Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It had been a good game. 

Not only because they had won, although that certainly played a large part in it, but because the team had looked like themselves again. Everyone had seemed completely in sync on the ice, every line change had clicked, and for the first time in weeks the Briar Hawks had looked like a team having fun. The result spoke for itself: a 4-2 victory over Eastwood. 

“Have you decided where we're celebrating tonight, Deanie?” Garrett asked as he walked over to the row of urinals. He stepped into the spot beside his friend and started undoing his gear. “Because Tucker wanted to try something different.”

“What’s wrong with Malone’s?” Dean asked, turning his head to the side to look at the captain, but stopped when the burning sensation started.

Fuck.

Dean wasn’t dumb. At this point, he was pretty sure he had an urinary tract infection. The burning had started a few days ago, almost a week really, and at first it had only been mildly irritating, the kind of thing he figured would disappear if he drank more water and stopped living off coffee and sports drinks. He'd increased his water intake, carried a bottle around campus, and convinced himself that a couple days of hydration would solve the problem

Unfortunately, the exact opposite had happened.

What had started as an annoying sensation was becoming something much harder to ignore. The burning wasn't occasional anymore. It happened every single time he used the bathroom, and it was becoming painful enough that he found himself bracing for it beforehand. 

As the stream continued, another flare of pain shot through him, forcing him to close his eyes again. At least this time he was actually peeing. Earlier in the week there had been moments when he'd stood in front of the toilet feeling like he desperately needed to go, only for a few miserable drops to come out after nearly a minute of waiting.

The frequency wasn't helping either. The night before had been especially rough. He had barely slept more than an hour at a time because every time he started drifting off, a sudden pressure in his bladder would yank him awake again. It felt like he desperately needed to pee, like his bladder was completely full and seconds away from bursting, so he'd drag himself out of bed and stumble across the place convinced this time would bring relief.

Instead he would stand there half asleep, waiting and waiting while almost nothing happened. Sometimes only a few drops came out. Sometimes a weak trickle. Then he'd crawl back into bed only for the pressure to build again an hour later. By the time his alarm went off that morning, Dean felt like he hadn't slept at all.

The pressure finally eased enough for him to finish and zip up. Even then the burning lingered, leaving behind a dull ache that seemed to sit low in his abdomen. Dean let out a slow breath and tried to focus on Garrett's voice beside him, but his attention kept drifting. 

Dean blinked and looked over. Just now he realized Garrett was no longer peeing. In fact, his friend had apparently finished a while ago and was standing there watching him with growing suspicion. "Yeah. Don't know. Ask Birdie," Dean replied automatically as he tucked himself back in and headed toward the sinks.

Garrett followed him with his eyes. Dean turned on the water and began washing his hands, keeping his focus on the faucet. When he finally glanced up into the mirror, Garrett had one eyebrow raised.

"Everything okay?"

The question immediately put Dean on guard. There was no universe in which Dean Di Laurentis stayed neutral about a night out after a win. Garrett knew it. Dean knew it. The entire team probably knew it.

"Course," Dean answered, giving his friend a small smile.

As he straightened from the sink, however, a sharp pain suddenly shot through the lower left side of his back. The intensity caught him completely off guard. His hand moved there instinctively before he could stop himself, fingers pressing against the painful spot while he froze for half a second. The pain faded almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a deep ache. Dean forced himself to keep his expression neutral even as his stomach sank.

Shit.

On top of everything else, he apparently had managed to pull a muscle during the game. Dean had spent most of the third period sitting on the bench instead of playing, something that almost never happened unless he was injured. Every few minutes another wave would hit him, deep and intense, forcing him to bite his lips and focus on breathing through it. 

He'd sat there hunched slightly forward with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the ice while trying to convince himself it would pass. The team had been playing well enough that nobody desperately needed him out there, which had allowed him to hide longer than he normally could.

Unfortunately, Coach Jensen hadn’t gotten the hint he just needed a minute. The coach had spent the better part of twenty minutes glancing toward him between shifts. At first it had been a simple, "You good, Di Laurentis?" which Dean had answered with a quick nod. Then the questions had kept coming. Was it his shoulder? His ribs? Did he get hit somewhere? Did he need the medical? By the fourth or fifth time Dean had seriously considered screaming at him to stop talking.

The truth was that those "minutes" had kept stretching longer and longer. It wasn't tied to movement. It wasn't worse when he twisted or reached. Instead it seemed to come and go whenever it wanted, striking hard enough to make his stomach churn. More than once he'd found himself staring at the ice without really seeing it, waiting for the latest wave to pass. By the end of the game all he had wanted was to curl up on his bed and sleep.

Dean grabbed a handful of paper towels and dried his hands quickly. Garrett was still watching him from across the bathroom, and the look on his friend's face suggested another round of questions was coming. Dean had no interest in that conversation. He tossed the paper towel into the trash and immediately headed for the door before his friend could open his mouth again.

He couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped him as he pushed through the locker room door and immediately realized most of the team was already gone, except for Logan and Tucker. Logan was sitting on one of the benches while Tucker stood nearby scrolling through his phone. More importantly, the rest of the team had apparently already headed for the bus. The realization alone made Dean feel slightly better. Every step closer to the bus was one step closer to their house. Every step closer to the house was one step closer to his bed. At this point, that was the only thing he wanted.

His eyes landed on Logan, who was standing beside a stacked pile of gear, his own hockey gear.

"Thanks," Dean said as he walked over.

Logan tossed him a look.

"You looked like death sitting on that bench."

Dean huffed a laugh and reached for his bag. Even lifting it made his side ache a little. He adjusted the strap over his shoulder and followed Logan toward the exit. 

Ahead of them, Garrett and Tucker were already making their way down the hallway toward the parking lot, talking about something Dean wasn't paying enough attention to catch. His focus was entirely on putting one foot in front of the other and trying to ignore how exhausted he felt.

For a minute neither he nor Logan said anything. They walked side by side through the mostly empty arena corridors while arena staff moved around them cleaning up after the game. Dean was just beginning to think he'd escaped another round of questions when Logan glanced over.

"How's your back?"

Dean resisted the urge to groan.

The question shouldn't have surprised him. Logan was the reason Coach Jensen had eventually stopped bothering him during the third period. After fifteen minutes of repeated questions from the coach, Dean had finally muttered something about tweaking his back and Logan had quietly taken over running interference. It hadn't stopped the pain, but it had at least stopped Coach Jensen from hovering every five seconds.

"Hurts," Dean admitted with a shrug.

Logan studied him for a second longer than Dean liked. "Still?"

Dean nodded.

The pain wasn't constant. That was the weird part. If it had been a pulled muscle, he expected it to hurt every time he moved. Instead it seemed to come in waves. One minute he'd feel mostly fine, the next it would hit hard enough to steal his breath. He wasn't about to explain all that though.

"I think I have some muscle relaxers with me," Logan said as they pushed through another set of doors. "Once we get on the bus, I'll give you some."

“Thanks,” Dean replied, ready for some sort of relief.

The words had barely left his mouth when they stepped outside and a cool gust of night air swept across the parking lot. Dean immediately shivered and He pulled the front of his jacket closer around himself and tucked his hands into the pockets as they crossed toward the waiting bus.

The bus was already packed when they climbed aboard. He winced before he could stop himself at the noise and let Logan steered him toward one of the empty rows near the middle of the bus At this point he was happy to let somebody else make decisions for him. Logan slid into the window seat first and Dean carefully lowered himself into the aisle seat beside him. The movement pulled another ache through his lower abdomen and he couldn't stop the muffled groan that escaped him as he settled back against the seat.

Behind them, Garrett dropped into the row directly behind Dean while Tucker continued toward the front where Birdie was already sitting. The bus slowly filled with conversation and laughter around them, but Dean barely paid attention. His lower stomach was throbbing again, that same uncomfortable pressure that never seemed to completely disappear anymore. He shifted slightly, hoping to find a position that hurt less, only to have another dull ache pulse through his back. Closing his eyes for a second, he rested his head against the seat and tried to focus on breathing normally.

Beside him, Logan was already digging through his backpack. Dean watched with half-lidded eyes as papers, athletic tape, chargers, and random hockey-related junk were briefly removed and then shoved aside again. Eventually Logan let out a small noise of triumph and held up a prescription bottle. "Found it."

"You are my hero."

"I know."

Logan unscrewed the cap and shook two tablets into his palm before handing them over. Dean accepted them gratefully. If this really was a muscle issue, he would happily take anything that might help. Logan waited a second before asking, "Where's your water bottle?"

Dean glanced toward his bag.

"Empty."

Logan immediately twisted around in his seat.

"Garrett."

Garrett looked up from his phone, "What?"

"You got water?"

Garrett reached down and grabbed his bottle without hesitation, but before handing it over he stood and leaned over the seatback to get a better look at Dean. Up close, the concern on his face became obvious. Dean knew exactly what Garrett was seeing: the dark circles under his eyes, the way he was slumped against the seat instead of talking to everyone, the fact that he'd barely said ten words since leaving the locker room.

"I knew something was up," Garrett said.

Dean ignored him, took the bottle, and swallowed the pills with a careful sip of water. He intentionally kept it small. The last thing he wanted was to chug half a bottle and spend the entire ride running to the tiny bus bathroom. His bladder already felt irritated enough. As he handed the bottle back, another wave of discomfort rolled through his lower abdomen. 

Dean hid the wince by reaching into his pocket for his phone. A second later he pulled out his earbuds and slipped them in before Garrett could decide to continue the conversation. Dean wanted none of it. He just wanted something to focus on that wasn't the ache in his back or the constant irritation in his bladder.

After unlocking his phone, he pulled up the final episode of House of the Dragon. He had been meaning to watch it all week but practices, classes, and whatever was currently happening to his body had gotten in the way. The familiar opening sequence filled the screen and for a few minutes Dean managed to lose himself in it. At least partially. The discomfort never completely disappeared. Every so often his lower stomach would throb unpleasantly or a dull ache would settle into his side, reminding him that something still wasn't right. Even so, watching the show was better than sitting there thinking about it.

What Dean didn't know was whether the muscle relaxers Logan had given him contained anything that caused drowsiness. If they did, they hit fast. If they didn't, then his body had apparently reached the point where it was simply done fighting sleep. Barely ten minutes after the bus pulled out of the parking lot, he found himself blinking more often. The screen would lose focus for a second before snapping back. Then it would happen again a minute later.

