Hello everyone! Well, chemo has been manageable this week and I've had a lot of fun with this story - although when I say fun, some of it got rather heavy... I finished chapter 14 yesterday, so I'm ahead of schedule for next weekend. I think chapter 15 will probably be Christmas and time for lots more cosy fluff. Which our boys will be well ready for...

Chapter 12

"Do we have to have a different colour scheme for each room, Dean?"

Cas stood at an intersection in the showroom, mock-ups of bedrooms on one side, living rooms on the other. Further away were bathrooms and kitchens.

There were people everywhere, which shouldn't have been weird in a big store, even early on a weekday - but it was weird. So many people, when it had just been him and Cas for weeks - months, in fact. But Thanksgiving was fast approaching and if they didn't get the house more in order soon it wouldn't be ready for Christmas.

"Well, yeah - don't we?" Visions of themed motel-rooms passed through Dean's mind, followed by the polished wood and bare brick of the bunker. He shrugged. "I've never done this before, Cas. But it'd be a bit boring if they were all the same."

"Would it, though? Maybe it would be restful. Or maybe we shouldn't have colour schemes at all but should just buy things we like and put them together."

"You think? What if you pick out a green couch and then some yellow curtains? And a red carpet?"

Cas frowned, staring through the displays. "It would be striking. But perhaps not what we would want to live with for any length of time."

"You're damn right. Hey, I know. Sometimes when me and Sammy stayed in a place as kids - like squatted in a derelict or a hunting cabin or whatever- Hey, did you growl just then? Was that a growl, Cas?"

"I do not like the thought of you and Sam, young and vulnerable, living in such places alone."

"No, well, neither did we sometimes. Anyway, there'd be old junky bits of furniture, but it'd mostly be shit-brown and plain wood walls and bare floors."

Cas growled again and took one of Dean's hands firmly in his as if to drag him away from the memory.

"Anyway," continued Dean, squeezing Cas's hand back, "if you just had bits of colour here and there it'd look okay. Like a red blanket on the back of the couch or a couple of bright throws over the beds."

A woman with a small child in tow excused herself to get past them. She glanced down at their linked hands and smiled. And Dean felt pretty good about that - because of her reaction and because here he was, Big Bad Dean Winchester, standing in the middle of the store holding hands with a man and being okay with it.

"Did you have such things? Blankets? Soft furnishings?"

Dean shrugged. "Sometimes. If we'd been to Goodwill. If we'd lifted them from a motel - maybe left the laundromat with a few extra things than when we went in."

"You stole."

"Well, yeah, we did. Or I did. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I got into trouble a coupla times. But I had to do it. For Sammy."

"Hmm." Cas scratched his nose and stared critically at a blue and red striped couch.

Dean let his hand go slack, in case Cas wanted to stop holding it. "Okay, so I did a few things that weren't great. I've done far worse since."

HIs fingers were suddenly crushed in a tight grip and Dean didn't need to look up to know that Cas's intense gaze was lasering into the top of his eyelids.

"I'm not judging you, Dean. You were a child. A child forced into a role for which he was far too young."

"Dad did what he could." Dean should have cleaned up his boots before coming out. Flakes of crusted dirt were falling off onto the clean floor.

"Did he? Dean?"

The softness of Cas's voice made him look up. Dean swallowed. He shrugged. It felt like there was some kind of lop-sided expression on his face but he didn't know what it meant.

Cas leant forward and pressed his lips to Dean's. And smiled. "Never mind. I like your idea."

"Huh?" Being kissed in the middle of a busy store had shorted out a few circuits.

"Having a neutral background and then brightening it up with touches of colour."

"Is that what I said?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Dean scratched the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "That's not me, that kind of stuff - that's Sam. I don't know about stuff like that."

"Plainly you do, Dean. And I've noticed many times that you are far more of a homemaker than Sam. Everywhere you go, you make a home - either by adapting to your surroundings or putting something of yourself into them. Your childhood has left its mark in more ways than one."

"Huh," said Dean again. It seemed as if, having got as far as hugs, kisses and general snuggling, Cas had also assumed permission to explain Dean to himself. Which maybe he needed? "Uh… yeah, maybe you're right."

"Come on, Dean. Let's go and look at curtains. And rugs. And throws."

"We need a couch."

"We'll need more than one, Dean. We have a large house to fill."

