I hate the summer, it's hot and sticky and brings discomfort. Of course we are working a case in the freaking desert in July. I wish that I could be wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top, but instead here I am wearing a ladies pan suit and heels. The boys I can see are dying too in their fed threads.
The heat made me distracted, Dean placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Miss Mascot are you alright?" Dean said, using my cover name. I didn't really notice, so I didn't answer. "­­­­________?" I snapped my head back into the conversation.

"What? Yes," I said. "Yes, oh uh, I am sorry I don't do well with heat," I wiped my brow with a handkerchief.

"We're almost done, _________, why don't you go fire up the car and get the AC running,"

I blinked a few times, and turned around. Starring aimlessly towards the car a few yards away. "Uh, yeah... Yeah, yeah right. The car."

I jerkily made my way to the car, and went around to the divers side where I blacked out.
What I didn't know was that, I collapsed against the burning metal of the black impala and burned my neck and face, worsening the heat stroke I already had.

Dean and Sam came round the car, only to find me unconsciously vomiting on the ground.
I woke up, in a clean cool hospital room hooked up to a heart monitor and a saline bag. A bandage covers the right side of neck, and part of my cheek. Underneath the skin in red and angry from the burning I received from the hot car.

There's a bandage around my torso, though I don't know why. I turn my head as carefully as I can to the left, and see my hand that's being held, attached to my arm that has a needle seated inside it dripping saline into me, attached to my shoulder which hurts, attached to my neck that hurts, attached to my head that aches.
I follow my arm with my eyes, back down to my hand and up the hand, arm, shoulder neck, and head. Dean. Of course it's Dean. I've probably scarred him half to death. He is sleeping, so he cannot hear my change of breathing, or see my open eyes. I want to squeeze his hand, and stroke my thumb across the back side of his palm. But I find my limbs slow and unresponsive.

So I start slow, I try to wiggle my toes. Which is slow and a bit unconventional. Then I open my mouth, and slide my tongue cross my teeth, and move my head from side to side. I finally get some feeling into my arm, and tighten the muscles of my fingers around Deans large hand.

I do not call out to him, because he doesn't sleep enough as it is, and if he is sleeping now, I want it last. But do stroke his hand with the pad of my thumb, and listen to his rhythmic breathing. My eyes trace his face, every curve and cut, each little dot of stubble on his jaw. I study the way the suns bright light streams in through the blinds covering the window, spills into his hair and across his face. Creating shiny bits of skin, and dark shadows all together.

My gaze lands on his eyes, green and sparkling in the light. They are open, taking me in, as I am taking in him. I wonder what observations he has taken of my beaten state. A pressure blossoms on the sensitive skin of my hand, he is squeezing back.

"Hey," he whispers.

"Hi," my voice sounds a little rusty, but also like me.

"Ya know, when we brought you in here, me and Sam got a 40 minute lecture about all your other injuries that have gone "untreated" that they found,"

"Is that why I'm bandaged up like a mummy?"
He gave a good laugh.

"Yeah," he smiled down at our intertwined fingers, "No more cases in the heat. Okay babe?"

I give a faint laugh, "That's for damn sure,"