Beside him, Logan was scrolling through his own phone and didn't initially notice. Dean's attention kept drifting in and out of the episode. He caught pieces of dialogue, lost track of them, then rewound thirty seconds only to realize he'd missed another part. His eyelids felt strangely heavy.

At one point he realized he had absolutely no idea what had happened during the last five minutes of the episode despite staring directly at the screen.

Eventually even holding the phone upright started feeling like work. Dean lowered it slightly and rubbed one eye. The effort seemed to make things worse. His vision blurred for a moment and he yawned so hard his jaw popped. Somewhere behind them the team erupted into laughter over something Tucker had said, but the sound felt distant. Dean vaguely considered turning off the episode before he completely lost track of it. The thought crossed his mind, lingered there for a few seconds, and then slowly drifted away as another wave of exhaustion rolled over him.

His head dipped once.

Then again.

The third time it happened he didn't fully wake up from it.

Without really realizing what he was doing, Dean slumped slightly toward the window before correcting himself. A minute later he drifted the same direction. Logan finally noticed when a warm weight suddenly settled against his shoulder. Looking up from his phone, he found Dean completely out of it, his head resting against him, earbuds still in place and phone loosely balanced in one hand. 

Logan immediately reached over and carefully took the phone from Dean's hand before it could slip onto the floor. He locked the screen, tucked the phone safely into Dean's jacket pocket, and then shifted slightly in his seat. Dean was already asleep enough that his head had started sliding forward at an awkward angle. With a quiet sigh, Logan adjusted his position so Dean's head could rest more comfortably against his chest instead of hanging awkwardly off his shoulder. Dean made a sleepy sound but never fully woke up. 

The entire hour-long bus ride passed like that. Every now and then the bus would hit a bump or somebody would shout loud enough that Logan expected him to wake up, but Dean barely reacted. A few times his head shifted and Logan had to steady it with a hand to keep his neck from ending up in a position that would leave him miserable later.

Dean only surfaced briefly when the bus finally stopped. Logan and Garrett managed to get him awake enough to gather his bag and walk off under his own power, though "awake" was being generous. Dean blinked at them with glassy eyes, mumbled something nobody understood, and shuffled toward Garrett's Jeep as if he were operating entirely on instinct. 

The ride back to their place wasn't much different. Dean curled against the passenger-side window, dozed through most of the drive, and barely reacted when they arrived. By the time they got upstairs, all he wanted was his bed. He dropped his bag near the door of his room, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed. Less than a minute later he was fully asleep again.

***

"You meeting us there, G?" Tucker asked as he leaned against the kitchen counter and took a sip of his beer.

"Yeah," Garrett replied as he crouched down to tie his shoelaces. "I'm picking up Hannah first and then we'll meet you guys there." Garrett looked toward the hallway and frowned. "Where's Dean?"

"Not coming." 

Garrett actually stopped moving. "What?" 

Tucker shrugged as if he found the entire situation just as strange. "He said he was tired." 

For several seconds Garrett simply stared at him. The celebration had been Dean's idea. Not just tonight's celebration either. Dean was the guy who believed every win deserved a party and every loss deserved an even bigger one. It was practically one of his life philosophies. The fact that Dean would voluntarily skip a night out after a big win made absolutely no sense.

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

Tucker took another sip of his beer.

"I had the same reaction."

Logan finally emerged from his room carrying two shirts, glanced between them, and immediately knew what they were talking about.

"He's still asleep if that's what you're wondering."

Garrett looked over.

"Seriously?"

Logan nodded and tossed one of the shirts onto the couch.

"I checked on him about twenty minutes ago. He hasn't moved."

Garrett frowned.

That was weird.

"What exactly did you give him?" Garrett asked, turning toward Logan.

"The muscle relaxer?" Logan replied.

"Yeah."

Logan shrugged and tossed the shirt he'd been holding onto the couch.

"Robaxin."

Garrett thought about that for a second.

"How much?"

"Two tablets."

Garrett nodded slowly.

That wasn't enough to explain the fact that Dean was taking a three hour nap. He was just about to ask Logan if either of them thought they should stay when a loud horn sounded outside, interrupting the thought completely.

All three of them looked toward the window. A second later another honk followed. Tucker immediately groaned and grabbed his jacket from the arm of the couch.

"Our ride 's here."

Logan looked at his phone, cursed under his breath when he saw the time, and started moving toward the front door.

"C'mon," Tucker called over his shoulder.

The place instantly filled with activity as the two of them gathered their things and headed out.

Another horn sounded from outside.

"Let's go!" Tucker yelled.

Garrett finally shook himself out of his thoughts.

"I'll meet you guys there."

"Don't take forever."

Then they were gone.

The moment the front door closed behind Logan and Tucker, Garrett changed direction. Instead of grabbing his keys and heading outside, he found himself walking toward the staircase. He told himself it was just a quick check. Dean had looked rough all evening and Garrett would feel better if he actually saw him awake before leaving. After that, he'd go pick up Hannah and meet everyone else. Simple.

The upstairs hallway was dark and quiet when he reached it. Dean's bedroom door was closed, and for a second Garrett simply stood there listening. Nothing. Garrett knocked lightly against the wood.

"Dean?"

No answer came.

After waiting another second, Garrett pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was pitch black. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust enough to make out the shape of the bed. Dean was sprawled across it on his stomach exactly where he'd landed earlier. One arm was trapped beneath a pillow, the other hanging off the edge of the mattress. His face was completely buried in the pillow, making it impossible to tell if he was even awake. Not that Garrett could have seen much anyway given how dark the room was. The only illumination came from a sliver of light spilling in from the hallway behind him.

Garrett crossed the room quietly and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Up close, he could hear Dean breathing deeply. Out cold. Reaching out, he placed a hand on Dean's back and immediately noticed how warm he felt through his shirt. The observation made him frown. Dean had always run warm after games, but this seemed excessive. Still, Garrett pushed the thought aside and gently shook his shoulder.

"D."

Nothing.

Garrett tried again.

"Dean."

The only response was a low groan into the pillow.

It took several more attempts before Dean finally started to wake. Even then the process was painfully slow. First came another groan, then a slight shift beneath Garrett's hand. After that Dean slowly lifted his head from the pillow and blinked several times. His movements seemed sluggish, almost delayed, as though his brain hadn't fully caught up with being awake yet. For a few seconds he simply stared into the darkness without saying anything.

Garrett immediately rubbed a hand up and down his back.

"Hey, hey. It's okay."

Dean blinked again.

His expression looked oddly confused.

Dean rubbed at one eye before slowly pushing himself upright. He braced himself with one arm and gradually worked his way into a seated position against the headboard. Even then he remained slumped forward slightly, his hair sticking up in every direction and pillow creases still visible across one side of his face.

"That was a nice nap you took, hmm?" Garrett asked lightly.

Dean barely seemed to hear him. He sat there for another few seconds with his eyes half closed, trying to orient himself. Everything felt fuzzy. His mouth tasted awful, his head felt heavy, and there was an uncomfortable pressure low in his abdomen that immediately demanded his attention the moment he was awake enough to notice it.

"I need to go pee," he mumbled.

Before Garrett could respond, Dean pushed himself off the bed.

The movement was a mistake.

The pressure in his bladder intensified immediately, becoming a deep, painful ache that made him freeze for a second beside the mattress. It felt absurdly full, like he'd been holding it for hours despite having used the bathroom before falling asleep. The sensation was almost constant now, a relentless urge that never seemed to go away no matter how many times he tried to relieve it. Dean pressed a hand briefly against his lower stomach and took a slow breath through his nose before starting toward the door.

The bright bathroom light made Dean squint the second he flipped it on. He closed the door behind him and immediately moved toward the toilet. The pressure in his bladder had become almost unbearable now that he was standing there. It felt like he desperately needed to go, like there should have been a huge amount waiting to come out. Dean let out a breath and waited for relief.

It never came.

Instead, after several seconds, only a few drops appeared.

Dean frowned.

He waited.

Nothing.

Another few drops.

That was it.

Frustration immediately replaced some of the confusion. His bladder still felt painfully full. The pressure hadn't eased at all. If anything, it seemed worse. Dean shifted his weight and tried again, convinced there had to be more. The sensation was certainly there. His body was screaming at him that he needed to pee.

Still, almost nothing happened.

A few more miserable drops fell into the toilet.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and rested a hand on the counter as he took another slow breath. 

Then the pain in his back returned. One second he was standing there trying to breathe through the pain and the next he was throwing up. He barely managed to lean over the toilet in time. The force of it left him gripping the tank behind him with one hand while the other pressed against his side. His entire body tensed as another painful wave rolled through his back. By the time it finally stopped, he was breathing hard and sweating despite the cool air in the bathroom.

For several seconds Dean simply stood there hunched over the toilet. His side still hurt. His bladder still hurt. His stomach felt hollow and unsettled. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead briefly against the cool wall beside him. Everything felt wrong.

Eventually he straightened and reached for the toilet paper roll. The sight in front of him almost made him gag again. He grabbed a handful and began wiping up the mess he'd made around the rim. The task seemed ridiculously difficult for something so simple. Every time he bent down, his side protested. Every time he stood back up, his bladder throbbed angrily. By the time he finished, he was breathing harder than he should have been from such a basic task.

For a minute Dean simply leaned against the counter, breathing through his mouth and waiting for the nausea to settle. His side still throbbed with every heartbeat and his bladder somehow felt just as full as it had before. The entire trip to the bathroom had accomplished absolutely nothing except leaving him exhausted and sweaty. 

He spared a quick glance at his reflection in the mirror above the sink and barely recognized the guy looking back. His eyes looked tired, his skin seemed pale, and there were dark circles beneath them that hadn't been there a week ago. The sight wasn't particularly reassuring.

Before leaving, he decided to try and go one more time. At this point he was too uncomfortable not to. Dean turned back toward the toilet and waited. This time a longer stream finally came. The relief should have felt good. Instead it burned. The sensation was so sharp and unpleasant that he immediately squeezed his eyes shut. His grip tightened on the counter beside him as the burning continued from beginning to end. By the time it finally stopped, his jaw ached from clenching it. When he opened his eyes again, he realized tears had gathered at the corners.

Dean swore quietly under his breath and immediately wiped them away with the back of his hand. 

Who cried over a urinary tract infection?

The thought alone was enough to make him roll his eyes at himself. He was a hockey player. He'd played through broken fingers, split lips, bruised ribs, and more stitches than he could count. Yet apparently a stupid infection had managed to reduce him to tearing up in a bathroom. Dean shook his head, washed his hands at the sink, and tried not to think about it any further.