Cas tugged on his hand, pulling Dean along and looking over his shoulder with such an expression of innocent excitement that Dean couldn't help being infected and grinning back. Clearly it was kid-in-a-candy-store time. And they were both happy to be kids, for now - a man whose childhood had been ripped from him when he was four, and an ex-angel who'd never been a child.

"Yellow?"

"Yes, Dean. Definitely yellow. A pale yellow for the walls and blue for the cabinets and blue for the curtains and a blue table cloth - blue and white check. The floor can remain wood-coloured."

"A yellow kitchen."

"A sunny kitchen."

"I was gonna just strip and varnish the cupboard doors."

Cas narrowed his eyes. "Blue, Dean."

Dean threw up his hands. "Okay, blue it is. And yellow. I'll just sand and stain the floor."

Cas gave a satisfied nod. "And most of the rest of the walls painted a warm cream colour - it has to be warm, Dean."

"We'll get the… what was it called? Magnolia."

"Yes. And we'll get all those orange and red throws and soft things for the living room, then when we've got the fire lit it'll be cosy."

"You like that word."

"I do. Our house should be cosy."

"Yeah, cosy's good. But if you're having orange and red and so on, that says Mexican to me. I think we should get some Mexican-themed shit - like a couple of somebreros to hang on the wall and some of those fake cactus things."

"The ones with faces?"

"Did they have faces?"

"Yes, Dean. They did. And they dance when you make a sound. I saw you making them dance."

Dean shuffled and rubbed his chin. "Yeah." He matched Cas's smile. "I've never had stuff like that. You know, stuff that's just for fun. That you don't really need."

"We're allowed to have fun, Dean."

"Yeah. We are, aren't we?"

There was laughter in Cas's eyes. They crinkled up at the corners when he was happy and the grooves between his brows smoothed out. Dean's face felt different too, like there were new lines being formed from new emotions that he hadn't been allowed before, or not to the extent that they'd branded themselves into his skin. He wanted to say something about how he felt, but wasn't sure what or how. Maybe he could just hug Cas, or kiss him and then hug him and that would say everything.

A cough, a splutter and a sniff came from behind him.

"Hey there - have you two gentlemen found everything you need? Is there anything I can help you with?"

Dean turned around. A shop assistant, in the uniform yellow shirt and dark pants smiled up at him, her eyes shiny, her nose red. She sneezed into a handkerchief.

"I think we're okay, thanks…" - Dean squinted at her name badge - "Lacey." He gestured to their two full shopping carts. "I think this is probably enough for today."

"Oh, well, it's real easy to sort out a delivery if you can't fit everything in your car. And if you've got more shopping to get, I could park these by the checkout for you for now." Lacey gripped the handle of Dean's cart.

He edged it away from her. "No, that's okay. I think we're done for the day."

"Yes. We have everything we need for now," Cas agreed.

Lacey was determined to help. She leant over the side of Cas's cart. "Oh, you've got an odd number of paint cans there - you'll miss out on the buy-one-get-one-half-price offer on one of those cans." Her breath hitched, and her handkerchief flew to her nose, but was too late to contain another explosive sneeze.

Dean put a firm hand in the small of Cas's back and urged him away. "Really, thanks for your help, Lacey. But we're fine. Uh, maybe you should call it quits for today? Go home and nurse that cold?"

"Oh, no! This is just hayfever. I get it every year."

"Right," said Dean. He gave Cas a push and steered his cart firmly toward the elevator that would take them down to the line of checkouts. "Hayfever my ass," he muttered.

"It doesn't seem like the time of year for allergies triggered by pollen," said Cas.

"No. It ain't." Dean pushed his cart into the elevator and helped maneuver Cas's in behind him. "We'll just have to hope we don't catch whatever she had."

Cas had been right about the kitchen. The blue and yellow looked great. Dean just needed to wait for the woodstain on the floor to dry and then they could put the table and chairs back and finish the room off with the blue and white checked cloth on the table - one of those plastic cloths instead of a fabric one, because Dean said wiping was more practical than having to wash the damn thing every five minutes. Cas said that Dean shouldn't spill syrup everywhere or drop his greasy bacon and they wouldn't have to wash it that often.

Dean smiled at the newly-stained floor. Arguing with Cas about stupid shit that didn't matter was one of his favourite things. So many times over so many years it'd been 'life or death' this or 'save the world' that. Now they could have a nice little spat about stains on a tablecloth.

"Awesome," muttered Dean, smiling.

