In terms of staff, Mondays are definitely better. Ruby's working, which sucks balls, but she's a little more manageable on her own. Becky, Jody and Ash are around too, and Dean has no problems with any of them. It still doesn't mean he wants to venture out of his room, but it does mean he's a little less bitter when forced to do so.
Dean doesn't sleep well on Sunday night- more nightmares. He spends three to six A.M staring blankly at the wall because whenever he closes his eyes, he smells burning flesh and sees his father's glassy, unseeing eyes. Whenever he thinks of Sam he sees the same, because apparently his subconscious is getting creative.
Becky tries to get Dean up at nine, and he doesn't even bother telling her to go away. Jody comes in at ten, Ash at eleven, and Ruby at twelve with a pre-emptive air of 'at least I tried'. She reappears an hour later and stands in the doorway, her arms folded.
"Listen, I don't really give a damn what you do- as far as I'm concerned, you can stay in here all day. All the same, I figured I'd remind you that that one volunteer with the magic trick of making you actually engage with humankind is coming by in an hour."
Dean throws his clock at her head. She watches it thud against the door.
"Nice," she comments and leaves. Dean scowls and pulls the duvet tighter around himself. What the hell is everybody's problem? You talk to a guy twice and suddenly the entire goddamn country wants to know when you're next seeing him. There are dozens of volunteers here, but nobody gets like this when Garth or Lisa shows up. Dean's met Castiel three times, doesn't even know his last name. There's absolutely no reason that the guy should mean anything to Dean.
… so why does he?
There are some people, Dean's found, that hook you the second you meet them. Just like there are people you see every day at work or school and never have any real desire to talk to or get to know, there are people that you meet once and know, instantly, that you're going to meet again- that you want to meet again. Castiel, for some unknown reason, is firmly in that category.
Maybe Dean's finally going crazy. Stir-crazy, isolation-crazy, whatever. Maybe he's spent too much time staring at these walls, and now he's jumping on the first vaguely interesting thing to wander by with a trenchcoat and set of pens. It's pathetic, but fuck it- so is Dean.
When Ruby next sticks her head around Dean's door and sees that he's up and dressed, she gets a soft smile on her face and leaves without saying anything. That makes Dean want to get straight back into bed, and he's still seriously considering it as he drags his own grumbling ass to the lounge. When Castiel looks up and smiles, for a moment, Dean forgets to be angry at the world.
Adam and Ava are watching television, with Layla and Jo sat at the table. "Ew," Jo says when Dean approaches. "It's you."
"Love you too," he tells her. "Hey, Layla. Hey, Cas."
"Hello," Castiel says. Layla mumbles something that could potentially be 'hi'.
"You come to join us?" Jo asks.
"More to watch and just generally mock," Dean says. "What terrible thing are you doing today?"
"I don't know," Castiel says. "What would you like to do?"
"Sadly, nothing legal or achievable," Jo sighs. Dean kinda likes this girl.
"Becky said to check the cabinet," Castiel says, and he opens the doors of a huge cupboard that houses enough craft stuff and board games to supply a good twenty primary schools. He pulls out pens and paper, a few games that Dean's never played and has no intention of trying out, and, finally, a pack of cards. He turns them over in his hands thoughtfully.
"You know how to play poker?" Dean asks.
"No, I don't."
"I do," Jo says. Layla mutters her agreement. Across the room, Jody looks up from her newspaper.
"There's no way I'm letting you four play poker without me."
"Learn," Dean tells Cas.
Castiel hands the cards over to Jody to shuffle and deal. Dean and Jo explain as they play, occasionally squabbling over this rule or that. Jody settles any disputes by use of her 'mom voice' and Castiel seems to absorb everything they tell him without a problem. He plays for Layla, holding the cards out for her and asking her careful questions.
"That one?" Castiel asks, tapping a card.
"Nuh-uh," Layla slurs.
Castiel moves his finger across. "That?"
"Uh-huh," she grunts, and he pulls the card out and sets it face down. They're using a pot of buttons as poker chips, as Jody put a quick end to the real-money betting Jo was trying to introduce. Dean keeps his cards face-down on the table to side-step the various perils involved in holding things. Jo's right hand is much better than her left, Dean soon discovers, and she uses her teeth more than her fingers to pull out cards.
"Oh, that's just nasty," he says the first time she does it. She drops the card onto the table, turns them over and exposes a perfect winning hand.
"Yeah, but that, my friend, is oh-so sweet." He looks over the cards, his mouth opening a little in shock.
"You cheated," he accuses.
"Did not."
"Oh, come on!"
"Dean," Jody says warningly, and Dean gives in.
"Cheat," he grumbles, but he pushes the substitute chips over all the same.
"Suck it, Winchester," Jo grins, accepting them.
Time has never been Dean's friend. It likes to drag, turning minutes into hours and hours into days. Today, though, it's like kicking a dwindling caravan into warp speed; what Dean thinks is thirty minutes turns out to be nearly two hours. The only reason he realises at all is that Layla starts to grow uncomfortable- sitting up for too long is painful for her, and she needs to rest.
"You wanna go back to your room?" Jody asks, and she makes a confirmatory noise. "One minute, guys," Jody tells them, and they all say goodbye to Layla before Jody wheels her back.
"You did pretty well for a first timer," he comments to Castiel while they're gone.
"I did nothing," Castiel says. "It was Layla who won."
"Oh, sure," Dean says.
"It's true," Castiel insists. "I'm not good with this kind of thing."
"Then what are you good at?" Dean asks. "Don't give me that look, I wasn't trying to be a bitch about it. Craft and cards clearly isn't your deal, so what is?"
Castiel considers this. "I enjoy reading," he says. "I like music, theatre, learning- particularly languages."
"You speak others?"
"I'm fluent in Italian and Spanish, and nearly fluent in French. I've been learning Mandarin for a few years, and I just started lessons in American sign language," Castiel replies. Dean stares.
"Dude."
"What?"
"I spent my two years of French class trying to look up Cady Fillerman's skirt. All I remember is 'bonjour'. Hey, say something in Italian."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know, anything."
Castiel thinks. "Che cosa hai fatto ultimamente?" he says, with an accent which sounds pretty much spot on. Even Jo seems impressed.
"What does that mean?" she asks.
"What have you been doing lately?" he translates.
"Huh," Dean says. "Sounds more impressive in Italian."
Jody returns, Layla settled in her room. "Are you guys still playing?"
"You bet," Jo says.
