AN: This one is long, but it's an idea I had in my head for a while. The prompts options were: Intubation / Emergency Room / Reluctant Bedrest. It is actually two parallel stories. One takes place when Dean is 10 and Sam is 5, and the other in season 11.

sfaulkenberry: I'm glad you found it funny! I kind of channeled Walt and Roy being like "do you want to have Dean Winchester after you?" I like the ep, too. Thanks for the kind words.

Shazza19: I adore Bobby – it's no secret. So I fit him in whenever I can. I'm so glad you're loving the stories and always commenting so faithfully. Thanks!

Lena: Always adore the Weechesters! I think it would be fun to write more about Jesse's adventures in baby-sitting…too bad somebody killed him off so fast. (Bad, bad Woomie.) As always, you are very encouraging. As a completely selfish aside, I would LOVE to hear your thoughts on Sisyphus rests! I go back and check it every once in a while to see if you said anything. Not trying to pressure you, just appreciate your insight.

John Winchester was losing his mind.

He was not a man who harbored many doubts. His personal rules were absolute, and he acted decisively in every area of his life. Parenting was no different. His boys were fairly well behaved and rarely acted out directly. They had a lot of energy, so most of the time when they did get in trouble, it was caused by impetuous behavior and an overabundance of energy.

That energy was half of the problem today. The other half was an especially virulent strain of croup. Sam, who never got sick, went from a bouncing, chatty kindergartener to a hacking, wheezing, struggling-to-breathe, terrified child with spots of red high on his otherwise too-pale cheeks.

John took him to the doctor immediately. But despite treatment, Sam got worse, and the doctor ordered bedrest and nebulizer treatments, warning that he was close to admitting the child to the hospital. John knew how well that would go over. Dean would not leave Sam's side, and Sam would never allow strangers to look over him. Unless there was absolutely no other option, John wouldn't do that to his boys.

Two days later, Sam wasn't any better, but he wasn't any worse. And Dean was falling ill. His fever spiked almost as high as Sam's, and the doctor put Dean on bedrest too.

The boys obeyed it for one day.

And keeping them in bed was going to make John lose his mind.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Castiel was losing his mind.

Trying to take their minds off the fruitless search for The Darkness perhaps, the Winchesters had taken an "easy" hunt. Of course, Dean had told Cas years before that sometimes it's the hunts you think are going to be easy that turn out the worst.

In some ways, this one had gone well. The creature, a doku, was dead, and no more children would go missing from northern Kentucky, lost to its appetites. But they had allowed the creature to unleash its deadliest weapon before they'd removed its head from its body. It had spewed its poisonous breath. They had both breathed it in, and had called Cas to start researching how to treat it as they drove back to the bunker.

By the time they arrived, both men were wheezing heavily, all but gasping for breath. Luckily, the cure was in the Men of Letters' archives, and all of the ingredients were on hand. Unluckily, it had to be administered daily for five days, and the patients had to avoid any and all exertion until the treatment was completed. The book said, "absolute bedrest must be maintained, because even minor exertion can lead to permanent damage to the lungs."

The men obeyed it for one day.

And keeping them in bed was going to make Cas lose his mind.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

"De? Are you bored?" came the whisper.

"Yeah." Dean's voice wasn't much louder than his brother's. Not only did they want to make sure Dad didn't hear them (and boy, could he hear a lot), talking out loud tended to make them cough, which really hurt. "But you're sick. You have to stay in bed or you won't get better."

"You're sick, too."

"I'm in bed, aren't I?" The older boy's voice was filled with such weary dismay you would have thought he'd been in bed for months.

"I'm bored-er," whispered Sam, barely holding back a cough. "I've been in bed forever."

"Not forever, squirt. Just a few days. Look at one of your books."

"Tired of books." He rolled over, and somehow even that sounded petulant.

"You're tired of books?"

"Yeah. I'll prolly never wanna read again."

"Not even Wayside School stories?"

A sad sigh.

"Want me to tell you a story?" Dean didn't want to, but he also wanted to keep his brother in bed. Too bad that meant he had to stay in bed too.

