Not Before Everything
Chapter 2

Author's note: Option A. I blame the shmoop on the helltus. I'm craving some brotherly love! ;)

Granted, things have been far from perfect between them lately. And when Dean said far from perfect he meant length-of-the-earth far, as in 'my brother didn't care enough to look for me while I was rotting in Purgatory' far.

In fact, things had been so tense between them lately, that Dean had honestly considered ignoring the telltale signs of Sam's sickness. For a second, Dean had toyed with the thought of taking Sam on the hunt despite the way he was clearly not on top of his game. But he had shaken the thought off as fast as it had come, instantly feeling guilty.

For as long as Dean lived, Sammy had always been his number one priority. It wasn't something he could control, had always been completely out of his hands, from the moment their dad had put little Sammy in his arms, to the moment Sam packed his duffel and left for Stanford. Dean would always put Sam first. Above himself. Above everyone else. Because at the end of the day, Sammy was a good kid, one of the purest souls out there. And more than that, Sam was his kid. Which meant that Dean also felt whatever fucked-up mama-bear-sense of protect-your-cub-at-all-costs that parents usually had where their children were concerned. It was ingrained in him, chiseled into his soul like their initials were carved into the backseat of the Impala.

Maybe he had gotten slightly better at controlling it. With the most recent event of Sam not having looked for him, it was a lot easier to keep his gaze fixated on the road ahead instead of Sam's pale face or to ignore the way he grimaced and shivered from fever and exhaustion.

Dean had felt a lot of rejection in his life, more so than Sam probably ever realized, but for it to come from the one person he had allowed himself to trust in so entirely was just about the most painful thing anyone had ever done to him. To hear that his own flesh-and-blood brother hadn't even cared enough to lift a finger and find out what happened to him, had hurt a lot more than Dean was willing to admit. It was the ultimate betrayal. Like the whole past decade of companionship and brotherhood between them was just a lie because Sam was still that eighteen-year-old kid who jumped at the first opportunity to leave his family behind. It was like a written confirmation to Dean's deepest, oldest fear: that he had never meant as much to Sam, as Sam meant to him. That he was expendable - that he was a burden, forcing Sam to live a life he had never wanted for himself.

And maybe Dean was blowing things out of proportion, maybe he was making more of it than there really was. But he had been hurt too many times by the ones he loved, not to be bitter about it.

So yeah, when Sam started showing signs of illness, Dean was inclined to just let him suffer in silence, not offering up any source of comfort like he usually would. It was open warfare, as far as Dean was concerned. If Sam had done fine for a whole year without him while Dean was in Purgatory, he would be fine now. He didn't need Dean. Maybe he never really had.

It wasn't until Dean came back out from the gas stop to see those damn assholes with his brother, Sam with his lanky arms propped against the hood of the Impala because he couldn't even hold himself up, his protective instincts flared back to life with a roaring vengeance. Because angry or not, Sam was his little brother and nobody got to mess with him apart from Dean himself. It was a lifetime rule, no exceptions. Not even when they were barely on speaking terms.

And once Dean had heard what those bastards were saying? Once he saw the spark of genuine hurt in Sam's red-rimmed eyes, Dean felt his last remnants of composure crumble away like ashes. He didn't remember the fight that followed, could only tell- from the ache in his joints and the satisfactory throbbing of his busted knuckles- that he had wiped the damn floor with them, shown them that his baby brother wasn't to be messed with. Especially not when he was sick and barely able to hold himself up on his own legs.

The fact that these bastards had gone after Sam when he was weak and outnumbered said a whole lot about the kind of guys they were. Not to speak of the poor girl they had harassed before Sam had made himself noticed. God only knew what they would have done to her if Sam hadn't stepped in.

Looking down at his sleeping brother, Dean couldn't help but sigh. He crouched down next to Sam's bed, ignoring the odd cracking sound his joints gave or the painful clench of his stiff muscles. Dean tried not to let it show, but despite being in good shape, he had been thinking about his age a lot lately. He was no longer the reckless twenty-year-old you could drown a half bottle of Jack without any sort of hangover and run five miles without breaking a goddamn sweat. These days, every injury took longer to recover from and every stiff neck or sore muscle was a greater pain in the ass than it had ever been, before. Dean wondered if Sam was feeling it too, or if it was different for him because he was younger. He wondered if Sam ever thought about retirement, about the light at the end of their tunnel.

