Nic laid curled up in the bed, actually under the blankets for once in his life. He shook as he tried to sleep, unable to get warm no matter how hard he tried. Which, obviously, meant he was sick. Werewolves don’t generally get cold, seeing as they’re usually seen as about thirty degrees warmer than humans. He felt like he was stuck in the goddamn arctic tundra.
The Italian gave a whine, chewing his lip anxiously. He hates being sick. He hates it a lot. Especially the whole not wanting to move thing.
Dean, in short, has been, is, and will be, forever, a germaphobe. He’s the kind of guy who’s intolerant to sticky substances on his fingers, he doesn’t like muck - which is unfortunate, since muck is about 48% of a hunter’s lifestyle, and grime is 97% of a mechanic’s. He perseveres because he likes the things he does.
What he doesn’t like, however, is sickness. Getting sick is a vulnerability. It makes you helpless, makes you slow, and Dean likes to be on his feet all the time. That doesn’t mean he’s unwilling to take care of Nic - it just means he’s gonna be… cautious about it.
‘’ -- I made you some soup.’’
Dean comes in looking ridiculous. He’s wearing oven mitts over both hands, and in case Nic decides to touch him, he has his sleeves rolled down and buttoned. He’s wearing jeans. His collar’s popped - every inch of skin is hidden beneath clothing. He’s even wearing one of those doctor mask things over his mouth so he’s not breathing sick air.
‘'You feelin' any better?''