Author's Note: I love you like Sam loves romaine lettuce and moose stuff (whatever that is). Shhhh, I'm tired, it's been a long-ass writing day mmkay my brain is fried like most of the food Dean eats heyooo what am I even saying anymore


Sitting with his back propped against the headboard and the food tray in his lap, Dean prepares a small plate for Cas.

"Thank you, Dean," he says quietly when Dean passes it over. Strawberries and scrambled eggs might be a strange combination but all food probably tastes bizarre to Cas considering he spent the last few millennia as a sentient light ball.

"Want some tea?"

"Yes please."

"You know, you don't have to keep saying all this polite 'please' and 'thank you' crap. It's just me." Dean stirs a hefty spoonful of sugar into Castiel's mug and passes it over.

"It's important to be polite," Cas declares sagely, sipping his tea before placing it on his nightstand.

"Who told you that?"

"Society." Cas pops a strawberry into his mouth and looks at Dean with a puckered brow. Dean thinks he resembles a grumpy chipmunk with too much food stuffed in its cheeks.

"Since when do you know anything about society?" Dean takes a big bite of his breakfast, and contemplates that Sam cooked his eggs surprisingly well for an oaf that survives on a salad diet.

"Since I spent the last month homeless on the road trying to get to you. I learned pretty quickly that courtesy was more rewarding than rudeness."

Dean's halfway to stuffing another forkful of eggs into his mouth when he freezes, Castiel's words slamming into him.

"Cas," Dean begins, putting his utensil back on his plate and setting the tray aside. "Exactly how hard was it getting to the bunker?"

"Oh, horrific. I'm certain I would have died were it not for a few homeless shelters and the courtesy of truck drivers, especially considering the disease I contracted. Being human is far more hazardous than I'd imagined."

Dean feels the back of his throat curdle.

"And you chose in all your infinite wisdom not to call me because—"

"Because you were focused on Sam. You may deny it all you wish, and I appreciate the gesture, but it's hardly a secret that he's your priority. Besides, it's not as though you made an effort to reach me." Cas states it so casually, like he didn't just figuratively slap Dean in the face, even stuffing another strawberry in his mouth as though he has nothing more to say on the matter. Dean thought he'd thwarted this conversation thread earlier, but apparently Cas doesn't listen to him.

"He's my brother."

"Exactly."

Dean rubs his palm across his face.

"I can have more than one priority, you know."

Cas stares at him sardonically. It's an unusual look on the ex-angels face, and Dean's beginning to notice that Cas has become far more expressive since losing his grace. Must be all the human in him.

"Your history would suggest otherwise."

"I don't—"

"I'm not saying it's a negative or that I want you to change. I've always admired how protective you are over Sam, even if your sentiment occasionally causes catastrophe of epic proportions."

"Gee, thanks Cas."

"You're welcome."

"I said stop it with the polite crap!"

"But you thanked me…"

"I was being sarcastic, damnit. And you're wrong, he isn't always my priority."

"I can't think of an occasion when he wasn't," Cas comments pensively, placing his plate on the bedside table, picking up his mug, and sipping from it. He moans a little when the warm liquid sluices down his raw throat, and Dean's train of thought derails momentarily.

"What about Purgatory?" he asks once his brain cells start working again.

"What about it?"

"Don't make me say it." Dean suddenly feels uncomfortable, wishing he'd never brought up the "p" word in the first place. It's a sore subject with them.

"I'm not making you do anything."

For some reason the lack of pressure from Cas, the way he offers Dean agency over the conversation, makes the words come all too easy. Dean needs him to understand.

"I did everything I could to get you out, it was all that mattered. I wasn't…I wasn't thinking about anyone else."

Cas pauses in drinking his tea, eyes going distant.

"So—" Dean begins, but is interrupted when Cas coughs violently, unexpectedly, spilling hot tea all over his chest.

Cas flails, trying to put his mug on the nightstand and spare himself the burn, but his whole body is convulsing with coughs and he can't get his hands steady. Dean immediately endeavors to help him. He reaches across Cas's front and steadies the mug on the table, before gripping the hem of Cas's wet t-shirt and pulling it over his head as fast as he can. It catches on Castiel's head, disheveling his hair even further.