In a moment of weakness, Dean gave in to the urge to touch Sam- to reassure himself that his brother was right there, whole and alive and breathing. He brushed his callous fingers through Sam's sweaty bangs and gently swiped the to the side, out of his eyes, tucking them in behind Sam's ear.

At the end of Dean's tunnel, were two different scenarios. One was of them together, sitting side by side on the hood of the Impala and gazing up into a star-filled night. And the other one… the other one was of Sam with a pretty wife and a couple of dimple-faced kids and Dean's dead body buried six feet under the ground. In his weakest moments, late at night, when Dean was safely hidden away in the shadows of his room and when allowed his deepest fears to rear their ugly head, he thought about Sammy's version of heaven. About how he hadn't been part of it.

And he thought about the light at the end of Sammy's tunnel and told himself that the scenario with the Impala didn't even exist in Sam's mind.

Dean's fingers lingered on Sam's sweat-slick forehead, thumb swiping against the flushed skin just beneath Sam's right eye. The thing with Sam was that Dean had tried not to love him so much. When Sam had left for Stanford, Dean had even tried to resent him for it, only to get sorely disappointed. How was that even fair? That Sam could just leave him like it was nothing when Dean died a little bit more with every time he got abandoned by his brother.

Just because Dean couldn't stop loving Sam, didn't mean he couldn't at least pretend. It was fucked-up and Dean knew it but he just wanted for Sam to feel what he was feeling. Just once he wanted for his brother to realize what it felt like to not be the center of anyone's world. To not be worth staying.

And then Sam had to go and do something stupid like getting the goddamn flu and looking so freaking young and innocent and sad that it broke Dean's heart.

"Why are you doing this, huh?" Dean breathed out, swiping across his sweaty forehead with a cool washcloth. "You're too damn old for the whole doe-eyed look, dude. It's starting to get ridiculous."

Which was a lie. Sam could have pulled his puppy-eyes off with eighty and he would have still looked adorable. He had an air of innocence, of goodness, around him that shouldn't even be possible after everything he'd lived through. And to Dean, Sam would never really be too old to get pampered and fussed over and worried about. He guessed that was the curse of being a parent- that you never really outgrew it. Your kid would forever warrant mother-henning. Which was also the reason why Dean was sitting vigil at his sick brother's bedside at one-thirty in the morning, all pride and bitterness were forgotten for the moment.

Sam gasped and tried to twist away from Dean's reach, making Dean's task even harder. "Easy," he said in a subdued, reassuring voice. He gently pushed Sam back down against the mattress and took advantage of his brother's prone state by pressing the cool cloth back to his forehead. Sam was too weak to fight him off, instead, he was shivering and fisting the sheets with his clammy fingers.

Dean got up from where he was crouched beside Sam's bed and scrubbed his hands over his face in mild exhaustion. He shot a quick look at the alarm clock on the night stand, green neon lights blazing that it was one-thirty in the morning.

He had every wash cloth from the motel room they had checked themselves into soaked in cold water and placed under Sam's neck and on his forehead. When he had run out of those, he'd ripped one of his old T-Shirts into strips and drenched them in ice water too, wrapping them around Sam's ankles and wrists. By the end of his task, Dean's fingers had been numb from the cold, enough so that he had lost all feeling in his hands.

It had been their father's cure-all treatment for colds when they were still younger, but Dean had a feeling that it would take a lot more to get Sam's raging fever to go down this time. If only he could get the kid to wake up and take something… But Sam had been out like a light from the second his head had hit the pillow and it didn't look like he was planning on waking up anytime soon.

Sam was tossing and turning weakly on the bed, thrashing around in obvious discomfort as his face twisted into a painful grimace. He was moving around hard enough to shake off Dean's wrappings, the washcloth slipping off his forehead and Dean shushed him softly before carefully replacing everything again. It was past two o'clock now, going on three and by now, Dean's body had grudgingly accepted that sleep wasn't going to happen tonight. Not unless Sam's fever magically decided to go down a couple of degrees. Just two or three degrees was all he needed – it would make all the difference between Dean sleeping soundly and Dean worrying himself sick as he contemplated to drive his sick little brother to the nearest clinic.

