Chapter Text
Week One
“It’s raining,” Dean says as he returns to the kitchen. His hair and jacket are wet, like he’s been standing outside in the rain for an hour. Perhaps he has.
Sam’s not sure what to make of his brother’s new obsession with the weather. “Right” is all he says in reply and returns to his perusal of the refrigerator. It’s depressingly bare and his stomach is growling. “We need groceries.”
“Groceries,” Dean echoes, although it sounds more like a snarl, as he slumps down in a chair at the table. He’s still wearing his wet jacket.
Sam turns, closes the fridge, and leans his back against it. “Okay,” he says, arms folded. “What’s up?”
Dean just clenches his jaw, fingernails tracing patterns on the table. “Your face is what’s up.”
Sam doesn’t rise to the lame bait; Dean might be in the mood for a fight, but he isn’t. “I’m gonna get pizza,” he decides. “Meat Feast?”
But Dean just shakes his head. “Not hungry.”
“Are you sick or something?” He takes a step closer, half reaches out a hand to touch Dean’s forehead, before thinking better of it and letting his arm drop to his side. “You didn’t each lunch, either.”
Another shrug and he’s back on his feet. “I’m not hungry, I’m—” There’s a pause where he’s still staring at his fingers, nails digging into the wood. “It’s been raining for fucking hours.”
Exasperated, Sam lifts his hands. “And what? Are we planning a day at the beach?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I don’t even know what we’re arguing about,” Sam grouses, and then holds out his hand. “Give me the keys. I’m gonna get pizza.”
“Screw you.”
“Dean—”
“You’re still sick,” he says. “I’ll get the freakin’ pizza. Jesus.”
Sam watches him leave in bewildered silence.
***
It’s still raining when Dean drives into Lebanon, a steady fall in the dwindling twilight. Everything is wet, soaked through. Colder than snow, sometimes, a steady rain. He knows that, the killing power of water, the steady seep through clothes and the ensuing hypothermia. You need shelter, food, someplace dry to—
His fist slams into the steering wheel before he realizes he’s lifted a hand. He mutters an apology to Baby, although it’s not the Impala who deserves to see him grovel.
But then, what use is an apology if he can’t change a damn thing? It’s not like he has a choice. It’s not like he could ask Cas to come back even if he found him—
Not that he’s looking.
He’s not looking.
It’s just that he keeps seeing glimpses, or thinks he does. They’re ghosts of course, in the metaphorical sense: his memory, his hopes – or fears – playing tricks. Cas has gone, trudged off alone into the night, and if he’s smart, which he is, he’s long gone from this miserable corner of the world. Dean hopes he’s headed south, some place warmer, with less rain.
But still, he looks for him. He can’t help it. The twisting guilt in the pit of his stomach won’t let him stop.
He heads to the nearest bar, calls in the pizza order from there and gets a beer while he waits. It doesn’t take the edge off. These days, his edges are so sharp it would take something industrial to blunt them. Sam and the freakin’ angel on his shoulder, Cas human and vulnerable: there’s no taking the edge off any of that.
He presses the heel of one hand into his eye, sends red flashes pounding in his vision, but it doesn’t dislodge the memory of Cas leaving – of the bewildered hurt in his eyes, the naked despair.
“Sonofabitch,” Dean growls into his beer and takes another swallow. His stomach churns, sour with guilt and— and with something else he can’t name. A relentless, unfocused yearning, an itch he can’t scratch, a breath he can’t take: it’s like some vital part of him is stretching thin.
He leaves the beer unfinished and walks to the pizza place, over the street from the bar. But halfway there he stops dead, feet stuttering beneath him. Good job this half-assed town has no traffic, because he’s just standing in the middle of the street staring at the lumpy shape on the sidewalk with his heart pounding so hard he thinks he might break a goddamn rib.
Then the lump – a man; it’s a man – moves and Dean sees a thatch of straw-colored hair and a face that’s not Cas.
It’s not Cas. Thank God.
