Dean Winchester, usually the epitome of strength, slumped against the bunker’s worn leather couch, pale and drenched in sweat. The flu had hit him hard after their last hunt—one that had gone sideways, leaving him more mentally drained than he'd admit. His body ached, but it was the heavy weight in his chest that was suffocating him the most.

You found him there, curled in a blanket, eyes dark and distant. “Dean?” you whispered, kneeling beside him, your hand brushing the damp hair from his forehead. He didn’t respond right away, too lost in the storm of guilt and exhaustion. You could feel the tension radiating from him, the unsaid thoughts that haunted him.

Finally, he met your eyes, his voice hoarse. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Without a word, you slid closer, touching his forehead feeling how feverish he looked.