Late February, 1981
-
"Dean, you've got a call!" Dean looked up from the bike he was refitting and stood, walking to where Bobby hung out of his office, holding the phone out for him to take. He nodded, wiping his face with his rag, propping the receiver up to his ear with his shoulder as he tried to smudge some of the grease off of his . Bobby pushed past him, shutting the office door halfway and giving him some privacy.
"Dean Winchester," he began, glancing at the sliver of smoothed poured floor of the garage right outside the . A crack had started to run across from the baseboard at the end of the wall and extended a decent amount, disappearing under a Harley. "Hello?" Dean tried again after he was met with silence.
"Sorry," an unfamiliar voice said. "Sorry to bother you at work.."
Dean's eyes narrowed and he squinted at the crack in the floor, trying to place the voice but coming up with nothing.
"Who is this?" he proceeded, adjusting the phone with his hand, turning away from the office and the rest of the crew on the floor. "Do I know you?"
The person on the other end seemed to hesitate, but eventually drew a deep breath.
"We've never met in person. I'm Gabriel Novak." Gabriel Novak took another breath. "Castiel Novak's older brother?" As if Dean could have ever forgotten that name.
Dean said nothing.
"...I was told I could you at this number, or that, if you weren't in the city, Bobby Singer would know how to reach you," Gabriel continued, his voice sounding spread thin. "Castiel wanted me to call you for him."
"Is this a joke?" Dean said softly, the stupor surrounding that name slowly lifting. He could feel himself becoming more self-conscious. "Who the fuck is this?"
There was a weighted pause and Gabriel - if that even was who he claimed to be - cleared his throat.
"Castiel wanted - look, I know you two haven't spoken to each other in years. He told me that. He told me you'd probably be angry when I called, but, I had to call. I would never have bothered you unless he'd asked me."
Dean leaned against the near wall, crossing his arm over his chest.
"Make it quick, I'm on the clock," he said harshly, ducking his head so the sound of an engine being tested wouldn't cloud his ear.
"He wants to see you," Gabriel said simply. "That's all."
"He should understand I can't do that," Dean replied.
"He's sick."
"Listen, I don't know why you think you can just call me about this -!" Dean said angrily, looking around for the phone cradle so he could hang up.
"He's dying."
" - but I don't have time to worry about whenever Cas gets a cold, alright? We ended it. Years ago. Now get off my phone," Dean snarled, but he found that he couldn't move.
"I know how difficult that must be for you to hear," Gabriel said, "and I know that you don't want to hear it from someone like me, but he really wants to see you."
Dean stopped, his face still screwed up in anger.
"What did you say?"
"He's dying, Dean." There was a break in Gabriel's voice. "He's very sick."
"You're lying," he hissed, "You're lying. You're pissed at me because we were lovers - that I was queer for your brother, and now you're trying to punish me, aren't you? Listen, I don't have the time for these sick pranks. I've got work to do, so fuck off!"
Gabriel didn't say anything for several seconds.
"I'm so sorry, Dean."
"I'm fucking sorry too! That you think you have to call me in the middle of work to tell me some bullshit lie about Cas to make me feel like shit. To make me feel like shit because you can't stand that I fucked him! Bullshit, this is fucking bullshit!"
"I'm so sorry."
"Stop telling me that!" Dean roared. "Stop telling me you're sorry about a fucking lie!"
His skin was itching; he felt like it was stretched too tightly over him, like he was going to burst out of it at any second. His face felt hot and red.
"You need to understand!" Gabriel said loudly, and Dean could feel more words bottle-necking in his throat, pushing up, attempting to get out of his mouth as he swallowed them down.
Dean raised a shaking hand to his mouth, running his fingers over his jaw.
"He wants to see you. He hasn't asked for anyone else outside of the family."
Dean's hand curled into a fist, his tongue felt thick and heavy and everything tasted like pennies.
"Why does he want to see me?" Dean asked, shaking his head. "We...we ended it. We haven't spoken since."
"He's dying, Dean," Gabriel .
"Where is he?"
"San Francisco General."
His heart dropped; he hadn't known Cas was in San Francisco.
"He's been living in the bay area for a few years now," Gabriel explained. "We didn't know where he was for a long time, either. We finally got a hold of him when Rachel got married - he came for the wedding. He looked then, a little thin, but now..." Gabriel trailed off.
