Author's Notes:
I wrote this because I have pneumonia, bronchitis, and flared-up asthma, and I thought to myself "hey, if my life sucks this much balls, Cas's can too." (Sidenote: have not yet decided if there will be literal ball-sucking in this fic, but anything's possible)
Since I have zero desire to offer my predictions for season 9 via fanfic, I've decided to make Sam happily healed and un-possessed in this story. This shouldn't really affect the fic too greatly because all I'm trying to do is put Dean and Cas in a situation where Cas is slightly stoned, Dean is all grouchy and protective, and bed-sharing is required. Sorry not sorry.
I love you like Cas loves bees and ground beef.
"Dean?"
The rasp of Cas's voice crackling through his cell phone is enough to punch a sigh out of Dean and drain the tension from his shoulders. It's an old, familiar tension, one he carries whenever Cas is gone and Dean doesn't know where he went.
"Cas, Jesus, where the hell have you been? You were supposed to check in with me. Where are you?"
"Dean, I…I'm close to the bunker now, I think, but I'm afraid I'm not feeling so well."
Dean freezes where he's pacing a hole in the floor of his bedroom, immediately clicking over into emergency mode. Now that he looks for it, he can hear exhaustion and grit in Cas's voice, and the sound makes him feel nauseous. He should have known it was stupid to leave Cas to find his own way to the bunker now that he's human, but it wasn't like he could leave Sammy in the condition he was in. Great, more guilt to crap on the shit show that is Dean Winchester's psyche.
"Damnit, Cas, what happened? Did you get attacked? Who did it? Why didn't you call me? Where are you, I'm coming there right now." Dean bursts out of his room, grabbing his jacket from where it was slung over the back of a chair and stomping his way to the garage.
"You ask a lot of questions," Cas replies dreamily. He sounds strange, unfocused.
"Right, whatever," Dean mumbles as he wrenches open the door to the impala, barreling in and tossing his jacket into the passenger seat. He jams the key into the ignition less gently than he normally would, but he's humming with nervous energy and it's setting his teeth on edge. "Just tell me where you are."
"Phone booth. On…um…Pine Street. I'm in Lebanon."
"Alright, good, I'll be there in a minute." Dean hits the button to open the garage door. When it's up, he cradles the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he backs out of the driveway. "Just hang tight there."
"Good, that's good. Though I…I'm worried I—I won't—"
"Shit, man, you sound terrible. And that's saying something for someone who talks like they've been gargling shards of glass on the best of days."
"Dean—I—"
With a thud the line abruptly goes dead.
"Cas? Cas!"
Dean growls and chucks his phone onto the jacket.
"Fuck."
It's dark, pouring rain, and the roads are slick but he guns the engine, pealing out of the driveway and fishtailing.
By the time he hits Pine St, he's leaning forward in his seat to make out anything through the windshield, despite how the wipers are going full blast. It's not long before he catches sight of the only possible phone booth Cas could've been referring to. He pulls up to it, stumbling out into the cold rain before he can think to grab his jacket.
Cas is in the booth, slumped up against the foggy Plexiglas.
"Cas! Damnit, Cas, come on," Dean snarls as he wrenches open the booth's doors and grabs onto Cas's shoulders. He shakes him. "Cas, wake up!"
Slowly, Cas's eyes blink open. They're glassy and distant.
"Hello, Dean," he rasps. Dean snorts a laugh at the familiar greeting but it sounds a little hysterical. Relief washes over him like the rain that's currently seeping through his clothes.
"Can you stand?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, let's find out."
Dean takes hold of Cas by the armpits and, with a grunt, heaves him to his feet. Immediately, Cas sways back and forth, but Dean locks an arm around his torso before he can fall. He still pitches forward, his entire weight leaning against Dean and his forehead pressed into the bend of Dean's neck. It's only then that Dean realizes that Cas is not only drenched but shivering violently. His breath is hot where it brushes against Dean's throat, and he can both hear and feel the way it rattles in Cas's chest.
"Fuck, Cas, what happened to you?"
"I'm not sure. I was ill and then it…got worse."
"Christ. I need you to walk, okay? We gotta' get you somewhere dry."
