Chapter Text
Castiel harbors a great dislike for hospitals.
They are crowded, full of germs, and inefficient.
Inefficient not because he doesn’t trust the doctors and nurses to do their job – on the contrary, Castiel holds high regard for the professions of the medical sector. No, it is rather because being entrapped in a hospital room the size of a closet on an uncomfortable hospital bed and no reliable internet connection bereaves Castiel of all sensible opportunities for applying himself to his work.
It is frustrating, to say the least.
His phone has forsaken him the three times before when he tried to connect to the head office, and this time is no different. Castiel grumbles under his breath and pulls the useless phone off his ear.
“You ever relax, Novak?”
On second thought, Castiel will have to retract his statement. The worst part about hospital stays isn’t the inefficiency. It’s the people you have to endure because they are hospitalised with you in the same patient’s room.
“I do not think I told you my name,” is the closest thing to a diplomatic response Castiel can manage in the face of his roommate’s continued intrusion.
The other man grins insolently. “No, but I can read.” He points towards the name tag on the foot of Castiel’s bed. “You know mine?”
Castiel could peek over to the other man’s name tag as well, but he already knows what he’s called. Everyone in the corridor knows Dean Winchester. He’s loud, he’s rude and he’s shameless. He flirts with anything with a heartbeat, and for reasons that escape Castiel’s understanding, he is dearly cherished by everyone.
Everyone but Castiel.
In order not to give the man any ideas, Castiel ignores him expertly. He clenches his jaw and stares at the wall opposite, which is white and unassuming, a reassuring opposite to Winchester’s brash personality.
“Hello, will you answer me?”
Castiel doesn’t even grace him with a look. “I would prefer not to.”
He can only imagine the affronted face the man puts on after this. But he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t care. Lifting the phone back to his ear, he tries for another call.
***
Dean Winchester is loud.
That fact, among many others about the man, is grating on Castiel’s nerves.
It only makes sense that a man as loud as Winchester would be coming from a family of the same temperament.
Since sharing a room, Castiel has met Winchester’s brother Sam, what Cas assumes is his father Bobby, his sister-or-girlfriend Jo (Cas is at a loss in that regard) and her mother Ellen. Cas also learned that the Winchester family is acquainted with a morally questionable hacker named Charlie-something, a conspiracy theorist with the name Frank, and Pam the medium and Kevin the next president and – at this point Castiel had finally caught on to the fact that Dean was messing with him.
No one knows such a ragtag band of people.
Castiel wouldn’t even listen if they weren’t all so loud. And to think that’s only Winchester and his brother at the moment who are making all this noise, heads thrown back with laughter over something or other.
His head begins to throb again and he lifts a hand towards his temple in a desperate attempt to alleviate the pain through physical pressure and sheer force of will.
“You alright there?”
The question comes from the brother, Sam, and to Cas’ surprise he looks genuinely concerned. Castiel can’t imagine how he and Winchester share a bloodline.
“Just leave ‘im, he’s a delicate little plant,” Winchester immediately proves Castiel’s thoughts true. His younger brother presumably got all the empathy genetics while Winchester’s DNA was drenched with assholery.
“I wouldn’t be so ‘delicate’ if your big mouth would take a break from the constant babbling now and again,” Castiel retorts. “I find your voice very grating.”
For the first time since he’s known the man, Winchester splutters. “I’ll show you my big mouth.”
“Really, Dean?” The brother raises an amused brow at him, before turning back to Castiel. “I’m sorry, man, we’ll keep it down from now on.”
“It’s sir, Sammy,” Winchester remarks testily. “Dude’s a noble.”
That tension around Cas’ jaw is slowly starting to reappear. “I am not a noble.”
Winchester doesn’t even look at him. “He certainly acts like a stuck-up prig enough to be one. Let’s not piss him off or he’ll throw us in the dungeons.”
“Dungeons haven’t been customary for centuries,” Castiel informs him.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I’m too much of a shitkicker to be educated proper.”
“Properly,” corrects Castiel.
