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Title: Florence Nightingale Florence Nightingale. "Dad, it's okay. I can take care of Dean." John Winchester hovered over his duffel bag, hands automatically rifling through the contents while his mind performed a checklist. Guns, ammo, holy water, crucifix. "He's a lot better than he was," he said, already convinced, but still needing to say it out loud. Sammy knew him well enough to spot this and was already hefting the bag up onto his shoulder and walking him to the Chevy. Surprisingly wide shoulders for a twelve year old, John thought with a familiar pang of guilt. Wide enough that he'd already outgrown his pj's and was now wearing one of John's old pajama jackets with the sleeves rolled up. John popped the trunk and let his youngest lay the bag in the wheel well. "I'll call and check up on you both when I get there," he said as he slammed the trunk lid down and climbed in the car. "Don't worry about us," Sammy said confidently. "We'll be fine." -666- The Chevy pulled away and disappeared in a cloud of exhaust and Sammy Winchester huffed out a sigh of relief. It was bad enough dealing with cranky Dean without Dad getting in the way. He shivered a little in the early morning breeze, bare feet chilled on the asphalt drive. Sam carefully locked the front door behind him and stepped over the circle of salt before heading to the tiny kitchen to begin his preparations. He'd been looking forward to this since last night, when Dad got the call from Pastor Jim about a violent poltergeist in New Haven. Pulling open the cupboard and surveying their supplies, Sam smiled widely, already making plans. Dean was the one who was always in charge of taking care of him. Now it was Sam's turn to return the favor. -666- Dean's throat was scratchy and his nose was blocked up. He couldn't breath too deeply or he ended up coughing, and his bones ached. Miserably he hunched under the covers and willed himself to fall asleep, hoping that when he woke up he would feel a little better. Sadly he'd been sleeping most of the last few days, and now, although he still felt tired he really wasn't, and although his body wanted to stay in bed, it obviously didn't want to sleep. The door opened a crack and Dean stiffened at the tiny sound, hand reaching under his pillow and gripping the hilt of his knife. Almost immediately he released it, sensing straight away that it was his brother peeking around the door. "Leave me alone," he rasped grumpily into his pillow. "Oh, good, you're awake." Dean gritted his teeth. Sam sounded way too cheerful for so damn early in the morning. Then Dean's nose twitched and he opened one eye. He sniffed, then decided to open his second eye and lift his head. Sam had pushed open the door with his foot and was carefully carrying a tray into the room, tongue tip protruding as he sought to keep it balanced. With a sigh of triumph he carefully laid the tray down and surveyed its contents. "Is that soup?" Dean said, inhaling again and eyeing the steaming mug. "Chicken noodle," Sam confirmed. "The last tin. You hungry?" Five minutes ago Dean would have said no, but with the enticing scent of the soup reaching him even through his blocked nose, he could only shrug. "Maybe." "Sit up," Sam said, and he began tugging at Dean's pillows. "Hey," Dean said, swatting busy hands away. "Back off, Florence Nightingale," he snapped, then pushed himself up higher. Sam coolly ignored him and straightened the pillows, actually fluffing one up before pushing it behind Dean's back. "Sammy," Dean said in exasperation, but Sam was turning away and lifting the thick, chipped mug. "Be careful, it's hot," he warned and Dean narrowed his eyes and accepted the cup. "Dude," he said thickly. "What are you playing at?" "Let's see," Sam said, looking over his tray. "I have some spare tissues, and your cough medicine... You should probably take some first and then you can get the taste out of your mouth with the soup." "I don't want any cough medicine," Dean interrupted but Sam continued talking over him as if he wasn't there. "I have some more water, the doctor said you might get dehydrated if you don't drink enough. Do you need the bathroom?" Dean gripped the toasty warm mug with both hands and watched his brother suspiciously as Sam picked up a spoon and began to carefully measure out a dose. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he accused flatly. Sam held the laden spoon and smiled widely. "Open up," he ordered. Dean considered ignoring him, rebelling, throwing off the covers and stalking out. But that all seemed like way too much trouble so he just opened his mouth resignedly and let Sam insert the spoon and its disgusting contents. "Ugh," he said, and Sam tossed the spoon onto the tray and lifted the water glass. "Want to wash it down?" he said sympathetically, and, hands full of soup, Dean could only lean forward and sip the proffered water, rinsing the horrible taste out of his mouth. "There," Sam said in satisfaction. "All set. How's the soup?" Rolling his eyes, Dean ignored him and sipped at his soup, feeling the warmth in his throat as it went down, and sighing at the sheer pleasure of soggy noodles and broth. "There, that's better, isn't it," Sam said, patting him on the shoulder paternally. "You're gonna freakin' pay for this," Dean said blackly as he took another mouthful of soup. "Still feeling grumpy?" Sam said cheerfully. "How about I wheel the TV in here? Power Rangers is on." "You know where you can stick the Power Rangers?" Dean retorted, but he couldn't really stay mad. For one thing he was still feeling too crappy to work up the anger, and for another he was bored shitless and really missed his TV. So Dean sat back and let Sam wheel the TV into the bedroom and plug it in, and didn't even object when his younger brother sprawled out in a chair by the bed and put his feet up on the covers. "You're gonna catch my germs," Dean warned as Power Rangers finished and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles started. "I never get sick," Sam reminded him absently as Leonardo flashed his blades around the screen without actually cutting anyone. "You might if I tackled you and breathed all over you," Dean warned. "If we were both sick who'd heat up the soup?" Sam said practically. It took Dean a few minutes to figure it out. "Dad's gone?" he whined. "Without me?" "Yeah, cos you'd be real handy against a poltergeist," Sam retorted. "What would you do? Sneeze on it?" "It's not fair," Dean grumped, hunching his shoulders. "I should be out there, fighting evil. Not stuck here with you." "Actually, Dean," Sammy said loftily. "I think I'm the one stuck with you." Dean gaped as his little brother stood up and sauntered to the bedroom door. "Now be a good boy and get some sleep," Sammy said condescendingly. "And if you take all your medicine at lunch I might let you have a pudding cup for dessert." "That's it," Dean raged nasally, groping for something to throw. "You're dead!" -666- Sam stood outside the door, chuckling under his breath. Being in charge felt pretty good, he decided. Yep, he could get used to this.
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