Chapter Text
You were going to kill him. Honestly. If this fucking cold didn’t finish you off, you were going to make it your life’s mission to succeed where every bloody monster, demi-god, angel, demon, and creator of all had failed. Ridding the world of Dean Winchester would be a public service at this point. The church would canonize you for this! There would be bank holidays and parades in your honor. Maybe an annual postage stamp? A drink named after you at the local bar, at the least.
Of course, you’d have to live long enough to carry out your plan for fame and fortune. As it was, your odds were 50/50. Congestion, muscle aches, dizziness, sore throat, non-existent appetite and low-grade fever. How is it that each of these symptoms alone were minor? Almost unnoticeable. You could easily carry out any task battling them one on one. Yet together they took you down hard. It was unfair and utterly ridiculous! Not to mention hugely inconvenient.
It was probably that sneezing sheriff from that last case. You had to introduce him of the concept of personal space more than once. The douchebag said it was just allergies. Contagious creep!
Still, you were home now. Back at the bunker with three bags worth of pharmacy remedies to ease your pain until the virus ran it’s course. All you had to do was make it to your room and you could drown yourself in cough syrup and peppermint oil. Unfortunately, Dean was not making it easy.
“You sound like shit, Y/N.”
“Well, I feel like shit, so that tracks.”
You coughed harshly into the crook of your elbow as you trudged down the metal stairs behind Dean. Sam followed behind you, carrying your bags and his. Gentleman that he was. Levelheaded and sensible, God must have given Dean’s portion of those admirable qualities to his brother.
“That cough is getting worse,” Dean said, tossing his duffle down on the war room table.
“That’s because you won’t shut up.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Because you keep baiting me into conversation with all of your pushy opinions. If you didn’t make me talk so much, I wouldn’t be coughing so much!” You broke off into a hacking fit that proved your point in your mind. This was entirely his fault!
“That’s ridiculous. You’ve been talking non-stop since we met you five years ago and you never coughed up a lung because of it.” Dean shook his head and looked to his brother, “Sam, help me out here.”
Sam usually occupied neutral territory during these debates, but one look at you and he sided with Dean. “Why don’t we go get you checked out, Y/N?”
“I got checked out in Billings, they said it wasn’t Covid. It’s probably just a run of the mill virus.”
“That guy was like twelve,” Dean scoffed. “I’m surprised he knew what to do with swab.”
“He was a doctor, Dean!”
“Debatable.”
“There’s no harm in a second opinion,” Sam pointed out.
You were so tired you just wanted to cry. Why were they being so hard-headed about this? Typical! Men always think they know everything. It was all so simple for them, they never had to jump through the hoops that you did when getting care. It was always the same when you went to the doctor, which is why you never went. Doctors who dismiss your symptoms and bill you for the privilege. If you were up to your usual fiery disposition, you’d launch into a lengthy explanation, but you just didn’t have it in you.
“If I could get a decent one, I’d consider it. But the fucking truth is, I won’t. Not without a fight and I just don’t think it’s worth it. I’m not dying, I’m not bleeding. I’ve got a cold, a really shitty one that I hope to God neither of you get because dealing with sick Winchesters might actually finish me off.”
Dean frowned down at you, “What do you mean? What is it with you and doctors?”
“I do not have it in me to explain to you the numerous and colossal failings of the American healthcare system, so I am going to simply say this. It’s my health and I still get a choice. So, I’m going to my room where I can die in peace and hopefully tomorrow, I will be rise like the Phoenix with clear sinuses. If not, then my ghost will haunt this bunker and you two will have to fight over my George Carlin collection.”
Dean blinked at you for a moment, “You know, we killed a phoenix a few years back.”
You rolled your eyes and started down the hall towards the bedrooms. “If either of you wake me before noon, I’m licking every doorknob in this place.”
“It’s a great story, we had to time travel!” he shouted after you.
You voice echoed back, along with a few coughs, “I’m using your pillowcase to blow my nose!”
“I don’t like this, Sammy.”
Sam picked up his own duffle, “Of course you don’t. Your mother hen instincts go into overdrive whenever any of us gets sick. Remember Fort Worth?”
“Food poisoning, God that was awful. The pair of you were doubled over the toilet for three days from a damn salad.”
“And Nashville?”
“Shark week,” Dean muttered, remembering you curled up with a heating pad while he and Sam hunted vampires. You wouldn’t even talk to them, just whimpered occasionally and buried your head under the covers.
