Chapter 8: Sick and Tired

Two days before Dean wakes up in a dirty alley

Castiel has been quiet since they left the cabin.

Dean doesn't remember much. From being bitten last night to waking up this morning, it's mostly just a mix of fuzzy forest and darkness. His first truly clear memory is waking up, feeling warm and somehow safe. For a moment, he thought he was in his bed in the bunker. But this bed clearly didn't have memory foam, and his bed was never warm, not like this. He had opened his eyes to be met by a wooden ceiling. It should have unsettled him, but the feeling of safety was still surrounding him. For a moment, he had wondered where that feeling came from. But most of all, he was afraid that the feeling would disappear.

Then Castiel spoke to him. Right next to his ear, he heard the crispy words of 'Good morning, Dean'. It had sent a shiver down his spine. He wanted to just lay there, living in the dream that Castiel was right next to him. But he had to know for sure, so he had held his breath and turned his head.

And looked right at the Angel.

Castiel had really been there. He had laid right there next to Dean, looking a bit rumpled and tired, and almost impossibly soft. He seemed relieved and happy to be there, just laying in an awful bed out in nowhere. Next to Dean.

Dean sensed the hand on his chest, and how wildly his heart was beating beneath it. Castiel must have felt it, because he pulled away, leaving a cold spot on Dean's chest. The Angel explained how he had just been monitoring Dean's vitals during the night.

And then – It was too much. Whether it was because Castiel had laid all night healing Dean, spending his limited grace on him, or if it was because that that was all it was, clinical healing, he didn't know, but Dean just had to pull away.

Leaving the warmth of the old blankets, not to mention the warmth of Castiel's body alongside his own, left him cold in more than just the physical sense. He tried to hold on to it, but the last of it left when he saw Castiel's face fall.

But Castiel couldn't possibly want this… to be close to him. Castiel was probably just disappointed that he had to use his grace on Dean - again - because Dean couldn't even manage a single, little vampire.

Dean needed to diverge this conversation quickly. Luckily, his stomach was an ever-existing excuse, and he had quickly left Castiel alone in the cabin.

They had stopped for breakfast, and Castiel had ordered his own plate of pancakes, just to let Dean eat them. It was yet another gesture that Dean didn't know how to interpret. Instead, he looks for a new case on his phone and finds something promising in Texas, something about people popping up with amnesia. Just a good day's drive South of their current location. Worth looking in to. Better to keep busy than having too much time to think.

It would have been easy if Castiel were human. But he isn't. Since day one, Castiel has shown again and again that he doesn't understand human behaviour or intentions. And when it comes to feelings… He knows what they are, but does he feel them? Hell, it's not like Dean is much of a role model when it comes to feelings. Especially not… soft feelings.

And now, Castiel is quiet. Normally, they exist perfectly well in comfortable silence. But not today.

So, Dean does what Dean does best, and drowns his thoughts with blazing music.

They try to cross the country to get to their new case, but a couple of hours after breakfast, Dean isn't feeling well. He feels warm, his head is heavy, and his stomach is a bit queasy. But that could probably be attributed to the two full plates of pancakes, so Dean keeps driving, hoping that they end up at a motel with a nice hot shower with amazing water pressure.

Castiel doesn't question it, but Dean can feel his eyes on him when they pass 2 PM, and Dean has not even mentioned lunch yet.

Actually, just the thought of food…

Dean desperately guides Baby to the curb, hating how the tires rip up the dirt, covering the car in dust. He barely hears Castiel's shocked "Dean?!" when he bursts out the driver's door.

The moment his shoes touch the grass, he bends over and empties his stomach of what is left of his breakfast. He feels himself swaying when the slight fatigue that he has been feeling spreads and takes over his body. For a moment he fears that he will drop headfirst into his own vomit, but a strong hand finds its place at his chest and holds him up until he catches his breath.

"Dean. Are you alright?"

Dean tries to laugh, but it comes out as a wet cough. "Cas… Do you not see my breakfast on the ground right now?"

"Yes… I just meant..."

"I know, Cas. I know." Dean takes a deep breath. "I'm okay. Just give me a second."

Castiel stays perfectly still for what feels like minutes, hand supportive on Dean's chest. When Dean stands steady on his own feet again, Castiel leaves his side, only to bring a bottle of water a second later. Dean takes is gratefully and cleans his mouth before taking a small sip to settle his burning stomach.

