Archive of Our Own

1- 

Allie had never imagined that this would be her life again after how things had ended with Sean.

Not in a million years had she expected to be awake at three in the morning taking care of her sick and miserable boyfriend.

And definitely not this boyfriend. 

Because Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis had once been the kind of guy everyone at Briar knew about long before they ever actually met him. His reputation had practically become part of campus orientation at that point. Hockey star. Rich kid. Shameless flirt.

The guy who always seemed to have a different girl on his arm and somehow never looked remotely guilty about it. For as long as Allie had known Dean, he had carried his womanizer reputation openly, unapologetically, almost proudly. And Allie had absolutely been one of the few girls who rolled her eyes at him from a distance, firmly placing him in the category of fun to observe, maybe hookup, terrible life choice.

And somehow, despite all logic, he had become hers.

That part still caught her off guard sometimes.

Not because she doubted him. Those fears had faded a long time ago but because this version of Dean still felt surreal compared to the one everyone else knew. The campus flirt who treated relationships like a contagious disease had somehow become the guy who fell asleep with his arm around her waist every night. The same Dean who once joked his way through everything now kissed her forehead while scrolling through his phone or reached for her in his sleep without even waking up. What had started as casual hookups and sarcastic banter had turned into something terrifyingly permanent for both of them.

And they were still learning how to deal with each other.

The flu had absolutely ripped through Briar that week. Everywhere Allie looked someone was coughing, professors were cancelling lectures, entire dorm floors sounded like plague wards. Garrett had gotten it. Hannah too. Half the hockey team had gone down one after another. Most people were miserable for a few days, complained dramatically, then recovered. Dean, because apparently he couldn’t do anything normally, had taken one nasty flu virus and turned it into pneumonia. 

So that was their current situation.

At three in the morning, instead of sleeping like normal college students, Allie was sitting awake in her own bed while her boyfriend battled pneumonia beside her.

Her bedroom had slowly transformed over the past few days into a pharmacy. Her bedside table normally home to a lamp, her phone, and whatever random clutter accumulated during the week was now completely overtaken by Dean’s medications. Antibiotics. Fever reducers. Cough syrup. A digital thermometer balanced on top of a crumpled tissue box. Half-empty electrolyte drinks lined up beside her water glass. A handwritten medication schedule in her own messy handwriting sat folded near the lamp because Dean’s fever-fogged brain had become incapable of remembering what he’d taken and when. The nebulizer machine sat awkwardly among all of it, tubing coiled beside her phone charger like it belonged there.

The room was quiet except for Dean.

Or more specifically, Dean’s terrible breathing.

The rough, heavy kind that never fully let her relax. Every few minutes one of those awful chest-deep coughs would tear out of him, wet and painful sounding enough to make her stomach twist. At some point she must have drifted into a shallow doze despite herself, because what woke her next was movement beside her.

Dean shifted with a soft miserable sound and instinctively curled closer in his sleep, seeking her out without even waking. One heavy arm slid across her waist, pulling himself closer until his forehead pressed against the back of her shoulder.

Allie immediately winced.

God.

He was still burning.

“Dean,” she murmured softly, even though she already knew he wasn’t awake.

He only made a sleepy little grumble and pressed closer, clearly functioning on pure unconscious instinct.

Poor idiot.

Carefully, trying not to wake him, Allie reached across to her bedside table and blindly felt around until her fingers found the thermometer.

Dean barely reacted when she shifted.

Slowly, gently, she lifted his arm just enough to make room.

His brows furrowed a little and he made a small protesting noise in his sleep, but didn’t actually wake.

“Shh,” she whispered.

She slipped the thermometer beneath his arm and carefully settled his arm back down to keep it in place.

Immediately Dean relaxed again, unconsciously curling closer to her side as though even in his sleep he knew exactly where comfort was.

Allie wrapped one arm loosely around him while they waited.

Up close, he looked awful.

His cheeks were flushed an angry red with fever, hair damp with sweat and sticking messily to his forehead. His lips were dry. Even asleep, his breathing sounded wrong - too rough, just slightly labored, every inhale catching enough to make her chest tighten.

The seconds dragged.

Dean coughed weakly in his sleep and somehow managed to inch even closer, practically trying to fuse himself to her side.

The thermometer beeped.

Allie carefully pulled it free and squinted down at the display.

102.7.

“Fuck,” She whispered to herself.

Still way too high.

She stared at the thermometer for another second like maybe the number would somehow magically change if she glared at it hard enough.

It didn’t.

Dean shifted beside her with a soft, miserable sound, still half wrapped around her even in sleep, his feverish body seeking out warmth despite the fact that he was currently functioning as his own space heater.

“Okay,” she murmured quietly, brushing damp hair back from his forehead. “No more sleeping through this.”

Carefully easing herself out from under his arm, Allie reached for the chaos that had taken over her bedside table.

By now the routine had become disturbingly familiar.

She unscrewed the antibiotic bottle, shaking out the next dose into her palm before setting it beside a glass of water. Then she reached for the nebulizer supplies, opening the little plastic medication vial with practiced fingers. The medicinal smell hit immediately as she emptied the liquid into the tiny clear chamber, snapping the plastic pieces together from muscle memory. Tubing connected. Mask checked. Machine ready.

This had become her life somehow.

Dean let out a sudden rough breath behind her.

Then coughed.

Once.

Twice.

And then—

“Oh, shit.”

The coughing hit him all at once.

Violent. Deep. Wet.

The kind that ripped him fully awake immediately.

Dean jerked upright in bed, one arm wrapped instinctively around his ribs as the coughing kept coming hard enough to bend him forward.

“Dean—”

He tried to breathe.

Failed.

Coughed harder.

A horrible thick rattling sound came from his chest.

Allie was immediately moving.

“Hey, hey—”

Dean shook his head sharply, trying to wave her off while coughing again, chest heaving.

His breathing sounded awful.

Wet.

Tight.

Then his expression shifted to something Allie couldn’t read at first, but then his already fever-reddened cheeks somehow darkened even more, and suddenly she understood.

“Oh.”

Dean swallowed hard.

Immediately grimaced.

Another harsh cough bent him forward.

“Dean, no—”

Allie lunged for the tissue box on the bedside table, yanking out a thick handful before scrambling back toward him. She held them out in front of him.

“Spit it out,” she instructed firmly.

Even half-delirious with fever, the horror on his face was immediate.

He shook his head.

“No.”

“Dean.”

Another violent coughing fit tore through him, and she watched him swallow again on instinct.

“Don’t swallow, you idiot.”

