Chapter Text
"You don't have to do this, Cas," Dean says.
They've been here before. In an old house, flames between them, worry in Dean's eyes. He's pleading, He's begging. Castiel feels it from where he stands. Dean's internal screams, his prayers.
Castiel tightens his grip on the angel blade. "I do," he says. He trembles, down to his knees, his wings so heavy, draping over his shoulders. "You don't know Dean, what they've been doing to me."
It comes back in splices, like an old filmstrip. Naomi looms over him, a knee in his side with a sharp tool pressed against the lid of his eye. She orders him to still, he screams and writhes. Samandriel's body slumped against Dean's car. Castiel didn't even blink when he stabbed his brother. He held the body like one holds a child, cradled close to his chest, hoping that it was just a bad dream.
But it wasn't.
Not Naomi, not Samandriel's blood or the ash of his wings.
"Come on, buddy." Dean tries to smile. He can't touch the flames between them, he can't douse them. Castiel can't be saved. "We can fix this, we can get those sons'abitches."
He tries, he tries so hard to keep everyone together, ignoring his own cracks. Castiel wants to believe.
"No."
With conviction he cuts himself with the angel blade, right between the ribs and near his heart. The grace oozes out of him like bright sewage, bubbling and thick. It hurts more than anything else.
He crumples to his knees and the flames go out. Dean is at his side, trying to push the leaking bits of his grace into his body. "Dammit, Cas."
"Don't." Weakly, he pushes away Dean's hand. "Just let it happen."
All of his grace leaves him, dripping and warm. There's pressure on his chest, ripping at his back. Static in his ears and he doesn't hear anything anymore. When he feels breath enter over his lips and into his lungs his vision clouds over black and he thinks, finally.
*
Castiel wakes, leaning on his right side, facing a window, bright and blinding. Everything hurts. He knows this feeling. He blinks, glancing at his surroundings. A hospital, midday. People pass down the hallway behind him, doctors and nurses, he hears children laughing a few rooms away.
His wrist is connected to an IV, he's dressed in a cheap and itchy gown, covered by cheap and itchy sheets. Two chairs by the window, one occupied by a pile of clothes; his suit and tie, the dress shoes that squeak, his coat. Empty coffee cups on a table. The television is on. He rolls slightly to his back, squinting.
The tips of his finger tingle and he's parched. As he shifts, pain rips from his ribcage, stretched and burning. He peeks under his shirt, finding a large patch of gauze taped over his chest.
"Hey."
Castiel drops the material of his shirt. Dean stands at the foot of his bed, cup of coffee in hand, eyes pink and strained. "Was wondering when you'd come around."
"How long have I been sleeping?" His voice is scratched, weak.
Dean shrugs. "Almost a day. They had you pumped full of some pain killers and sedatives. You got quite a few stitches."
"I see that."
Hospital silence passed between them. The beeping of the machine by his bed, the low jabbering of the television. Shoes on the tiled floors, rain outside.
"We told them that you were mugged. Didn't catch anyone's face." He sips his coffee.
Castiel shifts under the sheets, grimacing at the pain. "You didn't have to stay with me."
"Dude, you kebabed yourself in front of me, what was I supposed to do?"
"I'm not your responsibility."
"Sure you are." More gulping.
Castiel watches the bob of Dean's Adam's apple, the pinch at the corner of his eyes. "You know what you did, right?"
He glares. "Of course I do. It was the only way to make it stop." He leans into the pillow and glances out the window again at the gray sky and clouds. "I'm thirsty."
"Want me to get a nurse?"
"Where's Sam?"
"At the motel. I told him to get some rest. And he's gonna give you some paper work."
"For what?"
"Dude, you need to calm down." Dean moves from his seat to Castiel on the bed, and fluffs his pillows.
He takes the pitcher sitting on the table and pours it into a matching plastic cup. "Here." He holds the cup to Castiel's mouth.
Castiel sips, taking the grasp from Dean. "Thank you."
More hospital silence: the television, nurses chatting, a wheel chair being pushed down the hall. It all grated at Castiel, through his temples, burrowed behind his eyes. "Will you turn off the television, please? And close the blinds."
"Yeah. Sure." Dean does as requested.
A nurse walks in, chart in hand. A perky smile, her red hair tied back. "Well good morning!" she says and moves to Castiel's IV bag. "How are you feeling, Mr. Singer?"
