Chapter Text
Maybe Dean picked his career based on a TV show that was every bit as unrealistic as Sam always told him it was, but he’s a good nurse. He didn’t expect to fall in love with the job quite so easily (nor did Bobby, or Sam, or his Dad either), but over the years he’s realised it’s pretty much perfect.
He’s been trying to take care of people since he was four and at least when they were in hospital they kind of had to accept his help, rather than trying to leave home, or drinking themselves into a stupor, or blocking out conversations he was trying to have about all the rest with coke and a shitty junky girlfriend. So, whilst he spends his days surrounded by sick people, cleaning up shit and piss, he finds that he generally loves his job.
Except days like today. It’s the beginning of a long shift, and he’s already pretty much done with thanklessly cleaning up mess and helping people who don’t really want to be helped, or else look down on him for not being qualified to wear a lab coat. Yesterday, he had a patient he’d kinda liked trying to score some drugs of a young Doctor who probably should have known better, and he’d had a patient he’d joked with earlier than morning die, just like that, and another who needed this operation turned down thanks to shitty insurance. A bad day at work at a hospital usually involves death and shit, and it leaves him with a hangover equivalent that clings onto the side of his brain till he winds up feeling useless and mellow.
Then, course, he starts thinking about his family. That quickly leads to a full on breakdown involving too much Tequila and drunk dialling Sammy which, as Bobby has told him on several occasions, he should be too old and mature for at this point.
So, in the name of not concluding the day drunk and alone (or maybe not alone, depending on whether it’s a needy drunk kinda night), he dragged his ass out of bed early in order to indulge a little in a couple of the things that actually make him happy; a run, decent coffee, a bacon sandwich and a quick visit to see how Tessa’s getting on.
Tessa is one of those revolving door patients that’s in the hospital so much she knows them all by name. She’s accident prone as a character fault, but Dean was in the room when she was told that they thought she had cancer, and when she came out of surgery for the first time, and when she started her first round of chemo. She’s funny and strong and likes Dean the best, but she’d been in remission for a good few months before Jo told him she was back in for another round of chemo. This time, she went and fell down the last couple of steps whilst carrying a tray full of wine glasses, so she spent yesterday having piece of glass removed from her foot and has been admitted for a few days until she recovers. Sucks for Tessa, obviously, but as much as Dean mostly wishes she never had to set foot in a hospital again, she makes his mornings a little better.
“Hey, Tessa,” Dean grins, stepping into the area around her bed with a smile, “looking smoking, as always.”
“You like my new haircut?” Tessa quips back, smiling. It’s kind of harrowing that it’s all gone all over again. He can remember Tessa losing her hair the first time; crying into a handheld mirror with a chunk of dark hair in her hand, until one of the female nurses prized it out of her hands and told her she still looked beautiful. Dean hadn't really known what to do other than keep flirting with her in the same way that he did all patients, which seemed to more or less work.
“Shows off the lovely shape of your head,” Dean says, “how you holding up, Tess?”
“Not too shabby, Winchester,” She says, cracking another smile. It’s weak, but this point in the chemo tends to be shittiest from patient’s reports so he’s not too worried, except for that part where he is. “You drew the short straw working today, or something?”
“Or something,” Dean agrees, smoothing the bed sheets out on one side of her bed and absently checking her chart to check everything’s okay. Technically, he’s not even on this ward, but his shift hasn’t even started yet so he’s pretty sure no one’s gonna bust his ass for doing more work. “What time your family coming?”
“Visiting hours,” Tessa says, eyes sparkling.
“You don’t need me to sneak them in early?”
“No,” Tessa smiles, “thank you, Dean.”
“All right,” Dean says, “well, I have a shift to work… but, I’m trying to avoid this crazy blonde doctor from paediatrics, you don’t mind if I come have my break with you today? I’ll tell her I have a hot date lined up.”
“You go do what they pay you for, Dean,” Tess says, waving away from his bed.
“You mean it’s not to stand around looking pretty?”
“Sod off,” she grins, smiling properly this time, and Dean bows out with a salute. “See you later.”