Dean made this miserable, strangled little sound between coughs, eyes watering now from the effort.

“This is humiliating,” he rasped hoarsely.

“I genuinely do not care. Spit.”

Instead, he tried coughing through it again.

Bad idea.

The coughing got harsher.

More desperate.

His body jerked with the effort, and then suddenly the sound changed.

Less cough.

More choke.

Dean’s eyes widened.

“Oh my God—Dean.”

He tried to cough again, but it came out wrong, his breathing catching in a way that sent a sharp spike of panic through her chest.

“Spit it out. Right now.”

Dean doubled over, gagged once, then finally gave in and spat into the tissues she was holding.

Immediately the awful choking sound broke.

Air rushed back into his lungs.

Dean sucked in a ragged, shaky breath before dissolving into another weaker coughing fit.

“Jesus Christ,” Allie muttered.

She tossed the tissues straight into the trash without even looking and immediately grabbed his water bottle from the nightstand.

“Here.”

Dean’s hand was visibly trembling when he took it.

He managed a small sip.

Then another.

Gradually the coughing eased enough for him to breathe without sounding like he was drowning.

Allie stayed close, rubbing firm circles between his shoulder blades until his breathing steadied.

“Better?”

Dean nodded once.

Wouldn’t look at her.

His face was still bright red with humiliation.

“Dean.”

He immediately covered part of his face with one hand.

“Please never mention this again.”

Even with her heart still pounding from the scare, Allie snorted.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, reaching for the medication lined up on the bedside table. “I feel like Garrett would really appreciate hearing the story about how Briar’s biggest manwhore nearly choked to death because he was too embarrassed to spit into tissues in front of his girlfriend.”

Dean made a weak, offended sound that was probably supposed to be a protest but came out more like a miserable whine.

Apparently even that required too much energy, because instead of arguing properly, he just slumped sideways into her, pressing his burning forehead against her shoulder and curling closer like a giant overheated child.

Allie blinked down at him.

That was… not the response she’d expected.

Normally Dean would’ve launched into a full dramatic defense of his dignity.

Instead, he just made another exhausted little sound and tucked himself closer while she unscrewed the cap off the liquid antibiotic.

“Wow,” she murmured, pouring the dose carefully into the little measuring cup. “This isn’t fun when you don’t argue back.”

Dean only responded by nudging weakly against her shoulder, eyes half shut.

That got her more than she wanted to admit.

God, he must feel awful.

Up close, the heat rolling off him was ridiculous. His face was still flushed bright with fever, his breathing rough and uneven even after the coughing had eased. He looked completely wrung out, like that fit had stripped away the last scraps of energy he’d been hanging onto.

“Okay,” she said more gently, lifting the medicine toward him. “Come on.”

Dean didn’t even complain.

She set the empty medicine cup down and eached for the nebulizer setup she’d prepared earlier.

That, apparently, was where Dean found the strength to object.

One eye cracked open as he spotted the mask in her hand.

“Nooo,” he mumbled weakly, the protest dragging out into one miserable syllable as he buried his face further into her shoulder.

Allie almost laughed.

“Oh, suddenly you have energy.”

Dean made a faint sound of protest that dissolved into a rough little cough.

She gently ran her fingers through his damp hair before pulling back enough to look at him.

“Come on.”

“I don’t wanna,” he mumbled, voice rough and wrecked with sleep and sickness.

Allie had to bite back a smile.

The ridiculous thing was that if he hadn’t sounded so genuinely pathetic, she probably would have laughed.

Instead, she just gently combed her fingers through his sweaty hair, easing it back from his forehead before tilting his face enough to look at her.

“Well,” she said softly, “then you probably shouldn’t have gone and given yourself pneumonia, baby.”

Dean gave her a weak, offended squint.

“As if I did it on purpose.”

“Hard to say. You do have a flair for dramatics.”

He made another sleepy protest that dissolved halfway into a cough.

Allie leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against his burning forehead, lingering for a second because God, he was still way too hot.

“Besides,” she murmured against his skin, “I need you back on your feet so I can tease you properly again. Right now I just feel bad.”

That got the tiniest reaction.

Dean let out a small chuckle before turning his head to cough.

Either way, progress.

“Up,” she said gently.

Dean let out a long sigh, but finally made some vague effort to cooperate.

It was less sitting up and more allowing her to physically rearrange him.

Allie slipped an arm around his shoulders and helped ease him upright against the headboard.

“Excellent effort,” she murmured.

Dean cracked one eye open.

“You’re mean.”

She picked up the nebulizer mask and Dean visibly frowned, but she chose to ignore him for now. Allie shifted closer, carefully gathering his messy hair away from his face with one hand so it wouldn’t get caught. His hair was damp beneath her fingers, sweat making the soft strands cling to his forehead and temples.

She gently positioned the mask over his nose and mouth, adjusting it until it sat correctly against his face. Then she reached for the elastic strap, guiding it carefully over his head.

Dean winced when a strand of hair caught.

“Sorry,” she murmured, immediately fixing it.

She adjusted the strap behind his head, checking the fit with careful fingers against his jaw and cheeks until everything sat properly.

Dean looked deeply unimpressed.

Also ridiculous.

Fever-flushed.

Hair sticking everywhere.

Wrapped in her blankets.

Sulking behind a nebulizer mask.

And somehow still heartbreakingly adorable.

“There,” she said softly.

Dean glared at her weakly.

Or attempted to.

The effect was ruined by the fact that he looked half asleep.

Allie reached over and switched the machine on. 

Dean blinked at her through heavy eyelids.

Then, through the mask, in the most pitiful muffled voice imaginable, he asked, “Sleep?”

“Yes, baby.”

That seemed to be all the permission he needed.

The tiny bit of tension left in his shoulders drained immediately, and Dean leaned heavily into her without hesitation, practically folding himself against her side like his body had simply decided she was the safest place to collapse.

Allie shifted automatically, wrapping an arm around him and gently pulling him closer until his head rested against her shoulder.

“Come here.”

Dean made a sleepy little sound that might have been gratitude.

Or maybe just feverish nonsense.

Either way, he settled deeper against her.

Her hand moved instinctively to his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades while the nebulizer hummed steadily beside them.

Dean coughed into the mask a few times, breathing harder afterward, but eventually relaxed again, all his weight melting back into her side.

Half asleep already.

Honestly, he looked ridiculous.

This terrifyingly handsome hockey player with the massive ego and endless smart mouth was currently fever-flushed, sweaty, wrapped in her blankets, attached to a nebulizer, and clinging to her like an oversized sick child.

