Chapter Text
Thanksgiving isn't exactly a holiday Dean's been looking forward to, after all, he's lost everything he ever felt thankful for so really, what's there to celebrate? It's a question he ponders as Sam and Jess potter about in their kitchen, occasionally bumping into one another – there was a memorable moment where the roast potatoes nearly ended up on the floor with Sam barely escaping becoming a cranberry-coated Carrie – yet somehow still work like a well-oiled machine.
It's a marvel is what it is! Dean's seen enough 'couple bonding' activities turn into near divorce to know Sam and Jess are an exception. Off the top of his head he can name pitching a tent – you'd think it'd be a fun exercise of mishaps and laughs, when in actuality it usually ends with one half of the quarrelling duo storming away as the other plots murder – going on a road trip – were you'll undoubtedly end up in a roadside domestic lost on some back wood strip of asphalt – and cooking together. That last one is the most drastically misrepresented, romanticised in films and TV shows as nothing short of foreplay, whipped cream on the nose, cuddles from behind as the head chef blushingly insists you let them work while simultaneously not meaning a word of it. The last time Dean and Cas tried to cook together Dean seriously thought he was gonna wake up under the patio. Not Sam and Jess though, they have their little disagreements, roll their eyes, turn their heads to the sky and pray for patience, but none of it lasts long. As quickly as one is getting irritated with the other they're back to singing along merrily to the radio.
Then again, this coming from the couple Dean once witnessed spend months finding ways to tear each other down in court so thoroughly they'd never work again, only for them to fall into a courthouse fumble the second the case was closed and they were no longer on opposing sides (Jess won).
Lawyers man, they're a different breed.
No. What Sam and Jess have is special, unique to them in a way Dean's never seen before. They just fit, y'know? Sure, it hasn't all been plain sailing, and sure, they've had their moments like everyone else, but they've yet to meet a bridge they can't cross together and honestly, that's beautiful. Maybe that's it. Maybe that's what Dean's thankful for, that his brother has found his soulmate, that he's wealthy, healthy and happy.
Beside him on Sam and Jess' sophisticated white sofa, the cushion dips as someone rests their weight there. “Hey son,” Bobby smiles warmly, lifting a beer to his lips and stopping suddenly. “Damn it Dean, I'm sorry.” He's about to go and swap his alcohol for a soda when Dean tells him it's fine.
“Enjoy yourself man.”
Looking not at all convinced Bobby asks, “You sure?”
As much as Dean appreciates the gesture he kind of resents it too. People drinking around him isn't the problem – he's at a stage now (two years sober) where he barely even notices – it's people making a fuss of not drinking around him that makes Dean crave a beer.
Seemingly reading this on his face, Bobby drops the subject in favour of bringing up that infernal calendar. “I got one ready an' waitin' for January first in my desk.”
Is it too dramatic to hide your face in your hands like a four-year-old?
“Why?” Is the only reasonable response Dean can come up with. “What's wrong with Babes on Bikes? You love Babes on Bikes; your customers love Babes on Bikes!”
“Well that's just it ain't it!” Bobby huffs. “Time was people walked into an auto repair shop expectin' to see some boob, now you gotta make everything equal opportunity, get with the times,” he smooths a hand in front of him like he's being clever and yeah, no. “Who knows,” he shrugs flippantly. “Might even be a boost for business. Ellen sure seems to think so.”
Shoot me now.
'Cause yeah, Dean made the goddamn calendar – not Gabriel though, and fuck if Dean hasn't been enjoying rubbing that in salty ol' Gabe's face – is going to be Mr July with his fire truck rodeo scene. If he's being completely honest he's kinda smug about it, feeling his oats 'cause yeah, he's self-loathing, not delusional! Dean knows how he looks – especially these days with his Soldier Boy muscles – knows he's an attractive guy, but being attractive and being thought of as attractive enough to sell calendars are two completely separate things. It's also kind of funny in that weird kismet kind of way.
About eight(?) years ago Cas was also in a calendar for charity, not one funded by the hospital, of course not, not the publicity they're going for. No. Cas' calendar was a Calendar Girls type deal, bunch of locals raising money for heart research. There was tasteful nudity, meaning you could clearly infer the 'models' were butt naked but you never actually saw anything. Dean wasn't surprised Cas was selected; perhaps more surprised than he should have been that Cas volunteered. He's still got the picture, a topless Cas in an open lab coat that just covers his nipples, all come-hither smirk, ridiculously blue eyes, and stethoscope held like a sex toy (no, they never went there, and that sits quite high on Dean's list of regrets). They started receiving a suspicious amount of casseroles, dinner invitations, and fresh pies from the more desperate of housewives in their neighbourhood after that.
Heh, if nothing else, maybe Dean's shopping bill is about to go down for the next few months.
