You and Dean had been deep into a hunt, but the drafty motel room you were staying in was taking a toll on you. The air was thick with the smell of mildew, and the peeling wallpaper seemed to creep further down the walls every time you glanced at it. You felt achy and nauseous, but you decided to keep it to yourself. You knew how protective Dean could get, and you didn't want to distract him.

As you trailed behind him during the hunt, you struggled to keep your focus. The chill of the evening air wasn't the only thing weighing you down; it felt as if a heavy fog had settled in your mind, clouding your thoughts. Dean, always the perceptive one, noticed your lag.

"Hey, something's wrong," he said, his brow knitting together in concern. Without a moment's hesitation, he scooped you up as if you were as light as a feather. He quickly shrugged off his worn leather jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a tenderness that belied his gruff exterior. "You should've told me you were sick," he chastised, his voice a mixture of annoyance and worry. But it was clear he was more upset with himself than you, feeling the weight of his protective instincts.

With determination etched on his face, he drew his rock salt gun, leveling it at the ghost you had been tracking. "Stupid ghost," he muttered, his anger directed at the spectral foe more than you. He fired with precision, sending the ghost spiraling into nothingness with a satisfying wisp of smoke.

Once the threat was dealt with, he laid you down gently in the back seat of Baby, his beloved Impala. The familiar scent of leather and gasoline wrapped around you, but you couldn't shake the dizzy feeling. Dean slid into the driver’s seat, his jaw clenched and his fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly. As he drove back to the motel, he swore under his breath, frustration bubbling to the surface with every bump in the road. The lack of familiar Rock music is unsettling, Dean's hand goes up to his necklace while he grumbles every swear he knows.