"Awesome." Jody sits back down. "Castiel, who are you playing with?"
"Not me," Jo says quickly.
"No way," Dean agrees- poker is his game, and he's determined to make everybody at this table pay. "Make him go solo, Jody. I wanna see him in action."
"I'll be terrible," Castiel protests.
"That's kind of the point. C'mon, let's do this."
Castiel is either better than he thinks or a filthy, filthy liar, because he hammers every single one of them. He looks astonished each time they reluctantly flick the makeshift poker chips his way, like he's not sure what he's done to earn them.
"I think it's his poker face," Jo muses once they all lose for the hundredth time. "He just doesn't flinch."
"Guy looks like his blood is botox," Dean agrees.
"I can hear you, you know," Castiel says, but he doesn't sound annoyed. "It's most likely luck."
"Then next time we play, I'm cheating," Dean mutters.
"Wait, we weren't already?" Jo says, her face the picture of innocence.
"I knew it!"
The next time Castiel visits, Dean doesn't even bother getting out of bed. It's one of those days- when his body feels heavy and hard to move, when pain shoots through his hands with every movement, when he stares at the magnetic shower rails and his electric razor and at the carefully filed down once-sharp edges in his room, and all he can think is that none of this is fair.
Various carers stick their head around the door as the day goes on, but Dean takes no notice. He's trapped somewhere deep inside himself, with a deep pull of self-loathing in his gut that won't let him stay in the present moment long enough to care about what they're telling him. Castiel doesn't show, and Dean's glad. He doesn't want to been seen like this.
The feeling doesn't fade. It's not uncommon. Sometime the darkness descends for days at a time, a sticky black cloud that seeps into his bloodstream and breaches his core. Usually Dean just stays in bed and waits it out, only getting up to choke down food when Ellen or Jody threaten him with the NG tube- but soon it's the 1st of May, and the day of Sam's visit.
"Sam's gonna be here in an hour," Ellen says, standing in the doorway with her arms folded, "and you know he'll worry if he sees you like this."
"Then phone and tell him not to come," Dean tells his pillow.
"Oh, and what reason am I supposed to give?"
"I'm busy."
"Doing what? Being miserable doesn't count as a hobby."
"Then tell him I'm sick. Real sick. Hell, I can't even move my legs."
"You're hilarious. C'mon, get dressed, or I'll send Ash in to do it for you."
"Fine." Ash is easy to distract. If Dean can start him on about heavy metal or quantum mechanics, Ash pretty quickly forgets what else he's supposed to be doing. Ellen narrows her eyes at Dean.
"You know what? I think Ash is busy. Guess I'll have to send Lilith."
"You wouldn't dare."
"You wanna bet?" she says, raising an eyebrow. The resulting stare-off lasts a full ten seconds.
"Fine," Dean eventually grunts, grabbing at the bar by his bed to pull himself up. "I'll get dressed."
"Good man," Ellen nods. "Did you want something to eat?"
"No."
"Sure?"
Dean pushes his curled, clawed hands back under the duvet, like if no one can see them then then they're not there at all. "Yes."
She shrugs. "Suit yourself. Let me know if you change your mind." Dean doesn't say goodbye; he just looks pointedly at the door until she leaves.
Contrary to popular belief, Dean does actually know when he's being a dick: he just doesn't care. He already gets something of a pass from most people, who are all too scared to call the cripple an asshole. If people do end up deciding he isn't worth talking to, then good- it's the best way to get them to leave him the hell alone. If the staff think he's ungrateful or that he's a bad person, then well, he already dislikes himself more than they ever could. The only problem is Sam, because no matter how hard Dean tries to tell him not to, his brother keeps on coming back.
Dean gets dressed, because Sam's going to worry no matter what, and there's no point in giving him extra ammo to stock his 'Dean-You-Can't-Keep-Doing-This' artillery. When Sam turns up, his beam not quite masking the anxiety that's made a home in his eyes, Dean tells himself to just be nice.
It doesn't last all that long.
"Ellen says you've been spending more time with the others," Sam says enthusiastically, like Dean's an awkward toddler who keeps biting the other kids at preschool.
"I guess," Dean tells the floor. If Sam's expecting any more, he doesn't get it.
"There's a new resident, right? Joe or something?"
"Yeah, Jo."
"What's he like?"
"She."
"A girl, huh? What's she like?" Sam grins. Dean doesn't return the smile.
"She's a kid, Sam."
"Oh, sure," Sam says. "And Ellen says there's a new volunteer or something?"
For fuck's sake. "I don't know, I guess so."
Sam's doing that thing where he tries to ignore how annoying Dean's being, because he wants to be understanding and sympathetic, wants to give Dean time and space. Dean can almost imagine him mentally repeating the advice of those bullshit 'Coping For Carers' books that he knows Sam devours by the truckload.
Dean makes the mistake of moving his hand, grabbing Sam's attention. His fingers are twisted and contorted, the nails digging into his palm.
"Dean, you're-" Sam says, standing.
"It's fine," Dean says, pushing it under the loose material of his sweatshirt.
"Are you bleeding?" Sam says, moving closer.
"Leave it," Dean growls.
Sam makes a strangled noise of frustration in his throat; apparently, that was the last straw. "You are… so frustrating," he says tightly.
Dean twists his mouth and nods his head: fair enough.
"What is it, Dean?" Sam says, sounding lost. "Why won't you let any of us help you?"
Dean looks at the clock. "Maybe you should-"
"Don't bother," Sam says, folding his arms. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Fine. Suit yourself." Dean can put up with Sam's presence for a little while longer. Maybe he should talk to Ellen about getting the wall tiled; it'd give him something to count.
Today, though, Sam has no intentions of going quietly or giving up easily. "I just wish you'd talk to me," he says, trying to catch Dean's eye. Dean has no intention of letting him. "I miss hanging out with you, Dean. I miss my brother."
"Your brother died in that crash," Dean says. The words slip out without his permission, without emotion, an automatic response that he believes like he believes the sky is blue.
"Don't you say that," Sam says, somewhere between a warning and a plea. "Don't you dare, Dean. I lost Dad in that crash, but I haven't lost you. I won't."
"You sure about that?" Dean's voice cracks. "Because in case you hadn't noticed, Sam, I can't get up. I can't move my legs, I can barely move my arms, I live in a fucking care home-"
"So move back in with me and Jess," Sam says straightaway, focusing his tunnel vision on the one part of the sentence Dean knew he would. Dean groans.
