The hospital is too warm and smells too strongly of disinfectant. Dean feels dizzy the moment he steps through the doors and only Benny's hand on his back stops his knees from buckling. He hates hospitals with a burning passion, and knows he isn't alone in that. The first time he remembers being in the emergency room he was four, his skin marked with soot and ash, being told his mother was dead as his father broke down sobbing; those were the after-effects of a house fire. Then, years later, he was a brave-faced twenty-year-old saying goodbye to his father as the man struggled on a ventilator and his heart eventually gave out. John Winchester drank himself to death following the loss of Mary, had never been the same since, and left Dean to fend for himself and take care of his younger brother, a responsibility he wasn't ready for. Dean had prayed that night, for the first time. Prayed that his father found the peace in death that he hadn't reached in life, and prayed his mother would look after him in Heaven. He didn't really believe in God or Heaven or angels, but it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

Everything happens in a confusing, terrifying blur. Dean hasn't been on this side of the fence in years, and slotting into the role of the victim's family isn't coming easy. He keeps asking Benny why, why Cas was there, why him, and his colleague has no answers for him. He just squeezes Dean's shoulder and waits with him, for what feels like hours, while nurses and surgeons hurry past and ask him questions he struggles to answer while they shove forms under his nose, requesting he sign them. He scribbles his signature with shaking hands, no idea what he's consenting to but knowing that it's the only possible way to save Cas' life. Eventually, the doctor appears and heads towards him, looking tired and drawn; he's older, serious-looking, dark-skinned and balding with a close-cut greying beard, and Dean immediately trusts him with Cas' life. He looks like he's saved thousands of people over the course of his career, now it's Cas he needs to save. Hours have passed, but how many Dean has no idea. He stands, sways, and is held steady by Benny.

"Dean, take a seat, please." The doctor pulls a chair up too, looking grave as Benny settles Dean on a plastic chair and, after a second's hesitation, reaches over to take his hand. "I'm Dr. Webber, I'm the chief of surgery here at City Hospital. We've managed to get your husband stabilised and we're taking him for a CT scan in a few minutes. But I have to be honest with you, Dean, his condition is serious. He's suffered major head trauma and loss of blood from the knife wounds-"

"He… he was stabbed?" Dean pales further, looking to Benny with wide eyes. Benny looks just as shocked as he feels. Webber looks apologetic, clearly assuming (wrongly) that Dean was aware of that little fact. It makes his stomach roil nastily. The idea of Cas getting stabbed… The idea of any of this. He must have been terrified. And… God. Dean covers his face with his hands. Was this before or after he was… was… He can't even think the word let alone voice it. The doctor's hand comes into his focus, drawing him back.

"Yes, Dean, he was stabbed. Twice. I'm so sorry. I know this is difficult to hear but it's important that you know all the facts." The 'so you can prepare yourself' goes unsaid. "Once in the abdomen and once in the chest, dangerously near his heart - the knife missed the right ventricle by half a centimetre; any closer and he would have bled out before anyone reached him. He was…" Webber doesn't say it, he doesn't say lucky which is a wise decision on his part. Lucky isn't a word that Dean will ever, in any sense associate with this situation. "We had our best surgeons work on him. Dr. Yang is our cardiac specialist and she oversaw everything in case there was a problem, but he's out of surgery. We've managed to get the bleeding under control, have given him two transfusions and he's in recovery. But it's the head injury we're concerned about. Trauma of this magnitude can be difficult to assess until we know the extent of the damage, which may not be until tomorrow or the following day thanks to the swelling…"

