TITLE: Caretaker

RATING: K+

SUMMARY: Dean's always looked after Sam when he fell sick. This time would be no different.

WORDS: 1819

NOTES: This is my first story in which either of the brothers fall sick. I'm not really sure how I did. This was supposed to be a gift for a very dear friend, but by the time I asked her what her preferences are, I'd written half the fic (yes, I am aware I'm an idiot of the highest order. It's a thing.) and there was no way I could work those in. So, I promise, I'll get that sickfic done. Swear! Until then, please enjoy this mediocre piece of writing as an appeasement.

"Nice flu you have there," Dean said from the table, grinning.

He wasn't trying to be mean, just teasing his little brother. His little brother – who was currently wrapped in all the blankets in the room – was glaring at him from somewhere in the middle of the whole bundle.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam grumbled at him, shifting, hoping to find a more comfortable position.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean rolled his eyes. "You want anything, Sammy?" He may be teasing his little brother, but the sight of Sam sick still worried Dean, no matter how insignificant the illness, as it always had when they were younger and Dean was Sam's sole caretaker. Kinda like now. It was no longer a mystery to Dean why he was so worried about Sam, even though he just had the flu.

"Could do with some Gatorade," Sam offered. He knew what Dean was doing and he quietly put up with it because he knew that if their positions were reversed he would do the same. There were benefits to being two very close brothers and then there were drawbacks. This was somewhere in between.

"'kay, I'll be right back. If something happens, call me. And don't get up for anything, Sam," Dean's eyes narrowed and he drilled holes into Sam until the latter nodded.

"It was only one time, Dean," Sam mumbled, snuggling in.

Dean had come back from his previous foray into the world outside their motel only to find Sam lying near their duffle bags, struggling to get up. Dean's panic had shot to levels he had forgotten since Sam had left for Stanford as he rushed to his brother's side. Sam had murmured something about getting a warmer shirt and having suddenly fallen for some reason and hit his head on the edge of a bed.

Heart and mind utterly confused, one saying everything was okay, the other insisting that there was something dangerous around, Dean checked his brother's temperature and deduced that he had a mild fever and he'd fallen because his leg had been stuck in the blankets without him having noticed. After assuring himself his brother did not have a concussion, swearing at Sam for giving him a heart attack and ignoring the apologies that triggered, he settled Sam into bed, gave him the required meds, wrapped him in all the blankets he could find and, extracting the promise that he would stay put and tell Dean if he needed to go to the bathroom or anywhere else, Dean sat at the table alternating between checking his email and watching his brother like a hawk.

"Yeah, well, I'm not really into aging thirty years all at once." With that, Dean left, promising himself he'd be back really quickly in an attempt to quell the rising anxiety at being away from his not-entirely-but-still-vulnerable brother. Unsurprisingly, it didn't help one bit.

"I'm back, Sammy. You still in one piece?" Dean was proud of how fast he'd returned, ignoring the voice in his head that told him the reason he'd done so was because of the rising dread that something was wrong with Sam.

"Dean," came a weak voice from somewhere under the blankets. "I don't think I'm doing so well."

All the dread he'd been pushing down came rising back up like a tsunami. He got the thermometer from the bag in hand, and, pulling the blankets away, checked Sam's temperature, which turned out to be way higher than he remembered it being. Fervently thanking God he'd thought to buy heavy-duty fever drugs, Dean coaxed the pills and a little Gatorade into his brother and then rearranged Sam into the blankets so as to prevent suffocation.

"Go to sleep, Sammy, you'll feel better when you wake up."

Sam stared at him with fever-glazed eyes for a few seconds and then obediently closed his eyes.

Dean sighed and, sliding a hand through the unruly mop of Sam's hair, got up. He might as well get some cleaning done. He put away the supplies he'd bought and then cleared away everything that wasn't in its rightful place. Surveying the room with satisfaction and glancing at Sam, who was still sleeping peacefully, Dean went to get cleaned up.

Feeling fresher, Dean stepped back into the room, hoping to see Sam still sleeping peacefully. Hoping, but not expecting. Which was why Dean wasn't all that surprised when he heard soft whimpering and automatically went to his little brother. He was, however, surprised to see that Sam wasn't sleeping as he'd assumed. He was awake, or, at least, his eyes were open, and he was sobbing. Dean had never been more confused or terrified or anguished in his entire life.

