As always, a huge thank you to my beta morrismsteph!
Steve stayed there, holding Dean's hand, until the rest of the kids came home from school. Sam poked his head through the bedroom door, giving Steve a look equal parts confusion and surprise when he saw the man sitting so close to his lax brother. Steve simply raised a finger to his lips, then gestured for the boy to come forward.
"Is he okay?" Sam whispered nervously.
"Yeah," Steve whispered back, "he's just really tired, so we're letting him sleep."
Sam examined his older brother, searching for any signs of distress.
There were none.
Instead of soothing the younger boy's concerns, this revelation sent a spike of fear through him as he observed how peaceful Dean looked, despite the touch of their foster father. He must be really sick. Reaching out, Sam touched the back of his hand to Dean's forehead; he recoiled instantly, and his face went blank with shock.
"He's boiling hot." Sam looked at Steve, then back at Dean, thinking a mile a minute. His brother needed help, and, as much as Sam trusted the well-meaning man, he knew Dean would want the soldier gone.
"You should go get some ice and some wet cloths, to cool him down! I'll sit with him until you get back, and then I can manage things from there." At the man's raised eyebrow, Sam upped his puppy dog eyes and infused his tone with earnestness. "I'm used to taking care of him, Steve. Really, I can handle this! I know what to do–you don't have to worry about us!"
Steve held up a hand and shushed his son's chaotic rambling. "Yeah, he is pretty warm. I'm not too happy about that, either, but it's nothing to worry about, Sam. I promise, the fever isn't high enough for him to be in trouble." Carefully, the man released Dean's hand and grasped the younger boy's shoulders.
"Tony and I have taken care of all the kids when they've been sick, not to mention all the times we've gotten sick ourselves. We know how to help. You can trust us, Sam. Dean is in good hands, so please just relax. Getting worked up isn't going to help anyone, including Dean."
The two were interrupted by a noise coming from the resting teen, whose breath was coming out in short pants as small whimpers escaped–the beginning of a nightmare. The older boy's body twitched in terror, and a low whine sounded.
Monsters, the onlookers concluded, and either one might've been correct, though they'd have been horrified to learn what the other was envisioning. Dean was opening and closing his hand, in search of the safety of Steve's warmth, and was becoming increasingly agitated as his grip remained painfully empty.
Squeezing Sam's shoulders in apology, the man let go and clasped the sick boy's hand with both of his own, reassuring the anxious teen of his presence. Dean sighed in his sleep, and he immediately eased back into an easy slumber as all tension drained from his body. Steve's hand, it seemed, was the anchor keeping Dean's subconscious tethered to reality when his nightmares threatened to overtaken him.
The professor gave a fond–though tired–smile at Dean's unknowing display of trust and took comfort in the knowledge that he could soothe his son's suffering in such a way.
Sam furrowed his eyebrows at the scene and studied his unconscious brother with the man Dean–apparently–now trusted. Resigned, Sam steeled his resolve and asked, "What can I do to help?"
"Actually, it would be a huge help if you could get Tony for me. Then you can help Thor and Nat start dinner, okay?" Steve didn't want the boy sitting beside his sick brother with nothing better to do than worry, so giving him an idle task was in Sam's best interest. The boy nodded quickly before fleeing from the room.
Steve ran his hand over Dean's forehead and back through his sweaty hair, noting with relief how the boy didn't even flinch at the touch.
"How's he doing?" Tony asked as he entered, shutting the door behind him.
Steve shook his head. "Not good. He's still burning up. You said he should've cooled down by now?"
"Yeah. Even with three pills, the side effects couldn't last this long." It was Tony's turn to feel the heat radiating off the teen, and he grimaced at the sensation. "It's not an overdose, trust me. The only thing I can think of is if he somehow took more pills since he's been home."
"What? But we've been with him!" Steve protested.
"Not the whole time. He could've stashed a bottle somewhere and taken more when we left him alone," Tony grimly pointed out. "I don't want to believe it, either, Steve, but it's the only thing that makes sense."
The blond sighed, then squeezed Dean's hand. "Dean? Honey, can you wake up for me, please?"
The teen woke peacefully this time, moving his head slightly towards Steve, before slowly opening his eyes.
"Hey, there you are! Good morning, sleepyhead!" Steve couldn't help but grin at the innocent expression Dean made as he returned the words with a small smile.
"Dean? I need to know where the rest of the pills are," Tony interrupted, shooting Steve an apologetic look.
"What?" Dean mumbled in response, not yet fully awake.
"Dean, we know you took more pills. Please tell us where they are," Steve implored, still rubbing the boy's knuckles in his grasp.
"But...I didn't...I gave them all to you?" Dean's words were slurred, though from intoxication, fever, or drowsiness was unclear.