***
Waistband groaning, potatoes sitting somewhere in the region of his throat, Dean steps through Sam's front door into the crisp night air, closing his eyes to breathe it in, savour the moment of time well spent with people he loves. Before he can start walking to his car though Jess is accosting him with Tupperware tubs, filling his arms with carefully labelled leftovers, fully aware that if someone doesn't feed him, Dean'll just live off pizza, burgers, and microwavable burritos. Bobby relieves some of the burden, rolling his eyes and bidding Jess and Sam goodnight. Dean gives his sister-in-law a peck on the cheek, then pulls his Bigfoot of a brother in for a grateful hug.
“Oooh I'm gonna have to go on that diet I've been dreading,” Ellen loops her arm through Dean's elbow, walking serenely with him to where Baby is parked in Sam's four-car driveway.
Dean's face contorts incredulously. “You're gorgeous.”
“A-ha,” Ellen scoffs. “You're sweet. Cracked, but sweet.”
Bobby and Ellen are the closest thing to parents Dean and Sam have. They own the repair shop Mary worked at. Mary and Ellen became good friends over the years, the latter devastated by Mary's death. Bobby and John got on well enough when Mary was alive, after her death though John all but abandoned his kids, rubbing Bobby raw enough that the crotchety old geezer aimed a shotgun at John on the front porch.
It was shortly after that John started dragging Dean and Sam all over the country.
When Dean was twenty John died of his alcoholism. Dean decided to move back to his hometown, not a penny to his name, only his precious '67 Chevy Impala and the clothes on his back. Bobby and Ellen welcomed him with open arms, got him on his feet. When Sammy finished Stanford a few years later he came back too – his then fiancée at his side – and they've been a dysfunctional little family ever since.
***
Dean was supposed to have Jack for Christmas this year, unfortunately he's on duty from Christmas Eve through to Boxing Day. Instead Jack will be spending Christmas with Cas and Bart on the latter's private estate. Determined to enjoy the festivities with his son, Dean's decided to stage a little Christmas of his own a week earlier. Jack's kind of at that age where he's not buying into Santa anymore, but at the same time still gets excited for the tradition of writing him a note, leaving a carrot for Rudolph and mince pie for Old Nick, so Dean's gone all out.
This time he hasn't enlisted Charlie's help; something about putting up the decorations and trimming the tree, just Jack and him, makes it more special.
“What about that one!” Jack points excitedly, running over to a tree far too bushy and a little lopsided.
The thing isn't rustling with a family of squirrels, so Dean lets him have it.
Back at the apartment they're hanging baubles Jack picked out, Dean placing a 2D fire truck his son made at school pride of place at the front. The tree's all greens, reds and golds, a picture-perfect postcard (if you tilt it to the left). Like everything else Dean let Jack choose the topper, and of course he went with Angel over Star because, well, his dad's named Castiel.
“Okay Martha Stuart,” Dean quips playfully, hands on his hips as he stands side by side with his son to admire their handiwork. “Time for bed.”
“But daaaad...”
“No buts. Santa ain't gonna come if you're awake.” Dean says it with a firm and pointed look, eyebrows raised, knowing full well Jack is too old for that crap but his son doesn't challenge him on it.
Sulking off to bed Jack gets Dean to read him a story, the one about the two Knights again because apparently the kid is allergic to The Night Before Christmas. Dean doesn't really care, as long as Jack's happy that's all that matters.
“You have to go to bed too,” Jack says simply as Dean is turning out the light, arms practically crossed over his chest in a gesture Dean dare not argue. “Otherwise Santa won't leave you any presents either.”
Mustering up all the teenage (and fuck it's been almost two decades) exasperation he can, Dean replies playfully, “Alright Mom. Goodnight.”
Dean does as he's told, makes a point of brushing his teeth, stretching and yawning as he locks the front door just in case Jack is listening, then he goes to his room and tucks himself into bed. After over an hour of reading Slaughterhouse 5 Dean reckons he's in the clear. Swinging his legs carefully from beneath the sheets he slides on the slippers Jack bought him for his birthday, more to make sure Jack doesn't hear him stomping around than for warmth. Next comes the tricky part, opening his squeaky as fuck wardrobe to retrieve the Santa suit he's borrowed from the station house. Getting the damn thing on is more of an ordeal than Dean was anticipating, funny given his job requires him to dress quickly in cumbersome clothing and close quarters. It's the damn fat suit! Thing has a zip up the back that Dean might be able to reach were he his normal size, but with the extra stuffing of Jolly Saint Nick his arms just don't quite make it. Ah screw it, it's good enough, and with the velvet red coat over the top no one will notice.
