He should have known.

And doesn't that just sum up everything? Should have known this or that and the other, never quite got it. Or maybe Sam's just in a bad mood. Which he is. But then again, his throat hurts and his muscles ache and he just has that gross, generic, sick feeling bearing down on his head, so he might be licensed, a little.

Maybe walking around without a soul for over a year is hard on your immune system, or something?

It's not that bad, though. Sam's definitely had worse, they've both had worse, and he's doing fine. As he has attempted to remind Dean several times, to no avail.

One coughing fit. Just one.

He tries again. "Dean-"

"Shut up, Sam. I think there's a motel in about ten miles, I'm going to stop for some stuff. You try to get some sleep." Dean's voice has that tone in it. That tone. The 'don't argue with me or I will kick your ass' tone. It's never worked that well.

"Dean, I'm fine," Sam tries again. "We can keep driving. There's some Tylenol in the trunk, right? I can-"

"I'm not discussing this," says Dean, and then he glances over and frowns. "You look flushed. Is your fever getting worse?"

"You have the heat up all the way," Sam grouses, "Of course I'm flushed. I'm fine." Not really. He feels pretty miserable, and another set of chills make his teeth clatter in a very unconvincing manner. (He is briefly, stupidly, grateful for the blanket Dean all but shoved on him after that stupid coughing fit.)

"Huh," says Dean, "You know, for all you're supposed to be smart? You're doing a pretty good imitation of a dumbass right now. I know what a fever looks like. If you don't already feel like crap, and I'm pretty sure you do, you're just going to feel worse by sundown. And you won't get better on the road." And then he reaches out and feels Sam's forehead, awkwardly, while still attempting to keep his eyes forward.

"Dude-" Sam starts to object, and then Dean is fishing around in the backseat, and emerges with a thermometer that he must have gotten out earlier. He holds it out.

"Take your temperature, Sammy."

"I'm not a kid, Dean."

"I know," says Dean in the exasperatingly false 'patient' voice he has when he knows he's going to get his way, "Which is why you're going to take your own temperature."

Sam's tired. He aches all over. His head is starting to hurt.

He takes the thermometer and sticks it under his tongue, managing a glare at Dean before letting his head fall back against the headrest. It's one of the quick ones, so it's only about a minute before it beeps. He pulls it out and glances at the temperature. 100.6.

As always, having a number to put to it makes Sam more miserable. "I don't wanna be stuck in a crapass motel for two days just for some stupid bug," Sam says.

"And that's how I know when you're sick," Dean says, and there's something under his tone but Sam can't quite pin it down. "You get exponentially whinier. Come on, Sam. Close your eyes. Try to get a little sleep. Our exit's not for another eight miles, you can at least get a nap in there." Dean reaches over and pulls up the blanket, tucks it behind Sam's shoulder.

"M'not going to sleep," Sam says. Dean doesn't even answer him, just starts…humming Metallica. Which, what the fuck, that's what relaxes Dean.

To his infinite shame, Sam finds himself drooping barely thirty seconds into "Ride the Lightning" and doesn't remember hearing the end.

~.~

Sam feels worse when he wakes up. His mouth feels full of cotton and his throat is raspy and dry. There's a headache behind his eyes with a thud like a heartbeat and both his legs and back feel like they might be cramping. He doesn't want to move let alone attempt anything else.

So maybe Dean had a little bit of a good idea suggesting a break.

He only lets the thought skate across the surface of his brain for a moment before summarily executing it. It's still not that bad. He's not a wuss. A couple fever-reducer-pain-relievers and he'll be good as new. Sam coughs weakly into his elbow and turns his head to tell Dean so when he realizes, extremely belatedly, that the Impala is stopped and Dean is not there.

Sam is about two seconds away from an unwarranted, embarrassing, and probably painful panic when the door opens and Dean slides in.

"Where were you?" Sam mumbles, through a throat that feels full of gravel.

"The drug store," says Dean. "Thought about waking you up, but you were out. Here, drink some of this." He drops a bottle of water on Sam's lap and narrows his eyes. "You sound worse. Do you feel worse?"

"I feel fine," Sam says, and hunches under the blanket. Dean does him the favor of not laughing at the more than weak attempt at a lie.

"Sure, Sam," Dean says, and then uncaps the water bottle like Sam can't do it himself. "I'm serious, drink some. We're heading to the motel and getting you medicated and in bed. How's that sound?"

Sam tries to glare, but he has a feeling it comes off pretty feeble. He takes the water bottle and has a careful sip. "M'not six."

"Maybe eight," says Dean, a little too lightly, and guns the engine. "On a good day." Sam would throw something at him, but all he has is the bottle of water and he kind of wants to hold onto that. So he settles for huffing and putting his forehead against the window. It's cool and feels pretty good on his too-warm face.

He must have said that out loud because Dean says, "I bet it does, Sammy," and jostles his shoulder, just a little.