He swallows and keeps moving, past the homeless dude with his cup out for change and a rain-soaked cardboard sign that reads ‘Iraq Vet – drug and alcohol free.’
He tries not to imagine ‘Apocalypse Vet – drug and alcohol free (so far).’
Nonetheless, his stomach actually turns as he steps into the pizza place and collects his order. He pays cash, and when he leaves he takes two steps in the opposite direction from the guy on the street before he stops, curses, and turns back around. He fishes in his pocket and counts out a hundred bucks. “Hey,” he says, taking a couple steps closer.
The guy looks up at him. It’s difficult to judge his age, but his surprise is evident. He looks like a man used to invisibility, unaccustomed to being noticed. “Hi,” he says in tentative reply.
Dean’s guts are screwed into knots, but it gives him some relief to crouch down next to the guy and hand over the pizza and the cash. “Listen, there’s a motel a couple miles out of town,” he says. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
The guy’s expression narrows and he moves back. “Man, I don’t do—”
“No. Jesus. I’m not—Fuck,” he says and stands up. “I’m not looking for that. I’m just— It’s raining. You shouldn’t be—” He gestures at the blankets, the wet sleeping bag. “You shouldn’t be outside in this.”
The guy still looks suspicious and Dean wonders, sickly, how often he’s been propositioned with the offer of food and a bed for the night. This guy, though, this guy is streetwise – he knows what he’s doing. But Cas? His throat tightens so hard he can’t even swallow. “Get a cab,” he rasps and throws down another twenty – like he can afford to, like he’s some kind of Mr. Big. Then he turns to leave because all he can see now is Cas, with his pretty face and stupid angelic naivety, and he can’t—
“Wait,” the guy says and climbs out of his nest of blankets. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to— Thank you,” he says when the rest of his words dry out. “I mean... Thanks.”
Dean nods, gathering his composure. “Okay. You’re okay, man.” He swallows, clears his throat. “So, ah, you wanna ride or not?”
He nods and picks up his scrappy possessions, stuffing his blankets and sleeping bag into a duffle with depressing efficiency. He barely owns anything, and it’s still more than Cas had when Dean threw him out.
Fuck, he thinks, he could at least have given him a sleeping bag.
In the car, he finds out that the Iraq vet’s name is Jack and that he’s originally from Witchita Falls, Texas. Dean checks in for him at the motel and pays for the room for three nights with one of their credit cards.
“Go eat your pizza before it gets cold,” he says as he hands over the key.
Jack nods. “This is— You’re a kind man. There ain’t many people who’d do this for someone like me.”
“Someone like you?” Dean echoes. “You’re just a guy, no different to anyone else, dude.”
A slight smile touches his lips. “Easy to forget,” he says, “when folks stop treating you like people.”
Dean thinks on that as he goes back into town, re-orders the pizza and makes his way home. Is that how it is for Cas? No one seeing him, forgetting he’s even a person. He almost laughs at the irony, a sour laugh. He doubts that his humanity is something Cas is forgetting; he’s lost so much more than that.
Including you, a voice whispers in the back of his mind. Including your help, Dean Winchester.
“What happened?” Sam asks when Dean eventually drops the pizza on the table.
“Nothing,” he says. “They screwed up the order.” But he refuses a slice when Sam offers; the smell makes him feel ill.
Week Two
He sends the first text a little after midnight, because he’s drunk enough to feel warm and fuzzy and hates himself for that when Cas is out there cold and alone.
His fingers hover over the keypad for a good five minutes before he sends the message to the crappy phone he gave Cas before he left: how’s it going?
Then he stares at his screen until he falls asleep and when he wakes up it’s still in his hand and there’s still no reply.
“Eat some breakfast,” Sam tells him when Dean slouches into the kitchen later. His phone is in his pocket, volume set to max. “I’ve been grocery shopping.”
He’s still not hungry, but he’s not so dumb that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, or that he doesn’t understand the futility of it. Not eating doesn’t help Cas any more than it would if he went and slept on a park bench.
Please God, he thinks – and it’s a turn of phrase, not a prayer – don’t let him be sleeping on a park bench.
