Title: Finger Trap
Author: Mad Server
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word Count: 1700
A/N: This is a follow-up to my fic "Altered," and it's for pixie9696, with a little something in there for Enkidu07. Big thank yous to envinyatar15 and i-speak-tongue for their sweet sweet beta lovin', and to Enkidu07 for the brainstorming.
Disclaimer: They're just not mine.

Dean's up against the wall. Literally. Right cheek mashing into the cool wallpaper, left hand white knuckling the molding, eyes screwed shut, he's struggling to even out his breathing.

"How have you never learned this?" Sam's berating him, worry coloring his voice. "If you take it easy today, you'll be better tomorrow. And if you prance around like a jackass today, you won't."

A shaky breath, then Dean manages, "I don't prance."

Sam's palming Dean's lower back, pressing Dean's abdomen into the wall firmly enough that Dean could tell you (if you needed to know) the exact location of each and every button in his button fly, and it's a damn good thing Sam's doing it, because one thing Dean couldn't tell you right now is which way's up. He could probably figure it out if he opened his eyes, but he's pretty sure that if he opens his eyes he'll puke up all the Gatorade Sam's been shoving down his throat since last night. And the protein shakes. And the applesauce, which he doesn't even remember agreeing to eat, and is really wishing he hadn't.

"Come here," Sam mutters, prying Dean's hand off the molding and hooking it around his shoulder. Sam's other hand slides around to Dean's hip, then gives him a tug that Dean thinks is a smidge harder than is strictly necessary, and suddenly Dean's flush against his little brother. Dean puffs out a sharp burst of air as he's shifted but otherwise doesn't comment, fully absorbed in the task of not vomiting. Sam's cool all down the length of his side, his hands large and sure and gentle despite his tone, and after a moment of obligatory squeamishness over the contact Dean adjusts, dizzily submits to it, wondering distantly how he's ever going to get Sam to stop fussing now.

Six slow, limping, teetering steps later Sam's turning him around, lowering him to sit on his bed, hands steady on his hips. Eyes still carefully shut, Dean tips himself sideways, seeking out the cool pillow with his face, finding the bedspread instead. Deep breath into his diaphragm and he blows it out slowly. He is not going to puke up the applesauce. He is not.

He feels Sam's hand bossing its way under his head, followed by a thick foam pillow. Cool fingers stray to his forehead and Dean's too nauseated to speak, and so resigns himself to another round of mother henning. The hand pulls away, and a second later Dean feels a tug at his jeans leg, the material being hitched up from the ankle as Sam goes in for yet another look at his shin.

"It's not infected," Dean husks.

Sam's hands don't stop moving. "You're warm," he counters.

Dean drags a hand up and down his own face, suppresses a cough. "Takes at least a couple days to get blood poisoning," he points out, the words hurting his throat.

"Yeah, well you're warm."

Another dry cough forces itself up Dean's raw throat and he grimaces, bruises and pulled muscles from last night's fight flaring up with pain.

"Think you're coming down with something else?"

The applesauce situation seems to be stabilizing and Dean decides to risk it, cracks open his eyes. Sees Sam bent over his leg, but everything looks a little scrambled the room's too bright and so he shuts his eyes again fast. "Dunno." Yes.

"If you'd just stayed in bed... I mean honestly, could you not have waited until tomorrow to restring the crossbow?"

"You'll thank me when we're attacked by werewolves in the night," Dean rasps, knuckling into the bridge of his nose.

"Right, I'll hold my breath on that one," Sam says drily. "Oh and hey, while we're waiting, could you explain to me again how waxing the car qualifies as an emergency procedure?"

"She likes to look her best."

The truth is that Dean's aching all over -- he may have kicked those faeries' asses, but they definitely got in a few good shots -- and yeah, he feels like shit, which is kind of to be expected considering he lost half his body fluids last night, but lying around hurts. But Sam's been in such nervous-clingy-bossy-intense-hover mode all day that Dean doesn't want to give him any more reasons to fret than what he's already got, i.e. what Dean just plain can't hide. Like the occasional dizzy spell. And the gash on his leg. And so the bruises and body aches driving Dean out of bed have been his little secret, and meanwhile Sam's been climbing the walls trying to get him to park his ass in bed.