“Jesus Christ,” remarks Sam.
At least Cas gets what he wanted after that because the room is covered in silence. The discrete shuffling of fabric tells him that the brothers are probably doing this nonverbal conversation thing that Castiel only knows in theory.
“Anyway, I’ll head out.”
Winchester’s head perks up. “Sammy, no, that’s what he wants.”
Sam sighs. “No, that’s what I want because I’ve still got paper work to do.” Sam pats his brother’s uninjured leg and moves towards the door. “I’ll bring you a change of clothes tomorrow.”
Once the door shuts behind him, Dean whips his head around to the other bed. “You’re the actual worst, you know that.”
Castiel doesn’t answer.
Winchester blasts his obnoxious rock music from his outdated radio until Castiel calls a nurse on him.
***
The next day after lunch, Cas’ phone call actually goes through.
He’s be more relieved if that weren’t the exact same time when Winchester’s whole entourage pays him a visit.
“Excuse me, can you repeat that?” Cas holds a hand over the ear that is more exposed to the Winchester clan’s bickering. “No, I’ve… I will send it to you as soon as possible, I- what?”
He’d stand up and go to the corridor, but his ribs are still hurting even just trying to sit up and he can’t let that weakness slip towards his boss.
His boss gives him a string of instructions and Castiel struggles to note them down on a stray piece of paper which crinkles on the unreliable surface of his blanket-covered thigh. “Alright, I will… get to that,” he promises, not knowing how he’ll manage any of it in his current situation.
He hasn’t noticed the deep sigh that presses out of him until he finds Winchester’s eyes on him. “Family call?”
Without thinking, Cas says, “Yes.”
Winchester blinks. “Wait, seriously?” he asks, forehead wrinkled in a way that can only be described as confusion. “I was kidding, that was what a social call sounds like for you?”
The whole Winchester clan, who has previously been busy discussing the state of the flowers on Winchester’s side of the room, is now directing their attention to Cas as well. It makes him uncomfortable, to be the focus of their scrutiny.
“It was no social call,” Cas explains curtly.
“You talk business with your family?”
“Yes, that was my brother Michael, he is my boss.” Castiel doesn’t know why he tells him this.
Winchester scrunches his nose up, and Castiel finds similar expressions of disbelief on the others’ faces. “He not know that you’re, like, out of action?”
“He does,” Cas says. “That’s no excuse to dawdle.”
“’Course it is,” Winchester protests. “Dude, that’s messed up, he’s your brother.” A look shot towards his brother Sam says everything Winchester thinks of Michael’s management strategies. “He should care more.”
Castiel turns away. “Just because you’re a ‘mother hen’ does not mean that everyone else should follow your example.”
He doesn’t look, but he thinks Winchester may be rolling his eyes. “Told ya he’s a robot,” he directs at someone among his visitors, or maybe all of them. Castiel doesn’t know. He’s had enough of their intruding eyes. He rolls carefully over to his left side, swallowing the grunt that threatens to escape him at the wave of pain shooting from his ribs, and stares at the door.
He closes his eyes, and pretends to be asleep for the rest of the visitors’ stay.
***
He must have fallen asleep for real, because when he opens his eyes again, the room is covered in blissful silence. All visitors are gone, and Castiel is once again alone with Winchester.
Trapped.
Suddenly, the blanket over his body is feeling too hot. He feels like a chicken in a coop, it’s too narrow in here.
His breathing becomes short. His hair, under the bandage, feels soaked with sweat.
“Hey, you okay there, buddy?” A voice fights its way over through the congestion in his ears.
Belatedly, distantly, Castiel realizes the voice must belong to Winchester.
And truly, once he turns his head to the right, the man is staring at him through the dim lighting the moonlight offers, shining through the curtains.
“I-” Castiel clears his throat. Tries again. “I'm fine.”
“Sure don't look that way,” Winchester comments, but Castiel has already removed his attention from him, trying to breathe through his nose in a way that he hopes will make the panic attack recede.
He hasn't had one of those in a while. He’s out of practise.
