Work Text:
Dean didn’t talk much when they got back. He hustled Sam into the bunker’s big bathroom and stripped him off, with Sam, exhausted, trying to brace himself against the wall with one hand and fend off his overprotective brother with the other.
“Hey, c’mon, I don’t need you to help me undress, dude,” Sam said, watching his pants being opened and slid down his legs, leaving him in just his boxers – Dean already got his shirts.
“Chill, Sammy,” said Dean, feeling down Sam’s calves with broad, calloused hands, searching out any injuries. Sam bit his lip and forbid his dick from reacting.
“This knee is torqued,” Dean noted, feeling around it. Sam doubted that was the scientific term. His jeans had at least protected his legs from rope-burn, so he knew Dean wasn’t going to find much, but he let him check his legs anyway.
Dean tugged his foot up – Sam was reminded of the time he watched a guy shoeing a horse – checking first his toes, then the undersides of his soles. Sam grunted, softly. So much skin contact was making his head swim.
“That hurt?”
“No. It’s not like they took my shoes off, you know.” Sam accepted the return of one foot to the tile as Dean went for the other one. “My feet are fine.”
“Your ankles feel swollen, especially the left.”
“Yeah well the chains were kind of tight.”
Dean scowled to himself, and Sam nudged his cheek with the foot he was holding. “That or I’m pregnant,” he joked.
Dean bent down to kiss the top of Sam’s foot, then guided it down to the tiles. Sam’s heart twisted at the unapologetically sappy gesture. “I’m okay, dude,” he promised softly. “You got me back. I’m here, a little battered. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“Wish Cas was back already,” Dean grumbled, climbing slowly back to his feet. Sam could hear the bones crackle and pop in his knees, and bit back a joke about Dean getting old. They were both worn beyond their chronological age, from hard use and wear.
“He’ll be back next week, if there’s anything lingering by then he can take care of it. Okay?”
“Need to get some heat on that shoulder, at least,” said Dean. “Wrap the knee, and your forearms.” Sam was avoiding looking down at his wrists, which were red and purple from fighting against the cuffs. “Get some ice for that lump on your head.”
“Okay, Doctor Winchester.”
“And you’re staying off your feet the next few days. You need to rest up. But we’ll get you cleaned up first.” Dean hooked his fingers in the elastic of Sam’s boxers and, without any sign of self consciousness, tugged them down. Sam yelped as his butt was bared but Dean ignored him, guiding them down his legs and helping him step out of them. “You don’t need your clothes in the shower, Sammy. Stop fussing.” He patted Sam’s bare thigh when he was done. “Easy now.”
Sam accepted Dean’s help maneuvering under the showerhead. Dean shielded him from the initial spray of water - he was still wearing his own jeans, which turned dark blue when the water hit them - and waited while it heated up. Sam rolled his eyes at the gesture but he recognized when Dean was in mama-bear overload and couldn’t take being baited.
It wasn’t that bad, really. Some witches got the drop on Sam while they were investigating a totally unrelated case – just a case of their usual lousy luck that the warehouse that might have contained the remains of a dead industrialist also housed a pissed off coven. They hadn’t hurt him much him - just knocked him around a little, then kept him on ice while they waited for their leader to return. The worst part was that Sam could hear his phone lighting up on the table, knew that Dean was texting him, then calling with increasing urgency.
Dean had tracked him down within a few hours and taken every one of them out. Sam hadn’t checked if they were alive or dead, and he didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t really fault his brother for going off the deep end - it was a situation tailor-made to set Dean off: little brother missing with no warning, a long, frantic search, and then finally locating him, bloody and half-conscious, chained to a chair.
The details were kind of fuzzy to Sam – he’d been punch drunk and out of it, so it wasn’t like he could remember much. The first thing he really knew was Dean’s gentle hands tugging the blindfold away from his face, stroking his hair back, guiding his chin up to tug out the nasty cloth they’d used to gag him. Dean’s hand stroking his jaw and his deep rumbling voice keeping him calm. He’d been freed from the chair, levered to his feet with an arm over Dean’s shoulders, and escorted through a field of bloody bodies back to the car.
The fresh air and the ride home had revived him, and the time they’d gotten to the bunker he was pretty confident there was nothing seriously wrong with him. But he still had a pissed off overprotective Dean to deal with, and there was no stopping that train once it left the station.
“Ok, Sammy, step in.” Dean finally judged the water the right temperature to accommodate Sam’s injuries and he ushered Sam under the spray, guiding him to lean up against the wall. Sam knew he was lucky not to be offered a choice of chair or bath, but Dean was obviously in a hurry to get other people’s handprints off his little brother’s body. He soaped up his hands and got to work, scrubbing Sam’s shoulders and back first, then his chest.