Cas nods his assent into Dean's shoulder, but when Dean tries to guide them towards the car he all but collapses, Dean just barely managing to keep him upright.
"Shit," Dean snaps, wiping rainwater out of his eyes. "Onto option two."
With a rallying breath, he reaches down and gets an arm around the back of Castiel's knees, lifting him up into a bridal carry and cursing the twinge in his back that late thirties have graced him with. The fallen angel's arms wind around Dean's neck and he snuffles blearily at the spot behind Dean's ear. Dean can feel himself blushing treacherously, but he manages to put his reaction aside for the sake of getting Cas in the damn car before things get especially hairy.
Since he left the door open in his haste to get to Cas, Dean rounds the car and gently sets Cas on the driver's seat. He pushes him across the bench until there's enough room for Dean to get in beside him. With the door shut and rain pummeling the outside of the impala rather than their bodies, Cas leans against his side, head still pillowed by Dean's shoulder.
"Move over, dude. I can't drive like this."
Cas doesn't seem to hear him.
Dean sighs roughly, ridding his face of droplets again, before he guides Cas into leaning against the passenger door. Though he groans at being manhandled, Cas still curls up with Dean's jacket against the door. He seems to pass out again because his breath evens out and his eyes close.
"Idiot," Dean mutters to himself, though he can't decide which of them he's referring to.
On the way back to the bunker he calls Sammy, just to let him know why he left without saying anything, and to warn him that he's bringing home a pile of sick ex-angel. Sam has been doing remarkably well since Ezekiel healed him up, so it figures that when one of the people he cares about most in the world is okay, the other goes spectacularly to shit.
Sam's waiting in the garage for him when he pulls in, and he rushes over to the passenger door when he catches sight of Cas with his face smooshed against the window. Cas nearly falls out onto the floor when Sam opens the door, but luckily his moose of a brother catches him before he has a nice concussion to go with whatever illness he's managed to catch.
"Sam," Cas rattles out into the fabric of Sam's chest. Dean feels a twinge of jealousy that apparently Cas's propensity to nuzzle when sick isn't specific to him. He tamps down that pathetic response pretty quickly, though, for the sake of getting his best friend taken care of.
"I wanna get him out of those clothes," he says to Sam as he rounds the car.
"At least you're finally willing to admit that."
Dean wants to slap the smirk right off his face.
"But yes, I agree. And also into a bed. Hey, that's another thing you—"
Dean cuts off his infernal brother before he can entertain himself any further.
"Right, right, you're hilarious and clever and you shit glitter wherever you go, now shut up and give me the angel."
A little more roughly than is probably wise, Dean peels Cas from Sam's chest and picks him up again as he had done before. Sam's eyebrows arch up his forehead, but he astutely keeps his mouth shut and holds open the door to the bunker instead.
"Where are we gonna' put him?" Sam asks as they make their way through the large control room. "Your bed and mine are the only ones we have made right now."
"Mine, then. I want to keep an eye on him tonight anyways. I think he has pneumonia," Dean grinds out, voice strained by the weight in his arms. Cas just snuggles against his collar like a cat.
"I think we have antibiotics. I'll go check while you get him settled," Sam says before bounding off down the hall towards the bathroom. The Winchesters always keep an impressive stock of prescriptions on hand in case of emergencies so they can avoid hospitals and doctor's offices whenever possible. Charlie had assisted in making their drug collection quite impressive by hacking into a Target's pharmacy computers and fudging prescriptions. At the moment Dean is extremely grateful for it, seeing as Castiel doesn't have a last name and certainly lacks health insurance. Better to avoid obnoxious questions from medical staff whenever possible.
When Dean finally sets Cas down on his bed, the man sighs deeply at the feeling of finally being horizontal. Dean can actually hear mucus shuddering in his chest on the exhale.
"Very comfortable," Cas mutters, his blue eyes half-lidded.
"It's memory foam," Dean announces proudly. "It remembers y—"
He's cut-off by Cas going into a nasty coughing fit, his whole body convulsing with it. The cough is gross, a combination of a bark and wet, gurgling sound. It concerns Dean greatly, but he isn't sure what to do beyond rubbing Cas's damp back through it.
