A/N: And here are some Sam/Dean slashytimes.


"The Penetration Shovel"

:::

The work glove is stiff and new on Sam's exploring fingers. He spreads them wide, wiggles them and watches the yellow fabric move. This pair's good and thick, tough but responsive. He likes them. He wants them.

He finds Dean in a narrow aisle at the back of the store, fondling a shovel. "Hey," he nods. "Whatcha got?"

Dean looks up, his eyes shining. "Beauty, Sam. She's a beauty."

"Yeah?" There's something in his face that makes Sam hesitate. "Everything okay?"

"Okay?" Dean gawks like Sam's just said he hates beer. "Sam." Shaking his head, he takes Sam's hand, puts the steel shaft in it. "Feel."

Eyeing Dean warily, Sam runs his thumb up and down the metal. "Smooth." He hefts it up and down. "It's got a nice weight to it."

Dean steps closer, slips his hands into Sam's back pockets. "You've got a nice weight to you."

Sam glances down the empty aisle, peers into Dean's eyes. They look weird. He dips his lips to Dean's forehead. "Oh, dude. You're burning up."

"For you." Dean snatches the shovel back, props it against the shelving. It slips and clatters to the floor.

"Dean..."

Dean grinds into his hip, kisses his mouth hard.

"This isn't... we should..."

"Sam." Dean's hands are trembling on Sam's waist. His cheeks are flushed a bright pink, his chest rising and falling fast.

Sam runs his fingers through Dean's warm hair, breaking up the carefully gelled spikes. "Hey, hottie." He nuzzles into Dean's nose, feathers a kiss over his upper lip. "Come to bed with me."

He leaves the work gloves on a shelf, beside a jar of nails.

:::

Prompt: Sam/Dean. Fevers, for whatever reason, make Dean horny. Sam is indulgent.


"Push/Pull"

:::

"Whoa."

Dean shuts off his electric razor, turns toward Sam's lips at his temple. The bathroom smells like shaving cream and steamy shampoo, and Dean's face is hot against Sam's mouth.

"Dean, you're burning up." Sam soothes his palm over Dean's damp hair, strokes around his fresh clean shirt. "Baby, why didn't you say?"

"Mmh." Dean palms Sam's belly, nudges him back. "Dunno." His cheeks are half-bare, half-covered in white foam. He clicks the instrument back on, scrutinizes himself in the mirror. "I do look shitty, don't I?"

"You're going back to bed."

"I am?" He shuts it off again, levels bloodshot eyes at Sam. "Huh. Sounds kinda good."

"Good." Sam moves around behind Dean, kneads his shoulders through the thin cotton tee. He kisses the back of his neck. "Finish up, 'kay?"

"Yeah." Dean shaves himself clean with Sam's hands steady on his hips, lets Sam sponge away the last of the cream. "When'd you get so helpful?"

:::

Stretched out on the bed, Sam traces soft lines up and down Dean's arm, makes little circles around his elbow.

"Feels nice," Dean chokes out around a giant sneeze.

Sam passes him a tissue. "You getting sleepy yet?"

Dean blows his nose squeakily and sighs. "I feel too crappy to sleep."

"Sucks, man." Sam drops a kiss to his eyebrow. "You need sleep, though. To heal."

"Well, tell it to my sticky throat."

"You need medicine."

"I do?"

"Make you sleep."

Dean sighs a hot breath over Sam's wrist, convulses in another sneeze.

"Bless you. Definitely medicine."

:::

"You never used to..." Dean snuffles red-faced into his pillow. "Why are you..."

"What?" Sam wrings out his facecloth over the ice bucket, settles it across Dean's forehead. "Why am I what?"

Dean's brows are knitted in confusion. He raises a tired hand to gesture, lets it drop back to the mattress. It bounces. Sam covers it with his palm.

"We don't do this. When we're..." Dean pushes two fingers under his leaky nose. "Am I dying?"

"What?" Sam pats Dean's chest. "No, no no no. Why would you say that?"

"I'm not that sick, Sam. What's with the Florence Nightingale routine?"

Sam hesitates. He nudges the box of Kleenex into Dean's hand. "I dunno. It just feels right."

:::

"Because you never let me."

"What?" Dean's crunching a bowl of cereal in bed, wan-cheeked and tousle-headed.

