"I'm his brother. Next of kin. I call the shots. Get him out of surgerynow."

"Sir, his spinal cord is –"

"I don't care. Calories. Get some calories into him. He's a Quick Healer. Cut into him and his body'll just try to heal that, and he doesn't have the energy for that right now. Pump him full of whatever high-calorie sludge you've got. That's the only thing that'll fix him."

"He's a – I'm sorry, but Quick Healers are –"

"Rare. I know. But he's only going to stay alive if you give him some goddamn fuel and keep it coming."

"Sir, do you have any proof of –"

"Proof? Here. You want proof?"

"Sir, please put the knife aw– oh my god."

"It's just blood. There, see? All better. He's my brother. He's got the same thing. Now tell the surgeons to sew him back up and start pouring food into him."

"I...yes. I'll get them started..."

"Good. Sorry about the mess. Can I have a towel?"

Bright.

Dean groaned and tried to turn away from the window. Stupid east-facing window. Stupid sunrise. Once again he refreshed his mental list of things to buy, emphasis on blackout curtains.

He wasn't on his side. He'd thought he'd turned, but he was still on his back.

This tiny worrying thought was enough to make him try to open his eyes, only to find that they were heavier than iron doors.

His throat hurt.

No, scratch that. His everything hurt.

"Don't try to talk." A soothing voice. Very soothing. Very familiar. Not Sam's. Not Ash's. Had he been trying to talk? He didn't recall. "You're in the hospital. They've given you a feeding tube. Just relax."

"Cas?" he managed, even if it felt like he was ripping the back of his throat to say it.

A gentle, cool touch on his cheek. "I know it hurts. This will take a while to heal, even for you."

Dean shifted, and his body found new and exciting ways to tell him exactly what was wrong with it. He took a deep breath, screwing his eyes shut harder. If an ache could be said to be excruciating, radiating, and everywhere at once, this was it. There weren't any sharp stabs of pain because there wasn't anything Dean could isolate that wasn't already hurting to its greatest capacity. He hissed the breath out through his teeth. Even his diaphragm was lodging complaints.

"I've called the nurse. She'll bring some painkillers. They tried to give you an IV, but..."

A chuckle threatened to bubble up from Dean's stomach, but he managed to stifle it, giving rise to only a rictus of a grin. Of course an IV wouldn't work. His blood vessels were always the first things to heal. A bodily process that could expel a bullet would make short work of a cannula.

"I can't heal you, or I would. Something about your cells...they won't let me interfere. But maybe..."

A hand cupped Dean's cheek, and from it radiated a warm, content fatigue, spreading through him in a delightfully fuzzy rush, and the last thing he heard as the pain receded was "Sleep now. I'll watch over you."

Swallowing, even just swallowing the vaguely chocolate-flavored mush the hospital had provided, was enough of a lesson in agony that Dean would have given the whole enterprise up if it had not been for two factors.

One: the cold against the abused tissues of his throat felt good for several seconds before it started complaining again.

And two: he had never in his life been so hungry.

"You're up to twenty thousand calories a day," the floor nurse had told him, shaking his head in awe as he handed over the third nutrient shake of the morning.

"Yeah, well, keep 'em coming," Dean croaked before closing his lips around the straw. "I got a lot of damage to heal."

It was an understatement; Sam had read aloud the diagnoses on his chart in a somber tone the night before, when Dean had finally felt human enough to open his eyes, if not speak coherently. Esophageal burns from the smoke were the least of his problems, despite being the ones that were currently causing him the most grief. Thirteen fractured ribs, five of which had punctured his lungs. Shattered scapulae – not just one, but both. Complex fractures of the pelvis. Both hips dislocated. Aortic detachment, which Dean hadn't even known was possible, but was apparently what instantly killed most people who impacted the ground with the velocity he had. A mostly severed and crushed spinal cord that should have left him quadriplegic at the very least. Ruptured spleen. Massive hemorrhagic internal bleeding. The back of his skull smashed like a lightbulb, and enough smaller skull fractures to make the x-ray film look like a cobweb.

