"Your last present,"
Sam blinked away to the image of Dean's face looking determinedly at him over the top of a neatly wrapped package. His last present. Sam smiled wanly and held his head up a little.

"Are you that desperate for me to open it?"
Dean just rolled his eyes and jammed the present under Sam's arm, "Just open it,"

Sam struggled to a sitting position, batting away Dean's helping hands, and yanked at the present until it came lose. It was a long rectangular box, simple just like the one his diary had come in. He lifted it up carefully and peered inside. His injured face broke into a smile, and both brothers looked across towards the motel door, where their two pairs of shoes were piled up next to each other. Sam's were falling to pieces, too dirty to even attempt to clean and they had long since lost their colour. Sam looked back down into the box.

"Shoes," he smiled, nodding his head.

"I figured you needed them," Dean said, still looking at Sam's shoes, "Those things are steadily becoming gross,"

"How'd you know what size I was?"
"It doesn't take a genius Sam. I looked on the bottom of your others,"
"My feet aren't that big, are they?"

Sam took the shoes from the box, placed them next to him and lifted the box, "Cos this box makes me look like I've got boat-feet,"
"You do," Dean said, with a serious expression on his face. Sam pulled a face and poked and prodded at the shoes with appreciation. Brand new. Dark navy sneakers a lot like his old ones but who cared…they were new.

"Dean, these presents…they're great. Thank you,"
Dean decided to avoid what he would perceive as an awkward moment or touching brotherly-love, by holding up the pizza box. The pizza was cold inside and when he flipped it open Sam had just about swallowed his nausea. Needless to say the sight of cold pizza when feeling queasy already didn't do much to stop the nausea coming back. Sam paled.

"What?"
"Yeah, I'm not in the mood for pizza. Put it away,"
"Why?"
"I think I'm going to puke,"

"Dean…Jess…please…got to…wassn-Dad,"

Dean frowned, troubled and upset. Sam had been slurring words in his sleep for an hour or two now. At first Dean had ignored them, knowing whatever Sam said had no bearing on reality seeing as his temperature had soared so much. He'd simply carried on cooling down his brother with the cloth on his forehead and half-watching the football game on TV. Although, he realised, he'd stopped paying any attention to it over an hour ago. He watched his brother's face mirror the battle going on inside Sam. The one for temperature control on his body made the flush fierce on his face and his skin hot under Dean's touch. The one over the peace of his mind Dean couldn't do much about.

"Sam," he whispered, lifting his brother's head up. He'd known Sam had been drifting in and out of sleep for a while, unable to start a conversation though because of his raw throat and nausea, but now Dean decided to test his brother's capabilities.

"Sam,"

Sam blinked up at him. Dean had manage to catch him in a small moment of consciousness. His eyes were red and sore at the edges, puffy with the bruises and the right one bothered by the swelling.
"Dean?"
Dean placed his free hand on Sam's forehead and guessed the temperature to be somewhere in the top region of 'not good'.

"Come on Sam, I'm giving you a bath,"
"What? No but I sh-s…" Sam's weak attempts at an argument stumbled off after that and he let Dean guide him to a sitting position.
"Sam? Sam. Are you listening to me?"
"Yeah," Sam said, his voice broken to a croak of a whisper.

"Can you get up? Can you stand?"

Sam forced open one eye and had to close it again; his eyelids felt on fire, the muscles beneath the skin feeling like they were being pinched.

"Sam? Are you listening?"
"Yeah, just, dunno,"

"Then try. I've got you,"

Sam moved his legs away from where he'd been resting one up on a pillow but that was about all he could manage. After some encouragement he got up on his feet but a cry slipped out before he could stop it when weight was applied to his ankle. A scar opened up on his Achilles heel that had been left to heal whilst he'd been laid down, and the bruise seemed to hammer between all of his nerves and bones and muscles in his ankle as he leant gently on it.

"You alright?"

All Sam could feel was warmth to his right and pain in his foot, so he moved to the warmth and got as close to it as he possibly could.
"Beautiful Sammy," Dean said, placing his weight out more evenly so he could keep Sam from slipping, "But lets get you in the bath before we think about cuddling,"
"My head," Sam said in a breathy whine. It made Dean's stomach shrink and his heart stop for a second, and the smile drained from his face. Sam had been so close to his ear that despite the light volume, the sound had been clear and rang in Dean's head. His poor brother was suffering, and all because of that thing in that sewer.

"I know Sam," Dean said back, levelly, securing his hold on Sam even better, "But I got you. It'll get better,"

Dean stripped his brother down to his boxers with efficiency and speed. The more and more of his brother's skin he uncovered the more and more his eyes burned and his throat ached. The more his scowl grew and his frown deepened on his forehead, and the more his heart thumped loudly in his ears with a pure hate and anger. Dean thought he'd have to be careful not to break Sam has pulled off his clothes, frightened that the anger at what had done this to his brother might come through and he might bruise Sam more. But – and probably not surprisingly if Dean or anyone thought about it properly – his touch was gentle and careful and soothing. Once Sam was in his boxers and on the low top of the cabinet, he found a towel on one of the shelves and put it on the side of the bath.