Dean leans back against the car, and Castiel settles next to him, standing just a bit too close, like he is supposed to. Castiel looks at him, brows furrowed in concern. "I think you have a fever."

"Yeah, me too."

"I can heal-"

But before Castiel can raise his hand, Dean lifts a hand to stop him. "No. You've already wasted enough grace." On me. But he doesn't say that. He doesn't have to, judging by the look that Castiel sends him.

A truck rushes by, sending a cloud of dust over them. Castiel shakes his trench coat. "Maybe we should get you to a motel to rest."

Dean wants to argue, but instead he starts coughing. When did his throat start hurting so bad? He is tired and the sip of water he just drank is debating whether or not it wants to stay in his stomach after having been shaken by the coughing fit.

He pushes off the car and slowly walks to the driver's side. "Yeah, okay. There should be one about five miles down the road."

"Are you sure you should be driving?"

Castiel's question stops him dead in his tracks. No way Castiel just suggested… Dean tries to imagine it, but there's just no way in hell. "Cas. I trust you with my life. But you are not driving my car."

They get in the car – in their rightful seats – and Dean starts the engine. He expects Castiel to whine about 'why can't I drive the car', like Sam did when Dean started driving all those years ago but wouldn't let his little brother try. But instead, Castiel surprises him by saying; "Your knowledge of motel placement is quite remarkable."

Dean laughs, a bit roughly. "What can I say? With a long life on the road, you need to know where to get food and shelter."

When they pull into the shabby motel, Castiel quickly volunteers to go book a room, giving Dean plenty of time to carefully step out of his seat and gather his duffel bag. He shivers a little, feeling cold even though he is standing in the sun. It's the fever. Whatever he caught in that damn cabin, it's really getting to his head, making it warm and heavy. He leans against the back of the car when Castiel comes back out, proudly presenting the key to room number 9.

They barely make it inside before Dean has his head down the toilet. There's nothing left to give, so he is mostly dry heaving, making his stomach cramp painfully.

When he finally steps out, Castiel is right there, with a bottle of water and two small pills. "It's paracetamol. For the fever."

Dean takes it gratefully before carefully laying down on the bed. "What was in that cabin? Or maybe it was the pancakes? No, wait. There's no way pancakes could be evil."

Cas smiles weakly while closely studying Dean's every movement, ready to step in if necessary. "I don't think you need to fear the pancakes. Your body was strained, and your immune system compromised while in the cabin. It wouldn't take much to infect you. And even though I healed you as best as I could, it wasn't-"

"Cas, stop. This wasn't your fault. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead now, okay? Just let me rest for a little, and then we can get back on the road."

Castiel doesn't answer, but just looks out the window, as if to give Dean some privacy.

Dean buries himself in the comforter. God, he misses his memory foam. But right now, all that matters is that he finally stops shivering. And as soon as his body relaxes, the fatigue catches up with him.

-.-.-.-

It's dark. The air is burning and bleeding, filled with coal and metal. It's hard to breath. But breathing is the least of his problems.

The knife digs into his stomach. He wants to scream but his throat is too dry, too broken from all the screams he has already allowed to escape from his lips. At first, he tried to hold them back. But soon, screaming became his only outlet for the repeating dismemberment he experienced day after day after day. Screaming was all that allowed him to say 'screw you', every time he was offered a way out, every night before they would put him back together and start all over.

You would think that he would get used to it. They cut him the same places, carved out the same pieces. But every day it hurts even more.

And he can no longer scream.

So, he gives in. The hooks release his meat, the chains pull back. He drops to the floor, and they drop a knife right in front of him.

For a second, he contemplates taking the knife and attacking his butcher. But he hears the chains rattle behind him as if they sense his intentions. So, he picks up the knife, but keeps it lowered. And in that minute, when he fully surrenders, the room turns, and suddenly he is standing in front of another rack. It looks so much like his own, but he is not tied down to it. Someone else is.

And it feels good.

He knows it is wrong. He knows that it is not whoever-is-on-this-rack's fault that he has been through Hell – literally. But it is so much better standing on this side of the rack.

So, he hates it, and he loves it, when he makes the first cut.

"Dean."