Just beyond the door, Dr Milton is waiting for him with an irritated expression. Dean feels the last of today’s good humour slipping away from him pre-emptively because, yeah, maybe Dr Castiel Milton is the single only person in the world who could match up to (and probably surpass) Dr Sexy… but he's also a giant douchebag (besides, that’s a sexuality crisis that Dean had been happily putting off for a long time before Cas walked into Dean’s hospital four months ago wearing that god damn lab coat and staring at him like that's what he was paid for).
He could deal with Cas being one fine piece of ass, too, if he wasn’t the single Doctor that doesn’t get along with him in the whole hospital (because, whatever Sam says be damned, he does have some levels of control).
He gets all up in his space and watches what he does like he doesn’t trust him (personal space, Cas) and he checks and rechecks his work like he’s just waiting for Dean to fuck up. He doesn’t trust Dean’s judgement. He doesn’t let him do his job. And, most of all, he doesn’t like the way Dean talks to his patients.
Dean works on the general assumption that just because someone’s sick, it doesn’t mean they particularly want to be treated like a victim. He flirts with Tessa and the others because, hey, if you’re having poison pumped through your insides and the very real prospect of a time limit hanging above you at all times, it’s nice to know that there’s someone who thinks you’re something more than a cancer patient. Whilst Cas is undoubtedly a bloody brilliant Doctor, he can also be cold and unemotional before he turns on his brand of charm, which is certainly of the more professional variety. Every time Dean offers to sneak in someone’s relatives, or sneak them a cheeseburger (where appropriate, of course), or bend the rules in any way to make someone feel special, Cas appears right behind him giving him one of those looks that make Dean want to pull his hair out.
He’s good at his job. His patients like him. His colleagues like him.
Except Cas, who hates him for unfathomable reasons unknown, which he really doesn’t need to deal with today of all days.
“What?” Dean demands, glaring at Cas for a few long seconds. “You gonna report me for giving a shit about my patients, Doctor?”
“She isn’t your patient today, nurse.”
“So sue me,” Dean says, mostly because he knows (from Jo, who likes to tell him the gossip about Doctor Milton as if Dean actually wants to hear it), that some asshole is suing Cas for some stupid reason that probably won’t stick, but is still a pain in the ass for all involved. Malpractice law suits are pretty much a dead cert for Doctor’s in general, but this is supposedly the first time Cas has had to deal with it and if Dean’s feeling vicious and unfair, then maybe it’s just because life is vicious and unfair.
When good, lovely people like Tessa have to have cancer and he can’t do anything. When people like his own family waste their good health on abusing their bodies like they’ll live forever. Whilst he wants to want there to be some justice, and for Tessa to live when she clearly deserves to, he can’t detangle that from the fact that he’d literally fall over and die for his family if it’d help. Not that his efforts ever have, really.
Cas narrows his eyes at him.
“Your shift starts in a minute. I suggest you make it there on time.”
“Well,” Dean says, offering Cas his best sarcastic smile, “have a good day, Doctor.”
*
He doesn’t know about Cas, but Dean is not having a good day.
In fact, his day gradually gets worse and worse as it continues onwards. First, he’s dealing with some guy who needs a liver transplant, but almost definitely will never get one because he was a coke addict for a couple of years when he was younger. Benny makes the connection and sends Dean over to work on another side of the ward where he can’t think on it too much, but it still plays on his mind like a damn broken record.
“He’s clean,” Benny says, about ten minutes before Dean is supposed to go on his break, and Dean isn’t sure whether he means Sam or liver transplant guy, but either way you never really know. One thing working in a hospital has taught him is that you can never really be too sure with ex-addicts, which is the kind of knowledge that burns in the pit of his stomach when he’s trying to reassure himself that Sammy is here, that he’s got him back, that they’re living in the same state now, and he’s not going to disappear into the ether all over again. Benny starts to ask him if he’s sure he and Sam, or even just him, don’t want to join him for Thanksgiving, but Dean cuts him off before he can finish the question and half runs back to Tessa's ward.
“Hey, Tessa,” Dean says, falling down into the seat next to her with a grimace.