And somehow it was weirdly endearing.

Allie rested her cheek briefly against the top of his damp head and glanced toward the glowing numbers on her alarm clock.

3:24 AM.

She already knew how the rest of the night would go.

Dean would drift off for twenty minutes. Thirty if they were luck.

Then cough himself awake.

She’d check his temperature again.

Probably force more water into him.

Maybe another round of fever reducers depending on timing.

She definitely wasn’t getting real sleep.

Not tonight.

Maybe not tomorrow either.

And honestly?

Looking down at Dean curled up against her, breathing a little easier now because she’d bullied him into the treatment, it kind of felt worth it.

Even if she would absolutely never admit that to him once he was healthy enough to be insufferable again.

***

2-

The cramps woke her at 4:49 AM.

Allie knew before she even opened her eyes: that deep, twisting ache low in her abdomen, radiating down her thighs and into her lower back like her body had declared war on itself. She curled tighter, knees drawn to her chest, and felt the familiar hot-cold flush that meant she was about to have a very bad day.

Beside her, Dean's breathing stayed steady and even. She didn't want to wake him. Not yet. Not when she knew he had a very important game later in the day. Besides, she was a big girl. She could handle herself.

She counted breaths (hers shallow and controlled, his deep and unconscious) and tried to will herself back to sleep. It didn't work. The pain sharpened, twisting like a fist clenching inside her, and she had to bite her lip to keep from making a sound.

Just get through it. You've done this before.

But God, she was tired of doing this. Tired of the monthly ambush, the way her body turned hostile without warning, the nausea that was already creeping up her throat.

She shifted carefully, testing whether she could make it to the bathroom, and the movement sent a fresh wave of cramping through her core. Her stomach lurched.

"Allie-cat?"

Dean's voice was rough with sleep, but alert. He'd always been a light sleeper when it came to her, some sixth sense that pulled him awake whenever she was restless.

"I'm okay," she whispered automatically.

"You're not."

He was already moving, one hand finding her hip in the dark, warm and grounding. "Cramps?"

The word, soft and sleep-rough in the dark, made something hot and deeply mortifying flicker through her anyway.

Which was ridiculous.

Objectively ridiculous.

Because this was Dean.

Her boyfriend.

And still.

Some tiny stubborn part of her wanted to curl into herself and die of embarrassment over the fact that Dean Di Laurentis—former campus manwhore, hockey star, annoyingly gorgeous human being—was apparently aware enough of her menstrual cycle to identify cramps from a single restless shift in bed.

A few months ago, that absolutely would have mortified her.

But to be honest, a few months ago Dean wouldn’t even be here for this.

Still, embarrassment and pain made weird roommates.

“Maybe,” she muttered weakly.

Dean made a sleepy sound that was suspiciously unimpressed.

"Scale of one to ten?" Dean asked, turning on the bedside lamp. “And be honest, please.”

"Seven. Maybe eight."

Dean made a quiet sound in his throat - not quite a sigh, just acknowledgment - and the mattress shifted as he sat up. She heard him fumble for his phone on the nightstand, squinting at the brightness before dimming it.

"Your heating pad's still in the closet?"

"I think so."

"Okay. Don't move."

As if she could. The cramps were coming in waves now, each one building and cresting and leaving her breathless. She pressed her face into the pillow and concentrated on breathing through her nose, the way her high school friend had taught her years ago. In for four, hold for four, out for six. It didn't really help, but it gave her something to focus on besides the pain.

She heard Dean moving through her place - the closet door opening, the soft curse when something fell, footsteps padding toward the kitchen. Then he was back, crouching beside the bed.

"Here." He plugged in the heating pad and laid it gently over her lower abdomen, adjusting it until she nodded. The warmth was immediate and merciful, not quite enough but better than nothing. "I'm gonna get you some water and ibuprofen."

"You don't have to—"

"Al." His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her temple. Even in the dark, she could feel the weight of his attention. "Let me."

She closed her eyes and nodded.

When he came back, she managed to prop herself up enough to swallow two ibuprofen with half a glass of water. Her hands shook slightly (from pain or nausea or both) and Dean steadied the glass without comment.

"Wanna eat something?" He asked.

The thought made her stomach twist. "Not yet."

"Okay. Just... let me know."

He climbed back into bed and arranged himself carefully behind her, one arm draped over her waist, his body warm and solid against her back. His hand found hers beneath the heating pad, fingers lacing together.

"This okay?" he murmured into her hair.

"Yeah." Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to. "Sorry I woke you up."

"Don't." His thumb traced circles over her knuckles. "Not like I was doing anything important. Just dreaming about... I don't even know. Probably something boring."

Despite everything, she almost smiled. "Your dreams are never boring. Last week you told me you dreamed you were a rockstar and you can’t even sing."

"Hey,” Dean shot back immediately. “That was a good dream." His breath was warm against her neck. "I was pretty famous."

"Of course you were."

They fell quiet. Allie focused on the heat seeping into her muscles, the steady rhythm of Dean's breathing, the pressure of his palm flat against her stomach. The pain didn't disappear (it never did) but it became more bearable, less all-consuming.

Allie was asleep in less than five minutes.

***
3-

“Sorry- for making you late -” Dean rasped, spitting a string of bile into the toilet bowl.

“What do you mean, ‘late’?” Allie frowned. “We’re not going anywhere.”

"Yes, we are so going-" Dean stopped to rip a piece of toilet paper off the roll and roughly wiped his mouth with it. "I’ll just - give me a few minutes, I’ll be able to keep down a painkiller, and then we can leave -" He interrupted himself to retch once more.

"Dean, the party is not important. I’m not letting you go in the state you’re in."

"This is nothing - just a stupid migraine - I’ve worked through worse—"

"Is that supposed to reassure me? Because it definitely doesn’t."

Allie braced himself for another comeback, but Dean had gone quiet, holding his head in his hands with his eyes screwed shut, reeling slightly. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he was visibly trying not to be sick again. The pain on his face was almost too much for Allie to bear.

"Okay, hey." Allie brought her tone down to a soothing whisper. "Do you think you’re done for now?"

Dean nodded minutely, so Allie helped him up to standing. Dean whimpered involuntarily when the change of altitude dialed up the pain, grabbing at the basin for balance. When he could stand more steadily, Allie filled a glass of water for him to rinse his mouth.

Dean took the water with shaky hands and rinsed his mouth, spitting carefully into the sink before just standing there gripping the edge of the counter with his head bowed.

He looked awful.

