Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Eric Kripke took many things in our imaginary divorce...the characters of Supernatural being one of them. The bastard.
Warning for slash, implied and otherwise. It's mostly just schmoopy, fluffy sort of stuff, but I don't want Dean/Lisa shippers like QuettaRaiths (love you, sweetie! Please don't eat me!) to be blindsided by Dean/Cas.
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)
- E.E. Cummings
They have their good days and bad days, like everyone else. Dialysis and radiation and bouts of advantageous illness are the infrastructure of their bad days, shortening Castiel's considerable temper and fraying Dean's nerves; they say terrible things then, mercilessly folding razor edges into their softly breaking hearts. Latex-glove balloons and ice cream and nights spent in their own apartment are the essence the good days, when hospitals and cancer and grim mortality are nothing but memories. And then there's the in-between, where he's in the hospital because he slipped on the stairs and broke his ankle, and Dean draws stick figures on the cast and kisses his nose and calls him a klutz.
Today is a bad day.
"Hey, you," Dean's wearing a surgical mask, mint-green scrubs (tight in the shoulders), and a faded paisley bandana (clumsily tied); typical clean room attire. "How are you feeling?"
Castiel shifts, feels the gentle tug of an IV in his elbow and the cold plastic of a breathing apparatus in his nose. "Like I have the flu from Hell."
Dean's laugh doesn't reach his eyes.
"Sam's on his way over. He had to bail out of class, but he's on his way."
"Good." When Castiel sneezes, he feels it in his chest, his spine, the tips of his fingers. Something thin and warm issues from his left nostril, gleams scarlet on the hypoallergenic non-latex of Dean's glove; a vessel in his nose has popped. Again.
"Ah, shit."
Dean gently removes the breathing apparatus, experienced hands pressing the nurse's call button and wiping blood off his face. With Castiel it's never just a nosebleed, or a bruise, or the flu or a miraculous loss of Christmas weight; they've learned that much by now. When the nurse comes in they both pause, because one of their old friends once said you know you're terminal when you not only remember their face, but their middle name, their birthday, and the number of grandkids they've got in Tampa. Pearl, November 24th, 5.
"Hey Rhonda," Dean says. "Cas is havin' a little nosebleed..."
"Oh." She waddles over to Castiel, an angel in pink Labrador scrubs, and pinches his nostrils together. "How ya doin' sugar? Haven't seen you around here since New Year's."
"I'b fine. I hab a liddle cold."
"Well, you've had worse and you always come out peachy." She leans in close, wrinkled face bright and conspiratorial. "How's your lover boy?"
"Dean?" Castiel blinks at the tall, handsome man standing at the end of his bed, watching the proceedings with soft green eyes. He wonders if Dean ever regrets meeting him, falling in love, binding himself to someone who would spend two years of their life together in and out of a hospital. "Dean ib boodiful."
"No arguments there, pumpkin." Rhonda releases her death grip on his nose and swipes professionally at the drying blood underneath. "Well, well. Looks like you're gonna be okay, sugar."
"Thanks Rhonda," Dean says gratefully.
"No problem, honey. Give us a ring if you need anything." She breezes out, tipping Castiel an entirely overdramatic wink. If he had the blood to spare, he might have blushed.
"You're gonna be alright," Dean sighs. "Coupla months ago, you'd have needed transfusions."
He settles in a chair close to Castiel's bed, gloved fingers resting warmly on the too-pale, too-fragile flesh of his forearm. The hair there prickles, and he remembers the day he first met Dean, how sparks had leapt between them until he felt like he could fly, spontaneously combust, take a bullet to the chest and keep running.
"What's goin' on in that freak head of yours?" Dean's hand slides up his arm, across his shoulder, over his neck, the thumb brushing against his cheekbone.
"Do you remember when we first met?" Castiel asks. "We were at that stupid Christmas party on the fifth floor-"
"And Gabe was Santa Claus, and Anna and Zach got wasted. Yeah, I remember."
"You were standing by the Christmas tree with Bobby from HR, and I thought-"
"Damn." Dean whispers. "That guy looks like an angel."
"You are very kind." Castiel smiles. "No, I thought you were the most perfect, wonderful thing I'd ever seen."