“Dean, I can probably handle this myself,” said Sam, laughing a little – but Dean ignored him, dropping down to his knees to scrub Sam’s legs. Sam felt like a child, like Dean was washing him before bedtime in the motel bathtub.
“Take it easy, Sammy,” he chided, running soapy hands over Sam’s thighs. Sam stared up at the ceiling and pretended not to notice how close those hands were to his dick. “Just concentrate on staying upright, and I’ll take care of the rest of you, okay?”
Sam knew he should protest, insist that he was fine, point out that he was probably less injured less than usual after a hunt – but hey, he’d had a tough day. Honestly, he could use a little brotherly pampering. Even if he knew that any acceptance on his part would only push Dean to try for more – he’d probably end up being swaddled and burped and rocked to sleep, but whatever.
He knew it was a little weird, how the two of them were together. The way Dean stroked his hair so tenderly, the way he rubbed Sam’s back and hummed at him. But Dean was his big brother and had always been his whole world.
“Okay, baby bro,” said Dean, still controlling the shower head to keep the force of it off Sam’s injuries. “Gonna do your hair, can you get a little lower?”
“Cuz you’re short,” Sam giggled, complying with both hands braced against the wall to keep himself upright. The steam and the warm water were going to his head.
“Oo-kay,” said Dean, obviously bemused by his loopy little brother. “Relax for me now, gonna get you all cleaned up.” He poured a little (too much) into his palm and worked up a lather, then scritched gentle, soapy fingers across Sam’s scalp. It felt so good that Sam moaned happily and let his head loll.
“That’s it Sammy. Feels good, huh?” Dean was careful around the lump on the back of Sam’s head, combed through the bubbly strands of Sam’s hair, then pulled the hand-sprayer off the shower head and used it to rinse out the suds, keeping Sam’s head down with a palm on the back of his neck. When he got to the scalp he angled a protective palm over Sam’s forehead, keeping the foam out of his eyes. “All clean, Sammy.”
“Cond’iner,” Sam slurred.
“I know, I know, pretty princess needs to take care of her shining locks,” Dean teased gently, still keeping Sam’s head angled down. “I got it right here, just settle down.”
Sam hummed as calloused hands smoothed the slippery lotion into his hair and worked it carefully through the ends, just the way he himself did. “Let that sit a spell,” Dean ordered, as if Sam needed instruction.
He rinsed off his hands and reached for the soap again, lathering up a white washcloth. Then with one steadying hand on Sam’s wet back, he matter-of-factly scrubbed Sam’s butt and his crack with the cloth. Sam whined – he was too old to be cleaned down there! – but Dean ignored him, shushing his whimpers and briskly rinsing him clean. “Good boy,” he soothed, folding the washcloth over and reaching between Sam’s legs in the front. “Be a good boy for me, Sammy.”
Sam endured having his cock and balls gently scrubbed, his pubic hair combed through and rinsed clean.
Dean returned to his backside, parting his cheeks before gently pressing a terrycloth-covered finger up against his anus, cleaning him there. Sam moaned softly, his clean dick twitching, as Dean pressed forward to just barely breach him. He was torn between arguing that this was unnecessary and enjoying the feeling of being deeply clean, something he rarely felt. “Good boy, Sammy,” Dean murmured, withdrawing and kissing Sam’s temple. “All done. Let’s get your hair now.”
He rinsed his hands and used the hand-sprayer again, combing Sam’s hair out with his fingers. Sam was half asleep after all this attention, and he could barely moan his displeasure when Dean turned the water off and tried to guide him out of the tub.
“C’mon Sammy, you’re exhausted,” said Dean, setting his giant little brother up against the wall so he could get a good look at him.
“Tired,” Sam agreed, leaning heavily into Dean.
“Sorry, babyboy, you’re too big for me to carry you,” said Dean, snagging a towel and patting Sam dry. Sam remembered the days when Dean would carry him from the bath, bundled up in the towel, patting his back.
Dean squeezed out his hair, then wrapped one towel around his shoulders and the other towel – Dean’s own – around his waist. Sam accepted all of it, even being dried off like an invalid. Then Dean pulled the med kit out from under the sink and took his time scrutinizing his washed-clean wounds, keeping the door closed so that Sam wouldn’t get a chill in the warm, humid bathroom.
“These look better,” he noted, rotating Sam’s wrists before coating them in ointment and wrapping them snugly in clean white gauze. Sam hummed, patiently letting him do what he wanted, his eyelids drooping. Dean pulled a knee brace out of the kit next, gauging the perfect placement with the ease of experience. Sam’s long limbs meant that he suffered a fair number of sprains, so this was hardly the first time the brace had been used. He sighed when the joint was stabilized.
“You okay, little brother? You're quiet. You hurting? You have to tell me if you’re hurting, that’s the rule.”
It was a rule Sam had invented for Dean, but whatever. “Mm. Just tired and sore, I guess.” The truth was that he was soaking up the care and attention.
