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This mess was yours (now your mess is mine)

Summary:

Dean gets sick in the middle of the night, which leads to emotions bubbling over the edge. Sam's there to try and pick up the pieces and do a bit of secret research.

Notes:

hello! i'm sorry this took so long to get out, i had an idea of how it was going to go and it really wasn't hitting me haha. i promise the next one will be longer, i have so many ideas for that part!! we got little dean out there so that's something. sam loves him so much

i hope you guys enjoy it!! as always, if anyone has any ideas for this series please say and i'll try write them in, i could write little dean forever. more is coming soon i love you all <33

Work Text:

Dean wakes up in a cold sweat, as he often does these days. He reaches down quickly to pat his groin, which, thankfully, is dry. Thank god. Dean's changed the sheets four times in the past three weeks and it's starting to get boring.

It's only then, after that initial relief, that he realises how sick he feels. Not just the usual after-nightmare sick, either.

Just really fucking ill.

Dean sits up, bending over slightly, both arms wrapped around his waist. God, it hurts. Dean shuts his eyes and whimpers, and before he realises anything other than that, he's vomiting over his bedsheets.

Thankfully, it only goes on the duvet and not him. Dean squirms around and finds his pacifier on his pillow, which is also dry.

A breath of relief. Dean sighs.

Dean gets up just in time to feel sick again, and he bends down to vomit in the plastic waste paper bin underneath his desk. It's empty, which is a good thing. He hiccups out a tired sob when he leans up again, one arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

After that, Dean strips down his bed, tears in his eyes. There's something seriously wrong with him and he knows that. He rolls the duvet up with the vomit-y bit on the inside and piles the dirty sheets up in his arms, leaving his bedroom and tiptoeing down to the laundry room.

Maybe he should be a cleaner, what with how many times he's stripped his bed this week.

Dean goes back to his room, grabs the waste paper bin and goes to the bathroom. Empties that, uses the toilet so he doesn't piss the bed, and heads back to his room.

Well, almost heads back to his room.

Dean stops short in front of the door to Sam's room, and he's not entirely sure why. A shaky breath before he knocks.

Sam's sat in his bed, reading. He's just put Jack down and Castiel's off doing heaven stuff, so he's got some peace for a while before he goes to sleep. He's into an intriguing chapter of some lore book when his bedroom door creaks open. He's expecting that Jack wants another story or something.

Dean just stands in the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen. Maybe he should've put a shirt on. He's only wearing a pair of fabric shorts, it's fucking boiling and he doesn't want to wear full on trousers.

Sam frowns. "You okay, Dean?" He asks gently. It's weird, but Dean's his brother.

Dean isn't even sure what to say. What does Sam want to hear? What did he come here to say, anyway? He doesn't know. To tell Sam that he threw up on his bed like a little kid? Why would he have any reason to tell his brother that?

Dean stands in the doorway for a moment, pale and half shaking. He hasn't been this vulnerable in front of Sam since Jack arrived at the bunker. "I threw up." He says shakily, even though it's stupid.

Part of him longs for Sam to just ask for him closer so they can both curl up on the bed like they used to on the backseat of the impala. God, Dean misses that.

“Jesus, Dean, okay.” Sam mumbles immediately. He shoves his book on the bedside table and pats the edge of the mattress beside him. “Come and sit down, dude.”

Dean sits down as soon as he's told to, obedient, like some kind of pathetic baby and not a strong hunter. Dean rarely gets this vulnerable, even in front of Sam. He sniffs and wipes his eyes again, huffing out another one of those half laughs as Sam gets out of the bed to crouch down in front of him. It reminds him of when Jack scrapes himself and Sam will kiss his knees better.

"'M sorry." Dean says, and he means it. Sam doesn't need this. Jack's a handful already and Cas isn't even home, Sam hasn't even got him to lean on. "I didn't- I don't know what's wrong with me."

“There's nothing wrong with you.” Sam says without hesitation.

Sam reaches out to rub his thumb comfortingly over his brother's bare knee, not letting Dean look away. It's so gentle and intimate. Maybe this is what Dean's been craving the whole time.

“When was the last time you slept?”

