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spn fic: this night has opened my eyes
Title: this night has opened my eyes
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~3,400
Summary: Cas shuts the door a little harder than necessary. He cocks an eyebrow and asks, "Have you finished your tantrum?"
Notes: Episode tag. Spoilers for 14x05.
[AO3]
this night has opened my eyes
Cas isn't on the check-in rotation like the newbies, so Dean's surprised when he calls a few days after he and Jack head down to Florida.
Dean's eating breakfast, and his phone is in his pocket. The call nearly goes to voicemail by the time he digs it out. He fumbles the screen unlocked with a greasy thumb and says, "Hey, Cas," around a mouthful of bacon. "How's Sarasota?"
"I wouldn't know," Cas replies. "We left yesterday afternoon."
"Wow. You figure out those freaky deaths already?"
Cas hesitates before saying, "No. Jack is... unwell. We—"
"You—unwell?" Dean pushes is plate away and leans his elbows on the table. "What's that mean?"
"It means he's unwell." Cas hesitates again, just long enough for some road noise to buzz in Dean's ear. "I just heard on the radio that another man was murdered. Last night, after we left. He had the same bizarre wounds to his torso. I—"
"Don't worry about it. Sam can rustle up some pinch-hitters." There are plenty to choose from. Dean's still not used to having this many people in his house. "Where're you now?"
"An hour north of Nashville."
Dean taps his fingers on his coffee mug as he works out the math. "So... tomorrow morning?"
"Tonight. I plan to drive straight through."
+
Cas turns up a little after midnight looking windswept and tired. Jack is out cold; Cas brings him down the stairs in a fireman's carry.
"Jesus Christ." Dean slops beer all over the map table as he jolts out of his chair. "'Unwell' mighta been an understatement."
"It wasn't this bad when I called," Cas says. He shifts his hold on Jack so Dean can grab his legs. "He only lost consciousness about an hour ago."
They take him down to the basement infirmary that Dean and Sam never bothered with when it was just the two of them. The newbies reopened it at some point while Dean was off playing meatpuppet. Underneath the sting of bleach and rubbing alcohol, it smells faintly of fresh paint. They put Jack in the first bed inside the door. He's breathing shallowly, making soft wheezing noises each time he exhales. His skin is clammy and grey.
Dean asks, "What're you thinking?" as he unlaces Jack's shoes. He's got red stains at the corners of his mouth, like he's been coughing up blood." Pneumonia? TB?"
"Neither." Cas touches Jack's sweaty forehead, then thumbs open one of his eyes. "A human illness I could heal. This—this is—"
"A curse?"
Cas checks Jack's pulse — first his wrist, then his throat. "Possibly. It could also be related to Heaven's instability. Or Michael's—"
Dean waves that off. He doesn't want to hear about Michael. Or think about Michael. Or even remember that Michael fucking exists.
+
Dean checks on them first thing in the morning. Jack's about the same—still snoozing, still deathly pale. He's wearing what looks like pajamas, and a blue and white flannel sheet is pulled up to his chin. Sweat is beading on his face, and fresh blood is flecked across his lips.
Cas is sitting on a chair beside the bed, his shoulders hunched and his arms resting on his knees. His tie is loose, and his coat is heaped on a table stacked with books. He rubs his forehead as Dean walks in.
Dean says, "Here," and hands him a cup of coffee.
"Caffeine doesn't affect me."
"Can't hurt. Stop bragging and drink it." Dean takes a sip of his own before asking, "How is he?"
"No change," Cas replies. His shoulder hitches slightly—almost a shrug. "I tried healing him again, several times. Whatever this is, it isn't human in origin."
"So... hoodoo?"
"His symptoms match a consumption curse I found in one of the grimoires, but I—" Cas sighs quietly. "I performed the counter-curse and—"
"Nothing doing, yeah." After another sip of coffee, Dean walks over to Jack and squeezes his foot. He doesn't move. He's still breathing shallowly, still wheezing. "Might be time to call a specialist."
