So I've changed my mind about when this is set because I wanted to use the "Why do people always assume we're gay" line from Playthings. Once again, I struggled with this but I promised you Dean/Sam fluff and I'm not one to break my promises. Hopefully it's fluffy enough with being OOC.
And can I just say, I watched Ten Inch Hero the other day and, when they perfect human cloning, I'm so going to get me a Priestly.
Oh, and my W is playing up so there may be a few missing.
Sam's pretty sure that hell will freeze over before Ellen manages to carry out her threat. Not that she'll need those handcuffs of hers anyway – one patented 'Ellen' look and Sam can almost guarantee that Dean will fold like a cheap suit and grudgingly submit to Ellen's so-called coddling with his usual grace and a few token protests. Failing that, there's always Nyquil. Or Ambien. Assuming, of course, that Dean doesn't realize Sam won't think twice about spiking his drink, especially if it means that Dean will be forced to stay in bed.
It's sad, really, that this is what they've been reduced to, forced to hurt each other in order to keep themselves safe.
He can feel Dean watching him from behind the door when he pauses for a second before moving to push it open, the squeaky hinges confirming what Dean already knows.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer."
He's sitting up in bed, propped up on what looks likes all of the pillows Ellen owns in a bid to stop him wheezing like an eighty-year-old fat man climbing a flight of stairs when the virus steals the air from his lungs and he pats the empty space beside him, breaking off to cough into his free hand. The coughs are wet and gloopy, sounds that reminds Sam of thousands of tiny, fragile air bubbles struggling to breach the surface of something thick and oily as they make a bid for freedom, and he finds himself watching his brother critically from the side of the bed as he fumbles on the overcrowded side table for a fresh tissue.
"Quit staring at me, Sam. 's creepy."
His voice is barely a whisper, the gruff tone he usually favors nutralized by the virus that's coiled itself around his vocal chords, like a clingy toddler around a parent's leg, and Sam can't help but grin at the way Dean grumbles halfheartedly about perverted little brothers as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the bed and toes off his shoes.
It's quiet save for the slight rasp when Dean exhales and it's almost as if they're kids again, the two of them sharing a bed and clinging to each other as they wait, never really sure just how long Dad will be gone for. Dean would put his arm around Sam's shoulders, pull his little brother close to his chest and Sam would lay his ear over Dean's heart and listen to the steady beat until he fell asleep in his brother's arms.
Except this time its Dean's head on Sam's shoulder, at least metaphorically, because Dean stops abruptly, gasping when moving towards Sam results in his sutures tugging on the tender flesh of his neck and a coughing fit that leaves him slumped against his mountain of pillows, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like 'oh, fuck me' when he finally catches his breath.
"You're overcompensating again, dude."
He rolls his eyes when Dean scowls at him, gingerly pushes himself away from the headboard as his brother's scowl morphs into a questioning look that Sam pointedly ignores until he's safely upright and navigating his way around the bed.
"Switch sides with me."
He's surprised when Dean complies without arguing, pushes himself up on his hands before sliding over to occupy the spot Sam has just vacated. He feels slightly awkward now that this has been orchestrated, as if acting spontaneously somehow cancels out the fact that sitting like this, the two of them willingly sharing a bed and personal space, has 'chick flick' written all over it. In big pink glittery letters. With little hearts dotting the i's.
It's scary how quickly they can go from this to beating the shit out of each other so Sam waits patiently for his brother to get settled before he climbs onto the bed and leans back against the some of the pillows Dean has decided are no longer needed. He can feel just how warm his brother is, heat generated by fever radiating through the thin cotton of Sam's undershirt where Dean is leaning heavily against him and he twists as much as his sore ribs will let him, bringing his free hand up to ghost over Dean's forehead.
"G'nna lose th't han', S'mmy."
He snorts and lets his hand drop to the mattress.
"Yeah, okay. Go to sleep before Ellen comes in here with her handcuffs."
And that's all she wrote. The End.
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