Title: "Pain in the Head"
Pairing: Castiel/Dean (Established)
TV Show: Supernatural
Word Count: ~14,000
Rating: T
A/N: So. Hey.
WOW I took forever to update this. I'm seriously sorry. Actually, my plan was to update this a week after, but my original outline sort of failed me (after 10k+ words were written) so I started over from scratch. Took nearly 3 weeks to get a new outline (and this one just sucks butt) to actually be okay for me.
So I'm sorry if the quality's really bad. My original plan failed me. But! The next three chapters should be so good. And I mean it. So. Good. Those outlines have not changed a bit, and I am not giving up on them, no way.
I should mention: there are timestamps throughout this story (like hints on how long they've been there). It should be 2 1/2 weeks. But it's probably closer to 3, since the biopsy's a few days after him being admitted. Oh, and the 'dream sequence'-both of them are having it. That's why it's italicized. I was going to have it as Cas just telling it, but it's so much better with imagery I think.
Ah, also! Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews! GEEZ you guys set the bar so high when I was writing this chapter (which is why I think it's so crappy because I think I've disappointed most, if not all, of you). I'm not a great writer, I don't know what you guys are talking about. But I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint too much for you to drive away or anything. That'd be so terrible! Just try not to set the bar high for me again, please and thank you.
Enjoy (as much as possible) part 2!
x x x x x x x x x x x x x
It can't be true
That I'm losing you
The sun cannot fall from the sky
x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Brrrrrrrring.
Brrrrrrrring. ("Come on, come on," an impatient Dean muttered into the receiver.)
Brrrrrrrring.
Brrrrrrrring.
Click.
"It's Sam—" ("Damn it," cursed Dean.) "—essage."
Beeeeeeep.
"…Sammy? Hey. Look, I, uh…I know you're busy trying to track someone down for Bobby, who knows where, but I…I just wanted to know how you were. I heard you were doin' alright from Bobby, but…I, uh, I…hope you're okay. Okay."
Click.
x x x
He couldn't see. Someone was taping his eyes shut—or maybe just keeping them closed with their fingers, he couldn't tell—and he could hear a female's voice tell him to relax. It was the redhead, he thought. He could not remember her name; who was she again? He wanted to respond, but it felt like someone glued his mouth shut, but that was not possible. He was talking some minutes ago—was it minutes ago? Where was he? Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, rubbing the tense muscle with their rough hands; it was Dean, he was sure. He could picture him sitting next to him, looking somewhere else as he tried to calm the fallen angel down.
Cas wanted to turn his head, but something was keeping him still. "Castiel," a strong voice boomed. For a split moment, he believed it to be God. It was only a doctor, he kept telling himself. "This will be over before you know it, but it might hurt."
"Hurt? I thought he was knocked out cold, Doc," ah, Cas thought. Dean. Why couldn't he open his eyes? And why would he be "knocked out cold?" He did not understand.
"He is lucky we do not do this while he is awake," the booming voice responded. Do what, though? He remembered being in a hospital bed next to Dean—who looked despondent—as the doctors explained some kind of test called a "biopsy", and then the nurse was—was administering the drugs when he was listening. He was being forced to lie on his back and face the world with darkness forevermore, but before his eyes were glued, he saw Dean and heard him say: "I'm right here."
Then he remembered smelling some weird gas when he was actually staring at a different ceiling. That ceiling had many lights shining down on his body, as though the angels were singing "Hallelujah" for their brother, and the nurse was telling him to count from 100 backwards. Deep breath in—tingling sensation throughout his body—deep breath out—his legs were going numb—deep breath in—Dean's voice was becoming very distant, and he was going on about the procedure—deep breath out—he closed his eyes.
He could hear some drill behind him. Whirr! Something made his heart stop (of course metaphorically, because the machines next to him still beeped). Who was he facing at the time of his darkest hour? He was afraid, but of what? He could not say. Cas wished to reach out to someone, anyone, grab hold of them and tell them that he was okay, that his head didn't hurt anymore. Just make it stop. He wanted to go home. Dean, where was he? There, hand grabbing his hand; comfort. He knew that feeling.
Someone told him they were ready, and it was just beginning to end. Cas couldn't take in a deep breath, but he heard the others around do it for him. The fingers that held him tightened; the drill fired up again. This time, he could hear the drill bit close to his ear, like a hellhound biting at his heels and waiting for the fire to consume his being. Where were his wings? Why couldn't he fly? He couldn't see, but he knew Dean's head was turned away, eyes shut, hand around Cas's own.
And then, the first bite.
It was excruciating pain. The medicine did nothing for him. It numbed everything but the one point in time where he needed the most help. He could hear his own head cracking from the pressure, little bits of the skull shattering under the drill's rage. He could even feel the blood from inside his head drip down his shirt, to the floor, on the doctor's shoe, and he knew there was a puddle. He could feel someone wipe the blood every once in a while, the drill stopping in certain areas so the blood could be cleansed.
"Jesus," he heard Dean whisper; he was shaking. Then the drill started up again, and Dean's grip stayed. Cas wanted to open his mouth and scream at the top of his lungs for it all to stop. It was the headaches all over again, but ten times worse. If he were awake during the procedure, he'd want to vomit blood over his lap and endure another five seizures before feeling that again. He swore his skull was splitting in two, that more blood was coming from the little hole in his head, but the doctors were praising their work.
The drill stopped. It pulled out. Blood drained like a faucet. Someone wiped it away. Cas could feel Dean lean forward and bring the hand into the air.
"Help me," he wanted to tell Dean. But he refused to beg.
The doctors said something, then the nurse moved away from the skull; not as much blood came from him. Perhaps God performed a miracle. Cas felt someone take his head and hold it in place, lowering his neck a bit. He could also feel Dean's forehead on his knuckles, and his eyes were closed. Was he praying? It didn't matter; the pain was back again when he felt someone touch his brain.
It felt—odd. Of course, the pain was impossible to get over. It made his whole body want to shut down and call it a life. It felt as though his brain was throbbing against his skull and wanted sweet release. Cas wished for that. But then this cold, metal rod—was it a rod?—poked him. It moved around, it squished against his brain, and it sounded like it was sucking something out. The doctors made a note on how it looked (but he didn't speak the medical lingo like some of his brethren could) and continued to take something from him. He felt violated; he felt vulnerable.
Dean was still there; he was not alone.
Deep breath in—beep—deep breath out—beep—deep breath in—the needle (perhaps that was what it was) pulled away—deep breath out—Dean wrapped another hand around theirs—deep breath in—beep—deep breath out—the pain took him away from reality.
He let himself relax into a deep sleep—beep.
x x x
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He was still. The white sheets covered the needle-ridden arms, the slight bruising surrounding the open wounds; machines stuck by his bedside as if he were glued to them; pale, white skin shone under the white light on his body, and directed all attention to the dark bags under his eyes; the chest rose and fell in a stuck pattern, signified by the beeping, the constant beeping that haunted Dean wherever he went; a piece of cloth stuck to his head was oozing onto the stale pillow, and Dean would make sure it wasn't blood.
They told him he would be awake by then. They told him it would only take a few hours for the medicine to bring him back. It had been almost ten hours, and Cas still laid on the bed with his eyes shut, his mouth closed, his head rolled to one side. For the most part, Dean kept his eyes locked on the former angel, watching every move that he would possibly make (he only made one twitch through the wait, which Dean first thought would be the start of another seizure, but it was just a twitch) and could make sure he was there when he would wake up.
