Chapter Text
Cas was sitting at a table holding a freshly fixed peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and Dean was sure he was going to be sick.
If they only had a few more microwave burritos — in some twisted way, that might have made this easier. Microwave burritos didn’t have the same connotation of innocence and simplicity that PB and J’s did, they weren’t something normal families sent their kids off to school with. Shoot if anything microwave burritos just screamed hapless independence, something unsupervised teenagers and unattached adults ate. The fact that this was Cas’s first PB and J in his entire millenia-plus existence wasn’t helping.
Good, some angry, disgusted part of Dean whispered. This should be hard for him.
For dragging Cas back to safety and warm only to kick him back out on the streets. For being the reason Cas went from a perfect warrior of heaven to this fallen creature, to being just another mud monkey in the dirt. For letting himself even imagine an almost apple pie life where Cas couldn’t just up and screw off without a word, living around the Bunker, learning all the finer parts of humanity from Dean — Dean deserved to feel like he was being dragged over a bed of nails for this.
“Dean,” Cas said, and god, he sounded so freaking chipper, “Would you like to join me? I know the addition of peanut spread and jelly aren’t traditionally included in doing so, but I would be glad for the opportunity to break bread with you.”
Dean cringed. “Uh, no. No thanks, Cas. Listen, can we… can we talk?”
“Of course,” Cas said, pulling out the chair by him. Taking a bit from the sandwich, Cas closed his eyes, chewing slowly, and for a moment Dean was mesmerized — despite his mini crisis over the sandwich and what it represented (and he took a second to appreciate the fact that he never went to college — he probably would’ve been laughed out or hailed as a genius for saying a sandwich had symbolism), he hadn’t actually thought the taste was much of anything to write home about — picky kids liked them because they basically had no flavor, and here Cas was, acting like it was the best goddamn thing he ever tasted.
Granted, when all his newly human palate had to compare it to was whatever he could find on the street, in homeless shelters, or whatever instant stuff he had gotten from April and the Winchesters, maybe it was.
Bed of nails, he thought.
Cas swallowed and said, “Dean, you know I always appreciate our talks, our time together.”
Dean’s throat tightened. He hated this, well and truly hated this — that goddamn angel Ezekiel was holding his little brother’s life over him, and Cas was going to have to suffer for it. He couldn’t save Sammy if he stood up for Cas.
Just rip off the bandaid, Winchester. Get it over with, get drunk later, and get on with your life.
“Listen, buddy...,” taking a breath, Dean said, “You can’t stay here.”
Cas’s breath hitched. He sat there, staring a Dean with wounded eyes — eyes Dean had been convinced he’d never see again after the reaper stabbed him. Cas’s shoulders slumped, like he had been a doll held up by strings that were suddenly unceremoniously cut. Dean watched silently as those eyes turned glassly, as Cas wordlessly looked at him, just holding his sandwich. Every word Dean had been gathering in his head, every excuse and explanation just vanished at the sight.
It felt like an eternity where all they did was just sit there, looking at each other.
Then Cas sucked in a shaky breath. “Dean?”
“Cas, listen-.” Dean feels like a coward, but he can’t look at Cas anymore, not if he wants actual words to come. Fixing his eyes on the sandwich in Cas’s hands — shit, were they shaking? They were, but it was still easier than looking at Cas’s eyes — Dean took another breath and said, “It's just not- safe, okay? I mean- Listen, I got some cash I can give you- You’re a smart guy, you don’t even need us- Cas I- I-”
The sandwich falls from Cas’s hands. Dean becomes aware of wheezing, realizes Cas’s breath is still hitching. He stares at the sandwich harder, not wanting to see Cas cry. The thought of Cas crying, of an angel crying, felt wrong to Dean. But Cas isn’t an angel, his mind pointed out unhelpfully.
“Cas, don’t- look. Look. I know, okay? It's crappy, but that’s life, you know? You’ll…” Dean grits his teeth. “You’ll be okay, buddy. You’ll be-”
“Dean!”
Dean looked up sharply at how strained Cas sounded and was taken aback by his face.
He wasn’t crying.
Cas was red — his face, his eyes, his throat, which Dean watched him claw at as it swelled up. He was sucking in air rapidly, but didn’t seem to actually be getting any in his lungs. His nose was running. His eyes were blinking rapidly, turning puffy, and looked wet, but still, tears weren’t falling from them.
He looked afraid.
“De-” Cas coughed, now digging his nails into his throat.
He was having an allergic reaction, Dean realized all at once, and suddenly he was standing, grabbing Cas’s hands away from his throat, and dragging him from his chair. Baring most of Cas’s weight, Dean realized he had no freaking clue what to do.
Almost without registering it, Dean was dragging Cas out of the kitchen and up the stairs, his phone now in hand as he dialed 911.
“911, what is your emergency?” A steady voice answered, and how could they be so calm on the other end of the line, Dean wondered.
Kicking the Bunker door open, Dean said, “My friend- he can’t breathe- allergic reaction- he needs help, please. I don’t- I don’t know what I’m doing here! ”
“Calm down, sir. I’m sending an ambulance. Can you give me your location?”
Dean rattled off the nearest street to the Bunker. Cas was still wheezing, but Dean could feel his clutch on his shoulders loosening. Balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, Dean wrapped an arm under Cas’s knees and hefted the guy up — he wasn’t light by any means, but Dean was only distantly aware of the weight as he hurried.
“Okay, sir. Do you know if your friend has an epi-pen on him?”
“He doesn’t, he-” Dean almost dropped Cas when he realized the Bunker infirmary might have had one, not that he knew where it could be. Sam would know. Sam cared about organization in a way Dean didn’t on most days, but would’ve killed for today.