Most of these ailments had mended themselves, in descending order of severity, once his body had acquired the fuel to do so. Now, two full nights and an entire day later, he was left with a burned throat, extensive soft tissue damage, and a concussion.

And bruises. His entire body was a varicolored tapestry of bruises, both from his impact with the ground and the impact of the fully-grown angel falling atop him.

Dean looked up from his chocolate-ish shake, eyes touching Castiel's for a brief moment before he looked down again.

The chair by the bed had been flipped around, the angel straddling the back of it to accommodate his wings. His arms were folded atop the backrest, his chin resting on his forearms as Castiel silently watched Dean devour the concoction.

They hadn't spoken since Dean had first awoken the previous morning. Dean had either been delirious with pain medication – if he had spoken then, Castiel was kind enough to not mention it – or sleeping, when he was not shoving anything approximating food into his mouth or trying with hand signals to reassure Ash that he was all right. But neither had Castiel moved from that spot, nor slackened his vigil.

Dean cleared his throat – a mistake – and took a breath. "Cas. How're you?"

Castiel straightened, his wings unfolding from against his back just slightly. "I've...been better." He shrugged his right shoulder experimentally. "But I was lucky. That should have killed me. Would have, had his aim been better."

Dean nodded slowly. "I'm guessing the pointy things are more than what they seem."

That earned a low chuckle from the angel, a sound that did more to ease the residual aches in Dean's body than all the narcotics of the day before. "You could say that, yes, in that an Angel Blade is the only weapon that can actually kill me. And now Metatron has not only his, but mine as well."

Dean blinked. "I'm going out on a limb here and guessing you're not talking about the Transformer."

Another small laugh. "No. Metatron is, literally, the voice of God." Castiel's brow furrowed. "Was. It's...complicated. Archangels – and make no mistake, he's about the highest tier an archangel can achieve – can skip between realities at will, and he's...not pleased with me right now."

"So he's got it in for you." Dean took a long drag from his pseudochocolate shake as Castiel nodded gravely. "Dude. Celebrity heroes in the big-ass cities are the ones with nemeses. They're gonna get on your ass for licensing infringements."

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the door to the room opened, and Dean's eyes widened at the greasy paper bag that was thrust into the room, followed closely by Sam.

"Thought you could use something other than protein sludge," Sam said in greeting, tossing the bag to the bedside table. He nodded to Castiel in acknowledgement, who bobbed a single nod in return. Dean glanced between the two; of course they would have already met, if Castiel hadn't moved from that spot.

"I could kiss you," Dean said finally as he reached for the bag. He didn't want to think about how much chewing and swallowing was going to hurt.

"Please don't." Sam dragged a chair from beneath the window to sit on the other side of the bed. "How you holding up?"

Dean shrugged as he peeled the paper away from one of the burgers. "Feel like I got hit by a sidewalk going sixty miles an hour," he replied. "Haven't slept this much since sixth grade. And if my damn window crews don't stop sending me flowers it's going to turn into a rainforest in here." He gestured at the line of bouquets on the windowsill. "But I'm good."

Sam shook his head. "Dean," he said, rubbing his eyes, "what were you thinking?"

Pausing in the act of bringing the burger to his mouth, Dean raised an eyebrow. "Well, to be honest, I was thinking of getting me and Cas here out of a burning building before he bled out or got his wings fried extra-crispy."

Cas winced, tucking his wings in closer to his body from the relaxed position they'd been in. Dean thought it was a reaction to his comment, but when Sam let out a startled "What?" it suddenly became clear that perhaps Castiel had not disclosed all the events of that evening.

"I would have been fine in a few minutes," Castiel said in a low voice, not meeting Sam's eyes. "But we didn't have a few minutes. I'm not certain I'd still be alive if it weren't for Dean." For emphasis, Castiel loosened his crooked tie and pulled his shirt to the side, showing off a puckered scar just below his right collarbone where the blade had punched straight through his shoulder.

Sam let out a sigh in a whoosh. "So you're a Quick Healer too." He buried his face in his hands. "God, there are two of you."