“It’s sunny out,” Sam says, wolfing down his own breakfast. “I was thinking we could go out.”
“Out where?”
He looks up over his spoon. “On a hunt? There’s something in Sioux City,” he says, and pushes his laptop over. “Looks like a salt –n’-burn, but, you know, good to get out.”
Dean nods, because if he’s not hunting then what is he doing? Just sitting here with Sam and his angelic freeloader, babysitting Kevin and trying not to think about what Cas is doing...
He pulls out his phone, but there are no messages.
They drive north and Sam’s right; it’s a straightforward haunting. Just a kid, really – or was, once. Ragged little girl in old fashioned clothes that remind him of the story of the Little Match Girl, who died on the streets of Old London Town – froze to death while everyone looked the other way.
It’s like the whole freakin’ universe is conspiring to trip his guilt.
“Dinner?” Sam suggests, after.
Dean glares. “What, are you obsessed with food now?”
“Obsessed?” Sam’s frown is bemused, but Dean thinks he can detect the hard light of Ezekiel behind the expression. “No. It’s eight o’clock, and we haven’t eaten since lunch. I’m hungry.” Then he cocks his head and the light in his eyes is softer, all Sam, as he folds his arms on the roof of the Impala. “Wait a minute,” he says. “Is this about Cas?”
“What? No,” Dean says, the denial instinctive.
Sam lifts his eyebrows. “Dean...”
Ignoring the question, he gets into the car and turns the key. “We passed a White Castle on the way into town.”
Pulling the door closed after him, Sam says, “I’m sure he’s doing fine. He must have had a plan when he left, right?”
“Right,” Dean says and it’s all he can say without choking.
“And, okay, so he’s human and that’s— new. But he’s still Cas. He’s still smart, resourceful. All of that.”
Dean thinks, he already got himself killed once. What are the odds he’s even still breathing? His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Should never have let him leave.”
“It was his choice, man,” Sam says. “Free will, right? It’s what he’s always fought for.”
And ain’t that a fucking joke, coming from those lips? But he bottles his disquiet, tamps it down because he can’t risk Sam getting suspicious. “Right,” is all he says. “His choice.”
Later, once they’re back at the bunker and Dean’s in his room, he pulls out his cell. It’s possible that Cas is just ignoring his text. It’s possible he’s pissed. It’s comforting to think that he’s pissed, that he’s turned that hurt into anger and that he’s using it to stay sharp. But the other option... Well, Cas is being hunted and the other option seems much more likely.
So he doesn’t text again, he just dials. It rings twice, and then goes to voicemail. There’s no personal message, just the network telling him to talk after the tone. Dean doesn’t say a word.
He wants to hurl the phone against the wall; he wants to curse at the heavens. But if he breaks the phone then Cas can’t call, and there’s no one left in heaven to care. So he sends another text.
call me
And then, please.
There’s no reply to either.
Week Three
Like the Grinch, Dean feels as though his heart is two sizes too small, like it’s been squeezed into a box inside his chest. It’s painful. It’s almost physically painful, like he can’t quite breathe anymore. Sam’s noticed something’s wrong, although he responds with sideways looks and doesn’t mention Cas again. Dean’s glad of that, at least. Lying to Sam is exhausting and he’s already keeping enough secrets.
Everything is exhausting, mostly because he’s not sleeping. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Cas, head lolling to one side and the Reaper with his blade in her hand. Or he dreams of Cas in Jack’s nest of wet blankets on the sidewalk, taking handouts from strangers. And all he can think is He should be here.
So when the call comes, late one evening, he’s not really asleep. The phone is in his hand and he feels it buzz before it rings. He doesn’t recognize the number, though, and fumbles the phone to his ear. So help him, if it’s a cold call... “What?”
There’s a pause, then a woman’s voice says, “Hello, is this Dean?”
Suddenly, he’s wide awake. “Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Jenny Wells,” she says. “I’m a support worker at the St Vincent de Paul shelter. I’m trying to get in touch with Dean.”
