Alistair really doesn't get paid enough.

Alistair gently settles Dean in the backseat of his car and gives a low shout of a summon. Gabriel Novak, the snarky as all hell assistant manager of Cup O' Bliss sits in the back, Dean's bloodied, damaged head cradled cautiously in his lap. The blood is probably ruining Gabriel's expensive jeans, but he doesn't mention it.

Chuck, the anxious, paranoid, frizzy-haired mess of a worker wrings his hands as Alistair rapidly delivers instructions. He's to close the shop and inform customers that there's been a death in the family- because people eat that sort of sob-story shit right out of your hand. Alistair slams the door a little too hard and Gabriel flinches.

Alistair swears under his breath several times as he hunches over the steering wheel, wiry arms flexed and knuckles bone white. Gabriel watches him with a tilted head, expression guarded. His lips, no matter the situation, are almost always curled into a perpetual smile. Now, however, they're turned down in an obvious frown.

"What?" snaps Alistair as he swerves in and out of lanes to get to the downtown hospital as quickly as he can.

Gabriel is stone-faced. "Think it was Singer again?" His voice is soft and his fingers card gently through Dean's short hair. Dean is family to him, no matter how fucking stubborn the man can be on a daily basis. No matter how much he refuses to just let Gabriel help him. He's like a little brother- though Gabriel can definitely say that out of the two, Dean most certainly possesses more life experience, more wisdom born of hardship and challenges. More than Alistair, who's been in and out of prison twice in his forty-nine years of life and knows every back street and alley way New York has to offer.

"I'm not going to make any assumptions yet," responds his boss. The steering wheel looks severely distressed beneath his hands. "But if it is, I'm going to kick that sonuvabitch's ass so hard, his mother's going to feel it." And that's a dangerous comment to make. Same is a widely-known, well-paid, well-equipped lawyer. No doubt, he's protected. Sam knows every little nook and cranny when it comes to suing.

"Alis..."

"I swear to Mary, Gabriel, if you try to talk me out of it-"

"Hell no. I was gonna ask if I could help."

"Sure thing, Novak."

There's a glint of amusement among the varying degrees of worry.

They pull up to the emergency room entrance and Alistair helps lift Dean onto Gabriel's back. Gabriel carries him through the automatic double doors while Alistair sprints ahead. "Al-fuck!" Gabriel shouts, then releases an exasperated sigh. "Don't worry, Dean-o," he mutters. "I'm gonna get you to the best damn doc I know."

Dean is in surgery for four hours. Alistair paces a rut in the floor, nearly punches two nurses. Gabriel sits quietly, shaking the corner, Dean's blood dried and rust-colored on the palms of his hands.

"Cas, please. I'm the only family he's got- just let me-"

"Gabriel. You are well aware of the procedures. It will take months before the paperwork is even seen by an official."

"Castiel. For me. For him...just let me do this. He can't go back there. You saw him, Cas. You think he deserves any of that?"

"I ca-"

"Novak!"

Two heads turn as Alistair calls down the hospital corridor. He strides forward, anger masking his concern, though it lurks just beneath the surface of his scowl.

"I want a full sit rep," he demands, crossing heavily tattooed arms over his chest. He stares the doctor down. Clear, blue, expressionless eyes return his gaze, lacking the other's hostility.

"Mr. Winchester has been unconscious for eight hours. We cannot perform an entire evaluation without his full participation and awareness- thus, we've only gathered half the data necessary to make a correct diagnosis."

"Y'know you docs are real good at dancin' around shit. I need to know if that boy in there's gonna die. If he so much as stops breathing, even for a few seconds, there's gonna be hell to pay."

"Mr. Winchester is blind- indefinitely."

The silence in the corridor is magnified by the distant beeping of various machines, of the squeaky soles of dress-code nurse's shoes. Gabriel's lips purse into a thin white line as he looks away, crossing his arms. Alistair looks as if he might hit someone. Castiel doesn't blame him.

"His injuries were severe. The least extensive damage to his body are his broken fingers. He suffered extreme blunt force trauma and several skull fractures. The occipital lobe, which is responsible for vision, was compressed to the point of temporary...shut down. His vision isn't completely lost, as his pupils are responding to light and rapid movement, but-"

Alistair is halfway down the corridor, heading to Dean's room, before Castiel finishes speaking.

