He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

It's only midday, but Dean tries to come into the motel room quietly so he doesn't wake Sam. As soon as he opens the door, however, he sighs.

Sam's sitting up in bed. His eyes lock on Dean and he follows his brother's movements as Dean kicks off his snow-covered boots and shrugs out of his jacket.

"Dean?" Sam says hoarsely, sounding like he's five instead of fifteen. "What happened?"

"Nothin'," Dean says, digging through his jacket pockets where it hangs on the back of a chair. "Nothin' you need to be worrying about, anyway."

Dean's back is to the bed, but there's the telltale sound of blankets rustling, and Sam's shuffling feet on the questionable motel carpet.

"Get back in bed," he says without turning around. "You're sick enough as it is."

Sam coughs grossly, coming up next to Dean's elbow and scrutinizing his brother's movements before his eyes catch on his face.

"Your nose is bleeding," Sam points out.

Dean sighs, curses the universe for meddling strangers and sickly brothers, and finally turns to look Sam in the face.

Sam's glassy, fever-dazed eyes get a little wider as he takes in the state of Dean's face. He reaches a hand up and his fingertips ghost along Dean's swollen nose and bruising cheekbone, gently avoiding the shadow of his black eye. Sam's thumb, hot from fever, lands on Dean's busted lip and lingers.

"You got in a fight," Sam says. It isn't a question. "Why? What happened?"

"Someone thought I was stealing," Dean says, taking the chance to evaluate Sammy. He's shivering still, even shrouded in Dean's warmest sweatshirt and his thickest sweatpants, and his pale face is devoid of any color other than a blotchy strip of fever flush across his cheekbones and over his nose.

Sam's hand pulls away so he can cough roughly into his elbow for a moment, wheezing when he finally catches his breath. "Were you?"

"How about we have this conversation later, hmm?" Dean asks. "You need to be back in bed."

Sam makes a face. His eyes dart to the first aid kit in the corner.

"Sam," Dean warns. "I'm fine. They're just bruises. You need to be laying down."

Sam stares him down for a long moment. Dean is cold and tired and really wants some ibuprofen for his nose, and really doesn't want to have to have a battle of wills with his younger brother.

Dean breaks first. His whole face aches and his knuckles don't feel so hot, either, so he detours into the bathroom. He's aware of Sam following him, the kid wheezing and coughing the whole way.

"Sammy, please go lay down," Dean begs, turning on the faulty sink faucet. "You sound like dogshit. You get any worse and I'm gonna have to drag your ass to urgent care."

Sam just leans against the doorframe, shaking his head and crossing his arms. "I wanna make sure you're okay."

Dean splashes water onto his face, taking an extra moment to scrub the cold water into his eyes. He washes off his bleeding knuckles, then towels everything dry before he faces Sam again.

"I'm all good now. Tell you what, I'll grab myself an ice pack if you go lay down."

It's a weak deal, and they both know it, but Dean's desperate. Sam's about one wrong cough away from the bad side of pneumonia, and Dean can't let that happen.

Sam shudders through another wave of coughs, but then he nods. Dean rests a hand on his back and walks Sam back to the bed, watching his brother climb under the covers.