"How much time?" Dean said suddenly, not knowing where the question had come from. But there it was. The words burned as they moved past his lips, dark and bitter. "Don't bullshit me."
"They wouldn't tell me for sure."
"Don't bullshit me," Dean repeated, his voice a tired whisper.
"A few weeks. Probably less."
"No," Dean said automatically. "No, that can't be right."
"I'm sorry," Gabriel said, again.
Dean didn't know what exactly Gabriel was sorry for. He and Cas had ended so long ago. He didn't know what to say. His brain felt soft in his skull and the words wouldn't process. They kept twisting themselves up and getting tangled the more he tried to understand exactly what they meant. A few weeks. Probably less. He felt like he should laugh.
"I have to go..." Dean said vaguely, and he pulled the phone away from his ear.
His hands were shaking, and if it was out of anger or out of fear, he didn't know. He felt almost sick, lightheaded, and he leaned against the wall behind him, running a shaky hand through his hair.
This had to be a prank, a cruel prank that Castiel and his brother were playing on him; revenge for Dean leaving Castiel when he had. Revenge for just up and leaving without so much as a warning, and really, Dean believed that this was something that he deserved. What he had done was really shitty of him, but Castiel's brother telling him that the man that he loved more than anything in the world was dying - why?
Maybe he didn't deserve this.
Maybe.
He breathed, his hands still shaking, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He pressed his back against the wall, pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes, and there was a little voice in the back of his head telling to let it out, to scream, to cry, to just let it out. But he couldn't.
He needed to get home. He needed to get home right now.
There was a soft knock at the door, and Dean pulled his hands away to see Bobby standing in the doorway. He was frowning, and he looked worried; he had probably heard Dean shouting just moments before.
"It's nothing, Bobby."
His eyes felt sore, and his cheeks felt wet, so he rubbed at them with the backs of his hands, wiping his palms against his thighs afterward. He tried to breathe but his throat felt tight, and he didn't realize that Bobby had entered the room until he felt the familiar weight of Bobby's hand on his shoulder.
His fingers squeezed tightly, and Dean leaned into the touch, sighing softly and closing his eyes.
"Go home, get some rest."
Dean was about to protest, because he couldn't go home right now. He was working on a bike, and he had planned to finish that day, but Bobby squeezed his shoulder tighter, fixing him with a look that told Dean that he was not going to take no for an answer.
All he could do was nod and agree. Yeah. He needed to go home and get some rest; he needed to go home and collect his thoughts. He walked towards the door, opening it, and as he did, he turned.
"Did you know Cas was in San Francisco?" he asked.
Bobby sat heavily in his chair.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean persisted, facing Bobby more fully, "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"You were gone!" Bobby hissed. "He left a year or two after you took off. He asked me for weeks where you were and I had to tell him you didn't want to be found!"
Guilt was like having your clothes wet. It was an even weight over all of you, and it was sloppy and dragged along with you wherever you went, clinging to your skin, never letting you forget it was there. That damp oppressiveness.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean said, and Bobby shook his head indignantly.
"You didn't ask!"
Dean knew he was wrong to be angry, but he didn't know what he was.
"He's sick," he continued and Bobby's face fell into confusion.
"Sick? Who was that on the phone?"
Dean stared at the wall, trying to piece it together in his own head.
"His brother," he answered. "He said he was sick."
"What about it? Is he alright?"
Dean shrugged listlessly.
"He wants to see me," his voice trailed off. "Me, of all people."
"You're going to go, right?"
"I don't know yet," Dean finished, raking a hand through his hair, "I don't know if that's a good idea."
Bobby thought for a moment, seaming his mouth shut, tapping his finger against the arm of the chair.
"I ain't gonna ask for details, but when someone is sick, and they want to see you, you don't say no." Dean didn't reply. He went down to the bar and had a drink and then wandered back to his apartment. He hadn't asked for Gabriel's number to call back, he'd just hung up. He stared at the phone for a long time before picking it up.
"You'll never believe who called me today," Dean said to Sam, sinking down into his recliner, rubbing his forehead tiredly.
"The Queen of England," Sam said with a laugh, and there was a metallic clang in the background.
"No," Dean said softly, his hand no longer moving. "No."
There was a pause and the line crackled with static.