Dean loses track of the man's words. It's bad. Really bad. And it's starting to sink in that he might actually lose Cas, his husband, his husband of only five fucking minutes. Why? What was Cas doing there so late? What was he doing there at all? Nothing makes sense, and he pinches himself again for the hundredth time, just to be sure he isn't in some lucid nightmare. He now has an angry red mark on his forearm, bruising starting to show in the shape of his nails and he stares at it, transfixed. Cas would hate to see the mark, he always hates to see Dean's skin marked with any bruises or cuts but in his line of work it happens occasionally. The last time Dean was in a hospital, he was the patient. He had been injured in the line of duty, not critically but it had shaken them both up. He had been chasing a suspect through town, late at night, and didn't look both ways at an intersection. He went up and over the hood of a speeding Mustang to crash painfully onto the tarmac, breaking his arm and his collarbone and winding up with plenty of cuts and scrapes for Cas to fret over. He had smacked his head on the ground, hard, and blacked out, waking up hours later with a concussion and with no memory of what had happened, only Cas' anxious face and wide blue eyes, and the smell of disinfectant. That was almost exactly a year before Cas' proposal. But that… That doesn't even compare to what has been inflicted on Castiel tonight. Because that was an accident. And this was intentional. Whoever attacked Cas in that alley had thought it through, and didn't plan on Cas living to tell the tale.

"Brother," Benny pulls him back into the conversation with a hand on his knee. "You gotta listen, cher. I know it's hard…"

Dean swallows and nods, staring at his clenched fists as Webber firmly but gently tells them of Cas' other injuries. Broken radius and dislocated elbow, probably from trying to flee from his attacker. Broken ribs, most likely from being kicked. And, in Webber's own words, 'injuries conducive with a violent rape', which makes bile rise in Dean's mouth. Then another kicker: tox screen shows a date rape drug. Only traces, only enough to confuse him and dampen his reflexes, but it's there. Someone had drugged Cas, his Cas, with the intent of harming him. Dean's stomach lurches and he can't control himself: he only just manages to turn to the side before he's sick all over the chair and the floor beside him, and tears stream down his face as he coughs and chokes. Benny rubs his back and murmurs empty words of comfort while the doctor calls for a nurse who appears as if by magic and shoves a cardboard tub under his mouth. He vomits again, the tangy, acidic smell of bile triggering a second wave of uncontrollable nausea and he sobs in between retches. His hands clench down on Benny's arm tightly and he gives in to his grief as it hits in a violent, unrelenting wave.

"Cas… Cas," He's gasping for breath as tears pour down his cheeks and Benny pulls him into an upright position and hugs him tightly. "Who did this… I'll kill them, I'll find them and I'll fucking kill them… Cas!"

"I know, brother. And I'll hold the bastard down while you do. We'll find them, cher. And Cas will get through this. You'll both get through this."

"What if he dies?" The words spill from Dean's lips without his consent. "What if he dies, Benny? I can't lose him, I can't. He's my whole life, he's everything. It's me, I'm meant to be in the firing line. It's my job that's dangerous, anything bad should happen to me, not him. He's a librarian! He's meant to be safe! I'm meant to keep him safe!" The words come out in wild, hiccoughed cries and he clings tighter as Benny murmurs into his hair. Dr. Webber has vanished, giving them space and time, and Dean's vision is blurry through his tears. Dimly, he hears someone call his name then Sam, his younger brother, is crashing to his knees in front of him and cupping his face, eyes wide and horrified. Benny passes Dean over to Sam, and they hold each other tightly as Dean cries it all out, terrified and feeling as though the world has stopped turning.

Later, after years have passed in Dean's slow-moving concept of space and time, a different doctor appears with a younger woman in tow, and their faces are solemn.

"Dean Winchester? I'm Derek Shepherd, I'm the neurosurgeon assigned to Castiel's case." The word 'neurosurgeon' sends a bolt of fear right into Dean's stomach. "This is my colleague, Dr. Meredith Gray. We want you to know Castiel is in very safe hands and we're going to do everything we can for him."

Dean doesn't trust his legs to hold him up and Shepherd places a hand on his shoulder to stop him from trying, taking a seat opposite him instead and steeling his fingers, clearly considering his words carefully. He's worried. Cas' head injury is bad: the guy hit him from behind as he was trying to crawl or stagger away, and the tyre iron caught him behind his ear, fracturing his skull and causing internal bleeding. The initial CT scan is inconclusive thanks to the swelling, and they're planning to monitor him closely but Dean needs to prepare himself that Cas might need emergency surgery. And that he may or may not recover from this. It doesn't sink in. The words just don't hold any meaning to Dean. He listens, tries to understand, but he can't. His hand is in Sam's lap and being gripped tightly but he can barely feel the touch. He stares ahead, unseeing, and just nods as the doctor queries whether he's understood or not. Right now, right at this second, there's only one thing he wants to know.