A minute later he finally left the bathroom and headed back toward his room. The walk wasn't long, but it felt longer than it should have. When he finally stepped through the doorway, he found Garrett exactly where he'd left him, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his phone in his hand.

Dean frowned slightly, "Who are you texting?"

Garrett glanced down at the screen, "Hannah."

Then he looked up.

The moment his eyes landed fully on Dean, his expression changed. 

"Dude."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"You look terrible."

Dean couldn't help the sarcastic snort that escaped him.

"Thanks."

Normally Garrett would have laughed.

This time he didn't.

Because Dean genuinely looked awful.

His skin was pale enough to be concerning, yet his cheeks were still flushed pink. His eyes looked glassy. His hair was damp around the edges from sweat. Even standing seemed to require more effort than it should have. Garrett had expected him to look sleepy after waking up from a long nap. Instead he just looked sick.

Dean carefully lowered himself onto the mattress beside him. Even sitting down made his side ache again. He shifted slightly until he found a position that hurt less before letting out a tired breath.

For a few moments neither of them spoke.

Then Dean looked down at his hands.

"I think I have a uti."

For some reason admitting it out loud still felt ridiculous. In Dean's mind, urinary tract infections were one of those things he'd always associated with girls, not hockey players. It wasn't a logical thought and he knew that, but it didn't stop him from feeling embarrassed sitting there talking about it. The entire conversation felt awkward. He could discuss broken bones, concussions, and torn ligaments without blinking. Talking about burning every time he used the bathroom was somehow worse.

Garrett, meanwhile, looked completely unimpressed by Dean's embarrassment.

"Dude, you look sick."

Dean shrugged, trying to appear more casual than he felt. The movement immediately pulled at his side, but he ignored it.

"It's just this annoying burning sensation every time I pee."

Because the truth was that it had stopped being just an annoying burning sensation days ago. Dean simply wasn't interested in explaining all of that. Unfortunately, Garrett looked no more reassured than before.

Thankfully, his teammate’s phone suddenly rang.

Both of them looked down at the screen.

The name Hannah appeared immediately.

Garrett sighed while Dean almost smiled.

Perfect timing.

"You should take that."

Garrett looked back up, "We're not done talking."

Dean immediately made a shooing motion with one hand.

"Go answer it."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

The phone continued ringing.

Garrett glanced between Dean and the screen, clearly debating which problem he wanted to deal with first. Dean took advantage of the hesitation by practically waving him toward the door.

"Hannah is literally waiting for you."

For a moment it looked like Garrett might ignore the call entirely. Then common sense finally won. With an annoyed sigh, he pushed himself off the mattress and slipped the phone into his hand.

Before turning toward the door, he pointed directly at Dean.

"We're continuing this later."

Dean immediately gave him a thumbs-up.

"Absolutely."

As Garrett reached the doorway, Dean called after him.

"And go get ready."

Garrett stopped and turned around.

"I am ready."

Dean slowly looked him up and down.

"You look like you got dressed in the dark."

Garrett just shook his head before walking out of the room so he could take the call. The moment the door disappeared from view, the smile slipped from Dean's face completely. Whatever energy he'd managed to fake during the conversation vanished with it. He let out a slow breath and carefully lowered himself beneath the blankets, hoping that if he could just lie still for a while everything would calm down.

It didn't.

Less than ten seconds after settling onto his side, a violent spasm shot through the left side of his back.

Dean gasped and immediately curled tighter around himself.

The pain arrived without warning, a sharp cramping sensation that seemed to wrap around his entire side before digging deep beneath his ribs. Another spasm followed. Then another. The muscles along his back tightened painfully and refused to relax. At the same time a familiar wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. His eyes widened. His mouth suddenly filled with saliva, so much that he had to swallow repeatedly just to keep up with it.

The nausea intensified alarmingly fast. One moment he was lying in bed. The next he was fighting the overwhelming certainty that he was about to throw up. Another painful cramp twisted through his side and a miserable whimper escaped him before he could stop it. His stomach lurched violently.

Nope.

Dean shot upright.

The sudden movement immediately made his back protest, but he ignored it. At that moment he only had one thought in his head. Bathroom. He pushed himself off the bed and practically stumbled into the hallway. The nausea was rising too quickly now. His stomach felt like it was turning itself inside out while the spasms in his back continued arriving in painful waves. Halfway down the hall he vaguely became aware of Garrett standing near the stairs with a phone pressed to his ear, talking to Hannah.

Garrett immediately stopped speaking when he saw him, but Dean just ignored him for now. The bathroom was all he could think about.

He reached it barely in time.

The second he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, his stomach finally gave up.

The force of it nearly folded him in half.

A harsh retch tore through him and was immediately followed by another. His side screamed in protest every time his stomach clenched. The pain in his back seemed to intensify with every wave. By the third time he was shaking so badly he had trouble catching his breath between episodes. His fingers tightened around the edge of the toilet while sweat dampened the back of his neck and forehead.

Somewhere behind him he heard Garrett swear.

"Shit."

Dean barely processed it. It all seemed to blend together into one miserable blur. He just heard Garrett speaking quickly into the phone.

"Hannah, I gotta call you back."

A pause.

Then:

"No, it's Dean."

Another pause.

"Yeah. I'll call you later."

The call ended immediately afterward.

A second later Garrett was kneeling behind him.

One hand settled against the middle of Dean's back while the other wrapped around his side to keep him upright. The support was probably the only reason Dean didn't end up collapsed completely on the floor. Another painful retch hit him and his entire body tensed.

He coughed and belched wetly, the sound loud in the small room. His stomach gargled and he threw up again, more abundantly, doubling over with the strain, a torrent of vomit splashing into the toilet. He spat and exhaled as his stomach contracted again. Dean curled tightly on himself as his stomach ejected another thick stream of acidic slop, the heavy rancid smell burning his sinuses.

He spat and panted, moaning as an oceanic surge flipped his stomach and propelled it up his throat in another loud heave. He forced his mouth open as wide as he could as he vomited, the contraction lasting for what felt like an eternity.

Once the wave was over, Dean could do something other than focus entirely on not throwing up. The first thing he noticed was Garrett's hand moving steadily up and down his back. It felt nice. He let his forehead rest briefly against the cool porcelain and concentrated on breathing.

A moment later a square of toilet paper appeared in front of him.

Dean blinked at it before accepting it with slightly shaky fingers.

"Thanks," he muttered hoarsely, his throat feeling raw.

He wiped his mouth and leaned back slightly, only to groan when his stomach immediately rolled again. The warning was enough to make him freeze in place. Garrett apparently noticed the reaction because his hand paused for a second before resuming its slow path across Dean's back.

"So did you also forget to mention you're throwing up?" 

Slowly, Dean lifted one hand in the air without looking back as he dry-heaved again before spewing more acid-laced mucus into the toilet. He panted and spat, his stomach still hovering in the back of his throat. He belched and burped, drool dribbling from his mouth in a steady stream.

He spat into the toilet and tried to breathe through his nose. A wet burp escaped him almost immediately afterward, followed by another. Saliva continued pooling in his mouth faster than he could swallow it. He wiped his mouth again and rested his forehead against his arm.

For a few moments the bathroom was quiet except for Dean's uneven breathing and Garrett's hand moving steadily up and down his back. The simple motion was oddly grounding. Dean focused on it while waiting for the nausea to settle enough that he could think again. His stomach still felt like it was hovering somewhere in his throat, threatening to rebel at any second, but at least the violent waves were starting to back off.

"My back hurts," Dean finally mumbled, his voice muffled against his arm.

Garrett immediately frowned. "Your back?"

Dean nodded without lifting his head.

The movement was small and sluggish. He felt awful. Every part of him seemed to hurt. His stomach churned every time he moved, his bladder still felt painfully irritated, and now the deep throbbing ache in his lower back was demanding most of his attention. He slowly moved one hand away from the toilet and pressed it against the painful area.

"Right here."

Garrett followed the motion with his eyes.

"That's where it hurts?"

Another nod.

Dean kept his hand pressed there.

The ache wasn't constant anymore. It pulsed. Sometimes it would settle into a dull throb. Other times it would spike sharply enough to make him stop whatever he was doing and wait for it to pass. Right now it felt like somebody had buried a hot knife deep into his side and was twisting it every few minutes.

Carefully, Garrett reached forward and lifted the back of Dean's shirt. He expected to find a bruise. The game had been physical and Dean had taken more than one hard hit into the boards. A nasty bruise would have explained a lot. Instead Garrett found absolutely nothing. The skin looked completely normal. No swelling. No discoloration. No evidence of any injury whatsoever, except for the heat.

Garrett moved his hand again, this time pressing it more fully against Dean's skin. He was burning up. Not warm from throwing up.

"Jesus."

Dean finally lifted his head slightly.

"What?"

"You're on fire."

Dean let his head fall forward again and closed his eyes. For a few seconds he simply focused on breathing through the lingering nausea while Garrett's hand remained against his back. The weird part was that despite how hot Garrett insisted he felt, Dean couldn't stop shivering. Every few minutes a chill seemed to run straight through him, leaving him curling tighter around himself.

"But I'm cold," he mumbled.

Looking down, Garrett could actually see goosebumps scattered along Dean's forearms despite the fever radiating off him. 

Garrett rubbed his face, "I can give you more muscle relaxers if you want." Then added, "If you can keep them down."

"Sounds heavenly," Dean replied, frowning when he felt the pressure in his bladder. The sensation was painful enough that it demanded his attention immediately.

"I need to pee."

Garrett wasn't even surprised anymore.

"Got it."

He stood and held out a hand. Normally Dean would have rolled his eyes and insisted he didn't need help. Normally he would have complained about being treated like an invalid. Tonight he simply stared at the offered hand for a second before taking it.

The moment Dean straightened, a pulse of pain shot through his side and lower back. His face tightened immediately and one hand moved instinctively toward the painful area. For a second he simply stood there waiting for the wave to pass. Garrett remained beside him the entire time, close enough to catch him if necessary.

"You alright?" Garrett asked.

Dean nodded after a few seconds even though he clearly wasn't.

"I'm good."

Garrett stepped toward the door and Dean immediately pointed toward it.

"Out."

Garrett blinked.

"Seriously?"

"Out."

"Dean."

"Out."

Garrett rolled his eyes and finally surrendered before stepping into the hallway and pulling the door closed behind him.

