Author's Note: Again, a huge thanks to everyone who reviewed. (Honestly, even one would've made my day.) I mean, when I first started writing fanfiction (Angel), I must admit, six or seven reviews on a chapter would've made my day. So, trust me over a hundred reviews on a four chapter story rocks! Thank you thank you thank you.

Not quite sure why, but the boys of Supernatural have brought out my inner muse. Thanks to phychokittyuk… "You wrote Sam great!" To be honest, I feel like I write a better Dean than Sam, so thanks for the comment; it made my day.

Hope you like the conclusion. (Yup, this is it. The End. However, Angsty chick flick still running strong!)


"Dean?" Sam called out softly, "I brought you a couple pills for the fever." He held out his hand, the white pills moving from his palm to his brother's. Reaching over he grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand, cracked open the top, and then held it out. Dean stared at it for the longest time, as if he wasn't sure what he was going to do with it. Blinking, he finally nodded, putting the pills in his mouth before taking a sip of the offered water.

Dean grimaced, coughing up the pills in his hand. He coughed for a minute, then tried again with the same result. "I can't—," his voice was rough, "I can't get it down." By then, the pills were a soggy mess, the horrible taste lingering in his mouth. Dean's breath turned ragged as he tried to swallow against the sudden taste of bile. Sweat beaded across his forehead and lip.

Sam saw him and grabbed the waste basket that was next to the bed and quickly placed it in front of Dean. Almost as soon as it was in place, the basket was filled. Sam watched helplessly as Dean expelled every morsel of food that he'd eaten throughout the day—which, as memory served consisted only of a half-eaten pudding. Dry heaves shook the already weakened body, making him tremble uncontrollably. Sam rested his hand on his shoulder, "Oh, Dean…I think it's time to find a doctor."

"No." He tried to shout; it fell short and ended up a moan. "No, doctor."

"I know you hate doctors, Dean, but you haven't eaten in almost two days—you're becoming dehydrated. You know how dangerous that is—Dad drilled that in our heads from the time we started grade school."

The retreat—the way Dean's eyes became shuttered as he tried to hide how miserable he felt made Sam's heart break. "I'm fine, Sammy." He whispered it, obviously fighting against the wave of fatigue that flowed through his body.

"No, Dean. You're not fine. Right now you are very far away from fine." He paused, giving him a moment to catch his breath. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

An anguished cry flew from Dean's lips—startling Sam. "Dean? What's wrong?" He leaned over, grasping his shoulders tightly. "Dean! Answer me!"

There was a struggle on Dean's face as he tried to get his words across. "I told you—I'm fine." He gasped for breath for a few seconds before continuing, "Please. No hospital. Please, Sammy."

He was begging. His big brother was begging him.

"God, Dean," he whispered, feeling his own eyes fill, "Why does everything have to be a fight with you?" He held his face in his hands, forcing him to look into his eyes. "Okay, you win. I won't take you to the hospital—with one stipulation. From now on, let me take care of you. You trust me to know what's best for you and you promise not to argue with me. I'm leaving it up to you, Dean. Either you see a doctor or you let me take care of you. It's your choice."

Pulling away, Dean covertly wiped his eyes before nodding. "Okay. I won't fight anymore."

Sam agreed, "Okay. We have a deal." He gripped Dean's forearm tightly, giving him a small smile. "Don't look so scared, Dean. I won't cover you in pink calamine lotion and send you to school like you did to me in the third grade." Of this, Sam was deadly serious. Dean wasn't one to give up control—he didn't trust easily. If you hurt him, he'd never trust you again.

His brother didn't say a word; he looked almost defeated, his chest was almost heaving—the congestion draining all of his energy until he looked like a limp noodle, not even able to lift his own head off the pillow. When he was able, he whispered, "Not my fault—you were the one who fell in the poison ivy and then wanted to go to school."