"Dammit, Sam, that's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean, Dean?"
"You know. Don't act like you don't, because you know. We both know. I'm useless, Sam. I'm nothing. The sooner you give up on me, the better."
There's a pause. When Dean looks at Sam, he can see him trying to rationalise Dean's words, trying to work his way through them- or, rather, work his way around them. Sam wants to pretend that none of this happening, to make it all go away, to find an explanation or excuse and tell himself that the old Dean is still in there somewhere.
Dean hated the person he was five years ago. He doesn't know whether he finds it funny or revolting how badly they both wish that man was back.
"You're tired," Sam decides. "You're tired, and you're having a bad day. That's all."
"Right, because you'd know," Dean snorts.
"No, I wouldn't, because you won't tell me- but I do know that I'm not giving up on you. I care about you too much to even consider it. When you- after what happened- dammit, Dean, don't you know what it did to me?" Sam says, any attempts at calm lost; crumbling rock can only withstand the thrashing of the tide for so long. "Walking in and finding you like that? There was blood everywhere, Dean, there was so much fucking blood. Every night, every night when I try to sleep, I remember walking in and seeing you just sitting in the middle of it all, just…" Sam's voice trails off.
"You know what, Sam?" Dean says softly. "If you cared half as much as you say you do, you would have just walked out again. You'd have just walked out, and you'd have shut the door behind you."
Sam leaves. He doesn't seem to have anything left to say.
Things were bad; they have not gotten better.
It's Friday, and Dean hasn't left his room since Sam's visit. Ellen and Pamela and Becky and Jody and even fucking Ash have all tried to find out why, and none of them have gotten anything out of Dean other than a growl of "bite me".
It's three o'clock and Dean's sitting in his room, staring blankly at the television. It's tuned to some show he's not watching, the characters talking while they jog on treadmills. The tight bundle of loathing that has a permanent home behind Dean's ribs starts to pulse angrily. He has to turn away from the screen- too sick with jealousy, too bitter with hate.
As he turns, he catches sight of himself in the mirror, the one that's been hung too low for most people, mounted at just the right height for someone who can't even stand up and look at themself anymore. The more Dean looks, the more he sees his own hate reflected back at him, and the mess inside him grows barbs and drags them across his chest until he's drawing his fist back, because he needs to do something- he can't just sit here, can't behere, cannot be this-
It takes eight clumsy hits of his useless hands for the mirror to break properly, Dean just keeps on hitting and hitting, even when Jody is closing firm hands around his wrists and Becky is pulling his chair back. He manages to yank his right fist free and smash at the frame again, tiny slivers of glass forcing their way into his skin. He barely even feels the pain and it's not enough, it's never enough. He tries to lash out again, but this time it's Ash who grabs hold of him, and he's that much stronger. Dean struggles against the grip, choking out wordless sobs of anger, of loss, of frustration as Jody runs her fingers through his hair, softly murmuring "it's okay, Dean, it's okay" until Dean has nothing left inside.
Bobby bandages his hands. Whenever his work allows it, he glances up at Dean's face, but Dean won't look at him.
"Lemme see the arms," Bobby says, sitting back.
"I didn't do anything to my arms," Dean says heavily. The hurricane that's spent eighteen months brewing inside of him has blown itself out, leaving nothing but still and dead air.
"I'm sorry, did I ask? Come on, off." Dean sighs and tugs his sweatshirt off. He lets it drop to the floor and holds out his arms in front of him, palms up.
When Dean worked for the FBI, his dad by his side, they never handled the run-of-the-mill stuff. They shared the kind of life that Dean hadn't thought existed outside of TV shows, and they'd been damn good at it- the best, actually. The Winchesters were known for dealing with the weird cases, the dangerous cases, and as a result Dean's certainly no stranger to scars. These ones are different, though.
They've faded a good amount in fourteen months, but they're still noticeable. They're long and raised, twin paths down both arms. Some days, when Dean's hands are even worse than usual, he wonders if he hit a nerve or something and made a bad problem worse. Nobody's quite sure, because he refuses to let them check.
Bobby makes Dean turn his arms over and bend them this way and that, until he's satisfied that there's nothing new.
"So?" Bobby says, sitting back in the chair. Dean takes this as a cue to pull his sweatshirt back on. It's generally pretty warm in the home, but he doesn't do t-shirts anymore.
"What?" Dean says when Bobby doesn't add anything else.
"You wanna tell me why you went all Martin Sheen on that mirror?"
"Bad day," Dean says gruffly. "Over it now."
"Oh, really?" Dean doesn't answer. "So if I told you you were goin' out with the others this afternoon, you'd be just peachy with it?"
"What do you want, Bobby?" Dean says tiredly.
"I want you to be okay," Bobby says, voice unexpectedly tender. "And failing that, I'd like you to be honest."
"Good, because I don't think I can do both."
Bobby looks at him and this time Dean looks straight back, daring him to say something. After a few seconds, Bobby drops his eyes and shakes his head.
"Go on. Go."
And so, patched up, Dean leaves. His nurse health checks are increased from hourly to quarter-hourly. He doesn't leave his room.
"Dean?"
Dean closes his eyes and pretends not to hear.
"Dean?" the voice comes again.
"Go away, Cas," Dean says. He has his back to the door, lying staring at the wall. Silence stretches- Dean counts ten seconds, thirty, sixty. "You're still there, aren't you?"
"Yes."
Dean groans. He grips the bar on his wall and painstakingly hauls himself up and turns himself over. It's an awkward process, but Castiel just leans against the doorframe and lets his eyes flicker around Dean's room. It's not the cleanest it's ever been, but Dean can't find it in him to care. Dean manages to arrange himself so that he's sitting up against the wall, useless legs still hidden under the duvet.
"No offence, but I'm not exactly open for guests right now," Dean says, shooting for humour and landing somewhere in cynicism.
"I'm fairly low maintenance." Castiel gestures at the open door. "Can I?"
Dean shrugs. "If you want." Cas shuts the door behind him and walks forward, picking his way around the piles of clothes and books heaped on the floor. The curtains are open and the lights are on- Becky's work, not Dean's. Cas drags the chair by the window across the room, sitting down a few feet away from Dean's bed. He says nothing for a long time, just looking at Dean like he's trying to figure out some complex puzzle.
"What?" Dean says wearily. He doesn't like people looking at him.
"You look tired."
"Funny. I've been sleeping about fourteen hours a day."