Sam tossed his head to the side, the cords of his neck standing out beneath the pale skin and then he let out a sound between a moan and a whimper (an honest to god whimper) that had Dean's chest tightening in a way that hurt. "Hey, easy there, Sammy. You're gonna be just fine, man. I gotcha."

The words spilled from his lips on auto-pilot and for once, Dean didn't care about putting up a show of feigned indifference. This was Sam at his weakest, at his most vulnerable and no matter what they had said and done to each other in the recent past, Dean couldn't sit there and ignore his brother's pain for much longer. He wasn't physically capable of it.

"Ple…" Sam licked his dry lips and coughed, his words so soft that Dean could barely make them out over the sound of the motel room fan and Bruce Lee kicking some ass on the rickety TV-station in the back. The sound of Sam's voices till had Dean jolting upright and leaning forward. "Sam? You awake?"

"Please," Sam moaned weakly, eyelids fluttering and Dean's heart gave a tug in his chest. Sam might be waking up, but his mind was still caught in a fever-dream, his voice and expression giving away how very much not-lucid he was.

"Please what? What do you need, Sam?" Dean asked, trying to get a more conscious statement out of his feverish little brother. "Gotta speak up, bro. Whatever you need, you got it, alright?"

Dean had gone four hours of involuntary radio-silence with Sam. He would take Sam's fever-induced gibberish over his brother's pained moans and pitiful whimpers. The kid had a secret agenda to getting sick. First came the shivering, the glazed-over look in his eyes, the grumpiness, the stiff muscles, the pained grimaces… then the fever hit and Sam would start talking. It was like all of Sam's protective walls came tumbling down and his brain-to-mouth-filter was suddenly gone. Everything that crossed Sam's mind or had been bothering him for a while, left his lips in a fever-induced rush.

Dean smiled affectionately down at his brother, thinking back on the time Sammy had been sixteen and started talking about that girl he had been fooling around with. While Dean had bitten his lips raw, trying to hold back his laughter, John had made up some flimsy excuse to get more medicine and made a straight line for his truck. He hadn't come back until Sam's fever had broken. Needless to say, Dean had teased Sam mercilessly for months to come. He had a feeling that there would be no teasing this time around.

"Nuh… nno, please… don't," Sam murmured and then thrashed again, making Dean jerk a little in surprise. Sam shivered and shook in earnest, breathing ragged and heavy as furrows of pain etched themselves into his forehead. He was obviously still locked in whatever hellish nightmare he'd been in before and Dean couldn't help but wish that it was him instead. "'sstupid dog… wasn't… wasn' tryin' to… he was just…"

It took a second for the words to register in Dean's head. Sam was talking about the flea bag he had rescued shortly after Dean had been sucked into Purgatory. There was a bitter sting of pain at the thought of Sam living the dream with a pretty girl and a Golden Retriever while Dean had been forced to hack and slay his way through all of Purgatory with only the thought of Sammy being topside, alone and looking for him, to keep him going. If Dean had known that Sam had been happier without him, he would have never come back.

"Yeah, no surprise there, Sammy," Dean sighed. He grabbed the wash cloth on Sam's forehead and frowned at the heat emanating from Sam's skin. "You've always been bringing home strays, remember? Dad threw a fit every time. And you just kept going on about it. I think your heart broke a bit more with every mutt we left behind."

Dean dropped the wash cloth into the bucket of ice water beside the bed and went for the thermometer again. He stuck the tip into Sam's armpit and then removed it again a few minutes later, staring at it in unconcealed horror. "You're really not doing things half-ways."

"…broken, had to… drunk and then—" Sam coughed again and turned his head from side to side, throat working as he swallowed convulsively. "You were gone… I couldn't… crossroads."

And, well, that sure as hell got Dean's attention.

Heart jumping in his chest, Dean's shoulders and back tensed like they'd been hit with an electric jolt. His breathing ceased, trapped in his throat. Dean might not have understood every word his feverish brother had just uttered but he sure as hell had caught the 'crossroads' that was randomly thrown in.

"Sam," Dean said, enunciating the name in a way that was sure to catch Sam's attention, even in his feverish haze. "What did you just say?"