“Right. She doesn’t get sick often, but when she does all she wants to do is sleep. The more you try to help the more it irritates her. Just leave her be, she’ll let us know if she needs anything.”
That earned a frown from the older brother, as did the sound of another sneeze down the hall. You were a damn stubborn mule when you wanted to be, but that didn’t bother Dean. It was a useful quality that served you well in the field. But you tended to double down when you were hurt or scared, making a challenge for people who loved you to help.
And Dean did love you.
He came to that conclusion long ago when you burst in on him fighting off a werewolf in your barn. Barefoot, with a sawed-off shotgun in your hands. You were fearless, clocked the beast right between the eyes.
Then:
“Are you alright?”
Dean rolled the dead body off him and got to his feet. He quickly took measure of the woman standing in the opened doorway. Silk short shorts and camisole peeked out from under a worn buffalo check flannel. Blood ran down bare legs and splattered in the cloud of wild curls that framed a pretty face. Angel with a shotgun.
Her expression was one of concern, but she kept a tight hold on her weapon. Smart girl.
“I should be asking you that question.”
You glanced down at the blood stains, “It’s not mine. My neighbor he, ah…I don’t know. He went… rabid. I put him down, didn’t want to hurt him, but he came at me…”
“If you hadn’t, he would have killed you. Or turned you. It was a mercy, believe me.”
You took solace in that. With a nod, you lowered your gun and glanced over at the werewolf, dead on the ground.
“I don’t suppose there’s a monster removal service we call in a situation like this?”
“It’s your lucky day Sweetheart, cause that’s me.” Dean stuck his hand out to you, “Dean Winchester, monster remover extraordinaire.”
You grinned, pulling your lower lip between your teeth and your eyes warmed up. It was a look he knew well; he’d seen it in women countless times. You thought he was cute. You put your hand in his for a handshake and he winked. You laughed softly, confirming his theory. You thought he was adorable, or at least charming. A good start!
“Y/N Y/L/N.”
“Y/N. Pretty name. If you’ve got a shovel around here, I’ll take care of this. Then we can decide what to do about your neighbor.”
You grabbed a pair of shovels along with your rubber gardening boots that you kept by the potting bench.
“I built the retaining wall in the west garden by myself last summer,” you said, pulling the boots on. “I’m handy with a shovel.”
There was a glint of respect in his gaze as he studied you. It wasn’t every day he met a beautiful woman who offered to help him dig a grave in middle of the night. In her pajamas.
He glanced at the dead body then back to you. “You sure?”
“I’ve been saving this bottle of Canadian whiskey for something special. I think digging my first grave is the occasion I’ve been waiting for.”
Dean was a grade-A smart ass and never at a loss for a clever comeback. But damn if you didn’t knock him speechless. Standing in the middle of a falling down barn with a dead werewolf only a few feet away and blood splattered all over… you were the sexiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on. He was a confident man who loved women. When he met a woman he liked, he turned on the charm, pursued her. Simple. But you… you held challenge in your eyes, pride in the tilt of your jaw and confidence in the carriage of your body.
You were a match to be met.
“Well Y/N, lets earn that whiskey.”
Now:
The following morning, you didn’t come out of your room for breakfast. When he still hadn’t seen you by noon, he decided to hell with it. Even if you bit his head off, he was damn well going to check on you. He was Dean Winchester, damn it! He’d faced the Devil himself; he could handle a cranky woman with a head cold.
He stood quietly outside your bedroom, straining to hear any sign that you were awake. A moment later you broke into a series of coughs, and he took the opportunity to knock.
“Y/N?” He cracked the door open and stuck his head inside.
Your room was dark except for the glow from your laptop and the tiny light from the vaporizer billowing out peppermint scented air. Your bed was huge and took up most of the room. A king-sized masterpiece of cloud-like fluffiness and ruffles. Princess and the Pea inspired mattress topper and ivory striped pillows stuffed with goose down. Dean bragged about his memory-foam mattress so often that you took it as a challenge when they invited you pick a room and make it your own. The bed itself was so big it wouldn’t fit through any door in the bunker, begging the question… how did you manage it?
You’d teased Dean for weeks, refusing to tell him the simple cheat. Castiel did it for you.
Then:
“You’ve gotta be kidding me! I pray to his feathery ass for weeks with no answer and you just up and ask him to move your princess bed and he does it? Poof?”
