Title: He’s Everything You Need
Author: tarotgal
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Not my world. No money made. No harm intended (except of the hurt/comfort variety toward the characters themselves)
Summary: Dean doesn’t just live to take care of Sammy—he gets off on it.
Notes: Written for my comment fic meme. But 13 pages is far too long for even a series of comments. So here it is!

Prompt: Dean doesn't just live to take care of Sammy -he gets off on it. Especially when Sam's sick or injured and the need is there in Sam's eyes and Dean is SO good at making it better. And maybe he has a thing for sniffly sneezy Sam too, shut up! ;)

Sam likes being independent most of the time. But he can't deny that he enjoys the comfort of Dean's presence, especially when he's feeling vulnerable.

Cue Sam coming down with a miserable head-cold, and Dean *needing* to fuss and play nursemaid. And if Sam plays up his symptoms a little bit more for Dean's enjoyment, what of it? ;)

He’s Everything You Need

Sometimes when you’re sick or injured, you need a little TLC. And sometimes you just want to be left alone. When you’re Sam Winchester, you don’t get a choice in the matter.

Sam was used to being smothered every time he had a little sniffle. Between a big brother who took his duty of looking after him more seriously than homework and a father whose idea of protecting his sons was hunting down every ghost, ghoul, and monster in the country, Sam never got to choose the ‘alone’ option. Truly, he even remembered the first time Dean finally let him blow his nose for himself; no one should remember that from their childhood.

It was a bit of a shock when he came down with a cold at Stanford. He picked up the phone more than a dozen times to call Dean, chickening out each time in fear that their dad would answer instead. But, in the end, he got through it on his own (with some help from a bottle of Nyquil).

Sam wasn’t sure what to expect when he rejoined Dean on the hunt—would they fall right back in together the way they’d been before Sam left? Would Dean notice every little cut and sniffle? Or would Dean finally let Sam fend for himself? Sam wasn’t even sure which he wanted any more.

*

“Take your shirt off and sit down on the bed,” Dean says, all efficiency and no nonsense as he bursts through the motel room door. “I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

Sam follows behind at half speed, limping slightly from the gash in his leg but mainly concerned about the one in his shoulder. “I don’t think it’s that bad,” Sam says. “I can probably deal with it.”

Dean emerges from the bathroom looking skeptical. He holds out the needle and thread. “Deal with it? You were cut deep. You’re either going to bleed to death or sew yourself up?”  

Hesitating, Sam worries his bottom lip between his teeth. But he knows Dean is right. He knows Dean will do a good job. And he knows Dean wants to do this. So he sucks it up, takes his shirt off, and braces himself for the pain and the assistance.

*

Dean checks the clock that hangs above the library information desk. It’s been almost twenty-five minutes since Sam went to use the bathroom. He can’t have gotten lost between the tables and the front door. Dean slips the laptop under his arm and goes searching.

Sam’s still in the bathroom, and he looks flushed as he washes his hands at the sink. Dean reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pack of Pepto Bismol.

Sam hesitates before taking two. “Thanks… it’s just my stomach…”

“Yeah. I know. I heard it making sounds this morning. Take it easy.”

“I might be a while,” Sam confesses.

Dean shrugs. “No big deal. I don’t mind.”

*

It’s all Dean’s fault. He’s the one who forgot to stop for gas when they passed the sign about it being the last station for fifteen miles. And, well, yes, Sam was the one who’d read the map wrong. But that was only because it was dark and Dean wouldn’t let Sam turn on a light in the car to see the map properly. Though, yes, Sam could have rooted around in the glove compartment for a flashlight. But it was still all Dean’s fault they were out in the cold in middle of the night.

“Sniff!” And it’s so cold that Sam’s nose is running. “Sniff!” And he doesn’t have any Kleenex, so he rubs his jacket sleeve at his nose.

