"A ᴄᴜʀsᴇ sʜᴀʟʟ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴍʙs ᴏғ ᴍᴇɴ; ᴅᴏᴍᴇsᴛɪᴄ ғᴜʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ғɪᴇʀᴄᴇ ᴄɪᴠɪʟ sᴛʀɪғᴇ."
One can't really appreciate sight until it's gone.
It's the little things he's starting to miss: maneuvering around tables and chairs with ease, using the bathroom, drinking from a cup without bumping his chin. He misses faces. Not specific ones (though he does miss Alistair's and Gabriel's), but faces in general. When people greet him as he's pushed slowly down the hallway, he isn't sure if he should say anything in return. Maybe they're not speaking to him at all.
Before he checks out to change clothes and shower, Gabriel leaves the TV on for him. As if it's any kind of comfort that he can't see the pictures that come with the words of various cartoon characters and sports announcers.
Incidentally, Dean's well caught up on the stats for the Manchester United football team. And has developed a fair interest in the goings-on in soccer. He's never really thought it was very exciting, not until he got caught up in the fan worship and the adrenaline and the chanting and singing. It sounds like a home he never had, a family he's always desperately wanted.
On the third day, Dean's found himself actually caught up in one match and the excited voices of the announcers has him nearly on the edge of his bed, head turned unnecessarily towards the television, ears straining.
"Rooney's making his way to van Persie, tosses it over…oh hell, looks like they're going to get it! Right over Petr Čech's head! Grand shot! There you have it—Manchester, five, Chelsea, three! Manchester United wins!"
"Hell yeah!" Dean barks, rattling his bed as he pumps a cast-coated fist in the air, whooping along with the thousands of fans on the television screen. Though his bruised and aching body protests, he prevails in his sportsmanship.
However, some spirits are short-lived.
"Dean."
The reaction is nearly instant. His ears fill with a bees, buzzing and droning out all noise.
It's strange, the slick chill of fear that creeps up his spine and forces him to repress a shiver. He can't remember ever feeling this terrified. The familiar tap-thunk of polished dress shoes closes in and he remains still, paralyzed by fear. In the background, an infomercial for some superabsorbent towel prattles on. He focuses on it, blocking out all other sounds, all other sensations, there's nothing, nothing, nothingnothing—
"Please. Say somethin'."
Dean shakes his head.
Large, familiar, warm hands settle on either side of his face. Dean winces, not entirely out of pain. "Please, please, talk to me," Sam pleads, pads of his thumbs stroking his cheekbones, over gauze and bandages. It's all so soft and familiar and Dean wants to sob in despair because he lovesit. This is the one part he's reluctant to leave behind. This loving, caring, sober Sam that cuddles with him on the sofa when they watch movies. The gentle Sam that worships his body, praises his mind. The man he fell in love with three and a half years ago.
He whimpers, the excitement of the soccer match is gone, the adrenaline in his veins replaced by searing heat and freezing cold. With a trembling chin, Dean swallows his tears. They go down like bile; bitter and sour and sad. A soft, breathy sigh leaves Sam and Dean just can't take how broken he sounds.
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he rumbles in Dean's ear, burying his face in Dean's shoulder. Sam's voice is thick with guilt and shame and tears. "Let me take you home."
Dean blinks and a tear rolls sluggishly down his cheek, sliding down his neck until it soaks in the collar of his gown. "N-No," he manages, arms limp at his sides as he beats down the temptation to wrap his arms around the man that put him here, to stroke the knuckles of the fist that Sam has brought down on him again, and again, and again. To stroke soft brown locks that feel like heaven against his fingertips.
"Please—"
"Sammy, I can't—"
Suddenly, there are large, violent hands around his biceps, squeezing hard enough to hurt. He gasps, cold shock bursting across every nerve-ending in his body.
"You can't leave me," Sam desperately hisses, his breath hot against Dean's face. It reeks of coffee. Sam shakes him hard; forcing a hiss of pain through Dean's clenched teeth as his stitches tug uncomfortably. A familiar curl of heat licks in Dean's chest. He's angry, angrier than he thinks he's been in a long time.
"Sam, stop it, you asshole. Knock it the hell off—"
"Shut the fuck up," he spits, fingers tightening. Dean winces.
"Let go. Sam. Sammy, let go. C'mon, you're hurting me—"
"What's going on here?"
The harsh fingers uncurl and Dean releases a stale breath, sucking oxygen as the blood flows painfully back into his arms.
"Sir, visitation hours are from noon to six. It is currently ten forty-two. You need to leave, immediately. Failure to do so will result in security escort as well as restricted visiting."
