This one is kind of a character study, I guess, but of course I had to base it around Dean :) There's a little S10 AU in this one.

30. Caregiver

Dean Winchester would never go so far as to call himself anything like a 'caregiver' but he did try to do everything he could for the people he cared about. Even though he was garbage at handling emotional crap and usually made things worse in that category before he made them better, he liked to think that when it really came down to it, he could offer a little comfort.

And tending wounds, that was easier. He could suture and bandage wounds, he could cure a fever, or find a potion to break a spell—he could sell his soul to bring his baby brother back to life.

Those things were easier. They offered him something he could fix, just like his Baby. Dean kept her mint, he kept her polished and oiled and tuned, just like he tried to do with his family. When she was running poorly, he took out a wrench and ratchet. When Sam was hurt, he took out the needle and thread. It wasn't really all that hard when you thought of it, and maybe sometimes some encouraging words would slip through too. Reassurances that everything would be fine.

But even if Dean couldn't find the words he wanted to say, the motions, the sometimes gruff, but also ultimately soft care that he offered always said what his tongue couldn't seem to form. And often, just his being there was reassurance enough.

XXX

Sam might have gone through some rough times with Dean, they may have fought, and more recently than he would like to say, the scars still fresh, but there was no one Sam would rather have at his side than his big brother when he was feeling this poorly.

The Trials were really taking their toll on him and he couldn't hide it from Dean anymore, not that he had been hiding anything, Dean had just been giving him his space. But as soon as he started hacking his lungs up and running a fever, that was the last straw for his brother.

He remembered falling asleep in the library and Dean rousing him and hauling him groggily to his feet, slinging Sam's arm over his shoulder as he stumbled.

"Come on, kiddo, you are getting to bed."

"But…"

"Nu-uh," Dean said firmly. "No arguments."

And Sam didn't argue. He let Dean put him to bed, plumping his pillows, spreading a thin sheet over him so he wouldn't get chilled and he wouldn't overheat. He fetched a bowl of water and a cloth and pressed it against Sam's forehead, bathing his heated face. His fever was high, and it felt so good to have that coolness. Dean propped him up against his shoulder when he had a coughing fit. His body was so tired, so frail he could barely support himself. His lungs burned, feeling like there was glass inside them every time he breathed. But Dean's solid form holding him up was a comfort he wouldn't give up for the world, and though he knew how helpless Dean felt at only being able to offer comfort—since there was no cure for what Sam had—for Sam that was enough. It was always enough.

He sagged back onto the pillows after an extremely violent coughing fit, the taste of blood in his mouth making him nauseous. But then Dean's hand was slipping behind his head, raising it and pressing a glass of water to his lips. Sam drank and closed his eyes, exhausted. He heard Dean set the glass aside and then felt his hand on his forehead, before Dean smoothed his palm over Sam's sweaty hair.

"Just get some sleep, Sammy," Dean told him.

"'kay," Sam murmured, then cracked his eyes open just a little. "'Night, Jerk."

Dean's face lit up slightly, and a small smile pulled at his lips. "'Night, Bitch."

XXX

Castiel hadn't felt this bad since…well, he had never really felt this bad. The worst he had ever felt probably was when he had overtaxed himself traveling back in time with the Winchesters. But this was worse. The foreign grace was burning him out. He had retired to his room in the bunker, unable to do anything but lay down, and now that they had found Dean again, he had nothing to drive him.

He thought he might be dying.

He heard Sam and Dean talking out in the hall.

"I had no idea it was this bad," Sam was saying and there was some guilt in it. "You know how Cas hides his injuries…"

"It's okay, Sam, I know," Dean cut in. "But now we'll see what we can do to get him back to health. Go look for leads."

The door opened and Castiel almost groaned. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to sleep. But Dean came in quietly and leaned over his bed.

"Hey buddy," he said and pressed the back of his hand to Castiel's forehead. Cas tried not to stare at the Mark still peeking out of Dean's sleeve but it was hard not to. Dean may not be a demon anymore, but their troubles weren't over. Castiel had no right to stay in bed. He couldn't fade away yet.

"Damn, you're burning up," Dean grunted and left for a moment before he came back with a wet cloth which he placed over Castiel's forehead. The angel moaned in relief, wondering how it could feel that good. It helped to ease the heat and the headache he'd had for days.

"I'll be fine," Castiel mumbled.

"Come on, Cas," Dean said, sitting on the side of the bed with a sigh. "I know that grace is burning you out. Sam and I are trying to find leads on where that douchebag Metatron might have hidden it."

"It'll be too hard to find," Castiel protested. "And Metatron will never give it up."

"We'll find it, Cas," Dean said firmly, and reached out to turn the cloth that had already gotten warm from Cas' body heat. He moved his hand down to grip Castiel's shoulder, and again the Mark was revealed, stabbing Castiel in the gut like a knife. "But until then, man, we're gonna look after you. I know I can't do much, but just let me know what we can do to keep you comfortable."

Castiel sighed heavily and slumped even further on the bed. He stared pointedly at the Mark and then looked up at Dean. "Just…just be you."

Dean's grip on his shoulder tightened slightly, but his expression didn't change. He simply got up, tugging his sleeve down so the Mark was no longer visible, then pulled a blanket over Castiel and replaced the cool cloth again before hauling a chair over to the side of the bed.

"I think I can manage that," he said.

And with this strange role-reversal of Dean watching over him, Castiel was finally able to succumb to sleep, preserving what little strength he had left.

XXX

But even though Dean always took care of everyone else, and maybe even because of that, when he crashed, he crashed hard. Sam didn't know if it was because of the Mark taking its toll on his brother, or Dean's depression and him running himself into the ground, or just the common flu; maybe it was a combination of all of those things, but whatever it was, he was down for the count.

Sam woke one morning after a hunt to find his brother vomiting in the bathroom and upon further inspection, he was running a very high fever; probably why he was no nauseous.

"I'm good," Dean tried to protest as Sam and Cas tried to help him back to his room, even though Dean was swaying and could barely keep his feet himself.

"Dean, please," Sam said gently as he lowered his brother into the bed, and Cas brought a wet cloth from the bathroom.

"I don't need to be coddled," Dean grumbled, slapping Cas' hand away as he tried to feel Dean's forehead.

"It's not coddling, Dean, we're just taking care of you," Sam told him firmly. He could already seen Dean's shields falling, as he allowed Cas to put the cloth on his head.

"You always take care of us," Cas told him. "It's our turn to take care of you."

Dean huffed, but let his eyes slid shut as he said. "Fine. Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam whispered back and pulled a blanket over his brother.