Rolling over, he gropes for the lamp next to his bed and blinks against the glare when he switches it on. “I’m Dean.”
“I’m sorry to call so late,” she says, her voice tinny and distant and tense, “but do you know someone called Thomas?”
“Thomas?” He rubs a hand over his face. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh.” A sigh drifts down the line. “Okay. I’m sorry to bother—”
“Wait,” he says. “Where d’you get this number?”
“From a client’s phone,” she says, and he thinks client? “He was admitted to hospital this evening and we’re trying to trace his next of kin—”
Dean’s on his feet, heart thumping. “Thomas?” he says. “His name’s Thomas?”
“That’s right. We found a phone in his jacket and yours was the only number in it, so I was hoping... Well, but it’s probably stolen. That’s not uncommon, I’m afraid.”
“His name’s Thomas?” he repeats. “Are you sure?” Because he doesn’t know anyone called Thomas, but who else but Cas would own a phone with only his number in it? Unless this Thomas guy robbed him…
“That’s what he told me this morning,” the woman – Jenny – says. “But he was a little out of it when he arrived at the shelter, so—”
“What does he look like?”
“Um,” she says. “Caucasian. Tallish, fairly slender. Late thirties, maybe? Dark hair.”
His mouth has gone dry and he squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Blue eyes?”
“Yes. Quietly spoken, very polite.”
“Okay,” he says, taking a minute to process it. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Do you—? Is he someone you know?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, I think so. Is he—?” He clears his throat, but can’t shake the tremor in his voice. “What happened? Is he ... okay?”
“He’s not well, I’m afraid.” Her voice settles into kind concern. “They admitted him this evening when we brought him in from the hostel. He’s...” There’s an awkward pause. “I’m sorry, but are you family, sir?”
Family? He’s not sure he deserves the title, but lies anyway; he knows how this works. “Yeah,” he says with a genuine sigh. “He’s my brother. He’s— His name is, um, Clarence.”
“Good,” the woman says. “Then I guess I can tell you… I understand from the doctors that Clarence has pneumonia. It’s not uncommon at this time of year, given his situation.”
“His situation?” A fallen angel, cast adrift in the big bad world by the one guy he thought was his friend. That situation?
“Among rough sleepers,” Jenny clarifies.
He’s not surprised – what else did he expect? – but it takes him a couple of painful heartbeats to process the words ‘rough sleepers’.
“Sir?” Her tinny voice niggles in his ear. “Were you aware that your brother’s been sleeping rough?” And there’s enough of an edge to her words that they penetrate Dean’s spinning thoughts; he can hear her unspoken you asshole. He figures he deserves it – and more, if she knew the truth.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I knew things were tough for him right now, I guess.”
“I see.” She’s positively chilly.
“He’s gonna be okay, right?”
Another pause. “Not if he’s sleeping rough, no,” she says. “The hospital can keep him for tonight, but he has no insurance and after that… We don’t have any long-term beds at the hostel, Dean. I’ve been calling around the homeless shelters, but at this time of year…”
She lets that hang, and Dean stares at his bare feet and the cold floor beneath them, and he knows what she’s going to ask and he knows what he’s got to say. And it’s killing him, this choice between Sam and Cas, it’s like a knife in his chest and he means that without one ounce of hyperbole.
“Okay,” Dean says, rough into the phone. “Right.”
There’s silence, then Jenny says, “So does that mean—?”
He doesn’t know what it means, he just says, “I’ll come. Which hospital?”
“Oh,” she says, and the surprised relief in her voice is palpable. “It’s the Miami Valley Hospital.”
Dean blinks. “Florida?” It’ll take freakin’ days to get there.
“Dayton,” she clarifies. “Ohio.”
And that, he figures, is a straight shot east on I-75. “I’ll be there in the morning,” he tells her, and hangs up.
Then he sits in silence and tries to think it through, but his thoughts get hitched up on the words rough sleeper, pneumonia, and homeless shelter and he remembers Jack in his wet blankets and feels something raw clot in the back of his throat.
