Sam must have picked something up at that bus station. He's fine for two days after they leave Burkitsville, but the third day has him waking up with a headache that makes him snappy enough that he and Dean end up not talking for hours. Putting his head against the window of the Impala helps a little. It's cool, and the hum of the car as it drives is familiar enough that Sam thinks his biorhythms might be attuned to it.
For a while, it works. Then, Sam's stomach roils violently and he's demanding Dean pull over. Dean doesn't even argue. Sam struggles with the car door before collapsing on the side of the road and throwing up the drive-through breakfast they'd shared earlier. He can hear Dean's door open and shut, Dean rushing to his side and kneeling next to him in the dirt. Dean pulls the longer strands of Sam's hair back with one hand, the other rubbing up and down his spine. Sam retches again, and Dean murmurs, "You're alright, Sammy. Get it out."
'Sammy' sounds a lot better than 'Sam' when his head's spinning and his mouth tastes like bile.
Sam's throat burns, and his stomach protests, but he keeps retching after everything's been thrown up and all he can give is bitter saliva. He tries to catch his breath, then. Dean squeezes the back of his neck. "Done?"
"Think so," Sam rasps. Dean rubs his back again, like he's a kid, and then gets an arm around Sam to help him to his feet.
"Easy, easy," he says, gentle like he's calming down a horse, and Sam snorts weakly. Dean slides him back into the passenger seat and shuts the door for him. Sam leans his forehead against the window again. It's still nice and cool. Dean's door opens and shuts, and he tracks Dean by sound alone, shifting in his seat to eye Sam, cursing under his breath, rummaging in the glove compartment until he finds something. He prods it against Sam's shoulder, and Sam reluctantly opens his eyes and peers over. "Hydrate, man." Dean's grinning easy, but Sam can see the worry behind his eyes. Sam looks down at the offered water bottle.
"Dean-" His stomach still feels liable to flip.
"Drink," Dean orders. This time, Sam does it without protest. Dean's got a tone he uses when they're hunting, one that means 'shut up and listen, or you're dead.' He's never abused the fact that Sam doesn't question that voice before. They're crossing that line now, and Sam's sure it'll bother him when he's able to think straight again. He takes the water bottle, or tries to, but when he lifts it to his mouth, Dean's still got a hold on the end, lifting it slightly to help Sam drink. "There you go."
The water is lukewarm from sitting in the Impala, but it soothes his throat anyway. Dean pulls it back before Sam can drink too much, too fast and choke. "Try and rest. I'll get us a room at the next place I see." Sam nods. He feels heavy, too warm inside his own skin. He lets his head fall back against the window, the Impala's hum vibrating through his skull comfortingly. Dean turns his music down for once. Not off, though, and the quiet guitar riffs are the closest Sam's heard to a lullaby in a long time.
"Sammy, hey," Dean's voice interrupts the swirling nonsense of his dream. No freaky visions this time, thank god. "Hey, baby boy, we're here." Dean's voice is low and gentle. Sam could sink right into it. He wants Dean to talk to him forever. Dean chuckles, and Sam's not sure if he said that out loud or not. Dean guides him out of the Impala. A slightly more coherent part of Sam knows that, whenever he gets over this illness, Dean is going to be absolutely unbearable, but right now, he wants nothing more than to be the center of Dean's world.
Sam spends most of the next day and a half in bed. He sleeps a lot. His muscles hurt too much to move, and all the energy he might have had is wasted on constantly shivering. Dean doesn't leave his side, and Sam always wakes up with a hand on his shoulder or in his hair, eyes open just enough to look for his big brother before shutting again. The one time he does wake up without Dean hovering over him, all it takes is one pitiful whine, and Dean's there in an instant, a mama bird responding to her baby's crying. "What's wrong?" he asks, and Sam just tilts his head into the hand Dean lays over his forehead. "You getting too hot? I'll get you a rag." Sam actually feels kind of cold, but the prospect of Dean having to pay even more attention to him to wet the rag whenever it dries or gets too warm is too good to pass up, so he nods.
The rag does help a little. Dean's voice helps more. He murmurs sweet nothings, "Got you, Sammy, I'll take care of you," tone Impala-purr deep and just as soothing.
"Breakfast time." Sam blinks awake. His stomach responds to the prospect of food with another flip. His nose is way too stuffy to smell whatever it is Dean's brought. He lets his eyes slide shut again. Everything still hurts. Maybe when he wakes up next time, he'll feel- "Nope, up and at 'em, Sammy. You haven't eaten since before yesterday, and that doesn't count, since most of it's rotting on the side of the road somewhere." Thinking about rotting food and vomit does nothing to help Sam's appetite. He whines, wordless, and Dean comes over. "I know, I know," and his hand slips back into Sam's hair, like he doesn't care at all that Sam's a sweaty mess, "but do this for me, yeah? Try and eat something?"
"'m tired," Sam protests. Even his jaw muscles ache. He could fall back asleep if Dean would just leave him alone. Instead, Dean pulls him up and shifts the pillows so that Sam stays mostly upright in order to eat.
"Come on," Dean says, "just eat the freaking chicken noodle soup I cooked and I'll let you go back to dreamland."