"Dean, tell us the truth." Steve's voice was firmer, less coddling. "We need to know. You're much too hot right now, and we need to know what you took and how many this time."
"But I didn't–"
"Dean." For once, Tony was completely serious. "You're not going to be in trouble, but please tell us the truth," he practically begged.
"I am!" Dean was the most aware he'd been since he first took those stupid codeine pills yesterday. He wasn't lying. Why couldn't they see that?! "I didn't take anything else!"
"Then why are you still burning up?" Tony asked sarcastically, though a frown creased Steve's forehead.
Dean froze.
The wound on his side–he never disinfected it. Shit. He probably had an infection. Of-fucking-course, Dean cursed himself. Why the hell did Dad train him if–
"I don't know." It slipped out before he could stop himself.
"You don't know? I find that very hard to believe." Tony's hands gripped his hips as he prepared for one hell of a fight. He would get those drugs.
"I don't," Dean defended.
Steve's expression hardened as he seemed to reach a verdict. "Dean, I know when someone is lying to me." Captain Mode was beginning to engage, the man's voice and posture becoming more rigid. "Tell us the truth, or we will look for those pills ourselves."
He leaned forward slightly, and the simple action exuded pure authority. The soldier's commanding aura washed over Dean, and he flashed back to sweltering afternoons, his dad's gruff voice yelling for repetitions and his body shaking so badly he was on the brink of collapse.
Retreating from his memories, the teen came to the startling realization that, between his father and Steve, he knew which one he'd rather serve under–and it wasn't the one barking orders.
Dean was still processing the revelation when Steve continued, his voice whisper-quiet as he promised, "Even if we have to tear this room apart."
It took a moment for the words to sink in; the room was silent. Then the boy's face fell, and his breathing hitched. "You really don't trust me?"
Tony scoffed. "Not when it comes to drugs or alcohol."
"Alcohol? I haven't had a sip of alcohol since I came here! I would never bring booze into an alcoholic's house!" Dean was close to shouting. Though his eyes were still glassy with fever, he was now alert and pissed at the implication that he'd do something so stupid.
"Yet you had no problem with bringing in codeine!" Tony sassed the teen.
"Tony." Steve had gone full Captain. "Calm down. Now."
The Captain's order, while intended for Tony, affected the boy, as well. Through gritted teeth, Dean bit back, "I didn't bring them into the house! You asked for them at school, and I gave them to you."
"So why do you have a fever?" Steve asked calmly, focusing solely on his distraught son. Looking past the surface anger, the man had seen the unshed tears gathering in Dean's eyes ever since the couple's blatant mistrust was confirmed.
"I don't know."
Tony threw his hands up in exasperation.
"Dean, once again, I know when people are lying to me. And I know you're lying right now. Why do you have a fever?" Steve pressed.
"I. Don't. Know." Dean emphasized each word, glaring at the man, and yanked his hand back in betrayal.
Steve instantly missed the physical contact–the sharp sting of its loss made him yearn to regain the sense of intimacy.
He reached for his son's hand but jerked back when the boy retreated further. At the rejection, the pair's newly created bond–so fragile to begin with–crumbled apart, a separation Steve felt like an agonizing pain in his chest. Tony, watching intently from the side, rubbed small circles on his husband's back in support, knowing how hard Steve would take the setback.
He let his arm drop with a dejected sigh. "Okay. You don't want to tell us, that's fine. However, you will not be alone in this room until your fever drops."
"If you're telling the truth, your fever won't improve. If you're lying, we should see the fever lessen the longer you detox," Tony summarized curtly. His tone made it clear which of the two he thought more likely.
Double shit. How was he supposed to clean the wound now? He couldn't have them hovering at all times. Knowing them, he wouldn't even be able to shower without a chaperone.
The teen huffed and flopped backwards onto the mattress, stifling a whimper at the subsequent pain in his head and side.
"Okay, then. Steve, can you stay a few more hours? I'll bring up dinner when I take over." Tony stomped out of the room, barely restraining himself from slamming the door behind him.
Steve sighed. "Sorry about Tony. He only gets mad because he cares about you." Dean rolled his eyes and scoffed. "It's true! He's just never been very good at interacting with people. Machines? The best in the world. But emotions?"
Steve chuckled and shook his head. "When I told him 'I love you' for the first time, he said 'ditto' and bought me an island." The man knew he was rambling–a desperate attempt to reduce the overwhelming tension in the room–but he couldn't bear the broken look on his son's face.
Dean, for his part, was starting to fall asleep again. He knew he ought to be more worried about how much he was sleeping, because of his concussion, but at the moment, he just couldn't bring himself to care.
He let Steve's words pass over him and closed his eyes.