"Sammy!" Dean sniffed, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve for the umpteenth time in the last minute. "It's too hot!" he glared daggers at the steaming bowl of soup—chicken noodle, no less… yuck!—and promptly sneezed.
Sam looked up from his laptop for a moment, not seeing where this conversation was leading. "It'll cool down," he said, turning back to his research.
Dean smiled slyly. "Blow on it for me?" It had become his sole mission to milk his cold for all it was worth. He wanted to see just how far he could get before Sam started beating him over the head with a frying pan.
Or searching the trunk for ammunition filled with something besides rock salt.
Sam's left eye twitched so hard Dean was almost afraid it was going to fall out. He fixed Dean with the best bitchface he could muster at the current moment, and, with a sigh, shuffled over to Dean's bed, took the bowl of soup off Dean's tray and gave an almighty blow. He did it about ten times before the steam visibly reduced. "Better?"
Dean took a hesitant bite and damn, it still tasted like ass, but at least it was no longer mouth-scalding ass. He nodded and took another bite because, shit flavoring aside, it was the only thing Sammy would let him eat.
Dean snaked an arm out and caught Sam's wrist as he tried to stand up. He brought it to his lips for a soft kiss and noticed the circles under Sam's eyes. Dean's coughing fits in the middle of the night were keeping him up more then he would ever admit.
He smiled and mumbled, almost shyly, "Thanks, Sammy. For, you know."
Sam squeezed Dean's hand reassuringly. "Love you too."
"Good," he said, his smile turning wicked. "Now get me some Nyquil, bitch."