A/N: 100% self-indulgent schmoop. Also, there's a smidge of Sam/Dean subtext. You've been warned.

"You've been sleeping a lot more lately," Dean observed, casting a glance that was equal parts concerned and amused at his rumple-haired brother. Sam's head snapped upright, and he had to wipe a spot of drool from his cheek. He stared blearily around the bunker before his glassy eyes finally settled on Dean.

"Y'say somethin'?"

Dean pushed his own cup of coffee over to Sam. "You look like shit."

Sam gave a small nod, his eyes half-lidded already. "M'just a little...lil' tired...more n' usual."

"When's the last time you even had a shower?"

Sam chose to ignore this, dragging a hand through his tangled mess of hair. Dean refocused on the news articles he'd been skimming.

"Business's a little slow around here...a handful of perverts and crackpots, but nothing in our league so far. I'm almost itching for a good old salt n' burn right now."

Sam grunted noncommittally and took a sip of coffee. Dean was about to read aloud the details of some grisly murder in Kansas City, when Sam started to cough. It seemed as if he'd just choked on his coffee, but then Dean glimpsed a speck of red escape Sam's upheld fist and land on the table.

"Sam!"

Dean scrambled out of his seat and hovered uncertainly next to his little brother's quivering back.

"I'm-fine-," Sam managed between coughs.

Dean almost jumped out of his skin as the coughing evolved into hacking, and Sam was suddenly doubled over, his hand no longer obscuring the splatters of blood that were flying out of his mouth. Dean was paralyzed for a second, his eyes fixed on the multiplying splotches of crimson on the table.

He kicked himself out of his reverie and clutched at Sam's shuddering shoulders, uttering his name over and over until it started to sound like a mantra, as if it would somehow cure Sam of the weakness racking his body. Sam gave one last convulsive cough before collapsing backwards into Dean's arms, his entire body trembling with exertion.

Dean's knees almost gave out, and he gingerly pulled Sam to the ground.

"I'm...sorry," Sam tried, but his voice came out cracked and husky.

"Shut up."

Dean was giddy with relief and something else, something bordering on hysteria. He tightened his hold on Sam, his heart beating a mile a minute. Sam turned himself around so that he and Dean were face to face.

"Dean..." Sam looked crestfallen, as if he'd done something wrong. His lips glistened with blood. Dean wanted to slap that expression off his face.

"Shut the hell up, Sammy."

Sam blinked, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, extricated himself from Dean. He stood up on shaky legs, refusing Dean's assistance.

"You should go lie down, Sam. I'll...wait out here."

Sam gave Dean a plastic smile. "Okay. I could use some sleep."

He looked at his older brother like he had something else to say, but he bit it down, brow furrowed, and nudged Dean's hand with his own instead. A jolt of affection seared through Dean at the simple gesture, temporarily quieting his anxieties. Before Sam turned to enter his room, Dean couldn't help himself; he reached up and pressed a chaste kiss to Sam's forehead.

"Wha..."A look of bemusement was plastered across Sam's face, but the corner of his mouth was also upturned, and Dean knew he'd be teased mercilessly about this later.

"Go to bed, bitch."

Sam obliged, leaving Dean alone in the too-wide kitchen, alone with his black thoughts and the red stains on the reflective wood.