Chapter Text
Dean was sort of hoping that the custodial staff would take care of the Party City nuclear explosion that he left behind in his office last week, but life, as Dean is painfully aware, is not fair. Unfortunately, working in a children’s hospital means that a guy can’t turn forty in peace, and the whole pediatric oncology department made sure to let everyone know that it was Dean’s birthday. He thought he’d manage to fly under the radar this year, given that he doesn’t work at the hospital on Thursdays, but Rowena made sure that his office—both the door and the interior—were “adequately decorated” on Wednesday. Understatement of the goddamn year, Dean thinks as he dumps his bag on his desk and resigns himself to pulling down the streamers and banners and other shiny dangly bits hanging off the ceiling.
He’s bitching and moaning, but he actually does appreciate the lengths the staff will go to to add fanfare to the space. It makes the kids happy, and Dean would frankly like to study birthday-related toddler joy in a lab.
It’s only quarter past nine when Dean finally settles his newly minted forty-year-old ass down, so maybe the teardown wasn’t that bad. Regardless, Dean feels like he can breathe now that the space is as it should be. He’s not quite as crazy-meticulous about his office as he is about his car, but he’ll admit there’s some overlap. He hates disarray. As psychologists are wont to do, he blames it on his childhood.
In keeping with his usual Monday morning routine, Dean logs on to the excruciatingly slow hospital network and immediately clicks onto his calendar to see if anything’s changed, and would you look at that: there’s a new patient in his one o’clock timeslot. Owen Mills, he reads. He’ll have to do some digging on this kid over his lunch break.
After a half hour of administrative bullshit, Dean’s focus is interrupted by a sing-songy voice announcing, “Special delivery!”
He startles, realizing only then that he had been completely zoned out. “Dammit, Rowena!” he groans, burying his face in his hands.
Rowena is pretty intimidating for someone so itty bitty, but Dean’s theorized that ninety percent of her edge would disappear if you took away the elaborate eyeshadow and the Outlander accent. She’s even less intimidating when she’s flouncing across Dean’s office, waving a file folder around like she’s won the lottery. Her red hair is exceptionally bouncy today, but Dean’s not gonna give her the satisfaction of telling her that.
“Dr. Winchester! Already looking older and wiser, I see! I hope you’re not too hungover there, my dear?” she trills, making absolutely no effort to speak in a hangover-friendly voice. Thankfully Dean's forty, not twenty-one, and his weekend consisted of family time and a couple day trips, getting deliberately lost in the tiny towns of Washington state with Charlie. A far cry from getting shitfaced and ending up in a ditch with his pants around his ankles.
Even so, Dean winces when Rowena slaps the file folder down on the desk in front of him. “Nope,” he tells her, giving her a little glare just because he’s in a fighting mood after the birthday cleanup. “Is this my one o’clock?” he asks, pulling the file towards him.
“Yes sir!” Rowena confirms.
Dean opens up the file and gives it a cursory glance. His eyes snag on the physician’s name. “Novak? That’s a new one,” he comments, looking up at Rowena in confusion. Dr. Novak has worked at Seattle Mercy Children’s Hospital as a pediatric oncologist for the past year, and Dean has literally never met the man due to the glaring lack of overlap in their days. Rowena hasn’t given Dean any of his referrals, because it would be pretty freaking impossible to consult with someone who works on an opposite schedule.
“Dr. Novak changed his days to Monday through Thursday,” Rowena explains. “You’ll be seeing more of him and less of Pamela now; she swapped her Monday for his Friday.”
Dean isn’t worried about Pam deprivation—he likes her plenty, but Jesus Christ if she isn’t a lot—but he is curious about Dr. Novak and his pristine reputation. The Angel of Mercy, the staff call him. Rumour has it that he’s never lost a patient.
“Okay. I’ll do a chart review today,” Dean tells her. “Is there anything you want me to know about the case before I meet with the family?”
Rowena gives him a raised eyebrow. “I’m giving this one to you because…well, it’s a Novak case, so I’m sure he’ll work his miracles, but there’s a loneliness to mum that screams Winchester .”
Dean snorts out a laugh. “Wow, thanks,” he chuckles, leafing through the file and pausing thoughtfully as he reads. “Four years old, acute lymphoblastic leukemia?” He glances up at Rowena and catches her looking over his shoulder. Dean follows her wistful gaze and sees that she’s staring at a photo on the shelf behind his desk. Dean’s favourite photo.
“Maybe you can relate?” she suggests gently.
Dean smiles. “Oh yeah. Definitely a Winchester case.”
***
The Mills family is weighing on Castiel’s mind as he finishes his coffee, looking over patient charts and wearing the ever-present frown he reserves specially for administrative work. They’re the type of family that makes Castiel wonder if God is just some smarmy dime novel writer, obsessed with heavy-handed literary symmetry. He knows that genetics play a role in this, but a sick child is the last thing Jody Mills needs after losing her husband to cancer. It seems like a cruel cosmic joke.