Across the fire, Dean grunts. Sam risks eye contact with him, pretty sure Dean’ll just scold him for using his sleeve. But that’s not what he sees. He sees something else in Dean’s eyes. Something softer. Something sympathetic.

“Sniff!”

Something… more? Dean finally gives in. “C’mon over here.”

The way Sam feels right now, this is as close to Dean as he really wants to get. Besides, he’s settled here, with his blanket around him, kneeling as close to the fire as he dares.

“Don’t be a little bitch. Get over here. It’s freezing.”

Sam considers, sniffs, and decides it’s too cold to refuse. They’re never going to make it through the night otherwise. It’s technically not freezing out, but the temps are probably in the high 30s, and that’s cold enough. So he walks over and sits down in front of Dean. Dean’s open arms spread around him, hugging him. Dean gives up to Sam half his blanket and all of his body heat.

Sam’s got to admit he’s warmer almost instantly. He leans back into Dean and suddenly feels something moving. Not just the rise and fall of Dean’s chest. Not just Dean’s head, which has nestled itself on Sam’s shoulder and against his head. No, something else. Something lower. If Sam weren’t still rather pissed off at Dean, he would have said something about it—maybe even done something to help it along.

Instead, he just sniffs again and feels it press harder against him.

*

The car is quiet. Dean thinks about putting on some music, so at least there’s something apart from the thoughts blaring through his mind about what they could have done differently. But Sam looks miserable, gazing out of the window, and Dean doesn’t want to be the one to break into his thoughts.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice breaks and he clears his throat. Twice.

“Yeah?” Dean glances sideways, as if he hasn’t been watching Sam since they left town.

“I don’t feel good.”

Dean doesn’t look over. His gaze stays on the road, on the dashed yellow line, on the white solid line, on the black pavement. He doesn’t know what to say to make this any better. “I know it sucks, but you can’t always save everybody all the time. That kid… at least he’s got an aunt to live with now. I don’t feel good about it either, but I don’t think there’s anything we could have done.”

“No.” Sam shakes his head, clears his throat again. “I mean, I feel sick. Think I’m coming down with something. Probably just a cold, but… I don’t know. I just don’t feel good.”

Dean looks over now. Sam does look pale, tired. But hunters don’t get sick days off, and he knows how bad Sam must feel to even admit this much to him; Sam hasn’t been one for sharing lately. And when Sam meets his gaze, Dean can tell exactly how bad it is. He sees that need in Sam’s eyes, the one that says he desperately wants his big brother to take care of him, even though he would never, ever speak those words out loud. “Okay,” Dean says, doing some quick mental calculations that are not his strong suit. “Twenty miles until we need to fuel up. I’ll get you some stuff to last the drive then we’ll stop early and find a motel.”

“Thought we were driving straight through to get to Portland by tomorrow.”

“Thought you’d remember the driver calls the shots.”

Sam gives a soft, half-smile. It’s not much, but Dean takes it.  

At the gas station, he’s glad Sam’s asleep in the car and can’t see him nearly convulsing with happiness in the medicine aisle. He stocks up on cold medicine—the stuff he knows works best for Sam—and buys two big boxes of tissues. The girl at the counter raises her eyebrows at him and he tries not to grin so widely. But Sam’s started sniffling, which means he’ll start sneezing soon, which means that in a few hours Dean’ll get to tuck Sam into bed with a bunch of Kleenex and a hot water bottle and look after him all night long. Which means Dean will be in ecstasy.

*

The kid’s cough is about five times worse this evening. Dean thought a nice long nap in the impala would have helped more. And the rain that had started around four is now a deluge. He pulls up to the cemetery, reaches around the seat, and grabs his jacket.

Sam coughs into his arm, trying to muffle the sound, but Dean can’t miss the moist coughs that sound like they’re rumbling up from his chest. When Sam reaches for the car door handle, Dean reaches over to stop him. “Hold it right there. You’re not going.”