Zeke. Dean actually did stumble as the name hit him. He was close enough to the street he named that he set Cas down. Ezekiel was very much climbing Dean’s shit list, but he had brought Cas back earlier. The angel could probably reverse Cas’s allergic reaction, except now Dean had dragged Cas away from him.
Feeling like the world's biggest dumbass, Dean missed the operator’s next words.
“C-could you repeat that?”
“Of course. I said to keep your friend calm, first and foremost. If he’s panicking, it’ll make it harder for him to fight off anaphylaxis. It’ll be easier if you make sure to keep yourself calm — deep breaths.” Dean almost laughed at that. Even if he hadn’t dropped the world’s shittiest news on Cas, Dean doubted even the usually stoic angel could keep his cool when dealing with his first ever allergic reaction.
They were really plowing through firsts for the guy, weren’t they? First time having sex, first time dying as a human, first time eating a sandwich most kids graduated past by middle school, first time suffocating because his body saw a peanut as a threat and decided to shut down.
Dean refused to let himself consider the fact that Cas could die again, this time maybe permanently. Not after all the shit they’ve been through together — Cas was not going to be taken out of the game by a goddamn peanut.
“Right, right, what else?”
“Lay him on his back, loosen any clothing that might be constricting airways, and elevate his legs if you believe he’s going into shock.”
Dean held two fingers over Cas’s wrist, not wanting to touch his throat. It took him a heart stopping moment to find a pulse there. Fast, but faint.
Cas was trying to curl in on himself, as if trying to protect himself from a kick. His gasps for air were being cut off by gags. His lips were turning blue. “Hey, hey, hey, no, Cas, relax.”
Dean put one hand on his shoulder to hold him down, hooking his other one under Cas’s legs again. “Cas? Cas, just breath, okay? Help is on its way, I promise.”
Dean missed out on anything else the operator said, his phone half-forgotten in the grass beside him. He lightly ran his thumb back and forth over Cas’s inflamed throat, hoping the ex-angel would take some comfort from that.
He forced his voice lower, more gentle.
“Just keep breathing, Cas.”
By the time he heard the ambulance in the distance, Cas’s eyes had slipped completely shut, his face slack, and Dean only realized he had been shivering — another sign of shock he should have recognized sooner — when the shivers began slowing down. The mental image of Cas tied to a chair, torso covered in lacerations, not responding to Dean’s touch or voice at all, rose in his mind uninvited.
“Cas, you rat bastard, I told you to never do this again! Cas? Please, please, just don’t-” Just don’t stop breathing for me.
A paramedic pulled him away, earning a harsh elbow to the ribs before Dean realized who they were. Scrambling off to the side, Dean watched as another paramedic pulled out an orange tube — an epi-pen — and stabbed it into Cas’s thigh through his jeans. The one Dean had elbows had recovered remarkably fast and was pulling out an oxygen mask from the ambulance, fixing it over Cas’s head.
And, suddenly, a numbness settled over Dean. He stood, one hand loosely picking up his phone, and followed the paramedics as they loaded Cas into the ambulance.
--
Dean blinks, and suddenly he’s sitting in a chair outside the emergency room with a nurse standing in front of him, holding a blanket in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
He pushes the blanket away, saying, “I’m fine.”
The nurse nods but leaves the blanket by him anyway. Dean picks up the clipboard, pen in the air, and groans in frustration — they hadn’t even set Cas up with an ID yet, and the one Bobby threw together years ago after Cas used a banishing signal on himself had probably been long lost. He tried to remember whatever garbage he put on the fake FBI badge he made Cas.
“Just fill that out to the best of your ability. We’ll take care of your friend.” The nurse shoots him a kind smile and turns away as Dean raises the pen to put down the date. 2013. All of a sudden, Dean remembers a different Cas, another Cas without his Grace, one he hadn’t bothered to think about in years — one that ran around with unwashed hair and an unshaven face, having meaningless sex and hopping up on whatever drugs he can find.
“Wait,” he grabs the nurse’s arm. “Listen, I, uh... I don’t know if he has any other allergies or anything, but... but I know his family’s got a history of addiction, so...” his voice trailed off. He didn’t know how to say So don’t get him hooked on anything he’ll have to recover from or end up OD’ing on later, because I can’t keep doing this, I seriously can’t.
Sam was barely out of a hospital bed himself. Dean can’t keep watching the most important people in his life hooked up to machines and wearing hospital gowns.
The nurse, perhaps reading his worries on his face, says gently, “Thank you for letting us know. We’ll keep that in mind. Mr....”
“Smith.” Shit. Get it together, Dean, could you have picked a faker name , “er, Wesson.” Double shit with a side of Screw You, Zachariah, wherever your dead feathery ass is. “It's hyphenated.”
“Mr. Smith-Wesson,” the nurse said, “do you have anyone we can contact for your friend? A family member of his?”
Dean, slightly panicked, said the first word that came to mind. “I’m his partner.”
The nurse’s gentle smile didn’t waver. “Are you two married?”
“No, I- we- I meant-“ Dean meant work partner, but he realized that was more distant than “friends.” He couldn’t just backtrack and say Cas was his cousin or brother at this point.
“We’ll take care of your partner, sir, we promise. But unless you’re his spouse or emergency contact, we’re afraid we can’t defer to you over the patient’s medical decisions or history. Can you tell us his last name so we can contact someone?”
The fear that he might not even be able to see Cas rises in him, and to his horror he realizes his eyes are getting damp.
He wasn’t sure he could even call Sammy right now and ask him to put together fake documents. He didn’t have anywhere to send Cas, he didn’t have access to a computer, he didn’t have a printer, he didn’t have anyone he could call-
Or did he?
“Bradbury,” Dean said, clearing his throat and willing the tears away before they could fall. “His name is Cas Bradbury. Let me be the one to call his sister.”