Archive of Our Own ^beta

“What the bloody hell happened to you? You look like death warmed over.”

Dean looked up from his drink, a sour look on his face. “It’s called a cold, asshole.” He sniffed and pulled a tissue from his back pocket, blowing his nose noisily.

The demon sitting next to him cocked his head to the side. “So I guess even the Mark bows down to the common cold.” Crowley leaned on the bar, one eyebrow raised. “If you’re sick, why aren’t you in bed?”

Dean hunched his shoulders, suppressing a full body shiver as he wrapped his hand around his beer bottle. “We have work to do.”

The demon sighed dramatically. “You’re no good to me like this and you know it.” He reached up and Dean flinched, leaning back and out of his reach. Crowley scowled. “Calm down, squirrel.” He leaned forward and pressed his palm – his astoundingly cool and pleasant palm, Dean thought – to Dean’s forehead. “Well, call me a worry wart but you should definitely not be sitting in a bar, much less working a job. You’re running a fever.”

Dean waved his hand away with a frown. “I’m okay. I can work.”

“Are you doing this on purpose? You know the tough guy spiel doesn’t work with me.” Crowley reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He threw them at Dean, and Dean made a grab for them, missing by half a foot. They fell to the floor noisily, and Dean blushed slightly, in addition to his already fever-flushed cheeks. Crowley just cocked an eyebrow, remaining silent.

Dean sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, alright, maybe I’m too sick. So what now?” He took a sip from his bottle, making a face. Everything lacked taste right now, not that this beer had all that much flavour to begin with.

“I assume you’re staying at some disgusting motel around here?”

“The Blue Moon. Other side of town.”

Crowley smiled, and before Dean could do anything but blink, the demon had beamed them to the sidewalk in front of the motel. Dean wobbled slightly, his head spinning from disorientation, and Crowley stepped closer, winding a steadying arm around him. “Careful now, squirrel. Can’t have you taking a tumble and cracking your nut open on the pavement.” His hand was in Dean’s pocket then, pulling out his room key, and after squinting at the number on the keyring, he led Dean over to the correct door. “Home sweet rancid home.”

Dean hit the bed before Crowley had even closed the door, and he buried his face in the pillow. “Right, I’m in bed. Satisfied?”

“Almost.” He could hear the smile in the demon’s voice, and then he was tugging Dean’s boots off of his feet, and somehow Dean couldn’t muster the energy to even protest. Instead, he rolled to his side and pulled his knees up, watching as Crowley pulled the blanket off of the other bed.

He could feel himself already drifting off to sleep, and he was almost certain that this was some kind of fever-induced hallucination because there was no way in Hell Crowley was actually tucking him into bed. No way.

But there was the blanket being spread over him, gentle hands making sure there were no gaps where cool air could sneak beneath it, and the same gentle hands feeling his forehead again as his eyes drifted shut. There was the demon’s voice as Dean’s breath evened out, “Take your time, Dean. The world can wait. Just this once.”

And when Dean woke again later that night, still wrapped tightly in the blanket, there was a container of chicken soup on the bedside table, his car keys placed on top, and his Baby parked outside, and he couldn’t stop the smile that tilted his lips upward.