His face was devoid of color and his lips were almost gray. His hair was soaked with sweat and even the bathroom light seemed too harsh for him as he kept squinting against it, jaw tight with pain.

And honestly, this was the absolute last place she’d expected to be tonight.

Because tonight was supposed to be Dexter’s party.

Dexter—one of her best friends. The party she had been talking about for weeks. No, longer than that. She had changed her outfit three separate times. Made Hannah help her pick shoes. Sent Dean an embarrassing number of texts complaining about Dexter’s chaotic planning and hyping herself up for the event. Tonight had been the plan.

Then she’d stopped by Dean’s place to pick him up.

He’d been weirdly quiet over text all afternoon, but she hadn’t thought much of it at first. Maybe he was napping. Maybe distracted. Maybe being Dean.

Then she’d let herself into his place and immediately heard the unmistakable sound of someone violently throwing up in the bathroom.

That had changed things pretty fast.

Now instead of pregaming with her friends, she was standing barefoot in Dean’s bathroom while he tried not to collapse.

Funny how quickly priorities shifted.

“I’m okay,” Dean muttered hoarsely.

Allie stared at him.

“You literally just threw up in your toilet for the third time.”

“Bit dramatic.”

“You are one to talk.”

Dean attempted something that was probably meant to be a glare, but it mostly just looked exhausted. Then he swayed slightly where he stood.

Allie stepped closer immediately.

“C’mon,” she said, softening her voice. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Dean made a weak sound of protest.

“I can walk.”

The second he shifted his weight fully onto his own feet, his entire body wobbled.

“Whoa.”

Allie tightened her hold immediately.

“Yeah, that’s exactly why I’m helping.”

By the time they made it into his room, Dean was breathing harder than he should’ve been for such a short trip.

Migraines were awful.

Allie had already dimmed the lights in the bedroom so she sat Dean down on the foot of the bed before turning toward the mattress.

His abandoned outfit was still laid out exactly where he’d left it.

Dress shirt, neatly buttoned except for the cuffs. Dark jeans. His stupidly expensive watch. The jacket he’d clearly spent too long choosing because Dean somehow treated getting dressed like a strategic event.

But it was all evidence that, at some point earlier, he had genuinely intended to go.

Allie was glad that she came home early to find her boyfriend in the bathroom throwing up instead of meeting him directly at the event like they had planned originally. She was sure Dean would have forced himself to go despite a migraine bad enough to make him sick.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Dean cracked one eye open.

“Mm?”

“Let’s get you into something comfortable.”

A tiny frown pulled at his face.

“Why.”

Allie stared at him.

“Because you are not sleeping in jeans.”

Dean looked like he might argue.

Normally, he absolutely would have.

But after a few seconds he just sighed miserably instead.

“Fine.”

She moved more carefully after that, stepping between his knees so she could work slower. Her fingers undid the first button of his dress shirt, then the next, then the next, methodically working her way down while Dean sat there looking miserable and glassy-eyed.

Normally this would have gotten commentary.

At minimum a terrible flirtatious joke.

Instead Dean just sat there with his eyes half shut, breathing shallowly.

That alone told her exactly how bad he felt.

Once the shirt was fully open, she slid her hands carefully beneath the fabric and eased it off his shoulders.

“Lift a little.”

Dean obeyed weakly.

She gently tugged one sleeve down his arm, then the other, trying not to jostle him too much.

Allie grabbed one of his old soft T-shirts from the drawer.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Head down.”

Dean squinted suspiciously at the shirt.

“That’s ugly.”

“It’s a plain gray T-shirt.”

“Still ugly.”

Getting him fully out of the jeans was even more difficult. It was a ridiculous process of wobbling, leaning, nearly toppling over, and Dean making increasingly pathetic little noises about how cruel she was.

By the time she finally got him into sweatpants, he looked ready to collapse.

“Don’t move,” she murmured.

Dean made a weak sound that might have been agreement.

Or maybe just suffering.

Allie crossed quickly to his dresser, opening drawers until she found what she was looking for.

“Please tell me you still have your migraine meds.”

Dean squinted vaguely in her direction.

“Top drawer.”

“Helpful.”

The top drawer was chaotic—random receipts, athletic tape, old chargers, loose coins, approximately seventeen things that made no sense.

Eventually she found the prescription bottle shoved toward the back.

“Gosh, Dean.”

She shook out the appropriate dose, then grabbed a fresh bottle of water from his mini fridge before returning to him.

Dean hadn’t moved.

Still hunched at the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, one hand pressed against his temple.

“Here.”

He looked up blearily.

For a second she thought he might protest. But, instead, he just obediently took the pills and swallowed them with a grimace.

Once he’d managed the water, Allie gently took the bottle from him and set it on the nightstand before moving around the room.

The overhead light went off first.

Then the lamp.

Then the stupid little decorative light strip he’d insisted looked cool.

Much better.

Allie took off her jeans, peeled off the ridiculous party earrings she’d forgotten she was still wearing, and climbed into bed beside him.

The second the mattress shifted beneath her weight, Dean moved.

He immediately curled toward her, laying down heavily and pressing close like proximity alone might make him feel less awful.

Allie automatically wrapped an arm around him, fingers moving into his hair.

For a few quiet seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then Dean let out a soft breath against her shoulder.

“Sorry.”

Allie frowned.

“For what?”

“Tonight.”

His voice was rough and quieter now.

“I know you really wanted to go.”

“Dean—”

“Dexter’s party. You could still go.”

Allie blinked.

“What?”

“Party.”

He swallowed.

“Go without me.”

She actually pulled back enough to look at him.

“You cannot be serious. Dean, if you weren’t sick right now, I would absolutely smack you.”

That got the tiniest sleepy huff against her shoulder.

“I just don’t want you missing it because of me.”

That did it.

Allie cupped his face gently, making him look at her despite the obvious pain.

“Listen to me.”

Dean blinked slowly.

“I do not care about the party.”

“But—”

“No.”

Her thumb brushed his cheek.

“If you were healthy? Sure. I’d ditch your ass and go drink with Dexter.”

That got the faintest miserable half-smile.

“But right now?” she continued more softly. “You are my priority.”

Dean’s expression shifted.

“You sure?”

Allie leaned down and kissed his forehead.

“Absolutely.”

Dean exhaled shakily and tucked himself closer again.

“Okay.”

Within minutes, his breathing started to even out slightly, the medication hopefully beginning to do something.

Allie stayed still beneath him, one hand moving lazily through his hair, waiting until she was sure he’d actually fallen asleep and not just drifted into that half-conscious miserable state where the slightest movement woke him again.

Dean had always been a surprisingly clingy sleeper.

