Work Text:
“You don’t feel warm,” Dean says, frowning, the curve of his hand lingering just a moment longer than necessary on Castiel’s forehead. “You said you’re not feeling too good?”
Cas sighs and curls into himself, tugging at his blanket. Dean has been sitting on the corner of it; he adjusts himself as Cas readjusts so that Castiel can pull the blanket up around his shoulders. “I’m dizzy,” he mumbles as soon as he is settled, “and my head hurts. And when I tried to get out of bed I couldn’t stand up straight.” This is not entirely true. His head does hurt, but Castiel has a headache more often than not these days—perhaps a result of the empty place where his grace used to be—and it’s no worse than usual. But he’s not lying when he says he doesn’t feel well, although he has a feeling the sensation is entirely psychological.
Dean makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. “S’probably just a minor cold or something. It’ll clear up in a few days, so long as you don’t do anything stupid. I could get you some soup or something, if you want.”
“I’m not hungry,” Cas says. He toys with the edge of the soft blue blanket Dean had picked out for him at a thrift store in the next town over. He can feel Dean shifting on the bed behind him, can hear him breathe in deep and long.
“You gotta eat, man,” Dean says, voice gentle. “Human, remember? It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”
Cas sighs into his pillow and wants to tell Dean that he knows what he wants, and it’s not soup, it’s this: Cas curled on his bed with Dean seated close enough so that his hips are a warm brand against Cas’ own. Wants to tell him that he feels fine, really, except there’s this ache that he can’t quite place deep inside him, an ache he only felt a mere echo of when he was an angel, but now that he’s human, now that his grace doesn’t act as a buffer between himself and the brunt of his emotions, it’s agonizing, and Dean’s presence always makes the pain fade, if just a little bit.
Dean’s hand rests briefly on Cas’ shoulder, and the ache in his chest swells and presses against his lungs and ribs. “I’m gonna make some soup. Okay? I can bring it in here for you if you don’t want to get out of bed.”
“I’d rather you stay,” Cas says, the pillow muffling his words and rendering them unintelligible. Dean shifts again, and Cas knows he’s leaning in closer because he can feel his warmth along the curve of his spine. Cas shivers at the proximity and closes his eyes.
“Dude, speak up, I can’t hear you,” Dean says.
Cas shakes his head briefly. “Never mind,” he says. Dean makes an incredulous noise, and then he pats Cas’ back.
“Whatever you say. Get some rest. I’ll make tomato rice soup. You’ll love it—my mom used to make it for me when I was a kid. You’ll be okay in here by yourself?”
Saying no isn’t really an option, so Cas just grunts an affirmative and tugs the blanket farther up until he’s cocooned in it, the darkness soft and heavy and sweet-smelling with the detergent Dean uses. Dean pats his shoulder once more before he gets up, bed creaking. He closes the door as he leaves.
The first time Castiel got sick as a human, he caught the flu and spent a terrible four days bed-ridden, unable to do much except force down some medication, sleep fitfully, and then wake up to puke. Dean had spent nearly every moment with him, bringing him water, cool washcloths that he smoothed across Cas’ forehead and shoulders, even some homemade chicken broth when he thought Castiel would be able to keep it down. He dragged in an old TV, hooked up a laptop, and the two of them watched movies, Castiel drifting in and out of fever-induced sleep. Cas had been miserable, yes, and he had cried more than once out of pure frustration because he was human, he was brought to his knees by a virus, and it was disgusting and humiliating and agonizing—but that was nothing in comparison to being the center of Dean’s attention and affection.
As soon as he’d gotten better, Dean had shut off. No more gentle touches, no more sitting pressed together to fit on Cas’ bed to watch old movies that Dean proclaimed were classics. A fluke, Cas had thought; but then only a few months later he fell ill again, and Dean stayed in his bed and they watched more of Dean’s favorite movies while Cas tried in vain to cough out all the phlegm caught in his lungs, and Dean rubbed his back and stayed close enough to touch and even once, when Cas was drifting off to sleep, kissed his forehead and lingered there for several long moments.
Castiel is a warrior, or at least he was; he is billions of years old, and not once has a living creature touched him the way Dean Winchester touches him, with such affection.
He knows it’s just an act, though. Dean isn’t like that when he’s not ill, when Dean isn’t taking care of him, and he knows Dean only touches him like that because it’s meant to be a reassurance, it doesn’t mean anything, and Castiel is selfish, so selfish, because even though it’s a falsity, even though Dean does it out of a sense of responsibility, he craves it, needs it in a way that frightens him.
