Prompt: Do you think you could write a sick Sam fic for me between seasons 10 and 11, but without the darkness being a pressing issue, like maybe they're at a standstill with it for the time being or something. I would really like something where Sam gets sick but instead of trying to hide it from Dean like he usually does he just comes right out and tells Dean he doesn't feel well because he misses Dean being his big brother and just wants Dean to take care of him again.

It was quiet.

"H'rshchh!"

Mostly quiet.

Sam muffled sneeze after sneeze into his blanket, wondering if there was Kleenex somewhere in the bunker.

Probably not.

He was hiding in his bedroom, trying to give Dean as much space as possible. Since the removal of the Mark, Sam wasn't sure what was going on in Dean's head, and given that their last meaningful interaction involved Sam almost being murdered…

Well.

It's not that he didn't want Dean around. He was just pretty sure Dean didn't want him around. Afterall, Charlie's dead, Cas is missing, an unrivaled evil was, yet again, unleashed upon the earth by your's truly, so yes...Sam was fairly confident Dean wasn't eager to see him.

But Sam felt like crap.

And when Sam felt like crap...he needed Dean, regardless of the circumstances.

Sitting up, he frowned at the clock. The numbers wouldn't quit moving around, the fuckers, so Sam couldn't tell the time. He was pretty sure he had a fever, but he had no idea how high it was or what to do about it.

So, he sat there, shivering, hating the way his head hurt, his body hurt, his heart hurt.

Figuring it couldn't get any worse, he lurched to his feet, grabbed a scratchy blanket, and began the search for Dean.

xxxxx

It was quiet.

Completely, and utterly quiet, in his head.

He wasn't used to it.

The Mark was an incessant battering of whispers, pulling Dean towards darkened tunnels, promising satisfaction and release that he never thought would end.

But now it was gone, and it turned out, the quiet was just as unnerving. Dean kept waiting for the murmurs to start, but they didn't, leaving him to make his own decisions, free of unrelenting rage and the constant thirst for spilled blood.

He was hiding in his bedroom, trying to give Sam as much space as possible. Since the removal of the Mark, Dean wasn't sure what was going on inside his brother's head. Given that their last meaningful interaction involved Dean almost killing Sam, again…

Well.

It's not that he didn't want Sam around. He was just pretty sure Sam didn't want him around. Afterall, Dean's said and done some doozies in the last several months, not to mention the last week (murder in their home? Telling Sam he should've died in Charlie's place?) so yes, Dean's fairly certain Sam didn't want to see him.

He dragged a hand down his face, staring at the clock. Dean needed coffee to take care of the cobwebs and maybe get him moving on...something. Anything other than sitting in his room feeling like crap.

He made his way to the kitchen, sluggishly dumping coffee into the machine. He was trying to figure out whether to make extra for Sam when a thunderous sneeze from the doorway made him spill water all over the counter.

"What the - " He spun around, ready to fight off whatever danger was...sneezing in their kitchen? only to stop short at the sight before him.

Sam, mostly huddled in a blanket (it hung off one shoulder like a toga), was staring wide-eyed at the coffee pot Dean was wielding.

Dean quickly set it down, holding up his hands to show good faith. "Sorry! You, uh, scared the shit outta me." He lowered his arms, taking stock of his brother. Sam looked terrible. Red cheeks, matching nose, hair tousled in fifteen directions, bleary-eyed and shivering.

Fuck.

Sam blinked at him, swallowing carefully around a newly discovered sore throat. "Sorry…" he croaked.

Dean reached for a towel and began mopping up the water slowly spreading across the counter. "No..s'okay. Just...surprised me. That's all." Not making eye contact, Dean refilled the coffee pot, making sure all the water got into the machine this time.

An awkward silence blanketed the kitchen, interrupted by Sam's occasional sniffling.

Remembering that he put Tylenol in one of the cabinets, Dean figured that was why Sam showed up. Fiddling with the towel, he said, "I'll, uh, be outta your way in a minute. Just…" He finished with a gesture at the coffee pot.

Sam plopped into a chair, staring at the blanket that magically fell off his other shoulder. "You don't hafta go." He sneezed again, this one rocking him forward, and he stayed there, until the next two ripped out of him. Slowly sitting back up, he wiped his forehead. "I should go..."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You look like crap, you know." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Biting his lip, Dean winced. The last thing Sam needed was Dean trying to be a big brother again. If Dean learned anything over the last year or so, it was that Sam does not, in any way, want -

"I feel like crap. I feel like more crap than I've ever felt like crap before. This." Sam paused to cough. "Was looking for you. Can't...dunno what to do." He paused to sneeze. "I feel so...crappy." This pause was to catch his breath. "And I can't find Kleenex. This is our home. Why isn't there one stupid box of Kleenex? Do you have any?"

Sam was looking at him with those Eyes, just wanting a fucking tissue, and wait, home? Dean blinked, even shook his head a little. "Uh...no, I don't...wait. You, what?" Did he say he was looking for Dean?