Dean looks no better than when they carried him in. There's a shocking amount of gauze wrapped around his head. The white strips have random dark splotches where Dean's blood has soaked through, as well as clear fluids as the wound begins to heal. Alistair stands at his bedside, arms limp, his expression unreadable. His fingers twitch, as if he's fighting the urge to touch the swelling that litters Dean's cheeks, the dark, blood red clusters. Eventually, he sits, occupying the only chair in the room. He leans on his elbows, hands clasped together, knuckles pressed against trembling lips. He's never seen a kid look so beaten.

His left leg bounces as he fights tears.

"He's never gonna wake up. Fucking bastard killed him."

Alistair watches him with a keen, understanding eye. He's seen men crouched over the bodies of their fallen brothers, and, metaphorically, Gabriel's been in that position for the past four hours. Alistair might not be a veteran, but he's seen war, he's seen death, and he's seen panic, pain, and desperation rolled up in neat little toilet bombs. Prison is a war zone. New York is a war zone. There is no neutral ground.

"Gabriel, you're suckin' all his oxygen. Sit back and give him some space, would you?"

Gabriel, never one to sit still, paces the small perimeter of the hospital room, as if he's prowling for Dean's first sign of life.

It doesn't come until several hours later. It rattles out of a battered and bruised body like death. Another breath follows shortly after, almost a wheeze. He twitches, face twisting, fingers curling into the sheets beneath him. His lashes flutter and Gabriel is by his side in an instant. However, mossy, vibrant eyes do not appear. Dean seems to fold in on himself as he begins to convulse. The numbers on his EKG begin to rapidly drop and Gabriel freezes.

"Dean? Dean-o? H-Hey, no- stop. Dean-" Gabriel desperately chokes on the man's name until gentle hands are pulling him away. The room fills as Alistair presses Gabriel's tear-streaked face into his chest. Warm, bony hands gently rub his back, attempting to soothe him.

"It's all right, Gabe. Shh, it's all right," he whispers, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and turning him away from the scene. "Don't look, son. Shh, it's okay. It's okay." Gabriel's blunt fingernails dig painfully into the skin of his back through his tee shirt, but he doesn't mind.

They stand in the corner, looking on as white coats and blue scrubs flutter around a man that may very well never wake up.

1:21 AM. Dean rolls his head.

3:10 AM. "G...br'l...hm..."

Alistair leaves to retrieve clean clothes for the three of them.

Gabriel doesn't acknowledge.

6:38 AM. He's awake.

Dean shifts, grunting as he attempts to sit up. Gabriel's immediately there- Alistair's sleeping in the chair and doesn't wake from the soft sounds of protest that leave Dean's swollen lips as Gabriel gently presses on his shoulders to urge him back down.

It's the soft "Don't- wha'?" that whimpers from Dean's mouth that wakes the ex-con. Alistair places a steadying hand on his wrist, pressure light, assuring.

"Dean-o, man, please." There's a high note of desperation there that Gabriel just can't contain.

"Kid. Dean," Alistair says, tone gentle but firm. "Stop that, goddammit. You're scarin' Gabe."

Dean twitches toward him, head jerking. "What's goin' on?" he demands, his voice scratchy and raw, hoarse as if he's been screaming. He has. The hands on his shoulders are familiar. Large, warm, safe. He slowly, slowly relaxes into the pillows. His weak body trembles.

Dean blinks.

Blinks again.

A third time.

Oh.

He bolts upright, stitches and gauze protesting loudly.

"W-?! Gabe? What'd...what? Why can't I...?" His voice steadily rises in pitch as he questions his lack of sight. Everything's a murky, milky white with the odd vague shape that disappears as quickly as he sees it. He imagines this is what it's like when you drown. Vast nothingness surrounding you, the odd flash of light, the odd glimmer of hope that soon reveals itself as a simple mirage.

This only happens in the movies, or in those trashy crime drama novels his mom used to read. Dean knows; he's read a few of them. He swallows repeatedly and lifts his hands, IV tugging. He scrubs at his eyes, desperately hoping to wipe away whatever fog is impairing his vision. He feels buoyant, floating. His hands miss by several inches and he releases a high-pitched curse because what the fuck? "Gabriel."