Left alone, Dean turned back toward the toilet. The pressure in his bladder had become almost unbearable now that he was standing there. It felt absurdly full despite the fact that he'd been making bathroom trips all evening. He closed his eyes and waited. At first nothing happened. Then finally a stream started.

The relief he expected never came.

Instead the familiar burning sensation appeared immediately.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath and gripped the counter beside him. The pain was intense enough that his eyes squeezed shut on instinct. It wasn't just uncomfortable anymore. It hurt. The sensation seemed to travel through his entire lower abdomen and into his side while the stream continued. At least this time more than a few drops came out, but that almost made it worse because the burning lasted longer.

When the painful stream finally stopped, the pressure in his bladder had eased slightly, but nowhere near as much as it should have. Eventually he forced himself to wash his hands, splashing cool water over them while staring blankly into the sink.

The moment he opened the bathroom door, Garrett straightened from where he'd been waiting in the hallway.

"You okay?"

He simply shook his head once and walked past him.

Garrett immediately moved to help, but Dean waved him off without even looking up. At that moment he was too tired to talk and too miserable to care about anything except reaching his bed.

Every few steps another chill ran through him despite the fever burning beneath his skin. By the time he reached his room, he felt exhausted enough to collapse.

Which was exactly what he did.

Dean carefully climbed onto the mattress and curled into the middle of the bed. He drew his knees up instinctively and wrapped the blanket around himself. The position wasn't comfortable. Nothing was comfortable anymore. But it hurt slightly less than sitting upright. Within seconds his eyes drifted closed.

He must have dozed off.

Maybe for a few seconds.

Maybe a minute.

He wasn't sure.

All he knew was that when he opened his eyes again, Garrett was standing beside the bed holding a water bottle, a thermometer, and the bottle of muscle relaxers.

"Open up, man."

Dean groaned quietly but did as he was told.

Garrett slipped the thermometer beneath his tongue and crossed his arms while they waited. Dean remained curled beneath the blanket while Garrett watched him carefully. The longer he looked, the worse Dean seemed to appear. His cheeks were flushed bright red, his eyes looked glassy, and his hair was damp from sweat despite the fact that he kept pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

While the thermometer worked, Garrett shook one of the muscle relaxers into his palm and waited. Dean's eyes kept drifting shut despite his best efforts to keep them open. Every few seconds his head would sink a little farther into the pillow before he forced it back up again.

A few moments later the thermometer finally beeped. Garrett removed it and glanced down at the display.

103.4.

Trying not to show how much the reading bothered him, Garrett handed over the muscle relaxer. Dean accepted it without argument, which honestly worried Garrett almost as much as the fever.

Tonight he simply placed the pill in his mouth and reached for the water bottle.

After taking a tiny sip, he immediately started lowering it.

Garrett shook his head.

"No."

Dean blinked tiredly.

"What?"

"More."

Dean dramatically and lifted the bottle again. This time he took several larger swallows. Garrett didn't look away until he'd consumed considerably more than before. Only then did he seem satisfied.

"There."

Dean handed the bottle back before immediately burrowing deeper beneath the blankets.

"Happy?"

"A little."

Garrett stared at the thermometer for another few seconds before finally pulling out his phone. Dean had already disappeared beneath the blankets again, curled tightly on his side with his face buried halfway into the pillow. With a sigh, he opened his conversation with Hannah.

Garrett: Hey. I'm really sorry but I don't think I'm gonna make it tonight.

When she immediately asked what had happened, he explained that Dean was sick, had thrown up several times, was running a fever of 103.4, and apparently had a urinary tract on top of it all.

Hannah's response was immediate.

"Poor guy."

A second message followed right after.

"Only Dean could manage to catch a uti and the stomach flu at the same time."

Despite everything, Garrett huffed a small laugh and agreed that it sounded exactly like something Dean would do. Hannah asked how bad he looked and Garrett glanced over at the bed before admitting that Dean looked terrible. The hockey player was curled tightly beneath the blankets, flushed from the fever and appeared to be asleep again despite only being awake for a few minutes.

Hannah quickly switched back to being serious and told Garrett he absolutely should stay with him. Garrett admitted that he already planned to. Before ending the conversation, Hannah told him to keep a close eye on Dean and call if they need anything.

Garrett set his phone down on the bedside table and let out a quiet sigh. For a few seconds he simply sat there watching Dean, convinced his teammate had already fallen asleep again. The blankets were pulled all the way up to his shoulders and his breathing had settled into a slow rhythm. 

Then Dean shifted.

Garrett immediately looked over.

A low groan escaped him while he slowly tried to push himself upright, one elbow digging into the mattress as he fought to sit.

"Hey," Garrett said quickly, leaning forward. "What are you doing?"

Instinctively he placed a hand against Dean's chest, not shoving him back down but gently trying to stop him from forcing himself upright. Dean was clearly in no condition to be getting out of bed.

Dean let out another miserable sound and weakly pushed Garrett's hand away.

"My back..."

Before Garrett could respond, another painful spasm seemed to seize the left side of Dean's lower back. His entire body stiffened and his face twisted into a grimace. One hand immediately flew toward the painful area while he curled slightly around it, trying to find a position that hurt less. Instead the movement only seemed to make things worse. The pain pulsed through his side in deep waves that stole his breath, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut while waiting for the latest surge to ease.

Dean sat himself up with a grimace. The pain increased the nausea and he rested his head against the headboard, breathing carefully through his nose as though trying to keep his stomach under control.

The nausea rolled through him hard enough that he could feel it climbing into the back of his throat. His stomach seemed to tighten with every passing second while another wave of pain flared through his back at the same time. It was becoming difficult to tell which one hurt more. All he knew was that the combination made him want to curl into the smallest ball possible and not move ever again.

Garrett rested a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"You must've pulled something during the game."

Dean gave the smallest nod.

"Mm."

It was all he managed.

In his mind, that explanation still made the most sense. He'd taken plenty of hard hits into the boards, and the timing fit well enough that he never questioned it. Every new stab of pain only reinforced the idea that he'd strained something badly on the ice. He concentrated on taking slow breaths through the nausea, desperately trying not to gag again while the throbbing in his lower back continued to build.

"The medication should start kicking in soon. Just give it a little time."

Garrett reached out, intending to rub his shoulder again, but stopped halfway there when Dean suddenly flinched. His entire body went rigid, one hand flying over his mouth as his eyes widened in alarm.

"Dean?"

Dean made a desperate, muffled sound behind his hand.

Garrett barely had time to react.

Dean lurched forward with a violent heave, causing him to throw up between his fingers, and splatter all over his lap, and the blankets. He held his hands there, still trying to keep it in before he realized he was way too sick to stop it, and moved his hands, retching so hard he couldn’t breathe for a moment. He threw up one more time on the blankets before continuing to swallow it back down.

Garrett immediately grabbed him around the shoulders and pulled him toward the edge of the bed before the vomit could soak completely into the blankets and mattress. The movement happened almost entirely on instinct. Dean doubled over as another forceful retch tore through him, spilling onto the floor beside the bed instead of across himself. Garrett kept one arm wrapped around his chest to stop him from pitching forward altogether while trying to angle him away from the bed.

As Garrett shifted his grip, his fingers accidentally pressed against the left side of Dean's lower back. The sick boy cried out and his entire body jerked violently away from his touch, and Garrett instinctively let go, startled by how intense the reaction had been.

"Dean!"

Another retch interrupted any answer.

Dean remained bent over the side of the bed, his body trembling with the effort as another wave of nausea overtook him. By the time it finally eased, tears were running freely down his face. Whether they were from vomiting, pain, exhaustion, or some combination of all three, Garrett couldn't tell. Dean hardly seemed aware they were there.

"It hurts..."

Dean's voice cracked.

"It hurts... it hurts..."

"It hurts so bad," Dean whispered again, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please... my back..."

Garrett simply froze for a second.

He had absolutely no idea what to do.

Throughout all the years they'd known each other, he'd seen Dean play through broken fingers, cracked ribs, deep cuts that needed stitches and bruises that covered half his body. 

Dean's response to pain had always been the same. He complained loudly, made dramatic speeches about how he was obviously dying, accepted whatever treatment was necessary, and then somehow found a way to make everyone else laugh. Crying had never been part of it.

Not once.

Eventually the retching began to settle. Garrett stayed exactly where he was for another minute, watching carefully for any sign that another wave of nausea was building. Dean remained bent over the side of the bed, breathing hard and swallowing every few seconds, but after a while the awful heaving finally stopped. Satisfied that his stomach had calmed for the moment, Garrett carefully reached for the soaked duvet and pulled it completely off the bed before dropping it onto the floor.

"Hang on," Garrett said softly.

Dean barely acknowledged him.

His shirt was damp with sweat now, clinging uncomfortably to his back and shoulders. Garrett gently helped him sit forward just enough to peel it off over his head, taking care not to jostle him more than necessary. Dean offered no resistance whatsoever, which in itself felt wrong. Usually he'd complain about being fussed over. Tonight he simply let Garrett do whatever he needed to. 

Once the shirt was gone, Garrett eased him back down onto the mattress and shifted until Dean was resting against his side. Almost immediately Dean curled toward him, instinctively seeking the warmth and support while still protecting his aching back.

Garrett wrapped one arm loosely around his shoulders and began rubbing slow circles across the upper part of his back, deliberately avoiding the sore area.

Little by little the sobs started losing their intensity. They didn't disappear altogether, but they became quieter, spaced farther apart as Dean concentrated on catching his breath. Eventually he lifted the back of one hand and awkwardly wiped at his eyes, clearly embarrassed by the tears even though he looked far too exhausted to care very much.

"I'm gonna ask Logan to bring the good muscle relaxers when they get back," Garrett murmured, still rubbing his back in slow, steady motions. "Maybe they'll hit this harder."

Dean gave the smallest nod.

"I... it's passing," he mumbled, his words slurring together from exhaustion. "Think... it's passing."

His eyes drifted shut before he'd even finished speaking.

Keeping one arm loosely around Dean's shoulders so he wouldn't wake him, Garrett reached over to the bedside table and picked up his phone. He opened his conversation with Logan and stared at the screen for a moment, trying to decide how to explain everything without making it sound completely insane. In the end he settled on keeping it simple.

Garrett: Hey, if you still have those stronger muscle relaxers the doctor gave you after your shoulder, can you bring them home? Dean's back is absolutely killing him and the Robaxin didn't do a thing.