"Three of us," Dean corrected, though in Castiel's case that wasn't entirely accurate, before Sam cut him off.

"Two of you running around, not caring if you get shot or stabbed or dropped out of a building because you think you're indestructible."

"Well." Dean gestured at himself. "Not indestructible, but I think I'm kind of doing okay."

"Yeah? And at what cost?" Sam demanded. "How many years did you just exchange for your little swan dive out of a burning building?"

"Not this again," Dean groaned, shaking his head and finally taking a bite of his burger for an excuse to not say anything.

Which was, possibly, a mistake, because in the silence that followed, Castiel cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Cell division," Sam said flatly. "Quick Healers heal because of rapid cell division. Get that much cell division going on, that quickly, you get mutations. Quick Healers have about forty years before the tumors start up, and that's if they're not getting shot every other week."

"Hiding from it won't improve your odds," Dean said under his breath. Sam either didn't hear him or pretended not to.

Castiel looked stunned. "And...there's nothing...no surgery or...?"

Sam let out a bitter laugh. "I needed my appendix out when I was eleven, because Quick Healing doesn't do jack against infections. They had to put me into hypothermic shock to slow down the healing enough for them to get in, and after they cut it out, it grew back. Without the infection, which was at least something, but..."

Dean coughed. "You're just still pissed because they couldn't put you out for it."

Sam glared. "Dean, I had an open appendectomy without anesthesia. At least you were unconscious when they were slicing you open a few nights ago."

Castiel's eyes darted between the two of them as they spoke. "John Winchester?"

Dean caught on to Castiel's question before Sam did: How did John Winchester die in this universe? "Twelve different cancers," he said shortly. "All at once. About three years ago. Only took him about two weeks, once it started."

"The moral of the story," Sam said in a tone that made it clear he was done with this topic, "is that surgery isn't safe for us, and the tumors take over, and removal is impossible. There's a point of no return. And Dean seems hell-bent on running toward it at full speed."

"And Sam avoids papercuts to try and buy more time," Dean shot back. "He doesn't seem to understand that you don't get to bargain with a death sentence."

The glare Sam shot him was almost palpable; Dean swallowed. "Sorry," he muttered, eyes falling to the burger.

"My lunch break is almost over," Sam muttered as he stood. "I'm glad you're doing better. You should be out by tomorrow at this rate."

"Tonight," Dean countered. "I'm sick of tubes, and my crew's on the Alaska Bank building tomorrow."

There was a ghost of a smile that flickered across Sam's face before he raised a hand in farewell. "Cas," he said briefly, and then he slid out the door.

The hum of the monitors in the room layered the expectant silence with apprehension. After what felt like an eternity, Castiel took a breath.

"Dean –"

"Save it." Dean didn't look up. "I don't need to hear it from you, too."

"I didn't know what this cost you."

Dean raised his eyes to glare. "No. Stop. Right now. Or else you walk out of here."

Castiel pressed his lips together, but nodded.

"You start treating me different, we're gonna have issues." Dean threw the burger down on the table. "Everyone has a death sentence. Most people just don't know what it is yet. I can either whine about it, or I can leave some sort of mark, make some waves, and make damn sure it was all worth it."

"But –"

"I mean it, Angel. You start tiptoeing around me, we're gonna have some words, and I'll probably punch you. You may have noticed I speak fluent Fist."

"Understood." Castiel shifted in his chair, letting his wings unfold away from where they had been tightly furled against his back. "Thank you," he said softly. "You could have just left me."

Dean snorted. "Like hell I could have." He shot a sidelong glance at the angel. "But you already know I couldn't."

The slightest hint of a smile played at the edge of Castiel's eyes. "I suppose I do."

Dean swallowed, then made a face as he raised a hand to grope at the tube taped to his cheek. "Get me a nurse. I want this damn tube outta my nose."

"Oh, hell no." Dean shook his head, crossing his arms stubbornly.

The look the nurse returned him was every bit as stubborn. "You can stand there all night if you'd like, Dean, but you're not leaving this hospital unless it's in a wheelchair. Hospital policy."