"Can I see him?"

"Not yet," Shepherd, bright-eyed and gentle with dark wavy hair, looks regretful but firm. Behind him, the face of his colleague is kind yet pitying, and Dean hates that look. He wants nobody's pity. "Another hour or two. We want to monitor him closely and we want to run another CT if anything changes at all. I'll let you know when you can go up." He places a hand on Dean's knee and Dean stares at it as though it's an alien appendage. "I'm so, so sorry. Please know we're doing all we can. I know that the waiting is the hard part. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Then he's gone and Sam is trying to talk to him, but Dean just can't. He can't listen, can't speak, can't function. The man he bases his whole life around is upstairs in a cold, unfamiliar room and to all intents and purposes he's dying. The life is ebbing from his body and doctors with scalpels and machines are keeping him alive. Dean buries his hot face in his hands but the tears won't come. Cas has a head injury and it's bad. Cas might need further surgery and he's up there alone. Cas has been stabbed. Cas has been raped. The Detective in him knows that it won't be long before officers turn up, if they aren't up there already, to take DNA samples from the unconscious body of his husband who can't consent to anyone touching him. Dean has to consent on his behalf and probably already has, his scribbled signature on forms he didn't read the only evidence that they're allowed to do what they need to do to find this guy. Because they will find this guy. And when they do? He's going to wish he was dead.

"Dean," Sam's voice is close by and he sounds like he's been trying to get his attention for a while. "I'm going to try and get some more information from the doctors, OK? Where's Benny?"

"He's…" Dean's mouth is sticky and his voice doesn't want to work properly. "He's gone to our place to get Cas' laptop. Gonna try and work out what the hell he was doing there." He turns wide, traumatised eyes on his brother. "He was at home, in bed. I talked to him, Sammy. Like, a few hours ago. He couldn't sleep. I talked to him until he felt better and… and we said goodnight. I told him I'd be home before dawn and… and that I'd make him breakfast…"

More tears come, sliding helplessly down his cheeks. It shouldn't be like this. He should be walking in the front door of their little house in the suburbs with the white picket fence and the dog kennel in the garden. Cas loves their neighbourhood, loves how green it is and loves the restaurants and bars, frequently taking Dean to sample new cuisine or to see the decor of a new cafe he's found. He should be walking up the stairs right now, quietly so as not to wake anyone, and pushing the bedroom door open. He should be rolling his eyes at Ruby, curled up at the foot of the bed keeping Cas company while he sleeps. He should be climbing onto the bed, on top of the sheets and fully clothed, hugging Cas close and kissing his neck until he wakes just enough for them to exchange warm morning kisses, then he should be going back downstairs to make coffee and prepare breakfast. Cas is an early riser, is always up with the dawn, wandering downstairs in his patterned PJ pants and cable-knit sweater, rubbing his eyes and kissing Dean good morning. Whispering, 'morning, husband' against his skin and smiling. Cas should be smiling.

Cas is dying.

"Dean." Sam takes his shoulder. "Go outside and get some air, OK? I'll talk to the doctors and see if I can get any more information, go get us some coffee and I'll meet you back here in twenty. He'll be alright, Dean. He will. He's strong, you know it. You both are."

But the look in Sam's eyes doesn't brace his words. He looks terrified, a man trying to comfort his older brother when he knows the outlook is bleak. Dean just nods, and he's alone a moment later. He rises on unsteady legs and somehow manages to find his way outside. Dawn is threatening, the skies turning pale, and the wind is cold on his exposed skin. He leans heavily against the wall, all his weight braced on one hand, and tries to get himself under control. Tries to remember what he does for a living and how he should be reacting. But, as he well knows, there's no rule book on trauma. No list of instructions to follow. He should be an expert in grief but he's floundering. Raw, all-consuming anger rises up within him and he grits his teeth. Who the fuck did this to Cas? To them? He should be upstairs with Cas, reassuring him and holding his hand, not out here unable to do fucking anything! 'Wait', the doctors told him. 'There's nothing you can do but wait. We're looking after him.' Wait.