I did this, he thinks. And so he had no choice – he had to protect Sam – but it doesn’t negate the fact that I did this.
Clearing his throat, he scrubs a hand across his face and gets dressed. It’s eleven o’clock now and he figures it’s a twelve hour drive, maybe less on clear roads. He can’t tell Sam or he’d demand to come too, and Ezekiel won’t allow that, so he gets up in silence and leaves a misleading note on the kitchen table.
Heading south, back in a couple days.
Then he slips into the Impala, turns the key and starts driving. He has no idea what he’ll do when he gets there – he can’t take Cas home with him, obviously – but he figures he’s got twelve hours to work that out. Besides, all that matters right now is getting there, and although it seems insane he can feel something unwinding inside him as he drives. It takes a couple more miles of dark road before he figures out that it’s relief.
He’s actually relieved to be driving through the night because tomorrow he’ll see Cas, and for the first time since he left the bunker Dean will know that he’s… Well, if not okay, at least alive. He’ll know that Cas is alive and safe and someplace warm – even if it is a hospital.
That’s pretty fucked up in any number of ways, but when he stops for gas he feels hungry for the first time in forever and snags a bag of chips and a coffee for the road.
Dean arrives at the hospital a little before ten because he’s made good time, although he’s jittery with lack of sleep and too much caffeine. He hasn’t got Sam’s patience with the reception staff, so when he asks about ‘Thomas’ and is met with blank stares he’s on the verge of losing his temper. “Come on,” he snaps, “I’ve been driving all night. He’s—”
“Dean?” He turns at the sound of his name to see a kind looking woman with the type of practical hair and clothes that makes it obvious she has higher priorities than fashion. “I’m Jenny,” she says. “We spoke last night?”
“Yes,” he agrees, in relief, and casts a hard look at the receptionist. “Thank you.” And then, to Jenny, “How is he?”
Her expression turns hesitant and she takes his elbow. “Let’s go sit down.”
“What?” He shakes her hand off. “What’s wrong? Is he—?”
“He’s improving,” she assures him. “He’s much more coherent than he was yesterday...”
“But?” he prompts, because he can hear the word dangling at the end of her sentence.
Jenny looks awkward, shoves a strand of hair behind her ear. “Let’s talk,” she says, and leads him to a quiet corner of the waiting room.
He perches on the edge of a seat opposite her, hunched over his knees, and rubs at his gritty eyes. He’s too tired for this; he just wants to see Cas. He wants to confirm that this is Cas and to make sure he’s okay. Until this exact moment, he hadn’t realized how much he needs that and the visceral tug of yearning in the pit of his gut is disturbing. He rubs a hand over his face, fixes Jenny with a hunter’s glare, and says, “What?”
To her credit, Jenny doesn’t flinch. He suspects she has to deal with a lot of douchebags in her line of work. Instead, she sets the file she’s holding on her lap and says, “So, I told Thomas – uh, Clarence – that you were coming, and he— I’m sorry, but he asked not to see you.”
That hits hard, that punches right into the gut. “He said that?”
“He was quite insistent, I’m afraid.”
“Screw that,” he says and gets to his feet. “Where is he?”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t.”
“The hell I can’t.”
“He was quite adamant,” she says, although he can tell she’s uncomfortable by the way her fingers are fiddling with the edge of the file in her lap. “He was quite distressed that I’d called you. I think he feels ashamed of … of his circumstances.”
“He feels ashamed?” Dean drops back onto the seat, his whole body suddenly too heavy to support. “Jesus.”
“It’s common,” Jenny says. “It’s so easy to fall on hard times, yet people always blame themselves.”
Dean can’t even begin to process it; they’re carrying worlds of shame between them, he and Cas, and not even a year in purgatory was enough to wash away their guilt, but Cas is too ashamed to see him now? It makes no damn sense. “You gotta let me in there,” he tells Jenny, and he’s not above fixing her with his best puppy-dog eyes. “Please.”