Sam looks confused, blinks, lowers his arm. “You need me to watch your back.”

“I can dig up a coffin on my own. We left the ghost a whole state back. By the time she figures out what we’re doing, her remains’ll be ashes.” He tucks his jacket around Sam’s front like a blanket and kisses his forehead. “Stay warm. Stay in the car. We don’t need whatever the hell you’ve got turning into pneumonia… if it hasn’t already.” He cops a feel of his brother’s forehead, then trails his fingers downward, pressing at key points, feeling with the pads of his fingers how swollen Sam’s lymph nodes are. Damn it. “I’ll keep my phone on. You call me if you need anything.”

Sam shakes with another cough, this one uncovered, as his hands are under the jacket, and even wetter-sounded. Dean shivers as he braves the rain, retrieving both shovel and shotgun from the trunk and hoping that the woman’s grave is at least by a tree this time so he won’t be soaked to the skin by the time he’s done. Winchester luck, however, is pretty much nonexistent.

*

“How’s your leg?”

Sam’s teeth are clenched and he’s taking deep breaths through them, making heavy hissing and sucking sounds as air rushes in and out. He looks at Dean through a mop of brown hair that’s fallen in front of his eyes and can’t be pushed away. “What?” His anger is only barely containable. He’s not angry at Dean; this isn’t Dean’s fault. It’s no one’s fault but the friggin’ pagan god who just tried to grind them up into a paste to eat them.

“Your leg. The right one,” Dean says, his foot depressing the impala’s gas pedal nearly all the way, breaking the speed limit and then doubling it. “How is it?”

Sam blinks incredulously. His left leg has been scraped raw right through his jeans. His left arm is almost certainly dislocated. And there’s a bullet in his right shoulder. Dean’s bandana and shirt are the only things keeping him from bleeding out in the car right now. And he can’t even reach up to put pressure on that because his hand’s pressed against his ribs where he was kicked repeatedly until something cracked. The skin around his eyes are swelling up where he’s been punched one too many times and a trickle of dried blood from his nose is a pretty good indicator that his nose is broken again. But Dean wants to know about his leg? “Dean, my right leg’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt.”

“Hey! You’ve got one thing going for you then! Focus on that, Sammy. We’re almost there.”

Sam isn’t sure if “there” means the motel room or the hospital, but he does what Dean tells him to do and manages to not give into the concussion urging him to sleep. He focuses on his leg, on wiggling his toes in his shoe, on jiggling it up and down impatiently. He focuses on the two good things he’s got left: his leg and his brother.

“Just hang in there for me, Sammy. I gotcha.” Sam hangs on. Sam believes his big brother.

*

When Sam wakes up with his head stuffed and his throat on fire, the first thing he thinks about is Dean. He remembers how hands-on Dean was the last time Sam was sick. It was borderline smothering, sure, and normally Sam wouldn’t go for that. He wasn’t three years old anymore and he had definitely learned how to blow his own nose thank you very much. But he has to admit how nice it was to have Dean take care of him the way he had. Every time he’d needed a tissue, Dean had one ready for him. Every time he felt thirsty, Dean had juice or ice chips or both. Every time he felt a chill, Dean was there with an extra blanket or a second pair of socks or a warm arm. There was nothing like the feeling of snuggling into Dean Winchester’s chest and letting him hold you, rub your back, smooth your hair, when you didn’t feel good. While he’d been sick, time had stopped. No hunting, no ghosts, no demons, no witches—Sam had only known only the motel room… and the bed… and Dean’s arms.

Only Dean’s not in the room. Sam sits up and looks around. There’s no warm lump of brother hunkered down beneath the covers beside him. No annoying hummer brushing his teeth in the bathroom, getting a song stuck in Sam’s head. No one manning the coffee pot in the corner, giving Sam what he needs right now to make him get out of bed.