"I should be looking after him!" The words leave him in a ragged sob. "That's my job! Mine!"

He doesn't register the pain as his fist hits the brick in front of him. He hears the crack, sees the blood splatter the wall and feels it on his face. But he doesn't feel it, it doesn't hurt. So he does it again. And again, and again until it hurts and he's sobbing with his forehead against the wall, trying in vain to claw himself back to some semblance of composure. It takes a while, but he manages, and when he lifts off the wall to walk back inside the sound of a car pulling away from the hospital draws the attention of his bloodshot eyes. It's a cab. And, almost without realising what he's doing, he raises his bloodied hand to hail it.

He doesn't have to stand out here and wait. He doesn't have to do nothing while Cas' life hangs in the balance. He can't go up there and perform miracles, but there's one thing he knows for sure he can do.

His job.

February

"Hey. Heart Eyes. Snap out of it." Sam snaps his fingers in front of Dean's face with a smirk, waving a beer at him with the other hand. He's caught his brother red-handed: staring with sickly-sweet goggle eyes at his new fiancé. It's so gross he could puke, but he's genuinely really happy for them both. They're clearly in love, have been for a long time, and marriage is only natural progression once a couple have moved in together and bought a dog. Well, Dean acquired Cas' dog, more like. As if on cue, Ruby noses at Sam's hand and he grins down at her, ruffling her ears.

It's a chilly February evening and he and Jess have descended on Dean and Castiel for a beer and burger night. It's turned, as it always does, into a wine and board game night at the request of Cas and, surprisingly, the backing of Dean. His brother had shrugged, open-armed with his palms up to the ceiling as if to say, 'whatever he wants, he gets' and Sam had grinned tremendously. Dean Winchester, being told what to do. He never thought he would see the day.

He likes Castiel tremendously. He remembers the week they met vividly because Dean just couldn't shut up about the cute guy he had met at a bar and how they had talked about their favourite authors for hours and it had all felt so natural. Apparently the bartender eventually had to ask them to leave because they'd stayed an hour past closing, and Castiel had been so embarrassed that he had tipped the guy all his cab money and wound up stranded and unable to get home. That was Dean's excuse for them sleeping together on their first date. Dean had even given his number out the morning after, a very rare occurrence and a sign that the guy must be something special and Dean had been like a lovesick puppy for ages afterward.

A few weeks later, his brother had appeared at Sam's house, drunk and vengeful, and Sam had been so alarmed he had dragged him inside and forced an espresso down him, then had demanded he talk about what was going on. Dean had, in broken sentences amid threats of violence, divulged to Sam that Castiel had been abused by an ex and that he still bore the physical scars of the violence. Dean had managed to keep his cool during their date, comforting and reassuring Cas that it didn't change how he felt, but in the privacy of his car on the way home he had seen red and wanted to rip apart the monster who dared injure Cas in such a permanent way. It had been the first sign that Dean was in love; he had never felt or reacted so strongly to anyone before and when Sam informed him of that fact his brother had been stunned into silence. He had repeated the words 'I'm in love' over and over again until they were just one long, garbled slur. Then, going against all of Sam's hurried advice, he had called Cas up and told him so - then had been shocked when the call was abruptly ended with a freaked out, 'oh, God, Dean'. They had only been on four dates.

But it worked out in the end. They had got past the drunken confession of love and can even laugh about it now. It will certainly be in Sam's best man speech at the wedding, and probably in Castiel's too. It's one of Cas' favourite stories to tell: Dean calling him up an hour after their date and slurring that he loves him and that they should get married. He jokes that they've actually been secretly engaged since then, and Dean always smiles and blushes scarlet.

Right now, Cas is bundled up in a sweater and scarf, complaining of the cold while Dean attempts to light the fire that he let go out while he was busy staring at his lover. His beer is abandoned on the table, Jess is setting up the Monopoly board, and Sam is just watching them all with a grin, drinking and snacking on salted cashews. Ruby is nosing about, licking Castiel's hand occasionally and snuggling close to him. She had been at the shelter, two days from euthanasia, when a battered and beaten-down Cas had wandered in, seeking comfort in canine form after splitting from the partner who threatened his life. She had been his lifeline and he her's. And Dean had been well informed on date one that Cas came with the dog, no compromises. She sheds her white fur everywhere, drools on everyone's lap if there's food around, and always barks excitedly at the postman, but she's loved by everyone who meets her. She's even going to be in the wedding, wearing a doggie bow tie and sitting at their feet in the pictures.