I miss you, he thinks. It’s an odd thing, that thought, because Dean is here, or at least just around the corner, and Castiel is living with him in this bunker that houses a legacy, and Dean has been teaching him how to cook and how to get the toughest stains out of clothes and how to appreciate the 1966 Batman movie which Dean says is complete shit, but can quote verbatim. They’ve hunted together, although Castiel is often forced to stay at the bunker because he’s a liability, he’s got reapers and angels and demons alike after him, and his Enochian warding only goes so far. Castiel has learned how to sew flesh shut and to brace a shoulder so that it may be popped back into its socket—and he’s been trying, so very hard, to learn how to ease the troubled lines between Dean’s brows and to bring a smile to his lips, but it’s hit-or-miss, it really is, and Castiel doesn’t know what the point of him being here is, if he can’t somehow alleviate the burden Dean carries.
He’s selfish. He’s stupidly, terribly selfish. His brothers and sisters have been cast out of heaven and are a tumultuous force on Earth; Abaddon and her demons seek to raise Hell and corrupt the angels whose wings burned; and Dean suffers, because he thinks this is All His Fault. And yet Castiel curls in bed with his blanket draped across him, wallowing in the darkness it offers him, and fakes illness so that he can steal Dean away from the world for just a few hours.
Castiel presses his face into his pillow. He has to take several deep breaths, because his throat feels thick and his eyes sting, and he hates the very human act of crying. He didn’t mean to, that first time he was sick—but his stomach had been in agony, and he was gagging and spitting out mouthfuls of bile into a bucket, and Dean was rubbing a gentle hand on his back as Castiel hung half over the bed, entire body trembling, and as soon as his stomach quieted he had tried to take a breath and then discovered he couldn’t breathe through the tears. Never, not even when Pestilence had infected his vessel, had Castiel ever felt so ruined. Like his own body had turned against him. Dean had stroked his back and let Castiel cry and brought him water and tissues to wipe his face, and then he pulled Castiel to his side and shushed him when he protested that he would get Dean sick, he was fine, Dean didn’t need to stay with him.
Dean is so good, Castiel thinks. Much better than he gives himself credit for, but Castiel has seen his soul, has held it in the very deepest parts of himself, and heknows Dean Winchester in a way that not even his brother does. And he knows, deeply, irrevocably, that Dean Winchester is a good man, the best of men.
More than that, Castiel knows he doesn’t deserve him.
It’s getting too warm with the blanket over his head, the air stagnant and heavy, but Cas doesn’t want to move. Here in the darkness, he can suspend time and pretend that he is waiting for Dean to slip into bed behind him, align their hips and their shoulders, rest his chin in the crook between Cas’ shoulder and neck; and Castiel will turn in the embrace and wrap his arms around Dean’s solid torso, tuck his head beneath Dean’s chin; and he will hold Dean, and press his lips to the hollow of his throat, and tell him that he is good, that he is not alone, that he is loved. He wants to take care of Dean as well as Dean takes care of him.
Castiel suffers from no delusions: Dean would never allow this. Even if he did feel what Castiel feels—because Castiel knows that what he feels is different, is deeper and more desperate and more selfish than Dean’s affection for him—Dean wouldn’t allow himself to be held. He thinks he doesn’t deserve it, and Castiel would give anything to make Dean see that he is worthy.
Perhaps half an hour passes before there’s a knock at Castiel’s door, Dean’s familiar heavy hand. The knock is simply a gesture of courtesy; Dean shoulders open the door before Cas can respond. Cas pulls the blanket down enough so that he can see over the edge; Dean’s carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup, a glass of water, a bottle of aspirin, a small plate with crackers. When he sees Cas is looking, Dean smiles. It makes the ache in Castiel’s chest balloon, pressing against the fragile skin at the base of his throat.
“Hey, buddy,” Dean says, and he pushes the door shut with his foot. “You doin’ okay?”
Cas makes a noise of affirmation and pushes himself up into a seated position. “You didn’t have to bring all this for me,” he says, and the words come out rough because his throat is tight.
Dean shrugs, a lopsided movement. “Hey, getting pampered when you’re sick is awesome. You’ve only been human for, what, six months? Humor me.”
Before Castiel knows what he’s doing, he says, “I want to take care of you, too,” and the words are too soft and tremulous for Dean to misunderstand the emotion behind them.
The words are barely out of his mouth when Dean’s entire body locks, hands turning white-knuckled on the handles of the tray, throat working as he swallows. Castiel can feel warmth in his cheeks and ears where he knows he’s turning pink, but he refuses to look away from Dean, because he’s said it, now, he can’t take it back, and he wants Dean to understand that he does want to return the favor—he wants to sit at Dean’s bedside when he’s sick and press cold compresses to his forehead and brush his sweaty hair back from his temples and offer body heat and bring him homemade soup on a tray, he wants to be there for Dean the way he won’t let anybody be there for him. But more than that he wants Dean to let him, he wants Dean to want to be taken care of by him.