There's a moment of silence where Dean feels one harsh, cold set of eyes on him. He remembers what it looks like to see liquid chocolate freeze into putrid coprolite. He shivers and scrubs a hand over his face. His biceps pulse rhythmically; two twin pistons of pain. There's harsh breathing, like a bull prepared to charge and attack, seeing nothing but redredredred. The tap-thunk footsteps of designer shoes retreat without so much as a goodbye. He doesn't realize he's shaking until gentle, unfamiliar hands pull his blanket to his chin. Dean turns his face into his pillow, rubbing absently at his bruised upper arms.
"Are you alright?" The gravelly, rocky texture of Dr. Novak's voice soothes the terrified shudders.
He shakes his head, utterly rattled. Dean's nearly forgotten the way it feels to fear for his life, to wonder if anyone will hear him scream, or if it'll be painful.
"Do you want me to stay?"
He shakes his head.
The Novak brothers stand face to face, looking nothing alike. Gabriel, with his pointed chin, squared jaw and mischievous brown eyes, aside to Castiel, with perpetually stubble-coated cheeks, full lips, and keen, clear blue eyes. Castiel's just a few inches taller in his white coat and sea-foam scrubs. A shock of dark hair in contrast to rich honey and caramel.
Gabriel's thin lips purse, a precautionary measure to keep them from trembling. He crosses his arms, looking away from clear, honest eyes. "I don't understand," he says, low and measured, thinly veiled betrayal.
Castiel's hand settles atop Gabriel's fist, where it's balled up in the crook of his elbow, knuckles stained white. It's a brotherly gesture, reminiscent of their youth, when holding hands was okay as they skipped along. Long fingers uncurl and briefly hook with Castiel's before retracting.
"Gabriel," he murmurs softly, rasping tones as soothing as his bedside manner. "Your schedule does not permit the type of care Dean needs. He'll need around the clock service."
"I can do that," insists Gabriel.
A soft sigh and Castiel's hand shifts to Gabriel's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "Perhaps, if you hired a nurse, I may push the paperwork through." Muscles beneath Castiel's hand bunch and coil as Gabriel shrugs his hand off. Gabriel can't afford to hire a part-time nurse. Not with the money he's making at the coffee shop.
Anger, an expression not oft used by Gabriel, is written plainly in the hard set of his jaw, the rigidity of his posture. "Do you know what'll happen if he goes back?" he hisses lividly. "He'll die. You see him right now? Nothin' close to what could happen to him. Cas. Let me do this for him."
Castiel's mouth opens, then closes, opens again. "I…" His eyes flicker to the open doorway where Dean rests, exhausted from a second seizure not minutes after their discussion of Dean's abusive household. The blood that had trickled from his nose has been wiped away. His cheeks have been shaved graciously by Alistair. The cannula was reinstated. Gabriel's eyes trace Castiel's gaze.
The anger dissipates. Gabriel's lips can't remain stiff any longer. His eyelids can't keep the tears at bay. His hands clutch at Castiel's back as he yanks him forward into a bone-crushing embrace. The second eldest Novak brother shakes in the arms of the youngest, holding on for dear life.
"C-C-Cas, pleas-se. H-He needs a-a-a h-home," Gabriel all but begs into the slope where neck and shoulder meet. It's so strange to hear that tone again. Castiel, Gabriel, and their brothers hardly went without as children- born to an esteemed physician in his prime and a starlet of a mother, they had money for whatever they desired. However, that didn't stop Lucifer and Gabriel from whining about 'his is bigger, why's mine so little?' or 'he got more than me. that's not fair'. It's not a whine for himself, though. Not this time. Now, it's a plea for Dean.
Though they rarely engage in contact as full-body and emotional as this, Castiel wastes no time in lifting his own hands to Gabriel's hair and back, stroking soothingly. "Shh," he whispers against his temple. It's never been an easy thing—watching Gabriel cry. The boy with the sweet tooth as long as Castiel can remember. The care-free older brother who had a natural talent for dealing with bullies. There is nothing sweet about the salty, bitter tears against Castiel's skin. Nothing at all.
Dean slips in and out of consciousness, unaware of the conversation transpiring just outside his door.
"Dean, c'mon, just—will you just give me your goddamn leg?"
Gabriel has been trying to wrestle Dean's sweatpants on for nearly five minutes, attempting to lift the heavy leg brace and even heavier cast. However, Dean's medication has him wandering the fields of Never Never Land, traipsing through the forest with Peter Pan at his side.
Dean releases a short half-snort, half-giggle. "– that tickles, Gabe," he insists, rolling his head uselessly on his pillows. Alistair has his phone out, calmly taking a video of Dean's drugged, cuddly tirade. He grins unknowingly at Alistair's phone.
"Know what else is gonna tickle? When I shove my hand up your ass and twist," spits a red-faced Gabriel as he finally yanks the fabric on.