His throat tickled. He coughed, and coughed again. The fumes from the wood stain and all the fresh paint were really irritating his throat. And he hadn't thought to get some water before he'd blocked himself off from the kitchen sink. The faucet full of cold, refreshing water taunted him across the shiny-wet floor.

He'd go upstairs and drink from one of the winged bathtaps. Cas was up there, anyway, painting. He'd been helping Dean in the house since the weather had turned, although Dean was sure he would have helped anyway, seeing as they wouldn't be around for a couple of days over Thanksgiving and then it'd be a tumbling downhill rush to get the house ready for Christmas. They were making good progress, though.

Dean coughed again as he climbed the stairs and had to pause at the top, one hand on the banister, the other rubbing his forehead between his eyes, where the paint and stain fumes had got right up inside him and started off a killer headache.

"Son of a bitch."

"Dean?"

Cas emerged from the bathroom, paintbrush in hand. He had on one of Dean's old flannel shirts - the buttons done up wrong - a pair of sweats that rode low on his hips, and odd socks, one long, one short. All were liberally splattered with paint, as was his hair and face.

"Jeez, Cas - d'you get any on the- the walls?" His lungs hitched and he coughed again, digging his fingertips in between his brows to stop his brains falling out.

"Dean, are you alright?" Cas took two swift steps toward him, looked at his paintbrush helplessly, then stuck it in his pants pocket. He grasped Dean's elbow.

For a change, the instinct to pull away and deny any weakness didn't kick in. Dean left the support of the banister and leant into Cas's sturdy, painty shoulder. "It's just the fumes. From the stain. And the paint." Short sentences, with a breath between - he could do that. It was fine. His throat hurt.

"Are you sure, Dean? It's never affected you like this before."

"Yeah. Just- just open coupla windows." He waved a hand. "Clear the air." He sneezed. And then sneezed again and winced with pain at the white flashes behind his eyes.

"Come and sit down."

Cas guided him into their bedroom and even though Dean's fuzzy gaze was dragging along the floor, a warm feeling of satisfaction still curled deep inside him.

They'd finished this room first. And it was, if Dean said so himself - which he did on a regular basis - awesome.

Wandering through the mock-up bedrooms in the huge homestore, neither Dean nor Cas had been inspired by the sophisticated, themed decor and restrained luxury. It was all just too damn grown-up. As a teenager, Dean had wanted, but never got, a room plastered with band posters. He'd wanted places to put stuff that other kids had but he didn't - trophies, stupid bits of art he'd made as a kindergartner, models that he'd built and painted himself. He'd wanted a normal room with normal shit scattered all over it - a place that was the centre of himself and his home.

And now he had it and, what was even better, he had it with Cas.

They'd painted the walls a richer cream than the rest of the house - a golden colour that Cas had chosen. The deep, soft carpet was similar but a couple of shades darker, and the curtains and bedding were softly striped in gold and green. Cas had said the colours reminded him of Dean's eyes, which made Dean shuffle and blush and smile right down inside.

The rest of the contents had been chosen with joyful randomness. Band posters - Zepp, Metallica, Beyoncé (Cas's smiled and said a polite good morning to her every day), a great big antique dresser in dark wood that was slowly filling up with warm fleecy clothes as the weather got colder, sets of shelves ready for all the things they didn't need but wanted; there was also a walk-in closet which wasn't particularly well organised, so they ended up wearing each others clothes quite a lot. But Dean was fine with that.

Cas's contribution to the wall art was two-fold.

He'd printed out a whole load of photos - Jack, Claire, Sam, Jodi - all of their friends and people they called family. Then he'd spent ages sorting through the woodshed, picking out random bits that looked like they should be used for kindling. But he'd fastened them together - tied with bits of dried grass, hammered with little brass tacks, some even bound about with scraps of string. And in the end all the photos were framed and on the wall. And they looked way better than anything store-bought.

The other thing Cas had made was, Dean thought, worthy of an art gallery. He'd found a big bit of hardboard and got really messy slapping some leftover wood stain on it, just leaving a pale patch in the middle. Then he'd tipped some of the gold wall paint into a tray and kindergartenered all over the pale patch, using his hand and splayed fingers to print with, laying the paint on thick in places and mixing it with the still-wet stain in others, so that in the end there was a host of vague figures with wings - angels. He'd used his fingers and a bit more of the wood stain to make shadowy faces and flicked on some more wall paint with a dry brush to give it more of a glow.

