A/N: This was written for the Destiel Ficlet Challenge page on Tumblr. The prompt I was give was Sickness and Presents. It might be a loose interpretation, but... here we are. Big thanks to ArchofImagine on the great plot help! My earlier plot (that was nearly finished when I scrapped it) was terrible and this turned out much better, thanks all to her!
Enjoy, and remember that reviews make a writer happy!

Angels didn't get sick. Dean knew this and yet…here he was, watching one trying (poorly) to hold back violent coughs. Castiel sat in the passenger's seat, his hand covering his mouth and his chest struggling to wrack. Watching the other labor with his breathing from the corner of his eye pulled something sensitive in Dean's stomach. It made him feel sick in a way he couldn't quite comprehend.

"I know you don't want me to worry, Cas…." Eyes bluer than the clearest part of any ocean settled upon Dean, causing his speech to falter for a moment. He focused back on the road and shrugged the teary glaze out of his mind. "Look, you don't have to hide it, alright? Pretending it's not happening won't make it change."

In answer, Castiel stopped holding back and let loose the wettest cough Dean had ever heard. Which was saying something, considering all of the blood-drenched deaths he had witnessed in his thirty-six years of life. In an automatic reaction, Dean reached over and clapped the angel upon the back to try and help him loosen the crap in his lungs.

"I am fine, Dean," Cas hissed, pulling away and thunking his head against the window. He looked the exact opposite of fine, but his pride obviously mattered enough for him to keep on pretending.

Snorting, Dean reached over to turn the radio off. "Yeah, you look like a ray of fucking sunshine." He settled back in his seat, looking over at the angel. It was late in the night and they were so in the middle of nowhere that he felt confident enough to relax a bit. To give Cas the attention he needed in that moment. "Come on, talk to me, man."

The very thought of conversation seemed to give Castiel a slump to his shoulders. He sighed heavily, clearing his throat as he tried to regain his composure. "What would you like me to say?" he asked, his voice tight. "We are both aware of what is happening to me. Stolen grace didn't last me so well the first time. It's fading even faster this second time. We've already discussed this. Sam is already working on it, as we both already know seeing as he's not coming with us on this case. So I fail to see what use talking about this actually has at this point."

Of course, Castiel had a point. They had already had this conversation several weeks ago when the angel had noticed fatigue setting in. Per the usual Winchester way, they immediately went into fix-it mode. In that moment, they were also dealing with the effects of the Mark of Cain returning, but for now it was on the backburner. The key was to keep Dean calm. To keep him distracted and away from any murder weapon. He felt naked not having some sort of weapon at his disposal, but it was a necessary precaution.

Dean was handling his sickness as best as he could. It helped to be around either Cas or Sam and to have something to do. The itch was constantly under his skin, but at night a beer or five could calm it enough to ignore. He was fine for the moment, and that meant that they were allowed (in their eyes) to focus on Castiel first.

Even though both situations seemed equally impossible at this point.

"Fine," Dean said coldly, reaching to turn the radio back up to an even louder volume than it had been before. Toto's "Hold the Line" blared through the Impala's speakers and almost drowned out Dean's soft offering of a handkerchief being somewhere in the glove box.

Castiel must have gotten the message the noise as he was soon reaching forward and digging through all of the junk stuffed into the glove box. Finally, after pulling out multiple phones, maps, contraceptives, tools, and fake IDs, Cas found the lonely handkerchief he had been offered. He carefully reorganized everything into the compartment and shut it again. "Thank you," the angel made sure to mutter before another phlegmy cough preoccupied him. He quickly covered his mouth with the cloth, wincing at the moisture that seeped through.

"Being human is mostly a disgusting process…," he mused, for a moment examining the goo inside of the handkerchief. Dean pulled a face, but kept his eyes on the road and tried to ignore his weird passenger for the moment. Taking note of this, Castiel nodded solemnly and unfurled the rest of the cloth in order to fold it up neatly.

A slightly shocked sound caught Dean's attention enough for him to finally look at Castiel again. The tears in his eyes had softened and he looked as if, for now, he would be okay. "What?" he questioned, lowering the volume of his music once more.

"There was…something inside," Cas said softly, stuffing the handkerchief into the pocket of his trench coat so he could examine a small object between the fingers of his left hand. The shine registered easily in Dean's mind and had him huffing a sigh. "Is this yours, Dean?" He held the silver ring up in question.

Shrugging noncommittally in a way that said his feelings on the subject were guarded, Dean answered, "Yeah, it used to be. I haven't seen that thing in years…. Kinda forgot it was in there, actually." His laugh was forced and carried a harsh weight.

Head tilting to the side, Castiel lowered the band back down. He twirled it between his fingers, admiring the familiarity of it. You wore this when I met you. I remember that…. When did you stop wearing it?"

The ring was a memory Dean had locked away for five years. He had wrapped it up and thrown it in that compartment, telling himself he could easily forget about it. Its memory had been handled much in the same way that he handled most things – pressing it into a dark corner of his mind. Hiding it from himself until a time where he felt he could handle it again.

And that time definitely wasn't now.

Feigning annoyance, Dean held his hand out towards the angel. "Just give it here, would you?" Once he felt the still-familiar weight of it in his hand, he quickly deposited the ring into his pocket. "Now, get some rest. We have a long night if driving ahead of us. …And I need you on your game if we're going to work this case together."