Dean freezes up at that. Unexpectedly. He runs an exhausted hand down his face, wiping away the unshed tears. He swallows harshly. "I dunno, man, I keep having these nightmares and then I started- I took one of Jack's pacifiers and that helped and then they just came back worse and I pissed the bed and I-"

Dean cuts himself off, hiccuping out a tired sob. He feels sick and he's been holding all of this in for so long, hiding it from Sam, hiding it from Cas. Another deep breath. "I don't- there's something wrong, Sammy. like, something fucked up."

Sam's face clears a little at that outburst. Dean notes the exact moment he hears about the bed wetting and the pacifier, but his brother, surprisingly, doesn't seem to be shaken. He's seen Dean in every state imaginable.

“There's nothing wrong with you,” he soothes. “Have you told Cas about this? Have you told anyone? You don't need to keep this shit to yourself, man.”

Dean feels like a damn kid. Maybe this is what Jack felt before Castiel aged down his vessel. Except Dean doesn't want to be a kid. He isn't a kid. He looks down at his knees, bare, red and scarred, Sam's thumb, rubbing over the bumpy bits.

"Cas loves you more." Dean says quietly. It's part of the whole thing. Dean used to be Castiel's favourite, and now? He isn't anymore.

Sam frowns. “What do you mean by that? You're Cas’ best friend.”

That breaks Dean a little more. "Dammit, Sam, you're raising a kid together!" He says, running a hand through his hair. Why doesn't Sam get it? "You got your- you got your little family, right? With Jack and Cas. And I don't blame you, y'know? I don't. Now 'cause- 'cause Jack's like your kid, or something. I mean, you breastfeed him, or whatever you do, and you're- and Cas-"

Unsurprisingly, Sam cuts him off, ignoring the bit about his breastfeeding. He always seems to know when Dean's starting to spiral. “Dean, god, no. That's not right at all. I love you, Dean. I always have and I always will. You're my brother, okay? Cas is my… my partner, and Jack is the kid I look after. But you're my brother.”

A shaky breath. Dean suddenly feels a lot sicker than he did before. His face pales slightly. “But you got a family.” Dean says shakily.

“You are my family.” Sam replies.

A sob. Dean bends at the waist and whimpers, feeling utterly sick to his stomach, like he's going to vomit again. Except Sam's sat in front of him and Dean doesn't want to be sick on his brother. He turns his head to the side, preparing.

Once again, Sam steps in. He always seems to know exactly what to do and when to do it.

“Okay, Dean. Let's get you in bed, yeah? I think this sickness is just exhaustion, man. Let's lie you down.”

When Dean doesn't attempt to cooperate, Sam lifts Dean up for half a second to get him laid down on the actual mattress, head on the pillows. It all smells like Sam.

Then Sam's doting on him. Dean feels a gentle kiss on his forehead, feels Sam pull the covers up and over him, tucking him in as best he can in this heat. There's a pause and some rustling. When did Dean shut his eyes? He doesn't remember.

That's before Sam lays down in the bed, pulling Dean flush against him and it's like all those nights in the impala except it's not because they have a choice of being pressed together now or not. And Sam chose to.

“S’mmy.” Dean slurs quietly, and he definitely doesn't sound anything like himself. “Tired.”

Sam presses another kiss to the top of Dean's head. Apparently parental instincts come easily to him now, even when he's not dealing with his kid. “Yeah, I know, De. Go to sleep for me.”

Dean's thumb slips between his lips without a second thought. He suckles needily, and Sam doesn't comment and he doesn't stop him. So Dean continues.

He falls asleep happier than he has in a long time.

…………………

Dean wakes up twice more throughout the night to throw up, and both times, Sam's there, waiting with the waste paper bin held on his lap. Dean manages to get it in both times.

After Sam rubs his back and coos and shushes him a little, Dean falls asleep with his thumb between his lips. It leaves Sam wondering what the hell is going on, because Dean never comes to him sick anyway. Especially not when he's like this.

The second time, Sam can't get to sleep. He empties the bin into the bathroom sink and sprays some air freshener before getting settled in the bed again, Dean pulled into his chest.

Sam grabs his phone from the bedside table, holding Dean with one arm wrapped firmly around his midsection. He goes onto the millions of parent forums for age regression that he joined when they first found out that Jack was regressing. This can't be what Dean's doing, but… Sam just has to make sure.

A quick search for ‘babyspace’ in one of the forums tells Sam everything he needs to know. He looks down at Dean against his chest.

This is going to take one big family conversation.

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