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Dean hates sneezing. He hates throwing up. He hates shivering when the temperature in the room is normal for everyone else. He hates the taste of cough syrup. He hates how his nose and eyes leak constantly when he's sick.

But it's all worth it whenever Sam runs his fingers through Dean's hair, checking his temperature in a way that he thinks will fool Dean into believing he's just soothing with his touches. It's worth it when Sam jogs across the street in the pouring rain to get more cough syrup, tissues, and those crackers that settle Dean's tummy.

Sam shakes his head and kicks the door closed behind him. "I got you some of those cough drops you like," he says, reaching into the bag and pulling out a brightly-colored box.

"Tha-," Dean starts, but then a coughing fit overtakes him, and he covers his mouth while he wonders if he'll ever be able to breathe again. "Thanks, man," he says when he finally gets it under control.

Sam walks up to the nightstand by the bed Dean's sprawled out on. He's dressed in pajama bottoms and an old, worn out, black T-shirt with holes and faded stains. He's also got the blanket pulled up to his chin, because he's fucking cold.

"They had the shitty crackers you like," Sam says as he pulls out a bag of crackers.

They really are shitty. Dean's tried to eat them when he's not sick and can't stand them. But for some reason when he's sick, it's the only thing he can keep down along with some ginger ale.

Sam sets a few more items on the nightstand, then pulls a six-pack of ginger ale out, opens a can, and sets it on the nightstand. The ginger ale isn't even the store brand. It's the real stuff. The expensive stuff.

Dean's mouth waters even as his cock is getting harder, and he's glad that he has a fever, because then maybe Sam won't notice the blush on his cheeks. Sam runs his fingers through Dean's hair, checking Dean's temperature, then sighs.

"I'm gonna need to wipe you down," Sam says, then turns and walks into the bathroom.

"Fuck," Dean says under his breath. "Shit, shit, shit."

He tries to think unsexy thoughts, but he can hear Sam filling the ice bucket with water, and he just knows it's not cold water. Sam wouldn't do that to him. He's filling it with room temperature water, just enough to cool him down, and it just makes Dean even harder. He pulls the T-shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor between the beds and flings the blanket off before turning onto his stomach. Maybe he can buy himself some time by letting Sam wipe down his back first.

The problem is nothing unsexy works, because this thing that Dean has, this strange thing that he's never told anyone before, that no one has ever noticed because he's managed to hide it, well, it's weird. He doesn't know why it happens. Who gets aroused when they're sick? Who the fuck likes being taken care of so much that they can't get rid of an erection?

"Dude!" Dean complains as Sam starts yanking the pajama pants down.

"Lift up," Sam says.

"No," Dean says into the pillow.

"So grumpy when you're sick," Sam says under his breath as he grabs Dean's hips, pulls him back, then quickly yanks the pajama pants down before Dean can stop him.

Sam knows how to take care of him, how to move him, knows all his tells, his insecurities, but he's never figured out Dean's dirty little secret. Dean doesn't get sick all that often, and he doesn't usually get a fever, which means stripping down to nothing isn't a common occurrence when he's sick.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed and thinks of digging graves, of half-rotted bodies and the smell as they break open the caskets to do a salt and burn. He thinks of how zombie gore just doesn't come out of their clothes, how it stinks so badly that they just have to burn the clothes. He thinks of the stench of the flowers they fell into when chasing after a witch a few weeks back.

All while Sam wipes down his back, taking care of him, making sure Dean's temperature goes down. Carefully caressing his back, his arms, his ass, his legs, and even between his toes.

Dean tries harder. Because the erection is still there. It's even worse. He brings out the big guns and imagines Pastor Jim making him sit through a sermon on sin.

"Hey!" Dean yelps as Sam flips him over. Dean looks up at Sam with wide eyes, his breath caught in his chest.

Sam chuckles. "What?" he asks, shrugging, then looks down and sees it. Dean's hard. So hard he's leaking. Sam meets his eyes again, smiling. "It's not the first time I've seen you hard. Relax, man."

Dean opens his mouth, ready to plead his case, explain that he's just horny, that the fever is making him delirious, that the full moon is affecting his dick the same way it affects the tides, that the planets are arranging and... Nothing comes out of his mouth.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam says as he wrings out the washcloth and starts with Dean's face, then moves on to his neck, wiping with that gentle efficiency Sam is capable of.

"Sorry," Dean says.

"It really doesn't bother me," Sam says.

Dean hisses as Sam wipes under his left arm, then his right. He already felt cold, and now he's shivering.

Sam wipes over his stomach, then just keeps going. He wipes down between his legs, catching the creases where a body holds most of its heat. Dean whimpers, shivering with the cold even though he knows the washcloth is damp with room-temperature water. Sam works his way down Dean's legs, then gives him a pat on the arm as he stands up.

"Torture's over," he says as he tosses the washcloth into the ice bucket. "How's your stomach?"

"S'okay," Dean mumbles, unable to meet Sam's gaze.

"I'm going to rinse out the bucket," Sam says as he heads for the bathroom. "Don't cover up while I'm in there."

"'K," Dean says, his cock twitching at the concern in Sam's voice, the way Sam is ordering him around for his own good.