"That sounds great," Dean drawls once Cas has settled down. He's grimacing and touching his chest as though it hurt him. Dean isn't surprised it did. "You're shivering pretty bad, buddy. We need to get you into some warm clothes.
"Alright."
Though Dean starts with the fairly innocuous task of removing Cas's soggy shoes, he can already feel a blush pinking the tips of his ears. He's never felt so bashful removing Sammy's clothes the few times he's had to do it during emergencies, and he doesn't want to dwell on why undressing Cas is a totally different ballgame.
Cas has managed to shrug off his jacket and zip-up hoodie by the time Dean's tossed his shoes and socks towards the door. He's winded from the effort, as though he's just run a marathon rather than stripped.
"Do you…uh…want me to help with…your—" Dean stutters, gesturing twitchily to Cas's fly. Cas looks at him curiously, eyes glistening with fever, but just as his lips part to reply, Dean is saved by his buffalo of a brother coming into the room.
"Alright I've got an inhaler, some…uh…'Lev-o-flax-in,' which is an antibiotic, and Tylenol with codeine to knock out that fever and you for the next few hours."
Cas blinks a few times.
"Congratulations, Cas. You're about to enjoy the wonder of controlled opiates for the first time," Dean remarks, standing and heading to his dresser to find Cas a t-shirt and some pajama pants.
"Thank you," Cas says behind him. Dean shakes his head as he picks a particularly comfy pair of flannel P.J.s from his drawer.
Apparently being human has not graced Cas with modesty, because when Dean turns around he finds himself confronted with the sight of Cas struggling to shuck off his wet jeans from where they're tangled on his ankles. Dean's face instantly burns hot.
"You want some help with that?" Sammy offers, not sounding the least bit affected. Dean bristles and he's not sure why.
"You get him set with the meds, Sasquatch. I've got his clothes right here."
Sam shoots Dean an obnoxiously knowing look, but does as he's told. He puts the pill bottles and inhaler down on the bedside table, handing Cas the glass of water he brought in with him.
"You've gotta' take one of these a day until they run out," Sam instructs as he hands Cas the antibiotic. Dean wrestles with getting the jeans off Cas's feet as he talks, trying to make his touch as platonic as possible. "Does your chest hurt?"
Both Cas and Dean nod. Dean heard what that cough sounds like. The man needs some damn codeine. Cas takes off his wet shirt, as though showing Sam his bare chest will demonstrate his pain.
"Then take one of these every eight hours unless it starts to really hurt, then ask me or Dean and we'll let you know if you can take another one. Don't take any more unless we tell you to though, okay?"
"Yes, Sam."
Dean takes Cas's wet jeans, shirt, hoodie, and jacket, and hangs them by the door while Sam teaches Cas how to swallow pills.
"That's good," Sam praises once Cas has them down. "If you're having real trouble breathing just ask Dean and he'll show you how to use the inhaler."
"Thank you, Sam." Cas offers Sam a dazed smile, sinking further into the bed.
"Are your…are your drawers wet?" Dean asks as casually as he can manage, though the words end up coming out crotchety and bizarre just to spite him. Cas cants his head.
"He means your boxers. Are they wet too? Do you need to borrow boxers?" Sam seems to be translating since Dean apparently can't talk about another dude's underwear without going all coy teenage girl on them. To be fair, Cas is wearing white boxers, for fuck's sake. Dean's abundantly grateful they aren't more obviously wet.
"Oh, um…yes."
"Okay. Dean will help take them off for you. I'm going to bed." Sam shoots Dean a shit-eating grin and saunters out of the room like he's the king of the goddamn universe. "Feel better, Cas!" he shouts from the hall.
"If I committed fratricide no one would blame me," Dean mutters under his breath.
"What did Sam mean? I don't need help taking these off—" Cas explains, and by way of demonstration pushes his boxers right down his legs and kicks them to the side.
Dean's brain completely shorts out for a few seconds.
