Double Feature: Sick Day
K Hanna Korossy

What Ails Ya

He didn't miss Dad.

Not at times like this, not when he couldn't do jack besides lie around like a deflated balloon and be useless and weak. Dad never blamed him for being sick, of course, but the disappointment still shone unmistakably in his father's eyes when he was: at a hunt postponed or passed on, at being tied down to one spot for a few days while Dean recuperated, at a son who was only human. Dean snorted to himself. Who knew that that last would be the good news?

So, no, for once he didn't miss Dad. Sam, on the other hand…

His brother hurried inside in a swirl of snow as Dean huddled deeper into the blankets. Slapping his gloved hands together and his slushy boots against the already stained rug, Sam smiled at Dean. "Kinda chilly out there."

Dean rolled feverish eyes. Michigan. Winter. Duh. But he didn't say anything, just nodded at the bag hanging off Sam's arm.

The dimpled smile grew. "I found a video store in town."

Dean looked him a weary question: And?

Sam dug into the large bag, pulling out a handful of DVD sleeves. "Remembered your 3 R's," he said, holding his prize aloft. "Romero, Raimi, and Rob Zombie, although I still think you're pushing it with that one."

Huh. Dean perked up. Maybe he wouldn't die of boredom before the flu killed him, after all. He allowed some mild interest to show.

Sam went on. "Also picked up some Doritos and a month-old Guns & Ammo, some chicken noodle soup that smells okay, and—" He held out a striped cup with a grin. "Guy at the 7-11 thought I was nuts for wanting a Slurpee in the middle of winter, but I figured it would feel good on your throat."

Even the thought of the icy drink made him shiver, but the lure of numbing cold was too good to pass up. Dean pushed himself up a little, raising an eyebrow a fraction.

"Cherry—Dean, I know you, all right?" Sam said, one large hand waving with exasperation.

Dean settled back into the pillows with a sniff. But the drink did feel as good as he thought it would. He tried to remember the last time he'd even had a Slurpee. Maybe when he and Sammy had stopped to get some on that scorcher of a day in Nebraska…

Sam, he suddenly realized, had gotten quiet, which was always Dean's cue to pay closer attention. He looked up to see his brother grimacing. "And, uh, you don't have to eat it, but the motel owner said she'd make some if I bought the stuff for it…"

Dean frowned.

Sam pulled out a plastic tub full of something white. "Rice pudding. Don't know if it's any good…"

Among other things, the stupid flu made his eyes water. Like now, before Dean shot an arm out and gestured emphatically. Gimme.

Sam flushed with happiness and handed it over along with a plastic spoon.

It was kinda like his birthday. The few years Sam had been both old enough to celebrate his birthday and hadn't been in California, anyway. Besides the feeling lousy part. Although, come to think of it, that was often his birthday, too. Dean wriggled back under the mound of covers, Slurpee in one hand and rice pudding clutched close in the other, and gave Sam a grateful look.

They'd muddled through the last two days of their most recent hunt, Sam doing most of the talking and then most of the fighting as Dean got progressively more feverish and weak and less steady and audible. They'd finished that morning, and he hadn't even argued when Sam then drove them two towns over and declared them off-duty until Dean was back on his feet. Sam had made sure Dean was settled, then gone out to get "supplies," coddling him throughout.

It felt…good. Nice, in a we-won't-speak-of-this kind of way. Dean hated being weak, but with Sam at least it didn't feel like pity or patronizing.

Here came the price tag, however. Because no way was Sam getting him all his favorites—including the rice pudding Dean remembered loving as far back as Before The Fire—without wanting to talk. About how much he missed Dad, how he wished he could've met Mom, how much Dean had to be missing them both, and, hey, since they were both stuck here for a while anyway and Dean owed him, why not dredge up all that pain to "discuss" it? Sam had been angling for a heart-to-heart the whole three months since Dad had died, and now he had a captive, weakened audience.

But…there was nothing. While Dean hunkered down under every quilt the motel had and cautiously sipped at the Slurpee, Sam just quietly put food away, changed into some warm and dry sweats, then dug out his laptop. He snuck a few glances at Dean as he did, complete with small smiles like he knew how much Dean was enjoying the treasures…which Sam probably did. But not a peep nor invitation to pry-and-cry, or hug, or even say thanks.

It was a little disconcerting.

Dean followed the Slurpee with soup, then the pudding, which was as awesome as he remembered. Sam provided containers and utensils unbidden as needed, then an assortment of drugs, all plied with gentle nudges and comfortable silence. Apparently satisfied with the amount of stuff Dean had ingested, his brother finally climbed onto the bed with him—manhandling Dean over in a way few people could've, let alone would've dared try—and settled next to him by the headboard, laptop in lap.

"What do you wanna watch first?"

Dean stared at him, doubtful. That was it, really? Just good food and movies and company until he felt better? Just his brother instead of his therapist and mother and professor and doctor? Just Sam, seriously?

"Dean?"

He nodded, pointing to Evil Dead before sliding down in the bed again. Couldn't go wrong with the classics. Sam put it in, then nudged up next to him so they could both watch.

Just Sammy.

This was what he'd missed.

Dean was asleep before the first demon appeared, cheek pressed against Sam's bony hip and as utterly comfortable as he could ever remember.

this one's for Phx

Our Own Heaven

"Where've you been?" Sam didn't mean to sound so accusing, even if he felt it. Nor so congested.

