Chapter 4

Castiel hadn't meant to ever see Dean again after the other night – not unless he was called to. He'd meant to try and help, and then he meant to move on, continue on his path. But when Monday morning came around, the day Castiel knew Dean had been dreading, he could not stave his curiosity. Dean was doing spectacularly, whether it was because of, or in spite of their conversation a few nights ago was unclear, but Castiel only saw the smile in Dean's eyes and was overjoyed.

"Where are we?" Dean asked.

"Down a liter," Jo Harvelle answered.

"Suction."

Dean was singing in his head. I am stuck on Band-Aid brand 'cause Band-Aid's stuck on me. I am stuck on Band-Aid brand 'cause Band-Aid's stuck on me.

No dying now, Mr. Messenger. Not until you give me Castiel's phone number.

Castiel was taken aback. Had he really had such an effect on the doctor.

I am stuck on Band-Aid brand 'cause Band-Aid's stuck on me.

Castiel smiled.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The surgery was over, Jimi was playing and Dean couldn't help but grin as he washed up. He glanced up through the glass divider to Jo, who was closing up. She gave him what he assumed was the facial equivalent of a thumbs up, but he'd take it. He smirked back proudly.

o0o

That night as Dean lay in bed, his dog, Rumsfeld, curled up beside him and snoring like a lawnmower, Dean found himself quite unable to sleep. He punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and closed his eyes, but he couldn't get the mysterious man from the hospital out of his head.Those eyes, he thought. The way he looked... right down into me. Dean opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling, the rustic ceiling fan and the long gouge in the paint from when Dean had installed it, underscored by leafy shadows from outside the french doors.

Castiel... what the hell kind of name is Castiel?

Dean rolled over in an attempt to relax, but saw on his nightstand something out of place. He sat up, turned on the bedside lamp, and picked up... a book? He squinted in the harsh light. A Moveable Feast by Earnest Hemingway from the Los Angeles Public Library. How had that gotten there? Lisa, maybe? She wasn't really much of a reader, maybe she'd left it for him, knowing his trouble with sleeping most nights.

Well... it was better than just staring at the ceiling. Dean snagged his reading glasses from under the lamp and opened the book.

When Dean woke the next morning, even after only a few hours sleep, he felt reinvigorated. And he had one person to thank for that. Lisa had been at the hospital all night, keeping up on her recent surgery patient, and when Dean didn't find her in her office, he had an inkling of where she might be.

He opened the door to the roof, and sure enough, there she was, in sweats and a sweaty t-shirt, shooting hoops by herself at the basketball goal on the roof. Or trying to shoot one-handed, the other hand occupied by a half-spent cigarette.

Dean smiled when she noticed him, "I thought you'd be here." He went over and kissed her on the cheek. "Salty."

She lifted a corner of her mouth in response. "My transplant tanked at 3:00 am.," she said by way of greeting.

Dean's heart clenched. "You okay?"

She nodded, looking at him strangely, like she didn't know why he thought she'd be upset, and took another shot.

Dean mentally shook himself, and let it go. He was the one that always got so over-sentimental. He held up the book. "You might want to return this... The part about the spring? You 'knew there'd always be a spring.' How did you know that...?"

Lisa caught the ball, and took the book from him, looking at it as if she'd never seen it before. "What?" she asked. "I didn't give you this book."

Huh? But who could've... "You didn't?" he asked, face burning as she continued to study the book in her hands, lacking any real interest.

"Where'd you get it?"

Not having a good explanation, Dean shrugged.

He had to figure it out though, so later when he got off, Dean went to the library to try to determine who'd left it for him. And how they'd gotten into his house, of course. He certainly didn't remember bringing it home, and, really, why would somebody break in and do nothing but leave a book for him. It was pretty strange.

Dean walked up to the front desk, and spoke to the attendant. "Hi. I'm a physician, and I think a patient left that in my office." No need for the true explanation. "Is there any way you can tell me who checked it out?"

He shook his head, unfazed. "I can't tell you who. But I can tell you when."

Better than nothing. Dean nodded and the attendant scanned the bar code and handed the book back. "Give me five minutes."

Dean wandered away, not wanting to hover. He wasn't really a book lover himself, but now he was interested. After a brief search, he found himself browsing the Classics section, looking for more Hemingway. If this one was good, why not read another. Perhaps books could be his thing.

He was so intent on the selection that he actually jumped at the familiar deep voice behind him that said, "Hello, Dean." Dean spun around to see Castiel standing there, as awkward-looking in the trench coat and black suit as he was the first time Dean had seen him. "It's nice to see you again."

Dean blinked at the absurdity. "It's weird to see you again."

"Weird is nice." Dean let out a surprised laugh at the not-quite-joke. "You like Hemingway?" Castiel inquired, looking up at the shelf in front of Dean.