"Dog," Sam sighed, eyelashes fluttering.

"No, no, no, don't change the topic," Dean rolled his eyes, cupping the side of Sam's flushed face with his work-roughened hands and shaking him lightly, just enough to catch his attention. Sam's eyes opened but they were clearly not seeing Dean, pupils rolling around the room almost sluggishly. "You said crossroads, Sam. What the hell does that mean? Did you try to make a deal?"

Funny how the mere thought of Sam making a deal had Dean sick with worry when he had done nothing but scolding Sam for not looking for him in the past months. Dean had only wanted to be missed by Sam. He had wanted for his brother to be a bit heartbroken over his loss, to at least do a bit of research before resigning himself to live a life without Dean. Before giving up on his brother.

He had never wanted for Sam to strike a demon deal or endanger himself in any way or form. That wasn't how things worked between them. Dean would take Sam's happiness over his own any day of the year. It was just tough to think that Sam had been better off without him.

"Sam, answer me, goddamn it!"

Sam actually flinched a little at the sharpness of Dean's tone and he curled up in bed, knees drawn up in what was clearly a protective gesture. "Sorry… y-you're… I'm not what they say. 'm not evil, Dean."

And how could Dean ever stay mad at Sam when he said shit like that? When he stared up at Dean with his flushed cheeks and those huge, wide, red-rimmed, puppy-dog eyes? When he looked like a four-year-old, chubby-cheeked toddler whose mom had died and whose dad wasn't around and whose older brother was the only source of comfort and protection in a big and ugly world.

"I know that, Sam," Dean said without a sliver of doubt or hesitation in his voice. They'd been through this too many times to count. Sam would never fully get over what Azazel had done to him as a baby and he would never stop believing that he was tainted, that something was wrong with him. "I know, little brother."

"I'm not… I don't… n-no v-vampire," Sam forced the words past gritted teeth and Dean frowned at that. Sam's mindless ramblings were getting more confusing by the minute and the ice wasn't doing anything, not a single goddamn thing. Sam's temperature was still climbing higher and Dean was running out of options. "Dean… please. I don't— 's not true. I don't… Ruby said—"

"Yeah well, screw her," Dean cut Sam off softly because the last goddamn thing he wanted to think or talk about right now was that demonic, black-eyed skank. "She's never gonna open her lie-spewing mouth ever again."

"Evil," Sam mumbled tiredly and Dean wasn't sure if they were still talking about Ruby, so he chose to say nothing instead. He felt a surge of irrational guilt bubbled up in his chest and he tamped it down for the time being. He had acted like a dick in the past couple of months, blaming Sam for his past mistakes over and over again and not considering what it might do to him. Opening up old wounds, because Dean knew that the fastest way to get to Sam was bringing up his past mistakes.

In fact, every relationship I've ever had has gone to crap at one point.

But the one thing I can say about Benny? He has never let me down.

Dean swallowed and opened his mouth, half-tempted to apologize. But he knew that it wasn't going to do either of them any good if he threw out a half-hearted apology now when Sam wasn't even with it enough to take the words in. Besides, right now, Sam didn't need a freaking apology. He needed the fever to break and besides giving him a goddamn ice bath Dean was really running out of ideas on how to get his brother's temperature down.

"Hold tight, Sammy," Dean whispered and grabbed the bucket and rag from next to Sam's bedside. He carried them over to the bathroom sink and twisted the faucet knob, turning the water as cold as it would go. The sink wasn't wide enough to fit the damn bucket but Dean was determined. They didn't have a bathtub and as appealing as taking an ice cold shower with his feverish brother sounded, Dean would rather avoid it unless absolutely necessary.

When he was back at Sam's side, his brother had stopped fidgeting. He wasn't tossing and turning anymore. He was simply laying still now, only a few violent shivers wrecking his spine. His brain was fighting a losing battle and his body was starting to shut down on him.