When it finally does come back online it's as though his mind moves extremely fast to catch up from the time it's lost. He tosses the t-shirt and pants he brought for Cas right at his head, and he's across the room in a millisecond, yanking a pair of boxer briefs from his drawer. He chucks those at him as well.
"Jesus fuck, Cas, you can't just go around flashing everyone just because you're sick. I don't know what sort of weird shit you angels got up to in heaven but on Earth we call that crap a misdemeanor."
"But you're the only one here."
"Exactly!" Dean's breath is coming in short pulls and he knows his face is tomato red.
"I don't understand. Is my body not…is there something wrong with it?"
"What? No!"
"But you said—"
"I just…no, that's not it, okay? Take my word for it. But will you please just put on the damn boxers before I have a stroke?!"
That seems to get Cas moving, and though his body is sluggish and uncooperative under the fever, he manages to dress himself while Dean glares daggers at the ceiling.
"Get under the covers, okay?" Dean says, attempting to make his voice less shrill. He tries viciously to forget the image of his best friend, dick out, sprawled on his bed like he belonged there. Or the fact that his boxer briefs are now very intimate with Cas's junk. He figures Cas's failing health is the best distraction.
Dean guides his friend under the sheets and blankets, tucking them over his shoulder when he settles on his side. Sitting on the bed near Cas's stomach, Dean flattens his palm across Cas's forehead to check his temperature.
"You're burning up."
"I feel very strange."
"I'll bet. You wanna' tell me how you got this bad and why you didn't think to call me sooner?" Dean levels him with a chiding stare.
"You were worried about Sam. He's your priority and I didn't want to bother you."
Dean resists the urge to flick Cas on the nose.
"That is stupidest thing anyone has ever said…ever."
"I find that hard to believe."
Dean ignores him.
"You listen to me and you listen good: if you ever need me, really need me, I'm there, okay? No matter what. You call me right away and I got you. The only thing that 'bothers' me is when my best friend gets his stupid ass a cold and lets it turn into pneumonia because he doesn't think to call me and ask for help."
"I like when you say that."
Dean starts to reply but pauses when he takes in Cas's expression. He looks wistful and strangely calm, which is hardly the reaction Dean was going for with his mini-speech.
"When I say what?"
"'Best friend.' Such an interesting way of putting that. 'Best.' I hardly think I'm the best of friends, considering all of the mistakes I've made, but I suppose I am your best friend since you don't have terribly many. Still, I like that. 'Best friend.' You're my best friend, too."
Dean narrows his eyes.
"Cas, are you stoned?"
"It would seem so, yes. All of the sudden the world seems to have slowed down and I have a tingling sensation in my limbs."
Dean is instantly reminded of the Castiel in his Zachariah-induced vision; the pill-popping hippy with an affinity for orgies. Though that Cas was very different than the groggy, sickly one before him, he still vows to hide the pills from him once the pneumonia clears up. He likes his Cas the way he is, thank you very much. And if the idea of Cas bumping uglies with a bunch of chicks makes his skin crawl, that's his issue to repress in private.
"Oh, that feels very nice," Cas coos. The way his chest rumbles almost sounds like he's purring. Somehow Dean's hand started carding through Cas's damp, unruly hair without his knowledge. Cas seems to be enjoying it though, so he can't bring himself to stop.
"I need you to drink a lot of fluids, okay? And just stay in bed. I'm gonna' sleep on the couch tonight and keep an eye on you." Dean gestures to the loveseat he'd recently dragged into his room to make it even homier. It won't be the first time he's slept on a couch way too small for his body, so he'll manage.
"But this is your bed," Cas says quietly, his eyes closed from Dean's gentle ministrations on his scalp.
"You can borrow it." The corner of his lips curls into a smile.
"There's enough room to share," Cas mumbles. Dean's hand stills on Cas's head, his eyes bulging. "And I'm cold." He shivers and pulls the blankets tighter.
"Not a good idea, Cas. Would be weird."
"Weird? Why?"
"I shouldn't have to explain that to you."
"Oh…my apologies." Cas seems to curl in on himself, drawing his head away from Dean's hand, his brow furrowed. Dean's doesn't like it.