"You alright?" Dean asks breathlessly, tossing the sodden shirt to the floor. Cas is still working through the last of his coughing fit, his forearm covering his mouth and tears pearling at the corners of his eyes. "Are you hurt?" Dean presses his fingertips lightly to Castiel's chest, trying to feel how hot the skin is.

When Cas pushes his touch away sluggishly, Dean realizes what a precarious position he's gotten himself into. He's straddling one of Castiel's thighs, one of his hands braced on the man's hip. The same Castiel, with his bare, wet chest, whom Dean undressed rather aggressively not a moment before.

As carefully as he can, Dean crawls to the side, putting some distance between them.

"Cas?" he tries again, because it really is important for Dean to know if he just gave himself second degree burns. He can't help but stare at the pink splotches darkening on his well-toned, smooth chest, and the amalgam of worry and faint arousal the sight is giving him is rather befuddling.

"Fine," Cas snaps, his tone so acidic he sounds anything but.

"Alright, alright," Dean murmurs, placating. He hops off the bed to fetch Cas the damp towel from the day before, and a clean t-shirt.

"I'm pathetic, Dean," Cas spits, ripping the towel from Dean's hand once he approaches and rubbing the moisture from his chest. He winces, and Dean almost rolls his eyes but refrains at the last second. Dean's not the most tactful man in the universe, but even he recognizes this isn't the time to mock his friend for poor comprehension of how pain works.

"You're not pathetic, Cas, you're human. Though I guess in some ways they are kind of the same thing." He chuckles weakly but trails off when Cas glowers at him.

"You shouldn't be here."

"Of course I should, don't be ridiculous."

"There are other things, cases, that require your attention. You're wasting your time with me."

Dean sighs and hands Cas a fresh t-shirt. "Whatever, man. Say what you want, but I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I was an angel before you were even a species, and I don't—"

"Yeah, well now you're one of my species, and since I'm the denizen on the subject you can shut your cake hole and let me do my thing before you hurt yourself again."

"I don't need you!" Cas growls, his eyes flashing in anger. He tugs on the Led Zeppelin shirt so violently that Dean can hear a few seams rip.

Dean freezes where he stands, expression going utterly blank. Somehow, whether he meant to or not, Cas managed to strike Dean at his most sensitive nerve. He can hardly process how he feels, how to react, all he knows is that he needs to leave the room as fast as he can.

"Right," Dean says, monotone. With a few brisk steps he goes to the food tray, putting it back on the bed and turning on his heel. "Make sure you…eat…that." He strides towards the door as he gestures to the food with a flick of his wrist.

"Dean—" Cas begins, but Dean doesn't want to hear his voice anymore.

"I'm just gonna—" he grunts on his way out, shutting the door behind him and bolting down the hall like there's a hellhound on his heels.

"Dean?" Sam queries when he barges into the library a few minutes later. "Aren't you supposed to be with Cas?"

"He's fine." Dean takes a long pull from the beer he grabbed from the kitchen on his way to the library. Sam's gaze catches on the bottle but he wisely chooses not to question why Dean is drinking before noon.

"Fine?"

"Yeah, fine. Perfectly fine. Doesn't need me, apparently." Dean collapses into a chair across from him and props his feet indelicately on the table.

Sam slowly closes the book he was reading and sets it down in front of him. He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, and when his eyes find Dean's they're carefully neutral.

"He specifically said he didn't need you?"

"Yeah, that's what I just said."

"Don't snap at me; I just made you breakfast."

The aggravation drains from Dean in an instant, his shoulder's drooping. He'd been trying not to take things out on Sam lately, and here he was being nasty when the man just made him perfectly cooked eggs. He wishes he hadn't just left all of them for Cas, since now he's hungry and upset. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"He's just aggravated with feeling weak, Dean," Sam says softly.

"Yeah well, it's not my fucking fault he's human," Dean counters, though he can't muster any bite in his tone. "I'm just trying to help him, but he never…he never lets me just…," he trails off, staring at Sam's book without really seeing it.

"If you want a break I can look after him for a while," Sam offers on a sigh. Dean's knee-jerk reaction is a profound no. He's not given to abandoning his post or his friends, not anymore, but he feels raw and unpredictable with Cas's words festering in his thoughts.