"Yes. On the porch." There was a bench swing on the porch of the townhouse where they were holed up. It was a nicer place than they normally stayed for one simple reason: the owner had had a nasty poltergeist problem until John had taken care of it, so he offered rent for a quarter of the normal price. He would have let them stay for free if John would have accepted it.

But outdoors was strictly forbidden right now, as the doctor was worried the cold air of early spring would aggravate the boys' lungs. But now that Sam had suggested it, the sunshine seemed to taunt Dean. He flopped onto his face, trying to distract himself. "Once upon a time, there was a sausage."

"A sausage? You can't make up a story about a sausage!"

"Yes I can. I'm hungry. Once upon a time, there was a sausage, but it didn't want to be eaten, so it grew legs and ran away. And it said, 'I'm not a sausage any more. I'm a dog. A hot dog.'"

Sammy giggled, and smothered a cough. Dean looked over at his brother. He looked a lot better now, more color in his cheeks and not the bright red from before. "Dean, people eat hot dogs too!"

"You know that and I know that, but the sausage didn't know that. Sausages don't have brains. Now do you want to hear a story about the sausage or not?"

"I want to hear the story about the sausage…outside."

Dean sighed and looked at the window. It had been a long, cold winter, and now that it was finally warming up, they were stuck inside. "Dad will hear us if we go down the steps."

Sammy sniffed, just once, and Dean's resolve crumbled. "Maybe…maybe we could open our window." He got up and, testing every step, slowly inched over to the window. It was the crank style, and there wasn't a screen. Dean cranked both sides wide open and just stood there, breathing in the fresh air. Then he looked down. The windows overlooked the porch, which had a wide, flat roof. "Sammy, I have an idea."

Soon, they were on a blanket on the roof of the porch, under a second blanket, since Dean had deluded himself into thinking that even if (when) they were caught, that would appease Dad. "Once upon a time, there was a sausage."

The blanket did not appease John.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

"Sam, this suuuuuuuuuuuucks. I'm going to lose my mind here."

"That doku poison's no joke, Dean." The hoarseness of Sam's voice underscored his point. But then he tossed aside his book.

"This is worse for me than it is for you," sighed Dean, barely short of a whine.

"How do you figure that?"

"You like boring stuff like reading."

"You like boring stuff like watching TV."

"Except when it's all I can do." Dean blew out his breath gustily, flapping his lips like a horse.

Sam opened his mouth to say something encouraging. Reassuring. Something. Instead, he said, "I have Scotch in my room." Dean perked up at that. They knew Cas had been hanging out in the hub, which meant that they couldn't get to the kitchen, garage or outside without going past him and getting at least a lecture. But they could get to Sam's room from the infirmary, where they'd been hanging out (because even being bored was better together).

Cas had been feeding them soup and milk and other things that Dean didn't consider real food, and he had completely denied them any alcohol, stating that the books he had read on human ailments stated that alcohol should be avoided while recovering from any serious illness. He'd been unusually adamant on the point.

So, feeling like teenagers trying to sneak out, Sam and Dean went to Sam's room, where he not only had the decanter, he had a glass that they shared back and forth until Dean said, "you know there's an exit hatch from the boiler room."

Sam pondered that for a few moments, his conscience warring with a desire to just sit outside and drink with his brother. How badly had he wanted that all those nights he was trying to find Dean? How often had he regretted not spending more time just being with his brother? He ignored the pesky voice that told him he was with his brother and crooked a little smile Dean's way. Dean read the capitulation there, the hint of mischief that was so often hidden under his little brother's serious mien, and he grinned back.

In minutes, they were sitting outside, sharing their Scotch and talking about everything except the Really Big Things that were hanging over their lives, forgetting the fact that they weren't really doing anything more than they'd been doing inside. Conspiring together, even in such a small way, felt good.

"We need to hurry back in," sighed Sam when the Scotch was mostly gone. "Maybe we can get in before Cas notices we're not there." He sort of hoped if they weren't outside too long, Cas would be appeased, even though he'd likely smell the alcohol on them.

