Dean comes out of the bathroom trying not to limp and cough. He reckons the limp will distract Sam from the cough, so he wobbles his way out the bathroom, hissing loudly and screwing up his face... and sees the hoodie laid out on his bed next to his sweats. He gives up the exaggerated limp and curses when he hears Sam chuckle somewhere behind him.

He half turns to scowl. “Laugh it up, Florence.” He coughs, because who gives a shit now? But he’s already shrugging off his towel and reaching for the hoodie as fast as his chilled fingers will let him.

“Shut up, drink this, and get into bed.” Sam is smiling, so Dean is going to forgive him all those orders. Especially when the kid – goddamn and bless him —has taken the whiskey from his hip flask, heated it, and added something citrusy to make up a drink for him.

It tastes better than anything in heaven ever could, so Dean pulls a face. “Gross, Sammy.” Because there is no way he’s appreciating heated herbal shit out loud.

“You’ll choke it down though, right?”

Dean smacks his lips and ignores him. Smug bastard.

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