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Dean firmly said it wasn’t a big deal.
A ‘big deal’ wouldn’t include him hunched over the toilet wishing mercy on its tainted porcelain.
Sam told him he ‘probably caught something from that musty vamp nest’ and that it was a ‘walking Petri dish full of ick’. Granted, Fall decided to tap out early and skip the extra month, leaving Dean trembling inside the bunker’s cold bathroom.
The thick, concrete tiles were absolute murder to his knees, turning a flush shade of pink when he looked down between gasps for air. He looked like a half-dead bass attempting to sing the opera for Christ’s sake. He’d even say he looked pathetic. All small and weak-looking.
Dean Winchester didn’t get sick.
Sick wasn’t a word he’d ever imagine associating himself with… and he hated it.
He continued to empty the remaining space inside his stomach, small chunks of mystery meat floating idly inside the pool.
He would’ve made some dry joke, maybe “the eagle has landed”, but his throat felt ten times smaller with each grueling swallow.
Dean gripped the edges of the toilet for dear God, white knuckling it so that he could pitifully miss the handle by miles. He could practically hear Sam cackling from the shadows, arms crossed and grinning at his fumbly display.
He’d always mocked Sam whenever he got sick like this— granted, he’d taken it a little bit more seriously back then— he realized he had been indeed kicking himself with the back-end of his boot for years.
I feel like fuckin’ shit.
As Dean would continue to think of “10 Things I Hate About Flu” for another week and a half of this little sniffle gone anarchist, his decline decided to take a little swan dive.
He hurled into the bowl a little louder this time, the overhead light flickering in protest. As if it too felt his pain and thought observing from a vantage point would suffice. His eyes rolled back, and a breaking sound bridging between a sob and a moan escaped his lips. Falling back onto his thighs, fingers aimlessly tugging at numerous hair strands. The room began spinning again.
Great.
Just great.
A knock sounded at the bathroom door, light and delicate.
Dean knew who was behind it before he even arrived. It was bound to happen. Some stupid fate complex that made sure that wherever he was— whenever in danger, he would—
“Dean? May I come in?” Castiel’s muffled voice rang true in the eased silence. Sharp, jagged spikes to Dean’s temples. He winced from the expressive sensation, scooting himself to the wall so he didn’t seem so damn depressed. Bracing his hands over the slippery tile and adjusting himself a little to the right. He wedged himself in the far right corner of the room.
He dragged a tired palm over his bloodshot eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. It could be worse, Dean supplied, favoring the idea that the overprotective angel wasn’t the final boss in their little case of nurse.
“What if I say no?” Dean rasped back, scratchy and coarse to the letter. If he thought he sounded worse ten minutes ago— he’d be mistaken. He had the enthusiasm of a ninety-year-old chain smoker in their eighties after being weaned off their thyroid pills.
So, in short, not great.
“Dean, please.” Cas pressed, insistent.
God, he hated that he cared for him. Hated that he couldn’t suffer a little whenever he was around. Got a scratch? Healed. Stabbed? No problem! It sounded twisted, I know. But Dean needed to suffer. Needed a reminder that he wasn’t invincible. That he wasn’t okay.
He envied Sam every time he got sick or had his little demon blood withdrawals. Every time, he broke the line between life and death, yet somehow came back swinging stronger than before.
Dean wasn’t like that.
Dean never caught anything. Never had problems with side effects or heavy hangovers that left him stranded six feet under for a week. He just wasn’t built to feel pain. Not physically, anyway.
“Dean…?” He asked again, concerned about lacing his tone. The hunter hadn’t spat out a reply yet… Cas probably thought he was unconscious over the toilet bowl.
Dean huffed, shaking his head, “Fine, c’mon in.”
He opened the door slowly, from the agonizingly slow turn of the doorknob to the soft expression lacing his tightly creased brows. “Make yourself at home,” he continued, slapping the tile beside him.
Castiel scanned him before setting himself down. Removing the bulky trench coat he’d practically been glued to for the last five years.
Dean’s neck craned to meet his icy eyes, the two orbs floating in the sharpened slight. He squinted at him, eyes cracked with dried tears and exhaustion. Double bags hung low like twin crescent moons, flushed cheeks, and a shuttering body.
The angel eased onto his butt beside Dean, scents of sandalwood and specifically angelic wafting him in intense waves. Lulling him closer to his radiating heat like a moth to a flame. His body revolting against his wishes and leaning on Cas like a celestial body pillow.
Without the coat, Dean heard his heart. Steadily hammering in his chest like a jackhammer.
Kill me now, he grumbled, traitorous eyes fluttering with sleep. Cas didn’t seem to mind, hell, he looked like he was enjoying every second— drinking up the crumpled hunter like a fresh lemonade mid-summer.
“You’re trembling,” Castiel whispered, chin resting on Dean’s greasy head. “You… stink,” he added with a reluctant sniff. A little on the nose (haha pun), a little unneeded, but it got a snort out of the hunter.
“Yeah, no shit, Cas.” He rolled his neck, nuzzling deeper into his chest. His fingers clutched Cas’ black dress pants to ground his sanity for a moment longer. “Any other notes?”
Cas cocked his head towards Dean again, “No, none that I’m aware of.” His arm wrapped around Dean’s back, his fingers brushing the sides of his swollen ribs tenderly.
