Sam's voice is smooth and steady in Dean's ear. It glides past him like a big, slow fish, a fish he can catch.

"Hey. Chill out."

Pressure registers. Something's on Dean's limbs. He opens his eyes to Sam, face close to his, long bangs dripping down to tangle in Dean's lashes.

"There you are. Hi."

Dean realizes he's wrestling against his brother. He stops. "What..." He drags in a tight chestful of air, pushes it out in a string of coughs. When the tears clear he sees Sam frowning above him.

"How you feeling?"

Dean gives Sam a hard buck, but Sam holds on easily, smiles a grim smile.

"Okay, seriously. What's with the early-morning grapple?"

Sam seems like he's been expecting the question. His voice is warm and frank. "You're not getting up today."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Dean. How do you feel?"

Hot and cold, and sore, and congested, now that he thinks about it. "Okay."

"Okay?" Sam's brows are up, skeptical.

"Okay enough. Dude, get off me."

"I know you. You've got a bug, man."

Dean sneezes helplessly. "So get up! Let a guy breathe."

"You're staying in bed."

"I am seriously going to smack you."

"I'm gonna bring you everything you need."

"Where's my knife?"

"Soup... movies... medicine."

"Screw you."

"I'm gonna take your temperature and kiss you all better."

"You're... wait, what?"

Sam plants a kiss to the tip of Dean's nose. His lips are soft and cool. "But you..." Sam kisses Dean's forehead, "are gonna stay," his lips find Dean's temple, "in bed." He plies Dean's mouth, straightens with a contented look. Then the smile disappears. "Or so help me God, I'm gonna kick your fluey ass until bed's the only place you want to be."

Dean blinks, relaxes all his limbs. Sam's hair sways between them like a field of wheat. "Geez, Sammy. All you had to do was say 'please.'"

Sam lowers himself slowly, flattens out on top of Dean, crushing the air out of him. Then he rolls and brings his brother with him, tucks the sick man snugly against his chest. Dean pants and snuffles against Sam's shirt. "Okay. Weirdo."

"Be nice to me or I won't rub your back." Sam's fingers trail up and down the shivery skin under his tee.

Dean sucks in a shaky breath and sneezes all over them both.

"Aw, my sickie," Sam murmurs. He shifts and a tissue flutters at the edges of Dean's nose.

"Gibbee that." He blows. "I wasn't even... how'd you know I was sick? What are you, some kind of super-spy?"

"Dude." Sam's fingers stroke through his hair, play over his forehead. "The blinky eyes from the lights seeming too bright." His thumb passes over Dean's eyelid, brushing through the lashes. "The sniffly pink nose." He presses a tender kiss to Dean's nostril. "The general dickishness because you don't feel well." He pats Dean's groin through his shorts.

Dean wriggles closer, sighs into Sam's chest. "I'm not a dick."

"I know." Sam works the balls of his fingers against a knot in Dean's neck.

"Say I'm awesome."

"You're awesome, man."

"I thought there was gonna be soup."

"There is."

"And movies."

"Sleep first. You look exhausted."

"I'm awake."

Gentle kisses shut his eyelids. "It's still early. Sleep."

"Control freak." Dean sucks up a halting breath, sneezes hard enough to shake the bed. "Whew."

It takes it out of him. The last things he feels before he goes under are Sam's warm weight around him and a Kleenex dabbing lightly at his nose. Like it's a painting.

Of a fish.