She felt like hell. She was pretty sure that she was actually dying. She told Dean as much.
“You’re not dying. You have the flu.” Dean tucked the blankets around her legs before setting the tray down on her lap. “Don’t bump around. I’m not changing your sheets if you dump Chicken noodle everywhere.”
“I’m still pretty sure I’m dying.” Bess fidgeted with her spoon, watching as Dean fought with the child-proof lid on some medication bottle. When he got it open, he held the pills out towards her. She made a rude face at him. He ignored her. They both know that despite her distaste for pills, she had a stronger distaste for flu-like symptoms.
“I swear—People give men all this crap about Man Flu. Yet I swear I’ve never seen a bigger illness baby than you.” He put the two pills down on her tray. “You should probably eat some before you take those anyway. They’ll work better if you’ve already got some food in your belly.”
“What are these supposed to do?”
“I’m not telling you—“ He answered glibly, “You’ll psych yourself into keeping those symptoms and then I’ll just have to listen to you bitch about how I made you take pills for no reason. So eat your soup, take your pills, and feel better—hmm?”
Bess took a couple spoonfuls of her soup, trying to look utterly pathetic. “Thank you for taking care of me, Dean. I know I’m a pain in the ass.”
Dean sighed and stopped fidgeting with the medicine bottles in a neat line on her desk. “It’s alright. You’re not the world’s worst patient. But you remember this when I am sick next time, okay?”
Bess smiled and finished her soup. Dean watched her closely until she picked up the pills and swallowed them with a grimace, sticking out her tongue to prove they were gone. “Sleep,” He instructed, picking up the tray and giving her a smile as he headed out of the room.