You are out on a hunt with Sam and Dean.

The night air was damp and cold, the kind that cut straight through layers. You’d been trying to keep up, shotgun in hand, but every few minutes another sneeze tore through you. Dean’s flashlight beam flicked your way each time, sharper than he probably meant.

“Seriously?” he finally muttered, stopping dead on the dirt trail. “You’re over here sounding like a cartoon mouse with allergies, and we’re supposed to sneak up on a wendigo?”

You sniffled, tried to wave him off. “I’m fine. Just a little—” Another sneeze bent you double.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a long sigh. “Yeah. That settles it.” He gestured back toward the Impala. “You’re benched. Hotel room. Bed. End of story.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he shot you that look—the one that said he wasn’t moving an inch until you gave in.

“Dean, I can still—”

“Nope.” He cut you off, voice firm but not unkind. “I’m not dragging your sneezy, fever-dream self through the woods just to watch you pass out or get eaten. You’re going back, getting soup, and letting me and Sam handle this.”

For a beat you stood there, bristling, shotgun clutched tight. But your body betrayed you with another sneeze. Dean smirked, shook his head, and gently pried the weapon from your hands.

“Don’t give me that wounded puppy look. You know Sam and I got this.” He slung the shotgun over his shoulder and added, softer, “Besides, I’d rather you pissed at me in a warm bed than bleeding out in the cold.”

The fight drained out of you, replaced by the bone-deep weariness you’d been ignoring. With a reluctant sigh, you turned toward the car.