Another cosy chapter, where Cas looks after Dean...

Chapter 22

Dean could easily have gotten dressed by himself. Of course he could - he wasn't that decrepit. But Cas had gone into protective mode, and Dean decided to just go with it and not kick up a fuss.

He knew it would happen - if Dean was hurting, Cas would be hurting too, unless there was something he could do. And mother-henning the hell out of the situation counted as something, so Dean let him.

He let Cas steer him with an arm around his waist, out of the bathroom and into their bedroom. He let Cas support him as he lowered himself to sit on the side of the bed. And then he let Cas dress him in layers of soft clothes, including pink fluffy socks and his 'I wuv hugs' sweater. And he let Cas pull the hood right up and draw the strings tight until there was just a narrow opening. And he let Cas kiss the tip of his nose and then press it softly with one gentle finger.

"Boop."

Dean raised an eyebrow, which was wasted on his angel because it was hidden by the hood.

Cas crouched in front of him and took both of Dean's hands in his own, holding his fingers and wiggling them up and down.

"Have you been taking painkillers?"

Dean shrugged. "Some."

"Which ones and when did you take them?"

"Had some Tylenol this morning," he mumbled. "Uh… and a coupla Advil."

"And how do you feel now?"

How did he feel? Embarrassed. Which was stupid - he knew that. But he wasn't supposed to admit to being in pain. He wasn't supposed to show it. He was supposed to hide it and carry on and be a man.

"Dean? Did the bath help?"

"Yeah. It helped."

Be a man. Men don't whinge and whine, Dean. They don't demand attention for shit they should be able to deal with on their own. People could die because you're wasting time bitching about how you feel.

"Dean. Are you in pain?"

Who cares if you're in pain? Just get the fucking job done, Dean.

Fuck John Winchester. Fuck him and his stupid standards of how men were supposed to behave. He hadn't even been a man when that shit had been drummed into him - he'd been a child. Or he would have been, if he'd ever had the chance.

"Dean. Tell me. It's okay to tell me." Cas's voice was so soft - husky and caring and he was so new to being a real, human man and he had none of the crappy, fucked-up ideas of how he or Dean were supposed to behave. He didn't judge. He cared. He loved.

And Dean, if he let himself - and fuck, it was so hard - could show Cas what was going on inside his head, if he tried and tried and fought and fought so that his body and even his words released some of his messed-up feelings.

A trail of moisture dribbled down from the corner of one eye, around the contour of his nose and down over his lips. He would swipe it away, only Cas still held his fingers and he didn't want to lose that caring touch.

He took a shuddering breath. "It hurts, Cas. Everything hurts."

"Oh, Dean. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're in pain." Cas knelt up and enfolded Dean in his arms and rubbed his back and cradled his head on his shoulder. And maybe a few more tears squeezed their way out of Dean's eyes, but they were absorbed straight away by Cas's sweater, so they didn't count.

Cas patted his back and then stood up. "I'm going to get you some Aleve, which should help. And then I'm going to heat some of those squishy gel packs in the microwave and cool some in the freezer and you can tell me where to put them."

"Okay. You know about stuff like that?"

"I do now. I've been reading up. Sometimes injuries need alternating hot and cold - did you know that?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess." Sam had said something about that once, when Dean had been holding the frozen peas on… his knee? Had it been his knee? He'd said Dean would be better alternating hot and cold and of course Dean had ignored him because taking care of himself wasn't something to fuss over with shit like that and if frozen peas didn't do the job… well fuck it.

Cas brought him the painkillers and helped him back down the stairs and installed him on one of the kitchen chairs with the leg voted most-in-pain propped up on another chair. And he covered him in various gel packs, tying some of them on with kitchen towels, but even so Dean felt like he had to sit very still or things would start sliding off.

Cas tipped a jug of milk or something into a mixing bowl and began beating it.

"I thought you said dinner was ready?"

"I said it was nearly ready. The recipe says you have to mix them up at the last minute or they won't expand and go fluffy."

"Mix what at the last minute?"

Cas glanced over his shoulder with a twinkly eye. "Dumplings. For the stew."

"Dumplings? We're having dumplings?"

"Yes."