Castiel was not appeased.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Dad left to get groceries, and strict instructions that they were not allowed to do anything except stay in bed or use the bathroom. He had been really angry about the roof thing. He had yelled for a long time that the cold air could make things worse, that they could have fallen, and they all could have gotten in trouble if the neighbors had seen them. Then he'd made them sleep in separate beds and had spent the night on the floor between the beds, which they thought was really mean, because they couldn't even whisper back and forth.

So they were going to be good with Dad gone. Except Sammy started one of the coughing fits that led to tears and gasping and he started to cry. Dean hated it when his brother cried. Sammy was just little, but he wasn't a crybaby. Then Dean remembered what Dad had done a bunch of times the first couple of days, when Sammy would cough really hard. He'd run the water in the bathroom, really hot, and sit in there with Sam. He'd done it for Dean, too. Something about the steamy air made it easier to breathe and stop coughing.

And they were allowed to go to the bathroom. Dean thought about it a little tiredly. His chest hurt and he didn't have nearly as much energy as his little brother. But sitting in the bathroom with the water running? He could do that. Dean told Sam his plan, and the five-year-old immediately began to strip.

"What are you doing, Sammy?"

"Gonna take a bath!" he announced, a bright smile on his face. The kid loved the water and would take any excuse to get in – bathtub, pool, you name it.

Dean thought about that for a minute and decided it couldn't hurt. Sam would be in the middle of the steam, and it wasn't like taking a bath was hard work. "Okay, Sammy, but you can't be wild. We're on bedrest, remember."

"I'll be on tub rest!" crowed Sam, thrilled. When Dean came back out of the bathroom to get him, Sam was jumping on the bed, naked as the day he was born.

"Sammy! You're supposed to be resting!" scolded Dean, trying not to laugh.

"I got 'sited and forgot," admitted Sam.

The tub was still filling, and Sam had quickly dumped in half the shampoo before Dean caught him.

"Lookit, Dean! Lookit!" Sam used the growing bubbles to give himself a beard. "I'm Santa Claus."

Dean laughed. His chest was feeling much better sitting in here. He scooped up more of the bubbles and piled them on top of Sam's head too. "And you have a big hat."

"Take a baff with me, De?" pleaded Sam. Dean smiled to himself. Most of the time, Sam spoke with unexpected precision for a five-year-old, but Dean secretly loved it when he mispronounced words.

"I'm too big to take a bath with you," he scoffed out loud, piling even more bubbles on Sam's head. "Now it looks like you have big bunny ears."

Sam lean forward, quick as a flash, and dumped some bubbles on Dean's head. "See, now you have to wash your hair. And I'll stay on my side." He tucked his legs up next to his butt and grinned, unrepentant.

"Sammy!" Dean brushed the bubbles off his head, half annoyed, half amused. "Cut it out."

Sam suddenly did a little hop, sending water over the side of the tub. "Nope, nope, nope. I'm a bubble bunny rabbit and I'm going to keep hopping until Dean comes in the baff!"

"Stop it! You're making a mess!" Dean grabbed a towel and tried to wipe up the floor. He noticed Sam had fallen silent, and he looked up to see those multi-colored eyes regarding him solemnly.

"I'm sorry, De."

Well, that was just unfair. Dean knew Sammy was sincere, but the eyes were just over the top. "I know, Sammy. Let's just try to keep the floor dry, okay?'

"Okay, De!" And that smile was unfair, too, all dimples on display. "Fanks!"

Dean smiled back. What else could he do? "Watch this, squirt." He took a handful of bubbles and arranged them carefully on his own head. "I'm bubble Batman!"

Sammy laughed so hard Dean grabbed his arm, afraid he was going to fall under the water.

Though John wasn't gone long, by the time he returned home, there was no more hot water, the bathroom floor was flooded, and Dean was as wet as if he'd simply climbed into the tub with all his clothes on. Then the boys made it really hard to scold them, as both tried to shoulder all of the blame. Shaking his head, John put them back to bed, put the groceries away, and got out the mop.

The boys could be a lot of work.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Sam used all of his hunter's tricks to walk without making a sound. He would – and had – offered his life in exchange for others, for the safety of the world, and of course, for his brother. But right now, he'd sell his soul for a cup of coffee. And he was going to get one, hovering angel or not.

Sam peered into the kitchen to see, "Dean?"

"Shhh!" Dean was pouring a cup of liquid bliss.

