"Sammy? You alright?" Dean asks when you all head back to the Impala around midnight. "Yeah, I'm great. Why?" Sam replies, clearing his throat and sliding into the passenger seat. You roll my eyes before tossing your bag in the backseat and going in after it. "Because, Sam, you can hardly talk without coughing. We spent three nights in the woods in the rain." You point out. You were hunting a wendigo, and camped out in the rain for three nights, not to mention the fact that it was October. It was a miracle you and Dean weren't just as sick, if not worse. "Really, I'm- ACHOO! I'm fine. Just a little, uh, congested." He says as Dean starts the car, turning up the heat extra high. "Congested my ass." Dean mutters, pulling out of the hidden driveway where the car was hidden. You're back at the bunker by morning, where all three of you get your well deserved rest. You and Dean each nap for a good four hours, but are back out and watching TV by noon, curled up with a bowl of popcorn between you, each with a hot bowl of canned chicken noodle soup, wrapped in blankets and trying to keep the chill out. Sam on the other hand slept all day, all night, and most of the next day too, waking up around 3 pm. "Sam, are you feeling okay?" you ask quietly, almost passing his bedroom door up when you hear violent coughs coming from inside. You nudge open the door and peer inside. "I'll be okay, don't worry about me." he says, his response littered with coughs and sniffles. He's sprawled across the bed on his back, his hair unruly from sleep. "Bullshit," you accuse, moving closer toward him, laying a hand on his forehead to check his temperature, "You're burning up. Wait here, I'll be right back." You promise, pressing a kiss into his forehead, your cool lips on his hot hot skin. He protests, but you're already out. You return, carrying reheated soup, a bottle of Nyquil, a glass of cold water, and more pillows. "You don't have to do this, I'm fine." he still argues, leaning forward. You set down the soup and medicine on his nightstand, putting the pillows behind his head. "Shush. This is actually kind of fun. Now here, take this." you say, handing him two capsules of Nyquil and the glass of water. He shakily takes the glass and pills, almost spilling the water all over himself. You take his wrist, guiding his shaking hand up toward his mouth to wash down the medicine. When he swallows, you grab the chicken noodle soup from the nightstand. "Alright now, scoot over." you tell him gently. He makes space for you on the bed, settling down into his new spot on the cool pillows. "I'm capable of feeding myself, you really don't have to." he persists, sighing, but not fighting you. "Oh please, I want to. And besides, you could barely hold that glass of water. Now open up." You respond, smiling. Spoonful by spoonful, the soup disappeared, until a very very sleepy Sam was leaning on your shoulder, drinking the last drop from the bowl. "What would I do without you?" he asks, sleepily kissing you on the cheek and leaning back down onto the pile of pillows. "I don't even want to think about that." You respond, nuzzling into his neck. You can see him drifting off to sleep, but forcing his eyes open to stay awake with you. "Go to sleep," You urge, resting your head on his chest, "I'll still be here." "But I don't want you to get sick." "I won't. But if I do, I know you'll take care of me, won't you, Sammy?" you respond playfully, yawning. He smiles, laughing softly, wrapping an arm around you and lettin his head fall back into the pillows. "You know I will," he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You can feel him falling asleep in your arms.