~.~

Sam tries to resist being manhandled into the motel room for no reason other than stubborn pride. Bed, no matter what the condition of it, is sounding better and better. And it isn't like his feeble resistance does any good anyway.

He pauses, swaying a little, and stares at the motel room. "Looks normal," he murmurs, blearily, but then everything is getting a little bleary. Dean grunts and steadies him with a hand in the middle of his back.

"Don't sound so surprised. Come on, Sasquatch. Pay attention. Bed's over there, get in it. I'm going back out to get your meds. Oh yeah, and you probably want to change. I will put you in PJs if I have to."

"Bossy," Sam mutters, and shuffles forward cautiously. "That's my job," Dean agrees, and Sam glances over his shoulder to glare. Dean just Looks at him until he goes back to moving, managing to flop onto the bed and roll over onto his stomach without further instruction, and great, now his nose is starting to run.

He rolls over, fixes his eyes on the Kleenex box on the desk, and starts to get up. From the door, he hears, "Get back in bed," barked, and gets back into bed before he can even think.

Then he lifts his head and glares at Dean, who just glares back. "I was getting a Kleenex," Sam protests, and Dean looks for the box and brings it over, and then goes so far as to pull out a tissue and hand it to him.

Sam blows his nose and tries to manage a solid bitchface, but Dean is ignoring him. "I'm not helpless," Sam says.

"Course not," Dean agrees, and then holds out two pills and a glass of water. "Take your medicine, Sammy." Sam takes the medicine and Dean nods approvingly. "Right," he says, "Now naptime."

"Bring me my laptop," Sam says. Dean just looks at him, doesn't bother to respond. "I'm not tired," he whines, and damn, he's regressing more in age every minute, that's a bad sign.

"Too bad," Dean says ruthlessly. "Close your eyes and pretend." There is something tense and tight in Dean's tone that Sam doesn't like, but he's too tired and miserable to pick at it. He rolls over again and loses track of things for a while.

When he comes blinking awake, it's to Dean saying "take your medicine," again, in a tone that brooks no discussion. Sam can hear the TV, volume on low, and glances at the window. It's almost dusk. It was midmorning when they checked in. "What'd you give me," he mutters. "Sleeping pills?"

Dean's palm finds his forehead and feels it, and by the frown, he doesn't like what he finds. Sam doesn't feel worse but he doesn't really feel better either, except maybe his headache's faded. A little. He shoves at Dean's hand, which is now practically under his nose with its burden of pills.

"Don' want meds," he says, far less coherently than he would like.

"Too bad," says Dean. "I don't like the way your temperature's going."

"Unh," Sam says, which is intended to be disagreement but doesn't really come out sounding like anything. He takes the pills, and glowers at Dean. "You happy?" His throat still hurts, and so does talking. He kind of just wants to go back to sleep, but he doesn't really want to go back to sleep.

"Not really," Dean says, and Sam pinpoints the look on his face as 'worried.'

"M'fine," he says, because he doesn't want Dean to worry. "Had worse."

"Yeah," says Dean, "I know." Which he would, since he was around for most of them. Cleaning up puke and hauling Sam to the ER and – well, everything. Except Hell.

Which he must have said aloud again by accident because Dean's expression spasms and suddenly he's right in Sam's face saying, "Don't think about that, Sam, don't you even think about thinking about-" and Sam just blinks at him blankly, because he doesn't really think he can think about anything right now. Maybe not for a while.

"M'fine," he says, as grumpily as possible, but Dean doesn't really look soothed.

"Go to sleep," Dean says, and Sam can almost hear, that's an order. Imagines Dean dressed up like a drill sergeant and snorts before burrowing more into the pillow. Hot and cold washes through his body in waves and he closes his eyes.

~.~

"How d'you feel?"

"No hallucinations yet," Sam says before he's fully awake, and the slight pause jolts him the rest of the way out of his pleasant haze and blinking at Dean, who has paused momentarily.

"I'd hope not," said his brother finally, in that too light voice that means that Sam said something wrong, which - it was really supposed to be a joke. At least, he thinks so. Sam's eyes feel full of grit and he's achier than ever. It has evidently been a while since he had a fever, because he forgot how much it feels like crap.

Dean pokes a thermometer at him and just says, "Hold that," while he gets up and starts fishing in the bag of supplies. Sam kicks off his blankets and tries to sit up, holding the thermometer and not taking his temperature, but he only gets about forty-five degrees off the bed before Dean snaps, "And stay where you are," with a slight note of near menace in his voice.

Sam goes back down with a sigh. "I'm hot," he complains, and great, now he's losing his voice.

"Not surprised. And if you're talking, you're not taking your temp, so…" Dean surfaces with a box that he flashes at Sam. "You'd better be grateful. I'm making you tea. And you're going to drink the whole thing."

"Deeeean," says Sam, deliberately childish, and then breaks off in a fit of coughing that makes his stomach hurt.

"And that," says Dean emphatically, "Is why we're not going anywhere. Not until you kick this – whatever it is."

"It's not that bad," Sam says, again, what must be the tenth time. Dean snorts.

