I

When Dean had been twenty-two, he'd had a cough so bad that he cracked a rib. His entire body had ached, his throat felt torn to shreds, and his father had actually been roused to a level of concern high enough to scrape together their reserve of cash to take Dean to a doctor.

It was the sickest Dean had ever been in his life, and it didn't hold a candle to how he felt right now.

It had descended upon him ruthlessly on Thursday afternoon, beginning with a burning ache at the back of his throat and spreading outwards rapidly until, at home, he could barely swallow the capful of NyQuil he'd found in the medicine cabinet. Still optimistic – rarely had any bug knocked him down for more than a few hours – he had collapsed into bed, only to be woken several times by a ripping pain in his throat.

When his alarm had gone off the next morning Dean had sat up to discover that his center of balance had apparently shifted some thirty degrees on its axis, a side result, he assumed, of his sinuses being so congested that he couldn't hear out of one ear. His skin had the strange, oversensitive quality of feeling chafed, even by the soft cotton of his bedsheets, and though it was warm in his room, a chill spread through him with such force that he shivered.

For the first time in his history of gainful employment, Dean had called in sick.

Sam had brought home Dean's favorite won ton soup; Dean had hardly been able to taste it, and had only tolerated swallowing it for the fleeting relief it brought to his throat as it went down. It was the first thing he'd been able to force himself to eat all day.

The weekend passed without much improvement. Dean was starting to suspect he would smell like lemon-honey throat lozenges for weeks.

As Monday dawned – or, rather, approached dawn – Dean woke up long enough to speed-dial the sick line and croak his name, almost not bothering to hang up before tossing the phone to the side and closing his eyes again. Sleep, however, did not seem terribly likely without pharmaceutical assistance; while he was awake, he may as well force down some kind of sustenance before he made the descent into another antihistamine-fueled doze.

"You look terrible," Sam commented as Dean shambled past the kitchen table, blanket hanging from his shoulders.

Dean grunted in response. Now that he was looking at the food available, he didn't want to eat any of it.

"I brought home some cans of chicken noodle soup," Sam offered.

"It's five in the morning," Dean said, his voice like wrinkled sandpaper. Sam winced.

"Please tell me you called in."

"No." Dean coughed. "Don't I look like I'm totally up for surgery today?"

Sam shot him a look. "You need me to restock the medicine cabinet on the way home?"

Orange juice. That would do for now. Dean poured himself a small glass of it, grimacing before he took a painful sip. "Some cocaine would be awesome."

Sam blinked. "What?"

Dean gestured at the bridge of his nose. "Not crack. Topical cocaine. The green stuff we use in sinus surgery. Shrinks swollen tissue like you wouldn't believe. If I had some of that I might almost be functional again."

"Right," Sam said slowly. "How about some Afrin, or something else I can get legally?"

"Amateur." The last of the orange juice slid down his throat with slightly less pain than the first sip. Dean gave his glass a cursory rinse before shoving it in the dishwasher. "Yeah. Sure. And more NyQuil, too." He closed his eyes against the small dizzy wavering that momentarily swelled through him. "I'm going back to bed."

"Good."

He didn't actually remember trudging back up the stairs, nor clumsily pouring himself a capful of the bitter green syrup that had made life only just bearable this weekend. He made a face at it. "Used to be a time I liked doing shots," he muttered before upending it.

His bed still held his body heat, but Dean still shivered as he drew his blankets around him into a cocoon.

"This sucks so hard," he mumbled as he shut his eyes.

II

Sunlight was slanting through the gaps in Dean's blinds. He blinked groggily, wondering what had woken him with such a start, when his phone vibrated between the bed and the wall again in a loud clatter.

His bleary eyes failed to make sense of the phone number, and he considered ignoring it entirely, but by accident he thumbed the answer bar to the side and the decision was made for him. He brought to phone to his ear as he ducked his head under the covers. "Hello?" he croaked.

"I suppose that answers that question."

Dean swallowed, thoughts lurching ungracefully into gear as he recognized the voice. "Doc. What question?"

"I heard you were really sick. I was going to ask if you were okay. Clearly not."

A concept unfurled slowly in his mind like cream in coffee. "Shit. It's Monday, isn't it? I missed you. I mean, your day. Monday. Today." Dean shook his head in an effort to stop talking.

"Did I wake you up?"

"Kind of."

"You should go back to sleep. I just wanted to…you know. Check up on you."

"Sorry I missed Monday." Dean tried to clear the fog in his head by rubbing his temples. "Was looking forward to it. Dammit."

"It sounds like you made the right choice. Don't worry. There will be other Mondays." Dr. Novak sounded gently amused. "Go back to sleep."