All of this – Dean realises – is probably wasted effort at holding onto Jack's childhood wonder. As established, the kid mostly humours Dean and Cas when it comes to his belief in the mythical Mr Claus, yet at the same time, Dean knows that even if Jack clocks it's his dad under this ridiculously uncomfortable suit, it'll still put a smile on the kid's face anyway. Which is why, sack stuffed with presents slung over his shoulder, Dean 'sneaks' about the apartment, drinking the milk and eating the mince pie (foul as it fucking is), then pocketing the carrot for Rudolph. He makes sure the key they left for Santa under the front mat is hanging from his pocket, places the presents under the tree, has a look around to make sure he 'hasn't been spotted', then leaves through the front door locking it behind him. Complicit in his plan is his wonderful next-door neighbour Judith Turner, who eagerly ushers Dean into her apartment and through an open window onto the fire escape so he can climb back into his bedroom undetected.
Despite catching the fat suit on the fire escape stairs – and wouldn't that have been a shitty way to spend Christmas, banged up in hospital after a five-story fall – it goes off without a hitch.
***
Few things suck more than working Christmas. If you're not putting out cremated turkeys – God rest their poor overdone souls – then you're being called to yet another American dream in the suburbs with a Christmas tree they didn't think to water propped next to an open fucking flame. Sure, the image of the perfect Christmas home with fireplace lit, tree beside it held up by presents and stockings above the mantel looks wonderful, but the fire hazards are fucking dizzying! Gabriel in particular hates this time of year, usually professional demeanour replaced by genuine ire as he informs yet another misguided and lucky idiot what a fucking moron they are.
The one thing that makes pulling Christmas duty bearable is the affectionately named Sleigh Ride. It's where each night a crew from a different station trims one of the trucks in lights and tinsel, sticks a couple of fake reindeer on the front, attaches a PA system blaring Yuletide classics, then drives around for a couple of hours with the crew dressed as Santa and his elves. It's become such a tradition that not just kids, but their parents too will listen eagerly for the truck's arrival, donning nightgowns and Crocs to line the street, snapping pictures and videos as the Sleigh Ride passes. On years where they can afford it the station houses throw in a few cheap gifts for the kids, handing them out as they go. Tonight is the turn of Dean, Gabriel, Charlie, Benny and Cesar. Cesar will be playing Santa, Charlie driving as always, with the rest swapping between walking alongside or hanging off the sides of the tuck as they ring bells and hand out aforementioned gifts (Cas told Dean to put his alimony for December in the Sleigh Ride pot this year, adding a hefty thousand himself).
Barely finished zipping Cesar into the fat suit, Dean's approached by the last person he expected (or ever wanted) to see.
“Can I help you?” Benny jumps to action, intercepting Bartholomew on his way to Dean.
The smarmy prick looks Benny and his elf costume from head to toe – to be fair, he does look fucking ridiculous. “No. I'm here to speak with him.” The sneer on Bart's face is only barely decipherable beneath his smug grin.
“It's alright Benny,” Dean gets between the two of them as Benny's nostrils begin to flare. “I got it.”
Waiting until Benny and his instant dislike for Bart have moved out of earshot, Dean asks, “What's up? Is Jack okay?”
“The boy's fine,” the asshole rolls his eyes and that's Dean's kid he's talking about so he better check the fucking attitude! “I'm here about Castiel.”
Instead of asking what's wrong with Cas, Dean waits the knob out.
“I thought I should tell you man-to-man that I've asked Castiel to marry me.”
Dean's heart lurches to his throat.
“He said yes,” the smarmy dickhead preens, all serrated grin and fuck you, I win.
Knees shaking, barely able to sustain his weight, Dean reels through the words in his head, just plays them on a never-ending loop like a dirge. In his peripheral Bart is still grinning at him like a fucking hyena but Dean can't find enough brain cells to continue standing, let alone deal with the prick.
Cas said he was in love, Dean heard it, choked back vomit and the overwhelming sense of emptiness the words brought to bear, but marriage!? Isn't it too soon? They've only been together a few (more like twelve or damn near close enough) months. Dean doesn't know what to do, his vision's blurry and stomach churning, heart beating a furious pained rhythm against his ribs and he can't breathe. Fuck he can't breathe!
“Dean?” Gabriel's voice calls through the rush of blood in his ears, darkness settling in around the edges. “DEAN!”
He's not sure how he ended up on the floor cradled against Benny's knees, or who's holding an icepack to his forehead, if it's even the same person as the one rubbing his arm and shushing him gently. There's a buzzing in his head – spots in his slowly forming vision – but through it all he hears one thing that brings him some semblance of peace, Gabriel growling at Bart-o-douche to “Get the fuck outta here before I rearrange that perfect dentistry.”
… And a Happy New Year!
***
By the time Dean comes to in one of the bunks they use for night shifts the Sleigh Ride has ended, he can hear the crew mulling about in the rec room so clearly, he missed it. When he goes to ask how it went no one seems sure how to approach him, if they should bring up Bart's visit or just act like it never happened. They settle on the latter, simply asking how Dean's feeling and nodding unconvinced when he says he's fine. It's not a complete lie, physiologically he's over passing out like a frickin’ period drama dame, psychologically... let's just say he wants to focus on work.
