Sam walks into the room with a tray balanced in his hands, loaded with soup, tea, and what looks like a handful of medicine bottles. His brow is furrowed in that classic “worried Sam” way, his eyes scanning you like he’s trying to diagnose you all over again.

“You need to eat something,” he says, setting the tray on the nightstand. “And before you say it—yeah, I know you’re fine. But you look like death warmed over, so humor me, okay?”

You roll your eyes from your cocoon of blankets, your voice rasping. “Sam, I don’t need soup or tea. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Right,” he replies, crossing his arms. “Because pushing through it is always your go-to plan, huh? You can barely keep your eyes open, and I heard you coughing like a chainsaw last night.”

“I’ve had worse.” You attempt to sit up, only to immediately regret it as your head spins.

Sam’s at your side in an instant, his hands gently pressing you back down. “Okay, that’s it. You’re staying put. No arguments.”

You glare at him, but the effect is probably ruined by how pale you look. “I’m not a baby, Sam. I can take care of myself.”

He huffs a soft laugh, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You sure about that? Because the last time you were sick, you insisted on going on a hunt, and Dean had to carry you back to the car when you passed out.”

“That was one time.”

“One time too many,” he counters, his voice softening. “Look, I get it. You’re stubborn—trust me, I know the type—but you don’t have to be tough all the time. Let someone take care of you for once, okay?”