"Now, Gabriel," Alistair soothes as he slides his phone into his pocket and his hands into Dean's underarms. "That's no way to treat such a happy invalid." He grunts as his lifts Dean off the hospital bed and into a waiting and locked wheelchair. Dean's not much help.
"Guys, Jesus, guys—d'you see those shadows? It's like…Death, or somethin'," Dean comments in awe, slurring every other word, his milky eyes twitching in all directions.
"Yeah, alright, Dean-o. Mhm, I see them shadows. They sure are pretty," Alistair comments absently. And that's how their trip to the front desk goes. Dean stares wide-eyed at seemingly empty air, eyes flicking back and forth like he's seeing something magical. He probably is, the weird bastard. Christ knows what he's seeing in that blind world of his.
"How is he?"
"He finally shut the hell up," Alistair supplies—unhelpfully.
Castiel rolls his eyes and drapes his coat over a kitchen chair. His keys jangle loudly as he tosses them on the breakfast bar. "Has he complained of any abnormal or excessive pain? Headache, nausea-?" Hiking his foot onto the chair, Castiel begins to unlace his shoes, picking at the leather laces.
"He's complainin' about the unicorns runnin' around his arms and legs."
Castiel pauses. "Christ. Okay. It's likely the weight of his braces and casts. I'll look in on him." Castiel walks stocking-footed across the living room, dropping his shoes by the entertainment center as he does, and knocks lightly on the guest room door.
"—hm, wha-?"
"Dean, it's Dr. Novak. May I come in?" he calls through the door. Castiel pushes the sleeves of his white long sleeve to his elbows. They aren't permitted to wear extra clothing with their scrubs, but it's simply a thermal precaution.
There's a short pause, a thump, then a muffled, "…if you wanna."
Castiel turns the handle and gently pushes open the door. He's greeted to the sight of tangled blankets and a heap of casts and bandages spread across the floor, containing one Dean Winchester. His gaze flickering to the perfectly useful bed, then back to Dean, Castiel sighs.
"Have you forgotten my instructions on strenuous activity?" he asks mildly. The doctor crouches and slips his hands beneath Dean's shoulders. He's helped patients into beds countless times, which has resulted in a muscle bulk and extreme tolerance for the intolerable. Such as, Dean Winchester. As he gingerly lifts Dean's cast bound leg into the bed, Dean grunts in discomfort.
Castiel places a probing hand on Dean's exposed knee and feels for tension. Dean hisses and attempts to bat his hand away, missing by just a few inches.
"Didn't think sleeping counted as strenuous activity, Doc," Dean quips through gritted teeth, eventually latching onto Castiel's wrist and pushing his hand away. Castiel purses his lips.
"You weren't sleeping," he says matter-of-factly. "Where I pressed on your knee just now—on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you've ever felt and one being no pain at all, where would you rate your pain?"
Dean's face contorts as he mulls the options over, a small furrow dipping between his brows. Castiel notes he has far too many laugh lines for a man his age.
"Can I do halves?"
"If you think it necessary."
"Seven," he finally answers. Castiel nods.
"The medication I administered to you this morning—did it have any adverse side-effects and would you be opposed to taking it again?" Castiel locates the bottle on the bureau and checks the dosage with a sigh. Far too high. He'll simply split them later.
Dean snorts and his eyes fix on a point to Castiel's left. "The fuckin' unicorns, man." The other seems to sober, however, his expression shifting to one of uncertainty. "I saw some pretty weird stuff. Well, not saw saw, but—I guess I saw it in memory? A dream? It really freaked me out. Shadows and shit."
Castiel nods in understanding. "Such side-effects are not uncommon. Don't worry," Castiel assures him. "I'm going to feel around your elbow, now, just above your brace. Are you opposed?" Dean shakes his head, then sighs—a world weary sigh, an 'I'm so damn tired' sigh that Castiel knows all too well.
"Is there a problem?"
He rubs his eyes and stares blankly at a spot beside Castiel's head. "—…I'm really fuckin' tired, doc. Ain't you got something in that doctor bag of yours to make me sleep?" His eyes are still clear emerald, no sign of damage. They pierce Castiel with their deep-seated pain and exhaustion. They're pleading and Castiel can oblige.
"If you aren't opposed to needles, I can administer an intravenous sedative," Castiel supplies, forcing his gaze away from Dean's. There's only so much burden a man can carry—adding another's is beneficial for neither party.
"I'll do anythin'."
Castiel gently settles a hand on Dean's shoulder in warning, and then carefully moves his fingertips down in increments. From his experience with the visually impaired, he's learnt that contact is key. Continuous contact is an assurance. If both hands are on Dean's arm, then there's nowhere else they can be. It's also strategic when dealing with victims of varying types of abuse. Gently, Castiel fits the pad of his thumb just beneath the padding of the brace's lining and massages. Dean winces, but otherwise shows no signs of extreme pain.