Tonight was worse.

Even deeply exhausted and half-sick, one arm remained draped heavily across her waist like his subconscious was making absolutely certain she wasn’t disappearing anywhere.

Eventually his body went heavier against hers.

Carefully—very carefully—Allie reached toward the nightstand and grabbed her phone.

The sudden brightness nearly blinded her.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, immediately cranking the brightness all the way down until the screen barely glowed.

Dean shifted against her at the movement.

Allie froze.

Waited.

His breathing stayed even.

Okay.

She opened her texts and found Hannah immediately.

Allie:
Alive, but not coming tonight.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Of course Hannah was online.

Hannah:
???

Hannah:
What happened??

Allie glanced down at Dean, who had somehow curled even closer in his sleep. Then typed back one-handed.

Allie:
Dean has a horrible migraine and has been throwing up for like an hour.

The response came immediately.

Hannah:
OH MY GOD

Hannah:
Is he okay??

Allie:
I think so. Just really bad migraine + nausea. Finally got him to take meds.

Pause.

Then:

Hannah:
Oh no. Poor baby.

Allie snorted softly at that.

Hannah:
Do you need anything? Meds? Gatorade?

That actually made Allie smile.

She looked down at Dean again.

Mouth slightly open in sleep.

One hand still loosely gripping the fabric of her shirt.

Ridiculous.

Allie:
I think we’re okay for now.

Hannah:
Text me if he gets worse okay? Seriously.

Allie:
I will ❤️

Allie smiled despite herself and locked the phone, setting it carefully back on the nightstand, before closing her eyes.

It didn't take much longer for her to drift off as well.

***

4-

The original plan had been simple.

Hannah and Allie had gone out for a girls’ night. Just the two of them plus Dexter. Nothing more than drinks, dancing and good music.

Meanwhile, Dean and Garrett had stayed back at the girls’ place with significantly less glamorous plans.

Hockey. Beer. Sleep.

That was it.

Practice was stupidly early the next morning, and Dean, especially, had been instructed more than once by coach Jensen not to show up half-dead or hungover again after whatever incident had apparently happened last semester.

A perfectly solid night.

Until the girls came home.

The front door had barely opened before chaos walked in.

Allie was loudly laughing about something that clearly wasn’t funny enough to justify the volume while Hannah looked significantly worse - glassy-eyed, leaning heavily against her best friend, giggling at absolutely nothing.

Garrett took one look and groaned.

“Oh no.”

Dean, who had been halfway through mocking a terrible referee call, twisted around on the couch.

“Oh, wow.”

He and Garrett exchanged one long look.

The exact same realization passed silently between them.

It was going to be a long night.

As if on cue, Hannah suddenly went pale beneath her flushed cheeks and pointed vaguely toward the hallway.

“Think I’m gonna be sick.”

Garrett was already moving before she finished the sentence.

“Yep. Bathroom. Right now.”

Dean almost laughed, but his attention had already shifted to Allie.

His girlfriend was standing in the middle of the living room blinking slowly at absolutely nothing, still smiling like life was wonderful.

She spotted him.

Allie immediately leaned all her weight into him like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean adjusted automatically, steadying her.

And honestly?

He was weirdly out of his depth.

Which was funny considering how many times he had been on the opposite side of this exact situation.

Dean Di Laurentis was usually the drunk disaster being dragged home.

The one getting lectured.

The one making terrible decisions.

The one Garrett shoved water at while calling him an idiot.

Being the responsible one?

Strange.

“C’mon,” he said, steering Allie toward her room. “Let’s get you horizontal before you pass out.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Noooo.”

“Yes.”

“Mean.”

Dean ignored her.

Getting Allie to her room was… a process.

Drunk Allie apparently had the coordination of a newborn deer.

She took one normal step.

Then veered sideways into the wall.

Then got distracted by a framed photo halfway down the hall.

“Is that us?”

Dean glanced.

“…yes.”

“We’re hot.”

“Move.”

By the time they made it into her room, Dean was already tired.

“Sit.”

Allie obeyed by collapsing dramatically onto the edge of the mattress, somehow remaining upright through sheer luck.

Dean crouched in front of her.

Now came the shoes.

Complicated women’s torture devices.

Fantastic.

“How much did you guys have to drink?” Dean asked as he watched Allie try and fail at taking her own shoes off.

“It was all Dexter’s fault. He bought the shots. Plus a couple of cocktails.” She admitted, words a little slurred but coherent enough. 

Dean managed to slip the first heel off and set it on the floor, then gently lifted her other foot into his lap to deal with the second one.

For a moment Allie went oddly quiet.

Dean looked up.

Her eyes had drifted shut.

“You gonna be sick?”

Allie cracked one eye open at that, then gave him a small sleepy smile.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He studied her for another second.

“No nausea?”

Allie shook her head slightly.

“No. I’m not a puker.”

That got an involuntary laugh out of him.

“Is that an official category?”

“Yep.”

Her eyes drifted shut again while he worked the second shoe off.

“Hannah’s a puker.”

“Yeah, I gathered that from Garrett’s suffering.”

Dean set the heel aside and looked up at her.

She was very clearly running on borrowed time—not the about to throw up kind, thankfully, but the about to completely pass out while still fully dressed kind.

“Okay,” he said, straightening up. “Bathroom.”

Allie cracked one eye open.

“Why.”

“To brush your teeth.”

She frowned at him like this was an unreasonable request.

“Tomorrow.”

“Nope.”

“Dean.”

“You smell like tequila.”

“Up.”

Allie stared at him.

Then, after a dramatic sigh, placed her hands in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

Or rather—

she attempted to stand.

The second she was upright, she swayed alarmingly.

Dean immediately caught her around the waist. He kept an arm firmly around her while steering her toward the bathroom, moving slowly.

By the time they made it into the bathroom, Dean was already mentally exhausted.

He grabbed her toothbrush from the holder—because yes, he knew which one was hers now, weirdly domestic thought noted and ignored—and held it up. 

He squeezed toothpaste onto it and handed it over.

Allie took it.

Then just… held it.

Dean waited.

“…Allie.”

“Oh.”

She shoved the toothbrush in her mouth with all the coordination of a deeply intoxicated person.

Dean leaned against the counter, arms folded, supervising.

This really was bizarre.

He was so used to being the disaster in these situations.

Once she was done, Dean took the toothbrush from her before she could protest and handed her a cup of water.

“Rinse.”

She obediently swished.

Then spat into the sink with shocking precision.

“Show-off,” Dean muttered.

