Summary:

Post-s8, a mute Castiel takes care of a feverish Sam. (Based on an old friend's headcanon that when Cas lost his Grace under Metatron's spell, he also lost his voice.)

When I Wake

Castiel pushes damp brown hair out of Sam's face. It is warm, too warm, where his fingers brush Sam's forehead, and he reaches for the cloth in the basin of iced water on the nightstand. He wrings and folds it before placing it back over Sam's brow. He fists his hands in the sweat-damp sheets, feeling helpless.

Once, he could have made Sam better with just a touch.

Now... Now, he's powerless, useless as "a baby in a trench coat," as Dean would say.

It was Sam who insisted on looking for him.

He knew from the missed calls, from the condition Sam was in when the brothers finally found him by activating the GPS on the phone he still didn't really know how to use. Dean would have tried everything to keep his brother in bed and stayed to take care of him; anything else could wait. Sam, in pain, feverish and barely conscious, wouldn't rest until they'd found him, and when he collapsed in Castiel's arms at last, Cas was certain he hadn't imagined the resentment in Dean's green eyes.

And all he can do now is sit here and intermittently cool the cloth in the basin again, watch Sam sleep restlessly in the throes of fever, add how fragile the once strong and beautiful hunter looks to his growing list of regrets. He bows his head.

Sometimes, it feels like he's done little but fail Sam Winchester.

A large hand covers his own and squeezes. He looks up. Sam is awake. It's been five days since he was last conscious.

"How long have I been out?"

Cas holds up five fingers, and Sam smiles weakly.

"And you've been taking care of me all this time? Thank you, Cas."

He shakes his head, covering Sam's hand with his own, and there are so many things he wants to say, but he can't articulate a single one. He tries to apologize, but even if he could say the words, Sam doesn't let him. Sam's already pulling him down by the tie for a kiss just like they used to. Before he broke everything.

Before he broke Sam.

He should get Dean, tell him Sam's awake, but instead, he lets Sam guide him under the blanket so they're lying side by side, presses his lips to every inch of Sam's face because he doesn't know how else to convey how much he cherishes this, cherishes Sam.

Sam smiles - he understands, he always does; he understands, and he forgives, and they don't need any words. He runs his fingers through Castiel's hair, blinking wearily.

"I'm still so tired, Cas," he murmurs. "I think I'll be asleep again soon. Will you be here when I wake up?"

Cas nods. Of course. Of course. He wraps his arms tightly around Sam as the hunter drifts off to sleep once more.

He'll never leave Sam again.