"Right." Dean closed his eyes. Not for the first time, he wished he had blackout curtains. The sunlight would make Dr. Novak's request difficult. "Good night. Afternoon. Morning. Is it still morning?"

"Just barely. Feel better, Dean."

"You, too." It took a moment for it to register why that statement was out of place. "Not that you feel bad. Or need to feel better. I –"

The phone beeped, indicating that Dr. Novak had probably hung up before Dean had started babbling. A distant part of him decided that was probably a good thing as he closed his eyes and drifted off into another doze, phone still in his hand.

III

All told, it was five days before Dean's fever went down, and seven before he was confident in his ability to stay on his feet for an entire shift. His knees still felt decidedly weak, and he had to take a seat often; by the time Friday afternoon rolled around and his shift ended, Dean was almost dreading the text that always came at this point.

Except that it didn't.

Dean loitered in the locker room for twenty minutes, not admitting that he was giving the text time to arrive. Which it didn't.

He went on a brisk walk to the bar – it was only three blocks away, and he needed to stretch his legs after his week of convalescence, he reasoned – but the corner booth held three college-age boys, and the now-familiar head of slightly tousled dark hair was nowhere to be seen.

Three blocks was a lot longer from the other side of sharp disappointment. Thoroughly chilled as he pulled open his car door, Dean checked his phone once more.

Still nothing.

It remained stubbornly silent the rest of the evening.

As Dean watched the date change on his clock by his bed, he wondered if maybe time was the great equalizer, and if the two weeks since Thanksgiving had cooled the simmering potential that had been steadily gaining heat.

Or maybe he'd imagined the whole thing.

IV

If he shifted that lunch bag sideways and moved the various loose containers of this person's lunch into the door where there was room, there might be enough room for Dean to shove his lunch bag on the bottom shelf. With a glance at the time – still five minutes before he had to clock in – he crouched and set to rearranging the bottom shelf.

"Dean?"

Dean glanced up, hands full of plastic containers of rice and vegetables, and had to consciously control the spread of the grin across his face. "Morning, Doc."

"Feeling better?" Dr. Novak ventured all the way into the break room, the two cups of coffee held before him in gloved hands.

"Loads." Dean realized he was still holding the pieces of another person's lunch and he rapidly shoved them into the door as he stood. "Was back at work on Friday, actually."

Dr. Novak nodded. "Good. I was worried I'd have to drink both of these myself." In the gesture Dean had learned so well in the past several weeks, the surgeon offered Dean one of the coffee cups. Dean reached out to take it, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

"Thanks." Dean took a sip, heedless of the temperature.

"Have you eaten already?" Dr. Novak asked abruptly, as though he had been fighting with himself to say it.

Dean swallowed hastily. "No, I – I usually wait until morning break."

Dr. Novak nodded and dug his free hand into his pocket, glancing down at his own coffee cup. "Our first case canceled," he said, more slowly, "and the second one isn't set to check in for another hour. I was thinking…maybe grab some breakfast?"

It was several seconds before Dean realized his mouth was hanging slightly open. He snapped it shut before it had the chance to say anything stupid. "I – yeah. Just – let me clock in and check the case carts for the rest of the day first."

"Right." Dr. Novak nodded and pulled a chair out from one of the tables. "I'll wait here. No rush."

V

Breakfast proved to be sausage and egg burritos from the grocery store across the street, the haven of all surgical center staff who had ever forgotten a lunch or skipped their bowl of cereal. The worker behind the counter had disappeared after punching a few buttons on the microwave, leaving Dean and Dr. Novak to shift uneasily as the microwave's beeping went unanswered.

"So, uh," Dean found himself saying before he had time to consider whether it was a good idea, "Friday."

"Friday." Dr. Novak nodded, looking slightly chagrined. "I was on a plane. College friend was getting married. I was going to tell you, but you didn't seem likely to remember that I'd even called at all –"

Dean held up a hand. "No! Not – I meant this Friday."

Dr. Novak cocked his head quizzically. "This Friday?" Comprehension dawned on his face as, finally, the worker returned to stifle the beeping of the microwave. "The Christmas party. Right."

"Yeah. Thanks," Dean said to the worker as she handed him the paper plate with his burrito. "You going?" he asked Dr. Novak casually.

"Maybe. I don't really do company holiday parties." Dr. Novak paused before taking a bite of his breakfast. "Are you going?"

Dean shrugged, not wanting to appear too eager. "It was fun last year. Might check it out."

Dr. Novak made a noncommittal noise as he chewed. "We'll see. I don't have anything else going on."