He’s two hours into a deep sleep after back-to-back hunts with Dad—who dropped him back off with Sam and left chasing a lead two states over without even turning off the engine—when he’s woken by the soft press of Sam’s hand against his shoulder.
Whatever scowl he has on his face drops the second he sees Sam’s on the verge of tears, his hair sticking to his forehead and his cheeks flushed. “Dean,” is all his brother manages, his voice a mere rasp; it sounds like it grates against his throat.
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean mumbles, exhaustion sloughing off in favor of wide-awake concern. He pushes back the blanket and Sam heaves in a hitched breath that bursts out ugly coughs—it sounds like he’s hacking up a lung. Dean takes Sam’s wrist as gently as he can manage and tugs him into the bed. His little brother looks miserable as he crawls in; Dean’s palm presses flat against Sam’s forehead and it’s burning up, so hot that Dean’s not sure how Sam managed to stay standing. “Jesus, kiddo, how long have you been sick?”
Sam mumbles in a closed mouth, and Dean waits patiently, hand stroking down the side of his brother’s cheek. It’s been years since Sam’s looked so vulnerable; it twists something hard in his chest. “Few days,” little brother finally says.
“Sam,” Dean frowns, brows knitting—a few days of this, and Sam could’ve been fried, left to be dragged to the hospital whenever Dean finally woke on his own accord. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Gone,” Sam whispers. You were gone. You left with Dad. Dean swallows hard and Sam drops his gaze, coughs into the pillow when he turns his head. He lets out a low whine that borders on a cry, and Dean pulls the blanket up to Sammy’s chin and soothes his hand down the front of his brother’s chest.
“You need to take some medicine, alright? I gotta go get you some medicine,” he says, and Sam’s breath hitches again; the gasping noises are accompanied by tears this time, Sam’s hand reaching out to weakly grasp onto Dean’s shirt.
“Don’t go,” Sam rasps. Coughs hard again, past mucus and saliva and tears. “Don’t leave.”
Sammy needs cold medicine—needs something for his throat, needs to get his temperature down. But he needs to be comforted more right now, so Dean settles onto his side, pushed up on his forearm so he can keep an eye on his brother. His palm runs over Sam’s cheek, thumb swipes under Sam’s nose. Sam lets out a half-wrecked hum and closes his eyes.
“Not goin’ anywhere, little brother,” Dean murmurs, and Sam breathes in deeply. “I’m here, Sammy.”