Author's Note: Today's prompt comes from LisaRosa who asked for, "Sam is very ill on Christmas Eve with influenza (coughing, aches, high fever, etc.) and a very worried angsty Dean takes care of him. I love big brother Dean. :) It can be up to you how he catches the flu. Been sick on Christmas Eve myself way too many times. No fun, but makes a great idea for hurt/ill Sam. :)" I hope you stay healthy this Christmas, but yes, it does make a great idea. One flu-ridden Sam coming up! I'm setting this in Sam's Stanford days.

"But this Christmas

I'm gonna risk it all

This Christmas

I'm not afraid to fall."

—Kelly Clarkson, "Wrapped in Red"

"Dude." Brady takes one look at him and Sam knows he's bad. Things rarely bother his roommate, but illness is one of them and the look of horror on Brady's face is unparalleled.

"S'not that bad." Sam slurs, voice thick with congestion and tries not to shiver as the cold air cuts him to the bone. Seriously, why didn't Brady have the heater on? It's like ice in this room.

"Sam, man," Brady shakes his head. "You're sick."

"M'not." Sam protests quickly, but he begins to cough, his lungs burn as the air around him starts to get thinner and it starts to spin.

"Sit down." Brady moves him towards his bed and slowly, he helps Sam sit down.

"Brady, m'okay."

"You're not." Brady shakes his head. "You're burning up, Sam. I should take you to the clinic—"

"No." Sam protests softly, shaking his head, his vision blurring as his eyes burn.

"Okay." Brady lets it drop. "Let me just call Angela and tell her I won't go to the party—"

It's Christmas Eve and Brady's girlfriend is throwing her annual Christmas Eve bash across town at her parent's house. It's a somewhat classy affair and for Sam, who grew up celebrating Christmas in distant motel rooms, it's a change of pace that he's wanted to experience for a long time.

There is the matter that Jessica Moore will also be there. The beautiful blonde is Angela's best friend and though Sam has only had the privilege of seeing her every Tuesday in his English Literature class, one that he had accidentally signed up for, but stayed in once he caught a glimpse of her. Brady teases him, calls him a "lovesick puppy", but Sam doesn't care. He's smitten with her, but he's been too afraid to talk to her. If he had Dean here—

But Dean isn't here.

Sam's on his own.

"Go." The youngest Winchester forces his voice to be strong and level.

"Are you sure?" Brady's eyes scan his huddled figure. "You look really sick, Sam. Angela would understand—"

"I'm okay, Brady." He plasters a fake smile onto his lips. "Really. Go."

Brady hesitates by the door, his hand barely touching the knob.

"Sam, I really don't—"

"Go on." Sam urges him, getting up from the bed, swaying a bit as he does so, and gestures to the door. "Go, Brady."

"Okay," Brady relents, opening the door. "Call me if you need anything."

"You got it."

With a nod of his head, Brady leaves the room, the door closing behind him.

Sam flops onto the bed and tries to get some sleep.

Even through the haze of illness, his training from years of hunting is still sharp. He knows the moment when the apartment door is being picked open and in that moment, Sam's eyes fly wide open. He grits his teeth and forces himself out of the bed, keeps his breathing shallow and his footsteps quiet. He grabs the baseball bat he keeps by the door and picks it up, holds his breath and waits. The door creaks open and Sam is about to take his swing when—

"Dean?"

Indeed, his older brother is in the doorway, eyes wide in surprise and he holds his hands up in mock surrender.

"Easy, Sammy."

It's been six months, three weeks, 12 hours and 36 seconds since he's seen his big brother—it's been that long since they spoke over the phone; a terse conversation over the phone where they both refused to apologize for their actions—but Dean is the same as he was back there.

"Dean?" His voice is breathy, a mixture of illness and surprise clogging it.

"Hey." His brother wears a roguish grin and something in the youngest Winchester breaks at seeing it. It's been so long since he had that reassuring feeling of a presence watching his back, protecting him from all the awful things that hide in the dark.

His body acts on his own, recalling stormy nights where lightning would terrify him and he'd wake up crying, and he throws his arms around his brother, embracing him.