There’s no tell-tale flush in her cheek, but after a moment she gives a scant nod. “Wait here. I’ll go and talk with him again.”
“Thanks,” Dean says, and makes a show of stretching out his legs and getting comfortable. But the moment Jenny’s through the door he’s after her – as if he’s actually going to wait for Cas’s permission. He slips past the receptionist and follows Jenny down the corridor, up the stairs, and along another corridor until she disappears into a room.
He approaches carefully, keeping close to the nearside wall and smiling nonchalantly at the passing doctors and nurses. He barely warrants a second glance; he’s practiced at hiding in plain sight. As he approaches the doorway the first thing he hears is coughing, underwritten by Jenny’s calm tone – too quiet to make out what she’s saying – and just as he peers around the door he hears Cas’s voice, recognizable despite the coughs that punctuate every couple of words.
But it’s the sight of him that stops Dean in the doorway. He knows Cas is human now, has seen the most brutal evidence of it, but somehow seeing him hooked up to drips and propped up in a hospital bed brings the reality home in a whole new way. Cas’s shock of black hair seems all the starker against the white bed sheets, his drawn features sallow.
For an instant, Dean wants to turn and run. He can’t face being responsible for this. But it’s too late because he can already hear what Cas is saying and his words root him to the spot.
“... tell him ...” he’s insisting between coughs “… that I’m fine. I don’t need him to...”
“Cas,” he says, because screw that.
Cas looks up and there’s a flash of something horribly human in his face: hurt, anger, frustration, shame. All those things are there before he turns his head away, jaw clenched until he coughs again and pulls an oxygen mask up to hide his face.
Jenny, for all her previous compassion, glares at Dean. “I told you to wait.”
“Yeah well,” he says. “I didn’t.” He takes a step inside.
“You have to leave, sir,” she says. “Don’t make me call security.”
He meets her glare for glare, and then looks past her to the bed. “Cas?” he appeals. “Come on, man.”
That stubborn face is still turned away and Cas waits one, two, three long beats before lowering the mask and saying, “It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?” Jenny turns back to him, frowning with concern. “I’ll get him removed if you want.”
A shake of his head and a fleeting look, like he can’t bear to meet Dean’s eyes. “It’s okay, thank you, Jenny.” And that’s followed by another cough and his hand pressed to his chest as if it hurts. Dean guesses it must.
“Ten minutes,” Jenny warns as she leaves. “He needs to rest.”
Dean just nods and makes no promises.
When they’re alone, he takes a couple steps closer to the bed. “Dude...” Now he’s here, he realizes he still hasn’t figured out what to say.
The look Cas gives him is as cool and appraising as ever it was, a flicker of angel blades in its depths. “Why are you here?”
“You should have called,” he says and drops into the plastic chair next to the bed.
Again that steady look, haunting coming from Cas’s gaunt and unshaven face. “Why?”
“If you needed help...”
“I did need help,” he snaps. “You told me to leave.”
He holds Dean’s gaze until Dean is forced to look away. “Look— that doesn’t mean we’re not... We’re still friends, Cas.”
“Friends?” Cas sounds bewildered.
“You know we are.”
“I don’t know anything,” he says and looks away. “I don’t understand anything.”
Dean takes a breath, lets it out. With Cas’s head turned he can see how matted his hair is, the grime beneath his fingernails. His gut tightens. “Where’ve you been living, anyway?”
No answer, but there’s an angry flicker in his jaw. If Cas still had his mojo, Dean thinks he’d be smitten by now.
Smote, he corrects with a frown. He means smote not smitten. Obviously.
“Look, Cas,” he blurts, “I’m sorry you can’t stay at the bunker. I’m sorry I—the way I handled it was crappy.”
His jaw is still tense as he turns back around, lips pursed in that way he has of looking angry, offended, and infinitely exasperated. “Yes,” is all he says, “it was.”
“There are reasons,” Dean ventures.
“Of course; I’m a liability now.”
“What? Come on... No way. You’re— I mean… you know a lot of useful shit.”