"There's more than one reason for a person to be tired," Cas says, the kind of ambiguously deep bullshit that's always made Dean want to puke.
"Don't you have people to be seeing?" he says. "Friendship bracelets to be making?"
"Becky and Ruby have taken Jo and Lenore shopping, and there's nobody else in the lounge. Besides, I wanted to see you."
Yeah, Dean is really not in the mood for this shit right now. He stays quiet, his mouth pulling into a hard, tight line.
"I would have come to see you last week," Castiel continues, "but Jody said it would be a very bad idea."
"What, and this week she said 'come on in?'" Dean snorts.
"No. In fact, she told me you were even worse than last week."
"Then why did you come?"
"Because she told me you were even worse than last week," Cas says, looking him straight in the eye. There aren't many people Dean will make eye contact with these days, but there's something about Cas that makes Dean automatically want to look at him when he talks. Most people don't know what to do with Dean, babbling to fill the silence he leaves- Cas just sits with it, lengthens it, and Dean feels like he needs the eye contact to give the few words Cas delivers their full meaning.
That doesn't mean Dean's about to give anything back, though.
"Listen, if you think I'm going to spew my heart out to you, then sorry, pal, but I'm gonna have to let you down," Dean says. "Whatever crap Jody's been feeding you, you can forget it. I'm fine."
"Clearly," Cas says, raising an eyebrow.
"You know what? Screw you," Dean says. He's angry, though he isn't sure who at- disgusted, too, but the target of that is much clearer. "You don't know the first damn thing about me."
"Then tell me."
"What?"
"You heard what I asked. Tell me something about you."
Dean glares, but Cas just stares back. "Yeah, I don't really do that."
"I'm counting that as a fact about yourself."
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because- quit it," he snaps, because Cas' mouth has twitched up into a slight smirk, and Dean has the feeling anything he says will only make things worse. "How come I'm supposed to roll out my life story and you get to remain the international man of mystery?"
"I'm hardly secretive," Cas dismisses.
"That so?" Dean says. "In that case, I guess you won't mind me asking about your family."
It's a low blow, and it hits Cas hard. He stiffens, something unreadable passing over his face, before slowly, very carefully, saying "no, I suppose I won't."
"Good," Dean says warily. "In that case, let's talk brothers and sisters. How many?"
"Like I said, I come from a big family. I have an older brother, two younger half-brothers, and a younger half-sister."
"Which half?"
"No skipping my turn," Cas says, with an air of authority that makes Dean raise an eyebrow. "You've just got Sam? No other brothers or sisters?"
"Yeah, just him. Which half?"
"Same father, different mother. Why don't you like Sam visiting?" Cas says with no pre-amble or emotion, like he hasn't just picked Dean up and hurled him into the proverbial deep end.
"It's not easy to explain," he says.
"Try." Dean's a breath away from telling Cas to go fuck himself, but when he looks up Cas doesn't look spiteful or on the verge of dousing him in saccharine reassurances. He simply looks like somebody who wants to try and understand. "Please," Cas adds, softly.
And so, just for once- just for the hell of it- Dean tries.
"I did everything for that kid," he says, staring down at where his hands are folded in his lap. "I had it drilled it into me from day one that I was put on this Earth to look after Sammy, that everything else came second. And I was happy with that, y'know? That felt right to me. This…" Dean gestures over at the wheelchair, lurking by his bed like a wolf that knows Dean can't stay up the tree forever. "This doesn't."
Ever since Sam was pushed into Dean's arms, while their house burned down around them and their mother drew her last breath, he's been Dean's responsibility. It was Dean who cooked his meals, Dean who taught him how to read and count and shoot, Dean who took care of them both. And then, after twenty-two years of having Sam depend on him for everything, came the crash. These days, Dean can't drive a car or tie his own laces or even get up a curb without help. Sam's desperate to help, more than willing to step into the carer role, and that just makes it a thousand times worse.
"You said you were ashamed," Cas says softly.
"That's not a question."
"It's not my turn to ask."
"Go on, then."
Dean has a hunch, and he acts on it. "You listed a lot of people just then, but I'm thinking you left someone off. Was there ever anyone else?"
Cas is quiet for so long that Dean thinks he's not going to answer, but eventually he takes a breath and speaks. "Her name was Anna."
There's not much Dean can say to that. He holds Cas' gaze and tilts his head in acknowledgement, trying not to let his own sorrow show. When that truck hit Dean's car, he lost his father, lost his legs, lost his independence- but Sam was wearing a seatbelt, and Dean wouldn't change that for all the miracles in the world.
"Why are you so ashamed of your body?" Cas asks. Dean snorts.
"Can you not? You make it sound like it's bikini season and I'm in a Muumuu."
"You know what I mean."
"C'mon, Cas," he says, half-laughing, but Cas doesn't stir. Dean's face darkens. "Are you really gonna make me say it?" he demands.
"Say what?"
"I'm a cripple," Dean supplies. "A spastic. People look at me and they see forty pounds of metal with a burned-out shell sitting on top. They either stare or they just plain won't look, and either way, they pity me."
"I don't pity you," Cas states, with absolutely no doubt in his tone. "I see nothing to pity."
Dean honestly has no idea whether to be offended or pleased. "Uh, you sure? Because I sure as hell don't want pity- but, you know, walking would be pretty nice."
"Yes," Cas agrees, "and it's not fair that you're paralysed. But Dean, is that really all you think matters? Do you really only define yourself by what you don't have?"
"What else is there?" Cas looks incredulous.
"Try something," he says. "Think of Sam."
"I don't-"
"Try. Imagine your brother. Now, imagine that in that accident, it was him that ended up in a wheelchair. Would he still be Sam?"
"Obviously, but that's not-"
"Then what is?"
Dean hasn't got an answer. "You come on kind of strong, you know that?" he says instead. "I still don't even get why you're here. Why did you come and find me?"
"Because I like you," Cas says simply, knocking the wind out of Dean's lungs.
"Why?" he says after a beat, an honest question.
"Why not?"
"You want the reasons alphabetically or by general category?"
Cas shakes his head, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Dean Winchester, you are a cynical man."
"Don't I know it."
Dean's not sure that he starts to feel better, but he does feel more able to cope. Maybe it's talking to Cas, or maybe it's just the passage of time, but the raw emptiness in his chest- whilst still there- is getting a little easier to ignore. Dean still stays in his room, but at least he's out of bed, and the carers seem relieved. Nobody says anything about it, though, and Dean's relatively sure that Ellen issued an 'on-pain-of-death' order to bring that about.
