Dean goes back out into the cold to carry on with his work - silly boy. But Cas will look after him...

Chapter 21

Warmed by the soup - and by the love of his angel, obviously - Dean ventured back outside into the cold to carry on working on Baby's garage.

There was still a lot to do. He'd probably need to ask Cas to give him a hand with some of the higher parts of the structure, and he'd definitely need help with the roof. But once that was up, he should be able to manage the cladding alone. Although it would certainly help if the weather decided to give him a freaking break for a change.

Dean was dressed for sub-zero temperatures - from the thermal underwear that Cas had insisted upon to the scarf that Cas made sure was snugly wrapped around his neck every time he set foot outside the door, as well as multiple layers in between. But somehow, the cold seemed to worm its way right inside and to penetrate Dean's muscles and bones, making his joints ache and his old injuries flare into life.

The years of hunting had not been kind to Dean's body. How many times had he broken ribs? He'd lost count. And other bones too, notably his leg - that'd been fun. Then there were the bullets he'd taken - his left shoulder seemed to be a bit of a target there. And the countless other injuries, not all of which, sadly, had been righted by angelic grace or other assorted methods of healing. Like angry spirits, they were all coming back to haunt him - because he was working hard and because it was fucking freezing and just because he was at that age where your body started reminding you that you weren't immortal.

Maybe he should ask Cas to plan him a senior citizen's birthday party - something like a dinner dance, where he could shuffle around to a dreary beat and then spoon up his puréed dinner. Huh.

Dean tightened the last bolt which held a horizontal strut in place. Then he stood back and pulled off a glove so that he could scratch the back of his neck where the woollen scarf was making his skin itch. He'd get one of the heavier uprights next - the one for the centre of the back wall.

He put his glove back on and checked out the pile of struts, which he'd laid out in the order that he'd use them. Picking out the one he wanted, he crouched down and gripped one end, then lifted as he walked forward until the thing was vertical. He hefted it off the ground, supporting some of the weight of the chunky metal against his chest and leaning backward slightly to balance it. He carried it to the right position and lowered it down carefully.

His left shoulder twinged. And his steps had been uneven where the leg he had broken was aching.

He didn't want Cas to know. Which was maybe, probably - definitely - really stupid. But if Dean was hurting, Cas would be hurting too, especially if there was nothing much he could do. And Dean was already sneakily taking painkillers, wasn't he? And spending time in the sauna and the steam room to try to drive the ache from his bones.

There was movement in the corner of Dean's eye. A deer, creeping out of the treeline? No. No, it was Cas, bulky in his old trench coat over multiple chunky-knit sweaters, one of his tasselled hats pulled well down so that his eyes were nearly covered. He looked up and waved vaguely at Dean and then carried on with whatever the hell he was doing. Which looked like… Dean pulled off his gloves and took out a handkerchief to blow his nose, which was running in annoying little drips because of the cold. It looked like Cas had lost something. Like he was scouring the frosted grass for some small, precious item that had slipped out of a pocket.

As Dean watched he crouched down and parted a tuft of course grass with gloved fingers, bent down even closer so that his nose was in danger of frostbite and then slowly stood up again and moved on, still scanning the winter-bleached grass.

Weird. Oh well, Cas did a lot of weird stuff and in the end it always made some kind of sense. Like the time Dean had found him wandering around upstairs with his eyes shut, blundering into things. He'd been, "practising for nighttime, Dean. So that if I get up I won't have to turn on the lights and disturb you."

Dean slid the upright into place in its hole in the concrete base, sorted out the cross-pieces and laboriously bolted them all together. His fingers ached. Which was what you got for a lifetime of bare knuckle fighting, but it pissed him off all the same.

The next time Dean looked up, Cas had gone, and Dean felt a momentary pang, a here-and-gone flash of that feeling he used to get when he couldn't see Cas. But there was light in the kitchen and the lilt of music on the breeze and Dean's insides loosened from their sudden, tight knot. Cas was fine. He was safe. He was inside, in the warm, devising new and interesting ways to hide healthy ingredients in whatever he was planning on cooking for dinner.

Dean carried on working. The metal framework was like a puzzle - a jigsaw, or one of those sudoku things that Sam was addicted to. Slotting the pieces together, seeing the structure grow was addictive. Maybe he'd get the back wall finished and then go in. Or perhaps he could get the other side wall built too. Dean lost himself in his work, the monotonous physical strain challenging and satisfying - occupying his body to the extent that it distracted his mind from wandering about, so that he didn't need to think about anything in particular. It was cold - colder than the morning had been. But that was okay. He'd go in and get warm soon. Soon.

"Dean."

