Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. I am just borrowing them for fun.

This piece is set in Season 3, sometime after 3.7, "Fresh Blood." Somewhat AU. Rated T for Dean. Dean is worried about leaving Sam; Sam thinks it's long past time for Dean to worry about going to hell. Sam might need glasses because this is one of my stories. Brotherly schmoop. Sick!Sam, Worried!Sam, Caring!Dean. This was a one-shot, but the muse handed me a second chapter.

I'm still new to the fandom, so if you see any continuity or other errors, or if you want to beta any future stories, please drop me a line. Thanks!


"Find anything yet?" Dean attempted to close the tattered floral curtains in their current crappy motel room before turning to stare at his younger brother.

Sam looked up from the laptop computer he was hunched over and glared at him from one of the twin beds. "Not in the last five minutes since you asked, no." He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose before turning back to the computer. Pages of notes and photocopies about their latest case littered the small bed in an arc around him.

Dean turned to the window again, watching rivulets of rain run down the glass. The drops reflected streetlights and car headlights, and, if Dean had been in a better mood, he might have admitted that the effect was cool. Instead, he pulled his plaid flannel overshirt closer to ward against the chill. The motel room smelled of musty linens and old sweat socks, giving Dean a touch of claustrophobia. He'd be so much happier on a hunt right now, armed with rock salt and razor-sharp knives. But Sam had been feeling run-down for a few days and Dean had reluctantly agreed to turn in early. The weather was terrible anyway - cold and wet and dreary. It fit Dean's mood perfectly.

How many months before his life ended in a pit of fiery despair? Dean had managed to block out the exact number, although he knew that Sammy kept a running mental stopwatch, right down to the last minute. The novelty of knowing that he could do anything he wanted before he died - take any risks, what did it matter, he was going to hell regardless - had begun to wear off, to be replaced by a cold sense of dread. He'd be leaving Sam behind. Funny, in the time it took to make the Crossroads deal and even for a few months after, his brain hadn't registered the fact that he'd be leaving his younger brother without a caretaker, breaking his father's cardinal rule: Watch out for Sammy.

Dean studied Sam from across the room. He hadn't coughed once since Dean had given him cold medicine at lunch. That was a relief. His brother definitely needed a haircut - that floppy mess was always right in his eyes. Dean wasn't sure he wanted to tackle that particular fight right now; Sammy loved his long hair. His eyes traveled down Sam's worn flannel shirt, so similar to his own, buttoned over a pale blue henley. The edges of the sleeves were frayed, reminding Dean that Sam really needed to get some new clothes, including a warmer field jacket. One of his brother's large hands anxiously tapped a pen against a pad of paper while the other massaged his left temple. The look on Sam's face was a cross between frustration and pain, and Dean found himself walking toward their first aid kit before his mind had even registered what he'd seen.

The older hunter brought a pill bottle and a cup of water back from the bathroom and plunked the water on the nightstand next to Sam. Popping the childproof lock, he took out three tablets and held them out to his baby brother. "Here."

Sam blinked blearily up at him. "What for?" he asked in annoyance.

"Your headache." Dean handed him the cup and dropped the pills into his other hand.

"I don't have a -"

"Yes, you do."

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, but took the medication with a gulp of water. The fact that he actually swallowed the pills confirmed Dean's theory that his brother was in pain. Nonetheless, Sam continued to deny it. "I'm fine."

Dean threw up a hand. "Whatever, man. You're doing that squinty thing with your eyes again." He sat down on the bed opposite his brother and folded his arms.

Sam frowned at him, deepening the furrows between his eyebrows. "What're you talking about?" He gave Dean a puzzled bitch face, narrowing his eyes at him in confusion.

"Exactly like that," Dean said in a matter-of-fact tone. Sam relaxed his features and rolled his eyes with a huff. Gesturing at his own face, Dean added, "When you read for too long, your eyes start to cross. That's why you've been getting those headaches." He folded his arms behind his head and leaned back against the pillows on his bed. "I think you need glasses."

Dean didn't have to look to know that Sammy's classic bitch face had returned. "I don't need glasses, Dean. My eyes are just tired. I've been researching for hours while you've done nothing but stare out the window. If you'd help me out once in awhile -"

"Stop changing the subject."

"What subject?" Sam gave his brother a wide-eyed look of irritation. "There is no subject here, Dean. There only point of this stupid conversation is for you to get a rise out of me." He took another sip of water and gestured lewdly at his brother. "There. Happy?"

Dean sat up in bed. "I'm serious, Sam. You've got to start taking better care of yourself. I ain't gonna be around forever, you know." He folded his arms and frowned.