“Well, yeah. I said please.”
“It’s very… white.”
“I know. We go so many gross places, skeevy motels and hunts covered in monster goop. I wanted something clean. You know?”
Now:
With the abundance of pillows and blankets piled on the bed, it was hard to make out your form in the middle of it all. Dean stepped over your discarded shoes and hunting clothes. There were piles of crumpled tissues all over the floor, cough drop wrappers and half drank bottles of water.
“What time is it?” you asked from the mountain of covers.
“Just past noon,” he replied, coming closer to the bed. “Thought maybe you’d want lunch.”
You shook your head and Dean could see you a bit clearer in the light of the computer. Your face was flushed more than it was the night before and your eyes were dull. You looked utterly miserable.
He sat on the side of the bed; his hand went to your forehead. You didn’t even pull away, “Fever. You take anything for it?”
Your finger pointed to the table littered with over-the-counter drugs and bottles. You’d taken everything for it, but nothing really helped.
“You get any sleep last night?”
“No,” you said on a sneeze, then groaned. “This blows. You should leave so I don’t give you the plague.”
“Hmm.” He stood there for a minute, then disappeared out into the hallway.
You burrowed back under your covers with a shiver, for the first time in his life, Dean Winchester actually did as you asked. You must be in worse shape than you thought.
A few minutes later, he reappeared with a large mug in his hands. “Wanna sit up, Sweetheart? I’ve got something special for you.”
With a grunt, you untangled yourself from the bedding and sat up against the padded headboard. He smiled fondly, you looked adorable, even as sick as you were. Your hair was held back in twin French braids that were starting to come loose and you were using one of his missing Henley’s for a night shirt. A few sizes too big, it hung off one of your shoulders.
“I was wondering where that went.”
You were confused for a second then tugged self-consciously at the collar buttons. “It made its way into my rotation after that Wendigo hunt.”
“Looks better on you anyway,” he held out the mug to you. “Drink this nice and slow, it’ll take care of that cough so you can sleep.”
“What is it?” you asked, stirring the steaming liquid with the cinnamon stick that propped against the rim.
“That is Bobby Singer’s patented, super-secret, cure all hot toddy. Sammy used to get sick all the time when we were kids, that stuff always put him right.”
You took a sip, it indeed soothed your throat and although you couldn’t really taste it, the burn of alcohol was distinct.
“Wow, how much whiskey is in Bobby’s hot toddy?”
“Enough to send you off to dreamland.” He stood and turned to leave. He knew you didn’t want to be bothered and now that you’d accepted his help, he felt a bit more confident in leaving you. For a while.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours and see if you can stomach some soup and crackers. Your meds will work better if you eat.”
He was almost to the door when you stopped him, “Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“How’d you kill the phoenix?”
“It’s a… a long story.”
You gave a small shrug, feeling silly. You’d made such a fuss yesterday about being left alone and now you found you wanted him to stay.
“I’m not exactly going anywhere.”
That earned you a genuine smile from him. He toed off his shoes and launched himself into the middle of your bed with a bellyflop.
“Dean!” You laughed, covering the top of the mug so the contents wouldn’t spill.
He made a big show of climbing up over the mountain of blankets and pillows, “Jesus, Y/N! How do you sleep on this pile of marshmallow fluff?”
“Shut it. You’ve been dying to try my bed since the day I moved in.”
“Who says I haven’t? Remember that trip you took to Jody’s last month? Sammy and I had a great time painting our toes and talking about boys in here.”
“Shut up,” you said with a cough.
“He wanted to try on your underwear, but I drew the line,” he teased, pulling you in close so he could wrap his arm around your shoulders. “Comfortable?”
You tucked into his side and let your aching head rest on his chest. “Mmm.”
“Good. So, the year was 1861 and the place was Sunrise, Wyoming.”
Hours later, long after the hot toddy had done its job, you were deep asleep when Dean woke up. He was unbelievably hot, and you were the cause. Obviously, your fever had spiked. Sweat dotted your brow and soaked through your clothes to the point he was feeling damp where you were cuddled against him. He gently eased you off, feeling your forehead with a frown.
“Y/N? Wake up, sweetheart.”
You grumbled in your sleep and burrowed deeper under the covers when he pulled them back.
“Come on, Y/N,” he urged, pulling a thermometer from his shirt pocket.