Winchester’s attention feels like a headache all by itself, his eyes that of a vulture, just waiting for the right moment to peck Castiel’s own eyes out. He doesn’t know if it’s genuine concern or malicious glee at seeing Cas like this. Doesn’t know which he’d prefer.
To distract, he takes a gulp of water. “I’m fine,” he says again.
“Sure,” Winchester repeats.
Pointing his glare over at him, Castiel notices the closed window. “There’s no air in the room,” he says.
He swings his feet off the bed and stands, gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his head, the pain in his chest.
He needs to open the window.
“No, no, wait, I asked Sammy to close that!” Winchester says, when he recognizes what this action of Castiel’s leads to. “I get chilly!”
Pleased at having found a different outlet for his agitation, Castiel rolls his eyes at him. “I hadn’t realized you’re such a ‘wimp’, Winchester.”
He receives a glare for that, but with his leg trapped in a cast there is no other way for Winchester to protest. Getting up on his own would be even more of a process for him than it was for Castiel. Which is what he is counting on.
“You asshole, I’m getting a cold!”
“You’re not getting a cold from a little bit of a breeze.”
“Breeze? I’m already fucking shivering.”
“I need some air!”
“I’ll fucking steal your blanket!”
Castiel snorts. “I’d like to see you try, with that thing keeping you back,” he says, pointing at his cast.
Once he’s reached the other side of the room, sidestepping Winchester’s attempt to trip him up with his crutch, he can’t bring himself to open the window fully, however. So he just opens it a crack, keeping unspoken the kind of compromise he’s making.
Winchester ignores that fact too, and Cas is glad for it.
“If I get a cold, I’ll fucking send you the bill,” he says, as Castiel makes his way back to his bed.
“I think I can handle that,” Cas says haughtily.
“Alright, Mr Workaholic.”
And that’s practically their way of saying good night.
***
When Castiel wakes up the next day, the bed next to him is empty.
It stays empty until breakfast arrives, stays empty while Castiel swallows down his meal, and it is still empty when the nurse comes to pick up the tray again.
“He got discharged today,” nurse Tessa tells him even though he has not asked.
***
If his condition had already improved so far that he could leave the hospital, Castiel wonders, maybe he let him have that win.
***
The atmosphere in the hospital is noticeably less jaunty without Dean there to flirt with the nurses and doctors and fellow patients.
Without Dean there to argue with him, Castiel regards the passage of time as admittedly dull.
***
When Doctor Milton stops by to let him know his ribs are healing well without posing any more danger towards his lungs but she’s still worried about his head trauma and would like him to continue therapy with a physician, she has a smile on her face the whole time. It’s not good news to Castiel, so he doesn’t know why she would be so excited for him.
A few minutes later, Dean Winchester strides right into Castiel’s room like he owns the whole hospital and Castiel wonders if Doctor Milton downplayed things because his head injury must surely be giving him hallucinations now.
“Heya, grumpy,” Dean greets, waving a brown paper bag in his hands. “I come bearing gifts.
The paper bag lands on Cas’ lap while Winchester plops himself down on a nearby chair. Castiel stares at him owlishly, unable to believe his own eyes.
“It’s just a burger, dude, it won’t bite,” Dean says, nodding towards the still untouched paper bag.
Castiel’s fingers reach for it as though pulled by a string, and indeed, the intriguing smell of freshly acquired, sinfully unhealthy burgers hits his nose. Closing his eyes, he cherishes the way it fills a deep longing inside him.
“Never had one of those, huh,” Winchester guesses.
“I... don’t allow myself to. Not very often,” Cas admits. “Why are you here?”
Dean’s gaze is unnervingly steady as it returns Cas’. “You can say thank you, you know.”
A corner of Cas’ mouth twitches. It feels unfamiliar, to smile. “Thank you,” he says softly.
***
They go outside to eat Dean’s lunch on a bench.
Dean has to help him down the stairs with an arm thrown around his back, which is a huge blow to Cas’ pride which in turn results in them stumbling down the last steps because Dean isn’t so steady yet either and they’re both too thickheaded to admit any of it.
