Prompt: Gen (or mild Sam/Jess is ok). Dean and Sam remain in contact during the Stanford years, with Dean dropping by to visit between hunts. Sam's place becomes sort of a home base for Dean. More times than not, when Dean returns "home", he's injured, sick or just plain exhausted. Sam takes care of him as much as he can during those times.

The first time it happened, he came home to Jess sitting outside with her cell phone in her hand, looking lost on the steps to their apartment.

"What are you doing?" he asked. The late spring air was heavy with the freshly mowed grass that always made her sneeze.

She passed the phone from one hand to the other and back again. "There's a guy here. Says he's your brother."

Sam's heart ripped in half so if could lift and sink at the same time. "Dean?"

"You have a brother?"

"What is he…" He tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack. "Is he okay?"

She sneezed. "Why didn't you tell me you have a brother?"

"Bless you."

A few strands of hair slipped out of her ponytail holder as she waved toward the front door. "I thought he was lying. Crazy. I was this close to calling the cops. How could you not tell me that you have a brother?"

Sam turned toward the parking lot. He'd walked right by the Impala. Almost like he didn't expect to see world collide, so he didn't. "If you thought he was crazy, why'd you let him in?"

The pause lingered too long. "Because he's hurt."

The half of his heart that hadn't dropped yet did then. "Bad?"

"He said he's okay." She sneezed again. "Ugh. Grass."

"We should go inside," he said without moving his feet. "I'll introduce you to my brother."

"Your brother," she said without getting up.

"Yeah."

Another pause. "Okay."

Then they walked through the front door together, tracking grass clippings in on their feet.

That time it was 14 stitches to the side and a badly broken leg.

"What happened to him?" Jess asked when the cast was still drying and Dean was passed out on the pain killers that made him lose Go Fish three games in a row.

"Fell."

"He told me it was a bar fight."

Sam stacked the playing cards neatly on the coffee table. When he put a couple of throw pillows under his brother's casted ankle and covered him with a blanket, Dean didn't stir. "Fell in a bar fight."

Jess stood and wrapped her arm around Sam's waist, gathering the fabric of his T-shirt in her fist. "He can stay, you know. As long as he needs."

He swallowed hard. "Why'd you ask what happened if you already knew?"

In the parking lot, a car alarm blared, then silenced. "You both smile the same way. A little bit sad."

He kissed the top of her head and tasted shampoo. "Thank you for letting him stay."

Dean stayed for almost two weeks. Jess made his favorite foods. Sam wrapped his cast in garbage bags and helped him shower. Dean made flash cards and quizzed Jess before her psychology midterm. They watched movies and made popcorn and Dean ate all the burnt pieces.

Then one morning he was gone, leaving nothing but the indentation of crutches in the carpet like rubber stamps.

"Do you think he'll be back?" Jess asked. They stood on the front steps, staring at the place where the Impala used to be.

Sam wove his fingers through her hair. "Don't know."

That evening, Sam accidentally set the table for three.

It was a few months before Dean showed up again.

No broken bones, but bruised from head to toe and screaming his way through nightmares that wouldn't let him rest.

Jess made herbal tea. Dean drank it even though it didn't help. Sam traded out bags of frozen peas and corn for the worst of his brother's bruises.

Jess didn't ask what happened. Sam and Dean didn't tell. It was only a few days that time. Too long and not long enough.

A few weeks later, Sam came home to the Impala in the parking lot and Dean asleep on the couch with his head on Jess's knee. Garlic from last night's pasta dinner hung loosely in the air.

"He's sick." Her voice was soft, but Dean still stirred before settling out again. "Found him sitting outside. We should really give him a key."

Dean could pick his way through the front door lock in 3 seconds flat. "Okay," Sam said, grateful that he hadn't.

"Go make a copy at the hardware store. And pick up some cold medicine on your way back."

Sam turned to leave, but paused with his hand on the door. Dried blood marred the surface of his brother's boots. Dean's blood? Someone else's? Something else's?

"Sam?" Jess called.

"Yeah?"

"Orange juice. He should have orange juice."

Sam swallowed hard and looked up. "Okay."

Then he went and got a key and cold medicine and apple juice because that's what Dean liked best.

Next it was the broken ribs after Christmas.

Then the flu in February. Jess was out of town with family, and Dean spent the whole visit complaining about Sam's chicken noodle soup and bugging him about putting a ring on Jess's finger before she could get away.

The next time, he wasn't sick or injured, just worn down from too many hunts and not enough hours in the day. He slept for almost two days straight, ate a week's worth of calories in one meal of Jess's homemade chicken and dumplings, and said goodbye before leaving.

His appearances lost their element of surprise, but never their edge of sadness tinged with hope.

This time, Sam rubs at the pillow marks on his cheek as he walks into the living room and finds Dean asleep on the couch, still wearing his coat and shoes. A quick inventory reveals no wounds or disfigured limb, but sometimes the inside is worse than the outside.

While Sam closes the blinds against the morning sunlight, Dean stirs.

"You awake?" Sam whispers.

Green irises appear for only a second. "You got a new couch." The raspy quality to the words points toward illness rather than injury.

"That old thing was so ratty. Like this one better?"

Dean grunts approval.

"Good. You okay?"

A cough. "Yeah."

"Sick?"

Another cough. "Yeah."

Sam relocates his brother's shoes from feet to the floor beneath the coffee table. "Need anything?"

When Dean's eyes open again, they shine fever bright. "You got lines on your face."

Sam rubs harder at his cheek. "Slept so good I didn't even hear you come in."

Heavy eyelids fall shut. "Ninja."

The throw blanket on the back of the couch stretches far enough to cover Dean from shoulders to toes. "Get some rest."

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

The wait lasts so long Sam thinks he lost his brother to sleep. But then Dean says, "The old ratty couch was good, too."

Sam smiles and heads into the kitchen to check the cupboards for chicken noodle soup and the fridge for apple juice.

He's standing over a pot on the stove when Jess walks in wearing one of Sam's T-shirts that smells like her. She smooths the skin over his cheekbone with her thumb. "Dean's here."

"He's home."

She takes the spoon from him and stirs, the noodles, chicken, and broth swirling together perfectly.