"Sam I'm gonna run the water, Ok? Don't move, you might fall,"
"Hm," Sam said. He looked like he was in a trance, slumped forward where he sat with his arms resting on his thighs, his hair dangling downwards and his face slack and quiet. His eyes were closed apart from his right one that was cracked open to stare numbly at the floor, probably to help with the sweeping sickness in his gut.
"And," Dean said, popping up from where he'd been sticking in the plug, "If you're going to be sick…tell me,"

Sam swallowed heavily to try and help his throat but didn't say anything to Dean's words. His ears felt padded with wool and he might not even of heard them. Sam swayed gently where he sat and tried desperately to keep himself composed in his own little space.

"It's alright, I got you," Dean comforted as Sam slid to one side, "Come on, you can get in now,"
The water was the same temperature as Dean always put a cold bath at, and wandered how Sam would react to it now. The same as when he was younger?

Sam more stumbled into the bath than got in, forgetting what was going on in the small space between the cabinet and the bath side. He bumped his shins against the cold edge and frowned with confusion.

Dean lowered him into the water, kneeling down himself on the other side, and got the reaction he'd been expecting.

"Cold!" Sam yelped. He gripped onto his brother's arm like it was the edge of a swimming pool and cringed at the water's touch.

"I know, I know, just stay still and it'll cool you down,"

After a minute or two Sam's death-hold on Dean's arm loosened. He slid backwards, not because the cold water was in any way inviting but because he'd sapped his body's strength that had popped up from the adrenaline. Dean kept him upright with one arm and with the other fumbled for the cloth in the bath he'd brought in. Running cold water down Sam's back and shoulders and making him shiver and groan wasn't particularly fun for Sam, but he knew what good it would do and tried not to make it such a nasty experience.

"I remember when I did this once to you when you were five. You cried for the entire thing and I pulled all these stupid faces and made up all these characters with the sponges to try and make you laugh. You just looked at me and cried even harder," Dean chuckled, squeezing out the cloth onto Sam's chest. Sam gasped at the cold and threw his head back a little. The water ran over a cut that lanced right across his ribs like someone had tried to slice open his chest from right to left.

"Sorry," Dean whispered, before continuing, "And you kept on crying until eventually I made up a story about being at sea. Don't know why you liked it so much but you made me keep going with it all the way through the bath. Then as you got dressed and when I took you back to bed. And the next day you told Dad about it, and made him make up a bit more,"

Sam looked to be asleep, his head lolling on Dean's arm and his eyes closed, hair hanging over his face. Dean didn't care if he was asleep or awake. Something painful had snapped in Dean's chest and it was as if all the tension that had been built up whilst Sam had moaned from his fever in his bed, had suddenly sprung away. And now he was talking and he couldn't stop. Things that he doubted he'd ever say to Sam if his brother was fully conscious, things he'd only ever say to himself in his head to keep him going through the day. Memories of the pair of them as small children, fractions of good conversations at their rudimentary breakfast tables, and recollections of soft nights sharing rooms talking and bickering half-heartedly as they slipped off to sleep.

When Sam had suitably cooled, Dean realised he was running his sentences and his syllables were starting to slur from talking too fast without concentrating. He helped Sam out of the bath and wrapped a towel around him.

"It would help if you could just shrink a bit," Dean grumbled, as he attempted to dry Sam down. Sam grunted. Dean wasn't sure if it was in response to his question or because he'd passed the towel over a particularly nasty bruise that was slowly deepening in colour and seemed harshly pressed against Sam's ribs. He wrapped Sam in the huge towel, yanked off his wet boxers and steered him back into the bedroom. He sat Sam on the edge of his bed and dressed him in the comfiest clean clothes he could find for Sam. He covered him in bandages and antiseptic and anything he needed, before letting him get under the covers and fall into a slightly more comfortable sleep.

Dean took his temperature and let a long sigh out at the reading. It was significantly better than before. Dean rubbed his hands and blew on them; they'd turned cold after holding Sam in the water all that time. Dean scrubbed them over his jeans a couple of time and stood to go and have a shower whilst Sam was occupied with sleep and suitably cool. He strolled past the window and realised there was something wrong with his reflection. Dean turned to the window and caught a face staring in from the other side of the glass, butting through his own reflection. The face was so pale it seemed strange it wasn't transparent, with thick blonde hair swaying ethereally. It had dark slits for eyes and a mouth, with a small petite nose directly in the middle of it's face. Its hands were the same pale white and were stuck to the glass either side of the face. Its barely nonexistent lips curled back and Dean could hear its snarl reverberate through the glass.

"Dean," it hissed. The glass tremored under its fingers.

"Aw man," Dean said.

AS: Yay!...