A/N: Celebrating a year of writing fic with some shameless, pointless fluff.
Dean's first thought when he wakes up is that it usually doesn't hurt this much to breathe. His second thought is that life is completely unfair. There hasn't been snow on the ground for at least a few weeks, the grass looks invitingly green, the sky has taken on the clear, soft blue of spring, and it shouldn't be possible to catch a cold once the weather starts warming again. His body apparently hasn't gotten that message, though, because every breath feels like sandpaper against the back of his throat. He thinks about cursing out loud, swallows gingerly, and thinks better of it.
Sam is already sitting at the kitchen table, a fresh mug of coffee and his laptop in front of him, by the time Dean drags himself out of bed. Dean's heart clenches at the sight of him, the way it always does these days, because as crappy as Dean feels, Sam looks much worse. His eyes and nose are red and raw-looking, his shoulders thin and hunched under his t-shirt, and ever since the second Trial there's been a horrible, translucent pallor to his skin.
"How are you feeling?" Dean asks, dropping into the chair across from Sam. His voice grates on his throat with a painful rasp, and Sam looks up, frowning.
"Better than you, apparently," he says. "Sore throat?"
Dean shrugs, but there's no point denying it. "No big deal. What do you want for breakfast?"
Sam's gaze shifts back to his laptop. "Not hungry."
Dean isn't very hungry, either, but Sam needs to eat, and he figures it can't hurt to lead by example. "Pancakes it is, then," he says, and gets up from the table to start assembling the ingredients. He washes his hands thoroughly before actually mixing anything—he's probably contagious, and the last thing Sam needs is a cold on top of everything else.
Dean ignores the eyeroll Sam gives him a few minutes later when Dean pushes the laptop aside to make room for a large plate of pancakes. To his relief, though, Sam picks up his fork and starts cutting into them. Dean settles across from him again with a second plate, trying not to be obvious about monitoring every bite Sam takes, while only picking at his own food; the pancakes feel dry and sour in his mouth, and his throat hurts when he swallows. The only reason he doesn't say anything when Sam pushes the plate away barely half-eaten is because he himself has managed even less, but it still makes his stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with his cold symptoms.
By evening those symptoms have multiplied into coughing, chills, and the dull pain in his head that heralds oncoming congestion. Dean huddles in one of the library's softer armchairs, a blanket around his shoulders and a book in his lap. He's supposed to be helping Sam look for information on the Trials, but he hasn't so much as turned a page for at least half an hour, and the text keeps blurring as his eyes slip in and out of focus.
"I think it's an early night for you," Sam remarks, making Dean jump.
Dean wants to stay up and bully Sam into eating something, but when he tries to articulate this he gets cut short by a coughing fit, and by the time he can speak again the only response he can think of is, "Yeah, probably."
"Go take a hot shower," Sam tells him, his forehead creasing as he watches Dean struggle to his feet. "It'll help with the congestion."
"Go eat some dinner," Dean counters, but he heads off to the bathroom without protest.
Once in the shower, he turns up the hot water until it scalds his skin pink, shivering as the heat chases the chill from his bones, and only gets out when he finds himself practically nodding off under the spray. Then he towels himself as dry as he can, wraps his bathrobe tightly around himself, and steps unwillingly out into the cold of the hallway.
He's looking forward to sinking down onto his soft bed, maybe even pulling out some extra blankets to wrap up in (which would be a pain because he just packed them all away for the summer, because who expects to catch a freaking cold in the middle of April), but when he gets back to his room he finds himself unable to do so, because Sam is already there, and despite losing a lot of his bulk to the Trials he still takes up far more than his fair share of the bed.
"What are you doing?" Dean asks, although he has a pretty good idea. Sick Winchesters always get a pass on the no chick-flicks rule.
"I was gonna stay with you," says Sam, and yep, figures Sam would only be interested in cashing in all those passes he's been accumulating over the last few weeks now that Dean is trying to keep his distance.
"Well, you can't," he replies, not without a certain bitterness. "I'm contagious, and you're already sick enough as it is."
"I don't think the Trials exactly count as a sickness."
"Oh, yeah, no. Fever, headaches, coughing up blood. All signs of a perfectly healthy person."
"So, I have to let you take care of me, but I'm not allowed to return the favor?"
"Pretty much," says Dean. "Sorry, kiddo."
He expects another argument—in fact, he's already averted his gaze in case Sam tries to pull the puppy eyes during the next round—but to his surprise, Sam just pushes himself upright and slides off the bed.
"Suit yourself," he says with a shrug, and walks out.
"Right," Dean says to the empty room. "Good. Okay."
The bed looks a little forlorn now with no one sitting on it, so Dean pulls back the covers and clambers in. He should probably feel a little more triumphant at winning an argument with Sam (it happens so rarely, after all), but he's too busy trying not to notice how warm the mattress still is with Sam's body heat, and he can't shake a nagging suspicion that he didn't actually win anything.
Sure enough, several hours later Dean is just about ready to admit defeat. Every time he manages to find a position that doesn't aggravate the congestion, he ends up coughing himself out of it again; the sore throat has left a nasty taste in his mouth, and the bed is alternately too hot and too cold.
He doesn't know why things should be any different in Sam's bed, but at this point he's desperate enough to try.
There's a faint bluish glow shining under Sam's door, and when Dean eases it open he finds Sam sitting up in his bed with his laptop perched on his knees.
"Don't you ever stop staring at that thing?" Dean asks, his voice roughened from all the coughing so that it comes out as barely more than a wheeze.
"Been waiting for you," says Sam, grinning at him with his eyes all soft even in the harsh light of the computer, and Dean is feeling crappy enough he doesn't even call Sam out on his obvious manipulation, just shuffles around to the side of the bed and burrows under the covers. He maintains a careful gap between their bodies, though, because in this light the hollows of Sam's cheeks and eye sockets look particularly sunken and grim, and Dean doesn't think he will ever be so sick he forgets to worry about his brother.
"You know," Sam says casually, as he closes his laptop and sets it aside, "you actually become contagious a day before symptoms start, so you've probably already given it to me."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" says Dean.
"Yes," says Sam, reaching out to pull him close against his side. "And anyway, I'm not lame enough to catch a cold this time of year."
"Just for that I hope you do get it," mutters Dean. He doesn't move away, though, because somehow resting his head on Sam's shoulder is way more comfortable than anything he tried with his pillow back in his own room.
He's prepared for a smartass reply, but instead all he hears is deep, even breathing, Sam's arm already going slack where it rests across his back. Dean smiles for a moment, and then quickly follows him into sleep.
A/N: A year ago I told myself it was just one little fic. Little did I know.
It's been a lot of fun! A big thank you to everyone who's read my stories over the last year, and I hope you enjoyed this one :)