“Jesus, you’re heavy,” is Dean’s way to excuse his lack of muscle power.
“No thanks to you,” Cas huffs back. “You stole all my puddings while you were here, don’t think I didn’t notice.”
Dean does something with his face that makes Cas want to punch him. “Please, you’re way too boring for puddings.”
Castiel stares ahead, hoping his expression broadcasts exactly how little he thinks of Dean. “I spat in each of them before you ate them.”
It’s a transparent lie, but it works because Dean’s eyes are wide when they turn to ogle Cas‘ profile. “You didn’t!”
Cas’ smile must betray his lie because Dean slaps him on the arm. “You asshole, I bought you a fucking burger!”
“Which is soggy and clogging my arteries which probably means this is all an elaborate plan to murder me.”
“If I wanted to murder you, you’d already be dead.”
“Really,” Cas says dryly.
“I spent all this time in the same room with you, what do you think,” Dean affirms. “I woulda just flicked you against the head, woulda been enough for you whiner.”
Castiel just rolls his eyes. Tries to hide that stupid smile that threatens to take over his face.
“What happened to you anyway?” Dean asks after a prolonged moment of silence, gesturing towards Cas’... everything.
“I fell out of a window.”
Dean’s eyes look like they’re about to jump out of their sockets. “Dude.”
“Unintentionally, of course,” Cas hastes to add. “A... former colleague fell with me.”
In his periphery, Cas notes an eyebrow shooting up in Dean’s face. “Fighting or fucking?” he asks and Cas nearly chokes on his piece of burger.
“F-fighting,” he admits. “He was about to ruin Michael’s career. The falling was an accident, though. We were not paying attention.”
Dean whistles. “Michael doesn’t deserve your loyalty, if you ask me.”
“You don’t know him.” Cas doesn’t know why defense is still his first instinct, when Michael hasn’t paid him a visit a single time during all his stay in the hospital. When Sam had been there for Dean whenever he could.
“Do you?” Dean asks, and Cas supposes that’s fair.
He doesn’t answer. There’s nothing to answer.
So, “Why were you here?” he asks back.
“Car accident, basically,” Dean reveals. “My apprentice, he’s... doesn’t matter, he means well. Anyway, nearly got my leg squashed. Not the first time to fuck up my leg, so. There.”
“I fell onto a car,” Cas says. If Dean doesn’t want to talk about how he got his leg ‘nearly squashed’, Cas thinks, he doesn’t have to. “I suppose that counts as a ‘car accident’ as well.”
Dean snorts at that. “How’d the other guy look?”
Cas shrugs. “He was still able to run away, so I suppose he’s fine.
The laugh that leaves Dean’s mouth is so melodic, Cas wonders if there’s any other sound in the world that could rival its beauty. “Man, what did you do wrong?”
“He was so fortunate to grab onto a balcony railing a story below,” Cas relays. “That way he could break his fall more elegantly than I managed.”
“Well, lucky you,” Dean says, and Cas is no expert in social interaction, but that’s a weird way to respond to someone else’s accident, even to him.
But Dean smirks at him unrepentant. “If the roles were reversed, there would be some other stuck-up office douche on this bench with me,” he says. Lifts a shoulder in consideration. “Probably be making out by now.”
Cas looks at him. “You’d make out with Virgil?”
Dean shrugs. “At least he has the sense to not get his ribs and head fucked up.” Then: “Virgil, really?”
“He comes from a conservative family.”
“Unlike you,” quips Dean. And then he completely butchers Cas’ name, stretching the ‘ie’ until it sounds more like Ca-steelle than anything remotely correct.
Another few moments pass in which neither of them says anything. The burgers are scarfed down, and Castiel’s fingers are playing nervously with the bag before he throws it into a bin nearby. It hits its target.
He turns to Dean. “You’d make out with a stuck-up office douche?”
Dean grins. “Not any stuck-up office douche.”
And then he leans forward.
And, finally, kisses him.