Chapter Text
“I’m perfectly fine.”
His name is Castiel, and he’s been on Dean’s ward, making himself known, for what feels like about fifty years, now, but is in fact probably closer to a couple of weeks. He’s pretty much the definition of a terrible patient; he’s rude, he’s catty, he’s critical – he won’t eat the food they give him, he complains, loudly, at all hours of the day. He gets bored easily, rolls over sulkily when he gets tired of TV, and folds his arms like a disobedient child, staring resentfully at anyone who so much as looks at him.
He is also, coincidentally, Dean’s favourite.
Maybe it’s that he’s so easy to get a rise out of – maybe it’s that he refuses to believe he’s sick enough to be in hospital, and Dean admires his persistence; maybe it’s his ridiculous bedhead, or a combination of all three – Dean can’t put his finger on it, but he looks forward to seeing him all day, and even catches himself relieving other nurses of their duties (“No, yeah, I’ll do it, I can handle him, it’s no problem.”) in order to get a little more face-time with Castiel, who to everyone who meets him is simply an overly headstrong pain in the ass who for some reason can’t appreciate time off work.
Dean sees him everyday, and everyday he’s the same; reliable as the sun rising in the morning, Castiel will be sat upright, his face twisted in a haughty scowl, arms folded. He’ll look at Dean, mutter, “Hello, Dean.” With a sour, acid tone to his voice, and will allow – but only barely – Dean to check up on him. Dean will talk; Castiel will neglect to talk back, unless cajoled. Dean will grin at him and say goodbye – Castiel will look away, turn on the TV, and ignore him entirely.
So for the life of him, Dean can’t work out why he’s the highlight of his long, long shifts. There are more thankful patients; kinder ones, more interesting ones, too. All Castiel is, is rude, and surly, and prudish, refusing to engage in any kind of fun that Dean cooks up for him.
Maybe it is the bedhead, after all; maybe Dean’s just that simple.
Or maybe it’s the way, when Castiel thinks he’s not looking, sometimes the tiniest smile will alight on his face, and work its way up to his eyes, as Dean brings him his breakfast, every morning. Maybe it’s the way, just once, Castiel said “See you tomorrow.” instead of nothing at all. Maybe it’s the way Castiel’s laughter isearned, the way he’s not easy, the way he’s a pain in the ass, that convinces Dean he’s worth taking care of.
But it could just as much be the bedhead.