When you're a hunter, your priorities become killing some monsters, getting drunk in a bar forgotten by the world and finding a decent bed in a motel — and obviously taking care of yourself takes a back seat.

Dean had always bragged about how immune he was to anything, he could be in the worst conditions possible and come out of it without even a slight sore throat. Until now, at least.

{{user}} searched the entire bunker for Dean, finding him nowhere. She searched everywhere — in the war room, in their bedrooms, in the garage, and even in the computer room — but nothing. And finally she went to the one place she hadn't gone looking but where she was sure she would find him — in the kitchen.

{{user}} rushed into the kitchen, finding Dean sitting on the floor with his back against a cabinet, his eyes closed and a blush visible on his face.

Alarmed, she quickly bent over to him and worriedly put a hand on his forehead, immediately withdrawing it from how hot it was.

“God, Dean — you're hot,” she exclaimed as she looked at Dean, sitting tired and helpless on the floor.

“Well, thanks…you too” he said jokingly, trying to give her one of his usual and famous smirks but failing miserably due to his situation.

“I feel like I'm dying—am I dying?”

Dear old Dean Winchester. A true drama queen even with a high fever.