Dean clears his throat, shifts his weight. “Right. Well, I’m not sick, so—so you don’t have to worry about that. Okay, Cas? Just—let me take care of you for now.” He smiles. It doesn’t meet his eyes.
“Would you let me?” Cas asks, quiet, as Dean sets the tray down on the bedside table. Dean stills for a moment, partially bent over Cas, and then he straightens up one vertebrae at a time and folds his arms.
“What’s this about, Cas?” Dean asks, and his eyes are on Castiel’s and he’s frowning, just a little, the corners of his mouth curved down.
Cas has to work up some saliva to answer, because his mouth is all of a sudden very dry. “You always take care of me,” he says, picking the words with great care, “and you take care of Sam, and Kevin, and—and everyone else. You think it’s your responsibility, and—”
“It is my responsibility,” Dean says, but Cas ignores him and continues.
“—and you never ask, but I—there must be times when you can’t—when it might be better if there were someone offering you their help. I know you don’t—need it, but I’d—if you want it—I’d give it to you, I would be there if you’d let me, but you don’t—you’re so good to me, and I want to be good to you, too, but you—you spend so much time looking after others, but—you never—you never let anyone take care of you. And I—I could. If you’d let me.”
Dean takes a deep breath, his lips parted, eyes sliding away from Castiel’s. Cas watches him, wondering if he said too much, if he didn’t say enough, if what he just said even makes any sense.
They are still, the two of them, for an immeasurable moment. Cas feels as though, if only he strained hard enough, he would be able to hear Dean’s heartbeat as clearly as if his head were laid upon Dean’s chest.
Dean breathes again. The stillness breaks. Slowly, Dean says, “Cas—you gotta understand, man—I—look, it’s my job to take care of you, okay? You and Sam and Kevin, and Charlie, when she’s here, because you guys are my family, right? It’s—buddy, you gotta know—I don’t—it’s—”
“Dean,” Cas says softly, because Dean is struggling over his words and his eyes are wide and his hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I don’t want you to look after me because you feel you’re supposed to.” He swallows past the tightness of his throat. “You don’t—you don’t have to take care of me. It’s not—it’s not your job.” I want you to want to take care of me, Castiel thinks, but doesn’t say.
“I’ve been doing this my whole goddamn life, Cas,” Dean says. His hands are white-knuckled fists. “I look after people. That’s what I do. I looked after Mom, and after she died, I looked after Sam, and I looked after Dad, because that’s what I had to do, and I have to look out for you, because you—you’re—”
“I’m what?” Castiel says, and he doesn’t mean for his voice to come out quite so sharp, but it does. He slides out of bed, kicking the covers off in his haste. He’s only wearing boxers and a thin t-shirt, one of Dean’s. “I’m a responsibility?”
“No—that’s not—don’t put words in my mouth. Christ!” Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Look. It’s not. It’s. Okay. You—you’re not a responsibility, okay? I—fuck, Iwant to look after you, Cas.”
“You don’t have to lie, Dean.” The ache in Castiel’s chest has spread to his throat, his hands, the backs of his eyes. “When you—when I’m sick, you—you’re so close, and you—you hold me and, and—you touch me like I—like I mean something, but you—when I’m better, you never—it’s like it never happened, and I know you don’t mean it—”
“Who the fuck said I don’t mean it?” Dean demands, but Cas ignores him, the words are spilling out of his mouth now, he’s been so selfish for so long:
“—but it hurts, I—don’t treat me like I’m worth more to you than I am, Dean, please, I can’t—I can’t take it, I can’t take it, Dean, you don’t need to act like you—like you care for me that way, I know you don’t— you never even act like it—like it matters. I always think that it means something more, but if you just—if it’s just aresponsibility,” Cas says, voice cracking, “if it’s just a responsibility, Dean, I don’t want it, I don’t want to be a job. I don’t want to be another burden for you. You already have so many of those.”
Cas sucks in a breath, winded, and the ache has spilled into every atom of his being, his fingernails, the strands of his hair, the jutting point of his collarbone, the curve of his stomach. The words aren’t gone, not yet, but he’s exhausted. Every syllable has been dragged from deep within him, and there are gouges left in the space his grace once lived.