Sam pulled his knees to his chest, coughing into his shoulder while simultaneously trying in vain to cover himself with the blanket that was now sliding onto the floor. Unable to watch the spectacle any longer, Dean walked over. "Here...hold on…" Lips pressed together, he picked up the blanket, wrapping it snugly around his brother's large frame, eliciting a sigh and a head loll in Dean's direction.

"Yes. See? I can't...even with a blanket. I just can't." He leaned his head against Dean, sighing again.

Without thinking, Dean brushed wayward hair off Sam's face, shocked at the heat coming off his brother. "Jesus, Sam, you're burning up."

Sam smacked his brother. "Yes. What I'm saying. Feel like crap. Need..." His voice caught as his body shuddered, burrowing further into the blanket.

Dean took a deep breath. Going for cautious, he asked, "What do you need, Sam?"

Sam blinked at him. "Huh?"

"What do you need?"

"Why're you asking me?"

Now Dean blinked at Sam. "Huh?"

Sam shook his head. "You know. Why ask me?"

"Uh...because when I don't, you get mad at me?"

Sam's brow wrinkled, as he thought that one through. "No. Yes, but...no."

Dean rolled his eyes. And herein lie the problem: Sam's classic double standard. Know when to take care of me, and when not to. Mixed signals, complex messages, shifting rules for various circumstances.

This situation, though, was fairly straightforward, and Sam was, despite the fever, being fairly obvious.

He wanted his big brother.

"Sam, you sure? I mean…"

Without warning, the little shit sneezed again, this time right on Dean's shirt, rubbing his nose back and forth afterwards, and thunking his head on Dean's chest in a dry spot.

Oh, okay.

Dean sighed. "C'mon, big guy." Somehow, he managed to get Sam back in bed, even tucked in, blanket up to his chin. Sam settled back against his pillow, one eye peeled open, locked on his brother. "I'll, uh, go get you some Tylenol and Kleenex. Okay?"

Finally satisfied, Sam hummed, closing both eyes and falling asleep.

xxxxx

When Sam woke, it wasn't by choice. Something dripped down the back of his throat, triggering a massive coughing fit.

The numbers on the clock still weren't cooperating, so he had no idea how long he'd been asleep. "Dean?" He rasped, flopping back on the pillow, rubbing his eyes.

No answer.

Why no answer? Did Sam imagine Dean putting him to bed like a ten-year-old?

Sam's eyes flew open. Wait...did Sam imagine practically asking Dean to put him to bed like a ten-year-old?

Oh, shit.

He wasn't...he didn't mean...well, yes, he did. He did mean it. He recognized the double standard. He understood how unfair it was. He knew he didn't deserve it.

Didn't mean he didn't want it.

But Dean was gone, now, and Sam was alone, and he still felt like crap, and now he drove his brother away after just getting him back, and -

…

- and footsteps sounded in the hallway, along with the rustling of plastic bags.

"Settle down, Sam. I just went to the store."

Dean pushed open the door, giving Sam the once over before placing two bags on the dresser.

Sam coughed into his wrist. "How'd you - "

"Your feet. You shuffle them in bed when you're anxious. Since you're using these rough, crappy sheets, I could hear you down the hallway."

Oh.

Dean peeled open and handed over a large box of tissues. "Here - you can stop using my shirt, now."

Sam winced, taking the box and digging out a couple for immediate use. "Sorry about that…"

Dean shrugged. "No big deal. Got you some medicine, juice is in the fridge, that fruity tea you like, too."

Tissues over his face, Sam stared at his brother. His brother.

Back.

Taking care of him like the last year didn't happen. Like the last couple years didn't happen.

Swallowing, he pushed aside the guilt over Charlie and the Darkness and Gadreel and everything else. "Dean…"

"I know, Sammy. We're good."

Sammy.

It hit him hard, right in the gut, and Sam hurried to blow his nose and do whatever he could to mask the relief, the joy, the everything that one word brought to the table. Again, seeming to understand, Dean took an extra minute arranging and rearranging the bottle of Tylenol and Nyquil on the dresser, giving Sam a moment to get it together.

When he was sure Sam settled down, Dean brought him some pills and a bottle of water. "So. Take these, and let's get that fever down, okay?" His voice was gentle, making Sam's eyes water once again. Unable to answer, Sam just nodded, following directions.

Dean fiddled with the cap from the water bottle while Sam drank, and when Sam was done, he recapped the bottle, setting it on the nightstand. "Alrighty. I'll, uh, leave so you can get some rest."

Sam's feet shuffled on the bed.

Dean paused, reaching out to bury his fingers in Sam's hair, rubbing his scalp, trying not to grimace at the sweat. Sam's eyes closed, almost drowning in how good it felt.

"Want me to stay?" he whispered. I'll ask, but you have to be honest. I can't guess anymore.

Sam wet his lips and nodded. "Yeah…" As long as you keep asking…

Dean snorted. "Scoot over."