So Sam flops back down. His cheek finds the cool, smooth pillow Dean abandoned sometime earlier and he hugs the blankets to his chest. He coughs. Resoundingly. He tries to fall back to sleep.

The swish of a card in the door, hum of the door lock approving it, and click of the handle being turned make Sam sit up again. He’s all prepared to pretend he intended to get up all along. He knows their checkout time’s ten, knows they need to be on the road by nine to have any hope of making it to Vermont by Thursday. But then he spots what Dean’s carrying.

Dean’s got four white shopping bags. Dean didn’t just pick up a couple things from the Sheetz across the street. No, he went to an actual grocery store; the logo’s showing right there on the bags as they hang, bulging with purchases. “Aw, I was trying not to wake you.” He brings the bags with him as he settles at the foot of the bed. “How ya feelin’?”

Sam’s answer consists of one word. “Confused.”

Dean flushes a little—not enough that anyone other than Sam would notice. But his freckles stand out more when he blushes and he does the thing where he tries to look anywhere but at Sam; he practically fondles whatever’s in the bag, pretending to look busy. “I, ah, just got you some things. That you might need. If you’re… not feeling well.”

Sam coughs and the flush in Dean’s cheeks and the tips of his ears deepens. Sam shakes his head. “Dean, I…” But he breaks off. There’s a sneeze coming. He leans back a little, waves a hand over his face. He lets his tongue go slack against his bottom teeth as his jaw drops open. His nose twitches and eyes squint shut. “hahhhhhEHHHSHIKkuhhhh!”

There’s a tissue at his nose. He could have sworn he hadn’t seen it before, but there it is, wiping. And suddenly he’s three again and Dean’s taking care of him and he leans forward, nose pressing harder into the tissue because there’s another one, another sneeze, and it’s coming fast. “ahhh-IHHKJShhhhhh!”

“Bless you. Now blow.”

Sam coughs. “Jerk… I’b dot goig to—“

“C’mon, Sammy. Your nose is all stuffed. Let it out.”

Resignedly, Sam takes a deep breath, coughs, and blows his nose. And it feels better, damn it. Dean was right. Again. He clears his nose a little then pulls back. Dean gives his nose a final wipe, balls up the tissue, and sends it off the bed in an arcing trajectory that misses the trash basket by the dresser by a few feet. “Dean, not that I’m not appreciative, but what the hell?”

“You snore.”

Dean Winchester, King of Non Sequiturs. “Excuse me?”

“When you’ve got a cold, you snore. Loudly. You’ve been doing it since you were a baby. It was kind of cute back then.”

“Not cute now?”

Dean shrugs.

“Dean…”

“Look, Sammy…” Dean’s got this look in his eye that’s just about to break Sam’s heart. “The thing you gotta know about me is—”

“Shut up.”

Dean stops. Stares. “Come again?”

“No chick flick moments, remember? You don’t have to say it.”

Dean shakes his head. “I kind of do.”

“You don’t,” Sam says, his voice just a bit huskier than it ought to have been. “I already know. All these years together, you think I wouldn’t have figured it out?” He sniffs and rubs the back of his hand under his nose. “Believe me, I know. I just didn’t want you to know I knew.” Dean’s still staring. “So… what did you get me at the store?”

Dean starts unloading the bags. All the usual suspects are there: the red stuff for Sam’s throat. The green stuff for night and orange stuff for day. Fat boxes of soft, double-ply tissues—not the pink, scented girly kind, just the kind that feel damn good when you’re on tissue number one hundred-something and your nose is still drippy and tickly and sore from it all. There’s a pack of tea bags and a plastic bear of honey. There’s Tylenol and cough drops in three flavors. And there’s blue jar of goop that Sam has always suspected is Dean’s favorite, because Dean always saves it until Sam’s feverish and nearly out of it before he gets it out, rubs it on, and then disappears into the bathroom for a little while.

