When Dean first lays eyes on Castiel, thunder is crashing outside and lightning splits the skies. He doesn't learn Castiel's name until hours later, but what he does learn with that first, fleeting glance is that this is a kind, caring man who could maybe be the reason he stays alive. Then darkness consumes Dean again as he passes out once more.
He doesn't remember anything. Wisps of memory twist and curl just out of reach, and he feels like he's drowning in darkness. Dean gasps, cries out, and tries to sit up in a room that's too dim and too hot, and he's claustrophobic under the weight of something holding him down. He's soaking, skin slick and greasy, and his throat is burning too painfully to swallow or speak a word. Every muscle, every joint, every fibre and hair follicle and atom in his body burns and in spite of himself he lets out a choked sob into the thick heat of an unknown room. He can't see; whether it's too dark or there's something wrong with his eyes he doesn't know, but it's terrifying and disorientating, and as he heaves in desperate breath into parched lungs he thinks he can see the outline of a window frame swimming somewhere off to his left. And he thinks there's someone nearby. Is that a voice? Is someone speaking? Are hands touching him? He tries to twist away, it his limbs won't cooperate, aching and too heavy to lift.
The world tilts violently, bile stings his lips, and he passes into blissful unconsciousness.
Time passes slowly. It could be hours, days or months, Dean has no idea. He can't differentiate between sleep and consciousness, has no idea if he's dreaming or hallucinating, but he knows he's nowhere familiar. The sheets covering him are too soft and smell different to his own at home, and the bed is too comfortable. It feels like he's lying on a cloud, and his head and shoulders are definitely supported by more than one pillow. Feathers, certainly - he's been poked by them once or twice.
Has he been in an accident? Has something happened to him? He isn't sure, can't quite place the scraps of memory that taunt him before slinking away. But he still can't find the energy to care too much.
There's someone kneeling at his bedside. The room is dim and hot, and he twists and thrashes under too many covers. At least, he tries to, but his limbs feel like they've been filed with lead and he realises he hasn't, in fact, moved an inch. A low moan builds in his throat, and he feels someone take his hand. Above him, a face blurs and he tries very hard to focus on it, while feeling like his skin is going to burn off. Dark, messy hair. Blue sparkling eyes. Concerned frown and head tilt. Nausea hits him like a tidal wave and he only just manages to lurch to the side before he vomits everywhere, tears streaming down his sweat-drenched cheeks and making him moan at the discomfort of it all. He tries to push the man away, needs space, doesn't want the cool towel at his forehead or at his mouth, wiping away the bile. He wants to sleep.
As though reading his mind, the man pulls away, goes to the door, and Dean follows his movements with sore, tired eyes, unable to do much more than turn his head. The man is silhouetted in the doorway, kneeling down and reaching for something. Someone.
"No…" He's speaking quietly, making gentle gestures and directing someone who stands just outside the door. Dean's head spins, and he's forced to close his eyes to fight off another wave of nausea. He thinks he hears a second voice, but he's not sure and he's too tired to care. "Go back to bed…no…he needs help, that's why. Go to bed, please. I'll be there soon. Thank you."
He doesn't know where he is, who that man is, what's wrong with him, or what the hell is happening, but he doesn't care. He can't care about anything. He starts to shake again, cold but burning, and he lets out a low whimper of distress and fear.
"Hey, it's OK. I'm here, shh. You're all right."
The man is back, touches Dean's forehead with a cool rag, and it feels like he's being scalded. He tries to twist away but, sapped of his strength, he can barely move his arms and has to settle for a weak cry of distress. He manages to reach up and wrap his fingers around a slim wrist, and feels muscles shifting beneath his grasp. Worried blue eyes gaze down at him, dark eyebrow furrowed and when he speaks his teeth flash a perfect white.
"You have a fever, a bad one. I thought it broke last night… I'm doing all I can. But please. Let me help."