"Whoa, what?" He dropped the wrench, which fell with a loud clang.

"Dean, I called you half an hour ago."

A pink fluffy glove wrapped itself around his arm. Dean blinked at it and then blinked at Cas, blue eyes wide and concerned beneath the crazy knitted monkey face on his hat.

"Oh, uh…" He cleared the croakiness from his voice. "Didja?" he mumbled. His lips didn't seem to be able to shape themselves properly.

"You've been out here for hours. It's too cold for you to be working still."

Wow, yeah. It was cold. His cheeks were numb and the air he was dragging into his lungs was sharp and bitter. "I was… uh… working." His brain seemed to have iced up too. "I'll come in."

"Yes. You will."

Hmm. Cas sounded a bit pissed. He was gathering Dean's tools together and tidying stuff away.

"Come on, Dean."

Now he was being towed toward the house and the light from the kitchen was brighter than ever, which meant it was darker out here. How long had he been out? He twisted around to see how much progress he'd made on Baby's house.

"Dean, come on."

"Just wanna see. Hey, I dunalot." His damn mouth wouldn't cooperate. But all three walls and the short sections at the front where the door would go were complete - he'd done an awesome job.

Dean stumbled up the steps of the verandah, and damn he was stiff - and now that he wasn't working, all kinds of bits of him were sending urgent messages written in red block capitals, like final demands for him to please stop.

"In."

Dean was pushed firmly in through the door.

"You're pissed."

"Yes, Dean. I am pissed. You don't have to build the whole garage in one day. Your car is perfectly safe under its covering."

"Her covrin'."

"Her, then. Here, let me help."

Dean had pulled his gloves off but somehow couldn't seem to get out of his coat. His breath hitched sharply as Cas tugged at the left sleeve.

"Dean?"

Dammit.

"What?"

"Are you hurt? Have you strained something?"

He would've shrugged if his damn shoulder didn't hurt so much. "Maybe. Uh, yeah. Think so."

Cas narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Dean looked away and let his coat slide off the other shoulder and onto the floor.

"I got time fora shower 'fore dinner?" His lips and jaw were still stiff and clumsy from the cold. But the cake Cas had made earlier was sitting in the middle of the table. Chocolate cake. And a large pot was bubbling on the stove, the lid hiding the contents. Another soup? Maybe a stew with big chunks of meat.

"You can have a bath."

"No, I can just-"

"It's ready for you. Just go up and get in. It'll help with whatever you've strained - which we will be discussing, by the way."

Shit.

"Okay." If he walked out of the kitchen now, while Cas was watching, his angel would see straight away that he was limping. And not only was the broken-and-healed leg aching but the other knee was bitching at him too - when had he hurt that? Probably multiple times. Distraction was needed. "What were you looking for?"

"Looking for?"

Dean jerked his head toward the area Cas had been scouring. "Out there. Before. Looked like you were part of a manhunt or something - looking for clues."

"Oh." The tension left his face to be replaced by a small smile - and Dean immediately felt guilty for putting the tension there in the first place. "I suppose I was looking for clues."

"Yeah? Is there an escaped murderer lurking on our property that you haven't told me about?"

"No. Nothing like that."

The pot on the hob was sounding a bit lively. Its lid rattled and then settled, then rattled again.

"I was looking for signs," - liquid dribbled down the side of the pot and hissed onto the stovetop - "clues, if you will."

The lid flapped up and down as bubbles forced their way out.

"Uh, Cas…"

Bright blue eyes shone with excitement. "Clues that Spring is on the way."

The pot erupted, overflowing with frothy bubbles, streams of liquid running down its sides and hissing onto the stovetop.

"The stew!" Cas grabbed a cloth, plucked the lid off with one hand and turned the heat off with the other.

Dean fled, limping away as fast as he could, tugging his laces free - which made his back stab with pain - and kicking off his boots, before making what limping, awkward speed he could up the stairs to get away from Cas's eagle eye. Or angel eye.

He made it to the bathroom, without hearing a challenging call or footsteps behind him and, as he pulled off his flannel shirt, had a passing thought that actually, it might have been nice to have Cas helping him and fussing over him.

"Don't need no help," he muttered to himself. And squashed down the voice that said he did.

The bath was waiting for him - steaming invitingly. And the ducks were drifting on the still water, the biggest one floating upside down, which it always did unless you squeezed it to get exactly the right amount of water inside.

Dean shed the rest of his clothes, slowly, wincingly, cataloguing the variety of niggles, aches, throbs and outright total bitches. Why weren't there more words to describe pain? Maybe there were. Sam would know. But Dean wouldn't ask him.