Garrett read the message over once before pressing send.

The little "Delivered" notification appeared beneath it. Garrett slipped his phone back onto the bedside table without waiting for an answer and rubbed a tired hand over his face.

His attention immediately returned to Dean.

The blond was still curled tightly against his side, breathing slowly with his eyes closed. Every now and then his face tightened into a brief grimace before relaxing again, as though even asleep he couldn't completely escape the pain. His skin still radiated heat beneath Garrett's arm, and damp blond hair clung to his forehead from the combination of sweat and fever.

Dean absolutely needed a shower. Normally Dean would have been the first one to complain about feeling gross after vomiting. He never stayed in dirty clothes if he could help it. He hated feeling sticky or sweaty and almost always disappeared into the bathroom the second he got home after a game, insisting on washing the smell of the arena off before doing anything else.

Before Garrett could decide whether he should wake him, Dean stirred on his own. His eyebrows pulled together in a sleepy frown as he slowly dragged one hand across his face, rubbing at his eyes before letting out a quiet groan.

"I need to pee," he mumbled thickly, his voice rough with sleep.

Garrett took advantage of the opportunity. He slipped an arm behind Dean's shoulders and helped guide him into a sitting position against the headboard. Dean leaned heavily into the pillows, blinking slowly as though it took real effort to keep his eyes open.

"Hang on a second."

Without waiting for an answer, Garrett crossed to Dean's dresser and pulled out a pair of soft sweatpants, an old Briar T-shirt, clean boxers, and a fresh pair of socks. He added one of Dean's towels from the closet before draping everything neatly across his arm. Looking at the pile, he couldn't help thinking that if he could somehow convince Dean to shower while he was already heading to the bathroom, maybe he'd feel at least a little more comfortable afterward.

"C'mon. Let's get you up."

Dean looked at the offered hands for a long moment before slowly shaking his head.

"I got it, G," he muttered.

Garrett hesitated, "You sure?"

Dean answered by proving his point. He planted both feet carefully on the floor and pushed himself upright without taking Garrett's hands. His left hand still drifted instinctively to his lower back, remaining there as if expecting another spasm at any second, yet the pain never fully arrived. Instead there was only a dull ache lingering beneath his ribs. Maybe the muscle relaxer was finally starting to work, Dean thought hopefully. It wasn't much, but compared to what he'd been feeling only a few minutes earlier, it almost felt like relief.

As he steadied himself, his eyes drifted toward the floor beside the bed where the discarded duvet and the mess from getting sick were still waiting to be cleaned up. A guilty expression crossed his face almost immediately.

"Sorry," he muttered quietly.

Garrett didn't even look toward the floor.

"It's okay, man."

Dean looked back at him.

"No, I..."

"It's a blanket, Dean. I'll wash it."

The matter-of-fact response immediately ended the discussion. Garrett simply picked up the folded clothes and towel before nodding toward the hallway. Dean gave a tired nod of his own and started walking, one hand remaining pressed against his lower back while Garrett stayed close enough that their shoulders brushed every couple of steps.

When they reached the bathroom, Dean stepped inside first. He reached back automatically for the door, nearly closing it directly in Garrett's face before Garrett caught it with one hand.

"I'll give you a few minutes," Garrett said.

Dean only hummed in acknowledgement before the door clicked shut.

Garrett remained outside in the hallway, listening. At first he heard the familiar sounds of someone moving around the bathroom, followed by the faucet turning on. Then everything became strangely quiet. One minute passed. Then another. Garrett looked at the closed door, debating whether he was overreacting. Dean had insisted he could manage on his own.

Five minutes later he knocked softly.

"Dean?"

No answer.

Garrett frowned.

He pushed the door open.

Dean wasn't standing in front of the toilet like Garrett had expected. Instead he was gripping both sides of the sink with his head hanging low, his shoulders rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths. His reflection in the mirror looked even worse than before. His face had gone almost gray beneath the flush of the fever, sweat clung to his temples, and he looked as though simply remaining upright was taking everything he had.

Garrett quietly stepped inside and draped the towel over the shower door before looking back at him.

"Did you go?"

Dean gave the smallest nod.

Before he could say anything else, his stomach lurched.

He turned his head just enough to avoid breathing it back in and spat a mouthful of bitter stomach contents into the sink. There wasn't much left to bring up after everything earlier, but the effort still made him wince. He stayed bent over the sink afterward, swallowing hard while another wave of nausea threatened to return.

Garrett was beside him immediately.

Without saying anything, he rested a steady hand between Dean's shoulder blades and began rubbing slow circles up and down his back.

"I think first thing tomorrow morning we're going to the clinic," Garrett said quietly.

Dean simply remained leaning over the sink while Garrett continued rubbing his back, trying to breathe through the lingering nausea. After several long seconds, Dean finally gave the smallest nod.

"Okay," he whispered hoarsely.

Dean stayed where he was for another minute, both hands gripping the edges of the sink while he concentrated on taking slow, steady breaths. Little by little the nausea settled back into the background until it was nothing more than an unpleasant ache in the pit of his stomach.

Dean didn't answer right away. He stared down at the sink for several long seconds, clearly considering it. He knew Garrett was right. He felt disgusting. Sweat clung to his skin, his hair was damp with fever, and after everything that had happened over the last hour, all he wanted was to feel clean again. Unfortunately that meant standing, moving, and having enough energy to wash himself, and at the moment all three sounded impossible. He slowly started to shake his head.

Garrett gently cut him off before he could even say no.

"I'll help you."

Dean looked over at him.

"It's gonna make you feel better."

For a moment neither of them spoke. Dean wanted to argue. Normally he would have insisted he could manage on his own or that he didn't need help with something as simple as taking a shower. Tonight he couldn't even convince himself. His entire body felt heavy, his lower back still ached with a deep throbbing pain, his bladder remained sore despite another trip to the bathroom, and he was so tired he wasn't entirely sure he could stay standing for more than a few minutes.

Eventually he gave the smallest nod.

"...Okay."

The word came out barely above a whisper.

He rubbed both hands over his face, trying to wake himself up a little, but instead felt his eyes sting unexpectedly. Fresh tears threatened to gather again, more from sheer exhaustion and feeling overwhelmed than anything else. Dean quickly blinked them away before Garrett could say anything.

Garrett pretended not to notice.

"Alright," he said softly. "We'll take it slow."

Dean simply stood there while Garrett carefully helped him out of his clothes. Normally Dean would have made some sarcastic comment about losing his dignity, but tonight he didn't have the energy. Garrett crouched to help with the sweatpants, taking over before Dean had a chance to bend because he'd already seen how badly even small movements aggravated his back. Within another minute Dean was left standing in nothing but his underwear, looking pale, exhausted, and far more vulnerable than Garrett had ever seen him.

A shiver immediately ran through him.

His bare arms broke out in goosebumps despite the fever burning beneath his skin.

Garrett turned away to adjust the shower, deliberately setting the water to a cool, lukewarm temperature instead of the hot shower Dean usually preferred after hockey games. He tested the stream with his hand for a few seconds, making sure it was comfortable without being cold enough to make Dean shiver harder. With a fever that high, the last thing he wanted was steaming hot water.

"There," Garrett said after another quick adjustment. "That should help cool you off a little."

Garrett slipped one arm carefully around Dean's waist and the other beneath his elbow, helping him step over the small lip of the shower without rushing him. Once both feet were planted securely on the shower floor, Garrett waited another few seconds until he was certain Dean's balance had settled before letting go. The lukewarm water immediately began running over Dean's shoulders and back, dampening his already sweat-soaked hair. Dean closed his eyes and let out the smallest sigh. The water wasn't hot enough to sting his overheated skin, yet it was warm enough that the constant chills eased ever so slightly.

"I'm coming in," Garrett warned.

Dean answered with nothing more than a tired nod.

Garrett quickly pulled his hoodie over his head, peeled off his T-shirt, and tossed both onto the bathroom counter before stepping into the shower wearing only his athletic shorts. The space was cramped with two people inside, but he wasn't about to leave Dean standing there by himself. He took the bottle of shampoo, worked a small amount into his hands, and gently began washing Dean's hair while making sure he stayed upright.

Dean barely participated. Every so often Garrett had to remind him to lift his chin or turn slightly so he could rinse the shampoo away, and each instruction was met with a sluggish, delayed response that made it obvious just how exhausted he was becoming.

For several quiet minutes the shower seemed to help. The water washed away the sweat clinging to Dean's skin and the lingering smell of vomit, while Garrett carefully soaped a washcloth and cleaned his shoulders, arms, and back without making him bend more than absolutely necessary. Dean simply stood there with his eyes closed, conserving every bit of energy he had. More than once Garrett felt Dean leaning a little more heavily against him, and he instinctively shifted closer to take some of his weight without saying anything.

Then, without warning, Dean stopped moving altogether.

Instead of standing on his own, he slowly rested his forehead against Garrett's shoulder.

Garrett immediately paused.

"You okay?"

Dean didn't answer.

Then he felt Dean tense.

A low groan escaped him as his entire body stiffened. His right hand shot immediately toward the left side of his lower back, pressing hard against the painful spot as though he could somehow stop whatever was happening beneath his skin.

"Shh," Garrett said quietly, wrapping one arm more securely around him. "Breathe. Just stay still."

Dean wanted to scream at Garrett. Staying still didn’t work. Nothing worked. Another sharp cramp tore through his side, violent enough to steal the breath from his lungs. His fingers dug into Garrett's shoulder as he tried to ride it out, but the pain only intensified. Tears welled in his eyes almost immediately. Dean blinked rapidly, hoping the shower water would hide them. He didn't want Garrett seeing him cry again. Not over this. Not over something he still stubbornly wanted to believe was just a pulled muscle.

Another pulse hit.

Harder.

Dean couldn't hold back the sound that escaped him.

He pulled away from Garrett just enough to turn toward the drain before his stomach lurched violently. A harsh retch bent him forward and he vomited onto the shower floor, the water immediately washing it toward the drain. He remained doubled over afterward, breathing hard while another painful cramp rolled through his back.

Garrett stood frozen for a second, one hand still resting between Dean's shoulder blades while his mind raced through everything that had happened that evening. He and Hannah had assumed Dean had somehow managed to catch a stomach virus on top of everything else, but standing there watching Dean tremble beneath the running water, Garrett realized they'd had it backwards all along. He replayed each episode in order without even meaning to. Dean hadn't simply been throwing up at random. The first time had happened immediately after the pain in his back had flared in the bathroom. The second had come after another wave of pain while lying in bed. Now, the instant the cramping returned beneath the shower, he'd vomited again.