"Get me some!" Sam hissed, much quieter than his original exclamation.

Dean glared at him. He really wanted to yell at his brother for sneaking out of bed for a cup of coffee. But…Dean had also sneaked out of bed for a cup of coffee. With a sigh, he poured Sam a mugful too. "We're terrible patients," Sam confided conversationally after a few sips. His expression had morphed into one of complete contentment at the taste of the brew.

Dean decided that he'd forgo any scolding because his brother didn't wear that expression often enough. Half the time, he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world. And he kind of was. He considered everything The Darkness did to be his fault. "No kidding. I'm surprised Cas hasn't given up on us and taken off in his pimp mobile."

"He won't," replied Sam confidently, already getting a refill. "He feels like it's his fault we're sick because he didn't come along on the hunt."

"That's stupid. Of all the human emotions for him to pick up, he chooses an overinflated sense of guilt and responsibility."

Sam lifted his eyebrows. "Yeah. Wherever could he have learned that from?"

Dean gave Sam a telling look. "Not just from me."

Sam acknowledged the point. Then he coughed, and leaned against the counter a little more heavily.

"Sam – "

"I know. I'm sitting down." He sat heavily, massaging the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

"I was gonna say you look like hammered crap."

"Back atcha, brutha," said Sam, affected a Louisiana accent for some reason. He wasn't bouncing back as fast as he normally would, and Dean had a theory it was stress and the fact that he hadn't been taking care of himself for far too long. Heck, while Dean had been running around with Crowley, Sam had visibly lost weight, weight he couldn't afford to lose, and he wasn't completely back.

"What I wouldn't give for some real food," Dean offered, really hoping he could make Sam eat. "I mean, I know you can live on coffee and reading, but I need manly food."

A snort. "What food counts as manly? Do you have to kill it yourself and carry it three miles before carving it up? Or does it have to be something disgusting?"

"No," Dean deliberately sounded defensive. "It just has to be worth eating, and it can't be green. Like a big, fat burger." Sam wrinkled his nose like he was two years old, so Dean amended his statement. "But right now, I was thinking of whipping up some eggs."

Sam's face lit up at the thought. "Really? You up for that?" Hope warred with worry on his face, and a desire to not ask Dean for anything.

"I told you, I'm starving. You make the toast. I know we have some of that weird blackberry jam from Carol who's always trying to set you up with her daughter.

"It's not weird. It's really good," argued Sam predictably. He was on his third cup of coffee. "And she's always trying to set anybody up with her daughter. She's convinced she's going to die before she has any grandkids." But he got the jam out and obediently made toast.

Dean watched out of the corner of his eye as he made the eggs. There was still a tremble in Sam's hands, and he moved slowly. Not that Dean felt great, either. And he wasn't unaware that he was being watched just as closely. He felt exhausted more than anything, like he never got quite enough air, but was always half a breath behind. But he could make eggs for the two of them, and he did, though he was ridiculously worn out afterwards.

They ate the eggs plain, an acknowledgement of their still tender stomachs. By the time they were finished, they were nearly falling asleep at the table, coffee notwithstanding.

"I'll get this," offered Dean, standing up and grabbing the plates. But he'd overestimated his own strength, and promptly dropped them to the floor as a headrush surprised him.

Sam was up immediately, not any more steady, but grabbing Dean's elbow. "I'll take care of the dishes. You need to get back to bed."

"You both should be in bed," came a deep, distinctly unhappy voice from the doorway. Sam and Dean looked up in concert, identical oh-shit-I've-been-caught expressions on their faces. Somehow, they managed to look like little boys. "I will clean up your mess."

"We just wanted food. And coffee," mumbled Dean.

"Thanks, Cas. And sorry," mumbled Sam.

They didn't even complain much when Cas escorted them to their respective rooms, holding an elbow of each. The angel thought they'd probably be asleep by the time he finished in the kitchen. He pulled out a mop, shaking his head at his friends' stubbornness.

