Dean entered the motel room, to be greeted with a sneeze that he swore should have blown him back out into the parking lot.

"Brought the meds, Sammy." He looked over at his little brother, curled up in bed in as tight a ball as he could manage.

Sam's head rose up from the pillow, eyes glassy, nose raw from continuous running and wiping.

"Thanks, Dean." His voice sounded like he'd been gargling with razor blades, thick with phlegm.

Dean placed the bag on the desk, then caught the look Sam was throwing him. He sighed.

"No, Sam."

"But Dean…"

"NO, Sammy. I'm not gonna …"

His protests died as he looked into Sam's eyes.

Dammit.

Even sick the puppy eyes worked.

Dean sat down on the edge of Sam's bed, turned and faced his brother. He made a show of being annoyed, but Sam could still see the twinkle in his eyes.

"Can't believe you've still got me doing this," Dean muttered. "You're a dude, you're in your twenties, and you've STILL got me doing this." Another "I'm-being-so-badly-used" sigh.

Sam sneezed, then sniffled pathetically.

"Once upon a time…" Dean began.

Sam's eyes began to drift closed, and he smiled.