"Awesome." Dean tried to remember when he'd had dumplings before. "I had chicken and dumplings once. At a diner someplace… Virginia? I think it was after we'd got rid of a poltergeist near Washington."

"This is beef stew and dumplings. It's a British recipe, so you don't roll the dough out. You just drop spoonfuls in." Cas delved out a spoonful of his mixture and used another spoon to scrape it off so it dropped into the bubbling pot, where it plopped and splashed. "The dumplings should turn out fluffy and round."

"Sounds cool." Dean's stomach rumbled loudly. There was some bread on the table - the rest of the homemade loaf from lunchtime. He took a slice and tried to keep to a slow nibble so he'd get the full effect of the meat and dumplings on a nearly empty stomach.

Cas put the lid on the pot. "There. They won't take long." He lifted the lid off the pot again and peered into it, chewing his lip.

"What's up?"

"Well, the dumplings cover the entire surface of the stew. I didn't think they were supposed to do that. It's like stew with a dumpling lid."

"Oh. Well. It sounds like there's plenty there, then. In fact, stew with a lid - that just makes it more like pie, right?" The cold pack was falling off his knee. Dean swapped it with the hot one on his other knee. And adjusted the hot pack on his shoulder, which was sliding down toward his shoulder blade.

Cas put the pot lid back on, sat down at the table and copied Dean, nibbling at the crust of a slice of bread. "Do you feel better now?"

Again, there was the impulse to look away, to make some smooth comment, to turn attention away from himself because he shouldn't be getting attention for this. Dean made himself look at his angel. "Yeah. The painkiller's doing its stuff. And these help." Dean patted the pack on his shoulder.

"I'm glad." Cas tore off part of his crust and twirled it in his fingers. "I know it's not easy for you - to admit when you're in pain."

Dean's chair creaked as he shifted uncomfortably.

"Sometimes it seems like you think you deserve it, Dean."

The bread squirmed in Dean's stomach. Did he think he deserved to be in pain? Again, his Dad's voice was in his head. You fucked up, Dean. So whose fault is it that you're hurt? It was his fault. Dean's fault. Always his fault, because he was careless, or unprepared, or just not strong enough. Or he was scared, when he couldn't afford to give into fear because lives depended on him getting this right.

Except it hadn't been his fault, had it? He'd always done his best. He'd always tried to make the right decision, do the right thing. And, yeah, his good intentions hadn't always worked out and he'd had to take responsibility for the consequences. But did he deserve to be hurt? No. And now he just had to learn to believe that.

"You don't deserve to be in pain," said Cas. "Do you?"

Dean flicked at the edge of the cold pack on his knee. He managed to shake his head. And then he took a breath and deliberately formed the words. "No. I don't deserve to be in pain."

There was a warm hand on his and Cas stood and bent down and kissed his forehead. And he didn't make a big fuss. He didn't say well done and pat him on the head, which was how he might have felt if he'd made such an admission in front of Sammy, who would have been overenthusiastically thrilled to hear it. He just said, "I think the dumplings will be cooked now."

And he filled two big bowls with stew, prodding and poking the dumplings with his ladle to separate them out.

The dumplings had formed strangely geometric shapes where they'd expanded into each other's space. But they were fluffy and at the same time comfortingly filling and their undersides were soaked in meaty juice. And the stew was full of falling-to-bits chunks of meat and even the veg - carrot and rutabaga and onion - was good, because it had gotten all meaty and soft over its hours of slow cooking.

Dean tried to eat slowly, because it was hot and he always ended up burning his mouth when he was really hungry.

"Ouch." He took a long swig of his beer, cooling his stinging tongue. The beer went really well with the stew.

"Eat the dumplings first. Or dip bread into it. You'll burn yourself again."

"Probably. It's just so good." He cut a chunk of dumpling with the edge of his spoon and chomped it hungrily. "Real good," he mumbled around his dumpling.

"I'm glad you like it."

"I love it. You can definitely make this again."

"You could make it too. It's easy."

"Easy and tasty - my favourite kind of food."

