A/N: Set after the issues presented at the end of s10 have been resolved (which is to say, the Darkness is gone, and Cas is no longer cursed). Also, Dean/Cas is established prior to the beginning of the story.

The dull buzz of conversation washes over the dimly lit diner as the sun begins to rise over the sleepy coastal town, and Dean nudges Cas towards the far side of the corner booth.

Cas, uninterested in either food or conversation, lets him, before turning to look out the window. They're not far from the ocean here, and there's a flock of seagulls pecking at what appears to have once been a stack of waffles.

He ignores the strange, uncomfortable turn of his stomach as he watches, before looking back at Sam and Dean.

"Witches," Dean mutters into the menu. "Witches. It had to be witches. I frigging hate witches."

Sam looks up from his phone, briefly, raises his eyes, then looks back down, unimpressed that Dean's twenty minute rant from the car hasn't ended.

"I'm not overly fond myself," Cas says picking up his own menu, in gesture of ritual more than intention. Even toast sounds unappealing.

Sam glances up again before shooting him a sympathetic frown. "I guess you wouldn't be, after the whole thing with Rowena."

Cas sighs, unhappy with the reminder, even though he was really the one that brought it up, and Dean shifts closer to him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "Don't worry, Wicked Witch of the West and her pals aren't getting their warty hands on you. Not as long as I've got a say in it."

Cas raises an eye. "If we knew what the witches in this town were up to, we would likely already be on our way back home."

"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine," Dean huffs, before tossing his menu on the table and rubbing at his eyes and forehead, clearly frustrated that the pattern between the town's three mysterious deaths has not yet revealed itself. "Guess we'll let you get turned into a toad."

Cas winces before saying quietly,"Better a toad than a rabid dog. Likely, all I could hurt would be a fly."

Dean's face falls as Sam, immediately, insists, "You didn't know what you were doing."

"But I still hurt you," Cas says, reaching across the table and tracing a finger along the scar on his arm.

Sam flinches before shaking his head as Cas leans back into the vinyl and presses his entire hand against the still bruised marks on Dean's neck. "And I hurt Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, okay, Dracula," Dean says pushing his hand back down to the table. "Let's not show these love bites to the whole diner."

Then, in a low whisper, he adds, "And you know I deserved that, right? After...after what I did to you."

"No," Cas says vehemently. "You did not. No one ever deserves to be hurt by the people they love."

"Yeah...not so sure about that," Dean says before ducking behind his hastily retrieved menu as the waitress pads over to their table. Cas sighs wearily before half heartedly looking back at his own.

Ultimately, much to Dean's apparent chagrin, he tells the waitress that he intends to share Dean's rather large breakfast platter in the hopes that something on it will return his appetite.

Nothing does.

While Dean chews through his third pecan pancake, Sam shoots him a concerned look. Cas shrugs. If something's wrong, he doesn't know what it is. "I'm not hungry."

Dean cocks an eye at him. "You turned down a PB & J last night. You feel okay?" He places a surprisingly cool hand to Cas' temple. He frowns. "Sam, we still got that thermometer?"

XXX

After a slight detour to the closest Gas N' Sip, they make it back to the motel, and Cas sits on the edge of their bed, with Dean's shoulder pressing against his and the thermometer tucked under his tongue, patiently waiting.

When it finally beeps, Dean frowns over the reading. "100.5. Okay. Definitely coming down with something, so..." Dean pushes him back towards the pillow, "you're staying here."

"I have a low grade fever," Cas protests, unable to understand how this will, in any way, prevent him from hunting, and defiantly moves towards the door. "I have completed missions while cursed and while dying. I'm certain I can manage hunting a witch with a minor human illness."

And, although this may have been a poor choice of argument, until he reaches the door, he believes it's a valid one.

Unfortunately, the severe headache he's had since they got back in the Impala has somehow magnified, and concentrating on what should be a fairly simple task has become frustratingly difficult.

He can't get the latch undone.

And he's seriously thinking about breaking the door down when Dean's hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "You're losing a fight with a door, Cas. Come on. You're taking a sick day. Stay here, watch crappy telenovelas, and sleep off whatever you've got."