"Ok," Sam began slowly. "I'll bite. Who was it?"
"Gabriel Novak."
"Do I know him?"
"He's Cas' older brother," Dean finished, hand dropping down to the plush softness of the chair. Sam was silent. "He called to tell me that he wants to see me."
"Seems a little third grade, doesn't it? Asking your older brother to tell you," Sam said, and Dean's fingers twitched.
"He called because Cas is sick. He's dying."
The line went quiet again.
"He wants to see me Sammy," Dean mumbled, and he laughed a little, awkward and jilted. "I keep thinking it's a joke, but who would joke about something like that?"
"I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam replied.
"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Dean said loudly, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, "Why does everyone keep apologizing to me? It's not like we're anything anymore. We ended it."
Sam sighed, and Dean knew that there was a puss on his face, even if he couldn't see it.
"You ended it," Sam amended, and Dean knew he was right, but he wasn't in the mood to argue.
"It doesn't matter, I don't feel like I have the right to go," Dean said. "I shouldn't go."
"Then don't go," Sam breathed. "Jess and I will try and go up and see him. Where is he?"
"San Francisco General."
"You should go," Sam's voice was persuasive. "Take some of that time off. You've been hoarding it for years. Bobby will understand. If anything, maybe he just wants an explanation."
"I don't have anything to tell him, Sam. I really don't. I'm just as lost to why as he probably is. What would I tell him?"
"Listen, you weren't here, so you didn't see him, but Dean..." Sam paused, and Dean held his breath. It was the first time they had talked about Cas in years. He couldn't even remember the last time. Had there even been a last time? He hadn't talked to anyone in those first months. It wasn't till he moved back to California that he had even really contacted Sam again. He hadn't gone anywhere special; Oregon to stay with an old racing buddy, a vet like him. They'd worked odd jobs in Portland and then in 'seventy-five Dean had moved back to Sacramento. Bobby had kept his promise, and he'd been back in the garage the next day.
Bobby hadn't asked many questions. Dean hadn't either.
"...he was really wrecked," Sam finished.
"Why should I go see him? If he's about to die, why should he see me?"
"Probably because he wants closure, Dean. And you can give him that."
Dean flexed his hand into a fist and then spread it again.
"I'll go. For a few days at least. Maybe it will help."
Sam assured him it was the right thing to do and he hung up. He was totally aware how both of them had glossed over the reality that Cas was dying. It was unspoken between them that Dean might never get the chance to see Cas again. Closure - it was bullshit.
A few weeks, maybe less.
Dean sat with the phone in his lap, the words stamped on the inside of his head. Weeks. Weeks.
How did that happen? How did someone have weeks? He tried to reason it into days or minutes because the numbers were bigger, but it all fell back to a few weeks.
He picked up the phone again.
"Operator, how may I assist you?"
He cleared his throat.
"I need the phone number for San Francisco General Hospital."
"One moment, we'll connect you."
The line crackled and then a reedy woman's voice came through.
"San Francisco General, Reception speaking."
"I need to know if you've admitted someone," Dean said coarsely, his voice thick.
"Patient's name?"
"Castiel Novak."
There was a long pause, and the woman breathed against the receiver.
"Yes, we admitted him on February 2nd."
"February 2nd?"
"That's correct. Can I assist you in some other way?"
"No," Dean croaked.
February 2nd. He'd been there for three weeks already. Dean leaned back in his chair.
Three weeks?
Three weeks and he was dying?
Dean didn't understand. Cas had never been ill when they were together - but it had been years. It had been so long.
Dean borrowed a friend's touring bike for the trip. He packed light; he figured he wouldn't be staying long. A quick visit, that was all, he told himself.
A quick visit for a dying ex. To give him closure. Give them both some closure.
The drive was beautiful and the weather was perfect - sun and blue sky all the way to San Francisco. He put himself up in a hotel and called the hospital again, just to be sure. Cas was still there. No, they couldn't release any more information until they had proof of relation, and he'd have to come down himself to prove it. Dean considered turning around, but he had already made the drive and booked the room.
He got a directions from the front desk of the hotel and within the hour he was staring at the concrete colored building, the sandy browner ones rising behind. He walked under the main hospital entrance sign, its cheerful turquoise color making his stomach turn. He had to turn around and walk back to where he had parked, smoking a cigarette to calm himself down and could try again. He glanced at himself in the mirror of his bike and wondered if he looked as old as he felt. He was only thirty four.