He wet a washcloth with cool water and handed it over.

“Face.”

Allie obediently wiped at her makeup, mostly smearing mascara around.

Dean sighed.

“Give me that.”

Too tired to argue, she handed it over.

A minute later he was gently wiping away the worst of the makeup while Allie stood there half asleep and leaning against the counter.

“This is weird,” she murmured.

Dean glanced at her.

“What is?”

“You being responsible.”

He barked out a laugh.

“Enjoy it. It’s rare.”

Once she looked vaguely human again, Dean wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her back toward the bedroom.

The walk was somehow even slower this time.

Allie was definitely fading.

By the time they reached the bed, she barely made it onto the mattress before collapsing sideways face-first into the pillows.

Dean laughed softly.

He crouched to tug the blankets free from where she’d half trapped them beneath herself, then carefully pulled them up over her.

Allie immediately curled beneath them with a tiny sleepy sigh.

Cute.

Dean headed back toward the bathroom, rummaging through the medicine cabinet until he found the Tylenol. He grabbed two tablets, filled the glass on the sink with fresh water instead of trusting whatever sad half-forgotten nightstand water situation existed, and headed back into the bedroom.

Allie had already somehow managed to burrow deeper beneath the blankets in the thirty seconds he’d been gone.

Her face was half hidden in the pillow, hair everywhere, breathing slow and dangerously close to fully unconscious sleep.

“Nope,” Dean murmured.

He sat carefully on the edge of the mattress and nudged her shoulder.

“Allie.”

A sleepy mumble.

No actual response.

“Allie-cat.”

One eye opened approximately halfway.

“…wha.”

“Sit up.”

Immediate frown.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“M’tired.”

“I know.”

“Tomorrow.”

Dean snorted.

“Absolutely not.”

He slipped an arm behind her shoulders and helped ease her upright before she could go completely boneless on him.

Allie leaned against him instantly, warm and limp and smelling faintly of tequila, shampoo, and whatever perfume she’d worn out tonight.

“Mean,” she mumbled into his T-shirt.

“You’re gonna be grateful for me in the morning.”

“Open.”

Dean held up the pills.

Allie squinted at them suspiciously.

“What’s that.”

“Tylenol.”

He handed her the pills. 

Then, obediently, she popped them into her mouth.

“Water.”

Dean pressed the glass into her hands, keeping one hand lightly around it because he absolutely did not trust her coordination right now.

Allie took a few sleepy sips.

Swallowed.

Then blinked at him.

“Good?”

“Very.”

She immediately attempted to collapse sideways again.

Dean caught her.

“Jesus.”

“Sleep.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He carefully lowered her back onto the pillows, tugging the blankets up again after she somehow kicked them halfway off in the process.

The second her head hit the pillow, her eyes drifted shut.

Then reopened slightly.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Her sleepy expression softened.

“You’re pretty.”

Dean barked out a laugh.

“Go to sleep.”

Allie gave the tiniest sleepy smile and finally let her eyes close fully. 

***

5-

They had been together for six months now.

Six months wasn’t forever, but it was long enough to strip away illusions. They had seen each other drunk, exhausted, grumpy, sick, overworked, emotionally raw, and generally unglamorous. Somewhere between casual hookups and becoming something real, embarrassment had mostly stopped existing between them.

But none of that had prepared Allie for this.

It had happened during practice.

Dean had taken a nasty hit, gone down hard, and for one terrifying second hadn’t gotten up fast enough. By the time Allie arrived, having received a mildly concerning text that definitely undersold the situation, Dean had already been checked out by the team doctor and evaluated properly. Concussion. Mild, they said. Nothing alarming right now. Rest. Monitoring. No screens. No physical exertion. Someone needed to stay with him for the first several hours and watch for worsening symptoms—vomiting, confusion, unusual drowsiness, worsening headache, difficulty waking him, weird behavior. The doctor had handed Allie a printed list like this was a totally normal thing to casually hand someone about their boyfriend’s brain.

Dean, naturally, had acted like the whole thing was ridiculous.

“I’m fine,” he’d said for probably the fifteenth time, sitting on the exam table with an ice pack balanced badly against the side of his head and his usual cocky grin dialed down only slightly by the obvious headache.

The doctor had only shaken his head.

“You have a concussion.”

“A baby one.”

She had not been amused.

Dean, meanwhile, had continued acting like this was nothing. 

The drive back to his place had almost made Allie relax, which later felt cruel in hindsight.

Because he had been... Dean.

Still talking.

Still making dumb comments.

Still functional enough that part of her started wondering if maybe she really was overreacting.

He’d complained about the brightness outside the entire drive, dramatically slumping in the passenger seat with one arm over his eyes.

That sounded normal.

Annoyingly normal.

Even once they got to his place, he was still coherent enough to grumble the whole way upstairs about how everyone was being dramatic.

Allie kept a hand lightly on his back anyway, more for her peace of mind than his.

“Careful.”

“I know how stairs work.”

“Good.”

“Rude.”

She got him to his room, helped him out of his practice clothes because he was moving a little slower than usual and clearly not feeling great, and dug through his bathroom cabinet until she found Tylenol.

“Can’t believe my own girlfriend drugs me.”

“Shut up and swallow.”

He obeyed, muttering something under his breath about oppression.

Then promptly collapsed face-first onto his bed.

“Nap,” he mumbled into the pillow.

Allie stayed. Curled up in the chair by his bed with her phone untouched because no screens, apparently now applying to her by association.

Dean slept for about an hour.

Peacefully.

By the time he started waking up, Allie had actually begun to think maybe this would be okay.

Then he opened his eyes.

And something felt... off.

He just looked... grouchy. 

“Hey,” Allie said softly, standing. “How’s your head?”

Dean frowned at the ceiling.

“Bad.”

“Still hurting?”

“Yes.”

The clipped answer made her pause.

“Okay…”

Then Tucker appeared, carrying a bowl.

“Made soup,” he announced quietly, stepping into the room.

Dean barely glanced at it before mumbling:

“Don’t want it.”

Allie blinked.

That… was weird.

Tucker blinked too.

Because Dean never said no to food.

Especially not Tucker’s food.

Allie stepped forward immediately, taking the bowl from Tucker before Dean could accidentally drop it if handed over.

“You feeling sick?” she asked, studying him more carefully.

Dean frowned harder.

“Nooo,” he whined. “I just wanna sleep,” he added, voice dragging with obvious exhaustion as he rubbed a hand over his face.

Tucker still hovered awkwardly in the doorway, clearly unsure what to do with that.

Allie forced herself to stay calm.