“Dean,” Cas says, speaking low so Dean has to lean closer to hear. “I may be human, but I’m not a child and I’m not stupid. I know why you don’t want me—” He breaks off to cough, but doesn’t carry on. Dean’s not sure whether that was the end of the sentence or not.
Into the silence, he says, “It’s not about what I want.” And maybe it’s the quiet of the room, or the reality of Cas lying sick on the bed, but the words feel truer than anything else he’s said for a long time. “When is anything ever about what I want?”
Cas’s expression is as enigmatic as always. “You’re protecting Sam.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, because that much truth he can spare.
“You’ll always protect Sam,” Cas says. “No matter the cost.”
“He’s my brother.”
Cas is silent but he rolls his head across the pillow to look out the window again, as if he’s made some kind of decision. “You should leave.”
“I don’t want to.”
A slight smile, more cynical than Dean’s comfortable seeing on his face. “Didn’t we just establish that it’s not about what you want?”
“So what? It’s what you want? You want me to go?”
Brow furrows in confusion. “What’s the point of you staying?”
And Dean could say ‘Because I want to make sure you’re okay’, or ‘Because I feel shitty that I can’t take you home’, or even ‘Because I miss you’, but he realizes those are all about him, they’re all about making himself feel better. He’s still got nothing to offer Cas. “I don’t know,” he says, mumbling the words toward the floor. “I guess there is no point.”
He can feel Cas watching him for a beat longer before his attention shifts back to the window. “No,” he agrees.
“No point unless…” Dean looks up. “Unless you just want me to hang out for a while?”
There’s a flicker in Cas’s jaw before he says, “That would just make it worse—” And his voice breaks on the last word in a horribly human way, goes rough and raw and disintegrates into a cough that leaves Cas breathless. He leans back against the pillows with his eyes shut, fingers clutching at the oxygen mask but not lifting it to his face. Dean tries not to notice the glisten of moisture among the lashes that lay dark against his pallid skin because, fuck, angels don’t cry.
And if nothing else is proof of what Cas has become, then it’s this. Dean’s throat constricts because he knows – he knows – that at least half of this is on him. “Cas...”
He doesn’t answer, but his mouth is a tight line and his eyes are still stubbornly closed. It doesn’t keep the tears from leaking out, though, running down the side of his face and into his hair.
“Shit,” Dean murmurs. “Come on, man.”
“Please...” And it’s just a whisper. “Just go.”
“No.” And screw it, but no. “I’m not leaving, okay? I’m not leaving you here like this. End of the fucking story.”
“Dean...”
“No.”
Cas looks desperate, like he can’t hold it together, and when he opens his eyes they’re bloodshot and hurting, and Dean remembers that, on top of everything else, the guy is sick. Like sick sick. He puts a hand to his forehead like he used to do with Sammy and feels the dry burn of fever. But his touch stills Cas, turns him rigid, his eyes fixed on Dean’s as if he has no idea what’s happening. And for some reason Dean doesn’t move his hand, leaves his fingers on Cas’s forehead for a moment, then presses his palm to his unshaven cheek. “You’ll be okay,” he says. “You’ll get better. You’ll feel better.”
Cas just blinks at him. “You should get some sleep, Dean. You look tired.”
“Yeah, well,” he smiles. “I drove all night.”
And that’s how Jenny finds them – Dean with his hand cupping Cas’s face, and Cas staring into his eyes. She clears her throat from the doorway and Dean snatches his hand back and almost knocks the plastic chair over as he jumps to his feet. “Right,” he says. “Okay.”
“Dean needs to find a motel,” Cas says quietly, apparently unfazed by their embarrassingly emo moment.
“Ah,” Jenny says, with a smile aimed at Dean. “Good.”
And there’s something knowing in that smile that makes him want to vacate the room immediately. “I’ll be back later, buddy,” he tells Cas as he backs away.
“Of course,” Cas says with one of his barely-there smiles.
It’s not until that evening, after having slept a solid five hours, found dinner, and waited for visiting hours, that Dean realizes Cas was playing him.