That is, after all, why Castiel made a referral to psychology last week. He saw on Owen’s chart that he’s been allocated to Dr. Winchester’s caseload, but he doesn’t see any evidence that they’ve connected yet. He wonders if there’s anything on the books for this week, and hopes for Jody's sake that there is. She looked so lost in Owen’s last medical appointment.
Castiel swivels his desk chair to face the computer and clicks into his calendar application, attempting to search for Dr. Winchester’s schedule and furrowing his brow when he realizes that he doesn’t have access. Castiel loves his job and his work, but the technology…he’s pretty confident in saying that it’s the most infuriating part of his day.
Heaving a sigh, Castiel reaches over to the phone on his desk and dials the psychology floor, requesting to speak with Rowena when the administrative assistant answers his call. There are a few evenly-spaced rings before he hears the familiar cadence of Rowena’s voice.
“Hello, Dr. Novak!” she draws it out, a musical lilt. “What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Dr. MacLeod,” Castiel greets her, aiming for a pleasant tone. “I noticed that you’ve given one of my cases to Dr. Winchester—thank you—and I’m trying to access his calendar but the pop-up says I need team lead approval. Is that within your ability?” He hopes it’s within her ability. The last thing Castiel needs is to play telephone tag while an entire caseload of very sick children waits on him. If there’s one thing he misses about running a private practice as a pediatrician, it’s having his very own office assistant.
“Is that all?” Rowena says kindly, and Castiel feels a flood of relief as he hears her typing rapidly. “And…done.”
Almost instantly, Castiel receives an email notification. You have been invited to view and edit Dean Winchester’s calendar.
Castiel is very fond of Rowena.
“You’ll see that Dr. Winchester will be meeting with the Mills family at one o’clock this afternoon,” she continues, understanding his intentions without needing to hear them.
“That was quick! Thank you; I’ll set up a meeting with Dr. Winchester to discuss the case with him further,” he tells her warmly, already comparing both their calendars in an attempt to find a mutual availability. Not always an easy task amongst healthcare workers.
“Excellent, and you’re welcome, angel,” Rowena says very pointedly. “I think you’ll like him.”
Castiel feels his head tilt involuntarily. He gets the sense that she means something more by that, but he can’t figure out what, so he simply says goodbye and hangs up the phone.
By some stroke of divine luck, both Castiel and Dr. Winchester have eleven o’clock available the following morning. He happily plunks a hold for consult w/Novak into Dr. Winchester’s calendar. In the interest of politeness, he figures he should also send an email to introduce himself. He finds it strange that he’s been working at Seattle Mercy for an entire year and still hasn’t met all of the oncology staff. He almost feels guilty for missing the Christmas party, but “Castiel” and “party” do not belong in the same sentence.
Drafting a new email, Castiel types.
Hello Dr. Winchester,
I see that one of my newer patients has been allocated to you for psychology services and that you will be meeting with the family this afternoon. I’d like to meet with you sometime to discuss the case, and to introduce myself—my schedule recently changed, and I expect we’ll be working together on a regular basis. You’ll see I’ve blocked off tomorrow at 11:00am on both our calendars, but please feel free to suggest another time if it would suit you better.
I look forward to meeting you.
Dr. Castiel Novak, MD
***
Dean’s been running all over hell’s half acre this morning, hardly finding time between patients and paperwork to take a piss. He poked around through Owen’s file between bites of his leftover chili, trying to get even a vague picture of what the hell’s going on with this kid. Stage 4 acute lymphoblastic leukemia, a diagnosis which Dean is intimately familiar with, and a deceased father (a circumstance which Dean is also intimately familiar with). Owen’s mom, Jody, is the sheriff of a small town east of Seattle. Owen likes PAW Patrol and playing in the sand table at his preschool. Dean can’t wait to watch the kid freak out when he brings out his toy chest and sand tray. Kids his age always go nuts for the sand tray, and if Dean’s being honest, he totally gets it.
Dean has just cleared the empty tupperwares off his desk when he gets an email notification stating that his patient has arrived. The annoying little ding has successfully conditioned him into getting to his feet, even before he’s ready, because apparently he’s no better than one of Pavlov’s dogs.
After shaking himself out of Dean Mode™ and shifting into Psychologist Mode™, he heads out to the lobby to greet his new patient.
Jody is a kind-faced woman with dark hair and warm eyes, wearing a flannel ( taste, Dean thinks) and bouncing a sandy-haired little boy on her knee. Dean introduces himself, shaking both their hands and emphasizing that they can call him Dean, because who the hell is Dr. Winchester? Definitely not some punk ass kid from Kansas. He doubts he’ll ever get used to the stuffy title.