"Stupidest policy I've ever heard of," Dean shot back. "First you won't let me leave unless I've got a ride, even though I can see my apartment from here. Then –"

"Dean," Sam said wearily from the doorway, "there's no one to impress here. Just get in the damn chair so I can take you home."

Dean looked between the two of them before heaving a sigh and throwing himself into the wheelchair.

"I can take him from here," Sam said to the nurse.

"You can leave the chair with the volunteer at the entrance," the nurse replied. To Dean, "What do you want to do with the flowers?"

Dean spared a glance at the half-dozen vases. "There's gotta be people here who will enjoy them. Take 'em to them."

The nurse's face softened very slightly before he nodded. "It's good to see you recovered," he said in farewell.

Sam had barely pushed the chair through the double doors of the hospital entrance before Dean launched himself from it. "Right. Sorry you had to come all this way to walk me through the halls, but I've got it from here."

"No," Sam said evenly as he passed the chair off to a yellow-vested volunteer, "I'm driving you home."

"I live five blocks that way," Dean argued, stabbing his finger in that direction.

"I know where you live. That's why I'm taking you there." Sam fished his keys from his pocket.

"Listen," Dean said firmly, "I've already got a nursemaid. He's got feathers, and he's stretching them right now, but I bet he's not far, and if I so much as stumble he's probably gonna be there to catch me. So I'm walking."

Sam heaved a sigh. "Fine. But I'm coming with."

"Fine. I'm stopping for food on the way."

"Then I am, too."

"No rabbit food where I'm going."

"I'm sure I'll manage."

"Then come along, little brother." Dean gestured expansively at the sidewalk.

"That burger," Sam said conversationally, "is bigger than your head."

"Thing of beauty, isn't it?" Dean replied appreciatively, pushing down on the top bun in an attempt to compress it enough to make taking a bite possible. "Bacon, fried onions, bleu cheese..."

"You're lucky you're not going to live long enough for atherosclerosis."

"I take my victories where I can get 'em." Dean took a bite of the burger, closing his eyes to truly bask in the glory of real food after two days of hospital goo. "How're your chicken nuggets?" he asked once he'd swallowed.

Sam shot him a poisonous look in the middle of biting into a chicken strip. "Good," he said around it.

Dean snorted. "Remember how you used to throw a fit if we didn't get the dinosaur-shaped ones?"

Sam glanced at Dean with an odd expression as he chewed. "Yeah," he replied. "So you used to sneak them into the grocery cart when Dad wasn't looking." He exhaled in a chuckle. "Those were so disgusting. Why did we even like them?"

"It was salt and chicken parts shaped like dinosaurs. Did we need a reason?" Dean smiled fondly down at his burger. "Good times." He prepared to take another bite.

"How long has it been since we've done this?"

Startled, Dean put the burger down and looked across the table, considering the question. "What, ate together?"

"Just us," Sam clarified.

Dean let out a breath as he thought. "Since Dad died, I think. Before that. Since you got married."

Sam nodded slowly. "Long time."

"We've been busy," Dean pointed out. "You work the weirdest hours ever, and between my thing at night and running the windows during the day, my schedule's not much better."

"Still." Sam looked up. "We gotta start making time."

Dean took another bite, watching Sam suspiciously, eyebrows raised in an invitation for his brother to continue speaking.

"We're – both of us – coming to the end of the line."

"Sammy," Dean said warningly through his mouthful, hastening to swallow.

"It's going to happen, whether we talk about it or not," Sam insisted. "And...look. I just don't want to be a stranger to the only other person who knows what it's like."

"Everybody dies, Sammy." Dean took a long drink from his beer bottle. "We just know how it's gonna happen. And that's not even guaranteed – hell, I could get meningitis and kick off next week. Or," he said, gesturing with the bottle, "you and I could be the first Quick Healers who're immortal. They'll have to send government agents to cut our heads off."

Sam cracked a small smile. "Think we can survive that?"

"Don't really want to test it." Dean put the bottle down. "But I'm just saying. Don't start planning your tearful death speech just yet. If I'm still kicking, you've got ages."