In the end Cas had been as covered in paint and stain as the piece of hardboard. But when he stood back and looked at his work his face had glowed with more than flecks of golden paint and he'd turned to Dean and beamed and looked so happy that Dean had to hug him quick and stuff his face right in hard where Cas's neck met his shoulder so that his watery eyes would be hidden. All those years of suppressed emotion kept forcing their way out - maybe one day Dean would just let people see and not try to hide at all.

At the moment, however, his eyes were watery from sneezing - again and again and again. And when he finally stopped his head throbbed with pain and his nose was no clearer for all the jerking about. In fact it was stuffed so solid he had to breathe through his mouth and that made his head ache even worse.

"Dean. You're sick."

"No m'not." He slumped on the edge of the bed. His limbs were too heavy. And his eyelids.

A cool hand pressed against his forehead. "Hmm. You don't seem to have a fever."

"M'okay." He shivered. And coughed. His throat stabbed with pain.

"No, you're not." Cas emitted a humphy kind of growl. "Hayfever my ass," he said.

"Huh, yeah." Dean sniffed. "Lacey. Fuck. I've got so much to do." He sniffed again. How did a cold go from zero to a hundred in such a short space of time? He'd been fine earlier, hadn't he? Maybe not. His breakfast cereal had been strangely scratchy in his throat and the orange juice had tasted funny.

"You need to rest."

"No, I can-" He pushed up from the bed, but Cas's firm hands on his shoulders stopped him.

"Dean. You are going to get changed and get into bed. And I'm going to bring you Tylenol and tea with honey and lemon. And then I'll get the laptop so you can watch Scooby Doo. And later I'll bring you soup and tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off." He nodded decisively.

"Aw, Cas - you're gonna nurse me back to health?"

"Of course I am, Dean. Of course."

Denial, whiskey and telling people to fuck off and leave him alone - these were Dean's usual strategies for dealing with being sick or hurt.

He remembered, of course, in a hazy, rosy-glow kind of way, his Mom looking after him. If he hurt himself, she'd kiss him better and give him a hug to make the pain go away. If he had a cold she'd snuggle him up on the couch in front of the TV, and make him tomato rice soup, which had been a magic recipe, even if Dean now guessed that Mary had just emptied a can into a saucepan and dropped in a few grains to cook through.

But after his Mom's death, Dean had swiftly learned that weakness and neediness were not welcome. He'd been taught that they would get him the wrong kind of attention, that if Dad had to duck out on a hunt to look after Dean, people would get hurt or even die. So Dean had had to carry on if he could, and if he couldn't carry on he'd go to ground - hide under the covers of whatever lumpy motel bed was his for the duration and only force himself up to do the essential things for his brother.

If Sam was sick, however, even now Dean didn't take any shit. His brother got looked after, like it or not. And often Sam didn't like it, but Dean had been dealing with his brother since he could pick him up and dump him back in bed whenever he got out - he had strategies and he used them ruthlessly. And most often, Sam caved anyway and just took the fussing-over and yes, Dean would now admit to the phrase mother-henning. So, sue him - he'd had to be a mother hadn't he?

But denying the fact that he had a cold didn't work on Cas. And Dean didn't feel like hitting the JD. And he definitely didn't want Cas to fuck off and leave him alone. So he gave in. He went against the built-up habits of a lifetime, and gave in to his weakness and neediness, getting changed into his soft clothes and crawling heavily into their comfortable bed. The sturdy wooden bedframe and a massive pile of pillows was much more comfortable than their improvised stack of towels and kit bags had been.

Cas fussily arranged the pillows behind him and made him take some Tylenol and handed him a mug of fragrant tea, which normally Dean would have sneered at or spiked with something to make it worth drinking.

He sipped the sweet-scented liquid. It wasn't bad and felt okay against his burning throat. "I didn't know we had honey."

"I bought some. But next year we'll have our own honey. I'll set up our hives in the spring, when it starts to warm up."

The old, rotten hives had long gone from the orchard. Dean thought back to when he'd first visited their home. "Bees need flowers," he said vaguely. His head was full of fuzz. Or maybe buzz. Bees buzzed a lot. He blinked, stupidly.

"They'll have flowers, Dean."

"Awesome."

Cas took the empty mug from him and set it on the nightstand. "Scooby-Doo, where are you? Or one of the later series?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Where are you?" he rasped. "Always go with the classics."

"Coming right up."

Cas got into bed next to him and rested the laptop on their stretched-out legs. Dean let himself relax. The house painting could wait.

Oh no! Poor Dean! But Cas is looking after him...