Prompt: Sam is sick and feverish. Dean brings him orange juice and he asks for apple juice instead. Dean bundles him up, extra pairs of socks, all the blankets, and then Sam uses his puppy-dog-eyes to convince Dean that he's too hot and wants to take everything off instead. Dean makes Sam some soup and Sam think maybe he can handle some toast instead, not soup.

"World's Best Big Brother"

The flu. It's one of those things Winchesters try to avoid at all costs. Like country music. And taxes.

But unlike Garth Brooks or Uncle Sam, the flu has caught up with them. And it has knocked Sam, literally and figuratively, on his ass.

He was fine the night before. In a state of post-hunt euphoria, they stayed up long after lights out, laughing their way through mangled Led Zeppelin lyrics and telling each other terrible jokes in the dark.

(Sam: "Hey. Dean. What did the right leg say to the left leg?"

Dean: ". . . I give up."

Sam: "Watch out for the guy in the middle. He's a real dick.")

Eventually they fell asleep. When Dean woke, it was to the sound of Sam tossing and turning his way through a cough that hadn't been there a few hours before.

He dragged a hand over his face and shuffled over to sit on the edge of Sammy's bed. Enough light filtered through the curtains that he could see the feverish flush across his brother's cheeks.

"Hey. Sammy." He smoothed his palm over Sam's forehead. 102 at best. Not dangerous, but not the start to a winning day, either.

Sam coughed, stirred, and coughed some more before opening his eyes. He blinked sluggishly in Dean's direction.

"Morning, sunshine. How are you feeling?"

Sam rolled onto his side and let his hip fall against Dean's. "Shitty."

"Figured. What's bugging you?"

He swallowed hard. "Throat. Head. Stomach." He sneezed twice.

"Nose," Dean filled in.

Sam groaned in assent. "Think I have a fever."

"Think you're right. Sounds like the flu." Dean dragged his fingernails lightly over Sam's back. "I'm gonna go pay for another night here, okay? I'll stop at the store. What can I get you?"

"Gin. Scotch." Sam coughed and huddled closer to Dean. "Vodka."

"How about Nyquil? That's got alcohol in it, right?"

Sam sneezed on Dean's knee.

"Tissues," Dean said, using the ratty hotel blanket to wipe away Sammy's snot and spit. "You want juice?"

"Orange juice."

"Good choice. Anything to eat?"

"Soup?"

Dean patted his brother's shoulder. "Such a good little patient. Go back to sleep. I won't be gone long, okay?"

He went and paid for another night in the rundown motel (God bless front desk clerks who don't flinch when Dean hands them a credit card with the name Juan Pablo Valasquez) and walked to the store down the street.

Now he's back at the motel, whistling and ready to take care of Sammy. A long time ago, they had a picture of four-year-old Dean wearing a wide grin and a "World's Best Big Brother" shirt, holding baby Sammy, who was wearing an "I Love My Big Brother" onesie. Dean thinks they should make shirts like that in adult sizes.

"Sammy. Wake up. Medicine and hydration time," Dean says, setting the plastic bags on the nightstand.

Sam rolls onto his back and moans. "I'm dying."

"You'll feel better soon," Dean assures, popping two pills out of the blister pack and opening a bottle of orange juice. "Here. Sit up a little."

Sam makes a face. "I can't swallow those."

The pills look miniscule in Dean's callused palm. "Why not?"

"Throat hurts too much."

"Your throat hurts because you need medicine. Just take them." But then Sam actually tears up, and okay, Dean doesn't have the heart for this argument. "Fine. I'll cut them open and mix the liquid with some orange juice, okay? It'll take like ass, but you'll be able to swallow it."

The look on Sam's face is not the appreciative one Dean expects.

"What?"

"Orange juice . . .it'll burn my throat."

"But when I asked you . . . " Dean sighs and sets the neglected bottle of orange juice on the nightstand. "Okay. I'll mix them with water." Sam sneezes his approval, so Dean digs out the box of tissues. "Blow your nose. I'll be right back."

In the bathroom, Dean uses his knife to slice open the pills and mix the contents into a flimsy cup of water. When he gets back to the bed, he finds his brother staring at an unused tissue like it's a quadratic equation without a solution.

"Dude. It's a tissue. Put it up to your nose and blow."

"It's scratchy," Sam says, and sniffs a shit ton of snot back into his head.

Dean closes his eyes and counts. Slowly. He swallows a comment with the words "princess" and "wimpy" and vulgar synonyms for female anatomy. He opens his eyes and holds out the cup of water. "Here. Drink all of it." He's pleasantly surprised when Sam takes the cup without complaint.

But then Sam takes the world's smallest sip, wrinkles his nose and coughs so hard he gags. "Tastes like ass," he manages.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Is there an echo in here? Just drink it, Sam."