Whatever passes for fate must be on his side because sirens suddenly fill the awkward silence of the station house, everyone rushing to their positions. Charlie is ready and waiting as always by the time Dean hauls himself into the cabin, firing up the blues and twos as she barrels it out of the lot. They're on their way to a house fire, another family that left their Christmas lights turned on a tree that's probably dehydrated and browning, then promptly went to bed.
By the time they pull up the house is engulfed, smoke thick and acrid billowing ten stories high, flames hissing through broken upstairs windows betraying someone opened a door before checking it for heat. Seriously, when will people learn that fire chases oxygen like it's been hunting that shit since the big bang, the second you open the wrong door you're ringing the damn dinner bell! If your escape route's blocked just grab whatever cloth you have (preferably damp if you can manage it), stuff it in any crack smoke is seeping through, then place what's left over your face and get as low to the ground as possible. Sometimes Dean wonders why they even bother running fire safety workshops; no one seems to be paying fucking attention anyway.
Oxygen tank in place, he's checking his respirator is secured when the garage goes up like the fucking Death Star, probably gasoline cannisters for the lawnmower and/or barbecue. They need to get on top of this shit yesterday! Benny and Cesar are already on the hose, Charlie and Gabriel beginning their search of the house. The place is crumbling fast so Dean rushes to join them.
Stepping through the smog he flicks on the flashlight attached to his jacket, breaths amplified under his respirator. There's not a fire-retardant piece of fabric in this inferno, just quick and cheap style waiting for an opportunity to go up in your face. Dean does his best to make his way through the entrance hall but there's debris crushing underfoot and falling from above. The stairs to his right are blocked by a beam, Gabriel helping the mother scramble over it, Charlie barrelling past Dean with a kid under each arm like fucking Wonder Woman. Gabriel tries to get the mother to the front door but she's fighting him, reaching out, screaming for her husband. With Dean's help they finally manage to get her outside.
“MIKE! MIIIIIIKE!”
Her squeals are raw with smoke inhalation, sooty face streamed in tears as she continues to resist any attempts the EMTs make to check her over. “I can't leave him-MIIIIIIKE! MIIIIIIIKE!”
Removing his respirator Dean demands her attention, locking her eyes with his. “Where is your husband?”
“Dean,” Gabriel shakes his head from behind her.
“Where!?” Dean commands, stern and unyielding.
“The basement,” the mother sniffles eventually. “He-he-he was in the basement.”
Re-affixing his respirator Dean takes purposeful strides across the soggy lawn back towards the house, halted by Gabriel's firm hand on his shoulder. “Dean stop. The place is coming down.”
“He could still be alive,” Dean challenges defiantly.
Borrowing a soulful head tilt from his cousin, Gabriel silently communicates that the chances of Mike still being alive are incredibly slim.
Dean ignores him.
“Dean you stubborn piece of shit!” Gabriel catches him again. “Even if the guy is alive going back in's suicide.”
Aiming for a soft spot Dean questions, “What if it was Heather?”
Gabriel doesn't even have chance to respond, left trailing after Dean as the latter storms back into the house all focus and determination. Benny and Cesar have done a good job of taming the fire but the smoke is thicker than ever, plaster and paint bubbling off the walls, exposed wooden frame cracking and popping as Dean feels his way towards the basement. As much to his surprise as it will be his crew waiting anxiously outside, Dean hears faint calls for help coming from behind the basement door. Debris is blocking the way so Dean utilises that time in the gym, lifting heavy bedroom furniture that's slipped through the ceiling, shunting it just enough he can pry the basement door open for Mike to squeeze through. All things considered the guy's not doing too bad, probably saved the worst of it by being barricaded underground.
Hoicking the dude's arm over his shoulders Dean begins to drag him to safety, acutely aware of the threatening creaks and groans surrounding them on all sides. The front door begins to come into view, freedom within their reach when a supporting beam finally gives way, smacking Dean on the head and ripping his respirator off. Mike's nowhere to be found and Dean's floundering, eyes stinging with smoke, barely able to see, turned around with throat getting drier by the second. Coughing, spluttering, grasping blindly for his respirator Dean begins to feel it, the lightness, the dizziness, the euphoric pull of oblivion but then his fingers brush against something smooth and familiar. Grabbing his torn respirator from the ground he slams it against his face; seal filled with soot but it's better than nothing.
The moment he stumbles through the front door Benny is on him, supporting his weight with the help of Cesar; between them they hoist Dean onto the freshly materialised gurney. Charlie offers to ride with him to the hospital but she's gotta get the truck back to the station, so Gabriel goes instead. This fussing's ridiculous, Dean's fine, bit of a sore head but he'll live. All of this he tries to communicate to the EMT currently gagging him with an oxygen mask whilst the other pins his head to the gurney.
