Dean sighed and stared at the ceiling above, trying to find the energy to get out of bed even as his eyes once again closed in a light doze.

He was tired – the kind of fatigue that went beyond just physical exhaustion – and the idea of having to start all over again, of having to face another day was both overwhelming and unappealing.

Especially since the bed was warm and the memory foam beneath him was like a giant marshmallow hug...and yeah...maybe just five more minutes...

Dean hummed his agreement with that decision and sank deeper into the mattress, floating in the haze between asleep and awake.

The silence from the previous night still lingered this morning, and Dean felt a twinge of worry at the realization that Sam was not up yet.

"Huh..." Dean grunted as the thought took root and turned his head, cracking one eye open to squint at the clock on the bedside table.

The numbers glowed back at him, red and blurry – 6:58.

The relief was instant.

"Still got time..." Dean mumbled and relaxed into the soft folds of his pillow.

Because he knew an injured Sam – even a slightly injured Sam – could be expected to sleep until around 8:00...and if Sam wasn't up by then, then Dean would resume his worrying.

But for now...

Dean sighed, feeling himself slip into the welcoming darkness...and then startled awake barely a second later.

He scowled – because what the fuck? – and blinked rapidly, propping up on one elbow and trying to orient himself as he turned to the clock for another time check...7:46.

Dean glared, hating it when time pulled this Jedi mind-trick shit, and slumped back to the cocoon of his pillows and blankets and memory foam.

But if the bad news was that he was now awake, the good news was that Sam was awake, too.

Dean nodded his approval as he slung his arm over his eyes and listened to his brother stumble around in the hallway.

Because Sam was capable of being remarkably quiet and graceful for his size...but not when he was still half-asleep.

"You're like a baby giraffe..." Dean had commented more than once to a groggy Sam, and the description was dead-on-balls accurate...to borrow a phrase from My Cousin Vinny.

Dean snorted at the memory of Sam's epic bitchface response and continued to listen as Sam now yawned and coughed and shuffled to the bathroom.

He took care of his morning business and then ran the water in the sink, washing his hands and his face and, if Dean knew his OCD little brother, brushing his teeth even before breakfast...and then would do so after breakfast as well.

Dean shook his head good-naturedly – his hair rustling against the pillowcase, his forehead moving against his arm still slung over his face – and listened to the water gurgle down the drain, then heard Sam's sharp hiss of pain as he undoubtedly hit his busted lip with his toothbrush.

"Careful, Sammy..." Dean murmured out of habit and knew that Sam was now thumbing blood from the bristles with one hand while rinsing blood from his chin with the other.

The water shut off, the toothbrush rattled as it was placed back in the cup by the sink...and then there was silence.

Dean slid his arm off his face and opened his eyes, knowing Sam was carefully pressing the corner of a towel to his bleeding lip while staring at his reflection in the mirror, counting to himself as he took in the paleness beneath his scruff along with the bruises on either side of his neck.

One, one thousand...

Two, one thousand...

Three, one thousand...

Four, one thousand...

Five, one thousand...

...and towel check.

Sam was probably wrinkling his nose at the blood now staining the white fabric and dabbing a fresh corner to the blood still oozing from his lip.

A few more seconds passed before Dean heard Sam sigh and then cough...and then clear his throat...and then sigh again as the door of the medicine cabinet creaked open.

Dean arched an eyebrow.

Because the only thing they kept in their medicine cabinet was painkillers...and if Sam was searching for those, that meant his nearly strangled throat was sorer than Dean expected.

Or maybe Sam's head hurt.

After all, Alonso the pishtaco – which sounded like a SpongeBob character – had slammed Dean's little brother through a fucking wall before he had started to choke him.

"Fucker..." Dean growled at the memory, glad that he had been the one to kill that fat-sucking sonuvabitch.

Dean once again Sam's savior, his hero, swooping in to rescue.

And Sam had looked plenty grateful as he had sprawled on the floor, gasping and dazed before he had sat up and stared at Dean with wide eyes.

So apparently little brother didn't always bitch and take issue with his big brother saving him.

But whatever...

That was done.

And while Dean would also do that again, right now Sam was obviously in pain...and was looking in the wrong place for relief.

"Under the sink..." Dean reminded his brother two rooms away.

Because they had run out of painkillers last week, and while Dean had bought more on a supply run, he had not yet restocked the cabinet; had instead just stashed the entire Walgreens bag under the sink for later.

