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The bunker was quiet—too quiet for a night after a hunt.
Sam stepped softly down the corridor, hands in his hoodie pockets, his gaze drifting over the closed doors on either side. He should have heard Dean grumbling about his shoulder or complaining about cold beer and lousy movies. But… nothing. Not a sound.
“Dean?” he called quietly, but his voice was swallowed by the cold walls of the bunker.
He wasn’t in the kitchen. Not in the weapons room. Not in the library where he’d tossed his jacket just an hour earlier. Sam furrowed his brow. Dean had been a little quiet since the case started, but he’d chalked it up to exhaustion. Now, the silence was planting a nasty knot of worry in his stomach.
Eventually, he came to Dean’s door. It was ajar.
“Hey, if you’re sleeping naked, at least give me a heads‑up,” Sam said, pushing the door open with a tired smile, teasing tone forced.
But the joke died on his lips as soon as he saw his brother.
Dean lay on the bed, face turned to the wall, drenched in sweat, the blanket pushed aside. He was breathing heavily, head slightly bowed, one hand trembling almost imperceptibly at the edge of the mattress. His shirt was plastered to his back, wet. The room smelled of heat, fever, and utter exhaustion.
Sam rushed forward.
“Dean?”
No reaction. Just a confused mumble.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, one hand resting on Dean’s arm. Dean’s skin was hot to the touch; when Sam gently touched his forehead, it burned like a hotplate.
“Jesus… Dean, why didn’t you say anything?”
Dean slowly turned his head, blinking. His eyes were red-rimmed, and the soft lamp light made him wince.
“It’s nothing,” he croaked in a voice so hoarse Sam barely understood. “Just… hunter’s flu. It happens.”
“‘Hunter’s flu’? What the hell is that?” Sam shot upright and pulled the shades shut, darkening the room. He turned back with a determined look. “You’ve got a fever, you’re sweating, you’re pale and shaking! You’ve got a serious cold or worse, and all you’re doing is lying here like a stubborn idiot?”
“I don’t want soup, Sammy,” Dean grumbled, trying to sit up. “You’re dramatic.”
Sam gently pushed him back, but firmly.
“I don’t want to find you passed out from dehydration with a 104° fever. You haven’t said a word since we got back. You scared me.”
Dean closed his eyes, too tired to argue.
“My throat hurts. And… everything. But I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Sam sighed, more exasperated than frustrated. He took off his hoodie, dropped it on the chair, and leaned toward his brother.
“Look, I’ll get you water, a thermometer, something easy to swallow. Maybe soup, maybe tea. Doesn’t have to taste good. Just… let me take care of you, okay?”
Dean stayed silent. After a few seconds, he let out a heavy, almost resigned sigh.
“You know you get… insistent when you want to, Sammy.”
Sam smiled faintly.
“You raised me, Dean. I didn’t learn it from just anyone.”
Dean didn’t answer, but as Sam started to leave, his weak hand reached out and brushed Sam’s shirt sleeve. He didn’t pull back. Just touched.
“Don’t go too far.”
Sam paused in the doorway, his look softening.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
The bunker kitchen was cold and still, dim light glinting off the stainless sink. Sam opened the cupboard with steady motions, though his heart weighed heavy in his chest.
“Chicken soup… canned’s fine, right?” he murmured to himself, setting a small pot on the stove.
While it warmed, Sam rummaged through drawers for a thermometer, fever pills, a pack of clean towels. He filled a pitcher with fresh water and set it on the counter, staring at it in silence. Then his hand halted at the pot’s rim, and his thoughts drifted into the past.
He remembered clearly: little him, shivering with fever under a thin blanket in a dilapidated motel. Teenaged Dean, worn out after a day at school and tracking monsters, bringing him tea made on an electric burner. He never said, “Sorry you’re sick”—instead he’d chuckle and say things like, “You ought to learn not to eat out of dumpsters,” or “What’s wrong with you, Sammy, you’re made of paper?”
But Sam knew the truth. Dean would change his cold compresses, touch his forehead when he thought he’d fallen asleep, read him old superhero magazines to lull him into drowsiness. He’d kept him close, even when Dad disappeared for days.
And now…
Dean was crumpled on the bed like an abandoned doll. Fever-scorched skin, dark circles under his eyes, his movements slow and unsteady. Sam had never seen him like this. Dean was the one who cared for others. The strong one. The one who didn’t fall.
Yet now… he had fallen. And Sam felt something knot inside him, as if the world had unbalanced.
“It’s just a cold,” he told himself. But he couldn’t calm down.
---
Ten minutes later, he returned to Dean’s room, carrying a carefully prepared tray. A small pot of soup, a spoon, water, pills, a warm towel, Dean’s favorite pajamas—his old AC/DC shirt.