"What? Oh! Yeah. Yeah, I'm starting to."

"May I?" Castiel inquired, holding out his hand.

Dean stood there for a moment, staring dumbly, before he remembered he was still holding the book in his hand. He passed it over, mentally berating himself for acting like a crush-struck teenager.

Castiel took the book and opened it to a specific page easily, like he had the thing perfectly memorized. He read, "'As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea, and their faint metallic taste, as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling, and began to be happy.'"

Dean remembered that part, and though it was hardly the most significant part of the story, but the way that Castiel read it, with such deep emotion, Dean began to worry he'd missed the most important part after all.

Castiel closed the book with a smile. "He never forgets to describe how things taste," he said with great affectation, like Hemingway held a cherished place in his heart. "I like that."

Dean could do nothing but smile and nod, too entranced by the way Castiel's eyes lit up at the passage. After a moment, he realized he'd been staring, and broke the silence. "Suh... so um... do you come here a lot?" Classy, Winchester.

Castiel looked as if it were the most interesting question ever asked. "I live here."

Dean huffed and nodded like it made perfect sense. "What do you do?"

"Read."

Dean laughed. The man clearly wasn't one for sarcasm. "No, I mean your work."

Castiel seemed to catch his mistake, making an (adorable) 'oh' face. "I'm a messenger."

"What kind of messenger? A bike messenger."

"No, I'm a messenger of God."

Well, that was unexpected. Then why are you flirting with me, he wanted to ask, but held his tongue. "Got a message for me?"

Castiel's whole face seemed to smile. "I already gave it to you."

"Did you use my pager? 'Cause I usually don't get messages unless you beep me." And wow that was lame.

Castiel looked confused for a second before responding, "You've...definitely been beeped." Dean was sure Castiel was trying to make him feel like his joke wasn't dumb. "How is Messenger?"

Dean took the change of topic gratefully. "He's good. Yeah, the operation went really well."

"I was a good day."

"It was a good day, yeah. Yeah, I didn't kill anybody today." And wow, Dean was just full of bad jokes this morning, wasn't he.

"You're an excellent doctor."

"How do you know?"

"I have a feeling."

"Pretty flimsy evidence."

Castiel tilted his head, but then his eyes lit up. He stepped closer, much closer. "Close your eyes," he said. Dean flashed distrustful for a second, which Castiel seemed to catch onto. "It's just for a moment."

Dean closed his eyes as Castiel took Dean's hand, holding it out, palm up, and ran a finger down the middle of the palm. His wrist just brushed the tips of Dean's fingers. "What am I doing," Castiel asked. His breath ghosted over Dean's face and it was so intimate that he had to quell the urge to just go a little further forward and brush his lips against the other man's.

"You're touching me." His voice came out deeper, doing nothing to mask his sudden interest.

"Touch," said Castiel, softly. So close. "How do you know?"

"Because I feel it."

Abruptly, Castiel let go and Dean's hand fell back to his side. When Dean opened his eyes, Castiel had stepped back. He cast his eyes to the side as if seeing something Dean could not, and then back at Dean. "You should trust that. You don't trust it enough."

Castiel looked off to the side again. Was he nervous. Was somebody watching. "Let's go somewhere," Castiel said.

"Where?"

"I don't care."

"What do you want to do?"

"Anything."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Dean took Castiel to an enclosed farmers market downtown. Castiel had been there before, but never as a customer, and never while visible to the populous. It was quite a different experience having people see him, some even smiled in greeting. Castiel gladly smiled back, eager to see the world from Dean Winchester's point of view.

He followed his companion to a table laden with fruits of all kinds. Dean picked up the first thing that he saw, a pear, and held it up to this nose and sniffed it. Dean glanced at Castiel, and flushed a little when he saw Castiel staring.

Grasping at straws, looking for a way to play it off, Castiel picked up the first thing that he saw, a green, flat, spiky looking vegetable, and sniffed it. Dean face scrunched up, in what Castiel only deciphered after a moment, in an attempt to not laugh. If Castiel had been human, he might have blushed, and that discovery right there struck him as the most human thing he'd ever felt in his life.

Once they picked out their meals, and found a seat at one of the picnic tables in the market, Cas found he could only stare as Dean bit into a brown pear, a look of pure rapture on his face. "What's that like?" Castiel asked.

Dean held up the pear, as if to say, 'this?'

"What's it taste like? Describe it. Like Hemingway."

Dean grinned shyly, but looked down and said, "Well, it tastes like..." he gave an embarrassed laugh, "a pear. You don't know what a pear tastes like?"

"I don't know what a pear tastes like to you."