He tried going to sleep. He was tired, and he knew the nurses knew that as well. Hell, the patients could probably see that he was exhausted. Test after test, news still piling in about Cas—it took a toll. Dean first rested his head on Cas's hand, feeling the faint pulse in his wrist make his veins tremble, and he would close his eyes, but part of him thought it would hurt Cas somehow, so it failed him. Another time, he leaned against the bars on Cas's bed with his arms and closed his eyes once again. But he was afraid that the doctors would have to push him out of the way to get to Cas, in case something did happen to him as he was asleep. So he didn't sleep.
Instead, he just stared at the others around the room, because there wasn't a lot to do at a hospital besides watch others suffer and smile at the same time. They all had loved ones surrounding them with flowers and balloons—"Get Well Soon!" were the words that floated above them like a taunting joker—and most were smiling and laughing about something about their day. Most of the patients were awake. They were alert, well, talking to their doctors about the treatments they'd need to get better, and that'd be it. The loved ones would kiss the patients and be content with their life.
And then there were the few that were stuck in limbo, wondering if there was any chance of survival. Dean belonged to the "we know what is wrong with your partner and they will be okay" side of the ordeal. These people had to sit by their loved ones' side and hope they would awaken sooner rather than later, in case of complications. But then there were others that had news of despair and grief. The cries would wallow every once in a great while, when a man in a white lab coat would stride up to them and give them the "your loved one is dying and there is nothing we can do about it" speech. Dean had only been there for hours, but already two beds were empty from what was a full room.
From them, there was only one group left: those left to wait and see. The doctors had no time to get to them, and they were still holding out for a miracle or two to come their way, to know that their family was safe and sound. So they would wait by the bedside and look toward the door of the room, hoping that the next doctor to come through would be theirs and theirs alone. They waited for the bearer of news to come for them. It was better than being blind at what was wrong.
He didn't know what was better: knowing the news of what was killing or torturing their loved ones, or not knowing a thing at all. Dean looked back to Cas. Then again, not having to deal with a deadly illness would be an even better blessing. He just wished a miracle of some kind would come their way, that God would actually hear a Winchester prayer or two so it could make life just a bit more bearable than the usual routine.
Dean felt a hand rest on his shoulder. For a split second, just for the one dark moment, he wanted it to be nothing but a glowing, old figure standing over him, telling him "It will be okay, My Son. I am here now to take care of My soldier." But he was not disappointed to find another old figure standing over him, glowing from the lights that shined on the ceiling (the person had something in his hands—it was on a plate). He was used to the bitter feeling of abandonment.
"How're ya holdin' up, son?" he said to Dean. Dean just scoffed as he turned back to Cas. Was he awake? No.
Dean felt the hand leave him and heard the screeching of a chair pulled next to him. Some of the patients didn't care to look up and find another visitor for the lost angel. "Oh, I'm just fine and dandy, Bobby," he replied.
Bobby sat down in the chair. "Yeah, I bet you are," sarcasm laced over the deep voice next to him made Dean smile. He saw a small plate of pie in front of his face (the cafeteria pie was not the greatest, as he had tried it already, but it was pie). "Figured you haven't eaten much since the last time I saw ya," Bobby said.
And he was right. Dean tried to go back to the garage, to get his mind off of everything that had been going on with Cas. His co-workers, including Bobby, had no idea what he was going through; he didn't want pity or any of the kind. He wanted to work on his pride and joy—Baby needed to have some kind of lovin'—and have a day to himself, away from tests and news and "It's a tumor" and something about the possibility of it being "stage 3."
But it didn't last very long.
When he first arrived at the garage, a few of the boys teased him about leaving so soon the last time they saw him. Even with the delicious purr of the engine echoing in the garage, he could hear them. "Hey, did your precious lover boy need some lovin' back home there, Dean?" "Couldn't wait to keep his hands off of him, I bet." And they'd laugh. Dean wanted to sock him in the mouth, but instead gave a fake smile and continued on his way. Bobby told the men to "knock it the hell off before I make ya" and Dean opened the door to his first love. Oh, she was still beautiful, even if she had a few specks of dirt on her old body.
Bobby was the first to ask where he'd been; it was almost over a week since being at the shop last. "What the hell have you and Cas been doing?"
Dean shrugged. "Just some housework that needed to be done," he lied. And that was it. Bobby didn't want any elaborations, didn't want to know if that was the truth or not; he just left him alone to work on his car. And what better way to pass the time than to work on his little pride and joy? Dean thought it was a great idea, and he was not going to pass up the opportunity to work on her. Pop the hood: check. Raise her up a little to get underneath: check. Open the doors for easy access into the car just in case: check. Tools, and a little something to get him through the turmoil: check.
But it worked, for some time. He needed to fix a few belts and change her oil, make sure nothing was loose under the hood, and clean the interior. And he succeeded in most of that. The belts were worn down, so they were replaced. That knocked off an hour of his time. While he was doing that, he had the oil drained from his baby, taking care of the mess that needed to be taken away. Get rid of the old oil filter, find a new washer, put together the new filter, fill the new filter—it was secondhand to him. In minutes, that would be done. If he really chose to, he could take up a project that would last the entire day on his one and only, but he instead wiped his hands as clean as they could get with the rag in his pocket and started to lower her down.
He'd have to check things under the hood. Crack open her mind, that's what he—that's what he'd say to Sam when he was going to fix her. "See, it's like the heart and soul, Sammy. You gotta be gentle and give it plenty of love throughout the years, and it'll remember all of it, so when you go back, you can just fix it all over again. Nothing's broken." But that couldn't be fixed, he thought, as he stared down the inside of the hood. He couldn't just crack open Cas's hood and take a few tools to get rid of the thing eating his mind to the core. A car could be fixed with a few tools and basic knowledge. You could dig your hands inside and know what you were dealing with if something happened. Whatever was broken could be restored to perfection again. But Cas couldn't. Even if he were to be fixed, would it be perfect? Nothing was simple procedure; everything had to be delicate and handled with care, or else the interior wouldn't be the same. The engine won't run if—
Clank! Crash! Tink!
Bolts and screws scattered across the garage in the middle of the junkyard. Socket wrenches and hammers rested near the toolboxes against the walls, dents visible on the scrap metal that kept the place above ground, and little bolts rested nearby. One toolbox was ripped apart from the seams, with a variety of tools kicked across the ground and thrown in various parts of the room, some even resting on top of the wooden benches. Stools were knocked over, tires laid flat against the dirt—his friends inside the shop didn't dare go near him. They tried, but one got hit with the socket wrench, and another was told to hit Dean until he was coughing up blood. They just stood and watched as all Dean could do was stand next to his pride and joy, wondering where life had gone wrong.
Once Bobby was informed, the whole garage brought their attention to the two men wrapped in the tense air. "Dean, what in the hell are you doing!" Bobby yelled to him. He wouldn't understand. He would—Dean could feel the hammer in his hands being ripped from him, the glass still glittering down from his car (which he'd apologize to later in the day), but Dean needed something, anything. He felt all that rage inside of him, all the anguish he was being put through, and no one understood. Bobby was the only thing that stood in his way, pushing him against the car to try and stop him. "Dean!" He yelled again.
Dean had enough. "Bobby, let me go!" He tried to swing his way out, but Bobby pushed him against her more.
"Not until—"
"Until I what, huh? Until I hear that he's going to be okay? Well what if he's not!" Bobby just stared at him.
"What are you talking about?" And Dean pushed against him with everything he had, finally feeling free again from the hold.
"It's Cas, Bobby! He's—"
So he gave himself credit in trying. It lasted a solid hour and some minutes before he cracked and let his frustration out. He tried to occupy his mind with his baby still resting in the garage, but Dean could only see Cas wrapped up in wires, collapsing between the sheets of their bed because of some tumor. "It's a tumor"—it didn't help that the doctor's voice was echoing through his mind and making sure Dean knew what was starting the breakdown of his life. The only thing that did help was the food and alcohol Bobby had for him so he could calm down. And even then, it didn't help. "It's a tumor" still rang through the silence every time.