If Dean noticed, he didn't comment, just shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the bed. He had to shift the bag he was holding to his other hand to do so. "Just picking up a few things."

Sam sighed. "Bud or PBR?"

"Dude." Dean looked affronted as he headed toward the small kitchenette. "You even need to ask?"

Sam grunted, digging himself further under the blankets. They were thin, as they usually were in the motels they stayed in, but it still felt good on his fever-heated body. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the refrigerator open and shut, and even the thought of it made him shiver.

Next thing he knew, a heavy weight settled over his body. Heavy and...warm. Confused, Sam opened crusty eyes and fingered the thick blue blanket that came all the way up to his chin. Huh. Apparently Dean had gone to more than just the corner convenience store. Sam had been a little hazy about time, registering only that Dean had left him curled and miserable in the bed. "Thanks," he murmured, body slowly untensing as the warm seeped in and loosened achy muscles.

"Blankets here are crap, man," was Dean's only offhand response.

Sam closed his eyes and lay in bed listening to Dean putter with something in the kitchen. Such a simple thing, the sounds of someone else living with you, but it still seemed like a miracle after months of no Dean, of Dean being dead and in Hell. Ruby had sometimes stayed with Sam for convenience's sake, but it'd been utilitarian: in the room to sleep and shower, otherwise gone, everything in between awkward silence. This—the clump of Dean's boots, his muttered curse as he dropped something, snatches of humming and the clink of ring against countertop—this was the sound of home to Sam.

He'd been homeless for so long.

The smell registered before the quiet footfalls, and then there was a cool hand on the nape of his neck. "Sam? Sit up a minute."

He coughed, then squinted at Dean, and the mug of steaming something in his hand. "Soup?" Sam felt an eyebrow twitch. "You made me soup?"

Dean's face shifted through discomfort and embarrassment before settling on belligerence. "You're shaking like a girl during her first time, Sam—yes, I made you soup. You wanna go get your own food?"

"No." Sam was pushing up already, albeit weakly. He didn't shrug off Dean's hand as it slipped under his arm and helped him ease back against the headboard. "Just..." He smiled a little. "Thanks."

Dean flushed. "Try not to spill it all over yourself," he grumbled as he got Sam settled, hands wrapped around the hot mug.

It was the quick-and-dirty soup Dean had learned to make when they were still kids: chicken broth, frozen vegetables, and pre-cooked chicken strips. Their version of homemade, and even with the slightly stale taste of the thawed vegetables, it was perfect. Sam ate the mugful appreciatively, then another when Dean silently traded it out for a full cup as soon as he'd finished the first.

Sam watched his brother move around the room while he ate, realizing Dean was laying out some wet towels—makeshift humidifier—turning on the TV low to some staticky channel—his version of white noise—and setting bottles of OJ, water, and three different medications on the nightstand. His way of being a mom. Sam's vision blurred as he watched Dean work.

Could losing your brother orphan you?

Those same cool hands wordlessly took his empty mug, eased him back down, and covered him up again. Sam nestled his head into the pillow and watched Dean lay the salt lines and wards he'd been too occupied getting Sam settled to take care of before. Prioritizing, protecting in his own way.

"I did go out for food, before," Sam said tiredly.

Dean paused, assessing eyes swinging back to Sam. It was the same crinkled look that had studied him at length in the car, a few minutes before they'd swung off the road and gotten a room in the middle of the day. "What?"

"The…" Sam waved a vague hand, "…mind stuff. It gave me pretty bad headaches at first." Dean's face hardened, and Sam wondered why he was even mentioning this, ruining the moment, starting the fight again. But the words kept coming, like a confession. "Ruby would get me to bed and pretty much take off. Sometimes I had to crawl out to get food." There was nothing good in those four months. Not a single moment of joy or peace. Did Dean understand that?

Sam closed his eyes, sniffing once and waiting for the I told you so.

It took a moment before Dean gruffly spoke up. "I'm not Ruby, Sam."

Sam's mouth twisted. No kidding.

"And…I'm not leaving, so get used to it."

His eyes prickled. "I know," he whispered, but didn't exactly. That was part of the problem, wasn't it? Trying to get used to it again. Not expecting it to disappear at any moment.

A few seconds went by, then there was the soft thunk of Dean's boots hitting the carpet. The end of the bed suddenly sagged with a creak of mattress springs, and a warm grasp curled around Sam's ankle.

Sam slitted his eyes open, to take in Dean lying on his side across the end of the bed, head propped on one bent arm, a magazine spread in front of him. His other hand trapped Sam's leg under its weight. One of Dean's thousand versions of I'm here.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean said without even looking up from his magazine.

Sam shut his eyes again, coughing a little before settling back into the heated cocoon of his bed. The comfort of Dean's presence, of being cared for, of finding home once more. Even if it was just their version, a few weeks before Sam would have given all he had for it, and not wanted any other.

It was hard not to believe in God after receiving such a miracle.

"And stop thinking so much, dude," his brother said exasperatedly.

Sam smiled into his pillow, shifting his foot a little so that Dean's palm curved over the rise of his anklebone. Then, sighing softly, he gave in to sleep.

The End