"Damn it, Sammy," Dean cursed under his breath and steeled his resolve to do what was necessary. He gripped the bucket of water a little tighter in his hands, knuckles paling around the handle. The ice he had gotten earlier had started melting a long time ago, the cubes now reduced to little chunks. They would have to do…

"Sorry, man," Dean said and then poured the ice cold water over Sam's head, dumping the cubes all over his torso and face. Sam arched up with a loud gasp of shock and pain, hands coming up to wipe and claw at his face as he curled up into a ball on the mattress. He was trembling, eyes wide and a little more lucid than before as they flew around the room in search of an attacker. Dean dug into the bucket with his hands and dumped the rest of the ice cubes around Sam's neck and shoulders. Sam twitched and shuddered and tried to fight Dean's hands off with kitten-weak blows. "Easy, easy… it's just me, Sam. I have to bring your fever down and there's no way I can carry your overgrown ass into the shower bridal-style. I'm gonna need you to carry some of that weight, sasquatch."

Sam was looking up at Dean with a mix of shock, betrayal and annoyance and his trembling grew more violent by the second. He blinked at Dean from behind wet lashes, his eyes more open than closed for the first time in hours. He was awake and looking at Dean – not through him or at whatever fever-dream-induced version of Dean he had been talking with earlier. No, this time he was looking at Dean like he actually saw him.

"D'n?" he let out in a minute whisper, lips shaking. Dean could have fucking cried in relief.

A day ago, he had gotten angry every time Sam so much as opened his mouth. Now he never wanted his brother to stop talking again.

"Sam?" he asked cautiously, dropping the empty bucket down to the floor. The dull thud of the plastic hitting the carpet caused Sam to flinch and twist away. His shaky hands came up to weakly swat the half-melted ice cubs from his chest.

"What—"

"You got a fever going on," Dean explained in a calm voice. "We need to bring it down before it gets worse. I'm gonna need you to take something, alright? Then we'll get you in the shower."

Sam stared at him for long enough that Dean thought he'd drifted back off in his mind, going back to that state of feigned lucidity where his eyes were open, but he wasn't really there.

"Alright, c'mon, tilt your head up," Dean ordered softly. He grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the nightstand along with a couple of pills. He gently propped Sam up against the water-soaked pillows and halted his movements when he felt Sam flinch back from the touch. "Hey, it's alright. It's just Tylenol. It'll help us bring that fever down."

"I'm c-c-cold, De'n," Sam stammered, eyes wide and red-rimmed as he blinked more water from his lashes. "I know, Sammy. Sorry, kiddo."

He was shivering against Dean as the older hunter lifted an open palm with the pills up to Sam's mouth. Despite his weakened protests, Sam eventually closed his eyes and opened his mouth obediently. Dean gave him the pills and then lifted the bottle of Gatorade to his lips, making sure he had swallowed them both, before he grabbed a towel from the fresh stack on the floor and wrapped it around Sam's shoulders. "Alright, okay. That's good, Sammy. Think you can stand, buddy?"

"N-n-not a kid," Sam muttered stubbornly and Dean couldn't help but laugh a little at the tenacious little frown that crossed his brother's features. Here Sam was, half-dead and burning up with a fever of a hundred-and-four and still complaining about the nicknames Dean gave him.

"Alright, you're a big boy," Dean chuckled softly, teasingly and slid his hands beneath Sam's armpits before gently pulling him up into a standing position and grunting a bit under the weight of Sam's body. Yeah, he was definitely no longer the gangly fourteen-year-old he used to be. "A little help, Sam. Lock those knees for me, come on."

Sam was panting heavily against Dean's ear as he fisted his clammy fingers in Dean's flannel, trying to hold on as they made their way towards the bathroom. They staggered a bit, but Dean somehow managed to keep them both upright and moving. "Good, that's good. One foot in front of the other."

"Dean…" Sam rasped out, his nose poking Dean in the neck from where his head was lolling back against Dean's shoulder. His brother's breath was hot against Dean's throat, his forehead nearly scalding. "D'n… I'm sorry. I'm… I'm sorry, Dean. Please—"

"It's okay," Dean swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He had wanted for Sam to apologize for abandoning him, for leaving him to rot in purgatory, for not loving him enough to be broken up about his death. He had wanted for Sam to feel guilty… or at least he had thought so.

But when he flipped the toilet lid down and manhandled Sam's uncooperative body around to sit down on it- when he saw the unshed tears in his brother's soulful eyes and the way Sam's overly long fingers somehow kept tangling in Dean's flannel like Sammy was afraid to lose the connection, he suddenly couldn't stand to see the guilty expression on Sam's face. This wasn't what Dean wanted.

