Sort of slight AU: Short One-shot, set some time before AHBL I.

Dean's thoughts on Sam as he helps him recover from a hunt…and a cold…

Disclaimer: They'll never be mine. I'd scare them too much.

Warning: and there was much angst and vomiting.

If Dean ever had to fill out a missing persons report describing his little brother, it

would be thus:

Puppy dog eyes (of course).

Freakishly tall.

Brown hair, style resembles that of Shaggy in Scooby-Doo.

Possibly concussed.

Probably has a cold….

Dean held out the motel trashcan once again as Sam, kneeling on the floor, threw


Whoops, there goes lunch…

Being thrown violently head first into a book case by a poltergeist will do that to a


He thought, not for the first time, that maybe it was just as well Sam had gone off

to Stanford when he did, if only to give his skull a break from physical trauma and

to give his brain something else to think about for a couple of years.

Holding the washcloth to the back of Sam's head in an effort to soak up the blood,

Dean winced as his brother hissed in pain, sneezed loudly, and vomited once more.

And there goes breakfast…

Sam had suffered more head injuries in the course of his life than Dean had eaten

hot dinners, but whilst he excelled at concussions almost as much as research, he

also had an astounding ability to catch colds faster than Superman could catch a

speeding bullet.

Between his teeth.

Trouble was, any suggestion that Sam give up a hunt for a while to recover from

said cold would be met with a stubborn, sullen scowl that spoke of all the bitching

Sam could provide, and then some.

He reached out a hand to grab Sam's shoulder when he swayed.

Andddd there goes pretty much everything else…

"Easy there Sasquatch." Setting the can aside he positioned himself behind Sam

and examined the cut, soon making short work of cleaning, suturing and bandaging

the head wound.

One of these days he's gonna need a G-clamp and a couple of nails to hold his skull


He was pretty certain Sam didn't have a fever but just to be cautious, Dean shoved

a thermometer in Sam's mouth, to which Sam reacted instantly by spitting it out

across the room. If Dean had needed any assurance that his brother was ok, then

Sam's next words confirmed it.

"I want dinner and a movie before you start sticking things in my mouth, slut!"

His amused voice may have been a little weak and breathless, but Sam was most

definitely going to be fine.

Dean smirked a little, before hefting Sam to his feet. "It's a deal; now let's get you

to bed."

"Nah." Was the slurred response. "You won't respect me in the morning…" Sam's

knees buckled a little as the ascent caused the room to spin a little more violently,

his bandaged head lolling against his brother's chest. Dean immediately tightened

his arm around Sam's waist.

"Ouch. Rejection stings." Dean used his other hand to hold Sam's head steady

against his shoulder as he guided him slowly over to the bed furthest from the

door. "Anyway, you're not my type bitch. I prefer something with a little more

bust and a little less attitude."

"Bite me jerk," was the softly muttered reply as Dean turned down the blanket and

gently lowered Sam to the mattress, before offering some pain relief.

"Exactly my point woose."

With a soft chuckle, Dean removed Sam's shoes and socks, then raised the blanket

up to his chin. "Get some rest. I'll wake you in a couple hours; you know the drill."

"Yeah, th'nks D'n"

"You're welcome bro."

Sam muttered something else unintelligible before rolling onto his side, eyes firmly


Dean pulled up a chair to sit beside his brother's bed, then started tending to his

own head injury. His was the result of a large china vase hurled at speed across the

room by the same poltergeist Sam had faced down.

Both boys knew off by heart how to deal with concussions; such things being a

permanent fixture in their job descriptions.

And whilst Sam held the number one title for Mr Cracked Noggin of the Year, it was

pretty much a given that his older brother ran a close second.

Sam snuffled a little beneath the covers, his sinuses obviously still playing up.

Dean smiled slightly then leaned forward and gently smoothed away a few strands

of Sam's ridiculously long fringe from his forehead. His brother, though now

completely out of it, leaned into Dean's hand in a gesture that took Dean back to

when Sam was a toddler seeking comfort after a nightmare.

He sighed, watching Sam's now peaceful features as his mind resumed filling out

the imaginary description:


His little brother.

Best friend.

Last remaining family.

The concerned yet amused smile faded as abject fear slid into its place.

…And one of these days he's gonna get himself killed.


Written in the middle of the night whilst on call, which just goes to show how much

ludicrous crap can emerge as a direct result of sleep deprivation.

So please enjoy 'the shit what I wrote.'

Kind regards,