"I—alright fine." He punctuates with a few chugs of his beer, watching across the shaft of the dewy bottle as Sam rises to his feet.

"I'll go check on him."

"Fine. I'm gonna'…um, hit the shooting range for a while."

"In your pajamas?" Sam asks judgmentally. Dean had completely forgotten what he was wearing.

"Yeah, in my damn pajamas, Sammy. Evil doesn't care what I'm wearing."

"Whatever you say."


By the time Dean returns to the library he's coated in sweat and his muscles are sore. After a few hours of shooting targets didn't alleviate his frustration with his ex-angel, he strapped on his sneakers and went for a brutal run around the hilly grounds of the bunker. His knees are sore and his pajamas are spattered with mud, but he feels better than he did that morning.

"The hell happened to you?" Sam asks acerbically from where he's sprawled out on the couch with his laptop.

"Oh nothing, just getting in shape so I can kick your ass the next time you leave your crap in my car."

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Might wanna' lay off the burgers then."

"Fat chance, Samantha. In fact, I'm starving, so how 'bout I make some for dinner tonight. My treat?"

Sam keeps his eyes on his laptop, his fingers typing rapidly.

"Might I suggest you take a shower first," he mutters.

"Was just going to, dumbass. But first, uh, have you…have you checked on the, uh, invalid?"

Sam glances up from his screen, eyes finding Dean's. His gaze is sharpened by the blue glow of the computer screen.

"Since I'm assuming you're referring to Cas, he was asleep last time I checked. Gave him a few codeine pills to knock him out."

"Right. Right, good."

Sam's eyes narrow for a moment, but before Dean can translate the expression behind them his eyes return to the screen. Dean sighs and turns to make his way to the shower.

"Asked about you, though," Sam mutters, stopping Dean dead in his tracks.

"What?" Dean blurts, louder than he intended as he spins around on his heel. Sam resolutely doesn't look at him.

"He wanted to know where you'd gone…and if you were upset."

"Well, what did you tell him?"

"I said you were under the impression you weren't needed anymore."

Dean swallows hard and nods shortly, trying not to look too desperate for information.

"And what did he say?" he attempts to ask casually.

"He told me that he keeps a photo of you in his locker and that he wants to ask you to prom."

"He—wha—you-"

" Jesus, Dean, go take your shower before you hurt yourself."

Heat flares in his Dean's cheeks. His fists ball at his sides.

"Fuck you very much, dickbag."

"Love you too, dear," Sam retorts sweetly, focus returning to his laptop.


Dean takes longer in the shower than usual, standing under the warm spray well after the mud and sweat has washed down the drain. His new home really does have excellent water pressure.

Though firing a gun, exercise, and bathing have alleviated most of his pent-up frustration with his best friend, there's still a sharp, aching part of him that has yet to be soothed. It makes his teeth clench and his shoulders bunch. Still, he can't let himself contemplate why he's let Cas have such power over his emotions. It's a path of thought that Dean has lined with neon warning signs, for he knows it can't lead to anything good.

Running his palm slowly down his chest, he hesitates to feel the slight plush of his stomach that one day of running isn't enough to tone. Maybe Sam has a point about the burgers, but Dean's got far worse demons than an affinity for wholesome food.

When his hand moves, his fingers catch on the jut of a hip bone and pause to swirl around it, igniting tingles and warmth under his skin. It's the feeling he'd been searching for, the specific kind of release that's left him taut and agitated in its absence.

Sliding lower, he smoothes his callused fingertips down the crease of thigh, touching tantalizingly close to where he can feel himself beginning to swell. He rubs his groin muscle, sore from the run, in slow circles and exhales at the relief of pleasure-pain and easing tension.

"Fuck," Dean mumbles, feeling his dick twitch, bumping against his thumb, with each press of his hand. He's needy and hardening.

Finally, he takes himself in his palm, too tired and hungry to drag out the anticipation any longer. Grip tight, he drags his fist down the shaft of his cock, trembling when a charge of pleasure shoots up his spine. He leans back against the shower wall, immersing himself completely in the spray and shutting his eyes tight. Each pump of his fist pulls him tighter into bliss, each graze of his thumb over the head sends a quiver down his legs. He takes his balls in his other hand and kneads them gently in time with his strokes. With a squeeze, a bead of pre-come rubs off on his thumb. Dean knows he must be particularly desperate since it's unusual for him to produce any.