He went to the reception desk and the nurse seated there looked up at him from under the chain of her glasses.
"I'm here to see Castiel Novak?" he tried, and the woman flipped through her records, issuing the room number and the visitation hours.
Dean thanked her and followed her directions to the elevators. He stared at his empty hands, clicking the button for the fourth floor. He should have brought something. But what would he have brought? He shook his head. It didn't matter.
The elevator doors slid open and Dean stepped out into the long white hallway. He didn't see any signs, and went to the nurse's station in front of him, leaning against the counter. A dark haired woman was sitting behind the desk, flipping through a magazine, idly touching her lip as she read.
"Excuse me," Dean approached and she glanced up, putting the magazine down and smiling at him. He noticed the bags under her eyes, but they didn't seem to detract from her prettiness. Her name badge, when Dean looked at it, read "Tessa" in careful, neat, letters.
"I'm looking for Castiel Novak? I can't - I can't remember his exact room number."
Something twitched across her face and her mouth looked like it was going to open.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, you're here to see Cas?"
"Yes," Dean answered, fidgeting. "Do I need to," he coughed, "do I need to sign in anywhere?"
She watched him cough and then met his eyes again.
"Have you had the flu or a cold or any upper respiratory infection within the last few weeks?"
Dean shook his head.
"No."
She nodded and got up from her chair and before she had moved around the desk she paused, glancing at Dean one more time.
"Do you mind if I see some ID?"
Dean pulled his wallet out, fishing his driver's license from one of the folds, sliding it across the desk. She took it and inspected it before handing it back.
"So you're Dean," she said, and Dean swallowed thickly. Had Cas been talking about him? The nurse - Tessa - didn't look mad when she looked at him.
She looked happy. She was smiling. Her eyes were glowing.
"Hold on, I'll take you! I want to see the look on his face..." she trailed off and walked around the counter, straightening her white starched uniform as she did so, beckoning Dean down the hall. Dean walked past the closed doors on either side, his heart beginning to pound in his chest.
"Today is a good day," Tessa said conversationally, and Dean didn't understand what that meant. "He slept well last night and he's been so chatty this morning." Tessa laughed. "But when does he ever be quiet, right?"
Dean stared at the side of her face.
He leaned in to kiss him - "you never fucking shut up"...
"What's wrong with him?" Dean asked all of a sudden and Tessa did a double take, slowing her walk.
Dean stared into her surprised eyes.
"What's the matter with him?"
Tessa's brow furrowed.
"You're Dean, right?"
"You're not answering my question."
Tessa looked him up and down and turned more fully to him.
"Cas said Gabriel had called you."
"Please, just answer the question," Dean pleaded and Tessa's face darkened.
"I think a better question is what's not wrong with him," she began, but when Dean didn't understand, her eyes softened and were sad. "He has what we call PCP, but to you it would just be a very bad case of pneumonia."
"Pneumonia?" Dean stuttered, "Cas has never had a problem with that. He's only a few months older than I am."
Tessa's mouth was a straight line.
"It's...it's more than that. But that's the bottom line. We're doing everything we can."
Dean nodded and Tessa began walking again before she stopped, Dean almost bumping into her.
"I feel like I should warn you," she whispered, and Dean's palms were beginning to get clammy. Tessa wouldn't meet his eyes. "He's very ill, and it shows."
"I want to see him," Dean rushed, and Tessa nodded.
"Ok."
Dean realized the reason she had stopped was because they were in front of what he presumed to be Cas' room. He could hear a radio playing, the sound bleeding under the door. Tessa knocked on the door and then opened it, her face bright, all traces of discomfort erased for a sweet smile.
"How's my favorite patient?" she grinned, walking in. Dean stalled at the doorway, his chest tight. If Cas replied, he couldn't hear it very well.
"Why are you hiding out there?" Tessa called and Dean jerked, taking a step forward into the room.
He swept his eyes over it and caught the bed, starting at the feet, two small hills under the blanket, and traveled upwards to two skeletal hands resting on a small lap. Two matchstick arms.
A thin chest bundled in a cardigan the color of terracotta pots, hanging so loosely off of the sharp shoulders it swallowed up the bulk of the body it contained. A pale green, transparent tube snaked up the fragile neck and ended in a mask.