"N-no." Dean rasps, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears. "'M fine…"
He tries once again to push himself up off the bed, to sit up and look around, but his body defiantly won't cooperate. His limbs ache, and his skin feels sticky and dirty with his own sweat. The room tilts frighteningly, and Dean allows himself to be pushed gently back to lie down, and that's when he starts shivering and can't stop.
"Hey," the man frowns in the dark, not allowing Dean to bat him away. "If you don't allow me to help, I'll have to take you to the hospital…" Dean shakes his head as frantically as he can manage. "And I don't want to do that. The coast road is too dangerous in this storm. Now," the sound of a washcloth being wrung out again reaches Dean's ears and he steels himself for the inevitable cold burn. The sound of the water stings his ears; in contrast, the stranger's husky murmur is soothing. He feels like he should trust him. "Please. Let me help you."
The man wipes his burning forehead for what feels like hours. Dean slips in and out of consciousness, and at one point when he wakes he's sure he's shirtless and the man, handsome and studious-looking, is running a damp cloth over his stomach and pecs. He trembles when he does wake, freezing and shivering, trying valiantly to push the blankets off him but failing miserably. He can't control whines and moans of pain, as every muscle and bone in his body aches and feels like it's burning, and with every sound that leaves his lips his throat screams out at him in agony. The dark-haired man is at his side again, concern furrowing his brow, shushing him and letting him sip cool water through a straw. His hands are cool, brushing his hair off his forehead and taking his clammy hand in both of his.
"I'm Cas. Cas Novak."
Not for the first time, Dean thinks he's hearing the voice of an angel. He hears the words through a blurry haze, and manages to respond with 'D-Dean. W-Winch-ches-chester'.
"You might have to write that one down," Cas smiles and Dean nods as his teeth chatter. "Now, try and rest for me. I'll be back soon."
And Dean is left alone again, and he holds out as long as he can, but eventually can't help it: it could be seconds of hours later, and he's calling out for Cas. He's never had a fever this bad, and during the dark, lonely hours of the night he convinces himself he's dying. Then Cas appears back at his side again, soothing and calming him and whispering words of care and affection, and he thinks he might just live. Might just want to.
His fever breaks eventually, and Cas' relief is written all over his face. Dean sleeps for a full day, only stirring to sip the water that Cas holds for him or to be helped along to the bathroom. He barely remembers it, barely feels like time is passing at all. Cas' voice is warm and enveloping, the bed comfortable, and that's all he knows. The weight of the last few months combined with a raging fever has sapped him of his energy, in every sense of the word, and lying in a dark room with a stranger feels like that's all he deserves now. While Cas seems kind, who knows if he's a decent guy? He could be a mad axe-murderer, waiting for Dean to be fully coherent before acting out his fantasises.
Somehow, through the fog, Dean doubts that very much.
Dean finally feels well enough to get up on the fifth day. At least, he thinks it's the fifth. It could be the twenty-fifth. Cas had laid some clothes out on a chair for him, along with a fluffy towel and a pair of worn flip-flops, and Dean gathers them up gratefully and sticks his head out of the door, tentatively seeking the bathroom. He still aches, and his limbs feel like lead, but he's up and on his feet and neither collapsing nor vomiting. Small blessings, he supposes. He thinks he remembers where it is - third door down the corridor to the left - but for a moment he's stunned by the room in front of him.
A sprawling, spacious kitchen-diner with an island standing proudly in the centre, sunken living area off to the left, and two whole walls of solid glass with sliding doors, the whole room softly decorated in muted, earthy tones with a few possessions and trinkets scattered about. Well-loved blankets litter the sofa, a low bookcase showcases novels with broken spines and folded pages, and the scent in the air is cinnamon and something buttery-sweet. Beautiful artwork lines the walls, and Dean reaches out to touch one of the canvases, stopping just before his fingertips make contact with the rough paint. But all that pales in comparison to what lies outside, beyond the glass walls, a sight that captures Dean's gaze and holds him in awe. The house is practically on the beach, looking out onto white sands and the rolling, thrashing ocean which looks refreshing and inviting in the warm glow of the early morning light. It can't be much after five am: the sky is awash with reds, oranges and purples, and the sunrise can only be minutes away. Dean is pretty sure he's never seen anything so beautiful; Texas certainly doesn't have beaches like this, and neither do any of the cities he's frequented over the years. His breath hitches and he feels on the verge of tears.