+
"Really, boys?" Rowena purrs. She's overdressed as usual—a silk shirt and tailored slacks—and she breezes into the infirmary inside a cloud of lilac perfume. Her heels tap-tap-tap on the concrete floor. "I ought to start charging a consultation fee."
Dean snorts. "I'm gonna remember you said that next time you're in it up to your neck."
"I won't deny I have a knack for landing in the soup. But, more often than not, you helped put me there. You, and your brother, and—" she gives Cas a quick leer "—Precious Moments over here."
"Rowena," Cas says quietly. Angels aren't supposed to get tired, but the creases under his eyes are heavier than usual. His jaw and mouth are tight. "Please."
She makes a soft, scoffing noise and turns her attention to Jack. "The Devil's spawn, isn't he. You'd think he would've come out with horns and a tail. Hooves, maybe. Something to give us a wee bit of warning."
"Look," Dean snaps. "If you—"
Rowena waves him off without even looking over. She leans over Jack until her waterfall of hair brushes the sheet. She starts off just like Cas did the night before—touching his forehead and cheeks, opening his eyes, checking his teeth like she's buying a horse. Then she holds a hand over his chest, right above his heart. Dean doesn't hear or see anything, but the air in the room seems to hum and shift. Breathing stings the back of his throat. The inside of his mouth suddenly tastes bitter and sharp.
Finally, she sits up and tosses her hair over her shoulder. "It's not a curse."
"You sure?"
"I'm going to remember you doubted me the next time you're up a creek and need a paddle."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, rolling his eyes. She's a friend now, but she's still a pain in the ass. "Thanks for stopping by. Now get outta here before my brother comes home and kills you."
Rowena laughs so hard a flush darkens the line of her throat. "Please. He wouldn't even know where to start."
+
It's not that Dean dislikes likes the newbies. He just doesn't know them, and making friends has never really been part of his skill set. Besides, most of the Apocalypsers are still kind of spooked because he was dumb enough to say yes to Michael. He can't blame them for that, but it makes hanging out in the bunker's common areas tense and awkward. Especially when Sam isn't around to grease the wheels.
Avoidance is the better part of valor, so he hides out in his room until the kitchen clears out for lunch. Then he throws a sandwich together and heads down to the infirmary. He finds Cas exactly where he left him a couple hours ago—slumped in the chair beside Jack's bed with a book in his lap. He isn't even reading it.
"Well?" Dean asks. "Good, bad, or ugly?"
Cas sighs. "None of the above."
If anything, Jack seems a little paler. But Dean isn't going to be the one to mention it. "What if—what if it's something demonic?"
"Demonic how?"
Dean says, "Dunno," and takes a swig of his beer. "I just—Sam said you went a few rounds with some demons while I was gone. Maybe one of 'em—" He trails off with a shrug.
"It's... possible." Cas stands and tosses the book on one of the empty beds. "I suppose it won't hurt to try."
+
Holy water doesn't help. Neither does salt or the blood of a saint. After that, they try three different exorcisms—two Latin translations that don't do anything, and an Enochian version that doesn't do anything and makes a fucking mess.
"Alright," Dean says, wrinkling his nose. The infirmary smells like angelica root and burnt palo santo. He's pretty sure he's got holy oil in his hair. "I guess it ain't demonic."
Sighing, Cas says, "I guess not." He sits and rubs his hand over his face. "It must be angelic."
"Wait. You—?" Dean splits a glance between Cas and Jack. "You didn't check his mojo first?"
"Of course I checked his... mojo first."
"And?"
"And, it's severely depleted," Cas says, leaning back in his chair. "Beyond that, I can't tell much. Perhaps once it begins to regenerate—" He sighs and rubs his face again. "Jack is an anomaly. If his illness has an angelic cause, I wouldn't even know where to start."
Dean says, "Yeah," and grabs a towel to wipe the ashes off his hands. "Look, why don't you go take a load off. I'll stay with the kid."
"I don't need to sleep."
"No one likes a show-off, pal."
"Dean, I'm—"
"Cas." Dean tosses the towel aside and sits on the edge of Jack's bed. "You ain't gotta sleep. Just go upstairs. Go outside and get some fresh air. You've been down here since last night." When Cas doesn't say anything—and doesn't say anything, and doesn't say anything—Dean takes a breath and presses on. "We'll figure it out."