A crop of unruly black hair, duller than he remembered -
"Dean?"
Dean's eyes snapped to Cas'. They were bright and glassy and from the sunken shadows of his face, shimmering like two blue flames on his pale skin.
It was silent except for the soft sighing sound of a machine.
Cas lifted his hand from his lap and held it out, hovering it a few inches from the blankets. Dean watched it shake and he rested it again, the action having exhausted itself. He heard the slightly wet sound of him breathing, and his mouth curled into a huge smile under the mask, though it trembled.
"I've... been waiting," he said slowly, having to pause to breathe between, "for you...I told Tessa...I told her..."
He rolled his head, looking at Tessa and Tessa smiled down at him. "He did, he told me you'd come. I didn't believe him at first, but here you are!"
The pillowcase rustled as Cas moved his head again, fixated on Dean.
Dean stared at Cas' feeble form on the bed and he - he didn't believe it.
That wasn't Cas.
Cas was white, but not like that.
Cas had thighs that gave when you squeezed them, he had cheeks that flushed easily. He never stopped talking, and his hands were warm and still and stronger than they looked, not limp like two dead birds on the blankets.
"Come here," Cas said, and his voice begged. "Come here..."
Dean moved, eyes never leaving him, still trying to comprehend. Cas reached for his hand and Dean took it, staring down at it - it was so light. A palm full of spare change, and so thin, the skin nearly translucent. He could see the blue veins on his wrist. Cas squeezed it, and Dean realized it was still warm. Dean watched tears drip onto the back of his own hand.
"I'm so glad..." Cas said softly, his voice nothing more than a sigh. His chest rose and struggled, and then fell. "I'm so glad. I'm so glad you came..."
Dean blinked, but the tears kept coming.
He didn't know. He hadn't known. No one had told him.
"I should have come sooner," he said shakily.
Cas squeezed weakly again.
"Don't cry," he whispered. "I'm so happy... don't cry...I don't want you to cry."
Tessa had left the room, and Dean pulled his hand from Cas', pawing at his face. Cas' glasses sat on the night table beside a pitcher of water and a glass with a long straw and the remains of some kind of lunch. Dean wanted to reach out and touch the little gold frames he hadn't seen in so long, but he refrained for now, keeping his hands to himself.
"Gabriel," Dean cleared his throat, attempting to be professional. "Gabriel said you wanted to see me. Do you want to tell me something?"
He glanced at Cas and Cas was still smiling at him, hand resting near the edge of the bed.
"Gabe... is not very good at following... directions," he laughed weakly, and the laugh turned into a horrid coughing fit. He raised his fist to his mouth, shaking, unable to turn his head away from Dean. When he was done, flecks of spittle were stuck to the corner of his mouth and the inside of his mask. He looked up at Dean with watery eyes.
"Could you?" he wheezed, gesturing vaguely towards the night stand. Dean picked up a small cloth and leaned forward, hand going out to touch his mask.
"Is it ok?"
Cas nodded, eyes fluttering shut as Dean's free hand took his chin to keep him steady. Dean lifted it from his face and dabbed gently at his chapped lips and wiped at the inside of the plastic, replaced it, and made sure the little green elastic bands weren't twisted as he situated it over Cas' nose again.
Cas' grinned, his teeth mottled by the plastic, and his breath fogged the inside of the mask.
"You're... a natural." He smiled and Dean couldn't help it. He brushed his hand through Cas' hair. It was long and coarse, and a strand came away on his hand, but he couldn't find a single atom to care about it. It flopped over Cas' forehead and Dean combed it away again, staring at his ashen face, watching the smile grow with each motion.
Dean realized Cas' hand was stroking his wrist, and his eyes slowly opened again.
"I told...Gabe...that I wanted, to tell you something," Cas said quietly, his voice muffled but Dean was close enough to hear. Dean opened his mouth to ask what it was but Cas smiled secretly.
"I think I'll wait," he teased, "Don't want you... running away ...on me."
"Does it hurt?" Dean asked, ignoring Cas' last comment and Cas tilted his head. "When you breathe?"
"Not...so much...anymore," Cas answered after a moment of pause. He waved his hand weakly at the IV above him.
