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Dean kind of regrets getting Cas a phone all those years ago. Not like, seriously regrets it, but the angel didn’t used to be as chatty as he is now. And he sure as hell didn’t know how to send a text, let alone how to operate the emoji keyboard. Sam thinks it’s adorable, like teaching husky puppies how to howl is adorable. Dean finds it vaguely irritating in a charming way – which basically sums up his feelings about Castiel most of the time.
Cas isn’t usually a texting kind of guy, but the speaker on his phone got busted a week ago when he fumbled it to the bunker’s wood floor while trying to play Temple Run for the first time. Far as Dean knows he hasn’t made a second attempt, though he’d seen the angel quietly agonizing over Solitare before. Maybe card games are his thing. It would make sense, given Cas’s strategic streak. They could teach him to play poker; he’d be terrible at it.
“What are you smiling about?” Sam asks from Dean’s right, in the passenger seat. He’s looking at Dean, who tightens his hands on the steering wheel and scoots against the seat to sit up straighter.
“Just reminiscing,” which can’t be the biggest lie he’s ever told. “Remember that time I switched your shampoo out for that gel shit and you looked like electrocuted Bonnie Tyler for like three days?”
Glaring, Sam crunches deeper into the Impala’s bench and goes back to the lore notes spread across his lap. “You’re a dick.”
Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and it’s whipped out of his pants and in his hand immediately. Which, wow, that sounded kind of… yeah okay, well, it’s a text from Cas. It’s glowing on the screen, the letters precise, somehow exactly how Cas’s voice sounds.
C: Dean.
Typical. Dean snorts. Cas texts like he talks. His eyes are darting from the screen to the road, and it’s only a second later before Sam reaches over and snatches the phone away. Dean complains.
“Hey!”
“Watch the road,” Sam says, bitchily. “It would be embarrassing if you texting and driving ended up killing us.”
It’s true, so Dean relents. Though he keeps sneaking glances every time his phone buzzes and lights up in Sam’s huge moose hoof. He can see the messages pinging, flashing on the screen, as the minutes crawl by.
C: Dean.
C: Dean.
C: Where are you.
C: Dean.
C: :(
Sam, concerned after the serial texts, almost calls Cas before he remembers the angel’s phone is busted and can’t receive calls. Dean hears him hiss a sigh under his breath before he swipes Dean’s phone to the home screen. Asshole. Dean really needs to password protect his cell one of these days.
“Uh-uh!” he scolds, grabby. Sam avoids him by crowding against the window.
“What? Cas could need us.” He even has the gall to sound like he’s counseling Dean, as if Dean doesn’t know how to be a good friend. Needs Sam to tell him how to handle Cas, when clearly, he can do it just fine on his own. He got a B– on his Castiel Care Exam, thanks very much.
“Whose name is he chanting, huh?” And just because Dean’s a little smug, he rubs it in. “I don’t think that’s how you spell Sam.”
The phone buzzes again with another Dean and Dean thinks Cas must’ve been telling the truth about that profound soul-bonding shit. Because that was some killer teamwork just now. Sam isn’t wholly convinced, so Dean sighs.
“Look, if he was desperate, he’d be hitting you up too,” he says. It’s a fight not to let the blush creep off his neck and into his ears. He’s losing the battle. “I’m pulling over for gas at the next dump. I’ll catch him then.”
* * *
D: what is it
C: Fix my phone. Not being able to call is very frustrating
Dean’s leaning with his hip against the Impala, squinting down at his phone under the spotlight of the sun, filling up his baby with gas. Only a whiny grump like Cas would text him to bitch about his phone being busted. Well no, Sam would probably do that too. Dean needs more friends. He slowly types a message out one-handed.
D: that all?
C: No.
Dean waits, watching the little “. . .”s flicker as Cas types what may amount to a novel. The tank’s full by the time Dean’s phone bings with the new message. He shelves the nozzle and pays as he reads.
C: Since last evening I have been experiencing what I believe are odd physiological sensations and reactions. They are worse this morning and are increasingly distracting. I cannot make them stop and am unsure as to what I should do to mitigate them. I do not want this to end like Chinese take-out night >_<
Oh. Yeah, neither does Dean. Cas isn’t human, but he’s still recovering from Rowena’s dumb dog-curse and his Grace has the hiccups. One moment he’s fine, and the next, he’s hurtling into human territory at frightening speed. Cas joined the brothers for Chinese two days ago and spent the wee hours of the morning hanging over the toilet, bemoaning kung-pao chicken and cursing Dean for giving it to him. Dean spent the wee hours of the morning rubbing Cas’s back and getting cursed at. Sam spent the wee hours of the morning listening to them with a pillow over his head.