The nausea wasn't causing the pain.

The pain was causing the nausea.

Once the wave finally passed, Garrett didn't waste any time. He quickly finished rinsing the soap from Dean's shoulders and hair before shutting the water off. Dean remained leaning heavily against the shower wall, breathing hard with his eyes closed, looking as though simply staying on his feet had become the hardest thing he'd done all day. Garrett reached for the towel waiting over the shower door and immediately wrapped it around Dean's shoulders, rubbing gently over his arms and back to dry him as quickly as possible.

"Easy," Garrett murmured. "I've got you."

Dean gave the smallest nod, too exhausted to answer.

Garrett slipped an arm around his waist and carefully helped him step out of the shower. He had just started guiding him toward the closed toilet lid, figuring Dean probably needed to sit down before his legs gave out completely, when Dean suddenly slowed.

"I... I think I need to go again."

Dean rubbed at his eyes with the heel of one hand, trying to wipe away the tears that kept escaping despite his best efforts. His eyelids were swollen and pink now, and the skin beneath his eyes had taken on the raw look of someone who had been crying for far longer than they wanted anyone to know.

Garrett simply nodded.

"Okay."

This time Dean didn't ask him to leave.

Garrett remained beside him, one hand resting lightly against his shoulder in case another dizzy spell hit.

Dean closed his eyes and waited.

After several long seconds the stream finally started.

It still burned, but Dean barely reacted. Not because it hurt less, but because he was getting used to it.

When he finally finished, Garrett helped him over to the closed toilet seat. Dean practically collapsed onto it, shoulders slumped forward and elbows resting loosely on his knees while he caught his breath. Every ounce of energy seemed to have been drained out of him. His wet hair clung to his forehead and neck, and every few seconds another tear escaped from the corner of one eye and slowly rolled down his flushed cheek. Dean didn't even seem aware it was happening anymore.

"I'll be right back."

Garrett quickly stripped off his soaked shorts, dried himself with a spare towel, and pulled on a clean pair before returning immediately to Dean's side. Dean hadn't moved. He was still sitting exactly where Garrett had left him, staring blankly at the floor as though he no longer had the energy to think.

Without saying anything, Garrett crouched in front of him and picked up the clean T-shirt. Dean obediently lifted his arms when asked, allowing Garrett to pull the shirt carefully over his head and guide each arm through the sleeves. "Still hurting?" Garrett asked softly as he smoothed the shirt down over Dean's shoulders.

Dean was quiet for several seconds before giving a tired shrug.

"...Kind of."

The answer came so softly Garrett almost missed it.

"It isn't as bad as before."

He paused, swallowing carefully.

"But it still... aches."

Garrett nodded without saying anything.

He continued helping Dean into the sweatpants, taking over each step that required bending because he knew Dean's back wouldn't tolerate it. As he worked, he couldn't stop watching Dean's face. The fever still painted his cheeks bright red, his eyes looked dull with exhaustion, and despite the shower washing away the sweat and vomit, he somehow looked even sicker than he had half an hour earlier.

Garrett tied the drawstring loosely before looking back up at him.

"Alright," Garrett said gently, slipping an arm around Dean's shoulders again. "Here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna get some Tylenol into you for that fever, then we're gonna get some water into you, and after that you're going to sleep. Sound okay?"

Dean didn't even hesitate.

"Sounds good," he mumbled.

Garrett helped him to his feet, taking most of his weight before they slowly made their way out of the bathroom. Dean instinctively turned toward the hallway leading to his own bedroom, clearly operating on autopilot, but Garrett gently steered him in the opposite direction.

"Not your room."

Dean looked at him with sleepy confusion.

"Huh?"

"My room," Garrett explained. "It's closer to the bathroom, and I still need to clean yours up."

Dean stared at him for another second as though trying to process the explanation before finally giving a slow nod.

"Oh."

Dean simply allowed himself to be guided down the hallway without another word. Garrett kept one hand firmly around his back until they reached his bedroom, then eased Dean down onto the edge of the mattress.

"Stay right here."

Dean nodded automatically.

"I'll be back."

Garrett crossed the hall into Dean's room, immediately grabbing the soiled duvet from where he'd dropped it earlier. He bundled it together as neatly as he could, as his eyes briefly landed on the mess still drying on the bedroom floor, and he sighed quietly to himself.

Later.

The floor could wait.

Dean couldn't.

He carried the dirty bedding downstairs, tossing it directly into the washing machine before starting a quick cycle. Without wasting another second, Garrett headed back upstairs and ducked into Dean's room again. He grabbed the thermometer from the bedside table, the bottle of Tylenol from the medicine drawer, and Dean's water bottle before hurrying back across the hall.

When he stepped into his own bedroom again, the sight waiting for him made him stop in the doorway.

Dean was still sitting exactly where Garrett had left him.

Or at least he was trying to.

His head had gradually fallen forward until his chin rested against his chest, and every few seconds it dipped another inch before jerking back up again. His eyes were completely closed now. It looked as though he was trying desperately to stay awake, but losing the battle one slow nod at a time.

"Hey."

Dean's head jerked up.

"Hm?"

"You falling asleep sitting up?"

Dean blinked several times as though he'd only just realized where he was. His gaze wandered slowly around the room before eventually finding Garrett again, though even then he looked as though he was having trouble focusing.

Dean gave the smallest, tired shrug.

"My head feels... heavy."

The words came out sluggishly, almost slurring together. He lifted one hand as though he intended to rub at his eyes again, but halfway there he seemed to forget what he was doing and simply let it fall back into his lap. Between the fever, the constant trips to the bathroom, and everything Dean had thrown up over the last couple of hours, there was a very real possibility he was becoming dehydrated. The thought alone was enough to make Garrett reach immediately for the water bottle he'd brought back from Dean's room.

"Here."

He unscrewed the lid and placed the bottle into Dean's hands before closing his fingers gently around it.

"Drink, man."

Dean obeyed without argument. He lifted the bottle with both hands and took several slow swallows, pausing every few seconds to catch his breath before forcing himself to drink again. Garrett watched carefully, relieved that for once Dean managed to keep the water down. By the time Dean finally lowered the bottle, he'd drunk considerably more than Garrett had expected from someone who'd been vomiting all evening.

"I can't..." Dean murmured quietly, handing it back. "Any more."

"That's alright."

Garrett took the bottle from him and set it carefully on the bedside table before immediately reaching for the thermometer.

"Open up."

Dean didn't even sigh this time.

He simply parted his lips obediently and allowed Garrett to slide the thermometer beneath his tongue before leaning back against the headboard again. His eyelids drifted closed almost immediately, and if it hadn't been for the thermometer, Garrett was fairly certain he would have been asleep within seconds.

While they waited, Garrett reached for the bottle of Tylenol and shook two tablets into the palm of his hand. Every few seconds his eyes drifted back toward Dean. The blond remained perfectly still except for the occasional shiver that rippled through his body despite the blankets pulled loosely around his legs. His cheeks were still unnaturally flushed, and damp strands of blond hair clung stubbornly to his forehead.

The thermometer finally beeped.

Garrett removed it and glanced automatically at the screen.

His expression immediately fell.

"Fuck me..."

The words escaped before he could stop them.

One hundred and three point nine.

The fever had gone up.

Not down.

Up.

For a second Garrett simply stared at the tiny display, almost hoping he'd read it wrong. He pressed the button, looked again, and found the exact same number staring back at him.

103.9.

Dean looked at him through half-open eyes.

"...Bad?"

Garrett forced his expression back under control before Dean could read the concern written all over his face.

"Let's get these into you first."

He placed the two Tylenol into Dean's hand before giving him the water bottle again. Dean swallowed the tablets with another careful drink, taking slightly larger mouthfuls this time while Garrett silently counted each swallow. Only when Dean finished and handed the bottle back did Garrett finally relax enough to screw the lid back on.

"There we go," Garrett said quietly, placing the bottle beside the thermometer on the nightstand. "Hopefully that'll start bringing that fever down."

Dean gave a tired nod, though Garrett wasn't entirely sure he'd heard him. His eyes were already drifting shut again, his chin slowly lowering toward his chest as the effort of staying awake became harder and harder.

Garrett looked once more at the thermometer lying beside the Tylenol bottle.

103.9.

There was nothing more he could do about the fever right that second except hope the Tylenol started working soon.

"C'mon," he said softly. "Let's get you lying down."

Dean barely seemed awake enough to understand him. Garrett slipped an arm around his shoulders and another beneath his knees just enough to help him pivot onto the mattress. Dean offered almost no assistance, allowing Garrett to ease him onto his side before pulling the pillow into a more comfortable position beneath his head. The moment he was settled, Dean instinctively reached for the duvet lying folded at the foot of the bed.

Garrett caught it first.

"Yeah..." he said gently, pulling it back out of Dean's reach. "I think we lost that privilege, bud."

Dean looked at him with sleepy confusion.

"Huh?"

"The fever," Garrett explained quietly. "You're burning up. No heavy duvet tonight."

Dean's face immediately crumpled into a tired frown.

"I'm cold."

The complaint came out more like a whimper than an argument.

Garrett's expression softened.

"I know you are."

Dean pulled his arms closer to himself and another visible shiver ran through him.

"So here's the deal," Garrett continued. "I'm gonna lay beside you. That ought to be enough body heat to keep you warm without roasting you."

Dean didn't argue.

He simply gave the smallest nod, too exhausted to negotiate over blankets anymore.

Garrett grabbed a light sheet instead and pulled it loosely over Dean before climbing into the bed beside him. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled onto his side, leaving enough space for Dean without crowding him. Almost immediately, Dean instinctively curled into a tight ball facing away from him, drawing his knees toward his chest in the position that seemed to hurt the least.

For a few moments Garrett simply watched him.

Dean's breathing gradually slowed. The tight lines of pain around his eyes softened ever so slightly. Every now and then a small shiver still passed through him, but they were becoming less frequent now that he wasn't sitting upright anymore.

A quiet sigh escaped Dean's lips.

Within seconds, his breathing settled into the slow, even rhythm of sleep.

It didn't take long before exhaustion caught up with him too, and sometime after midnight, with Dean asleep only inches away, Garrett finally drifted off beside him.

***

It was a little after two in the morning and Garrett was awake. 

2:08 am to be exact. 