According to Cas, she was the first real love of his life. Because they don't talk about the years before her. Ever.

Present Day

Dean steps out of the car on shaking legs and approaches the perimeter fencing. A quick flash of his badge is all it takes to get him through; he's still in his uniform and nobody tends to question a Homicide Detective at the scene of a violent crime. His bloodshot eyes scan the officers and the forensic team for familiar faces and he spies a couple, so he turns away from them quickly, knowing he shouldn't be here. He'll be sent away if anyone sees him, anyone who knows that he's connected to Cas.

To the victim. He wants to spit the word from his mouth, never to speak or think it again. Victims aren't people he knows. They're unfortunate people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, people with families who love them and mourn them, people Dean deals with then closes the door on. But now, he's more involved than he ever thought he would be in his wildest nightmares. Castiel is a victim. Fuck. His hand throbs painfully and will probably need an x-ray but he managed to wipe most of the blood away and the cuts on his split knuckles have stopped bleeding now.

He shouldn't be here, for a hundred reasons. He hopes Chief Harvelle has kept it quiet that the situation is connected to one of their officers. But he draws a breath in deep, feels his lungs expand until it hurts, and walks down the alley to the end, where two guys that he doesn't recognise are crouched over taking photos of the numbers on the concrete. The markers that show the presence of some form of evidence. Blood, DNA, clothing, a weapon, anything that would indicate the presence of the victim or the attacker. He steels his nerves, clenches his shaking hands, and tries to pull on his mask. Homicide Detective Dean Winchester, at your service. He's almost convincing.

"Talk to me, guys." His voice shakes but that's all right. These two don't know him, don't know that he normally sounds so much more confident and in control. He can do this, bluff his way through. He needs to know what's happening, what's happened, and what he needs to do. "What happened here?"

One of them glances up and straightens. He's scrawny, a little goofy-looking, and had a kind smile. "Officer Winchester, right?"

Fuck. "Detective Winchester. Do I know you?"

"No, sir. But I know you by reputation, of course. I didn't know you were assigned to this case, aren't you from Homicide? Oh!" The guy's confused expression suddenly clears. "The vic died, right? That's why you're here? Damn. Well, we ain't surprised. Nobody was gonna walk away from this, not from the looks of things. Guess the only good thing is the poor SOB didn't suffer any more, right?" He offers Dean a wry smile and it takes every ounce of control not to slam him against the wall and knock him unconscious.

"He's alive." The words come as a whisper and he has to repeat them. "He's alive. I want to know what happened here. Talk me through everything."

"Sir? Are you alright, you look a little pale." The second guy stands up, frowning and stripping off his latex gloves.

"I'm fine. Answers, please." It's a struggle to talk. He thinks of Cas, alone, back at the hospital and he regrets coming. But he needs to know. His hand throbs painfully.

"Well, the majority of it all happened here." The second guy gestures to the area they're standing in; right at the end of the alley way by a chain metal fence which is padlocked shut. No chance of escape. Claustrophobia threatens and Dean swallows in reaction. "Shreds of fabric, buttons from a pair of jeans found over there… the rape definitely happened here."

Jesus. The way the guy says the word chills Dean to the bone and suddenly makes him think: this is how he talks of his crime scenes. So clinically, so detached, as though there isn't a person involved. A family. He goes cold all over and forces himself to listen as the guy continues.

"We've already swabbed blood, saliva and semen samples. Doesn't look like the attacker used a condom which is good for us, and like gold dust to the profilers. A guy willing to commit rape and attempted murder but not bother to cover his tracks? Rare. Have they taken DNA samples from the vic yet?" Dean shakes his head, although in truth he doesn't know. He blocks the mental images from his mind of officers checking in Cas' mouth to see if he managed to bite his attacker, checking under his fingernails for blood or scraps of tissue, looking between his legs… "Looks like the guy came to at some point. Tried to drag himself away." The forensics expert takes a few steps, pointing at the ground and at the wall; Dean follows close behind, head swimming. There's a bloody handprint on the corner of a dumpster, low down. Cas had been crawling, dragging himself away, trying to get to safety… Dean sways and a hand settles on his arm. It's the first guy, looking concerned.