So that’s what Sam goes for first. He takes the jar, peels off the safety seal of plastic, and hands it to Dean. “I’m all stuffed up,” he declares. Then he takes the box of tissues Dean’s already opened, pulls it onto his lap, and helps himself to two.

Dean rolls the jar around in his hands, not meeting Sam’s gaze. “I don’t know about this.”

“You want to make me feel better, right?”

Dean’s eyes light up, an involuntary desperation shining in his eyes. “Hell yeah.”

“Then…” Sam crosses his arms over his chest, takes the end of his white t-shirt in both hands, and pulls it over his head. “Then you’d better put that on me.” He sniffs. “Because I’m… I’m already feeling sick and s… sneezy.” He holds the tissues up, just far enough in front so Dean still gets a good look at him. “eh-eh-HITTJJKSHHH! hep’XXSHH!”

With a groan, Sam falls back onto the bed. It’s not an exaggeration; he really is starting to feel miserable.

Well, maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it works. As Sam holds the tissues to his nose again, he feels Dean crawling up the bed toward him. “ehh-PIFFTShhhh! Ehhktschhhh!” Sam feels the spray this time, and wipes the tissues against his face along with his nose.

And suddenly Dean’s hand is sliding over his, taking the tissues from him, replacing them with new, dry ones. And Dean’s lips are on his nose, kissing softly but not so softly that the touch tickles. And Dean’s body presses up against his, lending its warmth because it knows Sam must be chilly without a shirt on. “Okay,” Dean says, dipping a few fingers into the jar. “This will make you feel better.”

From the moment the goop touches his skin, it tingles and warms and sort of tightens. It’s a strange feeling, and one he usually associates with fevers and bloodshot eyes and desperate measures at three in the morning. It’s kind of nice to be more aware of it this time. The eucalyptus is strong, playing at his nasal passages already. And Dean’s fingertips are rough but move smoothly with the solution, rubbing small circles on Sam’s chest.

Sam lies back on his pillows, breathing slowly, steadily. He still feels sneezy, but not stuffed up, not by a longshot. His nose runs freely, and he bunches the tissue up to it, noticing the way Dean’s, noticing him and every move he makes. “ehh… ehhh-ehhhhhhhhhhh-EHITKGSHHHH!” The sneeze bounces him on the bed, up and down, and Dean’s there to hold him, make him still again. And then Dean’s hands move upward, stroking Sam’s throat, covering it with a light coating of cream that warms and comforts.

Dean pulls the sheet up as soon as he’s done, followed by the blankets. It’s even warmer now, trapped under the blankets with the cream working its magic on him and with Dean pressed close. It doesn’t feel like he’ll ever be chilly again.

Sam breathes deep. His sinuses feel clearer and his throat feels good, but his nose still tickles. “Dean,” he whispers, rubbing a finger at his nose. “I’m sorry I caught this cold.”

“It’s all right. We’ll just stay here a couple extra days until the worst of this passes.”

“What about Vermont?”

“Fuck Vermont.”

“I’d rather fuck you.”

Dean doesn’t seem to know what to say to this. But the hardness against Sam’s thigh speaks for itself.

“We’ve got to spend the time in bed doing something, don’t we?”

“Sleep?”

Sam laughs. “Yeah. I’ll do some of that too. But first…” He tilts his head against Dean’s. “I ne—”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath . “Don’t say that!”

Sam pulls back. “Wha… ahhh…”

Dean pulls a Kleenex out of the box and hands it over quickly.

“hah-hahhhTISHUHH! Hatchishhhh! Ehhh-KITShhhhhhh!” He rubs his nose and waits for his brother to explain.

“Don’t tell me you need me. It’s too…”

A million things run through Sam’s head as he tries to figure out where he went wrong. Is Dean going to launch into a lecture about not crying wolf? Not yelling for help unless Sam’s actually dying?

Dean practically trembles as he finishes. “It’s too hot.” He swallows hard. “Don’t say you n-need me unless you mean it.”