He sighs defeatedly before letting Dean lead him back to the bed. He then presses Tylenol and a glass of water into his hands. "And here. It'll help."

"I want to help," Cas says as he takes them.

Dean rolls his eyes before plopping Sam's laptop next to him. "You want to help, okay, find out why the witches went after these guys... or sleep because we've been at it for three days and come up with exactly nada."

Cas glares levelly before flipping it open.

Dean snickers before leaning down and cupping his chin in his hands and kissing him gently. "You and Sammy can bench me in a couple days, when I've got whatever you've got. How's that?"

Cas rolls his eyes. "The likelihood that you would agree to being 'benched' is slight. That was foolish."

Dean shrugs. "Maybe you aren't contagious. Aren't coughing or anything..." Dean pauses, considering, and frowns, "Your throat hurt?"

"No..." Cas says, perplexed. "Should it?"

"No...just...thought you had a cold..." He shrugs. "Maybe you do, and the fun hasn't started."

"Awesome."

He must get somewhere in the ballpark of Dean's sarcastic inflection, because this earns a good humored grin and a second foolish kiss.

XXX

Using the brief instructions that Sam has left him, Cas hacks into the Facebook account of the most recently deceased and looks for any kind of link to the others.

There are a couple issues with this, aside from his limited understanding of social networks.

First, focusing on the screen is definitely not improving his headache. He's nearly but, not quite, tempted to simply follow Dean's recommendation that he sleep.

Second, these men do not appear to have any of the connections he's been advised to look for - no shared friends, family, or work places.

And Sam informs him that their mutual interest in CSI and The Dark Knight is unlikely to be relevant.

It takes nearly an hour of fruitless searching to realize that the men appear to all have children, or, more accurately, teenagers, a few years younger than Claire. At least, he thinks that's the case. Human ages can be difficult for him to discern.

He texts all of this to Sam before unintentionally dropping his phone on the floor and subsequently slumping over the laptop, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

XXX

A few hours later, a strange and unsettling sensation spreading across his torso jolts him awake.

It itches.

Everywhere.

He pulls his t-shirt away from his skin and winces.

There are dozens of angry little red spots forming all across his abdomen.

He's barely through processing this when the door creaks on its hinges. Dean's voice carries through the half opened door, "Cas...hey, you awake? You weren't answering your..."

Dean stops mid-sentence when he catches sight of him sitting on the bed, with his shirt pulled up, staring at his chest, and does a double take. Then he stares and stares, apparently at a complete loss for words.

Cas meets his eyes before saying gravely, "I don't think I have a cold."

Contrary to any expected reaction, Dean doubles over laughing, only coming up for breath when Sam comes up behind him. "Sammy...Cas...Cas has chickenpox."

"He...really?" Sam asks as he glances to Cas. He chuckles lightly himself before sitting down next to him, looking over his spots. "Okay, yeah. That's definitely what this looks like...do those itch? Like a lot?"

"Yes. It's rather uncomfortable," Cas says. "Why is Dean laughing?"

"Because he's five," Sam says. Then when Cas stares uncomprehendingly, he elaborates, "Most people get this when they're kids so..."

"An ancient being who has succumbed to such a thing is laughable," Cas says. Dean, at least, has the decency to look sheepish.

"Yeah, so, when he snaps out of it, remind him that you're human and miserable."

Dean shrugs and rolls his eyes."Yeah, right, okay... so, Calamine. We're going to need a lot of it. And, Sam, we've got to move."

Sam looks puzzled, then concerned. "Oh. Oh yeah."

"From the motel?" Cas asks.

"Yeah, before they tell us to leave or put you under quarantine."

"Because this is contagious?" Cas asks.

"Yeah. We got kicked out of a place in Missouri when we were kids," Sam says.

"Is that allowed?" Cas asks.

"Don't know. Don't want to need to find out," Dean says. "But not sure where to go. It's a long drive back to the bunker."

"I'll be..." Cas starts, and Dean presses a finger to his lips.

"No, you won't 'be fine. You'll be miserable,'" Dean says. "Me and Sammy were miserable the whole drive from St. Louis to Bobby's, and we were 4 and 8. It's worse when you're older. We'll find somewhere close."