Dean woke up the next morning feeling rested but sore as he stretched his wings leisurely. In that moment he remembered Castiel, three days into his mini-coma(apparently) and the priest was massaging his wings and grooming them to ensure no lasting damage from hours under the trench coat. Somehow the awkward priest he had met by chance was the kindest person he had ever known and yet his wish had cost him that one good thing in an alternate reality. Despite that revelation it was hard to believe that had all been just some dream induced by the Djinn. It was all too real, too possible for it to have all been mindless fabrication.
Involuntarily he shivered, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach and a loneliness that was too severe to ignore. Sitting up he found himself stripped with a fresh pair of boxer briefs, knowing full well he had been wearing black – not navy blue – the day that he stumbled into the Djinn's den. Geez, he wasn't sure whether he should add that to the list of things he still had to figure out how to thank Cass for or make it ground rule #1 of travel. As he worked his way into pants and the trench coat, he decided to worry about it after he alerted the priest of his condition.
He knocked gently on the door before entering the priest's room, not bothering to wait for a reply he knew that with him he had nothing to worry about interrupting. The first thing he noticed was the strangely distressed state of the room, clothes tossed on the floor with careless abandon, books and papers strewn across the space while bloody bandages lied in and around the waste bin near the bed. He almost missed them before doing a doubt take just to confirm his eyes were not playing tricks on him. Sure enough, the bandages remained.
His eyes darted to the wall clock then, his brain racing with ideas of where he would find Castiel at 12:37pm. It wasn't until he stopped long enough to read the clock that he heard the harsh, uneven breathing from the bed. He hadn't realized that he had been avoiding laying eyes on it until he honestly looked at the mound of covers that lied on top of it, barely moving despite the violent nature of the breaths coming from somewhere underneath.
"Cass?"
As he had expected, there was no answer, not even the smallest sign of acknowledgement as he cautiously approached. He couldn't believe how dark the small room was, the blinds closed as far as they would go with only vague light filtering through. There were at least three comforters on the bed, each pattern vaguely similar but entirely different in coloration. Standing half a foot from the bed he finally caught a glimpse of his friend, only the mess of sweat slick hair protruding and in view as the priest lied on his stomach away from the winged man.
"Cass?"
Gingerly, he reached out and pulled the blankets down enough to reveal a flushed shoulder. Concern overriding his brain, he reached out and gently shook him only to rip his hand away from the fire hot flesh. The smaller man groaned, feebly moving to pull the covers back on as Dean ripped them off entirely. Had he been paying any mind to the priest's attire, he would have noticed the awkward hilarity that was their matching underwear and sleep attire in general, but instead his eyes were drawn to the ugly scene that unfolded across the cleric's back.
There was a clearly infected gouge on Castiel's right shoulder blade, the skin bursting with pus and discolored an angry red. From there down was decorated with some of the largest bruises Dean had ever seen, each in varying states of recovery while others seemed fresh despite their age. On the backs of his thighs there were clear marks where the stairs had dug into flesh during the battle, one elbow was tore open possibly from colliding with the railing. Even with Dean's untrained eye he could tell that the priest had made no move to properly treat any of his wounds.
"Dude…"
"Dean…"
The raspy voice sounded like it hadn't been used for a while something he was surprised he hadn't noticed the night before. Dean sat down on the bed beside the cleric only to have the man move away to face him. He was obviously feverish, his eyes glossy and slightly dull while his face appeared almost sun burnt with which he was flushed. Dean reached out to him onto the have the smaller man flinch away.
"Cass, you need to have that cut cleaned – the infection is really bad."
"I'll live."
"Dude, no. I'm not letting you just suffer in silence. Let me help you."
"I do not want you accidentally healing me."
"What are you talking about? So what if I-"
"You don't get to choose what scars I keep, Dean."
"I never said I did!"
"If you healed me there would not be any. Please…I need this."
Castiel seemed so pale, so small in comparison to the man he had grown accustomed to over the last week. Despite that, Dean understood the idea of needing the scars, needing a reminder of past mistakes. Dean couldn't agree with the idea that somehow the whole Djinn situation was the priest's fault, but he swallowed his argument as he nodded stiffly. Like a puppet free of his strings the priest sagged into the bed with a relieved sigh, almost appearing to be in the process of being swallowed by the bedding. Dean skittered his hands over heated, clammy skin in an attempt to assess further damage.
