"Happy birthday,"

Sam cracked open one heavy eyelid and the strain as it pulled on tiny aching muscles made him twitch.

"Huh?"
"Happy birthday," the darkened figure over him said again, less jovially this time. Dean didn't like repeating himself.

"Oh. Thanks," Sam tried a smile but the curve of his lips forced pressure immense and acid on his aching cheekbones.

"You look like pummeled fruit," Dean observed, cocking his head to unashamedly look at the injuries up and down his brother's body.

"Stop looking at me like I'm an exhibit," Sam said tiredly, his voice dry and throaty. His hair was stuck to his temple at one side and he vaguely wondered why. Dried blood from his wounds? Sweat from his fever? Maybe he slept on one side all of the night?

"You gonna get up and open your presents or what?"

Sam gingerly opened up the other eye but found, alarmingly, the other one had yet to open fully.

"I get presents?" he enquired, dragging his hand up from the covers to gently tap his eyelid, which felt twice the size it should be although didn't seem it under his cut fingers. Dean pulled a face as he looked at Sam critically again. He tried to swallow the feelings that came up about what had happened the day before, and forced himself onwards.

"Sure you get presents. You're my brother, and it's your birthday. What, did you think I'd forget about it?"
"No,"

"Then come on Bed Head, open them up before I do,"

"My god you even wrapped them?" Sam chuckled, shrugging himself upwards against the headboard, finding that the heavy bruise on his lower back prevented much quick movement or straightening up.

"Yup. You get the whole deal," Dean smirked. He picked up the two modestly wrapped presents from the table jammed up into the corner and dropped them on the end of Sam's bed.

"Hey, remember when we were kids and we used to try and open each other's presents before the other on our birthdays. Like if it was your birthday I'd open up a present whilst you were occupied opening another. It used to annoy you so much,"

"Darn right it did, they were my presents," Dean scowled, his face matching the one Sam had been thinking of pouting at him over the table on birthdays all those years ago as he ripped off wrapping paper at hyper-speed. Sam smirked and struggled forward for the first one.

"Ah,"

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just my back,"

Some painkillers appeared under his nose. Sam sighed and took it grudgingly with a strong gulp of water. He didn't have a fairy godmother, he had Dean. Once he'd swallowed the pills he stuck his fingers under the corners of the paper and began to unwrap his first present. Dean stretched out at the foot of Sam's bed and rested one hand on his stomach and the other felt around under the bed for something.

"If you don't like them then tough, they're not going back to the store,"
Sam chuckled and ripped clean the paper from the small box that was wrapped snug inside it. As he pulled up the top his own breath caught at the back of his throat and he coughed heavily, his throat feeling wet and dry a the same time. Little 'pat-pat' noises hit the lid of the box and Sam looked down to see blood making polka dots on the cardboard.

"That's disgusting," Dean said, and a tissue appeared in front of Sam's face.

"Thanks," Sam panted. It wasn't bad enough that every time he breathed he forced upon with sort of pain, nevermind that he kept getting this cough that made him bring up blood.

"Did you mention that to the doctor last night?" Dean said wryly, resuming his former position. Sam laughed and through the haze of the increasing fever, mumbled, "Yeah. He said it was something to do with my throat being scratched badly. He said it would happen from time to time and not to worry; it wasn't coming from my…" he patted his chest, too breathless to finish.

"Lungs?"
He nodded jerkily, and immediately regretted it. He took away his grip on the present and cradled his head in his hands, the tacky feel of his blood-and-sweat-stiff hair pressing against his sensitive, cut hands.

"Sammy? You Ok?"

"Fine. Just…head-"

"Lie down,"

Dean didn't give time Sam to argue and pushed his brother down onto the bed, yanking the duvet up from where it had tangled around Sam's feet as he'd sat up, so that it rested just under his chin. After taking a moment to check his fever though, he pulled it back off. Sam didn't seem to notice through the lead weight of his headache, and Dean could easily get the small cloth he'd used last night on Sam's temperature onto Sam's forehead without him protesting.

The silence was strong and loud, crashing around in Dean's head as he held the cloth to his younger brother's burning skin. He shuffled around to get comfortable and the familiar prickle in his legs and elbow started up again, as they had done the night before when he'd found himself in this same position.

"Sam," he breathed, shaking his head. His brother looked battered from every possible angle. The bruises stretched across his skin, the marks and cuts spread across his palms and shoulders and the deep grooves imprinted up and down the nodules of his spine. His lower back was a mess of black and blue and green, a bruise the size of the continent freezing up the muscles there. His face sported a black eye that dripped to pool at the top of his cheekbone, a cut along his hairline and a small dot of a bruise dangerously close to his temple. Not only were there the physical bruises and cuts, but also the illness that had taken hold of Sam. Dean had put that down to being left in the muddy water for too long after sustaining those injuries…

Dean blinked heavily and pinched two fingers at the bridge of his nose, jerking his forehead down onto the edge of the bed for more pressure. He had to stop thinking about that.

He looked up quietly at the skin of his brother's arm and felt physically sick at the sight of the tangled scars. Dean took in a long, deep breath and pressed the lukewarm-water soaked cloth against Sam's forehead. How was Sam not affected by this more? Dean had nearly had the second massive heart attack of his short life when he'd stumbled upon where Sam had been 'hiding'.

"Dean?" Sam's voice cracked through his lips and Dean sat up straighter to see his younger brother's face.

"Sam?"

"Where's Dean?" Sam mumbled, eyes closed, face blotted with the bruises to make it look blue-black in the dim light.

"I'm here. I'm right here Sam,"

Sam said something Dean couldn't get and then: Jess. Dean pulled a face and didn't say anything until Sam spoke again, "Dean,"

"I'm right here Sammy. You want something?"

Sam's eyes didn't open but he shook his head as if he were fully conscious and aware.

"If you want something, tell me," Dean said. He took the cloth of Sam's forehead and struggled in the dark to get it wet again. All Dean got of Sam's rushed, croaky reply was: If I…dark…my head…Jess…cold…when…Dad. Unfortunately, when it got to the last part Sam seemed to have got stuck.

"Dad…Dad..."

He said something that vaguely sounded like 'Where's Dad? He's here?' so Dean swallowed hard and said, "You know where he is Sammy. He's not here,"

"Yeah sure," Sam breathed, drifting back into whatever deeper murkier, more painful unconsciousness he'd resided in before, "My family,"

"What the hell are you talking about the family for," Dean sighed, putting the freshly wetted cloth back onto his forehead. His brother's temperature was dangerously high, and Dean could tell without a thermometer.

Dean frowned through the thoughts and switched arms to cool down Sam. He noticed the presents he'd very, very quickly wrapped the other night when he'd scrabbled together enough ideas about what to buy his brother. They were at odd angles on the floor, abandoned, although Dean knew with a rueful feeling that it was no-one's fault. He picked them up with one hand and put them on Sam's nightstand, next to the aspirin, glass of water and roll of bandages. Dean thought that maybe he could hang on until Sam woke up before racing to open his presents before him.

AS: More? No? You tell me.