The thing about Dean, was that he was pretty much indestructible. Sam had seen him come back from a hunt with a gash so deep in his side, Sam swore he could see Dean's ribs. And while his big brother was pale and winced when Dad stitched him up, all he did when Sam practically burst into tears at the sight of him was ruffle his Sam's hair, say "You should see the other guy," and down three shots of Jack.
But the other thing about Dean, was that he wasn't actually indestructible, even if he thought so.
A week and a half into their stay in Gouldsboro, Pennsylvania, Sam was begging Dean to believe him on this.
Dad was off on a hunt three states away, but Dean had gotten a job in a warehouse in Gouldsboro, so he and Sam were staying in a dive of a motel off the highway, waiting for John to swing by and pick them up on his way upstate to tackle a werewolf case that wasn't going to be a problem until the end of the month.
Four days into their stay, Dean admitted to having a sore throat when Sam wouldn't stop bugging him about why they kept eating soup for two meals every day. The day after that, the coughing started, a deep rattling thing that Sam figured must've shaken Dean's whole skeleton. Dean had admitted all the heavy lifting at the warehouse was a bit much for him and started calling in sick by the time he was so fevered he was alternating between sweating like he'd been locked in a sauna for two hours and trembling with chills (though of course he wouldn't let Sam take his temperature, no matter how many times Sam may have begged, shouted, or stormed out of the motel room). What he would not do, however, was let Sam call Dad.
And he stood by that decision, even when he got so bad he hadn't left the bed (except to use the bathroom) for two days.
"You know you're being ridiculous, right?" Sam demanded, hands on his hips. "Dad would want to know you're this sick."
"'M not sick, Sammy," Dean mumbled underneath the pile of every blanket in the motel room Sam had draped over him. He was still a shivering mess. "Just a little under the weather. Tomorrow, I'll be back to—"
Another wracking cough ran through Dean's whole body. When it calmed down, Sam handed him the rapidly-emptying box of tissues, so Dean could spit out the phlegm those coughs always brought up.
"Normal," Dean finished, at least having the decency to blush a little at this blatant lie.
Sam rolled his eyes.
"Right, Dean," he said. "But just so you know, I've seen revenants look more alive than you do right now."
Dean muttered something under his breath, and it was only because of his sore throat that Sam didn't tell him to repeat it, louder.
The up-side to Dean being sick was that he slept like the dead. Or at least, the peaceful, at-rest kind of dead (a.k.a., the kind that would put Dad out of a job). Which meant that it was easy for Sam to sneak out and buy supplies.
Unfortunately, the town of Gouldsboro did not have a Walmart. And Sam was still short enough at thirteen, despite Dean's assurances that he would hit his growth spurt soon, that there was no way he'd make it into one of the bigger neighboring towns in the battered pick-up Dean had been driving without being pulled over. Walking the half-mile from the motel into town was enough of a bitch. In January. In Pennsylvania. But Sam did manage to buy four more boxes of tissues, some cough syrup, and a bottle of ibuprofen the pharmacist claimed would help the muscle aches Dean wouldn't admit to having, all from an honest-to-God drugstore.
Sam stopped off at the supermarket too and loaded up on hot pockets and chicken and stars soup, which he was fully prepared to pretend he bought because he liked it if Dean felt the need to make a big deal about it.
Sam realized he'd made a serious mistake assuming Dean would stay asleep when he trudged into sight of the motel to see Dean bundled into every article of clothing he owned and bushing snow off the hood of the pick-up. He turned around at the squeaking sound Sam made when he spotted Dean, and practically ran to his little brother.
"What the hell were you thinking, Sam?" Dean growled, his nose and cheeks red.
"I—I'm sorry," Sam stammered, staring up at his irate brother.
"I wake up, didn't have any idea where you'd gone, no note, no nothing, and you're sorry?"
Sam fought the urge to cry like he might've done a year ago. Instead, he held out the plastic bags in his hand like an offering.
