit fell away and left Dean folded over, sucking in air as if breathing through a straw.

"...alright now?" Sam asked, Dean having missed the first part of his statement. He nodded slowly, still not liking the way that his lungs refused to cooperate. He looked up to see Sam's wide, pale eyes looking at him, the slightest touch of fear in them.

"Geometry," he wheezed. He still needed to help Sam with his homework. It didn't matter that his throat was killing him, or that he felt like a ninety-year-old asthmatic; he needed to make sure his brother was taken care of before he even thought about himself.

Sam sent his brother a wary look. "You sure?"

"'Course." Dean studied the problems, trying to piece together his past Geometry concepts so that he could help. After a few minutes of pondering, he was able to help Sam solve those problems, showing him the steps and what to do through working out some problems and minimal verbal cues.

Dean loved this. He loved his brother talking to him, not shutting him out because he was mad. He loved the feeling hat he was worth something because he was able to assist his little brother with his homework. It was a simple thing in life, but something that the brothers had between themselves, as Dad couldn't care less about their schooling. Dean had fond memories of teaching Sam how to read, write, count, and all of the above. Anything for his brother.

Finally, after almost an hour of math, they completed the paper, Sam now shining with a new confidence in the subject. Pride swelled in Dean's chest when he saw his brother's look of admiration.

"Dinner?" he asked softly, because it was almost seven o'clock at night and the ever-growing Sammy needed food. He was all long, skinny limbs, and slowly creeping upward, though he was still one of the shortest in his class.

"What do we have?" Sam replied, though both of them knew that it wasn't much.

"Chicken, leftover pizza." Dean shrugged listlessly.

Though Sam didn't openly show his disappointment, Dean could tell that he was less than satisfied by their lack of options by the sagging of his shoulders. "Okay," he said, grabbing a cold slice of supreme pizza and lightly munching on it. When he saw that Dean wasn't getting anything, he asked, "You're not eating again?"

"Not hungry," Dean automatically replied, swallowing. His throat clenched painfully at the idea of food going down it. "Don't think I can swallow anything," he murmured as an afterthought.

Sam looked at him in sympathy. "Do you have a fever?"

Dean shook his head. "Just a cold."

Sam snorted. "Yeah right. You look like you're about collapse. At least eat a few bites of something."

Dean sighed, bone-tired. "No thanks."

Sam looked as if he were going to further protest, but he decided against it. "When's Dad getting back?" he asked instead.

Dean shrugged. "Beats me," he mumbled. He wished that Dad would get back, but he knew logically that he wouldn't be here for a few more weeks at least. He wanted to be able to relax and rest up while he was sick like this, not have to worry about what they had to eat or when the rent was due. "Gonna sleep," he said.

He didn't look at Sam's reaction, and found his way to his bed, curling up under the thick comforter. Maybe, if he was lucky, Dad would be home soon and they could get out of this place, maybe snag him some medicine. He really wasn't feeling good.

He was just about to drift off when the bed dipped and a warm mass was pressed against him. Dean furrowed his eyebrows; why was Sam sleeping with him? They had two beds...

Oh.

Whenever Sam was sick, he craved contact, wishing for nothing more than all of Dean's attention and snuggling with him. He must have thought that Dean would want the same. He had to admit that it felt nice, and that all of his worries instantly flew out of his mind. Sam was here, and everything would be fine.