"'s not okay," Sam said, lips twisting in a way that meant he was close to crying. "I know I messed up, but I can do better… I can be a better brother, Dean."

And alright, this was quickly getting out of control. Dean suddenly wanted nothing more but for Sam to shut the hell up and for the damn fever to break. He wasn't ready to hear any more of Sam's apologies and confessions. He only wanted for this damn night to be over and for the fever to break.

"Lift your arms up," he instructed dispassionately, trying to wrestle Sam's drenched shirt from his torso and letting out a frustrated growl when Sam offered up zero help.

"I d-didn't mean t-to—"

"Shut up and lift your arms up, c'mon."

If anything, the words made Sam recoil even more. His struggles became more frantic, his long limbs thrashing weakly and trying to shake off Dean's attempts at undressing him. "N-no, please Dean—you gotta—you gotta l-listen, I didn't mean for the Impala to s-swerve. It was an accident! I was going to come and join you. I just w-wanted to be w-with you again..."

Dean couldn't catch up with the words, didn't want to interpret anything into them but his mind was reeling. Sam was talking about that night again- the night when he had hit that damn dog and brought it to the vet. The night he had met Amelia.

Dean's mouth twisted. Even just thinking about her made him angry. It was like she was the incorporation of his brother's indifference towards him- of his brother's never-ending drive for freedom and normalcy. Amelia was a living, walking manifestation of Sam's wish to live a life away from Dean and bringing her up right now, with Dean being frustrated and tired and emotionally exhausted was a mistake.

"I told you to shut up, Sam! That really too damn much to ask for?"

Dean grabbed Sam's lanky arms and roughly yanked the shirt off of his brother's body, ignoring the way Sam's arm got twisted in the sleeve until Sam let out a sharp hiss of pain and a sniffle (a goddamn sniffle). God fucking damn. Dean tossed the offending piece of clothing into the corner of the bathroom and started the shower, waiting for the water to turn ice cold before he turned back towards his brother… his brother who now sat with hunched shoulders on that toilet seat, silent tears spilling from his eyes and cascading down his flushed cheeks.

Dean's heart clenched and he felt like a goddamn tool. He swallowed forcibly and tried to tell himself that it was the fever, it wasn't really Sam talking. He didn't even know what was going on around him. Tomorrow Sam wouldn't remember any of this and they would both go back to being strangers.

"Sam, c'mon," Dean softened his voice, trying to get his breathing back down. He reached out, trying to hoist Sam off the toilet and into the shower, but Sam pressed a hand against Dean's chest and gave him a shove that sent him stumbling back.

"You sh-should've n-never m-made that deal, Dean."

Dean's blood turned to ice at the dejected tone in Sam's voice, the empty expression in his eyes. He wished he didn't know what Sam was talking about, but his mind was betraying him, bringing back images of Sam with a knife stuck in his back, severing his spine. Memories of his brother's sluggish gaze, his dying breath ghosting dauntingly across the rain-slick skin on his neck. And then nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. No heartbeat, no breathing, no bitch-face, or dimpled-smile or whiny little-brother voice. And no matter how long it's been, Dean still sometimes woke up screaming because of Cold Oak, the memories burned forever into his skull, bound to reply themselves until the end of time. They never got any less painful and every time, every goddamn time Dean woke up sweat-soaked and shaking, he looked over at Sam and thanked his lucky stars that the kid was still next to him and not lying still and unresponsive on some ratty mattress in an abandoned cabin.

"I s-should have d-died," Sam whispered over the sound of the shower spray hitting the tiles. He was still shivering when he looked up at Dean from behind matted strands of dark hair, pale and sick and so damn sad that it tore Dean's heart in two. "It's not right. If you'd j-just let me die, then I would have d-died knowing that you- that you…"

"That I what?" Dean croaked out, even when every fiber of his being screamed at him to run from the words, from what Sam was going to say next. "That I what, Sam?"

Sam blinked, more tears breaking free. He was quiet for so long that Dean thought he was never going to get an answer and then he drew in a shuddery breath. "That you still loved me."

