Dean closed his eyes, leaning into the shower spray and feeling the hot-as-he-could-stand-it water flowing over his body, loosening stiff muscles that were sore from sleeping in one position.

He had awoken 20 minutes ago, hot from a clingy, fevered little brother and achy from having slept propped against the headboard, holding and soothing said little brother through the night. Not that Dean was complaining. He would willingly and gladly suffer discomfort for the sake of Sam, and as far as he could tell, Sam had slept soundly for the past few hours – so soundly that he didn't even twitch when Dean had eased out from under him.

The water began to turn lukewarm, and Dean sighed with regret. He sometimes felt as though the shower was his only sanctuary, and he was reluctant to leave it, especially this morning. A three-hour drive, John's oh-so-cheery disposition, and mountains of research didn't exactly give him much to look forward to.

And then there was the issue of leaving Sam.

Dean opened his eyes and rubbed his face with both hands. He knew he was being ridiculous. It wasn't like he was leaving Sam with a stranger; Jim had taken care of under-the-weather Winchesters plenty of times. But the Pastor had never flown solo with a post-op, fevered, sick, clingy, where's-my-apple-juice Sammy, and that's what bothered Dean.

Much of dealing with Sam was reading Sam, and Dean was concerned Jim didn't have a firm grasp on that particular manual.

Sighing, Dean ran one hand through his wet hair and then reached for the shower knob, stopping the flow of the quickly cooling water. He toweled off, making a mental list of everything he needed to go over with Jim before he left, and then shaved. He pulled on his worn jeans and his black t-shirt, missing the weight of the amulet against his chest and then smiling at the reason.

Before he had fallen asleep the night before, Sam had fisted the gold charm – a sick Sammy habit that Dean always viewed as the comforting equivalent of toddler Sammy sucking his thumb – and during the night, while his little brother's body had weakened from fever, his grip had not. Having no luck in prying Sam's fingers from the amulet, Dean had decided to just take it off, slipping it over his head and leaving it in his little brother's grasp as he had eased out from under him.

Dean shook his head fondly as he gathered his kit and sleep clothes and then opened the bathroom door, wisps of steam swirling in the rush of air. He heard movement downstairs and glanced to the left, noting that Jim's bedroom door was now open at the end of the hall. He inhaled deeply, knowing the faint aroma of brewing coffee further confirmed that Jim was awake and in the kitchen.

Dean switched off the bathroom light and entered his and Sam's room, quickly stuffing his kit and his clothes into his duffle before padding down the stairs in his bare feet.

As expected, Jim was dressed and standing by the counter, alternately supervising the coffeemaker and glancing out the window at the gray sky.

"Morning," Dean greeted on his way to the fridge.

"Morning," Jim returned, facing him and then gesturing at his chest. "Missing something?"

Dean shook his head. "Sam has it."

"I see." Jim smiled warmly, needing no further explanation. "Everything okay upstairs?"

Dean nodded, grasping the neck of the apple juice bottle and crossing to the cabinet by the sink. "Seems to be, but I guess we'll know for sure in a few minutes when I wake him up. He was a little restless last night, but that's Sam just about any night, so I'm not too worried." He could feel Jim watching him as he took a stout glass from the shelf. "What?"

Jim shrugged, leaning against the counter. "Just waiting."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "For what?"

"For instructions."

Dean arched an eyebrow.

"This is the changing of the guard, right?"

Dean laughed, setting the glass on the counter. "That obvious, huh?"

Jim was silent a moment, causing Dean to look at him.

"John doesn't call for chats."

"No, he calls with orders," Dean responded, surprised by the fierce bitterness in his voice.

"And you resent that?" Jim asked automatically, forgetting he wasn't counseling a distressed parishioner

Dean's hand halted mid-pour. He looked surprised at the question, but answered. "I resent having to leave Sam."

"He'll be fine, Dean. I'll take care of him," Jim assured.

"I know," Dean agreed, topping the juice bottle. "I just resent having to choose...having to constantly choose...and then second-guessing if I made the right choice."

"You know, Dean," Jim began, closing the gap between them. "Choosing between right and wrong is easy when the wrong in question virtually hisses its malevolence, and the good all but glows angelically. But most calls are far closer – often agonizingly so – and few of us live our lives by a scheme of rigidities that brooks no allowance for circumstances."

Dean snorted and shook his head. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Jim repeated for emphasis, "that all we can do is what we think is right at the time based on the situation. I know you don't like leaving him, but Sam is safe here; you know he's in good hands. Your dad, on the other hand, is who knows where – "

"Ida Grove," Dean informed.

Jim paused. "He's three hours away, and given the situation, most likely needs you more than Sam does right now."

Dean sighed, absorbing the Pastor's advice. "Maybe," he acquiesced, crossing to the fridge to return the juice. He glanced mischievously at the Pastor. "But depending on how long I'm gone, you might be the one in need."

