It's been two weeks since Sam went down with the flu. Two weeks of cold, wet cloths, Tylenol popping, and boxes of tissues. It's also been two weeks since Dean relaxed. Two weeks of sleepless nights, late night coffee runs, and frazzled nerves.

This one was worse than it's been in a while. Sam spiked a fever at 104 and held it for over a day. He was in and out of lucidity, calling occasionally for Dad, Jess, even Bobby. He never called for Dean...that need was expressed as an undercurrent of whimpers and pleas, as if telling the world that Dean was the constant he just simply had to have there all the time.

Dean can handle almost any illness or injury Sam tossed his way, but it was the fevers that broke him. While he had a list of medicines and tricks he could use in an attempt to control them, what he couldn't control, was the affect they had on Sam….how they made him feel, what they made him think. During those moments, Dean felt the most helpless. All he could do is sit and watch, blotting Sam's face with cold, wet washcloths while murmuring what he hoped were soothing words all night long.

But Sam's on the mend now, which in Dean's mind, means that the danger had passed. Now he can go back to being annoyed with his grumpy, leaking brother, and he liked it that way.

"Dean. The fever broke. I'm feeling better. Let's get outta here." Sam was sitting in bed, wiping his nose with a wad of tissues. He looked like he hadn't slept much, even though he's been mostly bed-ridden for the past week.

Dean sat at the room's little table, reading an email from Bobby which listed a bunch of hunts, all within a day's drive from them, that they could potentially investigate. He tapped his finger against the laptop, contemplating how to respond. Yes, Sam was doing better and yes the fever was gone, but no, his brother wasn't up for a major hunt of any kind. No matter what he said, he was still weak and tired. Sam was only focusing on the fever. Dean was focusing on everything else.

"I want to stay put for another day...make sure that fever's really gone. Then we'll find us a hunt and move on, ok?" He figured that was as good a stall as any.

He was wrong.

Sam huffed through his nose (which didn't really work when your nose was clogged) and he ended up coughing into the tissues he was clutching. He shook his head and sputtered, "I know I'm not perfect yet, but - "

Dean sighed and dragged his hand down his face. "Shut up, Sam. We're staying put another day. End of discussion." He knew his tone would evoke the SamBitch, but he had no choice. He wasn't putting Sam out there just yet, and that was final.

Sam scoffed in protest, and stomped his way to the bathroom, slamming the door. Dean rolled his eyes. In many ways, twenty-three year-old Sammy was just as bitchy as 10 year-old Sammy. Luckily, Dean knew the drill - he would simply take the heat because that's what he had to do. He was okay with that...he's been doing it since he was six.

By the time Sam came out, Dean had pulled up some maps and was going through Bobby's list. He glanced up as Sam moved about the pseudo-kitchen area, banging cabinets and slamming drawers while muttering to himself about overprotective assholes and why said assholes had a problem with carrying around one lousy mug for tea, considering they carried a ton of other stupid shit all the time.

Dean momentarily closed his eyes and summoned all his inner patience to play nice with his mouth so he wouldn't say something stupid. Sam didn't seem to notice that Dean was sleep-deprived, and therefore grumpy, and Dean was working hard to keep it that way.

Dean read about the first hunt...a black dog in a forest somewhere in central Wisconsin. He looked up at Sam, who just zipped up his hoodie and was shivering in it as he boiled water for some tea. Wisconsin. In November. When it's snowing and cold. Yeah, that's not gonna happen. He crossed it off the list.

The next available hunt was a poltergeist that was wreaking havoc in a daycare. Dean jumped as Sam sneezed ferociously into a (presumably fresh) handful of Kleenex. He ripped off six more before finally stopping, leaning against the counter and panting. He threw the now wet tissues in the garbage, and carefully washed his hands in the sink with a lot of soap. So...a daycare, during cold and flu season. Yeah, that's not gonna happen. He crossed it off the list.

The next one caught his eye - vampire nest in some old abandoned mansion. There were about seven vamps there, give or take a couple, which on a normal day, the brothers could easily handle. Dean smiled to himself while remembering how adept Sam was with the machete, knowing precisely the angle the machete needed to be so that their heads would come clean off. It was tricky to find the right spot, but with practice and a steady hand, it wasn't hard to do.

A sneeze followed by a yelp startled him, and he saw Sam still in the kitchen, sucking on the back of his hand.

"What happened?" Dena asked, rising to help.

Sam waved him back into his seat. "It was stupid...I sneezed while holding the mug, and I spilled hot tea on myself. That's all."

Dean sat back down. "Sure you're okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I spilled tea, Dean, not start the apocalypse." He took two steps before tripping on his own feet and stumbling the rest of the way to the bed. Sam managed to angle the mug "just so", compensating for the clumsy movement of his body. He made it to the bed and placed the mug on the bed-side table, flashing Dean a sheepish smile. "Didn't spill!"

Dean sighed. Vampire kills requiring timing and precision. Off the list.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. He needed a nap...just for a few hours...to slip under the covers, close his eyes, and sleep.

Sam was restlessly moving around, trying to find a comfortable spot on the bed he'd been stuck in for over a week. He fluffed pillows and rearranged sheets before loudly sighing, grabbing his mug of tea, and burrowing deep under the blankets.

Dean opened one eye and peeked at Sam, who was sipping his tea while casting sullen glances in Dean's direction.

Dean took a deep breath. He had to find something to get them out of this room. He wiped his hands on his jeans, and read over the last hunt on Bobby's list.

Benevolent spirit of an old lady...spotted roaming the halls of the retirement home she lived in, occasionally knocking bottles of medicine onto the floor.

"Hey, Sammy…."

==end==