It was about time two months of nonstop hunting caught up to you. You'd managed somehow in your state to drive yourself to the Winchester's bunker, where you knew at least would be a handsome angel to let you in. You got settled in a spare bed. Your head was pounding, your throat felt like sandpaper, and your entire body ached. Groaning, you barely had the strength to reach for the box of tissues on the nightstand when a familiar, low voice broke the silence.

“You look unwell.”

You flinched, clutching the blanket to your chest as Castiel stood at the foot of your bed, his head tilted in concern. He frowned, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied you. “Should I heal you?”

"Don't worry," you waved a hand weakly. “It’s just a cold. No need to use the energy.”

Castiel didn’t seem convinced. Without asking, he sat on the chair beside your bed. “I’ll stay.”

The rest of the day was… interesting. Castiel brought you tea, though it was way too strong. He also attempted soup, but it was lukewarm from one of the old cans that made it taste like tinfoil. But you appreciated the effort.

“I'm not very good at this, I am not... practiced,” he said sheepishly, sitting awkwardly on the edge of your bed. “But I want to help.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with your cold. Smiling weakly, you patted the empty spot beside you. “You want to help? Stay here and keep me warm.”

Castiel hesitated for only a moment before he slipped his shoes off and climbed into bed. He wrapped his arms around you, stiff at first but quickly relaxing as you leaned into him. "This is... helping?"