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“Watch where you’re going,” said Dean, barking at Sam as he slid past him into the bathroom.

“Is that you or the Mark talking?” shot back Sam, walking away with a huff. Dean wanted to be mad at him for saying that but the irritation in his nose made him remember the true source of his anger. Not a Mark on his arm.

A freaking cold that had him feeling like crap all week and Sam hadn’t even noticed how miserable Dean sounded. At this point, Dean was pretty sure he had an infection but it didn’t even matter. He’d be out of Sam’s way if he was confined to his room for the rest of eternity.

His old room that was.

 

“Ok, you’re just ignoring me now?” asked Sam, shoving Dean’s bedroom door open a day later. “You’re just hiding like…”

Dean knew he looked like shit but Sam’s hard face suddenly softening and full of concern threw him.

“Hiding like a what?” croaked our Dean, wheezing until his lungs burned and he shut his eyes in defeat.

“You’re sick,” said Sam quietly, walking over and running a hand through Dean’s short sweaty strands.

“So,” said Dean with a cough that shook his whole body, hating how he turned his head into Sam’s palm for some comfort, that he was still allowed that.

“I’m taking you to the doctor,” said Sam, Dean shaking his head. “No baby. You’re feverish and shaking. We’re leaving now.”

 

Dean couldn’t argue that he did feel a little bit better since he got on his prescription. But Sam, the same Sam that’d been on his back for every little thing the past few months, was a completely different person. He was bringing him soup, changing his sheets, even getting those tissues with the lotion because Dean’s nose was rubbed raw from all the blowing.

“Sammy,” Dean said when Sam was giving Dean his last pill before bedtime.

It’d been a long time since he called him that. Sam sat down and out his hand to Dean’s forehead, frowning slightly.

“Your temperature is going down,” he said, Dean’s heart tugging that Sam only thought he’d said it because of a fever dream.

“Thanks,” said Dean with a thick swallow. “For helping me.”

“I didn’t help you,” said Sam, running a hand through his hair. “I tore into you when you’re going through something I can’t even begin to understand. I made you feel so bad you wouldn’t come ask me to take you to the doctor. Hell, I probably made you feel like you deserved this. I didn’t even notice. I was so used to that angry look on your face I didn’t notice when you didn’t feel good and I kept beating you down.”

“I could have said something. I’m a big boy,” said Dean.

“You’d never say anything,” said Sam with a sad smile.

“Can we just…forget about how I lied and the Mark and be on the same side again?” asked Dean. “I…”

Dean knew he couldn’t actually put into words what he wanted to say. He hardly ever could but he just hoped Sam was in a forgiving mood and he would let this one go.

Sam started to walk away and Dean took as deep a breath as he could, Sam glancing over his shoulder as he pulled Dean’s door shut.

“I’m not leaving you, Dean,” said Sam, turning around with a soft face. “Just keeping the heat in for you.”

Dean thought about trying to brush off that for half a second he thought it was all over. But he was tired and sick and just wanted Sammy again, opening up his hand in invitation.

“Scoot over,” said Sam, Dean taking up more than his fair share of the bed but Sam didn’t seem to mind. Sam flipped back the covers and climbed underneath. He sat up Dean until he got comfortable, laying him back down on his chest with a smile.

“I’m supposed to be big spoon,” said Dean, Sam chuckling as he ran his hands slowly up and down Dean’s back.

“You’ve never been big spoon,” said Sam, Dean cocking his head up. “I got you, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t help but believe him when he said it with so much conviction, like it was just another fact of life.

Even if Dean felt crappy, even if he knew he and Sam would have problems to work through, he slept soundly with his head resting on Sam’s chest.

Sam cared and that was more than enough for Dean.