"Sir? Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine… what's your name?" His tongue sticks to the top of his mouth and his hand aches.

"Fitzgerald, sir. Garth Fitzgerald IV, sir, Evidence Tech."

"I'm fine. Fitzgerald, talk me through the rest of it." Floodlights have been set up, illuminating everything so brightly that it could be the middle of a summer's day. A chilly, awful summer's day. Cas loves summer…

"He got to about here," Fitzgerald takes over telling their findings, swiping at the ground with his foot just shy of a line of tape and a small number eight on a plastic card next to a parked, burned out car. "Then the guy caught up to him. Either that or he stood by and watched his victim's escape attempt because damn, the vic won't have been in any shape at all to try and move quickly. Again, something else for the profilers. He knifed him…" Dean swallows a mouthful of bile. "Once…" There's a puddle of tacky, almost dry blood. "Then again…" A second, larger puddle. "Somehow he managed to drag himself a bit further, then collapsed. Tried to get up and then…" Fitzgerald mimes swinging a tyre iron and Dean's vision whites out for a second. There's blood on the wall, splattered on the window of the car and pooled on the ground. So much blood. He knows head injuries bleed like hell, always has done, but knowing who the blood belongs to gives the whole scene a totally different aspect. "And this is where the civilian found him and called the cops."

"Right…" Dean's voice sounds far away to his own ears. Cas was so close to the street. So close to the back door of the gay bar they met in all those years back, and nobody came to his aid. Nobody ran to help. He suffered through this hell alone, and he tried so hard to escape. Was he thinking of Dean? Was he calling for him, begging for him to come? Was he screaming? Crying? Both, neither? What was he thinking when he knew what was going to happen to him, did he fight even harder? Did he…

"Winchester!" Chief Harvelle's voice cuts into his haze and he jerks, stunned, having almost forgotten where he is. "Dean!"

Her hand clamps down on his arm and she spins him around to face her. He goes and almost stumbles, nausea rising as Fitzgerald's words echo in his ears. Through glassy eyes he sees his impression of swinging a tyre iron again but when he blinks the tech is staring at him, shocked into silence by how awful he clearly looks.

"Dean," Ellen's tone is urgent now and she grips him by both arms. "What the hell are you doing? Why are you here? Why aren't you at the hospital? Oh…" She releases him and covers her mouth with a hand. "No… he didn't…"

"He's… alive." The words are bitter on his tongue. His hand throbs a he clenches it. "It's bad. He's…"

He needs to sit down before he falls and Ellen seems to sense that at the same time Fitzgerald does. They guide him out of the alley and then he's sitting in a cop car, in the back seat with the door open and his head in his hands. He should never have come here. His mind is swimming, his vision clouded with both the known and the unknown, and a few miles away Cas is fighting for his life and Dean left him. How could he do that? Why did he think this was a good idea?

Ellen is talking into her cell, sending him mixed expressions of agony, concern and frustration, and a moment later she's standing over him and nudging him into the car.

"Go on. In. Wally is taking you back to City. I don't know what you were thinking Dean, coming back here." Her voice is kinder than her words. "You need to be with Cas right now. Let us do our job, you do yours." She touches him on the arm and he stares up, desperate. "We'll get him, Dean. I promise you that. Yeah, this is Harvelle…"

She's talking into her cell again and closes the door gently on him. He leans against the window and watches his colleagues secure the crime scene, watches the techs do their work, take their photos, log their evidence. He wants to go home. Wally, a guy Dean only knows in passing, has turned on the siren presumably to get him back to the hospital faster and he thanks him silently. He wants to go home. Wants to crawl into bed with Cas and fall asleep in his husband's arms, and wake up to smiles and sweet kisses, wants to complain about the dog hair and laugh as Ruby jumps on them for a morning cuddle.

He just wants Cas.