He perched on the high, decorative roll top, the pink and gold scrolls digging into his butt. Then he swung his legs in, both knees aching now, and slithered into the water with a deep, relieved sigh.

Cas was right. A shower wouldn't have been nearly as good. He sighed again, letting everything relax in the comforting, healing heat, tipping his head back over the side so that his body floated up and bobbed around in the huge bath.

Then he sank down again and the day's hard work caught up with him. His thoughts drifted with the bright yellow ducks and swirls of bubbles and steam. He dozed.

"Dean."

His name was whispered and accompanied by the brush of fingers through his damp hair.

"Huh? Wha'?"

"Dean, it's time to get out. Dinner's nearly ready."

"Huhmmf…nah. 'm warm."

Cas smiled down at him mistily. Or was it Dean's eyes that were misty? Or just the steam from the bath?

A dry, heavy hand curled around his damp shoulder, the fingers dipping and wriggling below the waterline. "Dean. It's time to get out," Cas's voice was low and gravelly and just… nice. "The water will get cool soon. Get up and I'll dry you off."

It was an attractive offer. But he was so heavy.

"Come on. Up we go."

Cas's hands slid beneath his arms from behind and Dean grumbled for form's sake, but then wrapped his fingers around the lumpy, scrolled top and heaved and got his feet under him and, with Cas supporting him from behind, he found himself upright, blinking, swaying slightly and then shivering as the water on his body dried in what felt like cold, cold, unfriendly, air after the cosiness of the bath water.

Then one of the huge bath sheets - a blue one - flung around his shoulders and Cas was helping him out of the bath and onto the fluffy blue mat in the shape of a cloud (a new purchase). And then he was drying Dean, not with the vigorous rubbing and tickling you might use with a small child (Dean had used that technique on Cas before) but smoothing his hands over the towel gently, over Dean's chest, carefully down each arm, his hands moving slowly over his back, pausing to massage his shoulder muscles. Dean's head dropped forward and he groaned in satisfaction.

"s good."

"I'm glad." Cas crouched to dry Dean's legs and then stood, slipping his arms around Dean's waist from behind, resting his head on his shoulder. "Are you going to tell me?"

Ah. Hmm. He could say there was nothing to tell. He could go for the usual, "I'm fine," and maybe add, "All good in the land of Dean!" just to add to the effect of fineness.

But this was Cas. Cas who'd made him a delicious dinner - if the enticing meaty smell was anything to go by - Cas who'd brought him in from the cold, who'd run him a hot, deep bath, who'd helped him out of the bath and dried him like he was a precious thing to be cherished; which Cas did - he did cherish Dean. And, up to now, the word wouldn't have been anywhere in the orbit - or even the solar system - of Dean's vocabulary. But now he couldn't deny it - he felt well and truly cherished.

So he'd better just get it over and 'fess up then, hadn't he? He turned around within the circle of Cas's arms.

"I, uh… I might've been having a bit of trouble. You know - with stuff. Old stuff." Fuck. All kinds of flowery new words might be floating around in his head, but none of them ever seemed to find their way out of his mouth. Dean curled his toes into the fluffy, cloud-shaped bath mat. Did Cas ever sit on a cloud? When he was an angel? No. He would've just gotten a wet ass.

"Old stuff? What do you mean, Dean?"

Dean sighed. And shrugged. His shoulder twinged. "Old injuries. You know. From when my leg got broke. When I got shot coupla times. And other stuff…" He trailed away. The biggest duck was still floating upside down, circling slowly around and around in the eddies left in Dean's wake.

He risked a glance at Cas. The tilt of his head expressed concern and a certain amount of exasperation. "Why didn't you say anything, Dean? You don't have to hide things like that."

Dean's toes curled tight, wrinkling up the cloud-mat. The back of his neck got a thorough scrubbing as he watched his restless toes squeezing and releasing.

"I dunno. There's nothing much you can do, so…"

"So you thought you'd suffer alone?"

Cas pulled Dean's hand away from his neck and held it. And his fingers gently raised Dean's chin so that he had to look into the big, blue eyes. The thick, dark eyebrows were scrunching together. Cas didn't look pissed, though. Not much, anyway. He leant forward and briefly touched his soft, dry lips to Dean's.

"Bobby would call you an idjit."

Still embarrassed, Dean would have looked away, and his fingers twitched to rub his nape again. But Cas still held his hand and his fingers had slid from Dean's chin to cup his cheek. "Yeah, he would."

"You're my idjit, though. Which is altogether a superior type of idjit."

"That makes me sound worse."

Cas kissed the tip of his nose. "You are. But I still love you."

I love these soft, squishy moments. More cosiness coming up tomorrow!