The next Monday, a bunch of residents are in the lounge doing something or other, but Dean's sure as hell not planning on coming out to join them. That's a step forward that he doesn't even want to take.
It's an unusually hot day, to the point where Dean's actually shed his usually ever-present sweatshirt. He sits in his chair listening to music, with his eyes shut and his hands behind his head. The music is so loud that its turning his bones into speakers, bass reverberating from deep within him. As relaxing as it is, it means that he doesn't hear the knock or see the handle turn. He feels the rush of air, though, and he opens his eyes as Cas opens the door.
Cas' eyes are pulled to the heavy scars on Dean's arms, and whilst he switches his gaze back to Dean's face almost instantly, Dean's already pulling off his headphones and grabbing his sweatshirt.
"Dean," Cas tries, but Dean ignores him. "Dean, it's eighty-five degrees outside."
Dean pulls it on anyway, resolutely refusing to look at Cas until his arms are covered. Only once he's safely swaddled in fabric does he nod in acknowledgement. "Hey."
Cas shakes his head slowly, with a look in his eyes that's grudgingly affectionate. "Only you."
"What?"
"Only you would put self-consciousness that far ahead of comfort."
"You know, 'hello' would've done," Dean says. It sounds like he wants it to- relaxed, joking- but inside he's tensed, on edge. There's a damn good reason he never takes his jacket off. He waits for Cas to say something.
"May I?" Cas asks, gesturing to the chair nearby.
"If you want," Dean shrugs. Cas pulls the chair up and sits down.
"What were you listening to?" he asks curiously.
"Oh no," Dean says warningly. "We are not starting that bullshit information trade-off again."
"If you say so," Cas says.
"How come you're not out there with the others?"
"I believe you declined restarting 'that bullshit information trade-off'."
Dean actually laughs at that, an unexpected chuckle that feels strangely scratchy in his throat. It's not exactly a regular part of his vocal line-up. "Fine, have it your way. AC/DC. Why no paper-mâché?"
"I'm mildly allergic to craft glue."
"Cas, I swear-"
"There's a new volunteer," Cas says. "His name is Alfie. He seemed to have things under control, so I thought I'd come and see you."
"Don't I feel special," Dean says, but he's distracted. His window is open, but he hasn't got a fan or anything, and he's already sweating from the heat. Cas sees him plucking at the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and his face softens.
"Dean, just take it off."
"You have no idea how pervy that sounded."
"I've already seen the scars."
"Doesn't mean you need to see them again."
"Your stubbornness is both pointless and counterproductive." Dean inclines his head in a 'you got me there' gesture.
"Dean," Cas says. Dean scowls and yanks the sweatshirt off, folding it on his lap and placing his arms very deliberately palm-down on top of it.
"Happy?" he says sullenly. Cas doesn't bat an eyelid.
"Are you going to come out into the lounge?"
"Let me think about this: no."
"You should."
"Why? I'm fine in here. I have music, I have books. I don't need anything else."
"I don't think you mean that."
"Think whatever you want, I'm still not leaving this room."
"And I'm still not going to stop trying."
"What, so you're my carer now?"
"No, but I'd like to be your friend."
Cas tends to pull things like that from out of the blue, state them with a sincerity and openness that never fails to knock whatever sarcastic comment Dean has prepared straight off the edge of his tongue. He opens his mouth a few times, but he can't seem to persuade any words to come out.
"Do you really want to sit in here staring at your walls all day?" Cas says. "Really?"
"What I want to be out fixing cars and fucking women, but that doesn't seem to be on the cards."
"Then get new cards," Cas says simply. "Just because you can't do some things doesn't mean you can't do anything."
"Are you actually listening to yourself?" Dean demands. "You sound like you write women's self-help books in your spare time."
Cas just looks at him. His gaze is curious and focused, like he's effortlessly parting Dean's bullshit and seeing straight through to what's really there. The idea freaks Dean out more than he can say.
"So what're these amazing plans for getting me into the lounge?" Dean says, trying to lighten the mood. "Because if you're just going to try wheeling me, I should warn you, I have brakes."
"Please," Cas dismisses. "I'm not that desperate. I do find it interesting that you haven't asked what they're doing, though."
"Some crap with craft glue."
"No."
"Some crap with beads."
"No."
"What, then?"
"They're baking," Cas says. "Becky said to make it clear to you that only the residents who helped make the food are allowed a part in eating it."
"You're not seriously blackmailing me with baked goods. C'mon, Cas, I'm not a child."
"Fair enough," Cas says, standing up to go. "After all, it's only pie."
Dean has absolutely no idea how it happens, but ten minutes later, he is somehow in the kitchen.
It's getting more and more difficult to deny that Dean kind of likes seeing Cas. As pathetic as it sounds- as pathetic as it is- Cas' visits are kind of the highlight of his week. Not this week, though. Today, as dickish as it is, Dean is praying to every god that's never listened that Cas will have an appointment, or a stomach bug, or something else that's just serious enough so that he'll have to cancel.
No such luck.
Just after three, someone knocks on his door. Dean toys with the idea of telling him to go away, but knowing Cas, he'd just stand there like a confused dog until Dean let him in. So instead he calls out a fairly lacklustre "Hey", and Cas opens the door.
"Board games," Cas says as a conversation opener.
"No."
"Monopoly."
"No."
"Jo's playing."
"No."
"Are you capable of saying a word that isn't 'no'?"
"Maybe."
Cas gives him a somewhat despairing look and shuts the door behind him. He's holding a small plastic container, and Dean looks at his curiously.
"What's in the box?"
"There was a party at work," Cas explains. "It was somebody's birthday, and they brought cake and pie. It turns out that nobody there really likes pie- myself included. We're trying to get rid of it."
"You're a disgrace," Dean says. "What kind of pie?"
"Cherry."
"A disgrace," Dean repeats. "Though I guess that works out pretty well for me, so-" Dean's words die on his tongue as he looks down at the arm he's just reached out. His hand is spasming, his nails digging into his palms. Dean hadn't even noticed.
It's a bad day for Dean in physical health terms- everything hurts and nothing's working properly- and that's exactly why he didn't want Cas coming. He got out of bed twenty minutes ago, but he got less than two hours' sleep last night. It feels like he's spend most of the morning trying to cough and he's starvingly hungry- he hasn't eaten a thing, and doesn't plan to try until his hands are back under his control.