But apparently Sam had forgotten.

"Under the sink..." Dean repeated, though still not loud enough for Sam to actually hear him.

There was a beat of silence before Sam sighed, resolving himself to endure whatever throbbing he was feeling as the cabinet closed and the bathroom door opened.

Dean frowned and felt a pang of...something. Because even though Sam had been an ass to him the night before, Dean still didn't want the kid to suffer.

Dean was awesome like that.

And it was just another testament to how far, deep, and wide this big brother thing went.

There was no "off" switch.

Sorry, Sammy.

...and sometimes Dean was sorry for that, too.

It would certainly have saved him a lot of worry and heartache over the years if he could turn off the instinct, if he could resist the constant drive to make sure Sam was okay.

But no.

Sam being okay was pretty much Dean's priority in life.

And if that made him a selfish, codependent sucker...then so be it.

He had been called worse.

But nothing felt worse than being without his brother.

And no matter what Sam said or how he acted, Dean knew that his little brother felt the same way.

There was nothing worse than being without each other.

Dean blinked, suddenly aware that a Sam-shaped shadow was stretching around his half-opened door as his little brother lingered in the hall, trying to determine if Dean was awake.

Dean felt a familiar warmth unexpectedly spread through his chest – reminded of a kid Sammy hovering within inches of his face most mornings of their childhood.

"You awake, Dean?"

"Jesus, Sam..." Dean would croak, startled and glaring. "I am now."

Sam would giggle at Dean's grumpiness and would wallow against his big brother's side.

"Ugh," Dean would complain, even as he wrapped his arm around his kid and pulled him closer. "Get off of me, runt."

And Sam would giggle again.

"But I can't go anywhere if you're holdin' me, Dean."

Dean would smile. "Exactly."

Dean heard his words echo as the memory faded, saw the flash of a kid Sammy's dimpled grin...and then refocused on his door, watching.

Still standing in the hallway, Sam shifted from one foot to the other; a classic sign that he was anxious and hesitant...and likely remorseful as hell over what had happened between him and his big brother the night before.

Because while Sam sometimes liked to pretend that he didn't care if Dean was angry with him, Dean knew otherwise.

All little brothers wanted to be in their big brother's favor, no matter how old those little brothers got.

And now that Sam had slept on what he had said, he was likely feeling guilty and worried...and maybe even a bit chatty.

Sometimes Sam liked to talk when he was upset.

...which meant Sam would possibly be receptive to the conversation Dean planned to have later.

The one about whatever the fuck was going on between them lately...and how they intended to fix it.

Because this shit was getting fixed.

Damn right it is, Dean silently agreed and continued to watch Sam at the edge of his bedroom door; catching a glimpse of black sweatpant and gray sleeve as his brother turned and headed back toward his own room.

...or...no...to the kitchen, if the direction of Sam's cough was any indication of his destination.

Dean frowned – already wishing his kid's cough would go the fuck away – and decided that he was done with lounging.

Sam needed painkillers and water and someone to call him on his bullshit...and all of that sounded like a job for Dean Winchester.

The one and only.

Dean twitched a smile and stretched, pushing the blankets away as though they were suddenly a nuisance. He rolled over, setting his bare feet on the floor before yawning and standing and crossing to the door Sam had been standing on the opposite side of only moments earlier.

In the next instant, Dean was in the hall and moving toward the bathroom with the agility and stealthiness of a freakin' tiger, thank-you-very-much.

Take notes, Baby Giraffe.

Dean twitched another smile, the expression growing as he inhaled the rich aroma of freshly brewing coffee and...

Dean paused in the bathroom's doorway and tilted his head as he stared down the hall.

Was that bacon?

He inhaled again.

Oh, yeah...definitely bacon.

Nothing smelled or sizzled quite like that delectable breakfast meat.

Hell, Dean was practically salivating now just thinking about it.

He could write poems about it.

Roses are red, violets are blue...and bacon is awesome.

But more importantly, if Sam was frying bacon, then he was definitely in a peace-offering mood.

Because Sam didn't eat bacon – but he knew that Dean did – and regretful little brothers also knew it was best to approach wounded big brothers with bacon, pie, or porn.

And since it was too early for pie...and Sammy was too Mother Teresa about porn...that made bacon the winner.

Dean nodded his approval, ducking into the bathroom and suddenly feeling a little more hopeful that maybe today would be better after all.


TBC