"I can still hear you. Do I have to do something drastic with that thermometer?"

"Fuck you," Sam says raspily, and puts the thermometer under his tongue, leans back on the pillows, and sulks. He notes that the other bed still shows no signs of being slept on, and wonders why he's surprised.

The thermometer beeps a second later while Dean is still busy, and Sam dares to pull it out and check the number. He frowns at it and rolls uncomfortably over.

He just woke up. He is not going back to sleep. Just resting his eyes.

"You're not going back to sleep," Dean agrees. "Tea, and food. And then bed. What's the magic number?"

Sam just stares at Dean, busy trying to figure out what 'magic number' means, until Dean shakes his head and just says, "I'll take that as an answer, then." Dean snags the thermometer and looks at it, frowns too. "If this doesn't clear up in a couple days…I think it's med time again."

Sam spends a few more minutes trying to work out 'magic number' before giving up and considering Dean instead. His big brother has always been pretty much a nag when it comes to Sam being sick, and yet. It seems worse this time around. When Sam finally finds something to say, he decides on, "Little overboard, Dean."

"Who's overboard?" Dean says innocently, turning away, and Sam is pretty sure he's got it right, though he's not sure scrambled as his brain feels right now just how he managed that feat.

"M'not going anywhere," he says, and Dean ruffles his hair and is helping him sit up, which makes everything reel a little so he barely hears the, "Don't make promises you can't keep, Sammy."

~.~

The tea is fine. The saltines don't go so well, and apparently whatever he has is messing with his stomach too, because Sam has a brand new bucket all to his own and a whole new level of miserable. Dean looks worried. Well, doesn't look, but he can tell because whenever Dean is worried he gets even bossier than usual. The first time he threw up he managed to make the toilet, but while dragging him back to bed and pouring him under the sheets, Dean informed him that if Sam so much as twitched Dean was going to strap him to the bed for as long as is necessary.

Sam knows better than to not take Dean seriously on that threat.

He stays where he is with a bucket for company, and watches Dean's back as he putters around the room, which is fast starting to smell like sweat and vomit. 'Putters' is maybe not a very Dean sort of word, but if he's going to act like a mother hen Sam figures he deserves it, even only mentally. "Dean," he rasps, finally.

"Uh-uh," Dean says, "I can hear a Talk coming a mile away in that tone, and now is not the time."

Sam settles for, "I'm really fine," which is less convincing than it should be considering how wasted his voice sounds and the fact that the ice bucket is not there for ice. Dean glances at him, and does not say yeah, but for how long. Sam can hear it anyway.

He groans a little and lets his head fall back with a thunk. Yeah, he knew that was a long shot.

"Go to sleep, Sam," Dean says firmly.

"I just don't want you to," Sam starts to say, and Dean turns around and gives him that Look, again, and Sam stops talking.

"Try some more tea," says Dean, forcefully.

"No," says Sam, equally forcefully, and they stare at each other for a while. Sam gives in first, because he can't hold his head up for that long, but Dean comes over a second later and his voice is a little quieter. Apparently as far as he's concerned the danger of a Talk has passed. Which it probably has.

"Headache?" Dean asks. Sam shakes his head just a little, though there's probably one on the way. There always is. "Nauseous?" Sam shakes his head again, and Dean nods approvingly.

"More saltines," he orders, and Sam imagines saying sir, yes, sir to Drill Sergeant Dean and snorts again, and just ends up with snot on the sheets.

Amazingly, Dean doesn't even comment. He wipes it off, and gives Sam a saltine and a glass of water. Sam figures it might be a little bit of an apology for not allowing any of the touchy-feely crap that Sam usually gets allowances for when sick.

He hopes his wan smile is sufficient thanks for both.

~.~

"I swear to god you're enjoying this," Sam rasps, and nibbles carefully on another saltine. That Dean feels the need to take out of the box for him.

"No idea what you're talking about, Sammy," says Dean. "Now shut up. Bedtime story."

"Aw, shit," Sam says, and gives Dean the best plaintive stare he can manage. The corner of Dean's mouth curves upwards a little, which would be satisfying if it weren't for the fact that he clears his throat and ignores Sam completely.

"All right. Here goes – uh, 'A Highlander Never Surrenders,' by Paula Adams." Dean glances up, briefly, propping the book open. "I hope you haven't heard this one before."

"You're going to make me barf all over again," Sam warns. Dean just grins at him, and it almost makes Sam feel better, just that. So maybe Dean's scared, maybe he's worried. (Maybe Sam is, a little, too.) Maybe he misses being a big brother, and maybe Sam sometimes (sometimes) misses being a little one.

Can't hurt that much to give him that, right?

And with that revelation, Sam lurches over the side of the bed and does throw up, which sucks, but it feels better than he'd ever admit when Dean shoves him back in bed and pushes his hair out of his face, hand resting for a moment on his forehead. "Dean," he sighs, but not really in protest.

"Shut up, Sammy," says Dean, nothing but affectionate.