Dean stared down at the pie in his hands. If it were any other time, he would be shoving every bit of it down his throat and loving all it had to offer. It would probably taste the same as it had days ago when he went to get pie ("Do not get a lot of it, Dean") from the same cafeteria, but something about it turned him away from the morsel. "I'm not hungry," Dean whispered, letting the plate rest in his hands and push toward Bobby next to him.
"The hell you aren't," Bobby grumbled. Dean's stomach had impeccable timing; the moment those words rang through the air, it growled. Bobby just stared at him as the pie floated between them. "He's gonna think you are sick because of him."
Dean glanced at the man on the bed. He'd hate that. Cas probably already felt as though he was a burden—it was no one's fault but God's, and neither of them would say that to each other. Dean's arm moved back to his lap; the pie teased him. He poked the pie with the little plastic fork on the plate, feeling the apple insides stabbed by the prongs. He was sure it would taste the same as it had days ago, just when Cas was starting to get little treatments, when there was no way to go but up.
A chunk of the pie sliced away and stuck to the fork. Little flakes shook off onto the plate, and a few sprinkled on his pants. He was sure that if Cas were to wake up, he'd tease him about how much of a mess he was making. He usually did. "Aren't you supposed to eat with your mouth closed?" A small smile crept onto his face as he stared down at the delicious morsel full of everything God Himself found perfect in the world. It was His one creation that couldn't be tainted with things like tumors and cancer.
Bobby leaned forward; Dean stared down at his fork. "He'll pull through," Bobby remarked, comforting Dean with his hand on his arm. Dean's muscles flexed at the touch, as though they were leaning toward the sudden warmth. His hand felt heavy as he brought the food to his mouth; it was shaking. He would not break down there, not then. Open the mouth, let the food rest against the tongue, close the mouth, chew.
It tasted like apples and cinnamon—Heaven.
x x x
Blue eyes stared up at the bright light above. The machines still whirred and whizzed, beeped and bumped through the night. His head pounded against his skull, and he could feel the cloth taped to the back, but he could tolerate the pain. He just wondered where he was; it was too dark beyond his light. The other patients were sleeping under their darkened lights, and his was glowing stronger and stronger as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Perhaps he could reach up and get rid of it. That would burn, he thought, and his limbs were too tired to move anyway. The drugs, maybe; he hated medicine.
He turned his head. Dean, he thought, as a figure rested in a chair beside him. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his head leaning against his own shoulder, and the light snore Cas always heard in the bed was being made. He wondered how Dean could possibly be there after visiting hours (seeing as how the other visitors were gone). Perhaps the doctors were kind enough to let him stay—or perhaps Dean had a word or two with a doctor and that was why he had some slight bruising under his eye.
Cas frowned. He felt—ashamed? Here was Dean, someone that worked hard for all his life, to try and have some kind of normal life the best that he could, and there he was, stuck inside a hospital because someone he cared for was stuck there as well. Maybe it was more of borderline guilt, given that it was his fault that Dean was there in the first place. In any case, Cas wished nothing but the greater good for Dean Winchester, and there he was, getting nothing but torture he once escaped.
Cas let his hand slide off the bed in order to reach out to Dean, but he stopped. What would they talk about when he woke up? What about the others in the room that could eavesdrop on their conversation? And for him to see the worry in Dean's eyes again? He retreated. Dean needed to rest; he needed peace. And Cas couldn't take that away from him, not after taking so much from him already.
Blue eyes disappeared from the world again.
x x x
Day five after the biopsy. Dean needed to keep track.
x x x
They were outside. The nurses thought the fresh air would do him some good, instead of being "stuck inside a stuffy hospital for a little while longer." It was a nice day outside, that was something to be happy for, they supposed. There were white clouds rolling by in the sky, mixed with the dark ominous clouds that called for a thunderstorm later in the day; the sun beamed down on the two of them, one sweating from the rays, and the other welcoming the light; trees rustled from the calming breeze rolling through, passing by, just like the patients that walked by every once in a while as they sat on the bench near the flowerbeds. Cas chose the spot; Dean would've preferred the shade under the trees. "I am not strong enough to make it over there. I am sorry," Cas told him. So Dean managed to agree to disagree for a change.
They looked out at the little junction ahead of them. Sure, there were patients walking around—some with doctors and nurses on their arms (Sid wanted to stay with Cas because he was "afraid Cas will pass out because of his weak system", but Dean put a stop to that so they could have some kind of privacy), but it was still a gorgeous hospital. The lawn was well kept, the architecture looked as though the hospital was built in the Renaissance, and there were little stone walkways patients could use to get around. The only reason Dean knew there was a park nearby was because of the children screaming about from time to time.
He looked over at the frail patient. He managed to argue his way to get Cas to wear some of his clothes for a change, instead of that good for nothing gown. Dr. Heman frowned at the request. "He will think he is going home, Mr. Winchester. We do not want to bring his hopes up for nothing."
"I hardly doubt he thinks he's going home with a piece of fabric taped to his head, and a bunch of needles pricking his arms," was Dean's rebuttal. Sophia just handed Cas the clothing (who found them unfamiliar for a minute, because of how he was used to the gown) and told him he was going outside. Cas had to look at Dean for permission, to which he threw a thumbs up for the guy. A small smile made Dean smile.
So it was why Cas was wearing a pair of dark jeans with a loose fitting plaid shirt. Some of the patients that walked by eyed him with indifference and malice, since they had to walk around bare naked in a gown while he could wear something refreshing. He was still attached to the dripping IV bag that had to roll around wherever he went, and there was still that damn cloth on the back of his head (Dean's fingers would sometimes find themselves brushing over the spot, feeling the soft liquid come out from the wound), but at least he looked okay, for the most part.
It was "for the most part" because he was still pale, still bruised on his arms, still wrapped with medical badges on his wrists, and he looked so very weak. And Dean knew how weak he was. As they got him out of bed to get him ready for the small journey outside, Cas could barely stand on his own. They offered a wheelchair, but Dean wrapped his arm around his partner and told him he'd be there when he would fall. Cas scoffed at the reference, understanding it completely. At least Dean thought it was cute.
Even the walk down the hallway proved to be one of the biggest challenges for the fallen angel—and he'd been through Hell and back. He would bump into Dean from time to time (which he'd apologize for, but Dean told him to stop), take small steps instead of his normal strides, as if he were a hot shot, and Dean had to keep him stable as he walked just to get him to the door.
So it was probably a good idea that they chose the bench closest to the hospital doors instead of walking toward the tree. Perhaps Cas wouldn't had made it that far anyway. He looked over at Cas, who was looking at everything around. "This is nice, yeah?" he commented.
Cas nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "it is nice to be outside than inside there."
"Well you gotta get some kind of fresh air. How are you supposed to get better when you are constantly breathing in someone else's sickness?" Dean was trying to make light of the situation, which did gather a small shrug from the fallen angel. It was something, he thought.
"I do not feel as though I am dying," he looked over at Dean. How was he supposed to respond? Cas sighed. "But perhaps it is better to have some fresh air than the air I am accustomed to here."
Dean let his hand rest on top of Cas's, allowing their hands to find some solace on the bench. Cas glanced down at the two conjoined hands and slightly moved; Dean just let his fingers slightly wrap around. "You're going to be okay, Cas."
"And you are sure of this?" asked Cas, who normally never felt the need to be unsure of something. Dean nodded.
"Of course. When haven't you pulled through?" Well—minus the times Cas died, it was a slim few times.
"Then," Dean felt a head lean against his shoulder; he knew what was coming. He just didn't have the heart to own up to it yet, but it still needed to be heard. "When are we able to go home?"
