"Baaaaabe…"
Crowley hears the whining coming from his bedroom, and even looks down the corridor toward the open door, if just to roll his eyes at Gabriel's current round of antics. Granted, whining like a petulant child isn't as bad as what he could get up to, had the doctor Castiel got him to see not ordered him to keep his arse in bed, but it still gives Crowley cause to twitch. With a little huff, he turns his attentions back to folding up the laundry (because maybe Gabriel's content to just throw his things everywhere, but Crowley likes to have some semblance of order and civility around the house) — and Gabriel continues whining to him, "Baaaaaabe! …Aaaaaaaay Jaaaaaaaaaaay. …I'm sick and I'm tired and I'm all aloooooooooooone. You should come heeeeeeeere."
"You're going to be even sicker and more tired if you keep that up," Crowley informs his boy with an intentionally patronizing lilt at the end. Taking one of Gabriel's ridiculous novelty t-shirts, one of the ones with the cartoon frogs that he procured when they took spring break in Mexico last year, Crowley tunes Gabriel's piteous chorus out in favor of making sure that he gets the creases just the way he likes them, even knowing that Gabriel will probably just throw it on the floor anyway. After five more minutes of the whining, Crowley sighs and calls down the hall, "You know, Gabriel, there is a rest in bed-rest. So why don't you try doing that — you know, resting, recuperating, actively putting in effort toward making yourself not sick — instead of just going on at me about how sick you are?"
"Because that's boooooring," Gabriel replies as though this should be more than obvious, and, from the sound of it, rolling around in the bed with the intent of making a godawful mess. "Babe, come ooooon. I can't go get in trouble because my freaking lungs are inflamed — you should come and entertain me."
Shaking his head, Crowley moves his laundry basket up onto the sofas, since the puppy Gabriel's insisted on keeping in the house can't jump high enough to get there yet, and goes to sit against the headboard. Gabriel's turned over on his side, hacking up one of his aforementioned inflamed lungs in the direction of the floor. Idly, Crowley reaches out a hand to rub up and down his back. "See, this is why I told you to rest, love," he points out, getting a garbled, slurred, and half-unintellgible fuck your face in response — not that the sentiment hangs around that long. Not a minute later and Gabriel's head is nuzzling into Crowley's lap.
"So what do you think about Castiel's boyfriend?" Gabriel asks, speaking softly as Crowley strokes his fingers through his boy's hair.
"Number one, I thank whatever amorphous supernatural entity is out there that Castiel didn't describe him as such." Crowley inhales deeply, and keeps his exhalation meditative; there's no reason to get vitriolic, at the moment. "Number two, personally, I'm just glad that our little Castiel's finally reaching outside the box of his father's ridiculously homophobic oppression and I especially wouldn't mind it if this got him to take less Adderall because anyone with half a brain knows he has a problem. But number three — I think that he could do so much better than bloody Dean Winchester."
Gabriel seems to consider this a moment, but instead, he just rubs his cheek into Crowley's thigh and purrs. "I love it when you talk like a stereotypical Brit. It almost makes up for the fact that I'm switching between fevered and clammy so fast I can't keep up."
Crowley chuckles and musses Gabriel's hair. Taking a translucent orange bottle out of his trousers pocket, he whispers, "Come on, angel. It's antibiotics time."