"So you asked me out for coffee."
"And you asked me out for sex."
"We had both." The other man picks up Castiel's hand and kisses the knuckles. "Best night of my life."
"And mine."
"D'you remember when you were first diagnosed?" Dean whispers. "We went home and-"
He swallows, throat clicking, and Castiel finishes the story.
"I ate five tubs of ice cream because I said I didn't need to worry about getting fat anymore."
They sit that way for a while, taking turns crying and dredging up old memories; the good, the bad, and the bittersweet. The first time Castiel collapsed and couldn't get up, the first time they made love in their own apartment, the first time they went to the hospital for Dean, who'd shattered his ribs in a car accident. When Sam shows up at six with pocketfuls of gummis and letters from Jess, Michael, and the people at the office, they're both dried out and aching.
"Gabe said he'd try to come by later, but Zach's being a douche and making him cover your phone,"Sam says, chewing busily on a strawberry gummi.
"Less work for me." Castiel laughs and reaches for a cola gummi; Dean blocks his hand.
"Easy on the sweets there, cowboy."
"Seriously man, don't push it," the Bringer of Gummis says. Hypocrite.
"I'm dying," Castiel says lightly. "Give me a goddamn piece of candy!"
The eldest Winchester stiffens, and Castiel senses that the gentle tease is itself into something dark, realized.
"He was kidding, Dean."
"Sure." Dean nods. "Yeah, I know."
He excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Sam and Castiel both know it'll be a while before he comes back. He'll run into the parking lot and start up his antique masterpiece of a car, drive as far as he can as fast as he until he starts to worry about being too far away to answer an emergency call. When he comes back he'll bring a Slurpee or a cup of coffee from the house as a peace offering, because that's how it's been done.
"Wow, you really stepped in it," Sam says off-handedly.
"We-"
"Cas, you're the best damn thing that's ever happened to Dean, and I thank God every day for bringing you guys together." He leans forward, gently bumping his forehead against Castiel's ear. "But dude, you break his heart when you say crap like that. And I have a brotherly obligation to break the face of any skank that hurts my big brother, male or female."
"I love you too, Sam."
"Damn straight." The youngest Winchester leans back, holds out the half-empty packet of sweets. Gummi?"
Sam's asleep in his chair by the time Dean comes back.
"Hey," Castiel whispers. "Is that for me?"
Dean smiles behind his mask and presses the "Don't Mess With Me; I'm Crabby!" coffee mug into Castiel's hands; it's hot, singing the sensitive skin of his palms and he can only hold it against his chest for a minute before he has to place it on the bedside tray.
"You stop by the house?"
"Yeah. I thought I'd clean up, since we left in a bit of a rush this morning." The other man gently pushes Sam's chair into the corner, taking the seat he vacated nearly three hours before. "Miss. Milton says hello, by the way."
"Hmm." Castiel takes another sip of coffee. It's thick and bitter, the sort Dean uses to wake himself up when he's stayed the night at the hospital, waiting for Castiel to be released. "This is ass."
"You're ass." Dean's hand passes through his hair, tender and apologetic. They've never really needed words, not for things like this, because what can anyone say? How can anyone sum up slow, withering death? How can anyone explain how it feels to find love, to find a future, and then be forced to watch it slip away? With a single touch, Dean can say Sorry for leaving. You pissed me off, you stupid bastard. I love you, without any of the awkwardness he's so afraid of.
"Your mom's ass," Sam mumbles.
Dean laughs and turns to Castiel, who curls his fingers in hair that's really too short for him to be doing anything of the kind, and kisses him through the thin, rough fabric of the surgical mask; Sam pretends to gag.
And maybe Castiel really is dying, and maybe Dean's going to throw himself off a building the moment his heart stops beating, and maybe Sam will have to bury two brothers, one biological and the other spiritual. But not tonight.
Author's Note:
I wrote this in one sitting, in the same day as my 2014!verse story... needless to say, I was kind of inspired by the book "My Sister's Keeper", which I read last year but only just realized would make a really sweet fic (if applied to a fandom/pairing) I was comfortable with.
Reviews are appreciated, not required.