We, Dean thought. It struck a chord. It wasn't just Cas that was stuck in the hospital; Dean was, too. Their profound bond, slightly coiling against the other, and there was nothing the two of them wanted to do to stop it from happening. Dean was okay with being at the hospital; he'd rather see him get better. Cas, maybe not, but Dean had nowhere else to go, no one left to turn to; he was okay with his fallen angel.
Dean closed his eyes and bent his head forward. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. I promise." Dean could've sworn he heard a small growl come from Cas, but when he peeked out to his partner, he could see the joy glimmer in his eyes.
Hope.
x x x
They were not together. Instead, Dean was home, eight days after the procedure, three days after his own promise about home.
The doctors told him that Cas would have to undergo some MRI again, and then another test that was unfamiliar to Dean, so he'd probably be "better off at home than sitting in the lobby with sick patients." When Dean first said no, that he'd stay, Cas felt guilty for keeping Dean away from everything. "Dean," the stern voice called out to the former hunter over the doctors hovering over him. The hunter just stared at those blue eyes, the one thing that seemed to stay as healthy as could be. "You need rest."
The doctors were pushed away by Dean, who was standing by the door trying to be forced out of the room, and he went right to the bedside. "Yeah? And what happens if something happens to you?"
Cas acknowledged the accusation. "I believe the worst has already happened."
Set up the moment, just right.
Dean was nervous.
"Hey, I—I need to talk to you about something."
Yes, nervous. He always bent his head when he didn't want to talk.
"What is it, Dean?"
Green eyes looked back.
"You have to stay in the hospital a bit longer."
"Why?"
Irritation, they both know.
"So you can get better, why the hell else would you be in here?"
"I don't know, I never asked to come into this place."
More irritation, then they closed in on the inciting incident.
"Cas, would you just shut up and listen! You have a tumor, for God's sake!"
"Tumor?"
A firework goes off; set the stage, climax.
He was now angry.
"Yes! A tumor! Do you know what that is? Or are you still so damn oblivious to everything?"
"Cancer."
A slight pause, tension fills the air.
"Yes."
Another pause, and then a resolution.
"So, I am dying."
"I will be okay," Cas whispered.
But Dean would not let the silence fall so easily. "Because you know so much about what's wrong with you," Dean quickly snapped back. It was soon a regret he would have, seeing the look of desperation on the other's face. "Cas," his voice was full of vexation. Dean leaned against the bars of the bed and leaned forward, head bent down. Only Cas could see the utter frustration in his face, contemplating on what to do. Cas frowned. He sluggishly raised his hand to grace Dean's arm, who turned his attention to the hand instead of the person and frowned.
"I will be okay," Dean felt Cas's hand drop back to the bed. He sighed; he knew he'd be okay. It wasn't like the angel was going under the knife that day. Dean let one of his hands reach out and touch faith, then stared down at the beaten man under the thin sheets. Dean was torn, sure, but he really hadn't slept in days. Cas was probably more worried about Dean's health than his own (some profound bond, he thought), and the guy really didn't need more to worry about.
So he left.
Everything was still in all the places they had left it when he first arrived, still where life had come to reside, and he found it all so unfamiliar. Dishes that were left in the sink were more than likely one of the reasons why the room smelled horrible; blankets over the couch for when Cas took a nap unraveled toward the floor; left out bread and other foods were rotting and molding under the hot sun; dust started to accumulate in places left untouched by the interim of life. He expected to see Cas in the kitchen, staring out the window, or maybe coming out of the bedroom—perhaps he would be sitting on the couch watching TV—and he'd turn his head around and say, "Hello, Dean."
But no one was there to greet him when he walked through the somewhat chipped door of their home, when he gently swayed and leaned against the banisters next to the door. He didn't remember getting punched, but his jaw hurt. Oh well, he thought. Still, no one was there when he was lying on the bed a couple hours later, either, when he was staring up at the ceiling. This familiar room of his, so forgotten in the span of just a few days, and there he was. It felt wrong to be in the room just by himself. Cas was always there, always sleeping before him (or he'd manage to see his partner sitting awake, waiting for him to fall asleep instead). He had set his alarm for some time in the early morning—he would not be kept away from the hospital that easily, he thought—and laid his head on the sweet release he called his pillow (it was sheets balled up next to his head).
He tried to sleep. God knows he needed the sleep. And when he'd wake up, everything would be "fine", just like the doctors told him as he was walking away. Fine, Dean thought. Fine was not in the Winchester dictionary. If they were to look it up, it'd just be a picture of a grave with no headstone to accompany it in the graveyard. So he glanced at the clock, which read 2:03 P.M. (he thought he left the hospital around 8 in the morning), before shutting his eyes to rest. He took a deep breath in, and let it out the next few seconds after that. He even tried to get comfortable—he tossed and turned until he realized that lying on his back would do the trick—and tried to dream of something, anything.
But there was nothing he could do. He was constantly reminded of the house being empty. The room was cold. He was always so warm when he lied in the bed, and he probably guessed it was because of Cas's body heat that kept him warm at night. It wasn't like the man was a furnace, but he wondered how he slept at night without someone there next to him like that. He didn't even sleep that well with Lisa or Cassie. He figured it was just the angel's bond with him. The wind outside made not a sound. Usually, Cas did this little snoring bit during the night that would always wake Dean up, but Dean wouldn't mind. He'd even crack a few jokes to Cas, which would always result in obliviousness: "I do not make sounds when I sleep, Dean." The empty space next to him made him realize just how hard it was to sleep, and it was even harder to know that his partner in a hospital bed might have been thinking the same thing. But at least Cas didn't move his arm to that once taken spot to know that there was something missing.
Dean did, however, and it took him a few seconds to register that Cas would not be in bed that night. His arm slightly swooped over to Cas's side of the bed—his partner liked to be on the side farther away from the door, since Dean liked to stay up later than usual—and reached out for nothing but air. Sometimes, Dean's hand would just graze Cas's back on accident, or on purpose to really irritate Cas ("Dean I wish to sleep. Stop touching me"). Other times, Cas would curl next to Dean in the slightest way possible, and he would wake up with his arm asleep, because Cas wouldn't realize he was lying on his arm (which would prompt a casual, "I am sorry for causing discomfort to your arm, Dean"). But Dean wouldn't mind.
He turned his head on the bed and opened his eyes. An empty space, just like he felt, just as he pictured it in his mind. It was weird seeing the wall on the other side. And he didn't know how long he stared out at that plain wall near the bathroom, but he knew he tapped against the mattress with his fingertips. He could feel the cold sheets shiver against his arms, giving him goosebumps from the ghostly cold, and he pulled the sheets over his body more. He could see Cas's outline on the bed—sometimes he'd sleep on his side and look like a child, and other times he'd sleep on his stomach and look so peaceful. Dean wondered how he was doing sleeping on his back for the first time in his life.
He grabbed a bit of the sheets underneath him and closed his eyes. It broke him that Cas was going through something as terrible as cancer, and yet there he was at home, resting on their bed without a care in the world, without a tumor stuck inside his head that was eating the life away. He opened his eyes, hoping it was all a dream, but only the plain white wall welcomed him back.
Dean had to turn away. He couldn't look at that unfamiliar wall of theirs anymore. He turned his head toward the ceiling again, eyes slowly drooping shut. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed a little longer, everything would be back to normal. Cas would be lying on his arm, the sun would be out in the morning, and Dean would be getting ready for work—just like any other day. His hand rubbed against the empty sheets, imagining that there Cas was, sleeping peace when the day was done. He would be on his stomach that night, head cocked toward Dean so he could wake up with those bright blue eyes of his to welcome another day. Cas would never go to bed without some clothing on, so he could feel the slim fabric of a casual white t-shirt roll on his fingertips.