He's so sick, and not just physically. He knows he's not right in the head, knows only some weirdo would get turned on by this, but he can't help it. His balls are aching, his throat hurts, his shoulders are tense and sore, he's cold, and Sam's going to come back out of the bathroom any second and Dean's still going to be hard and leaking.

Sam shouldn't have to put up with this. Where's Sam's house and white picket fence with his two point five kids, a loving wife, and a dog? No, instead he's stuck wiping his big brother down while Dean practically humps his leg just because Sam's taking care of him.

By the time Sam climbs onto the bed, scooting back until he's resting against the headboard, Dean's convinced himself he's the most disgusting pervert ever.

"You wanna watch a movie?" Sam asks.

And there it is again. Sam's concerned. He's thinking about Dean, keeping an eye on him, and Dean's eyes are burning. He can't stop himself. One minute he's shivering and the next he's trying to curl into a ball, away from Sam, away from reality.

"C'mere," Sam says, pushing him onto his back and sliding down the bed until they're level with each other, Sam turned onto his right side.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, embarrassed as a few tears run down the sides of his face. "I'm fine," Dean says.

Sam sighs, and just as Dean's about to tell Sam to fuck off to his own fucking bed, he feels a gentle kiss on his forehead.

Dean freezes, because they're not like this. They're not soft touches and caressing and holding each other. Sam's rough and Dean doesn't like chick flick moments and Sam translates that as manhandling and fucking against the wall when they're sweaty and covered in grave dirt.

A hand wraps around his cock, and Dean lets out a noise of distress, a few more tears running down the sides of his face. Sam strokes him with slow, gentle pulls, and Dean just can't take it. The tenderness is ripping down walls he's had in place for years.

Dean turns onto his left side and shoves his face into Sam's chest so Sam can't see him. He's hiding, and if anybody has a problem with it, Dean will gladly punch them in the face.

"You think I've never noticed the tent in your boxers every time I take care of you?" Sam asks, and his voice is barely there, a whisper. He's not teasing. He's not disgusted.

Dean sniffles, hips jerking forward, fucking into Sam's hand. "Sorry," he says.

"You always seem to freak out over it," Sam says, letting out a huff of laughter. "Usually I just let you think you're hiding it from me, but I can't stand to see you this upset."

Dean doesn't know what to do. Sam's hand feels so good, and the words Sam's saying feel even better. Dean's throat feels tight, his chest is burning just as badly as his eyes, and he cringes as he lets out a sob.

"It's okay, dude," Sam says. "Everybody's got kinks, and if you would've ever asked me, I would've said I think it's hot that I turn you on by taking care of you."

"Don't fuckin' patronize me," Dean grumbles into Sam's chest, but it comes out as more of a gasp when Sam starts stroking him faster, thumb rubbing over the tip of his dick on the downstroke.

"I'm not," Sam says. "You eat up the attention when you're sick, and you never even let me hold you when you're healthy."

Dean's bottom lip trembles, because he wants that. He wants to be held, loved. He wants Sam to fuck him slowly when they have the time. Not that he doesn't like the rough sex. Of course it's fucking hot to rip each other's clothes off and fuck on the floor or in the shower or in the back seat of the Impala, fighting for dominance, fighting for who gets to top. But Dean likes to take it slow sometimes too.

Sam kisses the top of his head, then rubs his nose through Dean's hair, and Dean's not going to last much longer because this is Sam holding him, whispering to him, kissing him, and stroking his cock just right, not squeezing too hard, not pulling too fast.

When Dean comes, it's with a sob of relief. He's been hard for a long time, and letting go, letting Sam take care of him like this feels better than he ever could've imagined.

Sam keeps stroking him until Dean starts to get sensitive. They've fucked enough that Sam knows when to stop. Dean stays where he is, scared to move, scared he might break the spell they're obviously under. He doesn't want to pull away from Sam to find him laughing, ready to give Dean a hard time for being so sappy and ridiculous.

When Sam pulls away, Dean turns his face into the pillow, gritting his teeth when Sam gets off the bed. But then Sam's back, wiping him down with a washcloth. Gentle swipes while he moves Dean this way and that, getting him cooled down and cleaning him up at the same time, all traces of his tears gone, all evidence he'd come on his own belly and Sam's hand washed away.

Dean finally opens his eyes when Sam places a gentle kiss on his lips. He pushes Sam away, frowning. "Dude, I'm sick," he complains. "You're gonna get sick."

"Don't care," Sam says, taking a hold of Dean's wrists and pushing them away from his face, only to lean in and kiss Dean again.

Dean lets him, whimpering into the kiss that's so gentle, so breathtaking that Dean nearly starts crying again. Sam finally pulls away and flops down onto the bed next to Dean, smiling.

"Feel better?" Sam asks.

Dean frowns. "No. In fact I think I'm getting worse. Gonna be sick for like another week or two," he says, then pokes out his bottom lip in a pout.

Sam laughs, kisses the corner of his pouty mouth, then snuggles up next to him. "Well, then you should get your rest, because I'm not gonna let you fuck me again until you're all better."

Dean snorts. "You'll be begging for it before then."

Sam laughs again, and Dean can't help but smile at the sound. He loves it when Sam laughs, loves being the one who can make Sam happy.

"You're right," Sam says.

Dean falls asleep with a smile on his face.