It was a poor excuse said in an unconvincing tone. But, somehow, it worked. Perhaps it was because Castiel knew Dean and his knack for brushing off emotion, or maybe he really was tired - but the angel did quiet. He pulled off his trench coat and stuffed it into a ball against the window, forming himself a makeshift pillow. Resting his head and closing his eyes to give the hunter as much space as possible in a car.

XxX

It was amazing just how refreshing a simple job could feel in times of chaos. From start to finish, there was not a single hiccup in the case. The article that had tipped them off had merely said a man died from mysterious causes. He lived alone, worked alone at home, and rarely walked outside. And yet he had been found in a…rather compromising position in his bedroom, strangled and stabbed several dozen times. It was a longshot on whether this was up their alley, but it gave Dean the time out of the bunker he needed.

Nicely enough, it turned out to be a simple salt and burn task. Just a vengeful spirit taking advantage of a sex-deprived shut-in.

After all was done and dealt with, Dean felt like they were clean and able to walk away. It was a job well done and it felt satisfying in a way he was sure most people wouldn't understand.

Content and wearing a true smile, Dean fell back on his bed. He was fully clothed and his legs hung off the edge, but that didn't matter. In that position, he could easily fall asleep and not even think twice about it.

"Dean?"

Except he was sharing a seedy hotel room with a practically helpless angel. Sighing softly, Dean cracked one eye. Castiel stood by the side of Dean's bed, staring down at the man in confusion. "Yeah?"

"What are we to do now? Leave?"

If Dean had his way, they would never have to return to the bunker. Sam could stay there and hold his bookish job easily. He could find them cases and help them research when necessary. Kind of like Bobby…but definitely with an annoyingly higher IQ. But this wasn't an option, and they all knew it. Sam wanted Dean back where he could keep an eye on him. Where he could monitor him and ensure that could counter any bad spells together.

It was starting to scare Dean just how little that appealed to him. They had saved one another so often now that it was starting to feel like obligation. And when Sam wasn't the one needing the help, the pain of knowing he was a burden only intensified his frustration. At that moment, he felt like he could go without having to see the worried look in Sam's eyes for quite some time.

He would give anything in the world not to have to go back.

"Nah, we'll stay another night," Dean said after a second, not a single trace of hesitation in his voice. If he pretended he was sure in this decision, maybe his heart could stop trying to ache. "We could use a small…vacation…."

Suddenly, the ring that had been riding around in Dean's pocket the last couple days began feeling pounds heavier. The memory of his father was suddenly shouting in his head to grow up. To get over it. To be the man he had been raised to be instead of whining. He needed to do what needed to be done – it was his job. And right now, what needed to be done was what Sammy thought was best. He was currently the sane and rational one – therefore he was allowed to call the shots.

Teeth gritted, he shoved his hand in his pocket and gripped onto cold titanium. The blush pounding in his ears helped to quiet the memory, but did nothing for his conscience. This was a vivid reminder of why he had stopped wearing the ring.

Refusing Michael and Lucifer was the exact opposite of what their father would have wanted. Or, at least, that was what Dean thought. He would want them to play the parts fate had set out for them. Make their mother's death count for something in that war. And that constant thought nearly drove Dean mad as he was trying to make his decision. He had found, back then, that taking the ring off (the one he had begged his father for birthday after birthday, Christmas after Christmas so that he could match his father's wedding ring) helped to quiet the voice and still his thoughts. And, so, he had given up on wearing it entirely.

He should have just thrown it away.

Sighing, he sat up slowly and pulled the hunk of metal from his pocket. In his ear, that voice was still muttering about getting back to the bunker and helping Sam. To his right, he felt the bed sink down slightly. He didn't need to turn to see that Castiel had taken a seat beside him. That he was watching Dean stare at this ring like it had caused everything in his life to sour. "Cas…," he whispered, turning slowly to face the angel. He held the ring out to him, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Dean…." Castiel turned his gaze to the piece of jewelry, as well. His brow was fixed in that frown he wore so easily as he thought quietly. Slowly, his hand came up in question, his vivid blue eyes raising to meet Dean's uncertain emerald ones. "Dean, are you…. Are you trying to propose to me?"

Chuckling in disbelief, Dean shook his head and dropped the ring into the angel's palm. "No," he said through his grin and folded Castiel's fingers over the shining circle. "No, just…. Hold onto that for me. Okay? It's a gift. Just think of it as a gift."

If Castiel held onto the ring, Dean was sure that every questioning thought he had would go away. He wouldn't think about his father and all that he had said to hold him back. It wouldn't matter anymore because that control would be in someone else's hands. Someone who cared more for his well-being than for his crazy dogma.

"Just…. Just hold onto it for me, alright? I need a night away from that crazy bastard's voice. I need…to be able to think for myself…."

The first step in thinking for himself would have Dean shedding his normal façade. The instant Cas nodded his head in affirmation, Dean allowed himself to forget every homophobic slur he'd heard come off his father's tongue. He closed his eyes and let his conflicting thoughts be okay for just that one night.

Castiel was in charge of what Dean was allowed to think. What he was allowed to feel. As long as he had that ring, he had the power John Winchester had lorded over his eldest son for the past thirty-two years. He had the power to choose whether the kiss Dean was leaning in for would be met with steel or open arms. He would make the decision on how they would choose their night of freedom.

He had Dean's heart in the palm of his hand. It was malleable and easily took the shame it was forced to. But it was there and it was his, should he choose to accept it.