Author's Note: Exams are mostly done, so I saw the finale, and… Well. I won't comment about that here. I do have an idea for a little post-finale fic, so expect that soon. In the meantime, I thought we needed some no-plot fluff to get us over what just happened. Or at any rate I did.

In the interests of full disclosure: I actually wrote this a while ago. It was in the file I have for finished stories I haven't posted. This seemed like the time.

Many thanks to Cheryl, for the initial idea for this story and for the beta.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summary: Sam scrapes his knee. Really, that's it. No plot.

When You Need a Band-Aid

"You scraped your knee?"

I know I sound a little incredulous. I am.

Sam's had some ridiculous injuries. The sprained ankle of 2012 comes to mind, relic of an angry poltergeist that didn't want to go into the Great Beyond and used a cleverly-placed stack of skin mags to trip Sam up. And then there was the time Sammy got a black eye from a guy who thought he (Sam) was hitting on his (the guy's) girlfriend. Like Sammy's capable of hitting on a girl without six weeks of bashful stammering first.

The guy was about three feet tall, but Sam was so busy trying to be rational and reasonable that he couldn't block the punch.

But this beats them all.

"You scraped your knee?"

"Keep repeating it Dean," Sam grumbles. "That'll make it go away."

"You scraped your knee because of a little girl on a tricycle? How old was she? Two?"

"She was out of control and I couldn't get out of the way in time."

"You couldn't dodge a tricycle?"

"She was coming downhill," Sam mutters. Then he goes on in a smaller voice, "And there was a thorny bush a few feet further down and if she hadn't hit me she'd've gone straight into that."

That's my baby brother.

"Didn't her parents… do something about it?"

I gesture at Sam's jeans, torn and bloody at the knee. I know it's not the kid's fault, but what kind of parents let their little girl run over a kid with her tricycle and then don't patch him up before sending him home to his big brother?

I'll tell you. The kind of parents who want big brother to visit them with a machete, that's what kind.

"Dean," Sammy says mildly. "Don't go and freak them out."

"Yeah, OK." I roll my eyes. It's not like I would actually have decapitated them or anything. Not over a scraped knee. Just normal everyday terror is fine for that. "Come on, let's clean you up before you drip blood all over my clean floors."

"Dean," Sammy sobs, reaching out.

The sight of Sammy's blood makes Dean want to go beat up the kid who pushed him over. That kid has to be at least twelve, and he's big for his age, but Dean's pretty sure he can take him. If Dad were here, he'd probably be dealing with that kid already.

But Sammy's holding out his hands to be picked up, and Dean's always been a sucker for his baby brother's tears.

He heaves him up, staggering under Sammy's weight for a second before he gets his balance.

Sammy's even smaller in Dean's arms, curled into a ball with his head nestled on Dean's shoulder. Dean heard one of Sammy's teachers tell another that Sammy's so small because he doesn't have a mom to take care of him. Dean wanted to yell at her. Sam might not have a mom, but he has Dean.

But Dean's not supposed to yell at adults.

"Sammy?" Dean asks. "Are you OK?"

The only response is a little snuffle into Dean's shirt.

"Awww, Sammy." The sight of Sammy crying always make him feel a little like crying himself, but right now his baby brother needs him. "Let's go home and patch you up."

They're just a block from the tiny house Dad's rented for them, and with a little effort Dean persuades Sammy to walk. Sammy clings to him the whole time, right up until they're in the white-tiled bathroom and Dean's sat Sammy on the edge of the bathtub and taken out the first-aid kit.

"This is going to sting a little," he warns.

Sam hisses at the first touch of the alcohol wipe. I roll my eyes. Kid won't say a word when he's hacking up blood like he's goddamn Keats, but clean a scraped knee and he acts like I'm torturing him.

"You're OK," I say, patting his good knee. "I'll be quick."

Sam looks at me mournfully. I know he's not really hurt, I know he's laying it on thick so I'll be nice to him, and although Sam thinks I don't, I always know when he's giving me that dewy-eyed look just to see what I'll let him get away with.

But I've spent thirty years giving in to Sammy's puppy-dog eyes. I'm too old to change my habits.