"Dean?"
"Just shove it somewhere," he says, pushing both hands back under the blanket folded on his lap. Somebody else might miss the action, or let it go. Cas, of course, does neither.
"Is this another futile restriction you've implemented solely to make your life harder?"
"Is there a way I can answer that and not have you roll your eyes?"
Cas sets the container down, drags his usual chair over and sits opposite Dean. He doesn't say anything at first, and Dean thinks that if he's trying that technique of leaving a silence and waiting for the other person to fill it, it's not going to work. Dean's nothing but things-that-were and empty space. He's the king of silence.
"Information exchange?" Cas offers.
Dean considers this. "The bullshit kind?"
"Of course."
Dean wants to say something like "What makes you think I want to know anything about you?"- but the fact is, he does. He manages to overcome the instinctive reflex to be a dick long enough to nod. "Fine. Whatever."
"Why won't you eat that?" Cas asks, gesturing towards the pie.
Dean goes to speak, but he feels the bite of his nails in his palm- fuck, it must be bad if he's actually noticing it- and he finds that the words don't want to come out. "Ask something else."
"I'm not going to mock you."
"Yeah, you will. Either that or-"
"I'm not going to pity you either," Cas says, and Dean gives up and forces the answer out; it's easier than trying to put up with Cas' quiet, polite relentlessness for the next couple of hours.
"When my hands are fucking up- more than usual, I mean- I… don't really eat."
"Why not?"
"That's another question."
"Then ask yours."
"Fine." And because Dean is an asshole who copes with being made uncomfortable by amplifying and broadcasting he says "What happened to Anna?"
"She died seven months ago," Castiel says- neutrally, measuredly, with the air of somebody whose grief isn't fresh but whose pain won't ever really leave.
"I'm sorry," Dean says, and he means it.
"Why?" Cas frowns. "It wasn't your fault."
"Yeah, but..." Dean shifts awkwardly. Nice one, Winchester. Cas takes pity and moves on.
"Why won't you eat when your hands are bad?"
"It doesn't matter."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Why do you care?"
"Dean."
It's a bad day. Dean's body is letting him down, does nothing but let him down, and fuck it, he didn't want to see anyone today. He wanted to bury himself, to lie still and silent under the dark pressure of his duvet and pretend it was soil, but then Cas showed and Cas keeps showing and Dean thinks you know what? Fine.
Dean can never resist baiting a bear, pushing for an outcome he doesn't actually want, and he's determined to catch Cas out- to prove to himself that yes, it is too good to be true. He wants to know that Cas is just as fake as the rest of them, wants to turn and snap and watch Cas run so that he can know for sure where things stand.
He breaks.
"Because it's embarrassing, okay?" he says. "You try spilling crap down your front whenever you try and pick up a goddamn fork, or not being able to cut a steak without help, or having to get a new sandwich three times in ten minutes. Sooner or later, it's a lot easier to just give up and say you're not hungry anymore. People stare at me, Cas, whatever I do and wherever I go, and that's why I don't go anywhere. I'm not normal, I don't look normal. I spend my whole damn life trying to make the things I do even the teeniest bit less embarrassing, because if I didn't, I probably wouldn't be able to get out of bed in the morning."
Cas is supposed to laugh, or look at Dean like he's the saddest dying little orphan in the world, or get awkward and apologise- but, being Cas, he has no interest in reading from the same script as the rest of humanity. He just sits there, eyes locked with Dean, like he's absorbing everything Dean said and some things he never even put into words.
"Things are only embarrassing," Cas says after a while, "if you let them be."
"Are you kidding me right now?"
"It's true," Cas says simply- and then, from nowhere, he comments "I found my name embarrassing, as a child."
"What, 'Castiel'?" Dean says, screwing his face up. "What's wrong with that?"
"When was the last time you met someone else called Castiel?" It's a fair point. "Until I was about sixteen, I planned to change my name by deed poll once I was old enough."
"What made you change your mind?"
"Once I stopped letting it embarrass me, it stopped being embarrassing. People find the name strange- that's because it is strange. People take note of the fact that you're in a wheelchair because it's not something they're used to seeing. There's nothing intrinsically shaming about attention."
"Yeah, but having to get your food cut up's not just different, it's weird," Dean says. "People don't just single me out and go 'huh, that's not normal'- they single me out and go 'fuck, that poor asshole. I'm so damn glad that's not me'."
"Then that's their problem," Cas says. "Why let it bother you?"
"Why do you have to dissect it like that?" Dean groans. "It makes me feel like a freak, okay? It's like proof that I don't fit in anymore- like I'm not even a person. I'm just some useless thing, sitting in the corner and wasting everybody's air."
"That's why you're so reluctant to take part in anything, isn't it?" Cas says. "It's not just that you dislike socialisation. You won't take part in anything the home runs because it's there for people with disabilities, and to take part is to admit you have a disability. Dean, you don't adapt to the things you can't do in the same way as everybody else- you actively avoid them."
"So?"
"So, you're missing out. There are so many things you could do if you'd stop pushing the world away because you don't fit into the same space as before. It's so incredibly frustrating, because you think you're good for nothing, and that couldn't be less true."
Cas leans forward, and against Dean's better judgement, he finds himself looking back up. Cas' eyes are intense, aflame, like he's talking about a cause he believes in.
"You are not a waste, Dean. You have value and worth- so much more worth than you think you do."
Dean feels tired, suddenly, so very tired. He doesn't want to be having this conversation anymore, never really wanted to be having it in the first place. "That was way more than one question," he mutters as his answer.
A small smile washes over Cas' lips. "Maybe so."
Dean nods without really knowing why. He feels vulnerable, exposed, like somebody's peeled off his skin and separated out every nerve that still works. "I don't want to go out there," he says softly. "Not today." He thinks his nails are digging into his flesh again, but he can't be sure.
"I understand," Cas says- and then "Is it alright if I stay a while longer?"
"Yeah," Dean says simply, because he's pushed and pushed and Cas hasn't fled or pushed back. He's still standing where he always was, as calm and as steady as rock, and so Dean says 'yes' because he doesn't know how to say 'please'.
Dean picks up his headphones and pulls them on. Cas gets the message and picks up a newspaper lying discarded on Dean's floor, and they sit and listen and read. After three and a half songs have passed, Dean wheels his chair across the room and grabs the container Cas left on the table, along with the fork he left on top. Neither of them say a word as he returns to his place by Cas' side, and neither of them say a word as Dean eats it, every bite, dropping the fork onto his lap four times and picking it up again every time.