"How?"
"Dunno," Dean admits, shrugging. "But we always do. Sam'll be back tomorrow. He can help us crack the books."
After a long, uncomfortable pause, Cas says, "Fine. I—fine."
+
Dean jerks awake to a loud noise—his book sliding out of his lap and thudding to the floor. He'd been nap dreaming about Michael chasing him, screaming around him like a blue-white hurricane. He grunts, "Fuck," and sits up straight, then takes a few breaths while he waits for his heart to stop pounding. He can't tell what time it is down here, but it feels late. The air tastes smoky. It still smells like angelica and palo santo.
Jack hasn't moved.
"You gotta snap outta this, kid," Dean tells him. His face is a little flushed, so Dean pulls the blankets down to his waist. "Cas is worried about you. I mean, we all are. But Cas, he—you can't do this to him. So, c'mon. Snap out of it."
A door slams upstairs. Jack exhales with a low, wheezing rattle.
+
"I have an idea," Cas says.
"Awesome," Dean grunts. He closes Mechanics of the Celestial Hierarchy, which hasn't made sense since he opened it but really went off the deep end about a hundred pages ago. He hopes Sam is making better progress with Metaphysical Alignments of the Various Heavenly Choirs. "'Cause I got nothing."
"I think it's his grace."
"What d'you mean? I thought you said his tank was nearly empty."
"It is," Cas says, moving closer to the table. The library's yellowish light is leeching the color from his face. "But the speck that remains—I think it's rotting instead of regenerating."
"Okay. Why?"
"I can't be sure. But I suspect it's because he's currently more human than angel."
Dean's going to need a beer for this, he can already tell. He says, "Yeah, alright," then stands up and walks over to the mini-fridge. "What do we do about it? Cut it out of him?"
"No." Cas shakes his head. "I doubt he'd want that. Besides, he's sick enough now that removing it might kill him."
"Okay." Dean pauses to swallow some beer. "Then what's behind door number two?"
"A transfusion."
"You—what?"
"A transfusion," Cas says again, like it will somehow make more sense a second time. "I think giving him a dose of healthy grace will help his recover."
Dean wastes a split-second wondering where Cas plans to get it. Then he realizes Cas means his grace and his gut gives a slow, terrible lurch. "No way. You—no fucking way."
"Dean—"
"Cas, no. You—you can't—you—"
"I wasn't asking your permission."
And—yeah. That stings a little. Enough that Dean just stares at him for a second. His voice dips as he asks, "You think that's what he'd want? You think Jack would want you to power yourself down just to power him back up?"
"I wouldn't need to give him much," Cas insists. "I'd heal in a matter of days."
"Sure. Days. And what if Michael shows up while you ain't up to snuff? What if you bump into some of those juiced-up monsters he made?" You could get hurt, you dumb sonofabitch. You could get killed. Dean still has nightmares about the night Jack was born—about Cas slumping to the ground, about the angel blade in his chest, about his wings charring the sand around Lucifer's feet. "You—you could—"
"Yes," Cas snaps, anger burning in his cheeks. "There is a chance Michael might return before I'm useful again. But—"
"What—? Useful?" Dean's hands are shaking; he feels like he's going to puke. "You think that's what this is about?"
"What else would it be about, Dean?"
"Oh, I dunno. Maybe I don't wanna watch you do something stupid and dangerous. Maybe—"
"Something stupid and dangerous?" Cas repeats sharply. A muscle tics in his jaw. "Something like... letting an archangel possess you? Even after I begged you not to?"
And that—that's it. Dean slams his beer on the table and grabs a handful of Cas' shirt. "Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare. Not—not after that stunt you pulled with Lucifer."
Cas makes a rough, furious noise. But before he can fire another shot across Dean's bow, Sam walks in from the kitchen and clears his throat. "Uh, guys? Everything okay?"