"Excuse me?"
"He's good," Dean interrupted. "Aren't you, Cas? Little fuzzy from the pain killers."
The nurse nods. "That can happen. Good news though. The discharge papers are printing out as we speak. Dr. Jones will just do a final look over and you can go home. Is there anything I can get you while you wait?"
He shakes his head. She takes his vitals; the blood pressure, she listens to his newly beating heart, his lungs filling with air. Castiel watches Dean watch him. "Looks good, Mr. Singer--"
"Cas," he corrects.
"It looks good, Cas. Shouldn't be much longer. You beep if you need anything." She leaves.
Dean slurps on the last of his coffee.
"You didn't have to do this," Castiel says again. He didn't think he'd live through it; he assumed that once his grace left his vessel, he would cease to exist, reunited with his brothers.
Dean looks at the bottom of his cup. "Stop saying that. I wasn't just going to leave you there. Besides, you need a lot more practice on your people skills."
--
A doctor explains to Castiel about his stitches, changing the bandages and not to scratch at the scab.
Showers were fine, baths were not. He is given a one week supply of pain killers and antibiotics and is to return in three weeks for a check and to have his stitches removed. He signs the discharge papers.
"Here," Dean says, handing him some clothes. Not his suit or jacket, but some ratty jeans, a gray t-shirt with Led Zeppelin scrawled across the chest. Boxer shorts and socks, a pair of sneakers.
Castiel takes them in his hand, setting the pile on his lap. "Where are my other clothes?"
"In the car. They're kind of bloodied up. Just wear these out."
"My coat?"
"Don't worry about it, dude. Now get dressed. Aren't you ready to leave?"
Castiel glances out the window, at the sun peering through the thinning clouds. He takes a sharp breath.
"Yes." He starts to pull down the fabric of his gown, wincing, the stitches pulling, his shredded insides fighting the movement.
Dean takes notice. "Here." He begins to pull at the gown, gently down Castiel's shoulders, the tips of his fingers brushing lightly across his skin.
"I'm fine," Castiel whispers.
"Yeah, but if you wanna leave today, you're gonna need help. Get that scowl off your face."
Castiel tries not to look at Dean as he helps; the gown off his shoulders and body, arms up to have the shirt slipped over his head. Again, Dean's fingers touched his skin, over his ribs, around the gauze, warm and smooth, goosebumps rising all over his body. He shudders.
Dean grins. "Like this, Cas?"
"No."
"Whatever." The grin stays on his face.
Pants up and on (Dean turns his head while Castiel worked with the boxer shorts) socks and shoes.
"You look good," Dean says.
Castiel looks down at his shirt and pants, the sneakers that are scuffed at the toes. "I look like you."
His whole body still ached, dulled slightly by the drugs.
"Yeah, you look good." Dean grinned. "Come on."
Castiel walks like a zombie, gripping to his side, his hands and feet heavy. Dean keeps pace next to him, moving slow too.
"I was supposed to wait for the nurse," Castiel says as they walk by the front desk and other patients.
"For a wheelchair."
"You don't need it."
At the entrance, Cas stops, warm sun on his face, light moving over his body like sand. His surroundings blur together and everything is still too bright. Dean puts a hand on his back, steadying him.
"Parked down here." He takes Cas by the elbow, directing him across the pavement. With out his grace,
Cas feels gravity, the force tugging him and keeping him flat on this earth. The blacktop radiates through he thin material of the shoes.
Sam leans against the car, arms folded, the wind blowing his hair. His face is pained, but he smiles, like always, hopeful and heartbreaking at the same time. "Hey, Cas," he says. "How are you feeling?"
Like shit, like I've been run over, like I've clawed my way through dirt. "Fine, thank you."
"Sammy says you get shotgun." Dean grins as he climbs into the driver's side.
Cas wants to decline; he'd much rather lay in the backseat and sleep until they reach their detestation motel. He's almost looking forward to the stale air and ugly sheets and wallpaper decor. But Dean is smiling and Sam nods at him, so Castiel follows instructions and sits in the front seat.
Dean nudges his shoulder. "Here." He hands over a pair of sunglasses. "Kind of bright out."
"Yes."
The purr of the car thrums in his heart. Before they even exit the parking lot, Castiel leans his head against the class, cool and refreshing, welcoming sleep.