"You're different too," Sam announces, perching on the edge of the mattress with a cup of coffee. "You never let me help you before."

"Before what?"

Sam looks at Dean until he understands.

"Oh. That." Dean contemplatively sucks the milk mustache off his face.

"But this way you got better really fast."

"You've got skills, Florence."

"So maybe..."

Dean raises his brows expectantly. "Maybe?"

Sam skates the backs of his fingers over Dean's cool, damp forehead. He smiles. "Maybe we're kind of awesome."

:::

Prompt: After hell (for both of them) and the start of or return to a physical relationship, they discover some interesting things when Dean is down with a fever. One, Sam likes being in control after so long without it and is incredibly and embarrassingly turned on by Dean's feverish vulnerability. Two, Dean is conditioned to like being dominated/lose control the way Alastair did to him. No dub-con, just screwed-up!boys, and some manhandled!Dean, please.


"Baking"

:::

Dean looks like a plucked chicken. He's trembling under the spray, naked and white, his hamstrings twitching like they're going to give.

Sam pushes a hand under Dean's elbow, kicks out of his own pants. He leaves his shirt on. Dean's not going to make it through that many buttons.

"Hey," Sam murmurs, sliding into the cubicle and the cool water and planting his hands on Dean's shivery hips. Dean sniffles and bumps up against him like driftwood. He's all jittery heat in Sam's arms, silent with effort. Sam noses into his burning forehead and gives it a proud kiss, runs his thumbs over Dean's ears. He swings the glass door shut. "You're doing great."

Dean breathes out hard at the words. He fists into Sam's sopping shirt, his forearms flexing and straining as he steadies himself.

"God." The flannel is slick and dead-feeling against Sam's skin. It clings to his nipples. "You're so strong." He soothes up and down over the bumps of Dean's ribcage, gives his ass an admiring pat.

Dean tips his face up and nuzzles Sam's chin, pushes his hot cheek along Sam's jaw. The scratch of his stubble heats up Sam's groin.

Dean's mouth is warm like chicken pot pie. Sam tastes it carefully.

:::

Prompt: While helping feverish!Dean have a shower to cool him down, Sam can't help but be a little turned on by their bodies so close to each other, with Dean all warm and pliant the way he is. Dean is probably too sick for serious sexytimes, but some gentle kissing and/or cuddling under the spray would be WONDERFUL.


"Blinded by the Light"

:::

"Oh," Dean says. The air's shimmering like a mirage, glittering with every colour Dean has ever seen. He watches lines form and ripple like light on water, curve in slow inviting waves that are cool on his sore eyes. He thinks of pale blue pupils and charcoal lashes, telescope lenses and tomato rice soup.

The light comes closer, changes and flutters and sprouts a thousand feathers, and every hair on every feather radiates its own shade of white and moves in its own breeze that Dean can't feel.

"Dean," says the light in Castiel's warm, gravelly voice.

Dean's mouth is still open. "Oh," he says again.

:::

"Where is it?"

"Don't talk."

There's a chunky thermometer in Dean's mouth but he's not interested in keeping it under his tongue. His gaze darts over the room, seeking the angel.

"Sam," Dean moans. He lets his eyes settle on his brother, on the wrinkled forehead framed by floppy hair. Sam strokes over Dean's brow, spreading Dean's own sweat across skin. It catches the breeze from Sam's arm, feels cool and good.

"Shh," Sam says.

:::

It's dark, so dark Dean can't see a thing. He fumbles toward the sound of breathing, feels Sam sleeping across the foot of his bed.

He wants the angel.

"Please." There are hot tears on his face. He pads across the carpet with outstretched arms. "Please." He bumps into all the walls one by one.

:::

"Sam!" It's more beautiful than he remembered, rich and intricate and luminous. "Sam, do you see?"

"I see Cas." A huge hand squeezes his shoulder. "But I think you're getting a better show."

"Don't say his name." Dean's panting, feels himself pulled down against a shoulder. A chilly cloth drapes over the back of his neck. "That's not his name."

"Dean," the angel says. Dean thinks of earthquakes and babies. "Rest."

Dean shudders against his brother. He feels lips on his forehead, a blanket around his back.