“You're a fucking asshole,” Gabriel spits once the doors to the ambulance close behind them. He's wringing his hands through and around each other, forearms bobbing where his elbows are resting on his jittery knees. Clearly he's pissed but more than that he seems worried, mayhaps even a little upset.
Fuck it. If a concussion is what it costs for that family to get another Christmas together then Dean says it's worth it.
***
“I'm fine,” Dean protests as a nurse checks his blood pressure and oxygen saturation, fighting and failing to keep the mask over Dean's nose and mouth.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” She asks with the tone of a woman who knows she's going to win this fight. Fuck if she isn't right too because Dean's counting seven fingers to one hand.
Taking a stab in the dark, coughing, Dean says, “Four?”
Harrumphing she jots down his vitals, leaving him sitting on one of the trauma unit beds surrounded by people who definitely need her help more than him.
“I want a CT scan and an MRI,” a familiar voice carries across the mumbles and groans of other patients, Cas with clipboard in hand making a beeline for Dean's little section of the unit. He's all business as he checks Dean's notes, flashes a penlight in his eyes with expression stormy. “Touch your nose with your left index finger.”
Dean obliges, missing by a fraction.
“Now with your right index finger.”
He gets the bullseye this time but apparently that doesn't appease Cas any.
Stopping a nearby nurse, Cas tells her to have Dean admitted and moved to a ward as soon as he's done with the CT and MRI.
Feet dangling over the gurney, hips angled with one hand on his thigh – because he'd refused to get comfy – Dean sighs, “Cas I'm fine. Just give me a couple of aspirin and call me a cab.”
“You are not fine Dean.” The tone of his voice is resolute, barely able to make eye contact, muscle in his jaw ticking. “You've got smoke inhalation and a grade 3 concussion, that's if we're lucky,” he clicks his pen aggressively before stowing it in his breast pocket. “I'm administering a bronchodilator and oxygen for your airways. A neurologist is on the way to assess your head injury.”
“Dude this is stupid! - cough splutter - I'm fine!” Dean fumbles to his feet, wobbles, reaches out for a tray table that he upends before Cas finally catches him, easing him back onto the gurney like Dean weighs nothing and fuck that's hot!
Forcing the oxygen mask back over Dean's nose and mouth whilst he has him caught in a trance, Cas grabs Dean's cheeks and manhandles his head into a bowing position with more aggression than any doctor who wasn't married to him would dare. “I'm going to have to stitch this.”
Dean gives in to it, knows better than to battle against a determined Dr Novak.
Removing the entirely unnecessary cap bandage, Cas soaks cotton swabs in antiseptic then begins dabbing at the wound bisecting Dean's hairline, touch decidedly gentler. It stings like a motherfucker, Dean wincing and pulling away unintentionally. With shaky resolve Cas slides a palm to Dean's cheek, fingers slotting into the bolt of his jaw. Dean swallows his building arousal painfully, throat charred sore with soot. If Cas notices he doesn't say anything, but there's a waver to his stern expression Dean can't look at, reminded all too bitterly of the way Cas would employ the same technique to repress his pain whenever he learned about another one of Dean's indiscretions.
Content he's cleaned the wound well enough, Cas threads a needle, eyes finally holding on Dean's. “I can't give you a local until we know the extent of your head injury,” he states professionally, although there's a waver to that too. “So this is gonna hurt.”
Jesus H Christ was he not lying!
By the time he's finished Dean's eyes are screwed shut, fists curled painfully in the thighs of his fire-retardant pants. Only when a broad palm nudges his fingers apart, sliding into them and squeezing reassuringly does Dean finally open his eyes. It could be the concussion, but it looks like Cas is losing the battle with his emotions, eyes wet at the rim, freshly ungloved hand finding Dean's cheek again, heat of it a warm balm against the pounding he's suddenly aware of in his head.
“Argh.”
“Dean?”
“Argh!”
“Dean!”
Alarms are blaring in his ears, hands slapped to his skull, and Dean doesn't know if Cas hit some kind of panic button or it's just his brain cracking apart but he's on the floor, tiles cold beneath his side, ground vibrating violently then nothing. Just nothing.
***
Dean wakes to Sam at his bedside, brooding brow furrowed and foot bobbing where he's crossed his legs. “What the hell happened?” Dean groans, hand rubbing against his sore head, catching over the dressing on his hairline.
“Dean,” Sam scrambles from the chair, taking his brother's hand between his own and squeezing like he needs the reassurance. “You're awake.”
“Well yeah you mousse, think I was gonna let you get your paws on the Impala.”
A tear falls from Sam's lashes when he huffs a laugh, floppy hair covering his downturned face. “At least we can rule out brain damage,” he quips, brightness overtaking a face that's unusually pallid and drawn. “You had a seizure man,” he adds seriously, worry etched deep in his voice. “Cas said swelling on the brain. You've been out for two days.”