“Rough day at the office?” She asks, and there’s something all kinds of wrong about that. Dean’s the one with health on his side, whilst Tessa is hooked up to some shitty machines that make her sick. He can’t talk to Tessa about how crap it is that people die, because she doesn’t need to hear that.
“Nah, I had a conversation with you to look forward to,” Dean says, smiling is way through the next ten minutes of small talk about Tessa’s brother and the cursory cancer jokes that sometimes keep him up all night, wanting to throw punches at the wall because of how unfair things are.
“You should try and drop in later when my parents are here,” Tessa says, in that soft way of hers, “they like to know that someone’s taking care of me.”
“Damn straight,” Dean says, smiling.
He rushes to the staff room for the last minute of his break in order to check his phone and maybe down a gallon or so of coffee, if he has time.
He stops short when he finds Cas is waiting for him with a cup of coffee and a muffin.
“I thought you might be busy talking to Tessa,” Castiel says mildly, pressing the coffee and the muffin into Dean’s baffled waiting hands with no acknowledgement to the fact that they pretty much hate each other, and therefore don’t thoughtfully get each other muffins and coffee on a whim.
“Is this some kind of peace offering?” Dean asks.
“Is it working?”
“Well, hell,” Dean says, “I don’t often turn down blueberry muffins.”
“It’s chocolate,”
“Shit, Cas,” Dean says, staring at both the coffee and the muffin for a little while before turning back to Cas again.
In the first few days after Cas had started working at the hospital, Dean had turned on his usual charm offensive (maybe a little too strongly, if Jo’s expression of amusement was anything to go by) and really made an effort with the guy. It may have had something to do with the fact that his eyes were literally the same blue as some of the scrubs, but the fact that Cas was reportedly a freaking brilliant Doctor definitely bore into his decision to try and make friends (he has no time for the couple of doctors who don't give a crap, but Castiel has always clearly cared too much; he just does it differently to Dean). Cas, though, just stared at him like he was a freaking zoo animal.
A few days in, Dean decided maybe that’s just how Cas was and gave up on his crusade of friendship. Then he saw him cracking a joke with Benny and Nora, and realised that it was just him that Cas didn’t seem to like. And, yeah, that kinda pissed him off.
Dean wants to question the serious relationship uncertainty, here, but instead he just figures not to look a gift house in the mouth and enjoy the damn muffin. The coffee’s good, too. He’s not sure where in the name of hell Cas picked up his coffee preference from, but he must have gotten it from somewhere.
“We appear to be the only ones who volunteered to work all day,” Cas says, as Dean heads for his locker and a cursory glance at his phone. There’s an obligatory happy thanksgiving text from Ellen, even though Dean told her that he’d cancelled the holiday, for all intents and purposes, but Bobby has respected his wishes and not mentioned the damn day.
“Really,” Dean deadpans, taking a long drink of coffee and not trying to think too much about why Cas, of all people, would volunteer to work the whole of Thanksgiving too. No one does that. Everyone tries to get out of it.
“Therefore, Missouri has moved you to join me in the ICU after your break.”
“Ah, shit,” Dean mutters, downing the rest of his coffee and dropping the empty cup in the garbage can. The ICU is either soul destroying or heart-warming, depending on your shift and the frame of mind you enter into it; the levels of critical ill patients mean fatalities are most common, but there’s also the greatest chance of improvement. It's good work to keep your mind of stuff, though, so there's some advantages for ending up there today.
“Well, better get going,” Dean finishes, scoffing the rest of his muffin and shoving his locker shut again.
No word from Sammy, as agreed.
“Tessa has a very fair chance of a full recovery, Dean,” Cas says, much too close for comfort (which, once or twice Dean had chalked up to his own over paranoia when it came to Cas because, crap, the man is attractive, at least until Ash and Jo had both made comments on it).
“I know,” Dean says, irritation filling him up again. He doesn’t need Castiel’s brand of patronising crap for him to be good at his job. He knows Tess is taking to the chemo well and he knows the risks and side effects and the gritty truths about cancer. He doesn’t need to talk about Tessa’s cancer. He doesn’t care about her cancer, he cares about her. “I’m not a frigging idiot.”