It had been less than two hours since they'd finally laid down, and in that short time Dean had already gotten up four separate times insisting he needed to pee. Three of those trips had ended exactly the same way. Dean would barely make it to the bathroom before another wave of pain rolled through his back, his stomach would immediately turn, and he'd end up vomiting whatever little was still left inside him. By the last episode there had hardly been anything left except bitter stomach fluid, yet his body had continued trying anyway.

Garrett was trying very hard not to panic.

He really was.

But it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Dean wasn't improving.

If anything, he seemed to be slipping in the opposite direction. His responses had become shorter, quieter, and farther apart. Half the time Garrett wasn't even sure Dean was fully awake during the trips because the blond simply followed gentle instructions with glassy eyes before falling asleep again the moment his head touched the pillow.

Now Dean was finally asleep again, curled tightly against Garrett's side as though his body had instinctively decided that was the safest place to be. Earlier Garrett had found one of the reusable heat packs tucked away in the bathroom cabinet and, despite Dean's fever, had placed it carefully against the aching area of his lower back after Dean quietly admitted that warmth seemed to dull the pain more than anything else they'd tried. It wasn't a perfect solution, but judging by the way Dean had sighed in relief when it touched his back, it was helping at least a little.

Garrett looked down at him in the dim light filtering through the bedroom window. Even asleep he didn't look comfortable. His cheeks remained deeply flushed from the fever, damp blond hair stuck stubbornly to his forehead, and every now and then another small shiver passed through him despite the warmth of Garrett's body beside him.

Quietly, trying not to wake him, Garrett reached across the nightstand until his fingers found the thermometer. He switched it on beneath the blankets, then gently lifted Dean's arm just enough to slide it into his armpit. Dean shifted slightly and made a sleepy noise of protest but never actually woke. Garrett rested his hand lightly against Dean's arm, holding the thermometer in place while silently counting the seconds.

The soft beep sounded far too quickly.

Garrett eased it back out and squinted at the display in the darkness.

103.9.

It hadn't moved.

Garrett stared at the tiny display for another long moment before slowly setting the thermometer back onto the bedside table.

"Fuck... fuck... fuck..." he whispered under his breath, dragging both hands over his face.

Nothing was working.

Not the Tylenol.

Not the shower.

Not the water he'd managed to get Dean to drink.

The fever hadn't budged.

He looked back down at Dean, who remained curled tightly against his side with one arm tucked between them and his head resting against Garrett's chest. The blond slept fitfully, letting out the occasional sleepy sigh while every so often another small crease appeared between his eyebrows before smoothing away again. Garrett carefully wrapped an arm around him, more to reassure himself than anything else, and closed his own eyes for what he hoped would be a few minutes.

He had barely settled when he heard footsteps thundering up the stairs.

His eyes snapped open immediately and instinctively, he pulled Dean a little closer.

Less than fifteen seconds later the bedroom door swung open without so much as a knock.

"Hey, why didn't you come in—"

Tucker's voice exploded through the quiet room.

"For God's sake, don't wake him up," Garrett hissed before Tucker could finish.

The sudden whisper made both Tucker and Logan stop in the doorway. As their eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, they finally noticed the shape curled beside Garrett beneath the light blanket. Dean was tucked tightly against Garrett's side with his head resting on their captain’s chest, one hand still loosely gripping the front of Garrett's T-shirt even in his sleep.

Neither of them spoke for a second.

Logan was the first to break the silence.

"What the hell happened?"

He stepped farther into the room, Tucker following close behind. 

Garrett reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, filling the room with a soft yellow glow instead of the harsh overhead light. Before answering, he studied both of them carefully. Their speech wasn't slurred, their eyes were clear, and although they smelled faintly of beer from the party, neither of them looked drunk enough to be useless.

Only then did he finally speak.

"I honestly don't know."

Both Logan and Tucker frowned.

"He's got a uti that much I’m sure," Garrett continued quietly, glancing down at Dean before looking back at them. "And he thinks he pulled a muscle during the game because his lower back started hurting before we even got home."

Garrett paused for a moment.

"But..."

He rubbed a tired hand across his forehead.

"...I'm not even sure I believe that's what it is anymore."

"What else?"

"He's been throwing up."

"A stomach bug?" Tucker guessed.

Garrett slowly shook his head.

"That's what Hannah and I thought at first."

He looked down at Dean again.

"But I don't think that's it."

Both of them waited.

Garrett spoke more quietly.

"The vomiting isn't random. Every single time it's happened, his back pain hits first."

He replayed it aloud as much for himself as for them.

"The first time was in the bathroom. His back started cramping and then he threw up. Then it happened again in bed after another spasm. Then again in the shower. Tonight it's been exactly the same. The pain ramps up first... then he gets sick."

Without saying another word, Logan crossed the room and leaned over the bed. He gently rested the back of his hand against Dean's forehead.

His eyebrows shot up immediately.

"Jesus..."

He looked back at Garrett.

"How high's his fever? He's burning up."

Garrett didn't have to think about the answer.

"One hundred and three point nine."

Logan stared at him, his mouth opening and closing.

"I just rechecked.”

For a long moment neither Logan nor Tucker said anything.

They simply stood there looking at Dean. Even asleep he looked worn out, as though every bit of energy had been drained from him over the last several hours.

Tucker finally broke the silence.

"...He looks terrible."

Garrett glanced down at Dean and gave a small nod.

"I know."

Logan remained standing beside the bed for another second before reaching into the pocket of his jacket.

"I brought the stronger muscle relaxers," he said quietly, holding up the prescription bottle. "The ones they gave me after my shoulder."

Garrett looked at it but didn't reach for it.

A few hours earlier he would have taken it without hesitation.

Now...

"I don't think it's a good idea."

Logan nodded almost immediately.

"I was thinking the same thing."

Garrett let out a tired breath.

"He can barely stay awake as it is."

Logan looked back toward Dean.

"If we give him something stronger now..."

"He might get even sleepier," Garrett finished quietly.

A few moments later Dean stirred.

A low groan escaped him as he shifted beneath the sheet, his eyebrows pulling together before he instinctively curled even tighter around himself. Garrett immediately recognized the movement and gently began rubbing slow circles across his upper back.

"Easy," he murmured.

Dean's eyes fluttered open only a fraction.

They looked glassy.

Unfocused.

He didn't seem entirely aware of where he was.

"G..."

"I'm here."

Dean swallowed.

"...Bathroom."

Garrett was already moving.

"Yeah, okay."

He sat up immediately and started slipping one arm behind Dean's shoulders to help him upright.

Before he could, Logan stepped forward.

"I've got him."

He reached toward Dean, intending to help him sit.

The reaction was immediate.

Dean let out a quiet whimper and instinctively pulled away from Logan's hand. His eyes remained mostly closed, but one hand reached blindly through the blankets until it found Garrett's.

Garrett immediately squeezed Dean's hand before speaking in the same calm voice he'd been using all evening.

"Hey," he murmured, rubbing slow circles across Dean's back. "Logan and Tucker are just trying to help."

Dean blinked slowly, his eyes drifting toward the two figures standing at the foot of the bed. For several long seconds he simply stared at them, looking genuinely confused. It was almost as though his fever-clouded brain had only just managed to process that they were even in the room. His gaze moved from Logan to Tucker and then back to Garrett again, his expression distant and sluggish as he tried to piece everything together.

"...They're here?"

"Yeah," Garrett answered softly. "They just got back."

Dean's eyes lingered on them another moment before he slowly shook his head. The movement was barely noticeable, but Garrett felt it where Dean's forehead rested against his shoulder.

"I... I didn't..."

He stopped, unable to finish whatever thought he had been trying to form.

Garrett watched another tear gather at the corner of Dean's eye before quietly rolling down his flushed cheek.

It wasn't the first one.

It probably wasn't even the twentieth.

Throughout all the years Garrett had known Dean, he'd rarely seen him cry. Dean's response to pain had always been to joke about it, complain dramatically, or insist he was perfectly fine even when everyone could see he wasn't. Broken bones, stitches, concussions—none of them had ever reduced him to tears.

Tonight was different.

Whether it was the waves of pain, the high fever, the exhaustion, or simply the fact that his body had reached its limit, Dean's emotions seemed to sit frighteningly close to the surface. Every painful wave left his eyes watering. Every new setback seemed enough to overwhelm him. Garrett wasn't even sure Dean realized he was crying anymore.

"Hey," he said quietly. "I'm here."

Garrett continued rubbing slow circles across Dean's back until he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Dean remained pressed against him with his eyes closed, his breathing gradually evening out again, although the tears still lingered on his cheeks. Logan watched the exchange quietly for another moment before speaking in a much gentler voice than usual.

"Where does it hurt, Dean?"

Dean didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he slowly opened his eyes and looked instinctively toward Garrett first, as though searching for reassurance before acknowledging anyone else in the room. His expression was still hazy from the fever, and it took him several seconds to realize Logan had been the one asking the question.

Logan noticed the hesitation and immediately lifted both hands slightly.

"Hey," he said softly. "I'm not gonna touch you. I'm just asking."

Dean stared at him for another long moment before giving the smallest nod. He rubbed both eyes tiredly with the heels of his hands, looking more like a child fighting sleep than a college hockey player, and then one hand drifted automatically toward the left side of his lower back.

"My back hurts," he mumbled hoarsely.

Before anyone could respond, he let out a quiet groan and his other hand moved instinctively to his lower abdomen, pressing lightly against it while his face tightened into another pained grimace.

"...I need to pee."

Garrett was already moving before the sentence was finished.

"C'mon," he said quietly as he climbed out of bed. "Let's get you up."

Keeping one hand firmly around Dean's forearm and the other behind his back, Garrett carefully helped him lean forward until his feet found the floor. Dean cooperated as best he could, but everything about the movement seemed painfully slow. His body felt heavy, almost unwilling to leave the mattress, and Garrett could feel how much of Dean's weight was already resting against him before they had even managed to stand.

"Easy," Garrett murmured. "Nice and slow."

Dean gave a sleepy nod.

Together they eased him upright.

The moment Dean fully straightened, everything seemed to go wrong.

A violent wave of dizziness crashed over him so suddenly that his entire body swayed. His face drained of what little color hadn't already been replaced by the bright flush of fever, and his unfocused eyes seemed to lose their ability to fix on anything in the room. Garrett felt Dean go almost limp against him as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him.

"Dean!"

Garrett tightened his grip immediately.

From the other side, Logan reacted just as fast, stepping in without thinking and catching Dean by the opposite arm before he could collapse back onto the bed or the floor.