It's good pie.
"I'm scared, okay?" he admits the next time Cas visits.
When Cas arrived, he tried to persuade Dean to come out and join the others, but failed miserably. Luckily for them, Alfie (who Dean has since discovered is the human personification of a ray of sunshine, and as such should be kept away from Dean at all times) seems happy to hold the fort in the lounge by himself.
"Why?" Cas says. "He's your brother."
"Yeah, but last time he visited… it wasn't pretty, Cas. I said crap, he said crap- I don't know. Hell, I don't even know if he's still coming."
Friday will mark June 1st- one whole month since Sam's terrible, terrible visit. A part of Dean thinks that if he were Sam, he'd just never come back again, but Sam's not like that. Sam's got morals and determination, and that air about him that says 'I'm hugging you in my mind, and not a word you say will make me let go'. Sam is six foot four of survivor's guilt and dogged love, and Dean knows for a fact that he still phones Ellen weekly to check up on how Dean's doing.
So when Sam turns up on the first- with a look on his face that lets Dean know that Sam hasn't forgotten last time, but that he's completely willing to, Dean isn't shocked. The harder Dean pushes Sam away, the tighter he clings on. He's a bit like Castiel in that way, Dean thinks, before wondering why the hell he's thinking about Cas and terminating all related thought processes.
"Think of how things were before," Cas had advised. "It doesn't matter that you're in a wheelchair now. That's like claiming that Sam cutting his hair would somehow change who he is."
"Like Sam would cut his hair," Dean muttered. "So what, this thing's just the four-wheeled metal elephant in the room?" he challenged, tapping the wheel of his chair.
"It's more like… your shoes. Your coat. It's a part of you and your life, yes, but not a definitive one. It's not positive or negative. It's just there."
"Oh, I get it now. With a few magic words and a lot of positive thinking, Sam will just magically forget that I'm sitting in a friggin' wheelchair."
"You're not listening. He won't forget, but he won't care. He doesn't care, Dean. The only person who cares is you." Dean had tried so very hard to interpret that as bitchy or unnecessary, but it wasn't- it was just honest, genuine advice, and Dean had eventually grudgingly promised he'd give it a go.
And so now, Dean catches Sam's eye and then smiles and gives a slight nod like he always used to. It actually freezes Sam in place for a second. He doesn't seem to know whether to come or go, to sit or stand. It would be funny if it wasn't so damn sad.
"Hey," Dean says eventually, to try and spare Sam the pain. Dean realises as he says it that it's probably the first conversation he's started with Sam since the crash. Talk about a day of firsts.
"Hey," Sam says back, the word far too careful in his mouth to be completely casual. He takes a seat. "How're things?"
Words jump into Dean's mouth- a bitter 'crappy as ever', a nasty 'how do you think?', a blunt and dismissive 'fine'- but he swallows them all back down. "Yeah, okay, I guess." Another pause. "How about you?"
"Good, thanks, yeah," Sam says. There's a silence, long and threatening to be awkward, but Sam's a lawyer (nearly): the one thing he's never short of is words.
"I, um. I'm thinking of proposing to Jess," Sam says with disarming casualness. Dean stares, open mouthed.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah," he says, a small grin on his face. "I think so, yeah. I love her, and we've both wanted it for a while, and I think we have enough money for a wedding. Or we will have, with some work."
"Damn, Sammy," Dean whistles. "What kind of dress are you gonna wear?"
It's been way, way too damn long since Dean last heard his kid brother laugh like that.
They haven't spoken for a month now, and it's been over a year since they last really talked. After last visit, Sam probably spent the whole of his birthday worrying, brooding and blaming himself. That's how Sam's always been, picking up the weight of the world and setting it on his own shoulders. It hits Dean for the first time that maybe trying to keep Sam's hands away from Dean's own problems only made Sam grab more, made him fumble around blindly and pick up some that were never even there.
The hour passes with no major disasters. There are a good handful of pauses that last too long and sentences that sound like the final draft of an essay, each word selected as having the lowest potential for catastrophic connotations- but there are smiles too, and even a few more jokes. Once their time together is up, Dean holds up a hand to stop Sam from going.
"One sec," Dean says.
"Dean?" Sam says, but Dean ignores him. He roots around in the piles of papers and magazines and books steadily breeding on his bedside table, knocking most of them onto the floor, until he finds the creased, long-forgotten card. Dean hesitates, about to chicken out, when he hears a calm, steady voice in his head: think of how things were before.
Dean thinks of all the birthdays and Christmases when their dad was busy tracking a suspect he technically wasn't supposed to be anywhere near, leaving them both locked in a motel room somewhere with $5 and "just be good, would you?". Dean would steal Sam a candy bar from the store, or search through his old shirts until he found one that was too small- or, when they grew older and Sam grew taller- one which was too big. He would do anything he could to make sure he gave Sam something.
And so Dean hands over his crappy, battered piece of folded card, the 'Happy Birthday Sam' printed on the front by his and Cas' linked hands, and he tries to act like it's nothing, because that's what he'd have done before. He'd do anything just to have that stupid, crappy something that somehow became everything when viewed through Sam's eyes.
"Kinda late, I know," Dean says.
Sam doesn't seem to know what to say. He keeps running a hand over the card- down its spine, across the words written inside, carefully tracing the swirls of the letters on the front. "Thanks, Dean," Sam gets out eventually- and Christ, if he's going to cry, Dean's abandoning ship. There's only so much he can handle in one day.
"No problem," Dean says awkwardly. He only said it to try and keep Sam calm, but Castiel's stupid life philosophy and his sage advice and gentle eyes seem all come to mind, and Dean thinks that he said 'no problem'; that maybe, if he doesn't want it to be a problem, then it doesn't have to be.
If Dean still had legs that worked and hands that didn't feel like they were permanently swaddled in foam, then he thinks that he'd take a risk and go for it. He'd probably flirt obscenely with Cas, or ask him on a date, or just say 'fuck it' and shove him up against a wall- tangle his hands in that stupid, carefully mussed hair, and hope that Cas kissed back. As it is, all Dean can do is try and repress the sad fact that he genuinely has a crush on a man who probably views him as a fragile teenage girl whose self-esteem needs boosting.