"And why's that?" Jim asked suspiciously.

"Because Sam's a moody little bitch when he's sick."

"Nonsense," Jim scoffed. "He's a joy to be around."

"Yeah...sure," Dean drawled, rolling his eyes.

Jim shook his head, wondering if Dean realized his sarcasm did nothing to decrease his transparency when it came to how he felt towards his little brother.

"I'm not concerned," Jim replied, turning to take two mugs from the cabinet. "Besides, he'll probably sleep the entire time you're gone."

"If you're lucky," Dean agreed. "And if not..." He shuddered dramatically. "You've been warned."

Jim chuckled, pouring coffee into one of the mugs.

"None for me right now," Dean said, taking the juice-filled glass from the counter. "I'm gonna go back up, give Sam his meds..." Say goodbye. "Then I'll be back to go over everything." Not that you can't read post-op info sheets and dosage instructions yourself, but still...

"Sounds good," Jim responded, his chilled hands wrapping around the warm mug as he sauntered out of the kitchen. "I'll be in my study."

Dean nodded and went upstairs, back to his and Sam's room. He set the glass on the nightstand before crossing to sit on his own bed. He pulled on his socks and then his boots, glancing at Sam on the other bed as he tied the laces. His little brother hadn't budged, still sleeping soundly on his stomach – another sign of sick Sammy.

If Sam was well, he slept on his back; if he was injured, on one side or the other; and if he was sick, his stomach.

Dean pulled the hem of his jeans over his boots, wondering if anyone else knew those tidbits about his brother, and then immediately answered himself – No.

No one knew Sam like he did, and here he was leaving the kid not even 24-hours after he had undergone surgery.

"This sucks," Dean said aloud as he crouched at the edge of Sam's bed and gently rubbed his little brother's back. "Sammy-Sam-Sam...wake up, kiddo."

Sam shifted under Dean's touch, his right arm disappearing under the pillow, his left hand – still clutching the amulet – drawn closer to his chest. His nose wrinkled, his face scrunching much like it did when he was a baby and was just waking up. He opened his eyes, then blinked drowsily at Dean.

Dean smiled warmly. "Morning, Francis."

Sam sighed and closed his eyes.

"Hey." Dean nudged his little brother's shoulder. "You with me?"

Sam swallowed, then winced.

Dean frowned. "Sam..."

"Hmm?"

"Open your eyes."

"M'sleepin'."

"Sam."

Sighing, Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean expectantly.

"How you feelin'?"

"Tired," Sam stated flatly, the duh implied.

"How 'bout your throat?" Dean asked, also unnecessarily. He could tell just by the way Sam sounded.

Sam stared at him.

Dean scowled. "Am I gonna have to ask you everything twice?"

Sam scowled back.

"Hey. Ditch the bitchface and just answer me. How's your throat?"

"Hurts."

Dean nodded. "Worse?"

Sam shrugged.

Dean nodded again, taking the gesture for the "yes" it was – and didn't that just make him feel all kinds of good about leaving.

"Scale of one to ten..."

Sam hesitated.

"Sam."

"Ten."

Dean sighed. The post-op info sheets had said the pain might be worse up to three days after surgery, but still...shit.

"It's time for your antibiotic and pain meds. That'll help." Dean reached behind him to grab the brown paper bag still on his bed from the night before and took out two pill packets. "Sit up."

Sam closed his eyes and grunted his displeasure at that idea.

Dean smirked. Moody little bitch.

"Sam, seriously. Sit. Up. I'm not gonna Heimlich Maneuver your ass if you choke on pills."

Sam remained motionless.

Dean sighed and glanced at the nightstand, grabbing the glass. "I brought apple juice."

Sam cracked one eye and sought proof, finding aforementioned juice sitting patiently in a glass mere inches from his face. He didn't verbally respond but rolled over, grimacing as he did, and propped up on one elbow long enough to swallow the pills and then drain the glass.

"More?"

Dean laughed, rolling his eyes as he set the glass back on the nightstand. "Maybe later, you juice junkie."

Sam frowned, then settled on his stomach, moving restlessly beneath the sheets. "M'hot."

"I know," Dean said, feeling Sam's flushed cheek, then his forehead. "You'll probably keep this fever for another day or two, kiddo."

And while that was also considered normal according to the info sheets, it did not sit well with a soon departing big brother.

"Anything else hurt besides your throat?" Dean asked, as he picked strands of hair from Sam's lashes and then swept his bangs aside.

Sam blinked at him.

Dean nudged his little brother. "Hey. You hear me?"

"Stomach hurts."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Like, I'm-gonna-puke-again hurt or I'm-sore-from-puking-so-much-yesterday hurt?"

Sam didn't answer right away, and Dean held his breath. There was no way he was going to leave a puking Sammy. John Winchester would just be shit out of luck if Sam answered the first way.

