Broken

Challenge Theme: Dean has a fever

Word Count: 500

Happy Birthday Mad Server! Hope you're enjoying your sick Dean. Plus, he's obviously not feeling well, if you could go check on him it would be appreciated.

Disclaimer: I believe in werewolves and faeries and unicorns and vampires. And I own the Winchesters. (This is when you back away slowly with your hands raised to appease me.)

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Maybe this level of awareness kicked in that first year when it was just the two of them. Or earlier, when Sam was 15, back when Dean gave him anything. Back when they didn't try to cover themselves up. Back when they weren't broken.

When Sam didn't know everything about Dean. When he watched, trying to learn the way Dean held a hunting knife. Learn which Metallica songs made Dean stop talking and sing at the top of his lungs, which made him stop talking just to listen. Learn when the hitch in Dean's stride meant a twisted ankle and when it meant a fractured bone.

But now, even with the distance. Even with punches thrown between them, Sam knew Dean like it sometimes seemed he didn't even know himself.

When Dean had been in the pit, Sam had talked aloud. Talked hunts through, kept up a steady stream of conversation. And the responses came, pitch perfect in Dean's voice. Dean agreeing that a witness was suspicious, telling Sam what he'd been missing. Mentioning that they should really check that in Dad's journal.

For hours Sam could carry on a conversation with a person who was only alive in his head. The only real conversations he had with anyone for months.

So yeah, Sam notices right away, not that Dean's trying to hide it, that scratchiness in his throat, or the way his eyes burn from driving. Sam never thought Dean was trying to hide it. They had rules about that. When you counted on your partner as backup, when it was your job to jump in front of bullets, werewolves or demons, you didn't get to keep secrets about your health.

So while they bitch about the treatment, bitch about the chicken soup and ginger ale, avoid hospitals like the plague, they didn't lie about injuries or illness.

Dean never told him right away, would wait 'till he knew for sure. Never mentioned he was congested or told Sam when he first noticed that his throat had to work just to swallow. Waited until Sam hit him mid-chest with the box off tissues, or until he found Earl Grey with honey instead of black caffeine in his Starbucks cup.

"Dude, pull over already," when Dean didn't argue, just pulled into the motel Sam mentally shifted Dean's cold up two notches.

Sam grabbed both duffels out of the trunk, reached for the Nyquil as Dean handled check-in.

"Shower or bed?" and Dean falling onto the mattress is all the answer it looks like he'll get, so Sam headed to the bathroom, returned with a damp washcloth. Dean's sliding under the covers, down to his briefs and t-shirt. The heat's not on yet, and the room's on the cold side of comfortable, but when Sam wiped Dean's forehead with the cloth, followed it with his palm, Dean is burning up.

Dean relaxes into the touch, breathes deep and turns toward Sam instead of away. Okay, maybe they aren't broken after all.