4
The car journey back to the house was silent, the only sounds the roar of the Impala's engine and the occasional sniffles and coughs from Sam. The youngest Winchester was curled up on the back seat, head resting on the glass of the window, arms around knees that were pulled up to his chest. His gaze was on the back of the front seats, though his fever-bright cheeks gave evidence to that he probably wasn't even seeing it.
Dean was sat up front with John, though kept glancing backwards to Sam curled pitifully up in the back. Each glance at his obviously ill brother made the anger that rested in his gut rise, though even he couldn't tell who his anger was aimed at; the kid who had tripped Sam in school, Sam for refusing to say he was sick, John for swearing that it was 'just a cold', or himself for not arguing until both Sam and their father had agreed with him, and Sam had stayed home.
The car pulled into the drive, and the cut of the motor and into the following silence Sam moaned, lifting his head from the window and looking out of it for the first time since they'd gotten into the car.
"We're home Sam," John assured his youngest, opening his door "Lets get you to bed." He moved from the car, digging out the house keys and tossing them to Dean as he did the same before going to open Sam's door, undoing his seatbelt and lifting his youngest son easily into his arms.
"Just as well he's still a runt," Dean muttered as he moved towards the front door, and John smirked, recognising Dean's attempt at humour for his worry over his younger brother. Sam heard it as well, for he blinked and turned his head towards Dean, mumbling something along the lines of 'jerk' before turning his head into John's chest, making John snort as he carried Sam over the threshold.
He could hear Dean moving around in the kitchen, heard the squeak and then gush of water as taps were turned, and smiling slightly he turned and started up the stairs, for once happy that his youngest was still so small, he doubted he'd have been able to get Sam up to his bed if he was much taller. The door to Sam's room was slightly ajar, left that way from the night before when Dean had gone in to get his brother dry clothes, and John was thankful that he didn't have to try the handle with Sam in his arms, instead pushing the door with his foot, happy again, this time for the fact that it was Sam he was carrying – his youngest son being the most organised child, no, person John had ever met – and not Dean as he moved easily over to the bed, snorting when he noticed the open drawers and the strewn clothes, Dean's doing from the night before, and Sam had been woken too late to tidy it this morning before school.
He froze as he went to set Sam on the bed, his youngest had shot out a hand, grabbing hold of John's shirt and holding tight, refusing to let go, and the man looked at his youngest for a moment with surprise, and then his expression softened, and he turned, sat down on the bed and edged backwards until his back was flush against the headboard, manoeuvring Sam so he was half lying against his chest, half on the bed, and gently brushed sweat-damp hair from Sam's forehead, letting out an annoyed sigh that the fever was back, though not angry with Sam, but with himself, he should have known better and kept Sam home from school.
"Dad?" Dean was at the door, a glass of water in one hand, the first aid kit in the other "Is he gonna be alright?" John nodded, brushed Sam's hair back again, and then held out a hand
"Hand me the thermometer, Dean," he ordered, waiting until the small instrument was placed into his hand "I'll keep him home until Monday." A small amount of coaxing before Sam allowed the thermometer into his mouth, and the thirteen year old shifted, moving from his fathers chest to sit on the bed beside him, leaning his head heavily against John's shoulder.
"M'head hurts," he murmured, thermometer clicking against his teeth in a reminiscence of the previous night
"You're sick again Sam," John told him "Should have phoned me earlier."
"I was alright," Sam replied stubbornly, sneezing hard so that his head shot forwards, and bounced heavily off the headboard as it went back, and the youngest Winchester blinked in surprise.
"Sure you are Sam," Dean smirked, though he was scowling in the next second "That's why you let that kid get the drop on you."
"I could have taken him," Sam shot back, the thermometer falling from his mouth and being caught up by John, who was watching the exchange with a calculating expression.
"If you weren't sick, yeah," Dean retorted, looking to his father, who merely nodded and fished out the bottle of Tylenol again, handing two tablets to Sam as Dean reached for the glass of water and handed it to Sam as well.
"Get some rest Sam," John ordered once the tablets were gone and the glass back on the side table, waiting until his youngest had nodded and fought briefly to get beneath the bed covers before leaving the room.
"Dad?" Dean asked, following after John, pausing just outside of Sam's room, and John stop as well, leaning carefully against the banister – which creaked and bent slightly but thankfully held his weight.
"What kid got the drop on Sam?" he asked
"Just some bully in his year I think," Dean replied, "Sam's right, he could get take him easily if he wasn't sick. He won't have any problems, I promise dad." John nodded, and then grabbed Dean by the shoulders, turning him back into the bedroom.
"Stay with him Dean," he told him quietly "I'll be downstairs, I need to make some calls. Just watch over your brother."
"How sick is he?" Dean asked, hovering at the doorway, wanting to get all the facts before John left him
"Temperature's about one-oh-four," John admitted, be quickly adding, "He'll be alright, just needs the rest, the Tylenol will kick in soon as well. Just, stay with him Dean."