"A cracked rib, borderline blood poisoning due to infection, fever of 101 degrees, slight internal bleeding that will heal on its own and three strained muscles that should recover in a week. The rest of your lacerations appear to be superficial, two of which will need stitches without counting the one on your shoulder which is bone deep."
Dean didn't register the voice as his own until the cleric's eyes snapped open in confused awe. The winged man didn't know where that came from only that it was accurate and possibly one of the most bizarre manifestations of his powers yet. Somehow the return of new abilities turned out to be such a relief that Dean could not stop the flood of laughter that forced its way from him. He fought to calm down, knew how inappropriate it was, but as soon as he caught a glimpse of the weak smile on Castiel's lips and the bewildered look in his eyes it started him up all over again.
It took him a few minutes to calm down, but as soon as he did he looked around the room again. Sure, there were obvious signs of bandaging having occurred, but that was it. No other medicine, not even food.
"Cass, have you let Pastor Jim help you at all?"
"No…I did not want him insisting on taking me to the hospital. I have survived worse beatings, so…"
"So you just decided to do self treatment until you were too weak to get out of bed? Jesus, have you even tried to clean it?"
"I do not appreciate your use of his name, but I will have you know it is beyond difficult to do when I am incapable of seeing it on my own."
Exasperated, Dean sighed as he dragged hand over his eyes.
"Look, I'm sorry about the Jesus thing. Where's the First Aid Kit?"
"I have one in my bag, but most of the dressings have already been used."
"Right."
Dean found the duffel on the other side of the bed, most of the contents strewn across the floor save the Kit haphazardly thrown inside. Looking through, he found some of the equipment he would need – peroxide, bactine, a needle and spool of fishing line that he knew was a Castiel addition, cotton swatches and sports tape. Most of it was not exactly what he had in mind, but they would work.
"Turn back onto your stomach."
Dean yanked the covers off of the bed altogether to make room for him as Castiel rolled onto his stomach in the center of the bed. The winged man wasn't sure if the boxer briefs were hiding any other wounds, something he had not thought about until he was presented with the idea of having to straddle the cleric. Rather than just checking or sitting and hoping for the best, he figured asking was the least awkward solution.
"Anything under those boy shorts I should know about?"
"I am certain we share anatomy in that regard."
"Dude, I know that – I meant wounds, you ass."
"Oh…no, I am not wounded there."
"Good to know."
He arranged the supplies on the right hand bedside table before throwing one leg over the priest and settling in. Looking back at the infected wound, he swore and got back off.
"Sorry, I'll try to make this the last time."
"It is fine."
He dug around the room until he found a dagger and the discarded towel from a few days ago. It smelled a little musty, but for now it would have to do. Climbing back onto the bed, he found himself worried that Castiel might fall asleep during it all.
"I'm climbing back up."
"Proceed."
Laying the towel to the side of Castiel's right shoulder, he took the blade in hand.
"I'm gonna be cutting the wound open to flush out the infection."
"Very well."
"This might hurt."
"Alright."
"A lot."
"I understand."
If not for the uneven tempo of Castiel's breathing, the room would have remained silent as he reopened the six inch cut along the priest's shoulder blade. Almost instantly yellow green puss began pouring out as Dean set aside the blade and grabbed the towel. He remembered his childhood of similar wounds and treatments as he dabbed the infection away before applying pressure to the sides in order to further drown it out. It took four minutes before the puss-blood mixture came out pure blood, Dean quickly grabbed the bottle of peroxide and poured.
He felt the priest flinch from beneath him, heard the gentle hiss from between clenched teeth. Dean tried to rub comforting circles in the non bruised flesh as he waited for the bubbles to subside.
"Sorry, man, I know this sucks."
"I am fine."
"You know, I think I'd be more convinced if you weren't talking through your teeth."
Castiel let out a half sob chuckle and Dean felt a little better knowing he could make the priest laugh despite the circumstances. Three times of pouring later, the peroxide produced no bubbles so he replaced it with the needle and thread before whispering softly to the cleric.
"I'm gonna start stitching now, alright?"
"Okay."
Castiel's voice had gained an entirely new edge, an almost broken depth from the pain or the idea of being properly patched up, Dean wasn't sure. He held the needle and spool in one hand as he wiped off the peroxide with the towel. Silently he hoped that his skills would be enough.