Sam presses his lips against Dean’s cheek. “But I always need you. Especially when I don’t say it.”

At this, Dean moans involuntarily.

“I need you now. I need you to keep me warm and get me medicine and rub my nose for me. And I need you to hold me and touch me and fuck me.”

Dean rolls onto him, hands on either side. He breathes in the scent of the cream and smiles when Sam sniffles. “If you need a break, just tell me. Otherwise… I need to have you right now.”

Sam wouldn’t have thought it possible to feel so sick and so good at the same time. He never would have guessed Dean would get so worked up so damn quickly. He never would have thought Dean would pause in the middle of thrusting in order to grab a tissue and wipe Sam’s nose for him.

“Thah-thanks. Sniff!” Sam says, his voice muffled against the tissue. And then, curious, he adds, “I’m feeling really sneezy, Dean. Could you hold it there for me?”

Dean’s hand shakes a little as he starts eagerly thrusting again and Sam shakes beneath him with hitching breaths and great sneezes. “heyy-IHShuhhh! EHHKGSHhhhhh! Ihhhhhh-Hitshhhhh! kehhhKshhhh!”

“Bless you.” Dean is as breathless as if he were the one sneezing. He lowers the tissue and Sam shakes his head at once.

“Nohhhh… not done. I-eh-have to-heh-sneeze-EHhhh-more!”

Instead of getting a tissue, Dean lowers himself, letting Sam bury his nose in Dean’s shirt. The angle he’s at inside of Sam is a little different and they both gasp at how good it feels.

“ehhh… EHJIKKSHH!” The sneeze nearly kills Dean. He shudders with desire as he feels the sneeze soak through to his chest. Sam knows the other will tease his nipple. But Sam can’t stop it even if he wanted to. “hehh-IHKUTshhhhhh! HEPTshuhhh!”

“So close,” Dean gasps. “I can’t… oh fuck, Sammy…”

“Hold me,” Sam says, rubbing his nose against a dry portion of Dean’s shirt, the cold tip ghosting over a bit of skin at the base of Dean’s throat. “I n-need you to hold me.” Dean’s arms wrapped around tight and his hips gyrated faster, helpless against his urges. Sam’s breath catches. “hahhh-hah-HARShahhhh!”

Dean comes with a sudden cry, his whole body taken over by orgasm. “hah-IHGUShhh! YihhFshhhh!” Sam sneezes through the whole thing.

Minutes later, Dean finds the energy to take Sam in hand and finish him off as well. Sam’s head spins and he coughs as he comes, burying his face against Dean’s chest once again, this time to muffle the sound of his pleasurable groan.

They’re quiet afterward, apart from the sound of blankets rustling and Sam sniffling. Sam doesn’t know what to say about what’s just happened. He knows everything’s changed and nothing’s changed. It’s the same old Dean holding him, the same Dean wiping his nose for him, the same Dean kissing him. But the kisses are full of arousal and gratitude and potential. Sam’s runny nose makes him sniff constantly as he returns the kiss.

*

Sam winces as Dean runs a hand lightly up Sam’s arm to examine it.  “Wiggle your fingers?” Sam does, and winces again. They don’t wiggle quite as much as they should, but there’s definitely movement, which means little or no nerve damage. “Okay, good. That’s good.”

“It’s not good. I think it’s broken.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “I think so, too.” They’re miles from civilization, let alone a proper hospital. It’s going to be a day at least before anyone can look at Sam’s arm. Sam looks so distressed about it that Dean finds himself leaning forward and kissing Sam to distract him from the pain. They don’t have anything cold—what Dean wouldn’t give for a cooler of beers right now—to put on the arm to get the swelling down. But the nearby stream has cold water that might help. And there are enough sticks and branches around to make a splint or maybe a sling to keep it immobilized. “But I’m here to take care of you, all right? It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Sam nods back. He looks over Dean’s shoulder at the dead body lying in the center of the Devil’s Trap and Dean knows he’s feeling lucky to have gotten out of that with just a broken arm. Dean also knows Sam’s going to stick close to him for the rest of the hike back. He probably won’t even realize he’s doing it, but that’s what Sam does when he’s hurting and feels vulnerable; he’ll walk on Dean’s left so Dean can hold the sawed-off in his right and protect them both.