Gabriel watches Dean struggle, thin lips pursed in a white line, even as his hands continue to hold the weak, struggling man down.

Dean's efforts weaken until he slumps against his pillows with a moan of pain and a whimper.

While he's not entirely certain of the damage to his skull, he's very aware of the mound of gauze and tape and bandages that decorate it. Briefly, he skims his head with his free hand. The other lays still in his lap, an IV nestled firmly beneath the skin. It steadily pumps morphine every thirty minutes. Dean drops his hand with a disgruntled huff. They've shaved his head, but only on the left side. He suspects there are stitches involved. He takes a moment to indulge in his disgust of what he must look like.

Little does he know, he looks much worse than he thinks.

The hospital room is quiet, save for the steady beep, beep, beep of his EKG and whatever else they've got him hooked up to. Gabriel's hands slowly retract and Dean's alone in the vast white nothing. Beside his bed, Alistair has settled in for a second nap.

He thinks Gabriel's left until the soft hum of his voice rumbles several feet away. Dean strains his ears and just catches a reply.

"...can do...try..."

The excited whisper that follows sounds suspiciously like Gabriel. There's a soft 'oof'. Dean's curiosity gets the better of him.

"...Gabe?" he calls. "Who's that?"

There's an abrupt silence, followed by the shuffling of two pairs of feet. The whisper of clothing and the rasp of jeans sounds to his left and he rolls his head to the side, feeling spectacularly exhausted after his efforts in sitting up. A soft click, like a pen, and the rustle of paper.

"Hello, Mr. Winchester." The voice is rasping and gravelly- nearly unpleasant in tone, but otherwise decent.

Dean remains silent.

There's a soft intake of breath and Dean searches the white, finding nothing. "My name is Dr. Castiel Novak. I have been overseeing your condition for the past several hours." Dean thinks that's Life's way of making a bad pun.

Novak.

"Okay. What's my condition?" I'm not scared, I'm not scared, I'm not scared

"Dean, maybe-"

Dean holds up a trembling hand, effectively cutting off Gabriel's sentence. He needs to hear it- he wants to hear the full extent of a monster's wrath. He wants a valid, tangible, physical reason to completely hate Samuel Singer. And he's certainly about to get it.

Someone clears their throat. "You have three fractured bones in your hand. Your skull seems to have taken the most brutal extent of the damage. The left temporal bone was virtually shattered, there is now artificial bone in its place. There are thirty-nine stitches. Your right knee was dislocated, right ankle sprained. You sustained several haematomas on your shins and back. Multiple lacerations on your back and lower thighs. Minor internal bleeding. Essentially, Mr. Winchester, you are a walking bruise."

It's said with such a matter-of-fact attitude and no-nonsense tone that Dean releases an involuntary giggle, shortly followed by a soft groan of pain.

"Mr. Winchester-"

"Jesus, call me Dean."

There's a pause. "...Dean. It would be more beneficial to your health and recovery if you didn't make any sudden movements."

Dean's in the middle of a light nap when a gentle hand shakes his shoulder. He grunts a noise of protest and blinks. Nothing has changed. His world is milk. What he would give for a single cornflake.

"Mr. Winchester," a female voice chirps, pulling a grimace from Dean. "It's time for your meal. There is strawberry jello to your upper left, chicken noodle soup directly before you, and a cup of water to your upper right. I'm administering your medication through your IV. Have a nice meal, Mr. Winchester." And like that, she's gone. Alistair grunts after her.

"I don't think she has any kinda right to be that damn happy in a place like this," Dean mutters.

"Amen," comes the simultaneous reply from Gabriel and Alistair.

He feels around his tray until he finds a plastic spoon, waves that around until it comes into contact with his soup. After one sip, he sits back with a noise of distaste. Dean can't stand hospital food- if it even counts as food. Dishwater soup and stale bricks on the side- how quaint. He grumbles about that, feeling a bit more like himself now that he's had at least four hours' rest and a healthy dose of wonderful hospital meds. The food sucks, the narcotics are great, and the bedpans are changed regularly. It's practically a Hampton Inn.

A soft swish of fabric on fabric and Dean turns his head. "Dean, eat your food. Your medication requires a full stomach." With a mutter and a grumble, he fumbles for his spoon again, begrudgingly swallowing a second mouthful. "Gabriel, Alistair, may Dean and I speak privately?"