"Heating something up in the microwave isn't cooking," Sam shoots back. His voice sounds terrible, and speaking makes his throat itch.
"Don't be a bitch about it," Dean says, flicking Sam's cheek.
"Don't be a j-" The itch in his throat cuts him off, turning into a violent round of hacking his lungs up. Dean goes from teasing to worrying so fast, Sam's pretty sure he should get whiplash from it. He shushes Sam, patting his shoulder as he coughs until he can't anymore. Sam settles back again.
"Okay?" Dean asks. Sam looks up at him through his bangs. It's been a long time since he's had to look up at his brother. He kind of misses it.
"I'll eat later," he says. "Everything hurts right now, and I'm too tired."
"You'll eat now." There's that tone again, all command, and Sam tries to hold onto what little resistance he can muster.
"Later," he says. Dean raises an eyebrow.
"You're too tired to chew your food or something?" Sam doesn't register how weird of a question that is. He just nods. Dean's got a hand on his shoulder, squeezing and releasing. The rhythm feels good.
He can hear the little clink of a spoon hitting the rim of a the bowl of soup. He lets out a small laugh. He's pretty sure he remembers Dean doing that when he was real little, pretending something Sam refused to eat tasted amazing until Sam gave in and tried it for himself. That might have worked on a five year old, but it's not going to work now. The spoon makes another clinking noise, and he can hear Dean drinking some of it.
Dean's hand cups his jaw and turns his face towards him. Sam keeps his eyes shut in meager protest. Dean slides his thumb over Sam's lips, and Sam frowns. It doesn't take much effort for Dean to pry his mouth open.
Dean's lips slot against his, and Sam's mouth fills with the taste of chicken broth. He tries to pull away, but Dean holds him still, holds his mouth open with his thumb, and feeds him.
Mama bird to baby bird. Sam's head spins.
Dean keeps their mouths together until Sam swallows. Only then does he pull back. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Sam licks his lips.
"Dean-"
"Next spoonful coming right up."
"Dean-" Sam insists, and Dean fixes him with a look.
"Do you want me to stop?" Sam licks his lips again. He can taste the broth there, and something else, too. Something entirely Dean that he knows in a heartbeat despite never tasting him before.
"No." Dean brings another spoonful to his own mouth before slowly leaning over to press their lips together again. He doesn't need to tilt Sam's head up this time or hold his mouth open, Sam's willing now that he understands what's happening, but his thumb stays there anyway. Sam likes it more than he wants to admit, likes when Dean wipes an escaped drop or two off the corner of his mouth. Dean draws another spoonful. Sam can see a lump of chicken in there this time, and his jaw takes the moment to remind him just how sore it is. Dean sticks the spoon in his mouth, and Sam watches him chew. Chewing for Sam, because Sam's sore, Sam's tired, Sam's his baby brother and Dean knows exactly how to take care of him. Dean leans over again, thumb pulling Sam's mouth open a little wider than Sam already has it. He pushes the food into Sam's mouth with his tongue, broth and vegetables and the chicken, and it's the easiest thing in the world for Sam to swallow it down.
Dean keeps going, another spoonful, another piece of chewed chicken, and Sam neither resists nor protests. There's warmth filling up his belly that has nothing to do with the soup. Dean holds him so gently, feeds him with such care and wipes away the spills. All Sam has to do is relax and swallow. He's not all that surprised when Dean starts dropping his hand to Sam's throat and rubbing gently to help him with swallowing as well.
"Good boy," Dean whispers, and Sam can tell he didn't mean to say it when he flushes and looks away. Sam doesn't want to dare shattering whatever this is by telling Dean he should say it again, that Sam wants to hear it, wants to be good for him and swallow whatever Dean puts in his mouth. Instead, he hoards those two words away to be cherished forever. Dean chews another piece of chicken for him, and this time, when he pushes his tongue into Sam's mouth with the food, Sam slides his own tongue next to Dean's. It's barely a touch, could be accidental if they ignored it, but Dean doesn't pull back. Sam swallows the chicken, but he lets his tongue explore Dean's, slick and hot and so helpful in pushing food down Sam's throat. He can taste Dean here, too, and he follows it to Dean's lips, to the inside of Dean's mouth. Dean lets him, stroking his throat all the while. When Sam's done, Dean doesn't say a thing, just gets another spoonful to feed him.
Sam smiles and lets his eyes close. Dean's going to be incorrigible after this. Sam might be allowed to chew his own meals once he gets better, but he knows Dean's going to be watching, wanting, and a part of Sam is going to want to let himself be fed again. He really shouldn't encourage this behavior. Really shouldn't reward Dean when he's fed by licking up into Dean's mouth again, like he's looking for extra scraps. Really shouldn't watch Dean chew and drop his mouth open with a little whine when he wants food. Really, really shouldn't be letting Dean do this at all, but he's sick and he needs Dean's attention like he needs air. Dean pulls away again, and Sam is left thinking that if Dean could, he'd breathe for Sam, too. He'd pump Sam's heart with his own hands. He'd do everything Sam needed, so that Sam would stay wrapped up in blankets, in bed, with him.
Sam's not sure if he'd stop him.
Dean presses their mouths together. Sam swallows.