:::

Dean dreams of his mother, stirring a pot. She's humming, and Dean can see the sounds that she makes. They drift off of her in glowing strands, graceful as jellyfish. They're every colour Dean has ever seen.

:::

Prompt: Dean has a dangerously high fever, one of the consequences of which is an ability to catch glimpses of Castiel's true form. He's mesmerised. Cas is beautiful. Dean keeps staggering out of bed to search for Cas so he can follow him around and maybe touch him. Sam has his work cut out caring for his hopelessly adoring, but seriously sick, brother. In the end it's easier if a bemused, perhaps flattered Castiel, just sticks around. Cas/Dean, Sam/Dean, or gen - take your pick!


"Double Sick"

:::

"Where'd you get those bruises?"

Dean hesitates, tissue folded over his nose, and follows Sam's gaze to his forearms. "Huh," he shrugs, and blows.

"Weird," Sam frowns. "So what do you think, lunch and then hit the road?"

"We, uh." Dean shivers visibly, dabs at a pink nostril. He stares vaguely over Sam's head. "Hmm."

"'Hmm'?"

"Lunch. Road. Yes."

"Okay." Sam watches Dean scrutinize his bruises. "You packed?"

"Am I packed?" Dean looks up, his eyes weird and glassy. His whole body looks tighter somehow. He rubs the back of his neck. "No. Is that bad?"

Sam sits back, brushes his fingers over his lips. "You feeling all right?"

Dean snuffles hard, presses his palm to his forehead. His shoulders shake as he coughs experimentally. "No. No, I feel crappy."

"Nervous?"

Dean's knee bobs up and down. "No. Why, are you?"

"I have a new plan," Sam announces, striding to the bathroom and wetting a cloth for Dean's forehead. "Let's order in."

:::

There are bruises up and down Dean's legs, and a huge one on his back that's every color of the rainbow.

"Ouch," Sam murmurs, smoothing Dean's T-shirt into place.

"I don't r-r-remember g-getting those." Dean's teeth are chattering as he settles back against the stack of pillows, so Sam pulls the comforter up to his chest.

"Actually, I think you kind of didn't." He sets the box of Kleenex in Dean's lap, shakes him out three Tylenols. "Remember when you had ghost sickness?"

"What, you think I have it again?" Dean chuckles, coughs and sneezes on the Kleenex box. "You're kidding, right?"

"When you've had it once, you're more susceptible."

"But that made me act like a freak. I'm not acting like a freak, am I?"

"Since when are you and me not freaks? Here, these'll bring down the fever."

"I don't want to be a freak." Dean eyes the pills. "How many does the bottle say to take?"

Sam sighs and puts one back.

:::

"Is it time to take my temperature?"

Sam looks up from his research on explosives. Dean's draped across the bed, his head hanging over the edge. Sam glances at the time on his laptop. "Ten more minutes. What are you doing?"

"Increasing blood flow to my brain."

Sam scratches his head. "Looks like fun."

"It's medicinal, Sam."

"Huh. That only ever gave me a headache."

Dean sits up, propped on wobbly elbows. "I do have a headache."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't do it."

"Do you think it's a blood clot?"

"What?"

Dean cups his red face. "My headache."

"Nope." Sam pulls up a map of the area, scans it for caves.

"But it might be. We don't know."

Sam takes in Dean's tousled hair, his runny nose, the whites of his eyes. He moves across and sits on the edge of the bed, combs his fingers through Dean's hair and over his hot scalp. The bruises on his arms are deepening from red to purple. "These have gotta hurt like a bitch."

"If one of my ribs is fractured it could puncture a lung and I could die."

Sam thumbs over an eyebrow, kisses his overheated forehead. "I won't let that happen."

:::

When Sam gets back from collapsing the cave on the miner's ghost, he finds Dean fast asleep. The used tissues are all neatly stored in the wastebasket and there's no empty whiskey bottle by the door, no coffee cup in the sink.

"You did good," Sam tells the pile of blankets.

:::

Prompt: Dean gets ghost sickness. Again. Which is embarrassing enough as it is, but on top of it, he's already down with a bad case of the flu. There are germs everywhere and they're only gonna make him worse. Tylenol? What're you talking about? What if he chokes on the pills, huh? And that cough syrup Sam keeps trying to make him drink? That color's just unnatural. A cold bath? You do know how many people die in bathroom accidents each year, right?