And there they were, the much-dreaded words Dean had known- deep down inside- Sam was going to say. The goddamn words that were bound to turn Dean into as much of a hormonal, weepy, teenage girl as his high-as-a-kite, feverish little brother. And really, wasn't it just fucking fantastic that they were going to resolve five months worth of unresolved issues between them at three o'clock in the morning, at some nondescript motel room's bathroom in nothing but their boxer shorts?

Sam had always been capable of pressing just the right buttons when it came to Dean.

He had always been the only person on the planet who could tear down all of Dean's carefully crafted walls in one go and turn him into a puddle of emotional goo in the span of five seconds.

Dean had been unprepared. They had an unspoken men-code between them that said they weren't supposed to use the l-word, ever. Not when one of them was about to die and not when one of them came back from the dead and certainly not when one of them had a raging fever and didn't know what he was saying.

"Sam…" Dean rasped out almost pleadingly. He had meant to say Sammy, but he cut himself off halfway through the nickname, feeling the familiar sting of tears in his eyes and not wanting for them to fall. He took a couple of measured breaths, trying to gather his composure. "That's the fever talking, alright? Let's just… we need to get you in that shower before you burn up."

Sam sat dejectedly on the toilet seat, bony arms slung protectively around his quivering middle and water dripping lifelessly from his chin and hair. He looked so miserable, so hopeless. Like Dean's lack of protest was the confirmation he'd expected all along. The confirmation that Dean regretted his choice to bring Sam back from the dead. That he didn't love Sam anymore. Like that was even possible. Sam had to know that it wasn't true, right?

"Hey," Dean said roughly and crouched down before Sam, trying to get his brother's attention. "Look at me, Sam."

Sam kept his gaze carefully avoided, tears clouding his hazel eyes as the muscles in his jaw ticked and shifted with tension. His little brother wasn't just sick, but he was falling apart at the seams. And from the looks of it, he had been bottling up those feelings for a long time.

Dean cupped Sam's face with his hands and gave him a slight shake. "I told you to look at me."

Sam pressed his lips together, but his gaze met Dean's in a clash of colors.

"I don't regret anything," Dean said in a firm voice, proud of the way his tone didn't waver. "Not one goddamn thing, you hear me? And if you think for one second, that I don't…" Dean swallowed and shook his head, hoping to convey the words he didn't quite know how to say out loud.

But Sam wasn't done, yet. "You said he was a better brother than I ever was."

Dean closed his eyes and shifted his jaw as a wave of guilt crushed through him. "Sammy."

"You'd rather have him as a brother than me," Sam admitted brokenly and his voice sounded so small and miserable, the words almost child-like, that Dean would have laughed if the entire situation wasn't so messed-up. If it didn't break his fucking heart to see the kind of damage his words had done to his brother. "He's a blood-sucking f-freak, just like me, Dean. A m-monster. Isn't t-that what you said? And you s-still prefer him over me."

"Alright, stop it," Dean growled and gave Sam a forceful shake, trying to get some sense back into him. This whole thing was spinning out of control and Sam was talking gibberish again. Blood sucking freak? Monster? Dean couldn't remember ever having said that to his brother. Maybe Sam was talking about Benny. Must have been it. "Look, let's not do this right now. We can talk it out once you're feeling better. Let's just get you in the shower first. Bring your temperature down."

Easier said than done. Dean hoisted Sam up and wrestled him forcefully under the shower spray before he could say anything else that was doubtlessly going to lead to an even bigger chick-flick than they were already in. Dean sucked in a sharp breath when the icy water hit his skin, soaked his clothes and matted his hair to his forehead. Sam was fighting him tooth and nail, letting out a string of curses and broken pleas as the freezing water met his way too hot skin. Dean's bare feet threatened to slip on the tiles. The shower stall was too small for them and Dean gasped when Sam caught him in the ribs with his bony elbows. "N-nooo… please, it hurts! Lemme out, le'me—"

"Shhh, I know… I know, Sammy," Dean tightened his arms around his brother's thrashing form, holding him tight, pressing him back against the tiles and holding him trapped in place. Most of the water hit Dean's own back in the position they were in, but Dean just gritted his teeth against the sting of needle-sharp pain. He held Sam through his sobs and hiccups, steadied him when he could no longer hold himself up and then slowly lowered them both to the tiled bottom of the shower stall, Sam awkwardly propped against his chest while the water fell down around them. "It's alright, you're doing great. Just a bit longer, Sam. We're almost done."