Dean whimpered in his sleep, sweat matted hair to skin, lips slightly parted. Sam set the tray down and immediately leaned in, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead, then across his throat, then gently at the nape of his neck.
Dean stirred awake with a low groan.
“Sammy…”
“I’m here,” Sam replied softly. “I brought you something warm. You’ve got a high fever and your body needs fuel—whether you like it or not.”
Dean propped himself on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, head bowed, wet hair sticking to his forehead. His fever tinted his face strangely pale, and he shuddered occasionally with chills that shook his body.
Sam sat beside him, tray in his arms. He rolled up his sleeves and tilted his head slightly, looking for his brother’s eyes.
“Come on, eat a bit. Just a few spoonfuls, I promise.”
Dean shut his eyes for a moment, opened them wordlessly, too tired to fight. Sam carefully slipped the spoon to his lips and withdrew it slowly, watching for any reaction. The soup was warm, not hot—gentle, soothing.
“There you are… ,” Sam murmured with a thin, ironic, tender smile.
By the third spoonful, Dean’s mouth got a little messy. Sam chuckled softly and gently wiped the corner of his mouth with a soft napkin, caressing his cheek as he did. The gesture felt familiar, like a memory from another time—but now… now it held something deeper.
“Out of jokes?” he asked gently.
Dean replied in a whisper, “Too sick to tease you… enjoy it while you can.”
Sam raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, I plan to.”
He continued feeding him slowly, spoon by spoon, until Dean nodded slightly, nearly asleep.
“That’s enough,” Sam said, placing the tray on the bedside table. Then he leaned over and wiped Dean’s forehead with the damp towel, starting from the center and gliding down the temples, then his throat. His movements were so smooth and intimate that Dean barely registered them—but his whole body responded: the tight muscles relaxed, his breathing smoother.
“We need to change your shirt. It’s soaking,” Sam said.
Dean grimaced.
“Great…”
Sam helped him lean forward slightly, lifting his arms. The shirt came off slowly, stuck to his skin, and Sam carefully removed it, tossing it onto the chair. When his eyes drifted over Dean’s chest, he paused.
He was used to seeing Dean’s body on the move—on the run, in fights, glimpsed through the open door of the bathroom—but now, in the dim stillness of the room, Dean looked different. Fragile, yes… but still strong. Broad shoulders, chest rising under heavy breaths, veins pronounced on his tanned arms. Fever and chills painted his skin in shades of red and white—like a living portrait.
Sam swallowed hard, feeling a shiver travel up his spine. He let himself take a single, fleeting moment—no more—to admire the shape of his muscles, the line of his neck, the curve of his clavicle dip.
“He’s so beautiful,” he thought. “So damn sexy, even sick.”
He pulled a fresh shirt over Dean’s head carefully, then eased it down his warm torso. Dean barely nodded.
“What?” Sam asked, supporting his back and gently stroking his chest to help him relax.
“Your hands are cold… but it feels good,” Dean murmured. “And you’ve got… good hands.”
Sam smiled widely, embarrassed and tender at once.
“That’s new. You never compliment anyone.”
“I’m sick. No filter.”
Sam ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, brushing wet strands from his forehead, then rested his forehead against Dean’s temple.
“Your bed’s soaked. Come sleep in my room.”
Dean protested softly, “No use. I’ll get you sick too.”
“I don’t care. You stayed with me even when I coughed all over you.”
“I was young and dumb.”
“I’m here now. Come on.”
He lifted him gently, arm around his shoulders. Dean leaned on him, heavy, but he didn’t resist. As they walked down the dim hallway, Sam felt something—a light pressure in his hand. Dean had wrapped around his hand. And he wouldn’t let go.
Neither did Sam.
They reached Dean’s room, and Sam guided him straight to the big bed with fresh sheets. He helped him lie down, then placed the pitcher and pills by his side.
Dean looked at him with half-open, tired but warm eyes.
“If you fall asleep here… and start snoring, I’ll push you off the bed,” Dean warned.
“I promise to snore romantically,” Sam said—and without letting go of his hand, sat down on the edge, still holding it.
Dean tucked his legs under the blanket and, with a last comforted sigh, closed his eyes.
“It’s good here, Sammy…”
Sam squeezed his hand and whispered back, “I know. You’re safe now.”
And Dean’s hand remained clasped in his until he fell into a steady, heavy sleep.
—
Sam turned off the light—but didn’t leave. He couldn’t.
He eased himself under the blanket, settling behind Dean, never letting go of his hand. Gently, he pulled him into an embrace, wrapping long arms around him, instinctively protecting him.
Dean’s body was hot—as if radiating through every pore. Sam could feel every tense fiber, every subtle tremor through his brother’s shoulders. But he didn’t withdraw.
Instead, he pressed closer, resting his forehead on the nape of Dean’s neck.
“I’m here. With you. For you.”
