Okay, not really fond of this one, but I've held onto it way too long. It ends abruptly, I'm sorry. I can't really think of anywhere else to take it. The muse has just up and vanished. ~grumps~
Sam watched the laundry spin rapidly, the colors a psychedelic blur in the washer that's a bit mesmerizing. That was his last load, and as the thought buzzed through his skull, he saw Dean's start churning in the same pattern sluggishly. He had been reading, until the click of the washer changing cycles tugged him from the book to watch the spinning start up.
The washer whirred to a stop, and he set his book to the table beside him, and then set about moving his brother. The same brother that was slouched over, head on Sam's shoulder, snoring through the congestion as he shivered randomly. The last hunt had been at a preschool, and the walking petri dishes had apparently infected Dean at some point. The last three days, he'd been running a temp, not enough to really worry over, but enough to make Dean miserable, sweating steadily through his shirts, keeping him up despite the arctic temps in the room. Sam had finally broken down, asked for extra sheets at the front desk, since Dean was going to sleep at night in dry bedding, but would wake a few hours later to a wet, clinging set of sheets.
And it was making him clingy. Oh god, how he was clingy. If Sam showered, he could expect to find Dean in the bathroom, leaning against the walls as he swayed. If Sam went in town, Dean stuck to him like a shadow, despite asking, begging, pleading, ordering and, at one time, tying his brother in place. Sam finally gave up, endured the sickly shadow that plodded behind him, ignored the glares of disapproval from people.
Which is how he wound up with his brother drooling slightly on him, congestion making breathing next to impossible, and the heat of the fever soaking into his shirts, like a portable heating pad. He shook Dean, one hand on his opposite shoulder to steady him as Dean jerked awake with a snort, eyes wide as he scanned the Laundromat for the danger that woke him up.
"It's okay dude, just gotta move laundry around." Dean's breathing slowed a bit, and he focused gooey eyes on Sam.
"Dud?" He tried to snuffle through the congestion, coughed when it didn't work, and sighed miserably in defeat.
Sam shook floppy hair. "Nope, not done. Just gotta move the wet into the dryers." Dean nodded, slouched into himself more, and leaned a little the other way to rest his forehead on the wall. He snuffled wetly, curling his arms around himself tightly, and Sam ducked into the bathroom, dragging out the little trashcan and the box of tissues. The old lady at the counter didn't even look up from her little red book, the one with the shirtless guy that, really, was impossibly built and shirtless, and he sighed a bit.
Dean took his gifts without a word, just clutched the tissues to his chest like a teddy bear, and drifted off a little, dozing again the warm quiet. Sam checked his own laundry, pleased when they were dry, and unloaded the mass of dark material into the portable laundry-carts to fold over by Dean. His brother's clothes were still wet, so he fed the bulky machine yet more quarters before swapping his own done wet clothes into the abandoned dryer, and moving over Dean's into the dryers. Musical dryers, the entertainment of Winchesters since 1983. Now, he just had to wait for everything to dry. And stay awake. He blinked hard in the quiet of the laundromat, trying to convince himself to actually fold the laundry instead of just shoving it all in the bag to deal with later. Which, considering the warm, humid, quiet environment, was entirely too tempting. He glanced at his pile, then at his brother, snoring quietly through the congestion. For as much as the man griped about the plastic chairs, would prefer to sit on the washer itself instead (though, Sam wondered how much was just because he liked the shaking motion of the machine), he hadn't complained at all about parking it today, just kept curling tighter and tighter in it.
His hoodie was on top, the thick, warm, navy blue one, and as he watched Dean shiver again, he sighed, and tossed the shirt to his brother. Who jolted awake with a whimper, looking lost. "It's okay Dean, just put on the shirt." Dean blinked at him, and Sam sighed, holding up the shirt. "Put it on Dean. You'll be warmer."
"'kay." A sick Dean reminded Sam on occasion of a docile child, and at other times, a hell-cat, claws out and spitting. This time he's obedient, holding his arms up so Sam can slide the hoodie on, and he buries his hands in the kangaroo pouch as he gives a breathy moan of pleasure, slumping against Sam as soon as he sits down. "Warm."
"Yeah, I figured. Nice and toasty out of the dryer. You just rest, okay? I'll wake you up before the last load gets done." Dean nods against his shoulder, snuffling a little as he yawns, and Sam turns back to his book, letting the warm and quiet of the Laundromat sink into him, too.
A bit later, the sneeze that's ripped out of Dean shocks both of them awake, and Sam tries to stumble past the bleary disorientation to tend to his brother, who's still sneezing, and really, the fact that the first one flipped the hood up and over his brother's head shouldn't quite be that cute.
And just as quickly as it started, it stops, and Dean freezes like he's afraid to move, taking slow shallow breaths as he stares at the floor. "Ow." The word is slow and croaked, and Sam's heart stumbles a little. With the headache Dean was griping about earlier, he doesn't doubt the sneeze attack hurt.
"You okay?" Dean nods, hood flopping adorably as he does, and grabs several tissues, scrubbing at his nose as he chances deeper breaths.
"Yeah. This suggs." He looks absolutely miserable, and Sam can't help but gently scruff the back of his neck, conveying his sympathy as Dean snuffles.
It does suck.