Michael was startled awake by sounds of someone moaning, loudly. He hissed at the soreness in his neck, but quickly neglected it, instead focusing on the man lying in his bed. The first rays of sun shone through the windows, lighting up the room and revealing Dean's skin, glistening with sweat. Michael paused, his jaw going slack, his eyes glued to the sight before him.

Dean was... Oh, wow, he was so hot... Burning hot...

... Probably running a fever with a temperature as high as 104 and having nightmares and hallucinations. He was trashing on the bed, and arching his back with his head thrown back, exposing his long neck.

" No, no... Please, don't... No... Please..." Dean whaled in his sleep, his voice filled with fear and despair. Michael knelt beside the bed, and tried to sooth him, taking a wet cloth and wiping his forehead. He used come creams his vessel had, applied them on the leg wound to make it heal faster.

Once more, Michael thought how easy it used to be. How he could just touch a person and make their nightmares go away, just set his hand on them and heal all their aches. He always had that ability, just like any other angel.

Only... He can't remember if he ever used it.

For two days, Dean was delirious, and Michael would be happy if he could get a few sips of water in him. The hunter didn't seem to notice there was anyone in the room with him, his mind too preoccupied with fighting through whatever infection was wrecking his system to be able to form coherent thoughts and process his surroundings.

For two days, Michael struggled, really hoping that his decision to remain depowered won't cost Dean his life. The night of the second day, the former archangel came so close to breaking and releasing his grace, only for a slight chance he might help Dean.

Because Dean was in so much pain at that point, hissing and whaling and moaning, sweat pouring out of him so much, Michael feared he would dehydrate. He kept trying to make him drink that water with electrolytes his vessel kept in storage, hoping it would help.

That second night, Dean was so shaking, his skin burning, cold sweat breaking out of him. His experience as an archangel wasn't helpful, but his vessel's memories were, and they kept telling him the worst is about to hit, but that Dean seemed like a strong man, and that he could fight through it.

It was around two in the morning that the fever broke, Dean calmed and stopped shanking, falling into a deep sleep. Michael was finally able to breathe, relived and tired beyond belief. The stress of the past two days, the lack of proper sleep and a proper bed really got to Michael and as soon as he figured Dean would be alright, he slumped down on his chair and let the sleep take over.

It was around 3 PM when Michael woke, groaning at the soreness in his neck. He was so tired when he fell asleep, he didn't adequately ajusted his position, so his head lulled most of the night, causing his to cramp up.

Michael rubbed at it absentmindedly as he looked over the hunter who seemed to be peacefully sleeping. His skin wasn't covered in sweat anymore and it looked just the right shade of pink. His chest was rising at a steady rhythm, and his mouth was slightly open as he breathed. Michael blinked catching himself staring, so he quickly turned and headed for the kitchen.

He was hungry so he made himself a marmalade sandwich, and as he ate it, he contemplated about what comes next. Dean might wake soon, and he would need water, and some sustenance too. His vessel's mind helpfully supplied that soup would be the best idea, as it would be easy for a human to digest after a period of not eating at all, and it could easily be reheated if the hunter didn't wake soon, so Michael got straight to it.

A few hours later

It was really dark when Dean slowly started to come to. The first thing he noticed was the throbbing pain in his leg, but he couldn't see anything from the blankets that was on top of him. He was about to sit up and take a look when a deep sigh caught his attention and his eyes snapped to his left.

There, slumped in a chair, illuminated by a petroleum lamp, slept a man. Dean looked wary of him, and still he couldn't help but grimace at the position, knowing the man would be sore when he woke up. From a lying position, he took in as much of his surroundings as he could, figuring he was in a cabin, in the woods and was probably saved by this man. Question was, what happened to the werewolf?

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and preparing himself to slowly rise up to sit, as quietly as he could, not to wake the man up. But as he opened them, he caught a shadow of something on the ceiling, and squinted to try and understand what it was. His eyes followed the lines, piecing them together and coming up with... A huge devil's trap.

Slowly, Dean rose up, looking around the room. There were weapons scattered and hidden all over the place, some only visible to a trained hunter's eye. Cute pictures hung on the walls that had wardings hidden within, a picture in a picture. Iron rods strategically placed all around, a fancy silver candle stick looking so much out of place, and salt lines by the door and windows. Okay, so the guy was a hunter.

It made Dean relax a bit, and allowed him to focus on that throbbing pain in his leg. He uncovered the blankets and frowned, looking defeated. There were two planks secured tightly around his leg, there were bandages around it and if he didn't catch sight of a creme he knew had a magical effect on wounds like this, he is sure he would be screaming his head off right now.

The fact that the hunter saved him and that his house seemed to be warded, made Dean feel somewhat safe and made him relax, his body feeling tired and drained from the infection it fought off. So Dean laid back and closed his eyes, not really wanting to fall back to sleep, but the darkness overtook him anyway.