A/N: Sorry that I’m getting this one up so late tonight, guys. If we’re being honest, I totally forgot that today was Friday :’)
(Gif not mine)
Sweat trickled down the back of your neck as you rolled over, groaning. Before you even had a chance to question why your body had chosen to rouse you from the mercifulness of sleep, your stomach clenched, and you had your answer. Your eyes flew open as you shoved the dampened blankets to the side, breaking into a full sprint for the bathroom. It was a good thing you had kept the toilet seat up earlier because within a few seconds of reaching the porcelain bowl, everything you had tried to eat a few hours ago came right back up. So much for dry toast and hot tea.
When your body finally finished its heaving, you were shivering from the cold air against your skin and left with an intense throbbing just behind your forehead and temples. You reached forward to flush the toilet with another groan, spitting into the bowl again as your most recent attempt at food was whisked away. This was absolute torture. You hadn't been this sick since you had gotten the stomach flu as a kid. Even water was a challenge to keep down, which was a big issue. Groaning one last time for good measure, you stood and went over to the sink where your toothbrush had been on emergency standby for the past forty-eight hours.
When you had started feeling crappy a couple days ago, you had written it off as a hangover. Granted, you and Dean had been trying out a new drinking game the previous night. But when you had to make him pull over the next day so you could puke into a bush on the side of the road, you started to think maybe it was something more. And you weren't pregnant, thank God.
As you turned off the water, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and grimaced. You looked even worse than you felt. Your hair was matted and sticking up in several different gravity-defying directions, and your eyes were a watery red that could only come with sickness. Come to think of it, your eyes were a good deal hotter than usual, too - a sure sign your fever hadn't gone away during your nap. Turning off the bathroom light, you grumbled incoherently to yourself as you dragged your feet down the bunker's hallway. When you shuffled into the kitchen, Dean looked over at you from the stove in surprise.
"What are you doing out of bed, sweetheart? I told you if you needed something, I'd take care of it." You slumped into one of the stools at the table, sighing in relief as you rested your cheek on the cold surface.
"You're sweet," you said hoarsely, "but unless you're physically capable of throwing your guts up in my place, there wasn't a whole lot you could do for me this time." Dean stopped whatever he was working on and came over to you, crouching at your side.
"Did you get sick?" You nodded. "That's the third time today."
"Fourth," you corrected. "But who's counting?" He sighed as he pressed his palm against your forehead.
"Baby, you're burning up again. You take anything for the fever?"
"Doesn't matter," you replied. "I'll just throw it up again."
"Well, you should try to get some more rest." Having been with Dean for so long, you had gotten to see every side of him. During a hunt, he was gruff, all business, and didn't take any shit. When it came to you, though, he was protective, sweet, and far more affectionate than you had initially assumed. He cared about you, and it really showed.
"Don't want to," you protested shortly. "My sheets are all nasty from sick sweats." Dean made a face, crinkling his nose.
"Gross."
"You're telling me." He rubbed your back soothingly, a welcome gesture.
"You can camp out in the Fortress of Dean-i-tude if you want," he offered. This had you lifting your head from the table.
"Wait, really?" Aside from the occasional movie night when you would all cram onto the couch in front of the large TV, Dean was fairly territorial of the room. "I thought your man cave was off-limits."
"Not to my baby," Dean answered, standing as we went back over to the stove. "And don't tell Sam, but that's mostly just for show." You let out a soft chuckle and closed your eyes.
"I knew you were just a softie at heart."
"Hey, now, let's not go that far." Your stomach had finally begun to settle, leaving you with only exhaustion again. Dean was right. You really did need to get some more rest. Whatever sort of bug you had, it was taking its toll on your body, and you were down for the count. Head throbbing, you groaned. Dean placed the pot he was stirring on the back burner, and came back over to you, rubbing your shoulders.
"All right, come on, sweetheart. Let's get you all settled in and comfy." You blinked wearily at him as you pried your eyes open.
"I am comfy," you protested. Really, you weren't, but the fever aches had finally stopped, and you were afraid they would come back if you tried to move again. The green-eyed Winchester snorted.
"My ass." Dean scooped an arm under your knees, and you complied, winding your arms around his neck as he lifted you with ease. "How does a movie sound?" he questioned. "I can turn on some Star Wars, and we can cuddle while you try to nap. And if you get hungry later, I made you some of my mom's tomato rice soup." With a weak smile, you looked up at Dean gratefully. He always raved about the soup his mom used to make him when he was sick. You knew that Dean cared about you deeply, and you knew that he loved you just as much as you loved him. But you were touched by the lengths he went to show it.
"How did I get so lucky?" you asked him. He gently placed you on one of the couches in his man-cave, smoothing damp strands of hair off of your forehead.
"I ask myself the same thing every day." You smiled again and had you not been feverish, you would've sworn that you were blushing. As Dean got the movie ready, you felt your eyelids begin to droop. Being so sick was exhausting. Just as you were beginning to drift off, Dean sat next to you, pulling a blanket over both of you. "Now, I want you to try and get some sleep, okay?" This time, you didn't argue. Instead, you merely nodded, allowing Dean to guide your head down to his lap, where he began to absentmindedly play with your hair. When your eyes finally closed, he leaned down, pressing a ghost of a kiss against your temple. "Feel better, sweetheart."
Thanks so much for reading! <3
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In 13x15 A Most Holy Man, Sam gets knocked out (again) and Dean finds him unconscious. Next scene, Dean is asking him if he feels drowsy and “How many fingers do I have up?’ and then stresses concern that Sam has been taking a lot of shots to the head lately. Now in Game Night, Sam gets a bad head injury, and Dean doesn't want to move him and starts playing a counting game with him. The counting game isn't to try to keep him awake per se, but to check for brain damage.
In Ouroboros, Dean got the head injury, and Sam panicked after Cas couldn't heal him and asked Rowena what he should do. The show has never really shown them do anything for the million head injuries they've sustained, until now. My (head)head canon is that Dean, only recently, Goodled first aid for head injuries out of true concern for all Sam’s head knocks.