Smiling, Sam laughed silently at the memory. He'd been trying to achieve perfect attendance after one of the older students told him that he'd get an award. He never missed a day—even after he'd fallen into a huge patch of poison ivy. He honestly didn't remember where their father was, most likely on a hunt. So, Dean took care of him and literally covered every exposed part of his body with the pink sticky stuff to stop the itching and then walked him to school after he begged to go. He'd been so disappointed that they didn't get to stay until the end of the school year to receive what he'd worked so hard for. Dean made it up to him though—they'd spent an entire day in the amusement park riding all of the rides and eating all the candy they could get their hands on.

Sam stood, walking over to the small fridge that stood in the corner of the room and then pulled out a bottle of lemon flavored Gatorade. It was the only kind he would drink and Dean had stocked the refrigerator full of the electrolyte enriched liquid when he'd been sick.

Everywhere he looked Sam saw all of the ways Dean cared for him. It made him slightly ashamed that he'd never noticed it before. 'You take your brother for granted'… it was what the Skin Walker taunted him with as he sat tied up to the post.

It was right.

It'd never be right again. This Sam promised himself.

Returning to his brother's side, he'd found that Dean had curled up on his side and had thrown his arms over his face. "Dean? I need you to get up for a minute." Grabbing the bottle of Tylenol, Sam poured out two pills and then broke them in half using a pocket knife. He held out the pills and the bottle of Gatorade. "Hopefully, you should be able to get them down now…if you can't, I'll crush them and mix it with pudding."

Dean's face contorted from the struggle to swallow the pills. It had taken two attempts but finally he was successful in keeping them down. Afterwards, he slumped into the cushions of his bed, completely exhausted by the effort. He sounded awful; the congestion seemed to be getting worse, his lungs wheezing with every breath.

Sam stared at him worriedly, an idea springing into his mind. Maybe there was something that he could do for Dean…


Dean buried himself with pillows shortly after spending a half an hour in the front of the toilet, praying to the porcelain god, as the saying goes. Afterwards, he was as weak as a newborn; Sam literally had to carry him back to bed, where he hid his face with a pillow to mask his moans. Dean was trembling, but refused a blanket—saying he was too hot. From the squinting, Sam could only guess that he had a headache onto of all of his other symptoms.

It was as good a time as any to put his idea into play. 'Hell, it might even help Dean's headache,' Sam thought. He pulled out the small blue container, opening it and then scrunching up his nose at the pungent odor. Visibly, Dean's back tensed as he sat down next to him, a small moan escaping. "Sorry," Sam whispered, touching his back lightly. Frowning, he wasn't surprised that Dean's fever hadn't gone down—after all, all of the medications and fluids had fed the toilet bowl.

"Relax, Dean. Just take a breath and relax your muscles." Continuing with the soft litany, "That's it, just relax." He rubbed Dean's back lightly as he spoke, a small smile forming after he felt the tension drain away. Once he felt that Dean was relaxed he dipped his fingers in the menthol rub. "Dean, this is just menthol, okay? It might tingle a little."

He started at the junction between his neck and shoulders, rubbing the medication into the stiff muscles before moving towards his neck. Letting his fingers trail down his spine, he continued the massage, stopping only occasionally to apply more of the menthol. As he worked, Dean's breathing became less strained, the medicine doing its job as a natural decongestant.

To his surprise, his brother didn't complain, didn't pull away or claim his usual anti-chick flick moments, but relaxed and let him continue the comforting massage. "You doing okay there, Dean?"

"Mmmm." It was the only response.

"Can you roll onto your back?" The question was asked quietly, not wanting to disrupt the fuzzy warmth feeling of the moment. With a small moan, Dean turned to face his little brother. His eyes had a dopey look in them; it was the only way to describe it. He kept blinking as if keeping his eyes open was truly challenging. Sam dipped into the rub again, rubbing his hands together before placing them gently on his neck. The area was still quite swollen; he ran his fingers down his neck, making sure that his touch was as light as possible to not hurt Dean. He took a small amount and dabbed it under his eyes and nose, in hopes that it would clear his sinuses and help him breathe easier.