Dean jerks his head around, and—Christ. They're not alone anymore; all the newbies are watching this shitshow, crowded into the library's doorways in twos and threes. Dean takes a step back and makes himself breathe. His hands are still shaking. He snatches his beer off the table, drains it, and lobs the empty bottle at the trashcan.
The glass shattering just puts his teeth on edge. He snarls, "We're fine, Sammy. Everything's fine," and storms out of the room.
+
Dean's only somewhat surprised when Cas walks into his bedroom about thirty minutes later. Sam's usually the one who gets stuck soothing the savage beast, but he's probably busy right now, making sticker charts for his Webelo hunters.
"What?"
Cas shuts the door a little harder than necessary. He cocks an eyebrow and asks, "Have you finished your tantrum?"
"That depends." Dean tosses the pillow he's been punching and swings his legs over the side of the bed. "You done being a piece-of-shit martyr?"
"Probably not."
"Damn it, Cas. Jack—"
"Is my responsibility," Cas cuts in. That muscle in his jaw is twitching again. "I promised Kelly that I would take care of him."
"Yeah, I know." The bed dips and creaks as Dean stands. "Just—you ever gonna let someone take care of you?"
Cas is quiet for a moment—a long, skin-crawlingly uncomfortable moment. A frown tugs at his mouth. Then, quietly, he says, "I'd let you, Dean. But you refuse to be honest with yourself long enough for us to even talk about it."
Dean snaps, "Shut up," and grabs Cas' shirt again. Cas leans into it slightly, putting them nose to nose, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn't give in and close the distance. "Just shut up." He wants to kiss him—badly—but thinking about it terrifies him. He knows once he does, he won't be able to go back. "You —you can't—"
"What, Dean. I can't what." Cas palms Dean's hip, digging his thumb in right above the waistband of his jeans. "Admit that I want you? That I've wanted you? That I'm tired of waiting for you to decide how you feel?"
"It ain't about deciding," Dean says. Somehow, his hand is at the hollow of Cas' throat. "I can't—I'm not—"
"Dean."
Dean shouldn't touch; he knows he shouldn't touch. But Cas is close, so close. Dean runs his fingers down the line of his jaw, then skims them over his lower lip. Cas opens up a little, enough to wet the tips of Dean's fingers. Dean shuts his eyes. Something warm and bright uncurls under his ribs.
It's a soft kiss, just their lips catching, brushing, catching again. Cas makes a low, quiet noise into it and strokes his hand through Dean's hair. Dean leans closer, wrapping his arm around Cas' waist.
"You've decided, then?" Cas asks.
Dean mutters, "Asshole," and bites the hinge of his jaw. "I told you, it ain't about deciding. It's—you died." He clears his throat—once, twice. "You died, and I—I wasn't okay."
"I know," Cas says. "Your brother told me. So did Jack. If it's any consolation, I wasn't okay when Michael took you away."
"I'm sorry. I—"
"Don't." Cas cups Dean's face. "Just kiss me again."
+
It's been a while since Dean's done this—since he's even really wanted to. He fumbles a little as he gets Cas on the bed, as he unzips Cas' slacks and pulls out his dick. But there's a rhythm to it, a kind of ebb and flow, and once Cas is in his mouth, Dean remembers it. He hollows his cheeks and draws his tongue up Cas' length, and when Cas bumps the back of his throat he swallows and breathes through his nose. Cas touches Dean's throat and jaw, then sifts a hand through Dean's hair. Dean tips his head until Cas' palm is a warm weight at the back of his neck.
Cas smells like heat and clean skin. He arches up when Dean bobs his head, and he claws at the sheets when Dean tongues his slit. He moans, low and rough, and Dean feels it everywhere—under his skin, behind his ribs, in the pit of his gut. Dean sucks in and in and in, wrapping his hand around the base of Cas' dick so he can stroke up to meet his mouth. Cas' thighs shake. He murmurs, "Dean, Dean, Dean," like a prayer. The light on Dean's nightstand flickers and spits as he comes.
