Confetti it's a Parade Book 2

Taking Care of Dean

The heavy iron door creaked open, causing you to set your book down on the table. Sam came in first, reaching back to take the bag from his brother. Dean struggled in, his cheeks pale, his nose rosy red.

Even from down below you could see the clamminess of his skin. "What happened?" You asked, pushing your chair back, coming forward to catch Dean as he stumbled down the remaining stairs. His weight was almost too much for you to bear and you struggled to get him to the table. You looked him over, searching for a wound, or something else that might explain his unusual state.

"Got a damn cold," Dean muttered, covering his nose with his sleeve just as he sneezed. "Couldn't even finish the damn case."

"I thought I'd bring him back, and then help Garth finish off the case," Sam explained, already heading back up the stairs. "I hope you don't mind."

He was out of the door before you could answer. But you didn't mind. It wasn't often that Dean had to lean on you for help, and you had nothing better to do. "Well, looks like it's just you and me," you told him, brushing your hand along his forehead. "And you're burning up. Let's get you into bed."

"I'll be fine," he muttered, brushing your hand away. "I face monsters. A little cold isn't going to bring me down."

However, as he said those words, he leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. He looked completely beat, and your heart ached for him. "Come on," you insisted, tugging on his arm. With a groan he stood up, immediately leaning into you and you let him.

The two of you struggled down the hall, your much smaller footsteps struggling to keep up with his lumbering, yet awkward ones.

"Ouch," you muttered as you stumbled, banging your arm against the doorframe. Dean almost fell to the ground, but your grip was strong, and instead, his head landed against your shoulder. Somehow, you ended up getting him on the bed. He was dead weight, snoring already as you tugged off one boot, then the other. You struggled to slip his jeans over his hips. You were sweating by the time he was just in his boxers and t-shirt.

"Damn," you muttered, tucking his legs under the covers. His mouth was open slightly, his lips chapped and his face flushed slightly, but he was asleep and you figured that was for the best. Sighing, you turned the light off, heading to the kitchen to get things ready for Dean.

An hour passed, and you had soup steaming on the stove and a pie in the oven. Music was playing softly in the background as you got a tray ready for Dean.

"It smells amazing," he mumbled from the doorway. His cheeks were still flushed, and he had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Slowly he made his way to the table as if every movement ached. Sitting down, he sneezed.

"I have chicken and rice soup," you said, dishing it out and placing the bowl in front of him. "Then, if you're feeling up to it, a nice Apple Pie baking in the oven."

"You don't have to take care of me."

Sitting across from him, you took his clammy hand in your own. "Sure, I don't have to. But I want to. Dean, you know how much I care for you."

He sipped the soup while you stood up and pulled the pie from the oven. "I wish I could actually smell," he whined.

"Well, when you feel better, I can make you another one."

While he continued on with his soup, you handed him a glass of water along with some medicine. "Why don't you take this medicine back to your room and sleep a little more?" You suggested, taking his empty bowl away.

"I don't really want to be alone," he admitted, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "Movie instead?"

"Sure."

Leaving the dirty dishes in the sink, you walked with him towards the TV room. He settled down on the couch, while you grabbed the remote. Clicking the on button, you started to sit down when Dean lifted the blanket. "Come here?" He asked.

"Dean, as much as I want to...," you started to argue.

"You don't want to get sick." His smile faltered as he started lowering the blanket.

"No!" You argued quickly. "I just know you're sore, and not feeling well. I didn't want to bug you."

"Sweetheart," you'll never bug me," he assured you, letting you tuck tight under his arm. The blanket settled down around you. "And just think, if you get sick, then it will be my turn to care for you."

You really hoped that you wouldn't get sick. But the idea of Dean taking care of you didn't bother you so much.