Dean continued looking at Castiel, thinking for a second of what to say. "Sweet... juicy. Soft on your tongue. Grainy... like sugary sand that dissolves in your mouth." His eyes dropped to the table again, and he smiled sweetly. "How's that?"

"It's perfect."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"The first time a looked into a microscope, I knew I wanted to be a doctor." They were in the basement of the hospital, in the lab. Dean wasn't really much when it came to dates – was this a date? – and after the farmer's market, he was pretty much out of ideas. So here they were. Castiel seemed interested enough in medicine, and Dean thought he might like to see the basis of it.

"Okay, let me have your hand," Dean said, holding out the sharp instrument used to prick the finger to take a sample of blood.

"What for?"

"We'll take a look at your blood."

Castiel's eyes widened in trepidation. "Not a possibility."

"What? Afraid of a little blood?" Castiel kept his hand firmly by his side, and didn't say anything. Dean managed not to laugh. "I never really had that problem. I was always patching my little brother Sammy's skinned knees when we were kids. Parents worked a lot. I guess I just liked taking care of people."

Dean pricked his own finger and let a drop fall onto a slide which he quickly prepared and placed on under the lens. He adjusted the microscope. "There. Take a look at that."

Castiel stepped up, face serious and determined, like he'd be tested on what he saw later. He placed his eye in front of the scope, but jumped back slightly. "That's bright," he said, smiling, and went back to look.

"That's me," Dean said, as Castiel studied the slide. "All those cells."

"That's all you are," Castiel said evenly.

"That and all the space in between."

Castiel stood back up and canted his head to the side. "If this is all you are... these cells, then when they die, that's the end?"

"I don't know," Dean said. "I think so."

"Then how do you explain it?"

"What?"

"The enduring myth of Heaven."

This again. But Dean decided to play nice. "I used to think I had it all figured out."

"But you didn't?"

"No. Because something happened in my O.R. and I got... this jolt. I got this feeling that there's something bigger out there. Something bigger than me, bigger than you, and it..." He looked up at Castiel's face. "Does that sound crazy?"

"No."

"I couldn't fix him. I did everything right... and I couldn't fix him." Dean didn't know why Castiel could make him open up like this. Like no one else could. "That's not supposed to happen." He took a deep breath. "And I..."

"You cried."

"Yeah."

"Why do people cry?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what happens? Physically?"

Dean nodded, thinking back to his med school days. "Tear ducts operate on a normal basis to lubricate and protect the eye," he said with textbook accuracy. "When you have an emotion, they overact and create tears."

"Why? Why do they overact?"

Dean wondered what he was getting at. "I don't know."

"Maybe," he said, "emotion becomes so intense... your body just can't contain it. Your mind and your feelings becomes too powerful. Your body weeps."

Dean didn't know what to say, but was saved from the awkward silence by the shrill sound of his beeper. He snatched it from his belt.

911 606.

Emergency Room 606? That was Gabriel Messenger's room.

He looked up at Castiel. "I have to go."

Castiel opened his mouth as if to protest.

"I got to go. Stay right here." He ran for the door, but stopped and turned back around. "Don't go anywhere."

Dean ran. No no no no no. He couldn't die, not after the surgery went so well. He couldn't die. Dean jumped in the elevator when it arrived, and the second the doors opened again, he was squeezing through and sprinting towards Mr. Messenger's room.

Mr. Messenger was gasping and spluttering around the breathing tube, having woken up from the light sedation he had been under. "Get the tube out," he ordered the nurse who was helping him to sit up.

"He can't breathe," she said.

"It's because the tube is blocked," Dean said, and the two of them held him still, and the nurse carefully slid the tube out.

Immediately, Mr. Messenger's breathing evened out and he plopped his head back onto the pillow. He took deep, calming breaths as Dean checked his vitals. The situation having calmed significantly, Dean asked, "How you feeling?"

Mr. Messenger swallowed thickly. "Ready to hit the waves." His voice was rough from the trauma.

Dean smirked. "I'm afraid your body surfing day's are over." He nodded toward Mr. Messenger's forearm. "You got a mean tattoo going there. What does your wife think of that?"

"That is my wife," Mr. Messenger said, smirking back and moving his arm so Dean could see better.

Dean raised his eyebrows in amusement. "I see." He chuckled, and turned to the nurse. "Check his vitals every fifteen."

When Dean finally made it back down to the lab, Castiel was gone.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Castiel landed in Gabriel Messenger's room after it was dark, invisible once again. The man appeared to have drifted back off to sleep, though his breathing was still fairly labored. Castiel placed a palm onto Gabriel's chest, pushing healing through flesh and bone – nothing other than relief for the sore throat – and immediately, he breathed easier.

Castiel turned to leave, when a voice spoke behind him. "I can't see you, but I know you're there." He turned around in surprise. "Go back and tell them that I'm not going. Not yet."

o0o