In a moment he's close, sooner than expected, but he needs something to push him over the precipice; a thought, an image. Unfortunately, the first thing that comes to mind, blazing bright in his head, is the memory of Cas, spread out and naked on his bed. He can see with shocking clarity the V of his pelvis and the weight of his dick against his thigh. He wants to put his mouth everywhere, wants to taste him on his tongue. He wants to take Cas apart.

Dean comes with a whimper, back arching off the shower tiles and his best friend's name caught in the back of his throat.


When Dean emerges from his shower, feeling relaxed, a little guilty, and pleasantly sore, he realizes with a curse that all of his clothes are, in fact, in his bedroom, along with the one person he's trying to avoid. Wrapping a towel around his waist and ruffling the moisture from his hair until it's ridiculously spiky, he makes his way down the hall.

"Cas?" he asks, tone cold, when he creaks open the door to his room. Cas immediately sits up in bed as though he's at attention for his commander, his eyes wide. He's nervous, and for some reason the idea of this ex-angel of the Lord being nervous because he thinks Dean's feelings are hurt is incredibly amusing. It makes Dean considerably less apprehensive, but hardly forgiving.

"Just getting my clothes," Dean clarifies, making a beeline for his dresser. He glances at Cas as he pulls open a drawer, finding his jaw clenched and his blue eyes raking over Dean's body. He looks uncomfortable, or intensely focused. Dean can't decipher which, and it makes all his nerves come back in full-force. He suddenly feels impossibly naked, what with the damp towel clinging low on his hips and his torso bare and glistening. "I'll, uh, be out of your hair in a second," he mutters, voice tremulous.

"No, I—It's your room," Cas stammers. In his periphery Dean watches Cas's head swivel, as though he's trying to look anywhere in the room where Dean isn't. For some reason it pisses Dean off, makes him feel vengeful and mischievous, so, completely on impulse, he abandons his shyness, flicks his wrist, and drops the towel to the floor.

Cas freezes like a petrified rabbit, his pupils blown wide and stuck staring, unfocused, at some spot beside Dean's naked figure. Dean can't help but smile to himself as he pulls a pair of boxers from his dresser and slides them up his thighs far slower than necessary. He lets the elastic catch and drag up the swell of his ass, feeling the back of his neck prickle because he knows without seeing that Cas is watching from the corner of his eye. Cas coughs once, but it comes out sounding like a yip and it takes all of Dean's resolve not to laugh.

Since he has no plans to leave the bunker for the rest of the night, Dean dresses in sweatpants and an old 'Empire Strikes Back' t-shirt.

"I'm making burgers for dinner. That alright with you?"

Cas nods jerkily, his hands fiddling with the hem of the sheets.

"You need anything before I go?" Dean knows his tone is flat and icy, but he hasn't forgotten Castiel's words even if he is willing to show off his ass a little. Moreover, he feels bitter offering the man any help after what he's said, regardless of how sick he is.

"Yes, Dean, I…I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier."

"Oh?" Dean inquires, feigning ignorance.

"Yes. When I said…what I said, I didn't intend it the way it sounded."

"I see. And how did you intend 'I don't need you'?" He knows he's being a bit brutal, but this isn't a subject he's willing to just let slide.

Cas sighs, coughing on the exhale but managing to avoid a full-blown fit. He rakes his fingers through his hair, which Dean notices is messier than he's ever seen it.

"I am not comfortable relying entirely on the care of others, especially you," Dean raises an eyebrow, "because it means that I am no longer useful to you. I do not wish to be a burden, and I know I am now. And since I'm human, possibly permanently, I'm concerned that I will be merely an inconvenience, unable to contribute, unable to save you when you require it. It's…I can't imagine you'll need me after I'm healed and I'm not…um, happy about it."

Cas holds Dean's stare until he's finished speaking, then he looks down at his hands and actually fucking blushes. In as long as Dean's known him he's never seen Cas blush, not even when he took him to a "den of iniquity" as Cas so strangely called it. He realizes it was probably because Cas could control his vessel's biological reactions when he was still an angel. Now, he's just Cas, flushing and fumbling his fingers in a manner that's far too cute for his own good.