"I bought you things," he said. "Cough syrup and chicken and stars."
The anger seemed to drain from Dean's face. The color too. He slumped, looking exhausted again.
"I'm sorry I didn't leave a note, Dean," Sam said. "I didn't think the walk would take so long, and I thought you'd keep sleeping."
Dean sighed. Then he reached out to muss up Sam's knit hat since he couldn't get to his hair.
"Chicken and stars, huh?" he said, grinning. "Let's get you inside. You must be freezing."
Sam nodded and wrapped an arm around Dean, hoping Dean was willing to keep up the charade that he was warming Sam up instead of Sam propping Dean up as he stumbled back to the room.
Sam put a can of soup on the stove to heat up, and it was already ready to eat by the time Dean finished stripping off all of his winter clothes at his laborious sick-pace. He was still pale when Sam brought a steaming bowl over to him, and smiled at him.
"Thanks, Sammy. You take such good care of me," Dean said, poking him in the ribs.
Sam fought off a grin at the warmth that crept through him at Dean's words and pretended to be affronted by the poke, rubbing his side.
"You know," he said, biting his lip. "If Dad were here, I wouldn't have to—"
"We are not bothering Dad about this, Sam," Dean growled, sounding so much like his normal self, Sam nodded meekly and put a hot pocket into the microwave for his own dinner.
Maybe, he thought, Dean was right. Maybe he would be better by tomorrow.
But tomorrow saw Dean looking decidedly worse. His face was scalding hot when Sam felt it, and he barely woke up for breakfast, only muttering incoherently when Sam propped him up in bed to force a mug of honeyed tea down his throat. He fell asleep as soon as Sam left him alone.
He was a little more lucid at lunch, eating his bowl of soup without Sam's help and responding mostly in grunts when asked a direct question. It wasn't until he finished eating that Sam voiced the thought that had been taking root and blossoming in his mind all day.
"I think you should see a doctor," Sam whispered, feeling tightness in his own chest in sympathy for Dean's pain.
"No doctors, S'mmy," Dean mumbled, eyes half-closed. "Can't afford it. Lost the warehouse job, remember? S'mething about me having a lazy ass."
He tried to give Sam his patented Dean Winchester larger-than-life smirk, but to Sam it looked pretty pathetic.
"Please, Dean," Sam said, gripping his hand. "I'm—I'm worried about you."
"Nah," Dean said, squeezing the smaller hand in his. "You know me. Ind'structable. I'll be fine."
His hand went slack before Sam could find a decent counterargument, and he gave a soft snore.
This was not good. Dean had been worn out, tired since he'd gotten sick. But this—it wasn't normal. It was time for Sam to make a command decision. And if Dean wanted to kill him for it—well, he'd just have to get healthy again and do that.
Making sure Dean was really out of it (by insulting his favorite bands a few times at normal speaking volume), Sam fished the cell phone Dad had left them for Emergencies Only out of Dean's jacket pocket, pulled on his own coat and boots, and sneaked out of the room.
He had to walk the highway for a few minutes to find a signal, but he finally punched Dad's number into the keypad, biting the inside of his cheek and praying his Dad would answer. After four rings, he did.
"Yeah?" Dad's gruff voice answered, too terse for him to be in his own motel room.
"Dad," Sam sniffed, willing himself not to break down and bawl like a baby. It was just so good to hear his Dad's voice. "We need you to come to Gouldsboro."
"Sam, I'm in the middle of a case. This tulpa isn't going to gank itself," John's voice crackled through the speaker.
"I-I know, Dad," Sam said. "But it's Dean."
All pretense of not-crying was gone now. Tears and snot flowed down Sam's face, making his cheeks even colder. His throat closed up, and he was trembling as hard as Dean when the chills hit him. "He's really sick."
There was silence on the line for almost a full minute.
"What's wrong with him?" John asked, voice softer now.
