Word Count: 1,002
A/N: Written for the spn_hurtcomfort comment fic meme with the prompt: One weekend Jensen comes back to LA to spend a few free days, but unfortunately gets sick. Steve and Chris take care of him.
Disclaimer: Lies, lies, and more lies.
“I think it’s feed a cold, starve a fever,” Steve looked down at Jensen, started chewing on a thumbnail thoughtfully.
Chris leaned forward, took the thermometer from between Jensen’s lips and shook his head. The mercury was climbing too high. “No, you feed a fever. What the hell did they teach you in cooking school, anyway?”
“How to cook, not when to.” Steve replied, shooting a dark look at Chris and leaning close to Jensen on the couch. He removed the cool washcloth from Jensen’s forehead.
“I’m fine,” Jensen said, pulling a blanket a little tighter around his shoulders and sniffing.
“No, you’re not,” Chris replied. “It’s the goddamned weather up there, the cold and rain and working all night long. I’m telling you a person can catch their death in that.” Self-righteous indignation was creeping into him. This was the first weekend in ages that they all had off, no shoots, no shows, no nothing but hanging out with his two favorite people in the world, and now Vancouver and its ridiculous weather had to up and ruin it for him.
“It’s not as if getting pissed off at the weather patterns of the Pacific Northwest is gonna do any good,” Steve noted, ignored Chris as he rankled. “Back to the point, so you feed a fever.”
“What do you feed it?” Chris asked.
“Chicken soup?” Steve shrugged.
“Not a fan,” Jensen piped up weakly from the sofa.
“But it has, like, enzymes or something in it,” Steve explained.
“Still not a fan,” Jensen said and sneezed loudly. He winced, untangled a hand from the blanket and pressed it to his ear. “I think I just went deaf in this ear.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Chris said, rolling his eyes and grabbing the box of tissues off of the coffee table. He threw them into Jensen’s lap.
“Oh, because getting ticked off at Canada for giving me the flu does not at all fly in the face of reason,” Jensen pointed out.
“So no on the soup,” Steve tried to get them back on track. “Something greasy then,” he suggested, “My mama always said that grease can cure anything.”
“Naw, man,” Chris shook a knowing finger in Steve’s direction. “Whiskey. Four shots of Kentucky bourbon and a good night’s sleep, and in the morning he’ll be right as rain.”
“Last time I checked, Jack Daniels wasn’t a miracle worker,” Steve shot back.
“Then you’re obviously not drinking it right,” Chris pointed out.
“I didn’t know you could drink it wrong.”
Chris smiled, “I seem to remember a certain bathroom floor that would disagree with you on that.”
Steve ran a hand across his eyes. “You said we wouldn’t talk about that. At all. Ever.”
“Lightweight,” Chris smiled, leaned in and placed an affectionate arm around Steve’s shoulders, landed a soft kiss to his cheek.
Jensen watched this exchange, half-lidded, glazed over bright green eyes sliding back and forth listlessly between the two men. “So good to be home,” he said sarcastically.
“I could say the same thing about you, Jensen” Steve elbowed Chris lightly in the ribs, just for good measure.
“Likewise,” Chris agreed.
Jensen sneezed again, three times, one right after the other. “Shit, there went the other ear.” He shook his head as if to clear it, blinked owlishly for a moment. “My fever’s still starving over here,” Jensen reminded them, pushing himself awkwardly from the couch, stumbling sideways.
Chris and Steve caught him just in time, watched as his already pale skin went two shades lighter and his eyelids fluttered, only the whites visible. “Maybe I’m not fine,” Jensen said, struggling to regain control of his wobbling legs.
“I’ll get him to bed,” Chris said, hugging Jensen tightly about his waist and all but dragging him toward the bedroom.
“I’ll get the whiskey,” Steve nodded, ignoring another eye roll from Chris, and headed toward the kitchen.
Jensen was almost a dead weight as Chris poured him into the bed, fought to pull down the blankets with Jensen atop them and then covered him up. He took two spare blankets from the closet and added them to the mix, Jensen’s teeth still chattering despite the heat that radiated from him.
Jensen’s nose was running a marathon, and Chris grabbed a Kleenex from the bedside table. He wiped Jensen’s nose off, held it there and quietly said, “Blow.” Chris chuckled softly to himself, thought that if this wasn’t love, then he really didn’t know what was.
Chris bent down close, pressed a kiss to Jensen’s clammy cheek, smoothed a hand through his hair and whispered, “Sleep. Holler if you need anything.”
“Chris,” Jensen said in a feeble voice, eyes not quite focusing on his face.
Chris nodded, smiled, climbed into bed atop the blankets and pressed himself snugly along Jensen’s back. He slid an arm around his shoulders when a large shiver ran through Jensen’s body.
Steve entered the room, a bottle of Jack in one hand and three glasses clasped between the fingers of the other. His lips quirked up in a crooked, fond smile as he placed the bottle and glasses on the bedside table. He lay down on the bed, facing Jensen. Steve placed a light kiss on his eyelids, one then the other, his thumb running along the soft skin behind Jensen’s ear. Jensen sniffed quietly, untangled an arm from the covers and snaked it beneath Steve’s shirt, loosely clasping his hip. Jensen tucked his head beneath Steve’s chin.
Steve reached across Jensen, swept some of Chris’ long hair out of his eyes, hooked it behind his ear. “So you get his back,” Steve grinned. “You leave me the snotty side. If I get sick, this is on you.”
“I’ll get more whiskey,” Chris promised.
Jensen shifted a little then, and Chris and Steve moved in closer still, snug, like bookends. “It’s good to be home,” Jensen said again, contentment smoothing out his features, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth.
“It’s great,” Steve said. He meant it.
“Yeah,” Chris agreed. “It is.”