*

 “Dean?”

Dean’s passed out face-down on the bed. It’s been a hard week of hunting. You don’t take out a den of fifty-eight vampires in a couple minutes. Up all night, they’d planned to spend the whole day in bed, recovering.

Sam stands in the doorway to the bathroom, clinging to the door frame. “Dean?” he calls again.

This time, Dean stirs. Groans at being woken up. His words are sleepy, barely out of his mouth before they’re muffled into the pillow. “Juss… come back ta bed,” he says, managing to lift a hand and pat the bed beside him.

Sam wobbles a little, pressing his forehead to the wall. “Dean, that stomach ache I had earlier? I think it’s the flu.”

With his eyes still closed, Dean stretches his arms out. He grabs hold of both pillows, then traps the blankets under his arm. Without a complaint, he carries and pulls them with him over to the bathroom and drops them as he puts a comforting hand on Sam’s stomach. Sam leans into him and Dean presses a reassuring kiss to his temple. “M’glad you woke me,” he says before ushering Sam back inside.

*

“h’INKsh!”

Dean wakes up chuckling. “Dude, that was the most pathetic attempt at holding back a sneeze I’ve ever heard.”

“I did’t wadt to wake you ub.” Sam’s so stuffed up that there are a whole handful of consonants he hasn’t managed in days. Dean had tried a hot shower, but all that had done was let Dean have Sam up against the wall as the hot water rained down on them. Dean had tried a steam treatment, but all that had meant was the two of them kissing over a bowl of steam with a towel draped over their heads. He’d even tried VapoRub, but somehow that had evolved into a blow job. And then a hand job. And then another blow job.

“I don’t mind,” Dean says, handing over a couple Kleenex. “Really. And bless you.”

Sam blows his nose and sighs as Dean moves in closer. “Okay, where do you wadt be? Od by frodt this tibe with by ass id the air?”

“What?”

“Every tibe I sdeeze and you do subthig for be, you wadt sex.”

Dean tenses up, pulls back. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you about this kink.” He rolls over, hugging his arms to his chest and curling up on himself.

Sam rolls over and presses himself right up against Dean’s back. “Techdically, you did’t. I figured it out byself, rebeber? Sniff! Sniff! Add if I did’t wadt sex, I’d just tell you I did’t feel well edough.”

Dean turns his head, looks over his shoulder. “How do you feel? Any better?”

Sam slides an arm around Dean, fingers grazing over the warm skin. They slide downward just as Sam nips at Dean’s neck. “A lot better. Thanks to you.”

Dean’s cock immediately rises to meet Sam’s hand.

*

The doctor pauses as he reads the clipboard, nodding. “Just as we’d hoped, you’re responding well to the meds. Looks like the worst is behind you. As long as your fever keeps going down, we should be able to discharge you by tomorrow evening. I’ll have a nurse look in on you in a little while, but do you have any questions for me?”

Sam shakes his head. And it’s Dean who says, “Thanks, Doc.” Dean’s sigh of relief is completely obvious but neither the doctor nor Sam say anything about it.

As soon as the doctor’s gone and the door is closed, Dean’s lips find Sam’s still-warm forehead and kiss reassuringly. He’s right up against the bed, as close as he can get to Sam without actually climbing onto the bed.

Sam’s not sure that’s such a bad idea. “Want to squeeze in here with me?”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. Once they figure out Dean needs to be on the other side so as not to interfere with the IV, they manage to settle in together. They just fit.