Dean scowled at the proximity— but Cas was so damn inviting. His kryptonite. That son of a bitch could tell him to jump off a cliff and he would. If he—
“So,” Dean shattered the silence, “you just gonna sit here and brood with me, or are you going to do something?”
“I’m… thinking,” Cas replied.
He mustered a bleary eye-roll, “Great.”
A few minutes later, as soon as Dean started to get comfortable with Castiel around, a solid wall in a room of mirrors— he stood up. Briskly and fluid. He clutched his trench coat and placed it on the nearby sink. Dean’s fingers brushed his, almost romantic.
He still didn’t want his help, but he couldn’t deny his silent yearning for his presence, for his unfathomable amount of care.
Castiel turned his body, shadowing Dean. His black hair poked over the light, blocking the intense glare overhead. Dean squinted.
He braced his hands around his hips, “What do you want to do, Dean?” He rumbled, forcing eye contact on the poor bastard.
Dean bit his bottom lip, rejecting the scowl tugging at the corners of his lips. “I—“
“You either accept my help, or no help at all.” Castiel firmly implied.
God, he’s starting to sound like Sam. Quick! Call the CDC! It’s mutating and latching onto hosts! Dean’s shoulders tensed at his tone, eyes dragging to the floor he now found very interesting.
On one hand, I want him. On the other— fuck I’m going to be stubborn, aren’t I? Dammit.
“Is there a third option? One that doesn’t involve you healing me and—“
Castiel spread a palm, “I know you want to prove that you can handle this alone,” a pause, “but it isn’t worth… this.”
Dean blinked. Offensive much? “You just gestured to all of me.”
“I’m aware.” He turned on his heel, strolling to the shower and turning on the water. Steam rose in thick wisps, loosening the gunk and grime from his throat and nose immediately. He grabbed a stack of towels, analyzing each one, and eventually choosing the superior navy-blue colored one. Plush and rugged. He pulled away the curtain with a flourish.
Glancing back at Dean, he huffed, “Let me help you, Dean.” Care shone in his eyes, daresay something grander than that.
Dean looked him in the eyes.
They were softer than he’d ever seen them.
Dean blinked slowly and grabbed onto his outstretched hand.
Effortlessly, his body stood upright, black spots peppering his vision, his head ringing and heavy. Cas wrapped his arms around him once more. Reaching for his shirt, whispering comforting nothings into his ear. They meant something, his heart knew that— though his mind let the words slip away like sand.
With each button undone, the cool brush of knuckles against his flush skin, tremors reeked havoc on his nervous system; his knees threatening to give out.
Cas finished undressing him, (somehow time decided to take a vacation) and eased him into the shower. He didn’t undress, his white shirt and tie sticking to his shoulders when he leaned in. He told Dean to sit down at one point, but he ignored him, swaying like a newborn fawn in an earthquake. His eyes fluttered shut as Cas’ fingers kneaded his hair. Fresh smells living rent-free in his mind.
In a way, this wasn’t cheating. This wasn’t healing. Just… help.
He didn’t care that he was naked in front of him— he’d most likely seen worse than whatever mess was going on inside him. His eyes were reverently trained on his face and body. Fingers scrubbing gently, deeply touching and loosening the knots in his back. The pressures of his chest eased with each exhale, each coaxing of breath escaping his lungs.
He hummed with pleasure, bracing against his chest some parts of the shower.
“Turn,” Cas whispered, maneuvering the hunter’s body so his back faced him, and his chest to the rack of cleaners.
He traced the scratches marring his back, hesitantly pausing at the sight of his handprint branding his shoulder. Featherlight touches there, especially. Treating him like a shattered piece of glass willing to break again with the slightest gust of wind.
***
Cas grabbed some extra comfy clothes for the occasion, dressing Dean with utmost care and attention. Dean’s eyelids sagged as if held by anvils. His eyes dragged agonizingly slow.
“Cas?” Dean murmured.
The angel froze in his spot, snapping to him. “Yes?” He approached cautiously, drying the last remainders of water beading at the tips of his hair. He felt cleaner now, better, sleepier.
“Thanks,”
“You’re welcome,” he nodded, and guided him out of the steamy bathroom and into the cold bunker air. It didn’t take long for Dean’s hobbling ass to get back to his room, Cas breathing on his neck the whole way there— fearing he might pass out or fall spontaneously. He said he had at least a ‘hundred fever. And needed to rest.
Dean didn’t argue.
He flopped onto bed, (which, mind you, was now mysteriously cleaned and perfectly made) and watched Cas turn off each light.
“Cas?”
“Hmm?” He hummed, lowering onto the bed beside him.
“Sam is gonna make fun of me… isn’t he?” Dean groaned, flopping onto his back.
“I won’t let that happen, Dean.” His hand drifted to Dean’s, squeezing it reassuringly.
Before he could stop it— “What would I do without you?” slipped out.
Shit.
Cas flushed, a soft pink to his cheeks and ears. He glanced away briefly before lowering himself to Dean’s face.
He pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, unhurried and tender. Dean’s mind threw itself into a tailspin.
SHIT SHIT SHIT— oh…. Oh, that’s kinda—
Castiel broke away from the kiss, a teasing little thing quirked on the side of his mouth but never meeting his eyes.
The angel just kissed me.
Dean, baffled in his hazy state, just smiled back, a heavy exhale flowing out.
Castiel gripped his hand one more time, and elegantly left the room.
The hunter blinked, baffled and flummoxed out of his damn mind.
He slept like a baby that night.