Dean, Jody, and Owen are seated in the part of Dean’s office that he likes to call “the soundstage”, because it really does look like a living room with a broken fourth wall, situated to the left of his desk. It’s complete with the most plush mismatched seating he could convince the hospital to buy, soft lighting from a floor lamp, fake plants (after Dean killed one too many real ones), and a basket of fidget toys on the coffee table. Owen and Jody are seated on the couch—well, Jody’s seated. Owen is sprawled on his back, head dangling over the armrest as he plays with the Peppa Pig popper toy that has fascinated so many kids since Dean added it to the collection. He thinks Peppa would be of better use served on a plate with eggs and grits, but Dean can live with her presence so long as he doesn’t have to hear her bratty little voice. He never thought anything could piss him off more than Caillou, but baldy was somehow overthrown by a greater evil in the form of a chode-faced pig.
“I’m mostly interested in getting to know you guys today,” Dean tells Jody and Owen after he’s given the obligatory spiel about confidentiality and continuity of care and blah blah freaking blah. “But first, do either of you have any questions?”
Jody shifts in her seat and pats Owen’s leg. “Owen? Any questions for Dean?” she coaxes gently.
This is somehow effective in prying Owen’s attention away from Peppa, and he lifts his head to look directly at Dean, blue eyes twinkling with curiosity. “What’s your favourite PAW Patrol dog?”
Jody looks as though she’s about to apologize, but Dean shakes his head and smiles at her. She can’t possibly imagine the arsenal of favourite-whatevers that Dean has prepared. “I think Marshall’s pretty cool. What about you, buddy?”
“Chase,” Owen replies without skipping a beat.
“Is that because he’s a police officer, like your mom?” Dean asks, and he gets a single nod before Owen goes back to fiddling with the Peppa toy. Figures.
Jody’s looking at Dean with an amused expression. “You’ve been at this for a while, haven’t you?” she asks.
Dean laughs. “Long enough. It’s an important question. You got any of your own, Jody?” It’s usually the parents who have questions, anyway. Kids as young as Owen usually view psychology appointments as their designated time to play with the nice guy in the sweater, oblivious to the fact that Dean is assessing their mental status the whole time.
Jody crosses her legs and leans forward, finally starting to get settled in. “Yeah, I was wondering about Owen’s oncologist. Dr. Novak? We’ve had three appointments with him and he’s been very nice. What’s your impression of him? Is he good?” There’s an edge of anxiety to her voice, apparent from the pacing, though she’s obviously trying to tamp it down.
Dean’s not surprised by the question. Her kid’s life is in the hands of a total stranger. Anyone would be asking the same thing, and in Dean’s experience, most parents do. He’s always careful in responding, though: every single time, Dean has to fight the urge to reassure. He knows it’s not helpful. In something as unpredictable as cancer treatment, you should never ever make predictions. Reassurance is just a shitty band-aid that gets ripped off when a family’s child dies, revealing the green infected wound that had been festering underneath. It’s for this reason that Dean doesn’t dare tell Jody that Dr. Novak is known as a freaking miracle worker with some kind of holy touch.
He tries to be as honest as possible without making promises, though. “I haven’t actually worked with the guy before—we’ll be meeting tomorrow—but his reputation precedes him. I think you’re in very good hands.”
After gathering some more information from Jody (she’s open to meeting every other week, and yes, she is interested in support groups), Dean finds himself sprawled out on the rug, on his stomach, playing a game that Owen has christened “Zombie Bunnies”. Dean has to admit that it’s a first for the bunny family playset that lives in his office, but he’s kind of into it. Owen’s a good storyteller, and he seems to be having a blast. Despite the addition of zombies, it’s a fairly G-rated plot.
Aaaaand the baby bunny just ate the daddy bunny. Well, that’s interesting, Dean thinks, not outwardly reacting but making a mental note to write that one down later. Jody looks embarrassed, but Dean just shoots her an amused glance and keeps on playing, following Owen’s lead and asking questions like “how does the mommy bunny feel?” and “is the baby bunny happy or sad?” Based on his responses, Dean gleans that Owen has a developmentally appropriate understanding of emotion and empathy, and he knows that death makes people sad—but as expected, the idea of death being permanent isn’t exactly clicking (daddy bunny came back to life once baby bunny started feeling sad about eating him). Nothing unusual or worrisome.
At the end of the session, Owen gets a high five and Jody gets another handshake.
“I haven’t seen Owen smile that much in a while,” Jody tells Dean at the threshold as he’s seeing them out. “You’re so great with him. I really appreciate your support, Dean.” She looks so earnest.
Dean gives her a grin and waves that comment away. “Listen, I’m not a lifesaver like our excellent doctors here, but I’m gonna do my best to keep your mind safe, okay?”
The answering smile Jody gives him is a nice reminder why he does this work.
When Dean returns to his computer to inch his way through all the paperwork he’s let pile up, he notices an email from the morning that he somehow missed. It’s from Dr. Novak, asking to meet with him tomorrow. Dean’s fine with that, and he wonders if Novak’s always this professional-sounding or if it’s just his email etiquette. Either way, Dean can’t be assed to match his tone in his reply.
Hi Dr. Novak,
I just met with the family and my note will be up soon. 11:00 tomorrow is great, I’ll be there with bells on - I’m flexible on location, but my office does have super comfy chairs, just saying.
See ya soon,
Dean