*

Sam’s head hurts so much he can feel it in his stomach. If he were to get up from the table, if he were to move an inch, he fears he might be sick. He’s been knee deep in research mode all day long, reading every news article he can find, and he’s and no closer to figuring out what killed that couple in their beds.

But it’s Dean who can’t stand it anymore. “Sammy?”

Sam can’t even conceive of turning his head, taking his eyes off the laptop. He doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

“Sammy, close your eyes.” He can do that much. With relief, he does.

Dean presses a dripping, cool cloth against Sam’s forehead, then the back of his neck, then his forehead again. He raises a glass to Sam’s lips and let him sip enough to wet his mouth so the pills will go down easy. Sam winces as he swallows, and suddenly Dean’s worried it might be something else as well.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, a hand softly rubbing Sam’s belly.

“Headache,” Sam whispers back.

Dean feels the tension in his shoulders loosen. Just a headache. Just like he thought. “I know. I’ve got Tylenol for you and another cool compress in the minifridge when this washcloth starts warming up against your skin. How about you give your eyes a rest and lie down for a couple of minutes? I’ll take over the research.”

“You?” Sam laughs. But the laugh turns his stomach and he grimaces.

Dean sweeps his hand back and forth across Sam’s warm back, hunched over at the table. Yeah, Sam’s done. He just won’t admit it yet. “Hey, I can do research, too. I know a thing or two about the Internet.”

“You’re not going to find whatever killed those people by surfing porn sites.” Sam struggles to his feet, holding the washcloth in place against his forehead. Eyes still closed, he lets Dean guide him to bed. He swallows the medicine and relaxes when he hears and senses Dean switching off the bedside lamps.

Dean brings the laptop over and settles down on the bed next to him. With one hand on the laptop and the other tousling and stroking Sam’s hair, there isn’t a free one to deal with his erection. Between the two, the laptop is abandoned. He’s pretty sure Sam’s drifted off to sleep before he whips it out and starts tugging and stroking. He doesn’t stop petting Sam’s head for a moment. Who needs porn when he’s got Sam Winchester beside him?

*

Sam’s pretty sure no one’s even been back in this part of the library in a decade, the dust is so thick. He feels it tickling his nose at once and quickly pinches it closed to hold off the sneeze as long as possible. Dean’s so absorbed in the index of a book he doesn’t notice. “This one doesn’t have any reference to the spell either.”

Sam’s breath catches, and he drops his pen and pad of paper in order to bat at Dean with his hand. “ehh… eh-De-ehhhhhh! I’b godda… ehhh! Eh!” The breaths are quick, urgent, each time nearly bringing a sneeze that Sam fights back with considerable skill.

“Aw, shit.” Dean drops the book onto one of the shelves, sending a layer of dust into the air. But he pulls out his bandana and cups it to Sam’s face for him. Then he eases Sam’s hand away.

Sam gasps for a second then snaps forward. “ehh-HIHShhh! EHKITChhh! Ehhhshhhh! HEHSHhhhh! HEH-IHHSHhhhhhh!” With a sigh, he lifts his head, then quickly ducks it down again, nuzzling into the bandana. “HEH-TChuhhhhhh!” He pulls back, controlling his breath. “Damn dust…”

“I’ve got a pack of Kleenex in the car. I’ll go get it. You get out of the stacks and go find us a table.” Dean gathers up their things and starts to leave.

Sam nods, already feeling like he has to sneeze again. His breath catches and he presses the butt of his hand against the bottom of his nose. “huh-Dean? Ehhh!”

Dean turns, shifting the books around so he can get his bandana out again. “Do you need—”

“No. Just…” Sam grabs hold of Dean and pulls him close. For a kiss. A strong kiss. Strong and deep and wet and just a little bit sniffly. When he releases Dean, they’re both smiling. “Thank you. Hah-hahhh… I think I need it after all.” He shakes his head and grabs the damp bandana out of Dean’s pocket. “ahh-TChhhhh!”