Sam knew he wasn’t fooling Dean – his brother had, after all, just checked him out from head to toe, so he knew exactly how uninjured he really was. But maybe Dean needed the same thing as Sam did that night.
“Let’s get you into bed. But try not to fall asleep until we get some food in you, okay?”
Dean steered them, not to Sam’s room, but to his own, and Sam felt a little burst of happiness as he thought of what that meant; it meant that Dean planned on them sharing a bed tonight. That was something he only did when he needed his little brother to stay right under his nose.
“We’ll get you all snug and cozy,” Dean hummed, sitting him down and wrapping Sam tightly in blankets, propped up on pillows against the headboard, the towel under his head. “How’s that feel. You warm enough?” he was still tugging up the blankets closer around Sam’s neck, tucking him in tight. Sam wondered if Dean noticed that he was bare under the covers – Dean had stepped into sweatpants, but Sam was still naked – but he accepted all of it.
“M’fine,” said Sam. Although he could barely move. He got the feeling Dean wasn’t too concerned about that.
Dean stroked his hair out of his face, then cupped his jaw, then slid a hand down his neck, thumb rubbing the soft skin behind his ear. Sam closed his eyes, enjoying the gentle touches, although he was aware that Dean was not-so-subtly checking his pulse as well.
“I’m okay,” he repeated softly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not getting out of this bed for 48 hours,” Dean warned. “Except if you need to go to the bathroom, and if you do, call me.”
Sam sighed and shook his head, hiding a smile.
Dean turned on the TV for him but left it on mute. “Be right back,” he promised, tucking Sam’s still damp hair behind his ear.
“Dean, I’m good,” Sam yawned, trying to shake himself out of this stupor. Dean had tucked him in so tightly that he could hardly move, with his arms trapped inside.
“I know. But don’t go to sleep yet.” Sam got the feeling Dean was reluctant to let him out of his sight. He smiled at the familiar feeling of Dean’s eyes on him from the door.
Sam let his eyes drift closed while Dean was gone, dozing but not really falling asleep. He wouldn’t do that until Dean was pressed up next to him, rubbing his back and telling him it was okay to rest. He could hear the distant sounds of pots clinking on the stove, and Dean humming softly under his breath; Sweet Child O' Mine.
He came back with a bottle of water and a bowl of boxed Mac N Cheez, which had been chubby 12-year old Sam’s favorite food.
“Thought you’d want something easy to eat, in case your stomach’s off after that bump to the noggin,” he said, setting the bowl on the side table. It was steaming faintly, the lurid yellow fake cheese gleaming. Just like Sam remembered.
“Dean …”
Dean checked Sam’s expression. “Too much?”
It was too much – it was all too much, the shower, being put to bed, and now this innocent looking bowl of Sam’s favorite comfort food.
But Sam cleared his throat, and then opened his mouth without a word. The way Dean had him swaddled up in blankets, it was easier this way.
Dean picked up the bowl and spooned up a mouthful of noodles. “Here comes the choo choo, Sammy,” he teased gently.
“Shut up, jerk.” Sam received the bite anyway. It was warm and soothing, and easy on his stomach. Dean held the spoon at just the right angle, wiping his mouth as he withdrew. Sam blushed but still opened for the next bite.
Dean fed him slowly, bite by bite, offering him sips of cool water in between. Sam enjoyed the peacefulness of it. There was nothing for him to screw up. And it was good to see Dean so content, completely engaged in the act of nurturing. He usually tried to downplay this side of himself, pretend to be the big macho man, but he’d always had a deep core of gentle, protective love – and he was never happier than when he could pour it out over the people he cared about.
“C’mon baby boy, don’t sleep yet, you need to drink more,” warned Dean, but Sam was already mostly out. He felt Dean guide his lips open around the spout of the water bottle, tipping it gently to feed Sam little sips. He swallowed by instinct, humming.
“That’s it, there you go, almost done.” Sam’s chin was coaxed down and Dean popped in a pill, then another trickle of water to wash it down. Painkillers for his head, Sam was guessing, which he hadn’t actually noticed hurting since before they'd gotten in the shower. “Ice first thing in the morning,” Dean ordered, stroking his hair.
Sam heard him cap the bottle and set it on the bedside table. Then the bed dipped with the weight of him climbing in. If Sam could have moved he would have rolled his eyes as Dean slung one arm protectively over his chest like a shield.
“Go to sleep now Sammy,” he ordered, setting his warm hand over the anti-possession tattoo.
“Thanks Dean,” Sam tried to say, although it came out as a unintelligible smear. Maybe Dean understood anyway, because he patted Sam’s chest, rocking him a little from side to side. Yep, thought Sam; bathed, swaddled, fed and rocked to sleep: check, check, check and check. At least he hadn’t been burped yet (there was always breakfast).
It was good to be the little brother.