Dean's eyes slipped shut as he placed his hands on his chest, patting him before continuing the massage down his chest. The rubbing was rhythmic, warm and gentle. It sent Dean off to dream land, a small smile on his lips. "Thanks, Sammy."

"You're welcome, Dean." Sam smiled back at him, giving in to the girly temptation and placed a small kiss on Dean's forehead. Blinking, he stepped back in surprise at himself. Dean would kill him if he knew—'Oh, well,' he thought, 'what Dean doesn't know won't hurt him.'


It had taken almost a week for Dean to recover, his strength was slowly returning, he was able to breathe without that tightness in his chest, and the coughing had all but disappeared. His voice was slowly returning to him—but still made Sam laugh when it'd cut out in mid sentence, giving him a slightly adolescent squeak.

The decision to leave their hotel room was made unanimously; both of them were starting to feel the walls close in on them. Sam took the keys from Dean and drove them to a small park. He pulled over near the small pond and then sat outside on the grass with his big brother and soaked in the sun.

"Sammy?" Dean asked after a few minutes of peaceful quiet.


"I—um—I never said 'thanks', you know. I know that, uh, I gave you a hard time…so, um, thanks for taking care of me."

Sam turned to look at Dean. He was lying on the ground, staring up at the clouds rolling overhead. "Dean, you don't have to thank me. Hell, I should be the one thanking you." Sam gnawed at his thumb before continuing. "Dean…you probably got sick taking care of me. We worked that damn Clown Case for over a week without a break—then you spent nearly another week taking care of me. It only made it easier for that virus to latch on to you."

Dean turned his head, a frown on his face. "Dude, can you possibly get any more egotistical?"

Mouth falling open, Sam could only say, "Huh?"

He sat up on his heels, putting out a hand to lift Sam to his feet. "I mean, come on! You're responsible for a virus? What are you—some sorta germ-collector? Or a biological terrorist? Give me a break!" He walked away, leaving Sam staring at him in shock.

Shaking his head, Sam followed behind—just like always. "Dean…uh, that wasn't what I was trying to—."

"Aahh, whatever!" Dean's hand flew up, smacking his brother on the shoulder. "Let's get out of here. I'm still sick enough to milk this—let's hit a small restaurant or something. Maybe a chick'll take me home and 'nurse me' back to health…if you know what I mean." He waggled his eye brows, a sly smile on his face.

"That's disgusting, Dean! Do you ever think about anything else?"

"You know—you're just jealous because I was born with the looks."

"No! I'm not. And trust me, Dean. You're not all that! I mean—it's not like you're—Tom Cruise or anything."

Dean stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his brother. "Dude, you think Tom Cruise is sexier than ME?"

Sam's mouth flew open again. He shut it quickly, making his teeth clatter with the force before rubbing his face. "Dean. Are you serious? The guy got voted sexiest male like five years in a row."

Dean's finger appeared in his face, "Sammy, the fact that you know that is scary. You need help."

Sam snatched the finger in a tight grip, smiling. "I know what you're trying to do."

"What? What am I trying to do?" He asked as he tried to pull out of Sam's reach, instinctually knowing what his little brother was planning.

He wasn't quick enough as Sam wrapped his gigantic arms around his body and squeezed. "Dude, get off. This is no time for a chick flick moment. I mean—if I was dying or something—that's a different story. Sam, I mean it, let go." Sam didn't let go. "Sammy. Sam. Samuel. Fine, god! I'll hug you back, you big dork." He returned the hug quickly, pretending to be happy when Sam finally pulled away. "You are such a woman. I swear it—." He shook his head, then walked away again.

Sam laughed as he watched his brother climb into the car.

Before walking over, he pulled out his cell phone and thumbed through the pictures he'd snapped of Dean slumped over the toilet seat—naked. "Oh, yeah. He's going to so regret saying that."



Well, what do you think?

Please please please press the little button and review. (To be honest, I'm glad I finished one of my WIP. I'll start back up on "Looking Back" shortly.)