Fever
By Fiorae
Summary: Castiel, out of uncharacteristic curiosity, checks in on a sleeping Dean one night. He finds the man is spiritually ill and heals him of his pain. Castiel/Dean implied.
-Fever-
He stood on the other side of the door contemplating his next move. It wasn't that he couldn't get passed the blockage concealing secrets just beyond his reach. That was an easy feat for someone such as himself. The problem was more of whether or not he very well should tread into that taboo territory. The cons of entry most certainly outweighed the pros.
But he simply couldn't resist the urges.
With a deep breath and one smooth flick of a wrist he unlatched the door without even touching it, pushing it slowly open. A wave of smells rushed towards the senses he was still getting used to having. He acknowledged some as being fragrant and familiar and others as being not so appealing. The scent of cherries mixed with cologne stood out above the rest. This smell he probably knew best.
The element of surprise was forever on his side. Being what he was, he could walk without making a sound. His silent footsteps left an invisible trail as he moved from the doorframe and into the center of the room. Here he paused to take in all the sights grandly.
A duffle bag carelessly thrown onto a nearby couch; a small radio device left on and quietly murmuring; a laptop computer abandoned and open on a kitchen table. And then of course there was the sight he cared for the most. His voiceless footsteps resumed as he moved toward it.
This sight often looked the same. Forever fully dressed, boots and all, with only a corner of cover shielding the waist from the cold. This sight always had a strained expression on its sleeping face. This sight was one Dean Winchester.
He peered down at the struggling man beneath the sheets. Even in his dreams, Dean Winchester was never at rest. Even in death, Dean Winchester was never at rest. He sat down noiselessly on the edge of the bed. The mattress sunk in for his form.
Dean's eyes were shut tight. Sweat dripped from his forehead and down his cheek. His lips parted slightly, allowing small grunts of discontent to escape into the air. He lifted his palm and pressed it to Dean's moist forehead. He had a fever.
The noiseless being closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. As the air flowed into his lungs the heat of Dean's fever came with it, followed by the smell of cologne and cherries. A comforting and familiar warmth filled him from the inside. All the pain, the stress, and the loneliness the man felt so deep down circled around in the noiseless being's chest. They floated there, mixed together, and formed an entirely different emotion. He finally allowed himself to exhale, releasing this new emotion back into the other man's body. Opening his eyes slowly, he peered at the man beneath him. Dean no longer struggled, his face serene. Relief washed over the noiseless being.
Dean Winchester would be fine now.
He moved from the bed as silently as he'd arrived, preparing to take his leave. His superiors could never know he was there. They would most definitely not take kindly to this sort of behavior. Uriel could never know he was there. He would almost certainly inform said superiors. But most of all …
" … Cas …"
… Dean Winchester could never know he was there.
Castiel turned slowly and meaningfully, expecting to see those pale green eyes he found so hypnotic staring back at him. Instead he saw only the form of Dean Winchester turn on his side in his sleep. Once again, relief washed over him.
He'd almost forgotten how often Dean Winchester spoke in his sleep.
Turning back around, Castiel silently crossed the threshold separating the warm room from the cold outside. He closed the door once again without touching it and, feeling satisfied for the night, disappeared without a trace.