"Morphine," he explained. So that was why his eyes were so glassy. "S'hell...of a drug," he rushed at the end, and Dean looked down at his feet. He chewed on his tongue, trying not to dwell on the congested sound of Cas' breathing.
"You know..." Cas broke the silence. "...you know..." he trailed off and Dean looked up. He caught his breath, and there was stitch of pain in his brow. His hand fluttered on the blanket - a tan colored, heavy, thing that had obviously been brought from home. Same as his shirt and the sweater, and Dean assumed his pants.
"You didn't think I would come," Dean finished for him, and Cas nodded, cracking his lids.
"I was...afraid."
"I almost didn't," Dean confided, his voice a low, shamed whisper. Cas nodded again in understanding.
"...don't blame you."
"You should," Dean said. "You should blame me."
"I did," Cas began, interrupting Dean before he could star., "At first...I blamed a lot...of things."
Dean wiped at his eyes, and Cas pulled the mask down from his mouth slowly.
"Look at me."
"I can't," Dean choked, his hand covering his eyes, his other resting on his knees.
"I blamed...the war...the president..." Cas continued and Dean shook his head. "...myself. For...a long time...but..."
Dean searched blindly for his hand and Cas took it.
"...I don't want...to be angry anymore," Cas murmured. "...I'm so tired...of being angry...and sad ... I'm so tired, Dean." he squeezed Dean's hand, "...I want ...to be happy. Let's...let's be happy.
"What is there to be happy about?" Dean said, finally lifting his head, eyes furious, "What is there to be happy about, because I shouldn't even be here!" he sobbed, reaching forward, putting Cas' mask back in place. "Wear your mask, goddammit!"
Cas stroked the back of Dean's hand with his thumb.
"...I'm happy...because you kept your promise."
"I haven't kept anything, Cas, I let you go. I let this happen to you - I..." His mouth wouldn't make words anymore.
"...oh, Dean," he began, "...you ...finally came home...to me."
The broken noise that tore out of Dean bounced around the small shoebox of a room. He slid forward on the low chair till his head was resting on the bed. Cas touched his hair, his hand trembling.
"It was...a long time," he soothed, "...and it was...hard...but...it's alright now. It's alright. We...can rest."
"You're dying!" Dean hissed, lifting his head, his face crumpling when Cas looked down on him, his eyes so wide and sad. "Christ Cas, you're dying right in front of me - oh, Jesus..."
"I know," he whispered back, his hand stalling on Dean's hair and moving to his face, "...but you came. You came...and I'm..."
He touched Dean's cheek and then cupped it with his slender fingers.
"...I missed you."
Dean closed his eyes, face screwed up. Who the fuck had he been kidding? One look - one look. He was undone. He knew the moment he walked into that room that he was going to stay. There was no other option. He would be there till the end. He was so stupid - every time he thought he could beat it, life showed him what a fool he was. He would stay 'til the end.
He wouldn't leave him. He couldn't leave him. Not this time.
"I missed you too," he said wetly, "I missed you too."
Cas smiled, thumb smudging a tear or two away. Dean took a moment to look at him.
"If you want to be happy," he said softly, "we can be happy."
Cas nodded with as much enthusiasm as his body would allow, gasping. He gasped hard and his eyes flew open and he touched his chest through his sweater, his lips going pale.
"Cas?" Dean said frantically, straightening, and Cas gripped his arm hard as he reached for the call button.
"I'm - alright!" he insisted, "I'm - alright -!"
His gasping subsided and he quieted, his body relaxing so deeply Dean thought he might sink through the bed. His fingers loosened on Dean's arm and he closed his eyes, trying to regulate himself again.
"If you call...they'll give me more..." he moved his head towards the IV.
"You'll get sleepy?" Dean said quietly and Cas nodded. Dean frowned. "You should rest. You need that."
Cas opened his eyes and glared.
"What's...the point?" he whispered and Dean matched his stare.
"The point is that you can't do this to yourself or it'll just happen faster!" Dean bit, "I'm not arguing about this."
Cas blinked and his face relaxed, his shoulders making a more comfortable groove in the pillows.
"If you need to rest, you can rest," Dean assured him, and Cas fought to keep his eyes open, the exhaustion suddenly pulling him away. His legs twitched under the covers.
"...you...just got here."
"This isn't about me."