"Sam, hey, wake up." Dean patted his brother's cheek, which, while not hotter, was still worryingly hot. "Wake up, Sam." Dean shook Sam a little harder as the sobs increased in volume. "Sam! Wake. Up!" Dean yelled as Sam screamed Jess's name, pain dripping from his voice.

And still, Sam stayed asleep.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean whispered as he gathered his little brother in his arms. "Wake up. Don't do this, man. Wake up."

Sam just shouted her name again, sobs wracking his thin frame. He's lost weight. I keep shoving food at him and he's still losing weight. He needs to eat more.

"Sam, man, she's not here, okay? You gotta wake up." Dean felt the lump in his throat as he said that and couldn't imagine what it was doing to his brother. Well, actually, he could, it was right in front of him every day in the form of his insomnia-ridden, never-hungry, guilt-ridden, grief-stricken little brother. And it was killing him, too.

Sam stayed in limbo, crying out again and again, a steady litany of "no, no, no, please, no!" flowing out of his mouth an occasional "Jess!" or "D-Dean..." thrown in to shoot a lance through, if the former, or thoroughly confuse, if the latter, his older brother.

"Sam, it hurts, I get it, you miss her and you want it to not have happened and it hurts that it did, but, man, she's gone. She's gone and you're here and, Sammy, man, you gotta stop doing this to yourself. Please," Dean whispered, terror singing in his veins, desperation clawing its way up his gut. "You gotta wake up, Sammy. Wake up. Please."

Sam's cries petered out slowly, as awareness returned to him. His shuddering body stilled and he hung lax in Dean's arms, body too tired to support him, mind too tired to convince his body.

"Hey, you all here, man?" Dean was reaching the end of his rope and if he did get there, he wasn't sure he'd come back.

"Yeah. 'm okay, Dean," Sam's voice was weighed down with exhaustion and sickness and Dean needed that fixed. Had to fix that.

Glad that he'd thought to keep everything he needed right then on Sam's bedside table, he reached for the supplies. "So, I'm guessing it wasn't Geekland you went to?" He nudged Sam's lips with the pills, got him to swallow them with small sips of water, slowly leaned him back down on the bed and watched tears trail their way down his cheeks.

"I know, Sammy," Dean commiserated, heart hurting for his brother, for this person next to him who used to be a bundle of energy and joy and pure, unadulterated happiness. Not for the first time, Dean wished he'd had the chance to see Sam with Jess. "I know it hurts, man. It'll get better, I swear. Doesn't seem like it now, I know, but it'll get better. Promise."

Sam watched him with red-rimmed, pain-filled, tired eyes. Dean couldn't bring himself to suggest that Sam go to sleep again, both out of fear for his sanity and for the emotional well-being of his brother. So, he pulled himself away from the bed, ignoring the ache he felt when he heard Sam's fear-filled whine, and got the one thing he'd bought that afternoon – was it night already? – and hadn't had the chance to use. Or even present to the user.

Grabbing the novel, he hurried back to the bed, gently shifting Sam a little to the side so to have space to lie beside his brother and then settled himself in, Sam's head touching his hipbone.

He began reading out loud, just like he used to when Sammy was younger and miserable with sickness. He could feel Sam relax bit by bit, the sound of Dean's voice washing over him reminding him of better times. He could feel himself relax with Sam, the knot of tension and apprehension and fear in chest unwinding.

Unnoticed by Dean, his hand had slipped into Sam's hair and was gently carding through soft strands. Sam leaned into the touch, and Dean smiled. Sam had always been a tactile kid.

Dean read until he reached the middle of the novel and then glanced down at Sam, who was curled towards him slightly, breathing easy and rhythmic. Brushing Sam's hair one last time, Dean put away the novel and touched Sam's forehead to check the temperature, sighing in relief when it was much lower than before.

He stretched himself out on the bed, pulling Sam towards him gently, resting his head under Dean's chin, arm holding Sam close. Pressing a kiss into Sam's hair, Dean resolved to find an easier way for Sam to deal with his grief, even if it meant sharing a bed with his overgrown-octopus of a brother for the rest of his life.

END

Author's note: I enjoyed writing something from Dean's point of view. It was a nice change. Anyway, I hope you guys liked it!