Dean sits up and sucks in a breath. Cas reaches for him, touching his cheek and his jaw and his wet, swollen mouth. He grabs Dean's sleeve and pulls until Dean is sprawled out on the bed beside him. They kiss until they're both breathless, and Cas rubs Dean through his jeans until Dean is rocking up against it. When Cas finally wraps a hand around his dick, Dean chokes out a ragged, embarrassing noise. He doesn't need much, just the weight of Cas against his side and the warm-rough drag of Cas' palm. Dean comes with his head thrown back and his fingers twisted in Cas' hair.
Cas strokes him through it, touching him until it's too much, too much, too much.
+
Dean paces and paces outside the infirmary. He had been pacing inside it, but after he hip-checked a table and knocked over a chair, Cas called him a nuisance and threw him out on his ass.
"I need to concentrate, Dean," Dean mimics. "You can't stay if you can't be still." He pauses in front of the door and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Dumb sonofabitch."
"Hey," Maggie says, touching his arm. "It's going to be okay."
Dean bristles a little—she doesn't know that—but the other newbies are watching him, and most of them still look like they think he's a nutjob. He gives her a jerky nod and grunts, "Yeah." Then he starts pacing again.
He's on his sixth or seventh trip down the hall when Cas comes out looking tired and drawn. His mouth is tight, and blood is smeared underneath his jaw. The skin around it is already healed, but seeing it still makes something sour twist into Dean's gut.
Everyone's watching them, but that doesn't stop Dean from reaching for him. He says, "Cas," and wipes the blood away with his thumb. "How'd it go?"
"I'm fine," Cas says, his voice hoarse. "And I—Jack should be fine."
"Okay."
+
Sam walks into the kitchen as Dean is spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread. He's supposed to be downstairs with Jack, so Dean points the knife at him and says, "You're supposed to be downstairs with Jack."
"Well, he's awake," Sam says. "And he's asking for you guys. He wants—and I quote—'all of his dads.'"
"All of his dads," Dean says, snorting. He sets the knife in the sink and looks at Cas. "I guess you saved the day."
Cas smiles. "One of us always does."
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~3,400
Summary: Cas shuts the door a little harder than necessary. He cocks an eyebrow and asks, "Have you finished your tantrum?"
Notes: Episode tag. Spoilers for 14x05.
[AO3]
Cas isn't on the check-in rotation like the newbies, so Dean's surprised when he calls a few days after he and Jack head down to Florida.
Dean's eating breakfast, and his phone is in his pocket. The call nearly goes to voicemail by the time he digs it out. He fumbles the screen unlocked with a greasy thumb and says, "Hey, Cas," around a mouthful of bacon. "How's Sarasota?"
"I wouldn't know," Cas replies. "We left yesterday afternoon."
"Wow. You figure out those freaky deaths already?"
Cas hesitates before saying, "No. Jack is... unwell. We—"
"You—unwell?" Dean pushes is plate away and leans his elbows on the table. "What's that mean?"
"It means he's unwell." Cas hesitates again, just long enough for some road noise to buzz in Dean's ear. "I just heard on the radio that another man was murdered. Last night, after we left. He had the same bizarre wounds to his torso. I—"
"Don't worry about it. Sam can rustle up some pinch-hitters." There are plenty to choose from. Dean's still not used to having this many people in his house. "Where're you now?"
"An hour north of Nashville."
Dean taps his fingers on his coffee mug as he works out the math. "So... tomorrow morning?"
"Tonight. I plan to drive straight through."
+
Cas turns up a little after midnight looking windswept and tired. Jack is out cold; Cas brings him down the stairs in a fireman's carry.
"Jesus Christ." Dean slops beer all over the map table as he jolts out of his chair. "'Unwell' mighta been an understatement."
"It wasn't this bad when I called," Cas says. He shifts his hold on Jack so Dean can grab his legs. "He only lost consciousness about an hour ago."
They take him down to the basement infirmary that Dean and Sam never bothered with when it was just the two of them. The newbies reopened it at some point while Dean was off playing meatpuppet. Underneath the sting of bleach and rubbing alcohol, it smells faintly of fresh paint. They put Jack in the first bed inside the door. He's breathing shallowly, making soft wheezing noises each time he exhales. His skin is clammy and grey.