“Thanks, Tucker,” she said softly, taking the bowl fully from his hands and setting it on the bedside table.

Tucker hesitated.

“You sure?”

She gave him a small nod she didn’t entirely feel.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

His eyes flicked toward Dean one more time, concern obvious, before he finally backed out.

“Yell if you need anything.”

The second Tucker disappeared, Allie turned back fully toward Dean.

He was already halfway to lying back down, clearly determined to shut the world out.

“Hey.”

Dean made a tired sound.

“If you’re not feeling good, you have to tell me.”

Dean let his hand drag tiredly through his hair, wincing faintly halfway through like even that hurt.

“M’good,” he mumbled.

Allie did not believe that for one second.

“I just wanna sleep.”

The doctor had said sleep was okay.

Rest was expected.

But also watch for changes.

Still.

He did look exhausted.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “But eat something first.”

She grabbed the soup from the nightstand and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. 

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“No appetite.”

“Too bad.”

He frowned harder.

“I hate this.”

That at least sounded more like him.

“Open.”

Dean stared at her.

Then very slowly opened his mouth like the most put-upon patient in medical history.

Allie managed one spoonful.

Then another.

By the third, Dean looked visibly less interested in fighting.

Mostly because his eyes kept drifting shut.

“Just four,” she bargained.

The fourth spoonful took forever because Dean was clearly falling asleep sitting upright.

His head kept tipping slightly.

His blinking got slower.

Eventually he swallowed the last bite and looked ready to pass out like that.

“Sleep now?”

Allie softened.

“Yeah.”

Dean was half asleep before she’d even fully pulled the blanket back over him.

He curled onto his side, one hand tucked beneath his pillow, breathing evening out within minutes.

For a little while, things were quiet. 

Then, maybe fifteen minutes later, Dean jerked awake.

Not gradually.

Not the sleepy shifting kind of waking.

One second he was asleep.

The next he lurched upright with this awful choking sound that made Allie’s entire body go cold.

“Dean—?”

He barely made it over the side of the bed before vomiting hard onto the floor.

“Oh my God.”

Allie was moving instantly, one hand bracing his shoulder while the other pulled him straighter so he wouldn’t pitch forward completely.

“Hey, hey—sit up.”

Dean gagged again, body shaking with the effort.

“Garrett!” Allie shouted, voice already rising with panic. “Guys!”

Footsteps thundered almost immediately.

Garrett appeared first, Logan right behind him.

“What happened?”

“He just woke up throwing up—”

Dean got sick again before she could finish.

Logan visibly winced.

“Jesus.”

Allie kept one hand firmly on Dean’s back, rubbing between his shoulder blades while he finally finished, left breathing shakily over the side of the bed.

For one awful second she thought he might keep going.

Instead, Dean just sagged.

Completely boneless.

“Dean?”

Then, before anyone could stop him, he simply turned and collapsed straight into Allie’s side, curling against her like none of that had happened.

Allie blinked.

Dean tucked his face against her shoulder, breathing warm and uneven through her shirt.

And then very clearly attempted to go back to sleep.

Garrett and Allie shared a long look.

That didn’t feel normal.

“D?” Garrett asked, stepping closer.

Dean made a tired noise.

“You still feeling sick?”

A pause.

Then, muffled against Allie:

“Not nauseous.”

Almost.

Later—much later—they would all realize that vomiting after a concussion, especially waking up abruptly to do it and without nausea, was a giant flashing red warning sign.

But in that moment?

In that room?

With Dean already half asleep again and insisting he didn’t feel nauseous?

It somehow still felt manageable.

“Hospital?” Logan asked, grabbing towels from the bathroom before crouching down to start dealing with the floor.

Garrett hesitated.

Looked at Dean.

At Allie.

At the doctor’s printed instructions still sitting on the nightstand.

Then exhaled.

“Let’s keep an eye on him.”

Logan looked uncertain.

“He just puked.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said slowly. “But he also just ate after saying he didn’t want food. Maybe his stomach just wasn’t ready.”

Allie wanted that explanation to make sense.

Desperately.

Because Dean, now fully curled against her, looked weirdly peaceful already.

Too peaceful.

“Let’s watch him,” Garrett said again, quieter this time.

Allie nodded.

But Dean never fully went back to sleep after that.

Not really.

He drifted in and out instead, stuck in that strange miserable half-conscious state where he never seemed fully awake but never properly rested either. Every few minutes he’d shift against Allie with a quiet whine, brows pinching together, body tense with discomfort before settling again.

Allie stayed propped against the headboard with Dean practically folded into her side, one arm wrapped around him while her fingers moved absentmindedly through his hair.

Garrett had disappeared downstairs to grab fresh water and probably reread the concussion instructions for the fifth time.

Logan, meanwhile, had perched himself on the edge of the bed, watching over them.

Dean shifted harder this time, face twisting into an expression Logan clearly didn’t like.

“Uh—”

Dean suddenly swallowed.

Once.

Twice.

Logan moved instantly.

“Trash can.”

Allie barely had time to process the warning before Logan lunged for the small bin near Dean’s desk and shoved it toward them.

Just in time.

Dean jerked upright with a horrible gag and got violently sick into the bin.

“Oh, Jesus.”

Allie was already rubbing his back, holding him steady while his whole body shook with the force of it.

It wasn’t like before.

This was harsher.

More violent.

The kind of vomiting that looked like it hurt.

Dean barely got a breath before gagging again.

And again.

By the time Dean finally stopped, he looked wrecked.

Sweat dampened his hairline.

His breathing came fast and shallow.

His whole body seemed limp with exhaustion.

“Dean?” Allie asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just stayed hunched there over the bin, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

Then, very quietly:

“My head.”

Allie froze.

Dean lifted one shaky hand and pressed it hard against the side of his skull.

“My head,” he mumbled again.

Then again.

And again.

The same words.

Over and over.

“My head hurts.”

“My head.”

“Hurts.”

“My head.”

His breathing hitched.

He pressed harder against his head like he could somehow physically stop the pain.

Logan was already standing.

“Garrett!” he shouted, louder this time. 

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs.

Garrett appeared in the doorway, breathless, already looking tense.

“What—”

Garrett’s face changed instantly.

“Hospital.”

No hesitation.

And somehow that terrified Allie more than anything so far. 

Okay,” Logan said immediately, moving.

Everything happened fast after that.

Logan grabbed Dean’s wallet and keys off the dresser.

Garrett was already pulling shoes on and barking instructions.

“Tucker!”

A muffled what?! from downstairs.

“Get the car.”