The boys could be a lot of work.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

John was dozing over his notes, dreaming, oddly, about sleep. A witch stood in front of him, holding open an old-fashioned silk bag. "More, more, more," she demanded, as John loaded it full of vouchers that read One Hour of Sleep. "It's the price of parenthood," she gloated, grinning at him past a very long nose with a whole lot of warts on it. "What if they cough to death while you rest? Or something wicked this way comes for the little Winchester boys?" she asked, and John kept nodding, and kept paying. He could never do enough if it would keep them safe. The tokens began to make a loud noise, falling into the purse that never seemed to get any fuller.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

John jerked awake, realizing the thudding was real. He shook off sleep and ran to the boys' room, just in time to see Dean leap from the second bed and land neatly in the bathroom. "DEAN?"

"Uh, I was just going to the bathroom, Dad."

"And the floor is lava!" chimed in Sammy. Both boys were looking slightly feverish again, and John sighed. He was quite certain it would have been easier to kill the werewolves he'd identified than to keep these two in bed. (He had sent the information to Singer, not about to get on the road until the boys were doing better. It was rare for him to pass up a hunt, but he had no choice this time.)

"Do your business and walk back to bed," growled John. This called for drastic measures.

"I told him he had to jump, Daddy," confessed Sammy. He couldn't stand it when Dean got in trouble.

"Just don't do it again, either of you." John pulled out the heavy-duty cough medicine, the kind that had codeine in it. He'd avoided it after the first really bad night, but right now, his boys needed a little extra encouragement to rest, or they'd never get better. Sam scrunched up his nose at the sight.

"If you take it all at once, I'll sleep in your bed with you tonight," offered Dean, coming out of the bathroom.

The debate raged across Sam's face for a moment. He always wanted to share a bed with Dean. Then he opened his mouth obediently. He did fall back on the bed and pretend to choke to death after swallowing it, but he took it, and that was the important part.

"I've got some for you too, Dean," warned John. Dean took it, then repeated Sam's theatrics to make his brother laugh. John kissed them goodnight, which prompted Dean to pretend to choke again, then left them to make some phone calls. When he checked back in half an hour later, Dean was sacked out flat on his back, soldier-straight except for one arm that was flung out to his side. Sammy was half on top of him, sideways on the bed so his feet hung off the side. John tried to move Sam to make him a little more comfortable and maybe give poor Dean some space, but Sam's brow furrowed and he growled a little like a dog. In response, and without waking either, Dean curled his arm around the smaller boy.

John smiled and left them, just pulling the blankets up a little.

They were infuriating sometimes, but they were worth it.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Cas was reading an Enochian book that Sam had unearthed in depths of the Men of Letters library. Sam could read it, too, but he really didn't like to. Besides, he was in bed. At least, he was supposed to be. Both he and Dean were proving to be truly terrible at following instructions.

On cue, Cas heard a crash and muttered curse. He hurried to the kitchen and seriously contemplated if figuring out a way to lock the Winchesters in their respective rooms would work. Unlikely. They were excellent at escaping.

Dean was in the kitchen, picking up the kettle. He was pale and his hands were shaking. As the book had said, they would get worse before they got better, and both men's fevers had spiked.

"Dean." Cas put all the censure he could into that single word.

"I just was making some tea." Dean brushed a hand over his head in a gesture Cas had learned meant he was frustrated. "I can't sleep." He turned away and staggered a little. "And I can't just lie there."

"Let me make the tea," offered Cas, gentler.

Belatedly, Sam appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily. "Everything o-o-okay?" He coughed harshly and winced.

"I just dropped the kettle," Dean ground out. "Go lie down before you fall down."

Sam sat at the table instead. "I can't sleep anyway. As soon as I start to drift off, I cough, or – "

" – or it feels like you're suffocating from lying flat, right?"

"Yeah."

Cas put the water on, hating how frustrated and tired his friends looked. "It is nearly time for your medicine again. You could take it with your tea, then maybe lie down in the chairs in the television room – "

"Dean cave. Call it by the right name."

"In the Dean cave. You'll be more propped up, you'll be able to hear if the other one needs help, and maybe putting on a movie will help you relax."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "You're pretty smart there, Cas," said Dean after a minute.

The three of them each had a cup of chamomile tea. Dean used to mock Sam for drinking it, then had started drinking it too, then had started added it to every supply run.