"I'm s-s-sorry, D'n. I'm… I-I'm so-sorry…" Sam muttered brokenly against Dean's neck and only then did Dean allow the tears to spill from his own eyes. He closed his eyes and buried his nose in Sam's soaked hair, tightening his arms around his little brother's form and hoping against hope that he wasn't too late to fix things between them.

"It's alright, Sammy. It's okay. I'm not mad."

It was with startling clarity, that Dean realized the truth behind those words.

He wasn't mad at Sam, not anymore. He just wanted for them to be brothers again, but in order to do so, they would have to talk to each other. This was only the first step.

They stayed like that for a couple of minutes, until they were both shaking and until their teeth were chattering. Then Dean slowly unfolded from behind Sam and turned the shower off with a creaking protest of the water pipes. He grabbed a fresh towel from where he had dumped the stack in their bathroom sink and proceeded to wrap one around Sam's shaking shoulders. "Can you stand?"

Sam was swaying lightly but he still gave a sharp nod in response and Dean would take whatever Sam was ready to give. "Alright, let me get the bed ready while you slip into some fresh clothes. I'll be right outside if you need anything, okay?"

'Try not to slip and crack your head on anything,' Dean added mentally and then bit his lips as he contemplated to stay with Sam and help him into a fresh set of clothes. Sam was still shaking but his face had regained a bit of color and the look he shot Dean was a lot more vibrant and lucid than any other expression Dean had gotten from Sam in the past five hours. The look said 'Get the hell out' and Dean had never been happier to be at the receiving end of one of Sam's bitch faces before. This he could work with. He would take a cranky, sick Sam over a weepy, emotionally-wrecked Sam any time. "Alright, just… call me if you need anything."

Dean pulled the door closed behind himself and leaned back against the cool wood for a second, eyes closed as the last tremors slowly ceased to shake his body.

This was only the beginning, he knew. Maybe Sam's fever had broken, sure, but from experience, Dean knew that Sam's flu held a lot more in store for them than a rise in body temperature. The real shit hadn't even started yet and their med supply was running alarmingly low.

And as if that wasn't enough to add to their shitload of existing problems, there was also the fact that Sam had mentioned the crossroads. And the not so insignificant fact that Sam thought Dean didn't love him anymore.

But they would have to take things step by step. First, Dean needed to stock up their med supply, then they'd need to get rid of that damn flu and once Sam was feeling a little better, they'd have to talk, really talk and work through their issues somehow. They couldn't go on like this anymore. It was tearing them both apart.

Dean felt a sense of determination wash through him as he rummaged through their duffle and dressed in a dry pair of jeans and shirt. His hair was still soaked but it would dry soon enough. "Dean," Sam's voice suddenly startled Dean out of his thoughts. He was leaning in the doorway in a clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants, cheeks flushed and eyes red-rimmed.

Dean was across the room in a flash, wrapping an arm around his brother's middle and gently steering him towards his bed. "I'll take a trip to the convenience store. You need anything?"

"No," Sam sniffed and buried his head in Dean's pillow, eyes already half-closed. His skin was still cool to the touch, but Dean could tell that Sam was utterly miserable. "Just… be careful?"

Dean's heart gave a tight squeeze in his chest and before he knew it he was reaching down to ruffle his kid's shower-wet hair. "Go to sleep, Sammy. Try to get some rest."

TBC...

Thanks so much for reading and voting! You guys are absolutely amazing! Some of you wanted for Option B to make a reappearance so I will offer it again for Chapter 3:

A) Dean goes on a supply run when the hunters come back for a round two. After a heated argument between the hunters and Dean, where he finds himself fiercely defending Sam, they decide to teach Dean a lesson. When Sam wakes up to find the motel room empty, he goes looking for his brother...

B) The hunters come back for a round two in which Dean kicks their asses. Their pride is hurt and so they think of a special way to pay Dean back... by coming after Sam.

Choice is yours ;) Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Reviews make me super happy! :)