Cas’ eyes narrow slightly. Perhaps, in this encounter, Dean has been unfair… but why the hell should he be fair, when Cas daily undermines him and daily breathes down the back of his neck as if he’s damn incompetent?
“Whatever,” Dean says, “let’s just go.”
*
“Dean,” Jo calls out, walking backwards out of ICU after a surgical consort with a pair of raised eyebrows, “you change your mind about being such a damn killjoy, Mom’s made enough turkey for you both.”
“I told your mom not to freaking bother,” Dean calls back.
“She’s made pie!”
“Not interested,” Dean mutters, turning back to the stack of patient’s charts with a grimace. Sure, Ellen’s pie is freaking incredible and he categorically cannot believe that he’s not going for it (neither could Bobby or Ellen, either), but he can’t do Thanksgiving this year. He can’t fake this damn festive feeling and pretend that everything’s a-okay. Maybe this year Sam is sober, but his Dad’s also dead.
He can’t do it.
“I wasn’t aware you had so many friends in the surgical team, Dean,” Castiel says, lightly, but his voice sounds off.
"You just making conversation, or you genuinely interested in my life all of a sudden?” Dean asks. Normally, he wouldn’t be so damn rude to any of the Doctors… but he’s really not sure whether the hell Cas gets off and, anyway, Cas has always been an exception. “Jo’s a childhood friend. A childhood friend who needs to quit shoving festivities down my throat.” Cas smiles, slightly. “You know, I couldn’t get a damn sandwich at lunch that didn’t have turkey in it?”
“I take it you’re opting out of thankfulness, this year.”
“Damn straight,” Dean says, flipping through his file of paperwork, “If a guy doesn’t want turkey, there should be some other option. This is a hospital. If people want to feel down on their luck and not scrub together a freaking thankful list, then they should have that right.”
“I was supposed to be joining my brother for dinner this evening,” Cas says, even though Dean totally hasn’t asked. He’d sort of been hoping that Cas was feeling equally as unfestive and unthankful as he was, but it seems he’s literally the only person who’s cancelled Thanksgiving this year. Only, he’s dragging his brother down too.
“Yeah, what’s stopping you? The extra-long shift you volunteered for?”
“My car broke down in the car park,” Castiel says, “every mechanic I called is too busy being thankful to help me out.”
“Sounds about typical.”
“That’s why I was so rude this morning, Dean, I apologise.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, hotly, “and what about the last four months?” Cas looks stricken and takes a little step back which makes Dean feel so freaking guilty… but what’s he supposed to do, here? Suddenly be grateful that Cas has got his head out of his ass and wants to be best buds? “What’s wrong with your car?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I fix cars,” Dean says, hand pressed to his forehead, “If you’re gonna be stuck here all night, I can probably take a look at her after my shift. We finish at the same time, right?”
“Yes, but –”
“Isn’t it kinda late to be finishing work and having a thanksgiving dinner?”
“Well,” Castiel says, picking up one of the patient’s charts and flicking though it, “I was trying to get out of it. My brother is… somewhat difficult, on occasions. I thought working late would have deterred him, but evidentially it didn’t work.”
“Ah, over determined brothers. I have one of those.”
“I have four.”
“Ouch,” Dean says, disappearing off to the other end of the ward to check on Mr Turner. He’s resolutely not wondering what the rest of Cas’ brothers are doing for Thanksgiving, either, because it's none of his business and he has no reason to care.
Dean continues wishing his patients a happy Thanksgiving and making sure their relatives get the maximum amount of time gathered around their hospital beds, even whilst every single mention of the damn holiday is making his chest tighten slightly. Goddamn.
He had thought work was the best place to avoid thankfulness all together, because he cleans up piss and shit and vomit and does the dirty work that no one respects. His work is eclipsed by the doctors who save people’s lives and the surgeons who open people up and fix them, but everywhere the sick and the broken are shamming happiness and telling Dean about the meaningful things getting so ill has taught them.