Sam snorted. "Right. My brother, the litmus."

"You've called me worse." Dean cleared his throat. "But while we're on the topic, I do have some...papers."

"Papers?" Sam asked warily.

"Someone's got to run the windows when I..." Dean shook his head. "It practically runs itself. I cleaned it up a lot from what Dad had going. It's actually something approximating a respectable business now. Hell, Linda's practically the boss of me anymore." Dean realized he'd been delivering this speech to his burger, and looked up to see Sam staring at him in astonishment. "What I'm saying is, it won't take much effort, and it'll keep Jess comfortable when...you know." He coughed. "Just didn't want it to come as a complete surprise."

"So you do think about it," Sam said slowly.

Dean scoffed as he brought the bottle to his lips again. "Of course I think about it. Sometimes it's hard to think about anything else. It's why I do what I do." He took a swallow. Sam didn't look like he was going to say anything, but not for lack of trying. Dean set the bottle down precisely in its ring of condensation on the table. "I'm not living each day like it's my last. Because it's not. That's depressing as hell. I'm living each day like it's the only one I'm gonna get."

"What's the difference?" Sam asked.

"One's the end of a long, sad story. It's also a Hallmark card, and I don't go in for Hallmark cards. But the other one?" Dean grinned, a bit feral at the edges, as he brought the sloppy mess of a burger up to his mouth again. "A reason to paint the town red."

They'd gone two blocks, wavering slightly in the manner of the comfortably drunk, not quite leaning on each other for support but close enough that a quick grab at the other's shoulder was not out of the question, if one of them needed it. It was mostly an act – with their metabolisms, alcohol wasn't intoxicating for long – but neither of them seemed inclined to admit it.

"Did you notice someone's following us?" Sam asked conversationally.

"Yup," Dean replied amiably. "Two someones. Since the alley next to the bar."

"They're about to have a bad night, aren't they?"

"They are if they try something." Dean put the chances of that at around fifty-fifty; he and Sam were rather large specimens, and even if they were visibly inebriated, they didn't make the most appealing targets.

But it would seem that tonight, chance erred on the side of mugging.

"Wallets," one of the followers barked as Dean felt the muzzle of a gun press into his back.

"Do you have any idea how much you don't want to be doing this right now?" Sam asked, making no move toward his back pocket.

"Wallets, and we'll have that ring of yours, too," was all the other man said in response.

"Normally, I'd give you five seconds to just walk away," Dean said, turning, arms crossed. "But this is my turf. And that's my brother. And if you know anything about this neighborhood –" Dean gestured dismissively at the gun – "you know that peashooter isn't going to help you much."

His assailant's eyes widened. "Shit. You're–"

"Yup."

"Shit," he repeated, lowering his gun. "Look, I–"

"Too late."

It was a wide haymaker straight to the mugger's jaw, the kind of punch anyone with any sort of sense could duck or block, but people with sense rarely set out to mug two large adult men with only one weapon on their side. The mugger went down like a bag of wheat, and next to him, Dean saw Sam roughly grab the other dumbfounded offender and turn him, hand finally reaching behind him and under his jacket, but not for his wallet.

"You're both under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon and attempted armed robbery," he began, snapping the handcuffs on. He jerked a nod at Dean's dazed mugger on the ground, and Dean knelt, pulling a zip tie from his own pocket. He rose to his feet as Sam recited the Miranda Rights with as much inflection as the Pledge of Allegiance, then pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket to call for a squad car.

"You and I should team up more often," Dean said as Sam hung up the phone.

Sam snorted. "No thanks. You tend to attract the sort of excitement I actively try to avoid."

Dean blinked. "You're a homicide detective."

"Right. I show up after everyone's already dead." Sam raised a hand in greeting at the squad car that rolled around the corner.

Dean rubbed a hand over several days' worth of stubble on his cheeks. "Point. I'm good from here. You can finish playing with our friends. And...thanks."

Dean thought he might have to explain what the thanks was for, but Sam met his eyes and nodded, once, briskly, and behind his eyes Dean could see that it had been understood.