“Shit.”
Reading Dean's groggy inability to form meaningful thoughts, Sam continues, “The guys from the station sent these.” Looking to the side of the bed nearest the window Dean sees Get Well Soon balloons bobbing in midair, cards lain out neatly on the nightstand. “The gift basket's from the family you saved.”
“We saved,” Dean corrects, 'cause he wasn't there alone. The fact he remembers that seems to spark something joyous in his brother, a thrill of relief rushing through those colour-shifting eyes.
“Yeah,” Sam nods agreeably. “You're right.”
“So he got out, the dad?”
“Yeah. Right before you actually. Said you pushed him towards the door.”
Dean doesn't remember that; he's fuzzy on a few of the details but nothing that matters. What he does remember he turns over in his mind while Sam goes to inform the duty nurse that Dean's awake and talking. To be fair it's mostly all there, everything up to the fire, the mother screaming for her husband – although the name she was shouting Dean can't quite grasp: Mitch? Matt? Mark? – carrying the dad down the hall, Gabriel calling him an asshole in the ambulance, waking up in the trauma unit, getting stitched up by Cas. Yeah, it's all there. He even remembers his social security number and who's president so check him out!
The nurse comes to take his vitals, kind smile on her face as she helps him sit up, carefully feeds him water that burns like acid but she assures that's to be expected, his throat will heal in a couple of days.
“Mr Winchester,” a slip of a woman wearing a lab coat says from the doorway of his single-occupancy room. “It's good to see you awake.”
Passing Dean's chart off to what he assumes is a doctor, the nurse exits. At his side Sam rises to his feet. The kid looks like he hasn’t slept for days and Dean doesn’t have to ask, can tell from the duffle shoved under the visitor’s chair that Sam’s been here the whole time. With the assurance he’s not gonna croak it, Dean convinces his brother to go home and get some rest, let him and the doctor talk in private.
“I'm Dr Clarke,” the lady moves to the foot of Dean’s bed once Sam has left. “I was the neurologist on duty when you were brought in. If you're up to it, I'd like to discuss your condition?”
Dean feels like the Macy's Day parade's trampling his brain, but he nods anyway; mistake.
“You were brought in with smoke inhalation and a traumatic brain injury. On arrival you were unconscious, but came to by yourself within a few minutes. You exhibited slurred speech,” she reads from her notes. “Loss of motor skills and coordination, double vision, and you were unable to comprehend the extent of your injuries. Which we determined was a sign of confusion and disorientation,” she adds with a helpful smile. “Dr Novak diagnosed a grade 3 concussion, which I concur with. Whilst receiving treatment from Dr Novak you experienced a tonic-clonic seizure, more commonly known as a grand mal seizure.” Cupping her notes to her chest, Dr Clarke asks sincerely, “Are you with me so far?”
“I cracked my gourd,” Dean surmises with a bright, slightly pained smile. Any movement of his facial muscles pulls on his head wound, kicks the parade up a notch.
Dr Clarke chuffs a laugh. “Basically, yes. Literally too.” Expression morphing to serious once more she looks back at her notes. “You do have a mild skull fracture, nothing that won't heal on its own but we'll be keeping you for a few weeks' observation, just to be safe. Now you're awake, I also want to run a fresh set of CT and MRI scans.” Tucking her notes back to her chest, her voice takes on a slightly more ominous tone than it held before. “The swelling on your brain obscured our ability to fully assess the damage. Although swelling with a grade 3 concussion is common – and I'm confident the tonic-clonic seizure was a result of that swelling – I'd like to get a better look now that the swelling has gone down. Oh-” She adds, like she's remembering a juicy piece of gossip, eyes twinkling mischievously. “-You'll be pleased to know we've been able to treat the swelling with corticosteroids, no surgery. Dr Novak seemed to think you'd appreciate knowing he didn't shave your head while you were unconscious.”
“Huh.” Dean laughs, 'cause yeah, he's surprised his ex-husband didn't take the opportunity just on principle. That being said, Cas did get to stab him repeatedly with a needle so, y'know, revenge is his. “Thanks Doc.”
Reaching a caring hand to Dean's foot, Dr Clarke smiles warmly at him. “Get some rest Mr Winchester, you've earned it.”
***
Being in hospital's boring as fuck! Dean's only been conscious twelve hours and he's already plotting his escape. There's nothing on TV, the magazines Sam brought him look like they were ripped straight from the stuffy-middle-class-white-dude section, and to top it all off his phone battery's dead. Add to that the fact Dean needs help pissing and yeah, he's fed up.
A knock on his wardroom door at least promises a brief reprieve. “Hello Dean.”
“Cas-”
“-How are you feeling this evening?” Clicking open a pen Cas keeps his eyes trained on his clipboard.