It would be easier, he thinks, if Cas was literally anybody else. It would be easier if Cas didn't insist on sitting slightly too close to for Dean to breathe easily, or if he didn't catch Dean's gaze and hold it like he can't find a single reason to look away, or if he didn't keep treating Dean like some valuable commodity instead of an empty, crumpled thing. If Cas talked about having a girlfriend or a boyfriend, or if he flirted with everything that moved, then at least Dean would know where he stood, but he's not even sure that Cas knows how to flirt.
One thing that Cas definitely doesknow how to do is to wheedle. It doesn't take him long to work out if he sits there and looks at Dean, focusing on making his eyes as wide and blue (Dean's accused him of wearing contacts at least three times now, but he keeps on denying it) as possible, then there's a fairly strong chance that Dean will just give up and do whatever Cas is insisting he do. Dean's usually made of tougher stuff than that, but what can he say? As stupid as it might be, Cas is different. It's not like it's some huge deal- nine times out of ten, all Cas wants him to do is talk.
It's not always about serious things- in fact, it's usually not. They talk about Sam and Jess and weddings and colleges, about bands and food and books and shows. Dean gets Cas hooked on Dr. Sexy, and once or twice Cas alters his visit times so that they can watch it together, Dean explaining the complexities of the plot that only a long-time fan can grasp while Cas listens intently, never taking his eyes from the screen.
At first, Cas invests a good proportion of his time and energy in trying to persuade Dean out of his room, but Dean keeps on refusing, and with time Cas pushes less and less. He still asks every time, but it seems that he's content to just spend time with Dean.
Sometimes, of course, they do end up talking about more serious things. It's not in Cas' nature to pretend that problems aren't there, so when he spots something he finds strange, he doesn't hesitate to highlight it.
"Your music is very loud," Cas marvels one day. Dean had pulled his headphones off when Cas arrived, but he knows you can hear the tinny thump of the music from across the room. "Doesn't it hurt your ears?"
"A little," Dean admits. "I like it that way." Cas tilts his head enquiringly, and Dean shrugs. "Makes it feel real."
"How so?"
"Well, these are hopeless," he says, gesturing at his legs, "and yeah, I know my hands are there, but they're… not. It's like wearing gardening gloves or oven mitts or something, and I know I can't ever take them off. Some days the world just seems really, really far away. It's good to feel something, really feel it. Y'know?"
"I think I do," Cas says softly, and he doesn't bring up the volume again.
They don't always talk about Dean, of course. They talk about Cas for hours at a time- about how much he hates working in taxes, how he's always wanted to help people but lacked the drive for medicine, how he loves his family but never sees them anymore. Dean tries to push that last point a few times, but that area of Cas' history has got a lot of padlocks on it.
"I will tell you," Cas promises once, his eyes full of regret and a desperation to be understood. "Just... not yet."
"Sure thing," Dean says- because he gets it, he does. Talking about yourself is one thing; talking about family is a whole new level of Fuck No. If Cas says it'll come, then it'll come- Dean can wait. He's hardly going anywhere.
Summer creeps its way in. After a series of minor battles, they develop a routine where Cas shuts the door behind him and holds out his hands, a stern look on his face. Dean tends to provide a few half-hearted refusals before he pulls off his sweatshirt and lets Cas lay it on the side, the cool air blissful against his overheated skin. He very definitely does not think about the fact that Cas is kind of undressing him by proxy, and he still keeps his arms turned down in his lap to hide the scars, but he can't deny that it feels good.
After much teasing from Dean, Cas starts turning up in more casual wear. The first time Cas arrives in jeans Dean almost regrets that decision, because it suddenly becomes a thousand times harder not to stare. Apparently, denim can do beautiful, beautiful things.
Dean finds himself telling Cas things he never meant to say, things that he thought were indelibly stamped with 'NOT FOR DISCUSSION' in vicious red ink.
He's telling some light-hearted story or other when he says "And I'm not really supposed to be near sharp things," and the conversation suddenly dips into a more sombre territory. Dean finishes his sentence, and after a few seconds, Cas speaks.
"Do you ever still think about…"
"What…?" Dean trails a finger up his wrist, and Cas nods. Dean pulls a face.
"I… no. Not exactly."
"Go on?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Seriously?"
"You don't have to tell me," Cas says. "But I'd like to know."
Dean glares once more for good measure, but then he decides he might as well. After all, nothing's freaked Cas out yet.
"I got low," he admits. "I'd been crashing with Sam and Jess for two months, and things weren't getting better, and it just seemed so easy. Like it was the best solution, the simplest thing to do."
Sam and Jess had left the house to go grocery shopping, and they weren't due back for a couple of hours. It wasn't exactly planned out- shit, he'd never have used a razor if he put any damn thought into it. Everything had just built and built until he was sitting in his room, staring out the window, and he realised he couldn't think of a single reason not to.
"And I mean, I'm just as low now," Dean says. "Fuck, maybe I'm even lower- but I've figured out that it's not as easy as I'd thought. People watch you, and people stop you, and it's just… it's a lot of effort, man. There are too many risk factors, all these 'what if's and 'maybe's, and it's all too damn complicated. If you gave me a knife now, I wouldn't do anything with it- but if I didn't wake up tomorrow? Gotta be honest, Cas- I'd be pretty damn fine with that."
Dean's said way more than he meant to, opened the door to a memory he thought he'd locked away for good, and he blinks hard, forcing himself back into the present. "That clear?" he says.
"Yes," Castiel says. "I think so."
"Good," Dean says, a curt nod. With some effort, he drags the conversation to a new topic.
They talk a while longer, swapping information, and soon Dean forgets moment of solemnness. It's easy to get lost with Cas, both of them drawing out likes and dislikes and memories and hopes from the other, both carefully sifting through their personal caches to pick out the facts that won't hurt too much to share.
A little over an hour later, when Cas starts to rise from his chair, he hesitates for a moment. He leans forward, his hand gently touching Dean's arm, and Dean might not always feel all that much but he sure as hell feels that.
"Dean?" Cas says.
"Yep?"
"If you didn't wake up tomorrow…" Cas' eyes find Dean's, and there's pain lying in them. Not pity- Cas continues stubbornly refusing to show a trace- but pure, sincere pain. "I wouldn't be fine with that."
"No?"
"No. Not at all." He keeps looking at Dean, and Dean's just sitting there looking back and wishing he had something more to say- that he didn't mean it, that everything's going to be okay- but he'd be saying it to Cas. Cas is the one person Dean doesn't- can't - lie to.
"See you next week," he says instead, and Castiel nods and lets go.