Dean stiffens and releases his spoon, sightless eyes flicking back and forth, attempting to discern any sort of movement. There's a distant blur, then nothing. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. There's the creak of a chair, a soft huff of breath, the click of a pen.

"You're taking your condition and diagnosis rather well, Dean," comments Castiel, and Dean turns his head to the tone is too goddamn conversational. Bedside manner tends to irk him. A rustle of papers. When Dean doesn't respond to his comment, Castiel continues. "I'm going to conduct a short survey that is given to all trauma patients. Please answer honestly and truthfully. This survey is confidential; it will be shared with no one. We'll begin when you're ready."

Dean is very familiar with these questions. His heart pounds in his chest as he nods.

A slow intake of breath. "Do you currently have a place of residence?"

"Yes."

Pen on paper. "Do you live alone?"

"No."

"With whom do you currently live with?"

"My boyfriend." Two years ago, Sam proposed. Dead had stepped out the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, sporting a day old bruise on his hip. He'd nearly stumbled over the giant of a man, kneeling before the bathroom door. Soft, long brown hair with just the slightest hint of a curl framed dimpled cheeks and a strong jaw. His grin had been so wide, so hopeful. Sam held up the ring like it was a gift from God. Dean had simply stared, heart thudding against his rib cage, desperate to escape, to be anywhere but there. After he'd scraped his jaw off the floor, he said no. For a moment, Sam had seemed so heartbroken...Dean nearly changed his mind. Then his expression had shifted from crestfallen to livid and Dean...well, Dean did his damnedest to forget every single second of that night.

It's okay, sweetheart. You don't have to say yes right now. I forgive you.

"Can you provide his name?"

Brought out of his reverie, Dean hesitates, pressing the back of his head into his pillows as something not unlike fear curls in his stomach. He presses his lips together as they tremble. He inhales sharply. "...Samuel. S-Singer." His hands tighten in the sheets.

"You're doing just fine, Dean," Castiel reassures, the rocky texture of his voice, calm and sure, partially eases the tension that has his neck ramrod straight. "How long have you been dating Samuel?"

"Three...three years, yesterday." Some anniversary.

The scratching of Castiel's pen seems to be far too long-winded for the answers Dean's supplying. Sweat begins to gather on his brow.

"There are three questions left, Dean. You're doing fantastic." A warm, soft hand settles atop his trembling fingers and Dean eases his grip on the sheets. "Have there been any incidents of domestic violence or abuse, reported and not?"

He's shaking. He's always lied. Always. Because he has a home with Sam. He has shelter and food and, occasionally, love. Tears well in his eyes and Dean blinks repeatedly. The rapid view of the milk world does nothing to stem the flow of abrupt sadness and pain. Throat far too clogged and thick to speak, he simply nods. Castiel's thumb strokes soothingly over Dean's knuckles.

"All right," murmurs Castiel, voice softer than before, less clinical. "Approximately how many times has this occurred in the past three months?"

His shoulders are shaking with the effort to retain his sobs. He doesn't have enough fingers to show him. Dean remembers every single time. He's practically got a data chart in his mind of how many times Sam has used, beaten, neglected him. "T-Twenty-t-t-two," he manages. The incidents vary in severity, but he remembers each and every one.

Castiel's hand tightens nearly imperceptibly atop Dean's as he sucks in a quiet, sharp breath. "Last question, Dean. It's okay," he assures. "Do you have anyone to contact for immediate removal from your currently unsafe residence?"

"G-Gab-Gabriel Novak-k. He's-he's my e-emergency c-contact," he stammers.

There's a tangible shift in the atmosphere. "No family?"

Dean shakes his head. "N-No. Gabe's my-my f-family."

"Dean, I cannot release you to Gabriel."

"Please- please. You-You don't un-un-under-st-stand," he half-hiccups, half-sobs. "He- I-I-I-I can't go-go back-ck. Plea-ease, please."

There is utter silence, save for Dean's stuttering, choking breaths and the erratic beeping of a monitor. "I'll see what I can do, Dean. But I can't promise you anything," Castiel finally says, hand squeezing gently before withdrawing. The chair creaks and fabric swishes, and he's gone.