"No, don't apologize just…I'll be right there if you need me. And I'll get you another blanket if you're cold. You probably have the chills." In an effort to mask how flustered Cas made him with his bed-sharing request, Dean goes back to raking his fingers through Cas's hair, making it even more hectic (and adorable) than usual.
"I hate being human," Cas slurs after a few moments. He sounds half-conscious.
"Welcome to the club."
After lulling Cas to sleep with a few more rounds of scalp-scratches, Dean gets up and retrieves him another blanket. He tucks Cas in well, vaguely reminded of doing the same for Sammy when he got sick in their childhood. A part of Dean revels in being able to care for someone like this again, and he's damn good at it, if he says so himself. It makes him feel useful.
With the light off for Cas there's not much Dean can do to entertain himself as he lounges on the loveseat. He's not exactly comfortable, but he did change out of his wet clothes and into sleep clothes once he was certain Cas was out cold. Though he's buzzing with lingering nerves and a strong desire to protect, he manages to fall asleep eventually. Still, the troubling sound of Cas's labored breathing keeps it shallow, his body tense and vigilant.
A few hours later, the rasping moan of the words "please, stop" snaps Dean back into waking and he's on his feet before he's fully aware what's happening. Cas is twitching and quivering on the bed, painful groans gurgling from his throat. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Cas?" Dean asks, frantic, immediately at his side. He sits on the bed and grabs Cas's shoulder. "Cas, wake up!"
"Dean, I'm sorry, Dean. Dean, please."
"I'm right here, man. Come on, wake up." He jostles Cas with the hand on his shoulder, using his other palm to feel Cas's forehead. The skin is clammy and hot.
Finally, Cas's eyelids part, his eyes finding Dean's in the low light. For a moment, Dean catches such sadness and hopelessness in the gaze that it steals the breath from him and lodges a lump in his throat. But before he can latch onto it for enough to start processing, Cas goes into a vicious coughing fit. Dean holds onto him as he battles for breath, desperately trying to clear his airways of the sludge clogging them.
"Fuck, maybe I should just take you to the hospital."
"No, don't!" Cas pleads on a gasp. "Please, don't. I don't want to, I—"
"Okay, okay, calm down. Just breathe, buddy."
With Dean's palm sliding slowly, tenderly up and down Cas's chest, the ex-angel finally manages to calm down. Cas places his hand on top of Deans, holding it against his solar plexus after a moment. He carefully clears his throat.
"That was very unpleasant."
Dean huffs.
"Really? Because it looked like a hell of a party from where I'm sitting."
"You're hilarious," Cas deadpans. It's an especially good deadpan since his voice is utterly wrecked.
"Aw jeez, Cas. You really know how to make a guy blush."
"I know a great many things, but I'm quite certain that is not one of them."
"Well, you know how to make me blush and that's all that matters."
Cas tilts his head slightly, eyes appraising.
Dean wishes he could snatch up the words with a net and stuff them back down his throat.
"So, uh, you had a pretty bad nightmare," Dean remarks, brilliant evasion skills at work. Cas immediately lets go of whatever he was contemplating, his expression closing off and going cold.
"Since I…fell, I have many of them."
"That's right, you wouldn't have dreamt as an angel, would you? What are they about? You said my name a couple times, you know."
Cas's eyes bug out like Dean's just caught him stealing his pie. As soon as the look of abject panic spreads across Cas's face, however, he reels it in and closes off once more.
"I'd rather not talk about it, thank you."
"Whatever, man, it's cool. Fuck knows I have plenty of dreams I'd rather saw off my foot than chat about." Dean shrugs and ruffles Cas's hair to shake the frown from his brow. "Why don't you take another codeine? It'll help you sleep. And I think it'd be a good idea if I teach you how to use the inhaler."
Cas nods, gingerly propping himself up on his elbow. Dean pops the bottle of codeine and shakes one out onto his fingers. "Open up," he orders Cas, offering a smile. Cas's lips part and he eyes Dean suspiciously. Dean pops the pill right into his mouth and puts the glass of water to his lips for him to swallow it down. He recognizes distantly that his behavior is stupidly intimate, but he figures he's earned it after the near heart attack Cas gave him with that coughing fit.