Allie’s hands were shaking so badly she nearly dropped Dean’s phone when she grabbed it off the nightstand.

“Dean,” she said, touching his shoulder. “Hey, baby, we’re taking you in.”

Dean barely reacted.

Still mumbling.

“My head.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“My head.”

“I know.”

Garrett crouched beside him.

“D, can you stand?”

No response.

Garrett exchanged a look with Logan.

Then Dean made this strange little sound.

Small.

Cut off.

Wrong.

Allie frowned.

“Dean?”

His whole body went oddly rigid.

For half a second nobody moved.

Nobody understood.

Then Dean’s head jerked sharply to the side.

And everything exploded.

“Oh my God—”

The trash can crashed over as Dean’s entire body seized violently.

His arms locked.

His back arched hard enough to make Allie scream.

“DEAN!”

Garrett lunged instantly, catching him before he slammed fully sideways off the bed.

“Shit—shit—”

“OH MY GOD,” Allie was saying, over and over, voice breaking.

Dean’s whole body was convulsing.

Nothing like anything she had ever seen before. 

“Don’t hold him down!” Logan shouted, already moving the overturned trash can and anything nearby out of the way.

Garrett immediately shifted, supporting Dean enough to keep him from smashing into the bedframe but not restraining him.

Allie had gone completely white.

“What’s happening?!”

Nobody answered.

Or maybe they did.

She couldn’t hear anything over the blood roaring in her ears.

Dean made this awful choking sound.

“T-turn him—”

Logan was already helping Garrett reposition him carefully onto his side as best they could.

The seizure felt endless.

It probably wasn’t.

Maybe a minute.

Maybe less.

But to Allie it stretched into forever.

Dean.

Dean.

Dean.

Then suddenly—

It stopped.

Just like that.

The violent movement ceased.

For one awful second, nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Then Dean dragged in this rough, horrible gasp that sounded nothing like normal breathing.

And everyone snapped back into motion.

The trip to the hospital became a blur in Allie’s memory afterward.

Fragments more than a sequence.

Garrett practically carrying Dean downstairs because Dean couldn’t walk, his body heavy and unresponsive between Garrett and Logan. Tucker sprinting ahead to yank the car doors open. Allie scrambling after them with shaking hands and Dean’s phone still clutched so tightly in her fist her fingers ached later.

Garrett drove like a man possessed.

One hand white-knuckled on the wheel, the other reaching back every few seconds like proximity alone could somehow help.

Logan sat in the back with Dean, keeping him turned on his side, talking to him constantly even when Dean gave no sign he heard a word.

“C’mon, man.”

“Stay with us.”

“Dean.”

Allie was pressed into the backseat too, half under Dean’s weight, one hand gripping his arm while the other shook uncontrollably.

She kept saying his name.

Over and over.

Quietly.

Desperately.

The second they hit the emergency department entrance, everything moved terrifyingly fast.

One look at Dean and the staff took over immediately.

Questions were fired so quickly Allie barely processed them.

What happened? How long was the seizure? Head injury? Vomiting? Loss of consciousness? Medical history? Allergies?

Dean was transferred onto a hospital stretcher so quickly Allie barely registered losing physical contact with him. 

The chaos somehow got worse when Dean seized again. 

Allie made a sound she didn’t recognize as her own.

Because somehow seeing professionals rush toward him made it even more terrifying.

Once they stabilized him enough, they rushed him for a CT scan. The results came back fast, and somehow that made everything worse. The concussion hadn’t just been a concussion. The impact during practice had caused bleeding inside Dean’s skull—likely a blood vessel that had been damaged at the time of the hit but hadn’t caused catastrophic symptoms immediately. Instead, the bleeding had slowly worsened over the next several hours, allowing pressure to build inside the rigid space of his skull where the brain had nowhere to expand. 

“The blood irritates the brain tissue,” the doctor had explained carefully. “That irritation can trigger seizures. The increased pressure can also affect consciousness, behavior, and neurological function.” 

Once the brain bleed was identified, the priority became stopping the damage from getting worse and relieving the pressure building inside his skull. They started medications right away—anti-seizure drugs to prevent further seizures, IV fluids and medications to help reduce swelling and pressure around the brain. 

But the biggest matter was if Dean’s body would be able to absorb the blood naturally over time.

Thankfully it did.

Now, five days later, Dean was somehow back to his annoying self.

Which, according to literally everyone, was a very good sign.

Still.

Allie wasn’t sure her nervous system had fully recovered enough to appreciate it.

Because right now, from the chair beside his hospital bed, she was watching her boyfriend argue with Garrett about a hockey game he hadn’t even been allowed to watch.

Allie stared.

Four days ago, this same man had been seizing in her arms.

Now he was arguing about referees.

Dean was propped up against a mountain of hospital pillows looking significantly more human than he had any right to after terrifying everyone half to death. The awful gray pallor was gone, replaced by actual color in his face. His hair was still a disaster, but that was less medical emergency and more just Dean. There were still reminders everywhere that things weren’t normal yet—the hospital bracelet around his wrist, the IV line taped to his arm, the monitors quietly tracking him—but compared to seventy two hours ago?

Night and day.

Eventually Garrett checked his phone, muttered something about grabbing coffee and bullying Logan into eating something that wasn’t vending machine garbage, and headed out, leaving the room.

The second the door clicked shut behind him, the silence changed.

Dean glanced over.

Allie was still watching him.

“What?”

Allie stood and crossed the short distance to the bed. Then she reached up and ran her fingers gently through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead.

Dean immediately leaned into the touch on instinct.

“You scared me, idiot,” she said softly.

The teasing word did absolutely nothing to hide how unsteady her voice sounded.

Dean’s expression changed immediately.

For once, he actually looked sheepish.

Genuinely sheepish.

“Allie—”

“Don’t,” she murmured, still carding her fingers through his hair. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Dean gave her a look that somehow managed to be apologetic and vaguely offended at the same time.

“Pretty sure I wasn’t aiming for brain trauma.”

That got him a look.

Dean wisely shut up.

Good choice.

Allie’s hand slipped down to cup the side of his face.

“I mean it.”

“Sorry,” he said quietly. 

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Well. Don’t.”

Dean looked at her for another second.

Then lifted his free hand, touching lightly at her wrist where it rested against his face.

And because apparently he did possess some self-preservation instinct after all, he had the decency to look properly guilty before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to her mouth.

“Noted,” he murmured.

Allie exhaled shakily.

“You’re still an asshole.”

Dean laughed.

“Your asshole.”

“Debatable.”

He kissed her again anyway.