He is being too gentle. They are not happy with him. So, he tries harder, cuts deeper. And the soul screams. And all he can think is 'Good. Let it out.'

"Dean!"

He wakes with a jolt. It is too bright. He closes his eyes from the strong light.

He hears the soft click of a switch, and the light disappears again.

"Dean, are you awake?" It's Castiel. He sounds worried.

"Yeah…" Dean clears his throat. It's raw and barely makes a sound. "Yeah, I'm up."

"You were dreaming. You seemed… uncomfortable."

Dean registers how sweaty he is. Pretty much soaked through his clothes. It was just a nightmare. Another one. "Yeah, sorry. I'm good."

A cold hand finds its place on his forehead. "No, you're not. You have a high fever."

"Just have too many clothes on." Dean counters while he pulls at his flannel.

Castiel sits back for a second, before carefully helping Dean out of the confining shirt. Dean continues to remove his jeans, but when it comes to coordinating his legs, Castiel once again interferes and pulls the heavy fabric off of his legs. Dean can't believe he forgot to take them off, but he must have been too tired to care.

Dean slumps back against the bed and pulls the comforter around him. "There. Much better."

Castiel carefully shakes Dean's shoulder, forcing him to open his eyes. Dean is met by the sight of two more pills and the barely-touched bottle of water. "You should take more paracetamol."

Dean takes the pills, and when he sips the water, he empties the bottle. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was.

"Do you want more water?" Castiel asks when he pulls the bottle back.

"No, better not. This was probably too much for my stomach already." Dean lays back again, placing a hand over his eyes and just focuses on breathing. God, he feels awful.

Castiel doesn't move from his bedside, and Dean senses that he is fidgeting. He waits for Castiel to speak, but when the Angel shifts his weight for the fifth time, Dean throws down the hand he used to cover his eyes. "Cas. Just spit it out."

"I'm sorry. I, just… don't know what to do. Would you mind if I, uhm, check your fever again?"

"Cas, it's only been two seconds."

"78 seconds. But…" Castiel looks away. He seems frustrated with himself, and instead of continuing, he makes a move to get up from the bed.

Dean shoots out an arm and stops him. "Cas, you can check my fever if you want to."

Castiel sits back down before carefully moving a hand towards Dean's head. It feels wonderfully cold on his forehead. For a couple of long breaths, Dean just enjoy the feeling of it. He looks up at Castiel, seeing him looking deep in thought, as if analysing whatever data he is pulling from feeling Dean's forehead. "What's on your mind, Cas?"

Castiel looks down on his hand and then down to Dean, a small smile playing on his face. "Your fever is benefitting from your fewer clothes and rehydration."

"You can tell that already?"

"Well, I am an Angel." Castiel smiles and Dean huffs a single painful laugh. "You should be able to sleep more peacefully now."

Dean's smile immediately disappears. "You noticed, huh?"

"Like I said, you seemed uncomfortable… Do you wish to talk about it?"

Normally, Dean would just say no. But Castiel is right there, a cool hand on his forehead, and in the dim light of the motel room, he almost just looks like a shadow. It could almost be a dream. "Hell."

Castiel nods. "Yes. That would be… uncomfortable."

"That's putting it lightly." Dean whispers. Normally he doesn't like too much eye contact, especially not when talking about personal stuff, so he blames it on the fever when he continues. "I… enjoyed it, Cas… Hurting people. I-I- hurt them in ways… Cas, how can I ever make up for that? How-how can I even…"

"Dean, please calm down." Castiel's hand has moved from Dean's forehead to his cheek, rubbing comforting. "No one makes it through Hell without changing."

"My dad did."

"Oh, your father changed too. And he would have broken too. I know you think that he wouldn't, that he was stronger than you because he endured longer. The only difference between you and your father… is that you are too harsh on yourself. You started believing that you deserved Hell. That you would have ended up in the pit anyway. Despite all the good you have done, you focused on all the bad, persuading yourself that you belonged in Hell and might as well give yourself over to it."

"But I liked it… I was no better than them." Dean growls. "I deserved-"

"I assume you are familiar with Stockholm syndrome?" Castiel cuts him off. "A very human coping mechanism. Even in Hell."

"Cas, that's not-"

"Dean, please. You are still doing it, right now. You are sick, but you won't let me heal you because you believe you deserve the agony." Castiel is pleading.

