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Dean looked like death. And not in his usual badass, leather-jacket-wearing, “I just killed a nest of vamps” kind of way. No, this was messy-haired, red-nosed, blankets-piled-on-the-couch death.
Ketch stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching Dean sniffle into a crumpled tissue like the world had ended.
“Pathetic,” Ketch muttered, but his tone was more amused than judgmental.
Dean looked up with bleary eyes. “I’m dyin’,” he groaned, voice thick and pitiful.
Ketch raised an eyebrow. “You’re not dying, it’s just a cold. But I’ll still baby you if you want.”
Dean grunted and dramatically threw an arm over his face. “You don’t get it, Ketch. This is the worst cold in human history. I’m pretty sure I saw a light at the end of the tunnel when I sneezed earlier.”
“I’m sure you did,” Ketch said dryly, stepping closer and sitting at the edge of the couch. “It was probably the lamp you knocked over in your thrashing.”
Dean peeked out from under his arm. “You’re real smug for a guy who almost cried when he got a splinter last week.”
“That was oak. Very painful. And deeply symbolic.”
Dean laughed, a weak snort that dissolved into a coughing fit. Ketch didn’t mock him this time. He just reached over and tugged the blanket higher over Dean’s chest.
“Thanks,” Dean muttered, voice quieter now. “You don’t have to stay, y’know. I’m gross.”
“You’re always gross,” Ketch said, softening. “But occasionally endearing. And besides…” He leaned in and brushed a hand over Dean’s forehead, checking the temperature. “Who else is going to make sure you don’t drown in NyQuil and self-pity?”
Dean blinked at him. “You like taking care of me.”
Ketch scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You totally do.”
“Fine,” Ketch said with a sigh. “Maybe I do. But only because you look particularly fetching when you're whining and sweaty.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he nudged his head against Ketch’s hand, eyes fluttering half-closed.
“Think you could get me soup?” Dean mumbled. “And maybe—don’t tell Sam—but like, a back rub or somethin’?”
Ketch stood, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket. “One soup. One back rub. No cuddling.”
“Liar.”
Ketch smirked. “Yes, well. Don’t get used to it.”
But when he returned with soup, he brought the good blanket too—the soft one Dean always stole—and didn’t say a word when Dean curled into his side ten minutes later.