"We're going to do the scale again—one to ten, how is the pain?"
"It's not so bad—I mean, it hurts, but not like my leg. Uh…five and a half?"
"Five and a half."
Castiel kneels beside the bed and gently lifts Dean's uninjured arm. His knuckles are still swollen and bruised—
He fought back. Briefly, but he did.
This knowledge pinches Castiel's lips and softens the dip in his brows. "I'm going to take your pulse. Just breathe regularly." Castiel's forefinger and middle find the pumping vein in Dean's wrist and press. He looks down at his watch and counts each pulse.
"A little fast, but you'll be fine." Castiel stands, setting the medicine bottle back atop the bureau. Dean shifts and props himself up on an elbow, forehead wrinkling. The worry lines.
"…are you leaving?" he asks, looking uncertain as he stares into the hallway behind Castiel.
Castiel sighs. "Yes. I have to prepare dinner and retrieve your medications."
The other man sags and lowers himself back into the blankets. "Where's Gabe?" he asks after several moments of silence. His posture is extremely uncomfortable; his back and neck straight, his arms stretched out oddly at his sides.
"Sleeping on the sofa."
"Oh." Dean looks dejected.
"If you'd like, I can wake him," Castiel supplies. Dean's expression is disheartening. It suddenly occurs to Castiel, looking around the barren guest room, that it must feel incredibly lonely. Dean's impaired vision aside, he must be incredibly lonely.
"Yeah, I just…I really need to see h—talk to him," Dean says, correcting previously acceptable terminology.
"He'll be in in a moment."
Gabriel is startled from a restless sleep by a hand shaking his shoulder. He brushes it off with a muttered "Get off, Alistair".
"Gabriel."
Not Alistair, then. Gabriel cracks open an eyes to find Castiel crouched beside him, looking oddly upset. Of course, you couldn't tell just by looking at him. Castiel always seems to have this bubble around him that allows him to maintain a standard expression. Propping himself up on his elbows, Gabriel's brow furrows.
"Cas? What's wr—is Dean okay?" He swallows thickly. Castiel seems to notice his distress and settles a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Dean's alright. He's still in pain, but he wants to see you," Castiel says, his usually icy blue eyes soft with compassion. Despite his stoic and stern exterior, his brother has a large heart and is far more compassionate than any of their other brothers. It's why they've stuck together all these years.
Gabriel swings his legs over the side of the sofa and scrubs at his eyes. "Thanks. I'll go see him, now," he says quietly, voice still thick with sleep. When Gabriel pushes open the door, he refuses to acknowledge the bruising that litters Dean's face and arms and hands and legs. Most of them are deep, rich red that makes Gabriel want to vomit.
"Gabe?" Dean's gaze searches blindly.
"Hey, Dean-o," he greets softly, reassuringly, summoning whatever restraint he has. The urge to tug Dean close and hug the pain away is overwhelming. He's done it several times before, but not with Dean this broken and bruised. He steps into the room, not bothering with the door, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.
Bright emerald eyes stare at his ear and Dean's smile falters. Gabriel watches his lower lip quiver for just a second before he's running his hand through Dean's hair, carefully avoiding the stitches, softly soothing him as tears flow unshed down Dean's cheeks.
"Gabe—I-I don't know w-what the fuck I'm gonna d-do," he stammers, wide-eyed.
Gabriel runs a gentle hand down his back, avoiding various gauze patches and bumps, his fingers soothingly tracing the knobs of his spine through a thin white t-shirt.
"Shh," he softly shushes him. "It's gonna be okay, kid. We've got it worked out. The police are looking for that bastard right now—"
"What?" Dean's voice is thick, yet shrill. "He's gonna—he's, he's good at lying, Gabe! That's his job! He'll be away from the police station an' lookin' for me in days." Dean's hands grip Gabriel's shirt in a white-knuckled hold. He looks frantic. Terrified. Desperate. Gabriel hates it. He hates that bastard for turning Dean into such a frightened man.
Dean resumes sobbing until he's wincing and coughing, holding his side. "…ow," he mutters miserably, rolling his head to rest against Gabriel's thigh.
Gabriel's fingers card softly through his patchy hair. "Cas's goin' out for your meds, I think. Shouldn't be very long. In the meantime, if you want an alternative, I know where he keeps his Southern Comfort."
Dean huffs weakly at the joke, and then sniffs. "He's got your taste in liquor. Speakin' a Castiel… you never told me you had a brother. Well, I mean, ya never mentioned Castiel."
"It's a long story, kid. I'll tell you when you're medicated."
There's a bright headline the next morning:
NYPD INVESTIGATES THE GOLDEN LAWYER: SAM SINGER