No one would enjoy a repeat of that fun night, but Dean can’t shoo away the icy, curling feeling in his gut. If Cas is having another human-episode, Dean wants to be there. But instead he’s here, in nasty-ass, backwater Missouri looking for what is probably a pack of wraiths.
D: does ur tummy hurt? feeling hot?
C: No. It’s something in my head.
D: headache?
C: Perhaps. I keep making noises.
Noises? What? Dean wracks his brain for something Cas could be suffering from. It doesn’t sound like Cas’s tummy is giving him trouble, and he said his head is the problem. And he’s making noises. What sort of maybe-headache causes someone to make noises? Is he moaning from pain? Is it a migraine? Fuck, those can get bad. Maybe Cas is getting an aura of a migraine. Dean had seen Sam muscle his way through a few of those and they were bad news. Cas might actually be spending another night in the john if he isn’t prepared.
Damn this case to Hell.
D: what kinda noises?
C: Unsure.
There’s a worrisome pause, Dean hanging on a thread. He barely notices Sam come out of the gas-mart with a plastic bag and a newspaper. The blank screen animates with a “. . .” and then finally a message.
C: It just happened again. I think it might be my nose.
D: nose? Does it happen whn u breathe?
Another long pause, and Sam distracts him from it.
“Hey, what’d Cas want?”
“Dunno yet,” Dean says, pushing a hand through his hair. “I think he might be getting a migraine.”
Sam’s eyebrows trench, expression getting brittle. “Really?” Dean can tell he’s thinking the same thing he is – that Cas is in pain and they’re far away from him. They both glance down when Dean’s phone trills and blinks.
C: I can’t breathe easily. One nostril isn’t working. And no, it happens sporadically. Something builds and then I make a noise. It’s wet.
After Dean stares at the screen for a while, bewildered, Sam leans over for a look-see. At first neither of them understand, but then Cas sends a follow-up text.
C: My nose is leaking
Dean gets it first. “Oh.” He’s slightly relieved, but only slightly. Sighing, he swivels to press the small of his back against the curve of the Imapala while Sam hums with the epiphany a moment later.
D: ur sneezing cas. U probs hav a cold.
C: Well, I don’t want one. How do I make it stop?
D: can’t, just gotta deal. Drink lots of fluids and stay in bed.
C: :(
A stupid sad face shouldn’t make Dean feel as shitty as it does. He knows Cas hates being down for the count, and he also hates dealing with all this human crap he said goodbye to once he stole angel Grace and went through that hellish nightmare of hobbling along on infected mojo. Now he just wants to be okay, and Dean wants that for him too. More than anything, at this very moment, he wishes he could hear Cas’s voice and Cas could hear his, so Dean could tell him to cheer up and take advantage of all the best lazy privileges of being sick. More than that, Dean wishes he is with Cas right now, making sure the guy doesn't have a fever, isn’t coughing up a lung, doesn’t blow his way to a sinus infection. The possibilities of disaster are suddenly endless, and Dean finds himself shooting a flurry of texts as Sam swings into the driver’s seat.
D: blow ur nose a lot. Don’t snort it.
D: u need tissues, check my room
D: if throat hurts, make lemon tea
D: don’t use stove, use MICROWAVE
D: remember thermometer? Used on Chinese take-out nite
D: check temperature like I showed u
C: Dean, I know how to use a stove.
Dean pauses, inexplicably warmed and annoyed that Cas chooses to contest that point while he's doling out better recovery tips than Web MD. Bastard should be grateful. He is so caught up in his phone, he barely notices that he is showing himself to the passenger side of the Impala.
D: don’t u dare, just use microwave
C: I’m not a baby.
D: u act like one whn ur sick tho
C: :(
D: :)
C: I wish you were here.
He stalls, sitting there while the car purrs to life beneath him and Sam elbows him to put on his seat-belt. Cas says a lot of sappy shit, but still, Dean is never actually ready for it when it comes. Swallowing against something tight, he hunches over his phone and sends off the last message he can stomach before he has to shove his phone deep in his pocket and forget about it for a few minutes, if only to wait for the blush to recede its hot, steaming tide from his cheeks.
D: me too.
~ end