Dean sighed. He seemed pathetic. He didn't think he could have his strong foundation, that massive wall that kept all these emotions inside torn down. He could feel his heart clenching and releasing all sorts of pain with every little detail that ran through his mind, and he could see Cas in the hospital, hooked up to the wires and sitting with his hands in his lap, patiently waiting for good news to come his way. And all Dean could do was comfort him when bad news kept coming and coming into their lives. Even when Cas slept, all he could do was watch over his partner as though he were a guardian angel, waiting for God's word to say, "It's okay. I'll take care of him from here."
It almost worked. He almost made it to a dream. He could feel it at his fingertips, just itching for some kind of relief. He tilted his head some direction (didn't matter which way), let one of his hands rest on the bed while the other felt his chest rise and fall in a certain pattern, and he was there. He could see Cas—healthy, stable, fighting, badass Cas—standing far away from him. Sam was there, Bobby was there…yeah, definitely a dream, he thought. And he was walking toward them, trying to get as far away from reality as possible.
It was just a few more steps that he needed to get to that healthy lifestyle, to the normality he was used to—whatever normal was to the team. But then his hand started to shake against the bed, as though a tremor was rocking through the mattress. And he was being ripped away from the three men standing in one spot to one man lying on a bed, twisting in agony and turning in different directions. His head would snap left and right, his eyes sometimes staring into Dean's own, his hands bent—
Dean was jolted from his sleep. He couldn't breathe without taking in large gasps of air. He was so afraid, so afraid that he was losing him again, and he couldn't do it. He looked down at his hands and felt nothing again, but every time he blinked, he could see Cas shaking, his silent cries screaming:
"Help me."
x x x
Oncology—big bold letters above their heads screamed "you're here because of something called cancer." Little moans and groans came and went in the blink of an eye, some even vomiting up whatever was entering (leaving, perhaps?) their bodies. Some slept in odd positions to actually rest up; others stared out to nothing but the people around them to wonder how they got there, wonder who brought them there in the first place. Their ages did not matter. Some were young, very young, too young to understand what cancer was, and others were old, too old to realize that their time was slowly coming to a close with a reaper standing over them, looking at their watches every once in a while.
Cas understood its implications, understood that cancer would rip apart a lifestyle in the matter of minutes. He had seen it all throughout time and space, and still knew that it was only a matter of days before time would either cease to exist or would be a blessing. For most, it would wither away. For the select few—and he hoped the archangel that plagued him would reconsider—time would be meaningful again. There would be no select countdown to solidify imminent despair; a miracle would be performed and all would be well.
The doctors around—"Oncologists", who specialize in cancer, which every doctor should at least have some knowledge of treatment and care—would talk about different "stages", as if it were a cycle, like life. Some were "Stage 1", and they seemed to be a little weary, but they were the happiest patients in the ward. Others were "Stage 2", which were a little more afraid of falling into the desolate stage of death, but still very optimistic. Then a little over a dozen of them were "Stage 3"—Cas's stage—the ones that seemed as though they were already dead, but the select few that were "Stage 4" looked at them as though they hadn't a clue what death meant.
A new needle was wrapped around his arm, spiraling to a new machine that rested next to him. They called it "chemotherapy", something that would help with the healing process of the tumor. It was his first day. Others in the room probably were on their thirds and fourths, maybe tenth time or twentieth. It did not sit well with him; why did it take so long for the tumor to be rid of? Could they just not open his head to get rid of it? He was not complaining about the treatment, though; his head was not hurting, and he was not feeling any different from the medicine. It was a good day.
The red-headed nurse—Sophia was her name, he knew he would remember—was sitting next to him with a chart in hand. He asked her why she was still his nurse, considering how she was an ER nurse, not an oncology nurse, but she just smiled. "What, do you wish to rid of me so soon? Someone has to look out for you." He said nothing more on the matter. He figured Sid would still be his doctor (he figured right). She would write down different numbers and vitals as the process continued, and every once in a while she'd smile and ask how he was feeling. "I am fine," he would reply. And she would smile more and write down something else.
"I'm glad you feel fine. Some patients have a tough time with the chemotherapy," she noted. He knew this. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would hear the moaning and groaning from some of them, and others would be coughing up whatever was in their systems. He figured it would happen to him. "How does your head feel?"
Cas brought a hand up to the back of his skull. There was a small cloth still over the wound, and there was still some oozing, which Dean deemed "gross" because it apparently looked gross. "It is better," he said. He could hardly feel the pain, in all actuality. Medicine worked wonders, even if he hated it from time to time.
She smiled. "Good," and back to writing she went. She hardly said a word after that—he'd just hear the scribbling of her notes against the paper, the little humming from the machine, and the disgusting painful sounds from the other side of the room. And when she did finally go to another patient, either in the room or not, she rested the chart on the small table full of empty pudding cups—Dean—and walked away. Simple as that, he thought. So he turned away and brought his attention to Dean, who was flipping through some magazine he found in the lobby.
He whistled. "Now that is a car," Dean noted. His green eyes peered up at the blue ones, which were just staring at him, and blinked. "What?" Cas shook his head. It was nothing, he wanted to say, but the incredulous look on his face was enough. Dean flipped another page. "You feelin' okay?"
It was always that question day in and day out: "How are you feeling?" "How are you today?" "And how are we doing on this day?" Were they expecting him to say anything different? But Cas nodded anyway. "I am content," he replied. Dean gave a little nod of his head.
"Good," he remarked, glancing back to the magazine. "That's good, then." He muttered, scanning the page. Another small whistle came from his lips. "Man, if the interior had been white," he thought to himself, turning to another page. Cas understood Dean's wish to leave the hospital—and he only wanted to leave. But he'd have to get better first, and who knew how long it would take.
What he did know was the chemotherapy going through his body. Leaning back into the bed once more, Cas sank into his pillow on the bed and closed his eyes. They said it would be an hour before the entire process would be complete. But he could already feel the healing process of life surge through his body and veins, soul and heart. He'd be okay.
x x x
He was screaming. Help him, save him, God knew he needed all the support he could find. All those machines hooked up to his arms, head, legs, some blankets that were wrapped around his hands and feet—something about preserving the nails so they are not damaged—and all the fallen angel could do was scream. There were pain medications labeled on the hooks above him, showing that yes, this man was getting enough treatment to ward off the pain, but to him, it wasn't enough. The headaches were still there; the truth was still lodged inside his mind, wanting to show the world its existence by causing pain.
Dean sat with him the whole time, hearing the Enochian cursing (he guessed it was Enochian, but it could have been Hebrew, for all he knew) under the angel's breath. He held onto his hand to somehow help ease the pain, but it didn't matter. His own hand was being crushed under the weight of what God deemed his soldier years and years ago, and it was evident that the medication prescribed wasn't doing a damn thing. But what else could he do? Pray? Like God would hear anything Dean would say at this point in time.
The others inside the room paid no attention. They had all been through it; they all knew the consequences. They stared with their doe eyes to the ground and listened to a dying man curse out the names of his brothers and comrades on the battlefield, while they, too, struggled to fight a war against themselves. Dean remembered the transfer ("He needs to be taken up to the Cancer unit for a short time. Don't worry, they'll take good care of you up there.") and remembered the girl in the last room talk about her father ("There is no reason to give up hope. The bad things happen to those that do no wrong, but it's up to us to right them somehow. I only wish he'd wake up.") as he sat with his partner.
Another scream, another groan—the nurses warned him of this. "There may be some moderate to severe pain that you will feel, and that is completely normal." None of the other patients were having that kind of difficulty to survive; they just looked pale and frail, nothing like how the screaming man looked. Some had lost their hair, others were losing it as they sat at their machines and in their beds. First round of chemotherapy was at hand for the two new to the ward, but the results of the test would take nearly a week before showing signs of improvement—but Dean knew there would be none. When did good news ever come to the Winchesters?