"Cas," Dean says, drawing blue eyes back to his own. "Sam and I aren't some souped-up magical beings either. No one's gonna' kick you out of the bunker for being human. I…we, might even prefer you this way. And so what if you suck at hunting for a while, that's what you've got us for: to train you. Besides, it's not like I've never gotten sick before. Shit happens. So…just, take the helping hand when it's offered, yeah?"

Cas blinks a few times, seemingly processing Dean's words, while Dean watches him patiently. It's a long, intimate moment between them, with their eyes flickering over each other's faces, analyzing, cataloguing. When Cas breaks whatever it is they're sharing, Dean's so lost in the moment that he flinches.

"In that case, I should probably inform you that I feel absolutely terrible."

Dean breaks into a laugh, unable to help it after the tension between them has finally broken. Cas watches him with a smile on his pale face.

"Well, in that case let's get you medicated and fed, alright?"

"Yes, Dean."


After setting Cas up with fresh water, an extra blanket, and his old, tattered copy of 'The Lord of the Rings', as well as dosing him back up with his meds, Dean heads to the kitchen. He's been cooking somewhat frequently since they've gotten settled in the bunker, and has actually managed to find some joy in it. Plus, he's secretly excited to have Cas try his burger recipe, since he recalls that his vessel had an affinity for them.

"So I take it you two kissed and made up?" Sam says from the door once Dean's settled into the rhythm of cooking, startling him so badly he almost flips a burger right off the skillet.

"God damnit, Sammy. Do I have to put a fucking bell on you or something?"

"Not my fault you scare easy." Sam leans against the door frame with his arms crossed, looking far too amused for Dean's comfort.

"Yeah, we made up," Dean states, inflecting a challenge in the words.

"And how are we feeling about that?"

"We're feeling like you should keep your damn thoughts to your damn self, and go get me a few plates because dinner's ready."

Sam shakes his head and shoots him a withering glare, but does as he's told.

"I'm gonna' eat in my room with Cas so he's not alone," Dean remarks offhandedly as he puts the burgers on a plate to rest.

"Of course you are," Sam says through a toothy, half-fake smile. Dean grits his teeth to keep from throwing beef patties at his little brother's face.

"You should eat with us," he manages to suggest with only a hint of aggravation.

"Thanks for the offer but there's a new 'Game of Thrones' episode on tonight. I so rarely get to see the premieres that I don't want to miss it."

"Nerd."

"Says the guy in the Star Wars shirt."

"Hey, Star Wars isn't nerdy. Star Wars is cool."

"Sounds like something a nerd would say."

"Well you would know."

"You're right, I would."

Dean slaps him lightly on the back of his head, before ruffling his hair and poking him in the stomach until Sam pushes him away.

"What are you, five?" he asks through sniggers.

"Shut up and get your burger. I even made sides."

"Thanks, mom."

Dean pauses for a moment. He knows Sam only said it to tease him, but for some reason it makes him feel warm and useful in a way that he hasn't for a really long time. In fact, usually he'd be hurt if Sam called him that in jest, but things are different now.

"You're welcome, buttmunch," he says fondly, smiling like a fool as he watches his brother excitedly prepare a plate of the dinner he made himself.


Sharing a meal in bed with Cas is considerably better the second time around. Cas moans in pleasure almost every time he takes a bite of his burger, proving Dean's theory that ground beef is still something he favors, and making pride swell in Dean's chest. Dean props his laptop on a few books at the foot of the bed so they can put on 'Star Wars' while they eat, something Cas insisted on after a few questions about Dean's shirt.

"This really is delicious, Dean. You have knack for cooking," Cas mumbles around a mouth full the last bite of his burger. Dean feels his ears heat at the praise.

"It's nothing. Just a burger, man."

"It's not. It's incredible." Cas looks at him warmly as he chews, his eyes glassy from fever and codeine. Even with the medication, he's looking worse than Dean's seen him all day. He can tell the fever is spiking despite the ibuprofen he's taken, and Dean knows from memories of caring for Sam the one time he had bronchitis that these things are always worse at night.