Dean was half asleep by the time they finished drinking, and Sam wasn't far behind. Soon, they were ensconced in the Lazy Boys and had cued up Ant Man.

"Ten bucks says you're asleep before the scene in Baskin Robbins," taunted Dean, his voice husky from sleepiness.

"Twenty says you're asleep first," responded Sam without hesitation.

"You're on! Cas, you have to be our arbitrator."

They both won their respective bets, but it would be nearly nine hours before Cas could reveal that to them, since they both slept long and heavily. And if Cas snuck close and used a little bit of his mojo to help that? Well, there were no witnesses to prove it. He also draped a blanket over each of them, something he'd seen them do for each other before, and he contemplated them a moment. In sleep, they lost their burdens and looked so much younger. He thought maybe that's why Chuck had invented sleep. Humans felt so many things, and so strongly. Their minds and maybe even their souls needed a break from it all, needed to rest from all they carried. Cas felt a rush of affection for his friends, who carried so much more than most.

They were infuriating sometimes, but they were worth it.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

The fevers were gone, and the bedrest was only part time now. John had picked up a box of crayons, and Sammy had convinced Dean to sit and color with him. Dean might have normally protested that he was too old to color, but their activity choices were severely limited right now. Soon the boys were working diligently together. John allowed himself a smile to see their heads together, a whispered conference taking place. He knew they whispered in bed every night, and it warmed him that they were so close.

Mary had been worried that their kids would be too far apart to be friends. An only child, she had been so thrilled with the thought of Dean having a little brother or sister, though they hadn't been trying to get pregnant. "But what if they don't like each other?" she'd asked one night, pregnancy hormones making her weepy. "Maybe they won't have anything in common."

John was an only child himself, but even he could tell that their boys were uncommonly close. Dean never forgot that he was much bigger, never. And Sammy looked to Dean for direction, far more than he looked to John.

The whispering and giggling stopped, and John looked up to see both boys staring at him expectantly. "Yeees?" he asked.

"We made you something," said Sammy, almost shyly. "It was Dean's ideas."

"I did the writing and Sam made the pictures," added Dean, talking fast. "But if you don't like it, that's okay."

Bemused, John held out a hand. They had made him a comic book called The Adventures of Super Dad. In it, he fought Dr. Evil and could fly. And he fought with a gun and "numchuks" and drove a big black car that was called the Dadmobile.

"Look, there we are," grinned Sam, pointing to two tiny figures apparently watching the fight.

John felt the unexpected prick of tears, and gathered both boys into a hug. He wasn't good with showing affection, and he felt their surprise, but they hugged back readily. "I love it, boys!" He hoped they heard the unspoken I love you.

John was damn lucky to have Sam and Dean in his life.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Dean handed the keys over to Bill. "Two hours? Even a car this size?"

"No problem, Dean. We'll have your friend's car cleaned and detailed and the oil changed by the time you're back." He grinned. "I can't believe he drives this dinosaur."

"Careful! You know my baby's a '67."

"Yeah, and that's a car worth keeping mint. But this…" he waved a hand expressively, shaking his head. "But no worries. We'll take good care of it."

"I know you will, Bill. Thanks."

Dean walked away from the shop, careful not to take too deep a breath of the cold air. He was better, but his lungs were still susceptible to the cold, and he coughed easily. He was headed to meet up with Sam, who was running their other errands. They were picking up It's a Wonderful Life, which Cas had fallen in love with, a third recliner for the Dean cave, and Greek takeout. And of course, taking care of the angel's car. They owed him big.

Cas was pleased to receive the movie, and confused but happy to find that his car had been cared for, but his face went completely blank when he discovered he now had his own chair in the Dean Cave.

"I – I'm not sure –" he stuttered, at a loss.

"You deserve it, man. You had the world's crappiest baby-sitting job for like two weeks." Dean clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "Try it out."

Sam handed him a plate of food. "Seriously, Cas, you saved our asses enough times, and put up with us when we were sick and crabby. Have a seat."

Castiel sat almost gingerly in the chair. It was fairly ugly, but surprisingly comfortable. "Thank you. I am grateful."

Cas was damn lucky to have Sam and Dean in his life.