The walls seemed to tilt sharply to one side before slowly drifting back again, only to begin spinning in the opposite direction. His stomach lurched unpleasantly, and for a terrifying second his vision narrowed until the edges faded into gray. His eyes fluttered, almost rolling back as he struggled to stay conscious.

"Whoa, whoa..." Garrett said, keeping one arm firmly around Dean's waist. "Stay with me."

Dean tried to answer, but the words never came. He swallowed hard instead, taking several shallow breaths while his head dropped forward onto Garrett's shoulder.

"Tuck," Garrett said quickly, never taking his eyes off Dean. "Grab the trash can, please."

Tucker didn't waste a second. He spun around, crossed the room in three quick strides, snatched the trash can from beside Garrett's desk, and hurried back just as Dean swallowed hard again.

"Is he gonna puke?" Tucker asked, already holding the can out.

Garrett gave the smallest nod.

"Yeah... definitely."

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, Dean lifted his head weakly from Garrett's shoulder. His eyes remained half closed as another gag ripped through him. Garrett and Logan barely had time to guide him forward before Dean doubled over the trash can Tucker was holding.

A harsh retch echoed through the room.

Another followed immediately after it.

There wasn't much left inside him anymore. Even so, his stomach continued contracting painfully until another mouthful of bitter stomach contents came up. Dean remained bent over afterward, breathing hard between lingering gags while tears streamed freely down his flushed cheeks.

Garrett kept one hand spread firmly across Dean's upper back.

"Easy," he murmured. "Just breathe."

Dean nodded weakly, although he wasn't sure he managed more than a shallow breath before another dry heave shook him. When it finally eased, he slowly lifted one trembling hand and wiped his mouth with the back of it before letting out a miserable whimper.

"My bladder..."

His free hand instinctively pressed against his lower abdomen.

The pressure had returned again.

It felt like it was going to burst.

"We know," Garrett said quietly. "Let's get you there."

This time neither Garrett nor Logan gave Dean the chance to insist he could walk on his own. Garrett slipped one arm firmly around his waist while Logan supported the opposite side, and together they carefully guided him toward the bedroom door.

Dean tried to take the first step.

The floor immediately seemed to disappear beneath him.

His vision blurred so badly that Garrett's shoulder became nothing more than a pale shape beside him. The hallway stretched strangely in front of him, the walls appearing to sway gently before tilting sharply enough that he instinctively shut his eyes. When he opened them again, everything returned for a second before fading around the edges once more, his vision narrowing until it felt as though he were looking through a tunnel.

"I..." Dean whispered.

His voice sounded far away, even to himself.

"I can't..."

"You don't have to," Garrett answered immediately. "We've got you."

His knees threatened to buckle, and most of his weight sagged against Garrett and Logan without him even realizing it. Every few seconds he blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, but it only seemed to help for a moment before everything blurred together again. The lights in the hallway looked painfully bright, leaving white spots dancing across his vision whenever he tried to focus on them.

"Keep looking at me," Garrett said, tightening his arm around Dean's waist when he felt him sway again. "You're almost there."

Dean tried.

He really did.

But Garrett's face kept drifting in and out of focus. One second he could make out his features clearly, the next they dissolved into indistinct shapes while another wave of dizziness washed over him. His head felt impossibly heavy, and he leaned against Garrett's shoulder simply because holding it upright had become too much effort.

Dean blinked once.

The hallway disappeared.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing in front of the toilet.

For a few disorienting seconds he couldn't remember walking there. The trip from Garrett's bedroom to the bathroom had dissolved into scattered fragments, leaving him with the unsettling feeling that several minutes had simply vanished. His entire body felt impossibly heavy, and if Logan hadn't been standing directly behind him with both hands firmly supporting his shoulders and upper body, Dean was fairly certain his legs would have folded beneath him.

"Easy," Logan murmured quietly. "I've got you."

Dean barely acknowledged him.

His forehead rested briefly against Logan's shoulder as he tried to gather enough energy to stay upright. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache, and another wave of heat rolled through him so intensely that it left him dizzy all over again. One second he was shivering despite the fever, the next he felt unbearably hot, sweat breaking out across the back of his neck almost immediately.

Garrett stepped in front of him and gently tapped his cheek with two fingers.

"Hey."

Dean's unfocused eyes drifted toward him.

"You with us?"

It took several long seconds before Dean managed the smallest nod.

"...Mm."

Garrett wasn't entirely convinced.

Still, it was enough.

Working slowly so they didn't lose their balance, Dean managed to push his underwear down just far enough before turning his attention toward the toilet. He closed his eyes almost immediately as he tried to relax enough to urinate. For several agonizing seconds nothing happened despite the crushing pressure in his bladder. Then, finally, a stream began.

The relief never came.

Instead the familiar burning sensation exploded through him with such intensity that every muscle in his body tensed. Dean sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, his fingers instinctively grabbing tighter onto Logan's forearm while another hot flash swept through him. Sweat gathered across his forehead almost instantly, and he felt strangely disconnected from everything around him, as though the pain had narrowed the entire world down to those few unbearable seconds.

The stream lasted only a moment.

Far shorter than it should have.

Then it stopped.

The pressure remained.

Dean swallowed hard.

It still felt as though his bladder hadn't emptied at all.

"You done?" Logan asked quietly after waiting another few seconds.

Dean didn't answer right away.

His head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, and simply holding it upright had become exhausting. Eventually he let it fall forward slightly, his chin almost touching his chest.

"...Sit down," he mumbled thickly.

Garrett immediately understood.

Without another word, he carefully pulled Dean's underwear back into place while Logan continued supporting almost all of his weight. Dean made no attempt to help. His arms hung limply at his sides, his eyelids drooped nearly shut, and his breathing remained slow and uneven as another wave of dizziness washed over him.

Garrett and Logan exchanged another quick look before moving together. Garrett slipped one arm securely around Dean's waist while Logan supported his shoulders, and between the two of them they carefully lowered him until he was sitting on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet. Logan remained seated behind him so Dean had something solid to lean against, his back resting almost entirely against Logan's chest while Garrett crouched in front of him, keeping a hand lightly on his knee in case he suddenly tried to stand again.

"There you go," Garrett said quietly. "Just stay right here."

Dean didn't answer.

His head immediately tipped sideways until it rested against Logan's shoulder. His eyelids slid shut almost as soon as he stopped moving, and although he wasn't fully asleep, he seemed to drift into that strange place somewhere between sleeping and waking.

At first he could still hear Garrett and Logan talking, but after a few moments the words stopped making sense. Their voices faded in and out as though someone kept turning the volume up and down. Sometimes he heard whole sentences. Sometimes only fragments reached him.

"...hospital..."

"...burning up..."

"...shaking..."

"...can't keep..."

The rest disappeared into muffled noise again.

Dean frowned faintly, trying to concentrate hard enough to understand what they were saying, but every time he thought he'd caught up, another wave of dizziness blurred his thoughts. His hearing seemed to come and go in strange pulses, leaving him unable to tell whether only a few seconds had passed or several minutes.

Logan shifted slightly behind him, feeling how limp Dean had become.

"Dean?"

No response.

Garrett reached over and lightly squeezed his forearm.

"Hey, stay with us."

Dean managed the faintest hum, though Garrett wasn't convinced it had been intentional.

Then Dean's stomach lurched.

It started with a wet burp that echoed loudly in the small bathroom.

Garrett's head snapped up immediately.

"Dean?"

Another burp followed.

Dean's eyes flew open just a fraction, panic briefly cutting through the fever-induced haze.

He didn't have time to speak.

His stomach contracted violently.

Before he could even lean toward the toilet, he vomited all over the front of his T-shirt and lap.

"Fuck," Logan blurted out as he immediately pulled Dean farther forward, wrapping one arm firmly across his chest to keep him from choking while aiming him toward the toilet.

There couldn't have been much left inside him anymore, yet another harsh heave immediately followed the first, then another, each contraction seeming to wring every last bit of strength from his already exhausted body.

"Easy... easy..." Garrett murmured. "Just let it happen."

Dean tried to answer but another retch interrupted him.

By the time the last heave finally eased, he remained hanging over the toilet, breathing in short, uneven gasps. Saliva dripped steadily from his mouth into the bowl while his stomach continued threatening another round. He coughed weakly, spat into the toilet, and stayed exactly where he was, too exhausted to even lift his head.

Logan could feel Dean's weight becoming heavier against his arm. Dean seemed to be fading in and out, his muscles no longer holding themselves upright unless Logan physically supported him.

Garrett looked at Dean for one more second before making up his mind.

"Tuck!" he shouted, the urgency in his voice filling the small bathroom. "Grab my car keys! We're going to the hospital, now!"

There wasn't a moment of hesitation.

Tucker spun around and bolted from the bathroom, his footsteps pounding down the hallway as he sprinted toward the entryway.

Hospital.

That was the only word his exhausted brain managed to recognize.

He wanted to tell them he didn't need one.

That he'd be fine.

That they were overreacting.

But his lips refused to cooperate, and before he could even attempt to speak, another violent spasm ripped through the left side of his lower back.

Dean gasped.

The pain exploded through him so suddenly that every muscle in his body seized. It felt as though something deep inside him had twisted sharply, stealing every bit of air from his lungs. His entire body reacted before his mind could catch up. He lurched forward instinctively, another powerful retch forcing its way up his throat.

"Dean!"

Garrett was already reaching for him.

Another heave doubled Dean over even farther. His shoulders jerked violently as he vomited into the toilet again, his body shaking uncontrollably with the effort. Logan immediately tightened both arms around his chest, abandoning any attempt to give Dean space and simply concentrating on keeping him upright.

"I've got him," Logan said quickly.

Dean barely heard him.

The pain hadn't eased.

If anything, it was getting worse.

Another cramp tore through his back with enough force to make his vision explode into white spots. The bathroom seemed to tilt violently beneath him. The edges of everything blurred together until the toilet, the floor, and the walls became impossible to separate. A loud rushing sound filled his ears, drowning out almost everything else.

He vaguely registered Garrett calling his name.

Someone saying his fever.

Someone yelling that Tucker had the keys.

The voices sounded frightened.

Then even those began slipping away.

Dean's grip on the edge of the toilet suddenly disappeared as his fingers lost their strength. His body sagged forward without warning, the last bit of muscle keeping him upright giving out all at once.

"Dean!"

That was the last thing he heard before everything went black.