Dean moved onto the bed with him, pushing aside the balled up sheets he wasn't using. He didn't know if he should say anything, and if he did, what could be said? "Hey, I hope you feel better"? Dean frowned, looking down at the curled up soldier scream out in agony. He was not going to move, and Dean was not going to have a comfortable time on the bed (especially with the bar right against his back), but he was not going anywhere. Not when it hurt, not when he was there for everything else. His arm wrapped around the top of Cas, and his other hand rested against his back. Cas's back leaned into the touch, aching for something to help him—but nothing was there.
"It—It—hurts—" his breaths were rocky, and Dean could feel his whole body trembling, as though he was having another seizure. It was not that, though; it was not as bad as that. At least he had some composure in the hospital bed. Cas gripped his hand again, praying to God and all the angels that could and would hear him that it would all go away. And Dean would join. Just make it all go away, he thought. Help him. Save him, do something, anything.
But all Dean could do was hold onto Cas as he held on for the life he chose to have.
x x x
Brrrrrrrring.
Brrrrrrrring.
Brrrrrrrring.
Brrrrrrrring.
Click.
"It's Sam. Leave a message."
Beeeeeeep.
"I don't know what to do, Sammy. It's been two weeks and I-I don't…I don't know what else to do."
x x x
Scattered little hairs stood out against the white sheets. Dean's heart wrenched.
x x x
"Now, I want you to just relax, Castiel," Sophia told him. How could he, though? His whole body felt like it was on fire, yet he was shivering from the cold air circulating around him. Every time he moved, hair would float down on his shoulders and stay there, possibly sticking into his neck when he moved it again. He would feel the need to vomit again, constantly sitting over that blue bowl with the need to upchuck the pudding they gave him every day (Dean would force him to eat, even if he wanted the pudding to himself). And he swore his arms and legs were shaking, that only he knew that he was having a seizure. But Sophia stayed calm and collected, still staring down at that chart of theirs.
He felt drowsy. Ever since the chemotherapy first started, he wanted nothing to do with life; he just wanted to sleep. It irritated Dean ("Come on, Cas, we gotta get you doing something here") and it even irritated himself ("Why won't you let me sleep?"), but he couldn't help that the medicine was taking its toll on his body. So he let his eyes slip shut. Jimmy wouldn't want this, would he? He'd probably ask Cas to stop what he was doing and let him go. Probably—there was no sure thing. Then, he felt a slight nudge on his arm, and he slowly came back to reality.
"Castiel, I need you to stay awake for me. I need to know you'll be okay to discharge. You want to go home, don't you?" Home, he thought. He missed his bed. The beds at the hospital were okay, but they were nothing like his bed, nothing like the bed he had to share with Dean. It was like sleeping on a cloud, his cloud, his old cloud—Dean never could stand the bed, but he made compromises. Cas rolled his head to look at Sophia, who had a bit of concern on her face; he wanted to go home. He wanted to be there. So he nodded, confirming that he'd be okay. She gave a little smile. "Now, how are you feeling?"
Another survey; they were the same thing over and over again. They did that every day since the first round of chemotherapy. 'How are you feeling?' 'Does your head feel better or worse?' 'When was the last time you have vomited?' 'Let's check the strength you have.' And he'd ramble off the answers as though he knew them off the back of his hand. She'd write them down, scribble down everything she saw in his face, but it was as though she knew he wasn't lying to her; he really did feel fine and terrible at the same time.
"I am okay."
Scribble.
"Does your head feel better or worse?"
"Better."
Scribble.
"When was the last time you have vomited?"
"Perhaps around 3. What time is it?"
She looked down at the watch around her wrist.
"It's 9:30 P.M."
"Yes, 3 P.M. seems right."
Scribble.
"Well, let's check your strength, Castiel. Hold out your hands."
All he had to do was roll his hands over and hold up his palms. She'd place a few fingers in his palm, and she'd ask: "Can you squeeze them?" And of course, it wasn't any different—the strength was still there. He used enough to please her; he wasn't that tired. She smiled and gave her approval. "Very good, Castiel. No change," she scribbled it down on the paper, her hand quickly writing whatever it was she needed to write. Cas looked around the room; fallen eyes looked at him.
"Is there anything else you need from me?" As much as he wanted to say "please leave I don't want to see you", she had done nothing wrong. Dean talked about it with him before: "You're going to seem like a total dick sometimes, but it's just the medicine, alright? So don't apologize all the time." He was certain he apologized to Dean and Bobby numerous times with the fuming rebuttals he used, but they thought nothing of it. Bobby did get angry the first time ("What the hell did you say to me?") but Dean shrugged the comments away.
She leaned back in her chair. There was something else. There always was. "Actually, yes, just one final question. I need to test something before we get you home. Is that okay with you?" He nodded.
"It is alright." She pursed her lips.
"It may take a little longer than the other questions, but you need to stay awake for me. You are not tired, are you?" Of course he was. That was a stupid question, and he was not in the mood for stupid questions—but he needed to do what he could to get home.
"I am feeling better," he said to her. She did nothing in response but relax in her chair. He felt a little uneasy with her staring at him, but he was sure she was trying to think of the question she needed to ask. So he let his head roll to the window some several feet away from the bed (he hated being in the middle of the room, because he was far from each door beside him) and glanced at Dean standing with the doctor—Sid?—still with that same concern on his face. Why wasn't he home? He went home before; he left Cas despite their promise. Then again, Cas wanted him to go home, right?
He couldn't remember.
"You seem very attached to Dean outside," he heard her say. He rolled his head back to her, noticing the same smile still stuck to her face. He slowly blinked. Cas wanted to yawn, but she would write that down on her chart.
"Yes, we have a profound bond," he said to her. Her smile stayed. He was surprised. Whenever he said that to Dean's friends, they just stared at him as if they didn't know what he was talking about, while Dean was pushing him away from them and laughing about how he didn't know what he was talking about.
"Is that so?" She inquired. He was sure he had a smile on his face, but he felt a little numb in different places, so he wasn't so sure. She leaned forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, hands on her face; she looked like a little child. "You two must live together, then, right?"
Cas nodded again. "Of course."
She beamed. "Then, I would love to hear about your home. Can you do that for me, Castiel?"
He wanted to refuse; it was their home after all. It was their secret, the small secret they kept from everyone else. No one outside of their family would know where they lived. It was just them, and they were perfectly fine with it. "What would you like to know?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Well, maybe you can tell me what it looks like? That's all. You can close your eyes if you need to envision it, Castiel."
He nodded, and his eyes fluttered shut. "Then I will tell you of our home."
x x x
Dean's leg started to bounce, and he needed to wipe his mouth; he was getting nervous. What if Cas got something wrong? What if the nurse thought he needed to stay another week? The doctors gathered him outside the room that day to tell him of the possibility of Cas being discharged in a few days-a few days, almost after two and a half weeks of pain and suffering-but they told him to not give him false hope. "Castiel needs to understand that if he is not well enough to leave, then he cannot leave." And, boy, was that hell to tell Cas.
"What do you mean I will not go home?" Dean felt trapped in the angel's gaze, the anger seeping from his eyes.
"If you aren't doing well, you'll just need to be kept a little longer."
"I wish to go home," Cas quickly retorted. He was acting like a child, which was normal, according to the doctors telling him about the chemotherapy and tumor.
"Soon, alright? Just fight—you know how to do that," Dean regretted saying that, but it didn't seem to upset Cas too much; he was content.
Sid stood next to Dean. "What is she doing?" Dean muttered to the doctor, who was going through different MRI scans and charts for Cas. Dean couldn't tell you what was on them; he tried to understand, but medicine went over his head.
