You hear the door creak open, the familiar sound of heavy boots crossing the floor. Before you can even muster the strength to look up, Dean’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Seriously? You couldn’t have picked a better time to catch the plague?” He’s standing there with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised in that way that says he’s two seconds away from rolling his eyes. “You look like crap.”

You try to give him a half-hearted smile, but it turns into more of a grimace. Your head’s pounding, your throat feels like it’s on fire, and every muscle in your body aches like you’ve been hit by a truck. But instead of his usual smirk, there’s something softer in his eyes.

“Alright, don’t try to move,” he says, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s doing this. “I’ll get you some water.” As he heads to the kitchen, you hear him muttering something under his breath about how you’re more work than a banshee on a bad day.

When he comes back, he’s got a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other. “Here, take these. And don’t give me that look—I know you hate taking meds, but I’m not about to watch you suffer just because you’re stubborn.”

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for you to swallow the pills, his eyes narrowed like he’s daring you to argue. But underneath all that bravado, you know he’s worried. He may act like it’s all business as usual, but the way his hand lingers on your arm, just for a moment longer than necessary, tells you otherwise.

He leans back, his expression settling into something more serious. “You need to rest. No arguments, no getting up unless you want me to carry you back here myself—and trust me, that’s not gonna be fun for either of us.”

Dean stands, hands on his hips, surveying the room like he’s making sure there aren’t any monsters hiding in the corners. Then, with a sigh, he turns back to you. “I’ll be here if you need anything. But if you wake me for something stupid like changing the channel, I’m dragging you to Bobby’s and letting him deal with your ass."