Cas didn't reply. Dean looked up to see that his angel was watching him. It was one of those moments - the moments where time stops and does a kind of freeze-frame: Dean and Cas, sitting at their table, eating a wholesome, home-cooked meal, just the two of them with dark outside the windows and warmth inside - the best kind of moment to burn into your memory and keep forever like a treasured photo album. Dean loved his angel so much. And the life they'd built together. He might have said it, but he had a mouthful of stew and by the time he'd chewed and swallowed the moment had passed. But Cas had smiled with soft eyes before he'd dipped his own spoon again and really, Dean didn't need to say it. Cas knew.

When they'd finished the stew there were large slices of chocolate cake and tea - the coffee pot was in the trash in jagged pieces from Cas's crazy dance fever.

Dean ate his cake in massive bites, because what was the point in eating chocolate cake if the frosting didn't squeeze out the sides of your mouth a little bit and you didn't get that 'mouth stuffed with cake' feeling that was just so satisfying?

But actually, he also needed to speak. He swallowed some of the cake and let the rest bulge in his cheek. "What did you mean? Before. Clues. 'bout Spring." A mess of chocolatey saliva ran down his chin. Dean wiped it off with the back of his hand.

"Oh. Well." Cas did that shy thing he did sometimes, his lashes flattening against his cheeks, his smile extra soft. "It's really a secret."

Dean swallowed the rest of his cake and prepared for another massive bite. "Oh, come on, Cas. You're keeping the big party a secret - a nurprise - and I need to catch up on my pestering. I'm getting behind. Anyway, one secret's enough."

Cas's eyes flicked up and down. "Yes, but this is a special secret." He leant forward, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks flushed, and he whispered, as if someone might overhear. "Secret flowers, Dean."

He wouldn't laugh, because Cas was so excited. But secret flowers? "Why secret flowers. Flowers just grow, don't they?"

"These are special flowers. That I've planted."

"I haven't seen any plants out there. Just all that scrappy grass."

Cas tapped the side of his nose. "That's why they're secret. Because they're buried. But any day now, the first of them will pop tiny shoots up out of the earth. And then it won't be long before they flower. And then we'll know that Spring is on the way."

"Okay," said Dean. "So, what - you planted seeds? Isn't it too cold for seeds?"

Cas shook his head. "Not seeds, Dean - bulbs. Have you seen bulbs? They look like nothing at all - like little, dirty onions that couldn't ever make anything beautiful. But they have so much power hidden away, stored inside them until just the right time - and then roots grow down and shoots grow up, and then - flowers."

Little, dirty onions. Dean didn't know much about gardening. He'd done some yardwork that year he'd spent with Lisa, but it was mostly mowing and raking and heavy stuff she couldn't do, or didn't want to do herself. Had she planted any bulbs? Dean couldn't remember.

"Bulbs," he said. "What kind?" Not that he'd understand the answer. He didn't know any bulbs. Or, hey - daffodils. They grew from bulbs didn't they? Where had he learned that? And garlic was a bulb. It wouldn't do you any good against vampires, though.

"Lots of different kinds, so they won't all come up at once."

That sounded like a good plan. "But what type, though? What colour?"

Cas leant forward again and tapped his nose. Again. "Secret flowers, Dean."

He was so full of himself. So excited. It was… the word adorable definitely applied. "Okay. You keep your secrets. I'll just wait and see."

Cas sat back and took a huge bit of his cake and looked smugly satisfied with himself - which was a good look on him. Another adorable look. But enough with the feels - his cake needed attention. Dean tried to outdo Cas's massive bite, choked and spluttered and had to take small sips of his tea to make the cake go down the right way.

His angel topped up his mug of tea from the big, brown china pot and added another splash of milk. Dean took another, slightly smaller bite of his cake and thought about Cas's bulbs - dirty little onions that looked like nothing. But it was all there inside them, waiting for the right moment to come out and bloom.

Dean felt like he'd been one of those dirty, scrappy little onions - with no beauty or colour or life. But then he'd had the amazing, monumental good luck to get planted here, in this house, on this little scrap of land, with his beloved angel. He'd been planted in rich soil and watered with love and fertilised with kindness and caring. And now he was blooming.

And so was Cas.

And finally, the title is explained! Which was going to happen in the first couple of chapters, because it was only going to be a short story!