"What Should've Been Known"

Themes: Sam/Dean brotherly love, Destiel

~ SPN ~

Sam was worried. Dean was awful sick, and while the doctor thought he would recover within a few weeks and be perfectly fine, Dean was pretty out of it.

It had all started when they had gone on that vamp case. The vampire had been posing as a nurse to be able to get blood easily. However, to get to the nurse, they had to get into the ward she was stationed... which just so happened to be an intensive care unit for people with some kind of flu-like virus. Of course, it had to be carried airborne. And of course, Dean hadn't been vaccinated like Sam had because he had been on a hunt with Dad when they had the vaccinations at school.

It wasn't even twenty-four hours before Dean started to experience symptoms. Of course, he had tried to hide the fact that he had a headache and chills and aches and was generally feeling crappy, but Sam caught him sniffling and instantly pounced upon the fact that he was sick.

Oh, of course Dean had protested that he was perfectly fine, it was just a little cold (little cold, my foot)... but it wasn't long before he had started feeling so bad that Sam had been able to drag him into the Impala. Halfway there, he had curled up in the passenger's seat and started complaining, dammit, Sammy, I feel like I've been run over by a gollem. Remember that gollem, Sammy, the Jewish gollem that had a little scroll in his mouth? That was when Sam got really worried.

He had his head on Sam's shoulder in the waiting room, his eyes closed. God curse those waiting room attendants, they had to wait three and a half hours. As soon as Dean was seen by a proper doctor (his head lolling like he was drunk by this time), though, he was quickly put in the same ward they had just rescued yesterday... no, wait. Two days ago with the waiting they had to do.

"You sure he'll be okay, doc?" Sam asked, his worry showing in his tone, his facial expression, the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders were tensed up.

"Yes, he should start getting better in a few days with the medication we've got him on," the young female doctor with cotton-candy pink hair cropped short nodded. "You can go see your brother now, if you want."

She gave Sam a flirtatious smile, but Sam ignored it. It actually made him angry. How could this lady think of screwing him when his brother was ill?

He walked inside the ward, making his way to the third little cubicle where his brother was. Sam's heart sunk as soon as he saw Dean. His brother looked so helpless, lying in bed with his eyes closed, his skin pale, his hands lying useless by his sides when they should be holding a gun or a machete.

Sam came over to the side of the bed and took his brother's right hand, planing to tuck it under the blanket for warmth.

Dean's eyes flickered open sluggishly.

"Sammy?" he asked, his voice hoarse and drunk from all the meds they had him on.

"Yeah, Dean. It's me. Don't worry, the doctor is going to make you better. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

Dean grunted and licked his lips. "This place smells terrible," he complained. His eyes closed again.

"You won't have to stay here much longer," Sam soothed, lifting the blanket over Dean's hand.

He prepared to walk away, he couldn't stand to see his brother in this state. But Dean's voice stopped him.

"Where's Cas?" he asked, sleepily, deliriously, his eyes still closed. "Where's that son of a bitch? He should be here."

Sam didn't reply, only walked out of the room with wet eyes.

But what he didn't notice is that as he left the ward, he passed right by a man in a trench coat.

The man quickly strode over to Dean's bedside, sitting down in the chair provided. Dean's hand had scrambled its way out of the blanket again, and the man reached out and held it in both of his.

"Oh, Dean," he said, sorrow in his tone.

Dean didn't open his eyes but he muttered something. Something that sounded like, Cas. I want my angel. Where's Cas?

Castiel (for that was who the man in the trench coat was, as I'm sure you all know) reached out one of his hands to touch Dean's forehead - not two fingers, as he usually did when healing Dean, but the whole palm laying over Dean's forehead.

Dean's breathing suddenly became easier, easing him into a deep sleep, one from which he would awaken renewed.

Castiel smiled, but it was a sad smile. Dean would never remember that he had been there. He would never remember that his angel had stood over his bedside and held his hand. He would never remember that his angel stooped down and planted a soft kiss on Dean's forehead.

He would never remember that Castiel whispered, "sleep well, Dean. I love you."