"No, Cas, that's not…"

"Then what, Dean?" Castiel sounds demanding.

Dean swallows and looks away. "You've already spent all your grace on me last night. I can fight off a flu or whatever this is."

"Because you think you deserve the pain." Castiel pulls his nice, cool hand away in frustration.

"No." Dean instinctively grabs Castiel's hand. "No, Cas. Because I don't want you hurting or being weak because of me!"

Dean ends his outburst with a harsh coughing. Castiel instantly softens, and he tries padding Dean's back, but it is much too gentle to do any good. For a moment, Dean fears that his stomach will try to empty itself again, but apparently it has calmed down enough to let him keep a bit of dignity.

When he falls back down on the bed, he wheezes; "Can we talk about this later?"

"Will you allow us to continue talking later?" Castiel asks knowingly.

"No."

Castiel gives a throaty laugh.

Dean yawns with a smile. He feels better. The pills have done their thing and he feels colder and calmer. "Think I'm gonna try catching some z's now."

"Yes, you should." Castiel nods.

Dean closes his eyes, letting the quiet take over. His breathing still wheezes. But cars are passing by, creating some background white noise so he can tune it out.

Except, Castiel is still sitting right next to him. He can feel the dip in the bed, tipping Dean just a little bit to the side instead of laying straight on the mattress. Dean forces an eye open. Yup, Castiel is right there, looking back and forth between Dean and the ceiling, fumbling with his hands. Dean sighs; "Cas. What are you doing?"

Castiel looks down on his hands. "I feel better when I can monitor your condition. But I can pull over a chair if you prefer."

Damn, Castiel is really worried about him. Then again, this is the first time that Castiel has actually seen him down for the count by something non-supernatural. Hell, Dean has been shot and beaten half to death, and has still been standing. Right now, just the thought of sitting up makes Dean want to beg for his life.

So, maybe… Just this once, he can allow himself a bit of comfort, especially if it gives Castiel some comfort too. Dean scoots over on the bed the best he can. "Cas, lay down."

Castiel's eyes are huge like saucers as he watches Dean make room for him. But luckily, he doesn't say anything. He just follows Dean's lead and lays down next to him. Just like this morning, he is laying oh so close, but not touching.

Dean grabs Castiel's hand and puts it on his chest. He hopes that Castiel can't see him blush in the darkness. "Here. So you can 'keep an eye on my vitals'"

Dean closes his eyes. The bed is still dipping towards Castiel, but it's not so bad. He feels Castiel relax into the mattress as well, the hand on his chest relaxing.

Dean doesn't remember any other dreams from that night. He wakes up just as he fell asleep, except he already feels better. His head feels clearer, his stomach is actually hungry. The hand is still on his chest, the thumb carefully rubbing the skin right over his heart.

"Good morning, Dean." Oh God, he could get used to that.

"'Morning, Cas." Dean peaks at the Angel next to him. It must be early morning, judging by how lit the room is.

Castiel smiles so softly at him. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good." Actually… he is feeling a lot better than he should, considering he had a pretty high fever just last night… Damnit, that sneaky Angel. "Cas… did you heal me?"

Castiel doesn't even look ashamed. "Maybe just a little."

Dean is feeling too good to be mad about it. "Damnit, Cas... Thanks."

"You're welcome."

They just lay there, looking at each other. Dean on his back, and Castiel on his side just next to him. Hand on chest. Castiel looks him straight in the eye, his expression soft. He stares, except for one second where Castiel's eyes drop to Dean's lips, but quickly moves back up to his eyes. Dean's heart starts beating too fast again. He really needs to get himself back under control.

"Well…" Dean again scoots out from the comfort of the bed and into the colder air of the room. "Since you fixed me up during the night, how about I grab a shower and then we go find some breakfast, huh?"

This time, Castiel keeps smiling that soft smile. "Are you sure that you are ready to eat again?"

"Well, you said pancakes were safe, so…"

Castiel chuckles in response.

Dean smiles but tries to ignore how good that sound makes him feel. After all, this is it. He let his guards down for two nights, but not any longer. He will get a shower, and when he steps out that bathroom door, they will go back to normal, and they will go to Texas and work the case, like always.

Yes, that's the plan.