A strange sense of calm descends over him as he watches the waves crash and ebb, standing pinned in place hugging the pile of clothes and towels to his chest, and it's so unfamiliar that he shudders against it. The house is silent and still, and Dean moves quietly so as not to disturb anyone. He intends to shower as discretely and quickly as possible, then maybe sit out on the deck and watch the sun come up. He has no idea what he's doing with his life now, where he's going or what to do, but some time alone might help clear his head while he works out a plan. He nudges open the door that he thinks leads to the bathroom and freezes in shock as he realises he's made an error. Then, as his eyes adjust to the dim light but before he can reach for the handle to pull it closed, his gaze lands on the bed and again, he's captivated.
The man who's been caring for him in the throes of a fever, Cas, is asleep on his side, shirtless, facing away from Dean. His left arm is thrown out in front of him with his tanned skin standing out starkly against pure white sheets. They're drawn up to his hips, exposing smooth expanses of skin and a narrow strip of burnt-orange boxer shorts waistband disappearing under the covers - the chosen colour of only serves to accentuate the honeyed tones of his sun tan, and Dean feels an ebb of guilt at checking out the guys pants while he sleeps. He changes his focus a little: the far wall of the spacious bedroom is floor-to-ceiling glass as well, identical to the living area, but most of it is obscured by a blind pulled down low, presumably to block out the sunlight streaming in. The room is beautiful, all smooth lines and well-loved furniture, piles of books and blankets on the floor by the bed. Everywhere he's seen in the house so far is a curiously enticing mix of minimalistic sleek lines and low furniture, with a good dose of bohemian flair. Dean's attention wanders slowly back to Cas. His hair is messy and standing on end, and Dean can't help but let his gaze wander along the planes of Cas' back, his muscled shoulders, the arch of his neck and the shadow of stubble on his jaw. He knows he's staring, and that he shouldn't, but it's as though he's under some kind of spell. The only sounds breaking the early morning silence are the deep inhales and exhales of Cas as he dreams, a few feet away on the bed, and the beautiful crashing of the waves outside. Against his better judgment, Dean edges into the room, wanting to look just a little closer. When he does, his breath catches in his throat.
Cas' eyes are closed, peaceful in sleep, and in his arms all snuggled up against his chest is a sight that makes Dean's heart ache pleasantly. A dark-haired little boy of no more than four is curled up, thumb firmly in his mouth and dark eyelashes fanning out on tanned cheeks. His hair and skin are the same tones as Cas', and he's using Cas' outstretched arm as a pillow, face buried contentedly against his father's chest. The man has his other arm wrapped securely around him, holding him close to his chest in a protective embrace, both of them fast asleep cuddled together, unaware of their audience. A small, well-loved rabbit is squashed between them, beige fur and pink nose, all floppy ears and glassy eyes. The child must be the other voice Dean heard in the house, the person Cas spoke to outside the bedroom, and the sight of them curled together beats the beauty of the ocean outside by a country mile.
Dean can't help but stare for a long, long moment then, before a choked sob can break free from his lips, he steps back and turns away, taking deep breaths in slowly through his nose to calm his racing heart. He tries the next door with only slightly shaky hands, and succeeds in finding the bathroom. His aches and pains are forgotten, but he now feels like he's going to faint or vomit, or both at once. He turns the shower on, strips, steps in, and slides down the wall until he's curled into a ball on the floor.
In a bathroom belonging to a total stranger, at five in the morning and with no clue what his life means any more, he drags his knees up to his chest and, burying his face in his arms, begins to cry.