"Good?"
"Yes."
"Alright, then let's teach you how to take this inhaler." He grabs it from the nightstand and pulls it from the box, removing the cap from the mouthpiece. Without giving much warning he pushes the mouthpiece between Cas's lips, continuing to hold onto it. Cas blinks a few times but doesn't spit it out. "Now, when I tell you to, you're gonna' take a deep breath and I'll push the button. The medicine is gonna' puff into your mouth and you need to suck it into your lungs, okay?"
Cas gives a small nod.
"Okay. Ready? Go."
Cas is a natural when it comes to taking instructions, so Dean isn't surprised when he takes the medicine perfectly. And if the way Cas's plump lips wrap around the inhaler sends a warm tingle down Dean's spine, well that's no one's business but his.
"I feel lightheaded," Cas breathes when he exhales, collapsing down onto his pillow.
"Yeah, that tends to happen. Does it feel better though?"
Cas drags in a slow, deep breath.
"I think so."
"Good. We'll give you another dose if you wake up again. Think you can get back to sleep now?"
"I'm not terribly optimistic." Cas looks exhausted, downtrodden.
"What do you need?"
When Cas looks up at Dean, puppy dog eyes blazing in full force, Dean thinks he'd do just about anything the man asked, even if it meant tap-dancing in women's panties or kicking himself in the face. Cas licks his lips before speaking and Dean tracks the movement.
"Would you…please, if you don't mind, stay in the bed with me?"
Anything except that.
"Why?"
"I'd appreciate the body heat," Cas explains rationally. "And…and your presence is soothing."
"You'd still have my presence if I'm on the couch."
"It's not the same."
"Sorry, Cas, but no." Dean straightens up, pulling back his hand from where it was still held against Cas's chest. Dean swears he sees a flicker of something like hurt in Cas's expression, but then the ex-angel just looks irritated.
"Fine," he snaps, sliding away from Dean and turning over, showing him his back. He looks about an inch away from falling off the side of the bed, as though he couldn't get far enough away from Dean. So much for his presence being "soothing."
"It's not personal, I'm just not exactly in the business of sharing a bed with a dude, you understand?" Dean rakes hand through his hair when Cas doesn't respond. "There's no need to be a dick about it."
Cas still doesn't acknowledge him.
"You're being a baby!" he spits, pushing off the bed and stomping over to the couch. He lies on his back, arms crossed over his chest and legs hanging over the armrest. A few moments pass with Dean glowering at the ceiling, occasionally glancing at Cas's back.
When Cas breaks into another fit, Dean jumps, standing before he remembers that he's still pissed at him. He watches, tension rippling through his muscles, as Cas fights through the hacking. He clenches his fists at his side to keep himself rooted to the spot.
"Alright?" he can't help but ask when the coughing calms down.
Cas coils in on himself, and Dean just barely makes out the smallest whimper of pain.
And just like that, his resolve crumbles.
He rubs his hands across his face roughly a few times before growling in surrender and trudging across the room to the bed. Before he can let years of hard-grained, masculine instinct alter his decision, he climbs in behind Cas, turning his back on him.
"If you tell anyone about this, especially Sam, I'll shave off your eyebrows while you're sleeping," he threatens, pulling his knees toward his chest and scowling.
"Agreed," Cas says quietly from behind him, sounding way too satisfied for his own good.
"You'd better get the best night's sleep of your fucking life."
What's patently ridiculous is Cas seems to go ahead and do just that. Within minutes his breathing evens out with a contented sigh, body going limp. As much as Dean hates to admit it, he's relieved and almost flattered that his proximity helped Cas in this way, especially when he needs sleep more than anything else to get better right now. What's even more surprising is how quickly sleep finds Dean, how naturally the tempo of Cas's breathing soothes him into pleasant dreams.
It's not until Dean wakes up, however, with his arm wrapped around a warm body and nose pressed into soft, dark hair, that he realizes just how well and truly fucked he is.
Author's Notes:
Part two coming soon!
I love you so much I'd slaughter half my family and eat a butt ton of purgatory souls just to keep the apocalypse from fucking up your life :D