Sid glanced up for only a moment. "She is giving him a memory test, to make sure if the chemotherapy is altering anything," he grasped a scan of what appeared to be Cas's brain, to which he scanned it over. His brows furrowed. "Or, rather, the tumor." Dean turned to him.
"Is that bad?" Sid shook his head.
"Not necessarily." Which, according to the Winchester lifestyle, usually always meant yes. Dean sighed.
"Do you mind if I go and listen in?" Sid slid the slide away, contemplating for only a brief second or two before deciding.
"I don't see any harm. You can go ahead in," and Dean would've given no thought but charging in, but Sid saw it, holding him back for a moment. "but try not to attract attention from him. He needs to pass the test without any help, and if he looks at you," Dean looked back into the room, watching Cas stare at the woman in the chair, saying more and more of his story. "there could be a chance of remembering something he had a hard time recollecting," Of course, Dean thought. That's how it usually happened.
Dean nodded, understanding what could happen. "I will be outside the entire time, so if you wish to come back," Sid went back to his file, resting it on the tray next to the window. Dean breathed in and out. His hand rested on the silver handle of the door. It felt heavy. He gently pushed down on it, feeling the locks clicking away. Then he slowly pushed the door open; he could hear Cas talking about them. And when he poked his head in, only she glanced at his presence; Cas seemed to be focused on the story itself.
Quickly and quietly, the door shut behind him, and he tiptoed behind a curtain near the bed with another patient. He looked down at the little girl sleeping in the bed; she looked worse. He wondered if that was the road Cas would go down. But Dean just sat down in the empty chair and listened in. "Just close your eyes, Castiel, and let me in on a tour of your home." Dean could just imagine Cas's eyes closed, seeing everything right in front of him; just the spark of hope he still clung onto still there. Dean closed his eyes. Home, he thought.
He didn't have to open his eyes to know he was home. He could feel the dirt road under his bare feet—he personally found walking around with bare feet a little treat to himself, so he could be closer to nature—and could see the line of trees travel to their home. Theirs, he thought, because it was theirs. It had always been theirs, and it was nothing more. He could look up at the sky and know that the stars above were only theirs; the stars weren't visible in the nearest city, not with all the lights to blind the wicked. And he knew the sun would be clear in the blue sky right then, casting down the shadows of the forest nearby.
Finally, home. He had missed it. He could see the wooden cabin near. It was built by the two of them, and while it wasn't in the greatest shape, they always said it was a roof over their head. And they could not argue with that. There were holes in a few of the walls, the door looked atrocious, the windows were a little banged up from the harsh weather in recent times, but it was away from civilization. It was what they wanted.
"It sounds beautiful," they heard the nurse comment on the image. Dean could hear Cas hum in agreement, but he knew what part was missing:
"Just you and me, Cas. I'm…tired." He remembered that day, on their final hunt. Dean would look to his partner, trying to catch his breath, and life couldn't get much better than that. They stopped another run with the apocalypse, another person trying to end the world—what was with everyone's obsession with ending the world? He didn't know. But it was raining that night, and the whole team looked exhausted. It had to be said.
Dean heard Cas continue.
He saw the Impala still parked outside of the home, still sitting there with the intention it'll run with the wind. No matter what, it will never go away. The thing was cherished, and still is cherished, no matter what state, city, or country (god forbid one wanted to go to Mexico or Canada) it was in. It still shined under the bright sun, still looked as gorgeous as ever, and it was still part of the family (Dean just smiled at the mental image; he knew Cas would love that car eventually). Through it all, he smelled the familiarity of the air around. He's always loved the fresh air around, the cool air swirling around him as though he was flying. The pollen sometimes irritated him, and the flowers looked rather dead on some days, but he wouldn't change the scenery. He was used to the city, to everywhere else, but that was beauty untouched; no demons tainted it.
At night, the trees would whisper nothing but quiet solace. It was always calm and soothing at night, as though the night watchmen were giving them reason to rest with ease on their minds and calamity in their hearts. Some days were vicious, especially with the weather—it was why the windows were scratched. The wind would knock some of the branches into the windows, create the loudest thundering noise, and the two inside the home would still be afraid. He hated storms, but it was easier to deal with when there was another watching over him. He took a step forward, but he felt guilty that it was the forest screaming in agony when it's treated him with such pleasure. Step by step, crack after crack, he could hear the silent screams echo in his mind, cursing him until the day he died.
The wooden steps were beaten up and most likely rotting away, but the new finish on the porch was easy to step on. There was no chance to get a splinter, and the nice coat of glaze made the place stand out more. He promised to build something so the two of them could sit on the porch—perhaps a bench, or a couple chairs. Something to pass the time instead of being home; he needed a hobby. The door was something he found nearby in a junkyard, thanks to Bobby—maybe Bobby had some chairs or benches to spare. He would have to check. But the door was something him and the other agreed on, when first thinking about a quiet life. They argued about location, about what kind of house it would be, whether they'd build it—but when he stormed into the junkyard for the first time, and stumbled upon the door, it was then that he knew it would be a matter of time before the house was built.
And almost six months later, the house was theirs. It was no wonder that when he opened the door, it was the same as it had ever been when he entered the house. Kitchen to the right, living room and dining room ahead of them, and there was a little office space to the left, separated by the walls of the home. He didn't have to close the door; there was no point. No one knew of their existence, and no one was going to walk into their territory.
Dean followed Cas through every step and turn. Everything was still there, all right where it should be. The nurse made no noise but the sound of a scribbling pen.
He looked around. It was home. It was quaint, dusty, and maybe it needed a little bit of cleaning here and there—the dishes in the sink would be tackled first, and the both of them would agree to clean together—but it was home. He couldn't argue. "I will come to appreciate the domestic lifestyle, Dean." The couch still rested in front of the little television on the stand, the dining room still had envelopes on the table with some little snack one of them forgot to throw away, and he just took it all in. He could never get over the fact that it was their home, that there was a place to call home. Travelling around was never the most favorite thing in his life, but it was a way to get by. But now he could rest. And he was glad.
Something wanted him to go to the bedroom, which was down a semi-narrow hallway on the left side. The light from outside trickled down the darkened hallway—he reminded himself to install some kind of light—which beckoned him to follow the light. So each step he took went closer and closer to the sun's light sparkling in the dark. The ground was always cold in the house, and he always forgot to wear some kind of socks around, but the floors always looked decent enough to not wear something. It wasn't like the two of them trekked mud into the home every single day. They couldn't complain.
"Why the bedroom, Castiel?" the nurse asked.
Cas continued on.
Each step toward the bedroom could be his last, he thought, and it made it harder and harder to walk. His legs were starting to turn into stone, his feet didn't want to tread on ice, and his head was starting to hurt. He furrowed his eyebrows and wanted to close his eyes. He was close to the bedroom, so close that he could feel the fresh air from outside blow into the room, the sun's rays warming his skin to the touch. He wanted to rest against the wall, but there was no time—at least, he felt like there was no time. The door was not opened all the way, just a small crack inviting him inside, and he gave it his all to push it open with his hand.
Their bedroom, he thought, and it wasn't long ago that it looked so much different. At that point, there was one bed, but at other points, there were two beds, which one bed would have two occupying at that point, too. "I am not rushing this, Cas. You know that. So, you know, that's why I got us two mattresses." The arrangement did not last a month (and there were little arguments between the three, wondering how sleeping situations would reside, but Sam was almost always stuck with the couch), but it was the thought that counted, he confirmed.
The nurse giggled. Dean sighed through his nose; no one was supposed to know of that story. Cas didn't seem to mind sharing, though.