"Hey, Sammy," I say, "remember the first time you scraped your knee when you were a kid?"

Sam smiles. "Erik from down the street."

"Was that the kid's name? He pushed you over on the sidewalk." I squeeze his knee. "Man, I was so mad at that kid. I was sure he was a monster of some kind. I almost snuck one of Dad's silver knives to test it."

"You didn't, did you?"

I snort. "Dad would've blown a gasket. I threatened him, though." I start dabbing Sam's knee with the alcohol swab again. He's too distracted by my story to notice. "I told him I'd kick his ass if he went near you again, and I gave him a black eye to prove it."

"He was twice your size!"

"And he was three times your size. You know, because you were a little shrimp then. Who the hell knew you'd grow up to be twenty feet tall?"

"You did," Sam says, smiling that shy little smile that makes me feel like I hung the moon and lit the stars.

"Yeah," I say, throwing away the alcohol swab and ripping open another packet. "I did."

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean soothes, once he's finished washing the last of the dirt out of the scrape. Sammy's still tearful, but Dean thinks now it's more shock than pain. "You're OK."

He dries it carefully with a clean towel before reaching for the box of Band-Aids.

Sammy tugs at Dean's shirt, obviously wanting to be held again. He is shocked, and Dean doesn't blame him. It's the first time he's felt anything like dislike from anyone. Normally even the people who don't like Dad very much, the ladies in checkout lines and at cafes and diners, take one look at Sam and coo over him like he's the cutest thing in the world.

"Why doesn't he like me?" Sam asks sadly.

"Sammy."

It's a big scrape, so Dean puts two Band-Aids on it. Then, remembering what Mom used to do for him when he got hurt, he kisses Sammy's knee lightly, just above the Band-Aids. Sammy squirms, laughing a little before his eyes get big and sad again.

"Why, Dean?"

Dean knows he's not going to let it go.

"I don't know," he says. Then, because Sammy looks like he's going to start crying again, he goes on, "But we don't care about mean bullies like him. You don't need to worry about him, Sammy. You've got me."

"I've got you," Sammy repeats. All of a sudden his arms have wound themselves around Dean's middle. "You're the best big brother."

Dean feels a flare of something in his chest. It's like what he feels when Dad tells him he's done a good job, except that this is warmer and stronger and more.

He thinks maybe he loves Sammy better than anyone in the world, even better than Mom. He knows Mom will understand. She always told him he was supposed to take care of his little brother.

"Dean?" Sammy mumbles. He sounds like he's getting drowsy. It's almost his naptime.

Dean helps him to their bedroom. It's not his naptime, but Sammy's still hurting so Dean gets on the bed with him and lets Sammy snuggle with him under the blanket, because that's the kind of thing you do when you're the best big brother.

"There," I say, tapping the edges of the Band-Aid to make sure it's secure. "All done."

"Dean," Sam says, looking up at me with wide hazel eyes.

"Yeah, that's my name."

"Thank you."

"Well, what was I going to do?" I ask, gathering the trash to throw away. "Let you walk around with a busted knee? I'll get arrested for negligence or something."

Sam snickers. "I'm an adult. Nobody's going to charge you with negligence, Dean."

"Adults don't make puppy-dog eyes to get what they want." I haul him to his feet. "Come on, kiddo. How about we take the evening off? World's not going to end if you put off your big filing and translation project by a day."

"What do you want to do?"

"I was thinking a movie about men who don't scrape their knee and then come to their big brother for a Band-Aid. There's pizza in the freezer." I shove him in the direction of my room. "Why don't you go get the movie started? I'll put the pizza in the oven."

When I get back, Sam's turned on Die Hard. I shove him over so I can sit on the bed, but I don't complain when he scoots close enough to prop his head on my shoulder.

"If you fall asleep I'm eating your share of the pizza," I tell him.

"Fair enough."

Whatever his intentions might be, Sam does drop off barely half an hour into the movie. By the time the oven dings, he's fast asleep against my shoulder.

It's a rare enough occurrence that I don't want to risk waking him if I get out from under him. The pizza's just going to have to burn.

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