"I'm a doctor too."
"What?" Dean glances up from under the Impala's hood. Sam's in the doorway to the house, a glass of orange juice in his hand. There's just one weak fluorescent bulb backlighting Sam, but past him in the house Dean can hear clanking sounds, Bobby humming along to music that doesn't carry out to the yard.
"Supper's almost ready." Sam holds out the glass. "You looked like you could use an extra shot of vitamin goodness."
Dean drops his wrench into the open toolbox on the ground by his feet. It lands with a clatter. He fishes a rag out of his pocket and starts working over his fingers. "What's that supposed to mean?" His voice cracks on "mean" and he frowns, clears his throat.
Sam tips his head back knowingly. He steps down into the yard and saunters up close enough to clap a hand to Dean's shoulder. "It means you don't look so hot."
Dean reads the earnestness in Sam's eyes and chuffs, shakes his head. He stuffs away his cloth and takes the juice, toasts his brother. "Now I know you have a soul." The cool liquid burns on the way down and he frowns, cups his Adam's apple.
Sam snorts and pats his cheek. "Come in and wash up."
:::
"How's that sex toy of yours?"
Dean blinks down at the bowl of soup Bobby's set in front of him, then up at Bobby. "Huh?"
"Your lady friend." Bobby raises his eyebrows under the brim of his cap. "The car."
"Oh." Dean watches Bobby scoop tuna casserole onto Sam's plate. "She's... I'm sorry, what is this?"
"This..." Bobby points with the big plastic serving spoon, "is you looking like you're about to fall over. If you finish your soup, you can have some of this."
Dean opens his mouth, closes it, and sneezes all over his hands.
:::
"How's your head?"
Dean rolls over on the couch, squints up at Sam. The fireplace is crackling, bathing Sam's face in flickering light. "My..." He pushes two knuckles across his forehead. "Ow."
"Yeah." Sam settles down on the rug, rests his elbow on the sofa cushion by Dean's waist. "I know this guy. He has a pill that's supposed to be pretty effective."
Dean chuckles, but it turns into a scraping cough. He winces and curls his shoulders in tighter. "Overkill."
"You should take something." Cool fingers thread through Dean's hair. "Ooh. There's the fever."
"God. You are a doctor." Dean snuffles and gives himself over to the hand playing at the nape of his neck. The heavy wooden clock on the wall ticks, the fire hisses and pops.
Dean reaches out blindly and finds Sam's shaggy mop. He pets over it, tucks lengths behind Sam's ear with clumsy fingers. Soft lips press into Dean's forehead and he sighs, shivers in contentment.
"You'll feel better if you sleep in a bed."
"You'd know, huh?" Dean's arms find Sam's trunk and lock around it. He presses his sore brow to the soft expanse of Sam's shirt. "In a minute."
:::
end