Sam makes an epic bitchface, but throws the rest of the medicine-laced water back like a shot. The coughing and sputtering that follow could earn him an Emmy.

"I know. Your life is rough." Dean tosses the cup in the garbage can. Sam settles down and curls up into a ball. He shivers, looking smaller than anyone his size or age should look. Dean feels a little bad. "You cold?"

Sam nods and shivers again. "Chills."

The ancient heater near the window doesn't give Dean much hope, so he digs through Sam's duffle bag instead. He helps Sam sit up and tugs a long-sleeve shirt and a hoodie over his brother's head, pulling too-warm hands through the sleeves. He lifts the hood up over Sam's head, tightening and tying the strings under his chin so only his face is sticking out. He expects complaint but doesn't get any. He grabs the blankets from his own bed and tucks them around Sam, like he's the fillings of a giant hooded burrito. "Better?"

There's hesitation on Sam's face when he nods. "Yeah."

"Less than convincing. Still cold?"

Sam bites down on his lip. "My feet are frozen."

"More socks?" Dean asks, squeezing the burrito where Sam's feet are hidden.

"All the socks."

Dean makes another trip to the duffle bag and grabs three pairs of socks. He puts them on his brother one at a time, making Sam's giant feet even more giant.

("Sam needs new shoes," Dean said one day when he was 17 and his brother was 13. Sam had fallen asleep in the backseat with one long leg stretched out, shoved between Dean's seat and the door. Dean ran a finger over the hole in the shoe where Sam's little toe was sticking out.

"Again? We just bought those."

"His feet are bigger than mine now."

John glanced in the backseat. "I think Sammy's gonna be taller than you someday."

Dean traced Sam's ankle bone. "That sucks."

"Yeah. Doesn't mean you can ever stop looking out for him, though. No matter how tall he gets."

"I know. I won't.")

"Better now," Sam says when Dean finishes and tucks his feet back under the covers.

"Good. You want to eat something before you go back to sleep?"

Sam nods in between sneezes.

The fact that the microwave logo says "Kitch'nade" instead of the widely known "KitchenAid" probably explains why it takes Dean 20 minutes and every swear word he knows (plus a few he doesn't know) to make a 90-second cup of chicken noodle.

As he sets the cup on the nightstand, the sight of his drowsy, sniffly, hooded little brother drops his blood pressure a notch or two. "In case you're keeping track, the score is Microwave: 1, Dean: 0." He helps Sam sit up against a few pillows and holds out the cup.

Sam eyes it, but doesn't move a muscle.

"Here, Sammy. Eat some before it changes from lukewarm to lukecold."

Sam wrinkles his nose and palms his gut.

"What's wrong?"

"My stomach. I think I want toast instead."

Dean sets the cup down so hard that broth sloshes all over his hand. "Fine, Sam. I'll go back to the store. I'll get you apple juice and liquid medicine and tissues with the fucking lotion and goddamn toast, okay? Will any of that make you happy?"

"No," Sam says, and Dean's about to blow before Sam speaks again. "Don't go. Please. I just want to sleep. Stay with me until I fall asleep?"

It's the puppy dog eyes. The ones he discovered at age 6 and proceeded to use to get John, teachers, girls, and Dean to do exactly what he wants. Those eyes are the reason Dean can't stay mad. The reason he can't say no. The reason he sighs and wipes his soup-covered hand on the blanket and climbs over Sam, laying down on the bed next to him.

Sam rolls over and presses his forehead against Dean's shoulder. Dean lets him nuzzle a little. Eventually Sam stills and quiets, minus the occasional cough or sniffle. Dean thinks he's probably asleep until he stirs and says, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm hot." Sam fumbles with the covers and groans.

"Okay, okay," Dean says, getting up and tugging the blankets off Sam.

"My feet. My feet are burning."

"On it," Dean says, taking off four pairs of socks, which is difficult when Sam is thrashing around like he's about to spontaneously combust.

"Dean," Sam whimpers. When Dean looks up, the problem is instantly evident. Sam is trying to tug the hood off his head, but the strings around his chin are a giant, knotted mess.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Sam's fingers away. "You're a disaster, you know that?" Dean asks as he works at the knot, but there's no bite to the words. Within seconds, the strings are loose. They work together to pull off the hoodie and long-sleeve shirt until Sam's in just his pants and an undershirt. He closes his eyes and sighs in relief.

Dean makes sure the blankets, socks, and shirts aren't too far out of reach. They'll probably need them again in the not-so-distant future. But for now he climbs back onto the bed next to Sam and uses a cool hand to brush sweaty hair away from his forehead. "Better?"

"Much."

"Think you can sleep now?"

Sam rolls onto his stomach and closes his eyes. "Yeah. Thanks, Dean."

Dean scratches Sam's back between his shoulder blades. It doesn't take long until his breath evens out into sleep.

World's Best Big Brother.

His 6-foot-tall trophy is right here.