You were only halfway awake when you realized there was a thin, glass tube under your tongue. “Wha thmm hemmm?”
“103.” He brushed the hair back that had stuck to your temples. “I think I should take you to the E.R. High fevers are nothing to mess around with.”
You shook your head, coughing deeply. “The meds just wore off.”
He handed you a box of tissues, “I think you need more than cough syrup and Tylenol. Let me take you to get looked at.”
“I’ll be okay Dean; I just need to give it time.”
Behind the exhaustion and illness, he could see flicker of fear in your eyes, and he was torn. The last thing he wanted was to push you or take away your choice, but he wasn’t going to let this get out of control.
He sighed heavily, “Okay, we’ll try it your way. On two conditions. One, you need to eat something, so you keep your strength up.”
“Okay,” you agreed, trying not to cough again. “And two?”
“If this gets worse, you’ll let me take you to the doctor.” He could feel you instantly withdraw, but he wasn’t going to let you. This was too important. He crooked a finger under your chin, gently coaxing you to look at him.
“I know it scares you, you don’t have to tell me why. Trust me, I’ll take care of you Y/N.”
Your reluctance met with his resolve and after a moment, you nodded. “Okay.”
“That’s my girl,” Dean praised, brushing a kiss across your forehead. “Now, if you’re very good, I’ll bring you a bowl of tomato rice soup.”
“With that bacon cheddar panini you made last time?”
“Woman after my own heart,” Dean said. He climbed out of the bed, then noticed you doing the same.
“Whoa, wait a minute. Where do you think you’re going?”
“A shower, I feel disgusting,” you muttered, pawing through the bottles on the nightstand.
“No way, that fever is way too high. And you use water hot enough to burn off fingerprints.”
You tossed back a couple of Tylenol with a generous swallow of water. “If I smell as awful as I feel, then you shouldn’t be discouraging me.”
“Y/N…”
“Super quick, more of a rinse than a shower.”
“Ten minutes. Any longer and I’m coming in after you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you replied, gathering a fresh set of pajamas.
“Keep that water tepid,” he called after you.
Once you were alone in the shower room, you turned on the water and allowed yourself the coughing fit you’d been holding in. Dean was worried enough about you. As sweet as he was, there was a claustrophobic feeling bubbling within you. It came from a childhood spent as a sick kid. Parents, teachers, doctors all seemed to hover. Stealing your air and breathing down your neck.
Hidden in the clean clothes were two small bottles of essential oils. An old remedy passed down from your grandpa. You striped down and stepped under the water. It wasn’t nearly as warm as you’d like it, but it was better than nothing. You uncapped the bottles and sprinkled the contents over the floor. They mixed with the heat and made a fragrant steam of peppermint and eucalyptus. You braced your hands against the tiled wall and let your head hang down. A few minutes breathing in the steam worked to open your nasal passages and more importantly, your lungs.
Tightness had been building in your chest since last night and out of all the symptoms, that was the most troubling. Not even that heavy duty decongestant cut it, and that stuff always helped. Thankfully, Granddad’s method never let you down. You breathed as deeply as you could, until the coughing it caused made the room spin and your knees go wobbly.
You sank down onto the wall bench and turned the water off. You shivered and tried to work up a bit of strength to dry off and get dressed. Utterly exhausted, even the thought of standing was enough to tire you. Of course, you knew if you sat there long enough, Dean would come searching for you. Potentially naked or not.
Then:
The shrill scream cut through the bunker, reaching Dean even through his headphones. He was on his feet and down the hall as another shout echoed from the shower room. A twist of the handle didn’t yield entry. Sam was out on a supply run, which meant you were the one trapped inside.
Dean took a step back and splintered the door off its hinges with a single kick.
Gun drawn, he burst into the steam filled room, “Y/N?!”
You were standing on top of one of the teak benches that lined the shower wall. Soaking wet with shampoo suds cascading down your very naked body. Your already wide eyes got even bigger, and you screamed again. You crossed your arms over your breasts and crouched down into a ball, it was the quickest option for modesty.
“Dean!”
He peered through the steam and the still running water, gun still drawn, “YN, what the hell?! What’s going on?!”
“Spider.”
He blinked, twice. “What?”
You pointed a watery finger towards the middle of the tiled floor, “By the drain. Huge, HUGE spider.”
Dean tucked his gun into the back waistband of his jeans, “Damn it, Y/N. I thought you were being attacked!”