He feels like a selfish dick for griping when, comparatively, he has it going great… but, he’s forced himself through years of crappy Thanksgiving dinners that no one really meant and he isn’t doing it this year.
“If one more person offers to sneak me some turkey,” Dean mutters irritably to Cas, who smiles like Dean isn’t being the biggest a-hole on the planet. He figures it’s his turn to get to act like a dick, though, considering Cas is the asshole in this relationship. Probably.
“It’s because you give off the appearance of being wholly thankful, Dean.”
“Well let’s thank the Lord for my acting skills,”
“I thought we weren’t being thankful.”
“Right,” Dean says, “yeah, strictly no thankfulness. How long till this shift ends?”
“Two more hours,” Cas says, without checking his watch. “Are you sure you wish to hang around longer to look at my car?”
“Dude,” Dean says, “do I look like I’m rushing home for anything tonight?”
“I suppose,” Cas says, “if you’re sure. I doubt Gabriel and I will finish dinner before midnight,” Cas sighs, “and then it’s a forty minute drive back to my place.”
“That sucks,” Dean agrees, even though he thinks on the grand scale of things that suck both Cas’ late night and the fact that he was forced to have a turkey sandwich for dinner don’t really register on the scale. He kind of feels like they both have a little more perspective on the matter than they’re really sharing, though, and they’re just humouring each other so they can continue to wallow in their almost-misery.
He kinda likes it. Most people, lately, have been telling him to pull his head out of his ass and stop taking everything for granted. And he isn’t, really he isn’t. He’s beyond thankful on a daily basis that he has Sam back, at long fucking last, and that Ruby is completely out of the picture, along with the drugs and the highs and Sam lying to him all the time. He misses Dad like an open wound, but he gets that it’s a fine opportunity to ponder and realise that he’s alive and healthy and not addicted to anything (which is a real Winchester gold star because, Jesus, it runs in the family).
It’s just this holiday. It just makes him think of last year, and the year before, and all those years he was hopeful and got let down. Now he’s scared of his own hope, scared to put faith in Sam and scared to believe that maybe things might be getting better, lest tomorrow he finds Sam with track marks and another junky girlfriend.
“God, we’re selfish bastards,” Dean mutters, pressing his fingers into the back of his neck and feeling silently grateful that, at least today, Cas isn’t being a dick. He can’t imagine how lonely and depressing the shift would have been had Cas not been there to indulge in his moaning.
*
“My Dad taught me how to fix up cars,” Dean says, sleeves of the T-shirt he’d been wearing under his scrubs rolled up to his elbows as he inspects the mess that is Cas’ car.
“I never understood how all the little bits fit together,” Cas says. The flashlight Cas is holding moves as Cas leans against the side of his car a little bit more, scattering the light over the car for a few seconds. He suddenly became rigid, the light steady.
“Dude, you’re a doctor.”
“It’s different.”
“Sure,” Dean agrees, “the bits fit together a lot simpler and cars don’t bleed. Probably just as likely to get sued if you fuck it up, mind.”
“Rest assured, I won’t sue you if your ruin my car,” Cas says, his voice resigned.
“How’s that going, anyway?”
“Shitty,” Cas mutters, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s never heard him swear before. “Sometimes, it really feels like this job is thankless.”
“I feel you,” Dean agrees, quiet, as he pulls out the wrench from the mini tool kit he keeps at the back of the Impala, and begins unscrewing something he’s pretty sure is causing the problem.
“There’s supposed to be something intrinsically good about saving lives, but I never feel like I’ve done enough.”
“Cars are easier,” Dean says, through the semi-darkness that’s descended over the car parking lot in the half hour Dean has been attempting to diagnose and cure the problem with Castiel’s car which, true to word, won’t budge an inch. “You just replace the broken bits and their good to go. Here…” Dean says, “This’ll work as a temporary fix, if I just…”
“Did you ever consider fixing cars for a living?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, “everyone expected me to.”
