They start driving to Bobby's in the morning. It seems like the only logical thing to do.
Bobby's house means dust and cars and junk and books and panic rooms and protection wards. It means answers and whiskey and help and bacon and bad coffee and safety. But it also means home.
Cas sleeps in the back of the car, a blanket they stole from the hotel tangled around his legs, breath puffing warm foggy clouds on the closed window. It's raining outside. Drops slide down the glass like tears, clear grey spatters that refract the view of the stormy and churning sky.
Dean is worried. Castiel was running a low fever when they left, and he puked up his measly breakfast of watery gas station coffee and donuts. Something in his eyes has dulled, they are not the Ice Flow Blue they were before, but a duller, greyer shade of opal. Like his Grace was the only thing keeping the blue so vivid.
Dean listens to his angel… Dean sighs and kicks himself mentally… ex-angel 's teeth chatter, so he turns the heater in the car up until smoky hot air if fanning his face gently.
'Anna didn't fall this hard.' Says Sam, thumbing through Dad's Journal, looking for anything that might help their dark passenger, though this is the third time he's read the text cover to cover with no avail.
'Yeah, well, Glenn Close didn't completely rebel. And her Grace wasn't shredded to bits like Cas's was.' Dean shudders as he remembers Zachariah thrusting his hand into Castiel's chest, remembers the searing light and Castiel's screams, and his helplessness.
He can remember the shadow of the angel's wings on the wall, as they were ripped, feathers manifesting and falling softly to the ground while orange trails burned away the fibers of ebony dander and down. He remembers Zachariah's manic joy at the sight of the feather rain. But most of all, Dean remembers Castiel falling to the floor, blood sliding between his clenched teeth, body racked with shivers, pitiful moans escaping past his lips.
Dean shakes his head, wiping the memories away. He doesn't want that in his head.
'I'm gonna torch Zachariah in Holy Oil.' Dean promises, smirking over at Sam, who nods his approval, frowning..
'He was only following orders.' Comes a new, gravel deep voice.
Sam turns around as he hears Castiel's weak voice, and Dean's eyes flash up at the rear view mirror.
'Wait, you're not telling me you aren't pissed at the guy? You aren't itching for a little revenge?'
Dean sees Castiel nudge his head against the window, eyes sliding shut again, jaw lax, hands slipping as he pulls the blanket tighter around himself.
'He didn't have a choice.' Comes a muffled whisper.
And then Castiel, goes still.
Sam feels his skin prickle. This is getting bad. Angels don't sleep, angels don't eat and angels don't puke themselves dry. Nor do they, Castiel of all, break off a creepy stare.
Ex-angel, Sam reminds himself sullenly, looking back at the road.
Ex…
xXx
They drive for three days straight. They stop at cheaper than cheap motels for quick 4 hour naps while Cas snoozes in the car. Dean doesn't want to stop, for food, or for sleep, or for bathroom breaks, like he thinks getting Castiel off the road and into the stuffy blanket of life at Bobby's will help him.
The eldest Winchester is worried about how much Castiel is sleeping. He averages 19 hours a day, with small wakeful moments before gliding back into dreams.
But Sam is more worried about why Castiel can't keep any food down. They have tried everything, the most non-offensive foods they know, from non-salted crackers to chicken noodle soup, and everything stays with Cas for little more than thirty minutes before parting ways with his stomach. And it shows. Castiel is weak, has trouble standing, stumbles sometimes when he walks.
'He's dying.' Sam tells Dean when they both flop onto springy beds in a one shot motel, so many miles added onto their bones that they feel jetlagged.
Dean just blinks, watching flies flit around on the ceiling, before turning over and burrowing into the mattress, the clicking of the ceiling fan the only noise in the room.
Sam knows that Dean's silence and refusal to talk about it is his brother's way of agreeing.
xXx
'Cas? You OK in there?'
'I'm fine, Dean.'
Dean turns the knob, it's open, for once. He pushes inside to see the claustrophobically small bathroom, with friendly floral wallpaper, a big round mirror and a tarnished sink tap. Cas is sitting cross-legged, bent over the toilet, green as a toad, eyes crossed, lips just about falling off of his face.
'Dean I-'
He doesn't get the message across before the fried egg and ham slice he stole from Dean's diner breakfast plate crash and splash into the toilet, the rank and toxic smell of sewage and digestion making Dean's own stomach churn. Cas is covered in sweat, shining like fast food fry cook, face screwed up as his stomach cramps and he dry heaves.
Dean sits down behind him and rubs his back soothingly. 'S'okay Cas. Let it out.'
Bile shoots into the toilet, and beneath Dean's hand, Castiel shivers.
'Is this what being human is like?' Cas heaves again, ' So bright and hot and tiring and sweaty and…' Cas hangs his head.
'Painful?' Dean finishes the sick man's sentence, hand rubbing his friend's shoulder.
Castiel nods jerkily.
Dean just keeps massaging Castiel's shoulders, doesn't answer while Cas drools into the toilet. He doesn't want to tell Cas that something else is happening to him.
Because how exactly do you tell someone what they think is normal, is actually the opposite of what they should feel?
They stay like that, on the floor in the bathroom, until Cas says he's tired and Dean helps him to the bed. He pulls off Castiel's shoes and flips him on his side. And when he turns to leave, Cas catches his wrist and huffs out an exhausted 'Stay.'
And Dean does. Dean crawls into bed with the ex-angel, there damn it he said it, and they curl around each other, until Castiel snores out soft breaths into the crook of Dean's neck, his arms wrapped around Dean's waist, hair tickling Dean's chin.
In the bed next to them, Sam lies awake. Whereas Castiel can't stop sleeping, Sam can't get any. This is the third night he hasn't slept, and each night, his mind whirs and whizzes from one thing to the next, but no matter what, his thoughts return to the ex-angel curled around his brother.
This isn't just an angel falling, no, something bigger is going on. He isn't just becoming human.
Sam kicks off his bed covers and tiptoes over to the other bed, slipping his hand gently over Castiel's forehead, sneaking a feel at his temperature. He feels like a concerned mother for doing it, and it makes his insides feel slick and sticky. Where did the old Dean and Sam Winchester go?
But he lets those thoughts float away like hot air balloons. His heart sinks a fraction. A thought hits him, and he swallows painfully.
The fever has increased.
Castiel's not just falling.
He's burning.
AN: So, this is obviously going to turn into a bit of a Destiel fic. I won't be slashing too hard though, so don't expect anything too glorious and smutty. In other news, I can officially not guarantee a happy ending. That doesn't mean there will be a sad ending, but that there might not be a 'Happily ever after' at the end of this story. Thanks for those who reviewed the previous chapter, and please leave one on your way out! I love hearing from readers!