“Why would I be attacked? You guys said this bunker is the safest place on Earth!”
Dean angrily threw a towel at you. “You were screaming bloody murder! What the hell else was I going to think?!”
You wrapped the towel around your body, tucking It securely under your arms. “I don’t like spiders, okay?”
“We just got back from a freaking ghoul hunt, with dead bodies and gore and guts… the whole nine. You didn’t flinch once, but a bug’s got you clutching your pearls?”
“It’s an irrational fear, professor,” you replied, switching the water off. “But since you’re here to rescue me… would you please?”
Dean rolled his eyes but inspected the drain all the same. “I don’t see a spider.”
“What?!” You looked around frantically, then grabbed Dean’s arm and pointed, “There! In the corner.”
He pulled his red handkerchief from his pocket, “Alright, I got him.”
“Wait! Don’t kill him! Just… catch and release.”
“You’re awfully picky for a damsel in distress,” Dean muttered. “Is this one of your superstitions, like that cricket in Rhode Island? Is it bad luck to kill a north-facing spider on a Tuesday?”
“Nearly every culture believes that killing a cricket brings bad luck.”
“You know what brings really bad luck? Going into a vamp nest on no sleep because a fucking cricket was cruising for a date in our bathtub!”
“That spider doesn’t deserve to die because of my fear. I just… I don’t want to kill anything else. Not now, not if I don’t have to. Do you?”
You raised your beautiful, luminous eyes and searched out his. His heart beat in double time and he was suddenly acutely aware of the tiniest details. Tendrils of your hair dripped water like diamonds on your shoulders and collarbones. Your skin glowed a healthy pink, you probably used that fluffy loofa thing you always left hanging on faucet. The scent of your favorite soap hung heavy in the air… what was it? Ginger peach? God, he loved it! You had lotion that went with it and a tiny hand sanitizer that you kept in your purse. It made his whole car smell like you when you used it, even after you were gone.
Dean gave himself a mental shake. In under five minutes you had taken him on an emotional rollercoaster from panic to irritation to confusion to completely mesmerized. How did you do that?! It was happening more and more. Every time he was around you, he discovered another piece of the puzzle. He could never predict what you were going to say, but somehow it was always just what he needed to hear. You voiced the emotions that he had never been able to put into words.
“No,” he said at last. “I don’t want to kill anything else either.”
Now:
Dean was at the stove when you shuffled into the kitchen. He smiled at you over his shoulder while you sat at the table. You were in your Christmas leggings and yet another of his missing shirts. Your face wasn’t as flushed as it had been when you first woke up, a positive sign.
“Hope you’ve got your appetite back, because this batch of tomato rice soup is on point.”
“Your cooking is always on point,” you smiled wanly as he set down a bowl in front of you.
“You’re not wrong,” he replied, running his hand over your forehead. “Fever’s down. You feel better?”
“The shower helped.”
“You smell like a candy cane,” he chuckled, taking a massive bite of his sandwich.
“Peppermint oil. For congestion,” you explained.
You considered the man across the table from you as you silently ate your soup. You couldn’t properly taste it, but it was warm and soothed your raw throat. You’d known Dean Winchester for five years and there were still moments like this, moments where you felt like you were seeing him clearly for the first time. The delightful domestic behind the swagger and the grit. He took such pure joy in the mundane that it was hard not to get swept up in it. The greatest hunter in the world was also the kindest. Surely there was some sort of cosmic balance working itself out there, but you were too tired to reflect on it.
“So,” Dean said, pulling you from your thoughts. “You up for a little movie marathon in the Dean cave?”
“That would depend on what’s showing.”
“Lady’s choice. So long as it doesn’t have subtitles.”
“La Dolce Vita is a classic!”
“Die Hard is a classic,” Dean countered. “Plus, it’s a Christmas movie so it counts double.”
“Ugh, fine. You big baby.” You thought for a moment, covering a cough with the back of your hand. “How about Ghostbusters?”
Dean grinned at that, “Yeah?”
“Or Stripes or um… Caddyshack. Mom was a Bill Murray fan; we always watched him when I was sick.”
“Sounds like Mom had good taste,” Dean picked up the dishes and headed to the sink. “Why don’t you go find a comfortable spot on the couch? I’ll be right behind you.”
Laughter always was the best medicine. And Dean always was the best cuddler. He brought his gigantic triple thick comforter from his bed and tucked the two of you under it as the 80’s classic played on the flatscreen. It didn’t take long for the full stomach and the warm hunter to lull you back into a deep sleep. You were out before the credits rolled.