It's obvious his ex-husband doesn't want Dean to think more of this than the honouring of his Hippocratic oath it is, so instead of being awkward Dean just answers the question. “Bored, grumpy. Got the Duality music video playing out in my skull but other than that, aces.”
Coming around the side of the bed Cas places his clipboard on the vacant chair, taking out his penlight and leaning in to check pupillary response. “Any blurred vision?”
“No.”
“Bright spots?”
“No.”
“Double vision?”
“No.”
“Hold this for me...” Cas straightens up, placing his penlight in Dean's hand. “Pass it from one hand to the other.” He watches intently as Dean handles the exchange smoothly. “Now with each finger in turn, I want you to click the top, turning the light on, and then off again.”
Once again Dean does as he's told, cognisant of the fact Cas is checking his fine motor skills. “I'll be juggling knives in no time,” Dean flourishes the penlight between his fingers, hands it back with a cheeky grin.
“You know...” Cas ignores him, expression stony. “You'd be far more charming if you hadn't almost gotten yourself killed.”
“Cas-”
“-How could you do that to me Dean!?” He snarls a little too loud, catches himself, blinks like he's taken aback at his outburst then adds with a pointed hiss, “We have a son!”
“Cas I-”
“-You think Gabriel wasn't going to tell me what a pig-headed move you pulled!?”
Dean'll just sit here then he guesses, wait for Cas to wear himself out so that he can explain he was doing his job. Death's a risk they take every time they get in that truck, Cas knows that. In fact, it was the one thing he was actually proud of Dean for.
“You took a stupid risk Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean smarts, anger rising thick and fast. “Little hard to think rationally when your ex's fiancé shows up to rub your face in it.”
They're breathing heavy, Cas stood militantly at the side of Dean's bed like he doesn't know whether he wants to slap him or kiss him. If Dean gets a choice in the matter he'd much prefer door number two.
Softening with a skyward sigh, Cas says, “Bartholomew shouldn't have done that.”
“So it's true then?” And Dean doesn't want to know the answer, blames his self-destructive tendencies for asking the question in the first place.
Silence stretches out between them, thick as the smoke Dean nearly choked to death on, until eventually Cas confirms “Yes, it's true.”
Guess that's that then. Dean's too exhausted, hurting too deep in too many ways to do much more than turn away, sink his teeth into his lower lip and bite back the tears, closing his eyes in the hopes he'll wake to find this has been a nightmare of Freddy Krueger proportions.
***
Missouri visits him the following week, checking in and probing exactly why Dean ran back into that building. She's surprisingly content with him saying it was mostly because the situation hit close to home, swap the trapped father for a dead mother and you have the worst moment of Dean's life. That he'd wanted to save the guy, spare those kids the heartache of growing up minus a parent. Apparently he's being incredibly insightful, a sign of a rational mind.
Just when Dean thinks he's out of the woods though Missouri echoes Cas, albeit far more bluntly. “Do you think it's possible, that Castiel's boyfriend showing up – telling you they are engaged – made you feel like ending your own life?”
The answer is an unequivocal, indisputable no!
Was Dean stripped raw by the revelation? Absolutely! Was he feeling reckless? No doubt. What everyone seems to be forgetting though is that losing Cas might be the most painful thing Dean’s ever experienced – recent bonk to the head included – but there is still Jack. Dean would never put his son through that, could never leave a hole in Jack's heart the size of a father. Petty as it may seem, Dean wouldn't give Barty the fucking satisfaction either!
Dean has so much to live for, so many milestones in Jack's life he can't wait to share (teaching him to drive, college, helping him move into his first house, watching him get married, have kids...). Despite what everyone thinks Dean's in no hurry to greet The Reaper; if he was, he would have just kept right on drinking like his no-good father.
***
Week three of being cooped up in this little room with nothing but Dr Sexy reruns and trips to the bathroom for excitement and Dean's about ready to pull his hair out. Thus far he's only spoken to Jack over the phone – Dean wasn’t keen on exposing his son to how swollen and black the right side of his face was – so it's with a swoop in his heart and ache in his chest that Cas surprises him, turning up for Dean's morning consult with their son by his side.
Jack bounds onto the bed amidst protestations from Cas, ignoring his dad's warnings to be careful in favour of flinging himself into Dean's arms like a giant squid, all limbs and excitement mixed with tears. It's worth the mild headache it causes, the way Dean winces against the impact because he doesn't know about empty nest syndrome, but he will say there is something about a hug from your child after weeks apart that just fills a void in your very soul.
In no time at all Jack is regaling Dean with tales of the outside world, what he got for Christmas, how Charlie spilled red wine down Bartholomew's shirt on New Year's eve and it was white so Bartholomew had to throw it out, and he was angry but Charlie was snickering – that's my girl – of course Dean tells Jack it's not nice to laugh at people.