“Cas,” Dean says, just his name. He’s pale, lips tight, shoulders hunched. “You—Cas, you’ve never—you’re not a responsibility, you stupid son of a bitch, you’ve never been a fucking responsibility, or a job, or, or any of the bullshit you’re talking about. A burden? For fuck’s sake, Cas, why the hell do you think I take care of you, not Sam? It’s because I fucking want to. I want to keep you safe. I—you think I’d—I’d hold you, or—or watch stupid movies with you, or stay with you all fucking night while you’re puking your guts out because of some sense of fucked-up responsibility? I do it because I love you, you fucking idiot, but clearly—clearly none of that has gotten through your thick skull, so you know what—forget it, just, just forget it, okay?” Dean is red in the face, his breathing is erratic, his voice is hoarse and thin. His eyes are cold and green and it’s only because Cas has cradled Dean’s soul in his grace that he knows he’s breaking.
“If you love me,” Cas says, and he knows he’s crying, doesn’t even give a fuck, “If you—if you really love me, then why—why do you have to hide? If you want to—to hold me and watch stupid movies with me and stay with me, what’s stopping you?”
“Everything,” Dean chokes out. “Everything. I don’t—I don’t get good things, Cas, I ruin them—”
“Don’t you dare,” Cas says. “Don’t—don’t. You—you are good, Dean, you are worthy, you, you couldn’t ruin me if you tried—”
Dean tries to laugh but it comes out more like a sob. “You don’t know that. You don’t fucking know that, Cas.”
“I’ve held your soul,” Cas says, voice breaking. “Even after forty years of Hell, you were the brightest—most beautiful—awe-inspiring thing I’ve ever seen. Dean, you—I know you.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I have faith in you.”
Dean stares at him, eyes wide and green and bright, and he opens his mouth but whatever words he’s trying to say die somewhere between vocal cords and lips.
“I just want to take care of you, Dean,” Castiel says. “I want you to know what it feels like to be taken care of, because you’re so good, Dean, you’re so good to me but you never let me help, you never let me take care of you. I want to make you happy.”
“Cas,” Dean says. He takes an aborted step forward, says Castiel’s name again. “Cas. Castiel. You—you do make me happy, man, you’ve gotta know that. Just—taking care of you, being able to—to look after you, that makes me so fucking happy, Cas, you’ve gotta believe me.”
Castiel breathes in, deep. Dean is just a few feet away from him, eyes pleading, hands limp by his sides. “Dean,” Castiel whispers. “I—if I—if I said I wanted you to take care of me—would that—would that make you happy?”
Dean swallows, throat clicking audibly. “Yes,” he breathes.
“And if—if I said that it makes me happy, too, but sometimes I want—I want to take care of you, too,” Castiel says, words sticking in his throat. “And that—it would make me so—happy, if you’d let me, if you’d want me to take care of you—would you give it a chance?”
The muscle in Dean’s jaw twitches as he presses his lips together. Castiel waits, the ache in his chest thrumming. Finally Dean nods, short and jerky. “Yes,” he says. “If it’d make you happy. Yes.”
Castiel shuffles a step closer. “I don’t want you to say yes because you think it’d be good for me,” he says. “I want you to say yes because you want me to take care of you. Not all the time. Just—just when you need it.”
The lines around Dean’s eyes deepen, his lips tug into a frown, he looks away. “Cas—you know I—”
“Dean,” Castiel says.
Dean closes his eyes tightly. “Yes,” he says. “I—when I need it. I—you can take care of me, Cas. I—think I’d like that. Not all the time. But—sometimes. When I need it.”
“Dean,” Castiel says again. He takes another step forward. Dean is a few inches taller than he is; this close, Castiel has to tilt his head back just a little bit so he can catch Dean’s eyes with his. Dean’s throat works briefly; Castiel knows the feeling. Their chests are just brushing on every inhale. His voice is soft when he says, “Will you take care of me?”
“Always,” Dean says, voice just as soft. His hand bumps against Castiel’s, and then again, and Dean’s fingers wrap loosely around his wrist. Castiel leans forward, places his chin on Dean’s shoulder like he’s always wanted to, presses his cheek against Dean’s.
They stand like that for what seems like an eternity. When Castiel breathes in, Dean breathes out. Castiel tilts his head, presses his face into Dean’s neck. He can feel Dean’s heartbeat.
“I’m not actually sick,” Castiel says, some time later. The words are muffled against Dean’s neck.
Dean brings his arms up to wrap loosely around Castiel’s waist. “Hmm,” he says.
“I just wanted you to stay with me,” Castiel says.
Dean’s arms tighten. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
Dean presses his cheek against the crown of Castiel’s head. His breath is warm against his forehead. “Yeah,” he says. “You’ve got me.”
Castiel closes his eyes. “I’ve got you, too,” he says. He slides his hands up Dean’s back, rests one of them on the back of Dean’s neck, the other between his shoulder blades. Dean’s neck is warm and solid against the breadth of Castiel’s palm.
Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath. His arms tighten. “Okay,” he says again, a whisper. “Okay.”