Your hacking cough that woke Dean hours later. It was different this time, you were coughing so much that you couldn’t seem to catch your breath. He was right behind you as you hunched over the arm of the couch. As he rubbed your back, he could feel how deeply your lungs rattled. It was a distinct, wet sounding cough that shook your whole frame. Heat from your spiked fever radiated through your shirt to his palm.
He was saying something to you, but you couldn’t make out the words, only the soothing tone of his voice. You were truly miserable. Your head ached with every cough and when you finally managed to stop hacking, you struggled to catch your breath. A glass of water floated in front of you, and you drank it greedily.
One word broke through your haze: Doctor. You didn’t really hear him say it, but the implication was there.
To his surprise, and as a testament to how awful you felt, you nodded your agreement. The relief was evident in his voice, “There’s my girl. Stay put; I’m going to warm up the car.”
As Dean left, you took stock. The fever ravaging your system left you feeling disgusting, but you were too tired do anything about it. Your head was pounding from the coughing fit and your chest was so tight it was painful to draw breath. You looked down at your pajamas; the snowflake leggings and borrowed shirt were hardly a fashion choice, but they would have to do.
There was an awful taste in your mouth had to go. You could manage a swish of mouthwash, even if you had to sit on the toilet to do it.
The minute your stocking feet touched the ground, everything changed. Your chest got painfully tight. The feeling of a crushing weight on your chest, as if Dean had driven his car over you and parked it. The room started to spin and not even holding on to the table made the world steady. You went down with a thump, landing hard on your ass. Breathing became like sucking air through a tiny straw, you simply couldn’t. Your mouth gaped open as you tried and failed to draw air. Panic swiftly set in as your fingers and toes went numb from lack of oxygen. Your vision blurred and went dark around the edges. You dropped to your side and prayed Dean would be quick
He was gone five minutes, tops. The sight of you curled on the floor had him shouting for Sam as he quickly knelt beside you.
“Y/N! Baby, look at me, I’m right here... Sam!!”
You tired to talk but, no sound came out. Your hand on your chest and the wheezing sound. Tears formed at the corners of your eyes.
Shit! He wasn’t sure what had caused this attack, but it didn’t matter. He had you in his arms as Sam burst through the doorway
Sam’s eyes went wide as he took in your pale features and distress, “What the hell?!”
“Hospital now, you’re driving!”
By the time the Impala was squealing out of the bunker’s garage, you were fully unconscious. Your limp body sagged against Dean’s chest while he tried to get you to respond. Sam was alternating between watching the road and checking the rearview on your deteriorating condition. His foot pressed the accelerator down, pushing the Impala to the limit.
“What the fuck happened? I thought she just had a cold.”
“Its this cough, she couldn’t shake it.” Dean kept you upright in his lap, knowing it was the easiest position for you to breathe in. He could feel you losing the battle, even your lips were turning from red and chapped to slightly blue and it scared the hell out of him.
How the hell did you get this bad so quickly? He had kept a close eye on you, kept your fever under control, kept you hydrated. It just didn’t make any sense! If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought you had… asthma.
Flashes came to Dean’s mind; puzzle pieces fell into place. The vaporizer in your room billowing out peppermint was not a new addition; you took it with you everywhere. It made even the grossest motel rooms halfway pleasant. You always kept a scarf wrapped around your neck if the weather was even a little cold, and you pulled it up over your nose when the wind got bitter. Even that time you helped them burn a body. You turned away from the pyre and pulled that scarf up… Dean thought it was the smell that got to you.
“Shit,” he muttered, digging through your purse as Sam got closer to the city limits. He pulled out a metal tube with a plastic dispenser.
“Son of a bitch!”
Sam’s eyes caught the reflection, “Is that an inhaler?”
Turning it over, Dean read the prescription. “She’s fucking asthmatic!”
He steadied your lolling head with his hand and brought the inhaler to your mouth, “Okay, baby… this medicine is gonna help you. Breathe it in for me.”
He dispensed two puffs into your mouth and prayed the meds got down into your lungs. Was it the right thing to do? Use an inhaler on an unconscious person? Dean had no idea, but he was going to do whatever he needed to do to save you. He cradled you on his lap and prayed as Sam pulled into the Lebanon Hospital parking lot.