Cas wrestled his tiredness. Just this once he wished it would leave him alone. Just this one time, because if he closed his eyes Dean would be gone again, wouldn't he? He shook his head, but his body betrayed him. He didn't know why that still surprised him at this point.
His face went lax and Dean watched him fall. His hands were folded on his lap and Dean reached up and brushed an eyelash off of his cheek with his thumb. He breathed and his chest hitched, the low gurgle of fluid in his lung never leaving completely. It was a terrible, frightening, sound. Dean rubbed his own arm, chilled in the room despite his jacket.
He wanted to ask how it had gotten to this. There had to be something - somewhere the universe had caught up with them. Was it punishment? Dean scrubbed at his face.
He didn't know. He only knew that when Cas woke up, he'd be there.
He wouldn't make the same mistake this time.
By the fifth day, Dean was on a first name basis with nearly all the nurses on the floor, but he couldn't charm them like Cas did.
Cas knew every one of them and he knew the little things too. Their husbands, their kids, what they were planning on doing for Easter.
They all looked happy when they came in, but none so happy as Tessa. He was her favorite patient, and that wasn't her opinion, it was the truth. Every few hours she'd come into take his blood pressure or change his IV. Sometimes she'd frown, but she didn't let it show for long, instead helping with a crossword puzzle answer or asking Cas some silly question to make him smile.
"Now that you're here, he doesn't have anything to talk about!" she laughed one morning, bringing Dean a cup of coffee as she made her rounds. Cas had smiled, patting Dean's hand. Dean had been reluctant to show affection in front of the others, but Tessa seemed to be the exception.
"She...doesn't mind," Cas had assured him.
"All day long it was Dean this, Dean that!" she continued jovially, patting Cas' shoulder when she was done with her work. Cas would stare up at her with adoration.
"Tessa...is a gem..." he would say when she was gone.
"She's really something."
Cas nodded.
"She...would talk to me...Gabriel only...came once, so..."
"What about the rest?" Dean asked, even though he already knew the answer. Cas had looked out the window instead, his face steeped in the striped sunlight caused by the blinds.
"Rachel...couldn't stay...and Michael never...came in..."
"What about your dad?"
"Stroke," Cas whispered, "While...you were...over there."
Dean's eyes widened.
"Cas, why didn't you tell me?" he implored.
Cas turned to him, eyes sad, smile small. "You weren't...listening."
Dean glanced away in shame. Those days were such a mess in his head. Often he believed he had dreamed half the things that happened. The war, too, had faded. It no longer struck at him like a viper, and when it did, he had grown tolerant to its venom. The wounds had scarred over, acting up like some trick knee when it rained. What he had done to Cas, though ...Dean took a deep breath.
"What happened to us?" he asked, and for the first time he was being genuine with himself. "Cas, what happened?"
Cas looked a the window a moment longer, considering his answer, Dean supposed. He turned back to Dean, the light from the window haloing the back of his head. "We... grew up..." he sighed, shrugging weakly. It was an excusal for both of them. "We were...very young, Dean...and the world...asked a lot of us."
Dean chewed the inside of his cheek.
"It was really hard when I came home," he tried. "I knew I was hurting you. It was - it was so hard to watch, and I guess, I guess I just decided you were better off without me. I was too much for you. If I had known..."
"You didn't," Cas interjected. "...Neither of us did."
Dean nodded, and Cas situated himself a little more, leaning towards Dean.
"What...are you doing...now?"
Dean tried to put a smile on, scooting closer to Cas' bed. He stroked his hair, watching his eyes flutter with the motion.
"I've been working with Bobby again. I train too. Young, bull-headed boys just like me. And a girl. She's very good."
Cas laughed a little, the sound breathy and faint.
"Do you...ride?"
Dean scratched Cas' head a little and Cas pressed into the touch.
"All the time."
Cas made a small sound of satisfaction, pleased by this.
"I know, when I came home, I know you tried, but it wasn't your fault. You know it wasn't your fault, right?"
"I understand...there wasn't...much I could do."
"It was never your fault, Cas," Dean repeated, and Cas stared at him, eyes foggy with medication. "What were you doing here? In San Francisco?" Dean said lightly after clearing his throat, trying to change the subject.
Cas stiffened, visibly, and wiggled a little, one hand fiddling with the tube connecting his oxygen.
"...That's....complicated."
Dean tried to follow.