Done with his check-in Cas leaves Jack with Dean whilst he continues his rounds. By the time he returns a few hours later Jack and Dean are squashed together on the bed, paper and crayons sprawled across their knees as they draw their idea of the coolest way to travel. Jack's opted for an amphibious rocket ship that can go from the bottom of the ocean to Mars in less than sixty seconds. Dean drew the Impala, which of course, his pre-teen son rolled his eyes at.
***
Cas brings Jack by a few times in the days following his initial visit, but with each reunion Dean notices more and more how tired Cas looks, dark circles under his eyes, hair untamed like he forgot to brush it, skin pale and eyes lacking their usual spark. It's during Cas' night rounds that Dean finally calls him on it, expecting to be dismissed but instead Cas drops his chin, braces his hands on the footboard.
“I'm just tired,” he explains to the floor tiles; Dean's not convinced. “Bartholomew asked me to move in, but Jack...” He worries at his lip when he trails off, head lulling deeper between his shoulders.
Dean would be a lying liar who lies if he said he wanted to open this particular can of worms, Cas is clearly suffering though and if stiff-upper-lipping his way through a difficult conversation will help him then Dean's all in. “I thought Bartholomew was living with you?”
“No,” Cas pushes up to standing. “We tried it but Jack was unsettled. Bart doesn't wanna live in the house we shared anyway.”
That's fair. Dean wouldn't want to either if the situation were reversed. “Sooo... I take it you pitched moving in with Bart and Jack, what? Threw a tantrum?”
“Tantrum would be an understatement,” Cas rolls his eyes severely, dropping into the chair beside Dean's bed. “Jack screamed at him.” Cas' tone is confused, like he can’t quite believe it, eyes unfocused on a dim corner of the room. “I tried to talk to him about it but he's shut me out. The most I get these days are shrugs and dirty looks.”
“That doesn't sound like Jack,” Dean baulks mildly, question sown in.
Crown of his head thumping against the faux leather of the chair, Cas closes his eyes and breathes, just breathes, like he's savouring this moment of relative tranquillity before he has to go back to the shitstorm awaiting him at home. “I just feel like I can't win Dean. Bartholomew's unhappy because we're not living together. Jack hates me for moving on. Gabriel thinks I'm an insensitive douchebag, and the only person who doesn't make me want to bash my head off a wall is my philandering ex-husband,” his eyes slide wryly to Dean's. “You see my predicament.”
Yeah, and it seems like most of it can be solved by ditching fucking haircut. Although if Dean's being honest, Jack seems to be the main problem. “I'll talk to Jack,” Dean musters up the most supportive smile he can under the circumstances.
Rising only to sit on the edge of Dean's bed, Cas reaches for him, fingers heading to Dean's cheek then redirected at the last second to the gash slowly healing on his hairline. “I should have been a plastic surgeon,” Cas quips, heart not really in it but Dean meets him halfway.
“Office in Miami, surfing on your lunch breaks, days spent elbows deep in silicone...” Dean lists wistfully. “You wouldn't last a month. Too many tits,” he smirks, spark blooming again in blue eyes. “We both know you're an ass man.”
“I could specialise,” Cas volleys with an easy shrug. “Butt implants and penis enlargements. Probably wreak havoc on my sex drive though. Fast food workers don't exactly crave burgers after a hard day at the stove.”
He's got a point there. “Tits and facelifts it is then,” Dean attempts to cut through the tension slowly building between them. Cas' hand is still cradling his head, thumb rubbing soothing circles across freckled skin, blue getting swallowed by black, pillowed lips Dean's missed the taste of parting on a soft exhale. “Cas...”
Cas' eyes flick to the wound on Dean's head, voice a hushed, sentimental thing when he speaks. “You scared the shit out of me Dean.” Swallowing thickly, Dean's heart flutters in anticipation when Cas' gaze comes back to him dark and ruinous, tone ground deep in promise. “Don't ever, do that, again.”
Oh but Dean's yearning, insides squirming, face turned into the palm Cas has slipped to his cheek, resisting the urge to place a kiss on the skin there, revelling in the scent of Cas buried beneath sanitiser. “Anything for you,” Dean chokes, can't help himself, voice barely audible through the held back tears.
He expects Cas to yank back his hand, scold him for getting soppy, demand again that Dean let him go. Instead he brings his lips to Dean's forehead, a tender, lingering touch that has Dean twisting his fingers in the back of Cas' hair, throat strangling his heart, holding onto the moment.
“Same,” Cas growls, like it hurts to mean it, hurts to feel it but he can't bring himself to lie.
Fingers a sure grip in Dean's hair Cas places their foreheads together, basking in the way Dean breathes him in, honeyed lashes fluttering closed, Dean's battered heart still beating for the man he'd give anything to say the words, I love you, to.