“So, why did you become a nurse?” Cas asks, head titled with curiosity. He gets where Cas is coming from, too, because it never seemed like a particularly good fit until suddenly it was. When he first just went off and did it (because, by that point, there was hardly anyone left to listen to him run his plans by them), everyone had been pretty damn shocked… he just doesn’t seem like the type, straight off, until you have the context along with everything else. Which, obviously, he’s not going to hand over to Cas just because it’s Thanksgiving and he’s feeling pretty shitty about it.
“Dr Sexy MD,” Dean says, because it’s a rough approximation of the truth without the gritty bits, “my favourite TV show.”
Cas laughs and Dean realises he’s never heard the sound before (probably because, before today, his very presence was enough to make Cas all rigid edges and silent glares), but he quite likes it. There’s something to be said for being responsible for the thing.
“Dean,” Cas says, “it’s awful. That plot with the dead girl –”
“- ah ha, ” Dean says, waving a finger in Cas’ direction with a triumphant grin, “You watch it, then.”
“Hardly,” Cas says, frowning.
“That’s intricate plot level stuff, Cas. Who’s your favourite character?”
“Dean,”
“It’s okay, Doctor,” Dean says, “your secret’s safe with me,” which may or may not be a quote from the last gripping end of season special, which he can tell Cas totally gets by the way he’s trying not to smile. “Nah, I guess I thought there was something right about trying to help people.”
“Nevertheless, I’m definitely thankful that you happen to have the knowledge required to fix my car.”
“Dude, we’re not being thankful today,” Dean says, “we’re wallowing in our selfish self-pity." He falls into the front seat of Cas’ car, and turns the key experimentally. The engine splutters to life, which Dean takes as a job well done. “You’ll really need to get it fixed up properly,” Dean says, “but it’ll get you to your turkey dinner.”
“Thank you, Dean.”
“Dude!”
Castiel smiles, slightly, before switching off the flashlight and handing it back to Dean with a slightly morose expression.
“I fear we may have gotten off to a bad start, Dean,” Castiel continues, “maybe we could…”
“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, holding out his right hand for Cas to shake.
Cas’ hand is warm and heavy in his for the few seconds the handshake lasts, and Dean remembers all over again that this is Cas who’s stupidly attractive and moody and arrogant and a bit of a dick all at once. Cas, who seems to be the only other person in the whole hospital who watches Dr Sexy. He has an unsaleable urge just to refuse to let go of Cas’ hand, but he’s not quite that dumb.
“Castiel Milton,” Cas says in that deep voice of his, and Dean thinks he’s possible a little bit screwed.
*
When he gets back in, Sam is laid out on the couch watching some cooking program (about how to make the perfect turkey roast, which seems a little bit late all things considered).
“I thought you were supposed to have your own apartment, bitch.”
“Jerk,” Sam says, half asleep, “my flatmate’s having his brother over for Thanksgiving dinner. The smoke alarm kept going off and I was trying to get some work done.”
“Looks like it,” Dean snorts, migrating over to the fridge to fetch himself a beer.
“I got you a turkey burger,” Sam says, “on the table.”
“Thanks,” Dean says, picking up the burger and feeling something slightly warm dislodge in his chest, despite himself. Sam’s long limbs are still hanging over the edges of his sofa, without moving, and Dean’s pretty sure his eyes are glued shut… but, hey, the kid’s killing himself trying to get his degree right, this time, so Dean’s not about to nag him for being tired.
“I thought we weren’t doing that this year,” Sam mutters from the direction of the sofa.
“Smart ass.”
“How was work?”
“Fine, Sammy, fine,” Dean says, “quit hogging my sofa and move up, Sasquatch.”
“Urgh,” Sam complains, but pulls himself upright to fall into the seat next him, “Ellen bought round some pie.”
“That woman is a saint.”
“We’re okay, right Dean?” Sam asks, his puppy eyes coming out as he blinks up at him. For the longest time, Sam’s cheeks were hollowed out, skin pale, thinner than should be possible. He looks good (haircut aside, because really) and, right this second, it’s kind of hard to remember that Sam broke him.
For now, nothing feels all that broken.
“Yeah,” Dean says, falling into the sofa and taking a bite of his turkey burger, “we’re fine.”