"Hey, buddy, why don't I put this shit away and help you get ready for bed. You're looking a little worse for the wear."

"I…yes, that's…I do feel strange."

"I can tell."

"My…um, nothing's wrong right? I'm not wrong?"

Dean's brow twitches at the question. It's unusual and worrying and makes him want to get Cas horizontal as fast as he can, and not in the same way he wanted to get Cas horizontal when he had his special shower time.

"No, man, you just need to lie down. We'll get you set up so you can sleep and you'll be alright."

It's a process getting their dishes in the kitchen, which he figures Sam can clean since Dean made the dinner, and assisting Cas to the bathroom and back. He's as weak on his feet as the previous night so Dean doesn't bother making him walk. Unfortunately, though they've been in this position before, Dean's no less flustered holding Cas tight against his chest, the man's legs and arms wrapped around him and his face pressed to Dean's collarbone. He knows he's blushing all over his face, acutely aware of every single place they're touching. Memories of taking himself in hand with Castiel's name on his lips taunt him, yet again, in the back of his mind.

By the time he's settled Cas back in bed, the man's whole body is wracked with shivers. He has a long, harsh coughing fit when Dean puts him down that leaves him trembling and red-faced, looking ten-times worse than before.

"I need to take your temperature," Dean states, grabbing a thermometer from the supplies Sam brought in earlier. Cas hadn't seemed bad enough before to warrant taking his temperature, and Dean's feeling pretty stupid for his poor judgment. He pushes the thermometer between Castiel's lips and holds it for him. "Put it under your tongue." Cas blinks up at him blearily, but does as instructed. Within a few moments the device beeps.

"102.8. Fuck, Cas. If this doesn't go down soon, we're taking you to the hospital."

"No!" Cas croaks, coughing and trying to push himself up. "I've spent enough time in hospitals." Dean's not sure what Cas is referring to for a minute until he remembers Cas's stint in the Asylum after he took on Sam's little souvenir from The Cage. He hates thinking of that time and how he left his friend alone with a demon, too hurt and afraid to see what had become of him. He can't say he blames Cas for not wanting to go back.

"We might not have a choice, but I'll do my best to bring it down without it. Now, have some water for me?" Dean asks delicately, grabbing Cas's cup and sitting on the edge of the bed. He slides his hand under Cas's head to help him lift it, guiding the edge of the glass to his lips.

"Better?"

"Yes, Dean," Cas croaks, head falling back to the pillow once he's satisfied.

"Think you can sleep?" Dean presses his palm to Cas's forehead, finding it disconcertingly hot. "Fuck, man," he whispers and pushes Cas's hair back, raking his fingers through the locks to establish some sense of order from the chaos it's become.

"I'm not sure."

Dean takes a rallying breath.

"Roll on your side. I'll, uh…I'll scratch your back 'til you fall asleep."

Cas nods faintly, seeming dazed, pliant, and not entirely comprehending of what Dean is suggesting.

Dean puts his laptop aside, resolving to show Cas 'Star Wars' properly another day, before turning off the light. He figures he can go back on his computer once Cas is asleep, since it's still pretty early, but once his settles in behind his friend under the blankets he realizes how very tired is. After sleeping so shallowly in his concern for Cas the previous night, and running around the bunker today, he's not only drained, but sore.

He pushes up the back of Castiel's t-shirt to make room for his hand before soothingly running his fingernails up and down the hot skin of his back. Cas makes a small noise of contentment, sinking further into the mattress and pillow. Dean can even feel the muscles relax beneath his fingertips.

"Good," he praises quietly, drawing random patterns with his nails.

It doesn't take more than a few minutes for Cas's breathing to go slow and even, but Dean keeps scratching for at least another hour, wanting to be certain that he's deeply asleep. When he can barely keep his eyes open anymore, he hooks his arm around Cas's middle and sidles up close. Even though he's unconscious, Cas's body is quivering against Dean's chest.

Before sleep finally pulls Dean under, he thinks with a sigh that this fever is starting to scare him.


Author's Note:

My intention is that the next chapter be the last...but I'm sooOOOooo changeable so who knows.

(sidenote warning: Dean is not a doctor and neither am I...)

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