It wasn't the normal sort of flu you'd get and be miserable for a while. No, this was the sort of flu where you begin pondering what in the name of all that is holy would conceive of such an illness that would cause such anguish to one mortal being. This was the mother of all the most vile influenza strains in the world. It also happened to be the one Dean was suffering from.
The poor man could barely move, he weaved in and out of woe and delusional dreams, coughed worse than a pack-an-hour smoker and sneezed hard enough to rattle the entire house. He lay on the couch, watching TV like a mindless zombie, barely able to comprehend what was even going on. He was hardly coherent enough to watch the latest episode of Doctor Sexy, and even now he couldn't tell you much of what happened.
Sam was enjoying time away from Dean, he was actually able to take a mental health day and blow off some steam with some friends. Thus, Castiel was left to make sure Dean didn't hurt himself, took his medication and to urge the poor man to eat something.
Dean was in the throes of another one of his fever fits. When in the course of a fever, the body has the feeling of being cold due to the heat leaving the body. Thus, anyone suffering one will often bundle up with a lot of blankets. Then the heat comes on in a wave and it causes quite the feeling of fury. He was throwing the blankets off as fast as he could, which wasn't fast at all, really. His eyes were half closed, bleary and unseeing as he ripped the covers off of him. "Rghhhrh." He groaned in agony.
"Dean, you have to stop piling on those covers. They won't help you." The angel sat in the kitchen, plinking around on Sam's laptop (well controlled from any sites he should not be visiting). The password took him a while to crack, but eventually figured it out. An odd one to set, Castiel was sure it would have been some form of Jess's name. Instead, it was one of his brother's. Deciding not to dedicate too much thought to it, he searched up 'fever remedies' for his suffering friend.
"Shugguhulludass." Came the response, some sort of garbled 'Shut the hell up, Cas.'
"I am only trying to help."
Dean flopped on the couch in exhaustion. "Wuw….ond." Supposedly 'Well, don't.' was what he said, but it was difficult to understand the man who planted his face into the furniture.
"You know that I can't do that."
Dean looked up. Well, looking here is used lightly, as any sort of blur that could be ascertained from the fog of his sickness was likely indiscernible. "Nnhhh." Dean sank back into his mire of misery.
A few hours passed, eventually he was able to eat half a sandwich and regained some energy. But there was little other improvement on his condition.
Cas tried his best to leave the older Winchester brother alone, but thought he found a few things that might actually work. He rose from his chair and walked over to the pitiful human. "Dean, sit up." The angel nudged him until he scooched far enough over to afford a seat.
Dean coughed and cleared his throat. "Bu I on wan u tugesick." The most lucid statement he'd created in a week surprised Castiel.
"Just as it takes far more alcohol to inebriate me than the average human, so it is that it would takes more than your virus to sicken me." He felt an odd little quickening in his heartbeat, which confused him. Why did he care that he was concerned? It's a simple human emotion, isn't it?
Dean looked a little woozy and leaned on Cas for support. "Kay." He murmured softly. He'd been without physical contact ever since he started getting the sniffles; it is basic human nature to require touch to feel validated.
Cas awkwardly put his arm around the other's shoulder, feeling it the only thing he could really do for him. His cardiac muscles were going into some sort of palpitations, it was somewhat unnerving.
Dean sort of snuggled into Cas, a stupid grin etched on his face. The angel could not divine whether this was feverish insanity or anything else. Instead, he stated humming a song that he heard from one of the "How to make sick people feel better". Apparently it had some sort of soothing property to it that Cas did not understand.
"Soft kitty, warm kitty,
Little ball of fur.
Happy kitty, sleepy kitty,
Purr purr purr."
"N'awww." Dean flung his arms over Cas's shoulders and cuddled into the angel. Nuzzling into his neck, the sick man finally felt comfortable for the first time in a week.
Cas could have moved, but something told him not to. Some little voice in him told him to stay like this, to stay in this embrace.
Same came home a few minutes later, looked at what was transpiring, and turned 180 degrees, and promptly walked out. He was too drunk to try and understand what the hell was going on, and would rather sleep in the Impala than waste effort understanding.