"Cas?"
"You...need to know...that...when you left..." he trailed off, "it was...hard for me."
Dean knew he was using his own words to help him understand. He looked at the ceiling, and then back down to the bed choosing his words. He had to be careful with them now. He was also trying to remember, as he always did when the memories forced themselves up, where exactly everything really changed. He never could. It shifted every time he thought about it, some new event that must have held all the answers, but he could never pin it down the way he wanted to. Today, for some reason, it was harder than ever and his head began to ache with the exhaustion of it.
"Cas?" Dean said, pausing his hand in his hair to touch his shoulder. Cas' eyes were unfocused and far away, his whole expression going blank.
Cas shook himself back into the room, feeling the anchoring weight of Dean's hand on his arm.
"Sorry..." he wheezed. "...I...don't remember...so well..."
"It's ok," Dean soothed, still worriedly looking over Cas' face. "Maybe it's just the medicine."
Cas didn't say anything, and his hand twitched on the cover, a silent signal he wanted Dean to hold it.
"Sorry, am I interrupting?"
Dean snapped his head up, yanking their hands apart and stared at the blonde man hovering in the door. His English accent had cut through the room and Dean found he was standing, his chair shooting back away from him.
The man stared at him for a long time.
"Hello," he said stiffly, and Dean looked at Cas. He was smiling, and before Dean knew it, he had crossed into the room, coming to the other side of the bed, leaning down to kiss Cas' forehead. He stared at Dean, and Dean knew that look.
It was a challenge.
"Balthazar," Cas sighed, taking his hand, and Balthazar kissed that too, looking down at Cas with startled eyes. Dean knew that look as well - he made it every time he came into Cas' room. It was the one that still couldn't believe what it was seeing.
"Hello, love," he said softly, still stroking Cas' hand. Dean sank down into his chair again, watching closely as the two interacted. "I brought you a deck of cards." His eyes slid to Dean as he extracted them from his pocket, pressing them into Cas' palm. "Did Cassy tell you he's got an incredible poker face?"
"Balthazar...please..." Cas insisted, his voice only a fraction tighter than it usually was. Dean narrowed his eyes at Balthazar and Balthazar tossed his head indignantly, rubbing Cas' arm.
"What? Am I not allowed to be angry with him? After all he's done?"
Dean's face flushed with shame and Cas glared, pulling his hand away from Balthazar's, clutching the cards to himself.
"Enough," he whispered, and Balthazar snapped back to him, his body sagging with apology.
"I'm sorry," Balthazar rushed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have lost my temper like that."
Cas patted his hand and Balthazar met eyes with Dean again, obviously surprised by his silence.
"If you have anything you want to say to me," Dean began, "you can say it to me."
"Dean," Cas scolded. "...the two of you...honestly."
"I'm serious. You won't. If he will, then I want to hear it."
Balthazar's mouth was about to open, when Tessa rapped on the door.
"Oh, wow, full house today!" she exclaimed and Cas' relief was nearly palpable. Dean saw she was carrying a small tub and stood, moving to get out of her way.
"Bath time," Cas said to Balthazar and Balthazar walked to the door, Dean staring at him.
"Perhaps I can take you to lunch?" Balthazar asked and Dean glanced at Cas.
He nodded, eyes closed, body limp as Tessa helped to remove his sweater, leaning him forward gently.
Dean sighed, turning back to the British man.
"Sure," he shrugged, following him out into the hall.
They walked in silence to the elevator, but when they waited there, Dean could feel the appraising stare.
"You are very good looking," Balthazar began, "but you look like you haven't eaten an actual meal in days."
"That'd be because I haven't," Dean said shortly. "I've been here for almost a week." He eyed Balthazar in the break between speaking. "I don't plan on going anywhere either."
Balthazar said nothing, pressing the button again nervously, his hand in his pocket rattling what sounded like keys.
"He didn't tell you about me then. Though, how could he, really," Balthazar continued.
"He mentioned you at some point when we were together. I'm guessing you're part of the reason he came here."
They stepped into the elevator, their conversation cutting off. They stood in awkward silence, Balthazar still rattling his pocket, not stopping till they'd gotten to the main floor. Dean automatically veered off to the cafeteria but Balthazar snagged his arm.
"No hospital food," he said primly, and Dean reluctantly followed him towards the exit.