He heard the door open and close—someone was home. He could guess who; it was his other half. They believed in soulmates, and the profound bond was their link. He thought he heard the person call out and say something, but he was focusing on getting better. But it was becoming a hassle. Why was it so hard? Why couldn't everything be okay for once so that the two of them could be fine? What was so wrong with fine these days? He became frustrated as his own body as he heard the clicking of the shoes scream louder and louder down the hallway. And as the bedroom door opened, he opened his eyes and gave a small smile.
"Castiel?" The nurse called out. Dean still journeyed with Cas, still imagined walked through the door and seeing him there. He knew where they were in time, when everything was starting to collapse. But something was off. Something was—different.
The pain was immense, the drilling still blinding his vision, but there was no misery in a place like home. There was no shelter for the rocks that gave him misfortune. So he smiled to the man in the doorway, motioning for the other to come sit with him—or lie with him, whichever the other preferred. He watched the man smile, walking toward him with a gleam in his eyes and a skip in his step. Soon enough, the two were lying on the bed together, staring up at the ceiling. Something about missing the other was mentioned, and their hands would join together at some point, but he didn't seem to notice at all.
Dean's eyes shot open.
x x x
Dean stood by the window of the room as the doctor and nurse conversed. His eyes couldn't tear away from Cas. "It appears that his memory is well enough, and the medicine seems to be working at an effective rate without any side effects."
But Dean shook his head. "He got it wrong," he whispered.
Sid looked up from the chart. "I beg your pardon?"
Dean knew. It didn't happen like that. He knew what day that was, where Cas was during that time, how he was feeling. Cas asked him for help. Dean. Dean noticed. And he wasn't away for long that day, either—in fact, he hadn't left the house. Cas went out on a walk on his own, and Dean was doing yardwork. And when Cas came back, he was in a daze. He knew, he understood, but Cas had forgotten. But why was it bothering him?
He turned his head to the doctor. He was going to repeat what he said, but then he realized: home. It wouldn't be occupied for another week if they knew. So he lied. "I said he didn't get anything wrong."
Sid smiled. "That's great news, Dean. He's improving, then." And Dean smiled.
"Yeah," he mumbled.
Sid brought his arm around Dean and pushed him forward. "Come. We'll start on the discharge papers."
x x x
Brrrrrrrring.
"Singer residence."
"Hey, Bobby."
"Dean?"
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, no, I'm fine, it's just—he forgot something, Bobby."
"A lot of people forget—"
"No, okay, I know he wouldn't. He wouldn't forget that."
"Well, what'd he forget?"
"Just…he forgot something that happened at home, alright? And he—"
"Boy, he's fine. He's been through a lot, you know."
"…Yeah."
"And so have you."
"At least I'm healthy, right?"
"Dean—"
"He…he's being discharged tomorrow."
"No kiddin'? Well, he must be improvin' if he's gettin' out of there."
"But what if he's not?"
"But what if he is? Dean, quit lookin' at the hell you've been in and have some damn faith."
"And look where that got us."
x x x
The Impala's door slammed on Cas's side. He couldn't believe it; he was finally going home. Home, in just twenty to thirty minutes—he wished to never go into a hospital again, not until the chemotherapy treatments were needed. He could hear Dean thank the nurse and the doctor—why were their names so hard to remember?—and could hear them tell him to come back if any complications arise at home. No, home would be okay. It would be fine.
Open, shut; it was just the two of them inside the car. Dean sighed, then looked over at Cas. Cas didn't look back, but he did feel cold for some reason. Was it because of the Impala's interior on his skin? Maybe, he thought. "Ready, Cas?" Cas slowly turned his head to his partner, one giving a small smile on his face. Cas brought his hand out from under the small blanket the hospital gave him—why he needed it, he really couldn't say—and rested it on top of the seat. Dean warmed his hand right up.
Cas closed his eyes and smiled, leaning against the shell of the car. He could feel the windows being rolled down next to him, Dean just barely grazing over him, and the wind slightly cooling his sweating face—seriously, what was wrong with his body? Dean moved away. Cas relaxed. "Yes," he replied.
He swore he was flying when they drove away.
x x x
"Cas, we're not going to talk about it!"
"Dean—"
Cas looked over at Dean, who was staring down the black road ahead. His eyebrows were furrowed; his grip on the wheel was hard and tight; the free hand on his lap was drumming against his jeans; he was shifting every few seconds in his seat. Yes, he thought, it was a good idea to believe that Dean was pissed off. And he knew why: he was talking about the possibility of Death. "I don't understand why you do not want to talk about it. It is very possible that I will not live through this cancer."
Dean sped up. Cas could feel Baby purr and roar through the familiar setting around them. They had probably been on that road so many times, but Cas always felt a new bump in different spots. Dean flicked his eyes over to him for a moment. "Can we just drop it, Cas?" Eyes were back on the road; Baby was still purring. Cas would guess that Dean would reach over to the radio and turn up the music pouring out from the speakers—Led Zeppelin, he gathered—and he was right. Soon, he could hear "Stairway to Heaven" practically blaring from the car, and he would see Dean glance down every once in a while at it.
Cas sighed when it was turned off altogether. He did not know if it was a good or bad thing when Dean muted the music, but he saw the man loosen up a bit—at least his knuckles were not so white. "Look," Dean shifted again, turning the wheel onto their dirt road. Cas looked out the windshield; home. He was so close. He could almost feel the wooden floors under his feet. "I'm not about to lose you, you know?"
"Yes," Cas responded. He knew.
"So let's just worry about you getting better, okay? We'll—we're going to get through this, alright?" Cas turned to his partner.
He nodded. "I promise," he whispered, turning back to the windshield. Dean turned his head to the angel in the passenger seat, wondering what was going on in his head, but he just smirked. A promise was all he could hope for—it was a start. He turned back to the road, and heard the weak voice next to him say the thought he had. "Were we expecting someone?"
The car started to slow. "No," Dean worried. It was unfamiliar. It just sat where the Impala would be, right next to the house. Someone was there. Someone was looking for them. How did they get found out? Of all the things that could happen in Dean's life—
The Impala stopped. Cas looked at Dean, who was tearing the keys out of the ignition. "Dean?"
Dean pushed the door open. "Stay here." And Cas wanted to reach out and grab him, in fear that someone was actually hunting them down, but he also feared of losing the strength to keep himself upright (when did he get so weak?). All he could do was watch as Dean crept to the house, hunched down, reaching for a knife inside the back of his jeans—seriously, he could never go places without it.
Dean knew this would happen. One day, they would be found. One day, there would be someone out looking for them both, and they would have to leave. They would have to go somewhere else, somewhere far away. And that'd be it. He slunk behind the car in front of the house—a '73 Mustang. At least the owner had some good taste. He looked down at the plates for a second; Ohio. His eyes wandered back to the door. Any moment, he thought. The hunter would come out with a gun in their hands, in hopes of shooting whoever was there, and they'd see the Impala, and probably see Cas in the car and start walking toward him, and when the man's back was to him, Dean would—
The door opened. His eyes widened, and he rose from the ground.
"Sam," Dean breathed. Sam turned his head and gave a small little wave.
"Hey, Dean."
Cas smiled as the two brothers met each other halfway, each step a parallel with the other. And Dean wouldn't care about the chick flick moment—no one was there to see them, anyway. Their arms were spread out and that would be it. Their bodies would be together—he was sure Dean was cursing him out for not answering his phone, and Sam would be apologizing—and the both of them would be glad to know that they were each okay. He relaxed against the interior of the Impala and just watched the brothers snap back to reality, talking about something—perhaps where Sam was, and what Dean had been up to—and frowned.
He wondered what life would be like without him there; the thought vanished.
He made a promise. He remembered that.
And he'd do it all for the two boys.
He remembered that, too.
But there was something else.