Dean said nothing, but surrendered to the embrace, curling instinctively into Sam, a soft sigh as he dozed. Sam held him tight, feeling his hot, heavy breathing slow gradually.
He didn’t sleep either. Not for an hour. His thoughts ran in loops; his heart raced too fast.
“I’ve never seen him like this… so fragile. So… alive.”
At midnight, Sam’s eyes snapped open. He felt Dean’s heat burning more intensely. His body trembled faintly, like under a silent storm. Sam propped himself up on one elbow, alarmed. He touched Dean’s forehead—it was scorching, frighteningly hot.
“Dean…,” he whispered.
No response.
He reached for the bedside table, found the pill bottle and glass of water he'd prepared. Then he turned to Dean and shook him gently by the shoulder.
“Dean, hey… wake up a little.”
Dean stirred, blinking in fevered confusion. He looked straight at Sam, but didn’t fully recognize him.
“Sammy…?”
“Yes, I’m here. You’ve got a high fever. You need another pill, okay?”
Dean stared at him, long and intense, making Sam freeze.
“You’re so beautiful, Sammy…”
Sam froze with the pill still in his hand, stunned.
“What?”
“Beautiful like an angel. Like you came down from heaven just for me…”
Dean’s hand rose and traced Sam’s jawline with heartbreaking tenderness.
“I love you, Sammy. I love you with all my soul. You’re everything to me.”
Sam felt his heart tighten. Those words hit him like a wave—sweet, impossible, painful.
“Dean… you have a fever, you’re delirious. Please take the pill, okay?”
“No. It’s not delirium. I’ve never been more honest. Never, Sam.”
Dean seized his wrist—the one holding the glass—and held it tight, as if his life depended on it.
“What I feel for you… is the truest thing about me. Everything I am… is yours. I’ve always belonged to you.”
Sam closed his eyes. Tears welled just beneath his eyelids, and he forced them back. He inhaled deeply and said:
“Please… take the pill. Then we’ll talk. Okay?”
Dean sighed, swallowed the medication, and drank from the glass. Then, as though he’d used all his energy, he sank back and curled toward Sam again.
He wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist, pressing his cheek to his chest.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” he whispered.
“I won’t,” Sam replied. But in his mind he added, bitterly: …even if I should.
He held him until Dean fell asleep again. And with a heart broken by the beauty of the impossible, Sam stayed awake until morning, with his body burning in his arms and his soul filled with a love he wasn’t allowed to believe in.
—
The sun was just beginning to peek at the edge of the curtains, gently lighting the room. It was quiet. Warm.
Sam still lay motionless in bed, arms wrapped around Dean, who was sleeping pressed against him, his head resting on Sam’s chest. He could feel his brother breathing deep and steady, his body still warm — but not like last night. Now it was just a slightly elevated body heat… a good sign.
Sam exhaled slowly, relieved.
“He’s not feverish anymore. Just a little under the weather. He’ll be okay…”
He rested his head on the pillow but couldn’t fall asleep. His heart was racing. He knew these moments were fragile, fleeting… that as soon as Dean woke up, the world would return to normal. No hugs. No touches. No love.
So he tightened his arms around Dean a little more. A silent gesture, one last attempt to hold on to something.
Dean moaned softly in his sleep, as if his dreams were sweet. He shifted, fidgeted a bit, then with a gentle sigh slowly lifted his head off Sam’s chest. His eyes were blurry with sleep, his hair tousled, and a lazy smile on his lips.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but warm.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he pressed his lips lightly to Sam’s neck, where the skin was soft and the pulse visible.
Sam froze.
All thoughts, all reality, all the air in the room seemed to vanish. That gesture, so tender, so unrestrained — it completely paralyzed him.
“Dean…?” he whispered, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you feeling okay? I mean… what are you doing?”
Dean slowly lifted his head, propping himself up on one elbow, and looked at Sam with that serene but deep—honest—expression.
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” he said. “I told you last night.”
Sam shook his head, unable to believe it.
“I thought you were delirious. You had a high fever, you said you loved me… but it was… it was the fever, right?”
Dean looked at him for a long moment. Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed him. A light, timid kiss, just a touch of lips over Sam’s — but enough to stop time.
When he pulled away, Dean smiled faintly, eyes locked with his:
“It was real, Sammy. All of it.”
Sam stayed silent for a few moments. His eyes were wet, but he smiled. Smiled so wide, so childlike that Dean held his breath. Sam raised his hands, cupping his brother’s face as if holding something precious and fragile.
“Then… let me tell you too,” he said in a low voice.
And he kissed him.
Not timidly. Not to check something. But with all the love he’d held on his lips for years, with all tenderness, with all the desire to never let that moment be just a coincidence again.
Dean answered without hesitation, burying his fingers in Sam’s hair, pressing himself against him as if he could never let him go again.
And maybe he never will.