"Dean." A tear rolls down his cheek and it's been so long—too long—and he's been so lonely at Stanford, so isolated, trying to patch up a new family, trying to replace what he lost that night months ago.

"Shit, Sammy, you're on fire." Dean breaks off the hugs and moves him back towards his bed again.

"What are you doin' here?" Sam whispers, afraid that this is all some sort fever dream, a precarious illusion that could break at any second. "Everything okay? Is Dad—?"

"Dad is fine," Dean assures him, distracted as he rifles through their cabinets, searching for something. "Jesus, Sammy, don't you guys have some medicine around here? Ibuprofen? Something?"

Through the fog of his brain, he tries to remember when the last time was he'd refilled their first aid kit. It's been too long. The urge to be prepared had slowly died as each day passed free of ghosts and supernatural creatures.

"M'fine." He tries to lie, but Dean scoffs, seeing through it.

Dean returns a second later and pulls out a few pills out of his own duffel—dimly, Sam pieces together that Dean is staying—and hands them, along with a glass of water to his brother. His vibrant green eyes are glazed with concern and Sam frowns at seeing it.

"I've missed you." Sam says instead, his brain obviously losing his ability to filter his thoughts properly.

Dean smiles at that, places a cool hand on Sam's cheek, so reassuring, so strong, "Take your medicine, Sam."

Sam does.

His sleep is fitful, filled with hazy dreams that he can't recall, but the one constant is Dean. His brother is always there whenever he wakes, though his voice is muted, but Sam knows he's safe with Dean keeping watch and then, he always manages to go back to sleep.

A few times, Dean wakes him up to shove a thermometer down his throat and then curse the number that shows up. The fever is too high—dangerously high—and his body feels like there are knives stabbing him, but he doesn't want to go the hospital.

Hospitals, in their world, mean certain death. They are a last resort, a place where many hunters go to die.

"Stay with me, Sammy." Dean places a cool towel on his forehead and it soothes the pounding in his mind.

Dean is here though and that means Sam is safe. That means it's okay to close his eyes and rest.

And so he does.

When dawn breaks on Christmas morning his fever is gone and he finds his brother snoring on the floor beside his bed. Sam can't help but smile at seeing his brother's disheveled appearance.

Dean is here.

That is the best Christmas present that he could ask for.

There's a soft knock on his door and he gets up silently, trying not to disturb his sleeping brother. It's probably Brady; he always forgets his key—

Except it's Jessica standing before him, radiant as usual with her white sweater hugging her curves in all the right places, making her look like an angel.

And he, he is dirty, his hair is askew and his chance with her is surely blown.

"Sam, right?" Her voice is even prettier than he imagined it, his name sounds like bells when she says it.

He manages to nod his head and she beams, peach lips turning upwards in a dazzling smile.

"I'm Jessica." She hands him a mug. "Your roommate told me you weren't feeling well and asked if I could bring you over some tea."

"Uh," He starts, eloquently, he's sure. "Thank you."

"Feel better!" She waves as she saunters down the hall and Sam is speechless.

"So," A voice comes up from behind him and Sam nearly jumps. His brother chuckles as he comes to stand next to him. "That the girl you have your eye on?"

"How do you know that?" Sam asks and Dean laughs once more.

"Dude, when you have a fever, you confess everything." He runs a hand through his hair.

"Dean," Sam clears his throat and closes the door. "Are you staying?"

"Yeah." Dean replies, and then adds quickly, "If that's okay?"

"Of course." Sam assures him.

They both sit on the couch in the living room and Sam turns on the TV. Christmas music filters in and Sam can't help but grin. Here, with his brother with his side, it's the best way to spend Christmas.

"I've missed you too, Sammy." Dean whispers and Sam nods.

They've both made mistakes, but today, they could start fixing them.

"I know."

Healing starts slow, after all.

And for them, it starts in that moment.

Author's Note: Just a heads up, I'm going to be opening up prompts for the "3rd Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam" within the next few days. I hope you guys will submit prompts there too. And I hope you loved this chapter like I did! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!