"Sam?" Dean prompted, knowing his little brother was reaching his patience limit in self-assessment Q&A.

"Just sore," Sam rasped and then coughed. "I think."

Dean felt the rise of panic. "You think? What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam snapped hoarsely, then coughed again, closing his eyes. "I just don't feel good," he whined, pushing his face into the pillow to muffle a whimper.

Dean tightened his jaw against the emotion that surged through him at seeing Sam so miserable. He hated this. Hated when Sam was sick; hated when he couldn't make him instantly better; and hated that he had to leave him like this.

"I know, Sammy," Dean soothed, softening as he always did when Sam used that tone. His knees popped as he stood from his crouched position and sat on the bed next to Sam. "It's okay. C'mere..."

Without hesitation, Sam resumed the position he had been in all night, curled against his brother's side, head resting on his chest. Sam's forearm stretched across Dean's stomach, and as his hand moved up and down with each of his brother's breaths, he noticed the gold charm and black cord clutched in his fingers.

Sam smiled weakly – this not being the first time he had been sick and woken up holding the amulet – and released it into Dean's right hand as it rested on the mattress.

Dean felt the cool metal of the charm and watched the cord coil in his hand. "Giving it back already?"

Sam nodded. "I want you to have it," he whispered, echoing the words he had said when he first gave it to his brother a few Christmases ago, just like he always did each time he gave it back.

Dean returned the nod, then spread his fingers in the cord and slipped it over his head, feeling the familiar weight settle on his chest beside the other familiar weight – Sam.

Dean smiled fondly as his little brother leaned more heavily against him, and he knew Sam was drifting off to sleep. As if to confirm it, his brother yawned and then burrowed deeper, causing Dean's smile to widen.

On most days, Sam was indeed a 13-year old moody, bitchfaced pain in the ass. But he was still Dean's little brother. And when he was sick, he regressed about seven or eight years to a kid who just wanted to be close to his big brother – and although Dean might bitch to the contrary, he didn't mind one bit. One of his weaknesses was needing Sam to need him, and he dreaded the day his little brother would stop seeking him as a refuge.

Out of affectionate habit, Dean began to rub his little brother's back, marveling – not for the first time – how something as simple as him sitting here with Sam beside him could make him feel so content. Not that he'd ever tell anyone that...

Dean sighed, wishing he could stay but knowing he was already late.

"Don't get too comfy, Sammy."

Sam sighed drowsily. "Why?"

Dean hesitated. This was the hard part. "Because I have to leave."

Sam said nothing, but his body tensed, wide eyes staring up at Dean.

"Dad called," Dean responded, as though that explained everything – and it did.

Sam continued to stare at him, absorbing the implication of those two words.

"Everything's gonna be fine, Sam," Dean assured, not liking that he could feel Sam's heart beat increasingly fast against his own chest. "You'll stay here with Pastor Jim. I'll go help Dad finish up this hunt over in Ida Grove. And when I come back, you'll feel better, and we can hit the road."

Sam nodded but remained silent, head still resting on Dean's chest as his fisted hand rubbed his thumb over his forefinger.

Dean noticed the nervous habit and nudged his brother. "Hey. You gonna say something or what?"

More silence stretched between them, and Dean began to wonder if Sam was going to answer him when his little brother finally spoke.

"Be careful."

The words were whispered, but Dean heard them along with the usual unspoken message of love and concern and your-ass-better-come-back-alive.

"I will be. I promise." Dean patted Sam's back and eased out from under his little brother for the second time that morning. "I'll be back before you know it, but while I'm gone, you rest and get better, huh?"

"'Kay."

"And you tell Jim if you start to feel worse or if something doesn't feel right, got it?" Dean said as he crossed to the chair by the door and shouldered his duffle.

"Yeah."

Dean crossed back to the beds, retrieving his leather jacket along with the brown paper bag and pinned his little brother with a stern gaze. "I'm serious, Sam – none of this Winchesters-don't-admit-weakness bullshit. Tell Jim if something's wrong, understand?"

Sam nodded against the pillow, eyes closed.

"Say it, Sam."

Sam swallowed painfully.

"Sam..."

"I understand," he murmured.

"Good. That's my boy," Dean said as he tousled his little brother's hair and knew that Sam was asleep again when his hand wasn't swatted away.

Dean stared down at his brother, feeling strangely sad and sentimental, before reminding himself that he was being ridiculous – Sam would be fine – and to just leave already.

"See you in a few days, Sammy," Dean promised, crossing to the door and closing it behind him.

TBC

It's fitting that I post a chapter in which Dean leaves on the day that I leave town, too. I'm taking my laptop and flashdrive, so hopefully I will still be able to update on Friday. If not, though, you'll know why...

Thanks for the reviews, alerts, and PMs - I love hearing from all of you!