"H-he's got a fever. And he's coughing a lot. Sore throat. I know his whole body's really sore too, but he won't say so. And today—Dad, today he won't even wake up properly. I-I'm—scared."
"Shit," John muttered. "I'm coming, Sam. Make sure Dean stays in bed and drinks a lot. Water, too. Don't let him get away with chugging soda."
Sam nodded, even though he knew his Dad couldn't see.
"All right," he said. "And Dad—hurry."
A thunderous banging on the motel door woke Sam out of a dead sleep. He sat up in the chair, peeling his face off the comforter by Dean's legs, and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 2:04 am, it read. Sam had sat down almost two hours ago to watch Dean sleep. Seeing his brother's chest rise and fall had relaxed him—somewhat. Enough to lull him to sleep too, apparently.
Limbs feeling too heavy, Sam pushed himself up out of the chair, flattened his hair absently, and crossed over to the door, unlocking the dead bolt and stepping aside.
John pushed his way into the room, and Sam switched the light on so he could see properly.
"Dean?" John called, wide eyes trained on his oldest son, dead out on the bed.
Dean didn't so much as twitch at all the noise.
"He's been like that all day," Sam said, closing and locking the door again. He felt hysteria bubbling up again, heart pounding, throat constricting. "Is he all right?"
John crossed the room and stood by his son's bed, brushing his thumb over Dean's cheekbone. Sam knew what he was seeing. Dean's usually beautiful face was gaunt, the skin stretched loosely over the bones, leaving sunken cheeks and eyes. And his skin was grey, too. Sam wondered if John could see that in the warm glow of the light-bulb.
"What's the matter with him?" Sam asked, sounding like a little boy again, even to himself.
"He's got pneumonia," John whispered.
"Pneumonia?" Sam echoed. "You sure?"
John nodded.
Sam's whole body trembled.
"Can't you—can't you die from pneumonia?" he asked.
John turned to him, eyes flashing.
"Not Dean," he said. He ducked his head, smiling a little, and sank into the chair Sam had vacated a minute ago. "Dean's young and strong. He'd only be in trouble if he were really old, really young, or really sick beforehand. Dean'll be fine."
John pulled a small paper bag from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled out a pill bottle and removed two oblong capsules.
"Picked these up from a friend of mine who helps out hunters from time to time," John explained. "Told her about Dean. She agreed about the pneumonia, based on what you told me. Dean needs antibiotics, and then he'll start feeling better in a day or two."
Sam sighed, every muscle in his body turning to jelly now that they were no longer preparing to fight off Death himself if he came to take Dean away.
"Dad," Sam said. "What about the tulpa?"
"I called Caleb," John said. "He'll take care of it."
John leaned forward and roused Dean, shaking his shoulder gently.
"Son, you need to take these," he whispered, holding the pills right beneath Dean's nose.
"Huh? D'd?" Dean mumbled, voice gravelly and thick.
"I'm right here, Dean. Don't you worry now. Just take these."
Dean opened his mouth, and let John pop the pills into it, swallowing when John held the glass of water Sam had left on the bedside table to Dean's lips.
"D'd," Dean mumbled again.
"Shh," John soothed. "You go back to sleep."
Dean made no complaint, but let his head sink deeper into the pillow, breathing deeper almost instantly.
"You should get some rest too, Sam," John said, turning back to him. "You don't look so great yourself."
Sam smiled at him, pulled back the covers beside Dean, and rested his head on the vacant pillow. He watched his Dad, waiting for him to tell him no, to let Dean sleep, or that he might catch what Dean had. But Dad just pursed his lips a moment before smiling back at him.
"Good night, Sammy," he said. "Sleep well."
Sam snuggled in closer to Dean's extraordinarily warm body, knowing he would be able to get some real sleep now. Dean already had medicine coursing through his system that would make him better. And Dad sat just a few feet away, watching over them both. For the first time in almost two weeks, Sam knew everything was going to be all right.