Sam makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh, and then Dean feels him picking at the medical tape, the sharp little bite as it tugs at his leg hairs, then the bandage being drawn aside; cool air on the wound, and a shiver goes through him. Dean feels Sam's fingers on his shin, close beside the cut, and he fights back a sneeze.

"Looks OK," Sam says after a minute, and Dean can't say he's surprised because this has seriously got to be the eightieth time today Sam's checked it. Dean hears him crossing the squeaky floor, hears the first aid kit scraping across the kitchen counter, and then Sam's back, the mattress dipping as he sits.

"Open up," Sam says, and Dean feels metal poking at his lips. He cracks open his eyes, goes cross-eyed trying to see the thing; opens his mouth to protest, but Sam just slips the thermometer in. For half a second Dean's stunned, and then he reaches up and pulls it out, coughing indignantly.

"Fuck off," he says, tossing it in Sam's general direction.

Sam sounds genuinely surprised, and like he's verging dangerously on soap box mode: "You've got a fever. We should know how high it is."

"Look, if I start seeing things, you'll be the first to know," Dean reasons. In the beat that follows, he thinks he can actually hear Sam's teeth grinding.

"You really want to fuck with blood poisoning?"

"Dude, it's not blood poisoning. It's just a stupid cold." Dean sneezes, as if to prove his point; swallows with a wince.

"Fine," Sam says after a second, and then Dean hears him scrabbling around in the first aid kid, feels a cold wet cottonball against the incision. Sam cleans out the cut with careful strokes, from the centre outward, pausing to wet a new cottonball before every stroke, the bottle gurgling, the saline stinging just a little, and Dean finds himself oddly soothed by the routine. Then Sam pats Dean's shin down with a towel, and Dean knows it's a clean towel because Sam's totally OCD about stuff like that, and wonders not for the first time how Sam's managed to get motel management to fork over so many towels. Fresh gauze settles over the wound, new tape secures it in place, and Sam packs up the kit again in a flurry of paper crinkles and dull plastic thunks. A rattle of a pill bottle and then two pills are being pressed into Dean's palm. Dean squints down at them, round and bright white, then up at Sam, who's reaching for the half-finished bottle of Gatorade on the night stand. Sam turns and meets his eyes and Dean sees the hurt there, the long face and tight mouth, and this time Dean forces his eyes to stay open despite the bright needling headache.

"Shit, who died?"

Sam just shakes his head, hands Dean the Gatorade.

And then it hits Dean: Sam's been out of control Mother Hen Man today because he's been trying to make up for last night. Which is partly Dean's fault, since Dean did pretty much everything he could to keep Sam from realizing he was hurt. He'd figured there was no reason Sam should worry when he was in no state to do anything about it. And now, Sam can do something, and...

Shit.

"Gimme the stupid thermometer," Dean grates, downing the pills.

Sam eyes him warily, guarded but hopeful, arms crossed over a faded brown T-shirt. "Why?"

"You want a number, right? Hey, no sweat if you don't."

Sam sighs and smiles a very small smile, brows pulled together. Produces the thermometer and hands it to Dean, eyes probing Dean's curiously but mouth staying shut, probably not wanting to rock the boat.

"Hey, you know what else I could use," says Dean, flashing with feverish vividness on a Chinese finger trap and warming to the exercise, "is something cold, to put on my head. Feels like friggin' Clash of the Titans in there." He pops the thermometer into his mouth and waits, watches. Remembers little Sammy presenting him with bottle caps and shiny straight nails off the sidewalk, slippery frogs caught by the river, and how solemn he'd always looked when he'd given them to Dean, how dutiful, how fulfilled.

"Yeah, sure, of course," Sam says, looking relieved. He gets a cool, wet cloth from his mysteriously endless supply of fresh linens, drapes it over Dean's eyes and presses it down for a second, the cold of it immediately soothing Dean's headache, and it occurs to Dean that maybe Sam's gone and fucked the maid, because honestly, so many towels.

The thermometer still planted under his tongue, Dean slurs, "That's pretty good, Sam. Hey, listen... you think I could get a foot rub?"

He maintains a piously straight face behind the cloth, waits to hear what Sam will do, suddenly giddy with the conviction that Sam's settled and happy again, and off his back.

"...Yeah, maybe we'll hire somebody for that."

end