This is just a little one-shot, someone requested, so I figured I'd give it a try. I'm taking requests, if anyone has a suggestion for a one-shot you'd like to see me write. Anyway, enjoy...

Dean grew impatient. He didn't know what to do. He stared out the window, wishing somehow his father's car would pull up in front of the Motel room and everything would be okay. If he knew what to do everything would be okay. But that's the problem: Dean didn't know what to do.

Letting the dirty Motel curtain fall close, Dean turned back around and turned his attention back to Sam. He was lying on the couch, too weak to move to the bed. His hair was matted down to his forehead with a temperature of 102.3. He was curled up in a ball like it was freezing outside. But he was sweating like he was lying in a desert.

Dean crouched down on the floor next to his brother. If Dean were older, he would know what to do. If Dean were older. he'd have Sam fixed in no time. If Dean were older, Sam wouldn't be like this. But Dean was only eleven, and he was clueless.

Sam moaned, rolling back over to his back. He opened his mouth and called out for Dean. Dean; the only person left to care for him.

Thinking quickly, Dean rested his hand on Sam's shoulder.

"I'm right here, Sam," he said as comfortably as he could.

Sam's shaky, sweaty hand reached out and touched the top of his, confirming Dean's statement.

"It's r-really h-hot, Dean," Sam complained, wiping the sweat away from his eyes.

Dean shook his head, at a loss of how to take care of this.

"I turned the thermometer down to fifty. The room will be cold soon. You'll feel better then," the older brother informed. He bit his lower lip, hoping that what he's saying is correct. He didn't want Sam like this anymore.

Closing his eyes, and gripping his sweat soaked head, Sam moaned. It felt like he was being burned alive. Everything on his was about ten times hotter than normal. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He didn't even know how to explain it.

"Sam?" Dean calls, hearing his brother cry out.

Sam doesn't answer though. Instead, he rolls his body toward Dean and lets out an exhausted sigh. He sniffles, trying not to cry, but finding it impossible. He couldn't help it. He felt horrible.

"Am I broken, Dean?" Sam cries. He opens his bloodshot eyes and looks at his brother, letting him know he expects an honest answer.

Dean looks away. Not really knowing what to say. How was he supposed to know? Sam's been sick, but he's never been sick like this before.

Dean shakes his head. "'Course you're not broken, Sam."

Sam runs his tiny hand across his face. More tears escape his eyes. "You sure?"

Nodding, Dean replies, "Yeah. You're just sick. You'll be okay."

Finding that answer simple enough to understand, Sam half nods and turns away. He tucks his arm under his head and bring his legs up to his chest.

Standing, Dean searches the room. His eyes fall in the white rotating fan across the room. Jogging, Dean grabs the fan by the base and carries it to the nearest outlet to Sam. Quickly, he plugs it in and adjusts it so it's blowing directly on Sam. The hair in the back of his head, blow gently with the cool air hitting him.

Dean walks over to his brother, leans over the edge of the couch, and touches the side of his cheek.

"Is it helping?" Dean asks, his voice full of hope for a positive reply.

Sam's head lifts slowly. He looks up at Dean. His once sparkly hazel-green eyes have turned dull from the fever. Sam's cheeks were slightly red and his eyes were beginning to become puffy from crying.

"Why is it so hot?" Sam asks, tugging at his shirt that was clinging to his damp body.

Taking that as a no, Dean searches his brain for another solution.

"D'n?' Sam calls, his voice groggy and tired.

Dean walks around to the front of the couch and sits next to his brother.

"Yeah, Sam?"

Sleepily, Sam rubs his eyes. "When's Dad coming back?"

Dean sighed. Not exactly know what the answer to that question was. He shrugged.

"'Bout a week, I guess."

Sam groaned, throwing his fever-hazed head back into the couch. He tugged at the ends of his hair for a second before letting them fall to the couch gently. He lets out a deep breath and rolls to his side.

Dean stands, thinking of another idea. He power walks to the bathroom. He grabs the washcloth off the side of the counter in the bathroom, and the bucket from under the sink. Dean filled the bucket halfway with water as cold as the faucet would allow. Tugging the bucket out of the sink, he hauls it to the table in front of Sam. Before letting the washcloth fall into the water, he took the ice tray from the freezer and let a few ice cubes dissolve into the water, making it even cooler.

"I got a idea, Sammy," Dean says a loud. He dunks the washcloth in the cold water, pushes it down to the bottom, then bring it back up and wrings it out.

"You said you're hot, right? Like, you're skin's hot?"

Sam nodded gently. He mumbled something, but it was too low for Dean to hear. Dean didn't dwell too long on the fact he didn't understand.

He shook the washcloth a couple of times, letting the excess water fall back into the bucket.

"So I figured, if you're skin's hot, why not just put something cold on it to make it cold again, right?"

He puts the cold cloth on Sam's forehead and watches as his brother's face relax.

Dean sits down next to Sam again and puts the cold washcloth through his sweat dampened hair a few times. Then, he lets it stay on his forehead for a while. After a few minutes passed, Dean dunks the washcloth, wrings it out, and then places it back on Sam. This time he runs it across Sam's arms and his neck, too.

A few more seconds pass before Sam opens his eyes again, but just for a second.

"Thank you," he mumbles, as relief floods his body. The heat as finally started to subside. He gently touches the top of Dean's hand.

Feeling proud, Dean lets his hand fall on Sam's leg and he gives it a comforting shake.

"Don't mention it."

Dean stands, he takes the cloth one last time, dunks it, and places it back on Sam.

Before returning to his own bed, Dean ruffles Sam's hair a little.

"Go to sleep, little brother. Everything will be better when you wake up," Dean says in his best big-brother voice. "I promise."

Laying on his bed, Dean smiles.

Sam might've been broken before. But he's not now. Dean had fixed him.

Thanks for reading :] I hope you enjoyed it.

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