He spoke with such earnestness that Sam's mouth dropped open. The younger Winchester took his time before he replied, and even then, his tone still reflected surprise. "You've got to be kidding me. Your last year on earth is ticking down and this is what you're worrying about?" Sam shook his head, causing his hair to fall in his eyes again. He brushed his bangs away roughly with one hand. "You're going to hell, Dean!" He gave his brother an imploring look. "We need to focus on the Crossroads deal."

"Exactly my point, Sammy. You can't focus." The face Sam gave Dean managed to convey annoyance, irritation, and just the tiniest sliver of affection. Dean smiled in return and lifted his eyebrows. His voice held a trace of compassion as the smile faded. "You haven't told me I'm wrong."

Sam huffed, closed the computer, set it on the shelf of the nightstand. "I'm fine, Dean," he said with a sigh. Dean could hear the exhaustion laced through the words. Sam leaned back on his bed and threw an arm across his eyes. Reaching over, Dean turned out the nearest lamp, bathing the room in semi-darkness. He was pleased to see the tension begin to drain from Sam's shoulders. "I had my eyes tested back at Stanford. They're fine," his little brother mumbled into his arm.

"A lot's happened since then." Dean's voice was gentle.

Sam dropped his arm and sighed. "We don't have the money."

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "I think we can spare ten bucks for a pair of reading glasses. Money's not that tight." He waited for Sam's reply, but the room was so silent that he only heard the patter of rain, interspersed with an unmistakable crinkle of sleet as the drops began to freeze against the glass. It felt like a warning to Dean, a reminder of everything unpleasant that was headed his way. He forced himself not to speak, to let the silence fill the room until it made Sammy uncomfortable too.

Finally, Sam spoke. "I tried."

"You tried what?"

"Reading glasses. At the drugstore. You were off with that exotic dancer and I had some time to kill. Didn't help."

Dean digested that. He'd been fishing around about his brother's suspected problems, not really sure if the pattern he thought he'd detected was something real or an artifact of his own stressed mind. But apparently, he'd caught a live one here. Sam had been concerned enough about his vision to try on glasses. Dean tried to imagine the scenario - Sam looming in a drugstore, towering over a display of reading glasses with floral cases and cutesy names like PowerSavers or BrightSight, and then, having gotten over his embarrassment at trying on the damn things in the first place, realizing that they didn't help anyway.

And where was Dean at the time? Screwing some chick senseless in the back of a car. A very hot car, he reminded himself.

"So, you need an eye exam. So what? Won't cost that much."

His brother's voice emerged very small. "And if I need glasses, Dean? And contacts? You know how much that costs."

Dean did. The eye clinic was one place Dean refused to use fake credit cards. They held his prescription hostage and Dean couldn't function without it. He ordered his contacts from them every few months under the name Ackles Jensen and had them shipped to random motels around the country. Ackles always paid in cash.

Sam sighed again. "It's not worth getting worked up over, Dean. I can see well enough. My eyes only bother me when I'm tired."

"Or sick, or stressed. That's half our lives, Sammy. If you need glasses, you're getting glasses," Dean replied with certitude. "Or contacts. Whatever. We'll work it out." The only reply was a sniff from the other bed. "You need more cold medicine?"

There was no reply.

"Is your fever back? I could make you some soup -"

"No, I don't need soup! Just stop it, Dean! Stop focusing on me. You need to start taking care of yourself for a change." Sam's words dropped to a near whisper. "None of this other stuff matters." He swallowed. "There's only one thing I need, Dean. I need my brother." His voice cracked over the words, and Dean realized that Sam was on the verge of tears.

He crossed the small space between the beds, shoved the papers aside, and sat beside his little brother. Gesturing at the tall man to roll over on his stomach, Dean began to massage the tension out of Sam's shoulders. "I'm right here, Sammy."

"Not for long." Sam's voice was thick. "I've researched everything I can think of, Dean. I tried making a deal with the Crossroads Demon. I even killed her, hoping it would break the contract." A strangled gulp escaped his lips as the tears began to break free. "Nothing worked! I don't know what else to do." He spoke in a trembling voice. "I can't lose you. I can't do this without you, Dee." His brother sobbed quietly into the pillow.

Dean gave Sam's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. There was nothing he could say. He knew how Sam felt, the desperate horror of watching someone you love die right before your eyes and knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it.

But Sammy's not gonna die, he reminded himself. That's part of the deal - he has to learn to live without me instead. Suddenly, Dean's throat felt very tight and he realized that his own eyes were watery. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered. I'm so sorry.