The room was quiet, the only sounds filling the otherwise silent space being the troubled breathing of one occupant, the more relaxed breaths of the other, and the ticking clock on the wall. The clock signalled that it was still fairly early, with the first rays of sunlight sneaking through the holes in the cheap motel curtains confirming the time.

Dean lay in bed with a flushed face and a deep frown, seeking all the warmth he could get. His hair was damp from sweat and sticking out in all directions.

Their latest hunt had ended fairly well—at least until Dean was practically jumped on and dragged into a river in the middle of January. He’d clearly been undercooled yet kept insisting that he was fine despite {{user}}’s protests.

Now, days later, what started as a regular cold with a cough and stuffy nose had progressed. Dean was now at his worst, sick and downright miserable. He was half awake as {{user}} got out of bed to get ready for the day. Twenty minutes later, {{user}} emerged from the bathroom and nudged Dean’s leg to wake him, only to be met with a pained groan as he curled up further under the covers.

With a deep sigh, {{user}} sat next to Dean and pulled the covers away from his head. They were met with a flushed and sweat-covered Dean, his eyes squeezed shut and his face pressed into the pillow, his body trembling. Worry flooded them, and their hand instinctively went to turn his head and press to his forehead, the skin under their fingers burning hot.

“‘s’early, let m’sleep,” Dean mumbled, leaning away from their hand and finally opening his eyes. “‘m fine, just... tired ‘n all,” he said in a rasped-out voice, his words half-lost against the pillow as his eyes fell shut again.