Dean asks, "What're you thinking?" as he unlaces Jack's shoes. He's got red stains at the corners of his mouth, like he's been coughing up blood." Pneumonia? TB?"
"Neither." Cas touches Jack's sweaty forehead, then thumbs open one of his eyes. "A human illness I could heal. This—this is—"
"A curse?"
Cas checks Jack's pulse — first his wrist, then his throat. "Possibly. It could also be related to Heaven's instability. Or Michael's—"
Dean waves that off. He doesn't want to hear about Michael. Or think about Michael. Or even remember that Michael fucking exists.
+
Dean checks on them first thing in the morning. Jack's about the same—still snoozing, still deathly pale. He's wearing what looks like pajamas, and a blue and white flannel sheet is pulled up to his chin. Sweat is beading on his face, and fresh blood is flecked across his lips.
Cas is sitting on a chair beside the bed, his shoulders hunched and his arms resting on his knees. His tie is loose, and his coat is heaped on a table stacked with books. He rubs his forehead as Dean walks in.
Dean says, "Here," and hands him a cup of coffee.
"Caffeine doesn't affect me."
"Can't hurt. Stop bragging and drink it." Dean takes a sip of his own before asking, "How is he?"
"No change," Cas replies. His shoulder hitches slightly—almost a shrug. "I tried healing him again, several times. Whatever this is, it isn't human in origin."
"So... hoodoo?"
"His symptoms match a consumption curse I found in one of the grimoires, but I—" Cas sighs quietly. "I performed the counter-curse and—"
"Nothing doing, yeah." After another sip of coffee, Dean walks over to Jack and squeezes his foot. He doesn't move. He's still breathing shallowly, still wheezing. "Might be time to call a specialist."
+
"Really, boys?" Rowena purrs. She's overdressed as usual—a silk shirt and tailored slacks—and she breezes into the infirmary inside a cloud of lilac perfume. Her heels tap-tap-tap on the concrete floor. "I ought to start charging a consultation fee."
Dean snorts. "I'm gonna remember you said that next time you're in it up to your neck."
"I won't deny I have a knack for landing in the soup. But, more often than not, you helped put me there. You, and your brother, and—" she gives Cas a quick leer "—Precious Moments over here."
"Rowena," Cas says quietly. Angels aren't supposed to get tired, but the creases under his eyes are heavier than usual. His jaw and mouth are tight. "Please."
She makes a soft, scoffing noise and turns her attention to Jack. "The Devil's spawn, isn't he. You'd think he would've come out with horns and a tail. Hooves, maybe. Something to give us a wee bit of warning."
"Look," Dean snaps. "If you—"
Rowena waves him off without even looking over. She leans over Jack until her waterfall of hair brushes the sheet. She starts off just like Cas did the night before—touching his forehead and cheeks, opening his eyes, checking his teeth like she's buying a horse. Then she holds a hand over his chest, right above his heart. Dean doesn't hear or see anything, but the air in the room seems to hum and shift. Breathing stings the back of his throat. The inside of his mouth suddenly tastes bitter and sharp.
Finally, she sits up and tosses her hair over her shoulder. "It's not a curse."
"You sure?"
"I'm going to remember you doubted me the next time you're up a creek and need a paddle."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, rolling his eyes. She's a friend now, but she's still a pain in the ass. "Thanks for stopping by. Now get outta here before my brother comes home and kills you."
Rowena laughs so hard a flush darkens the line of her throat. "Please. He wouldn't even know where to start."
+
It's not that Dean dislikes likes the newbies. He just doesn't know them, and making friends has never really been part of his skill set. Besides, most of the Apocalypsers are still kind of spooked because he was dumb enough to say yes to Michael. He can't blame them for that, but it makes hanging out in the bunker's common areas tense and awkward. Especially when Sam isn't around to grease the wheels.
Avoidance is the better part of valor, so he hides out in his room until the kitchen clears out for lunch. Then he throws a sandwich together and heads down to the infirmary. He finds Cas exactly where he left him a couple hours ago—slumped in the chair beside Jack's bed with a book in his lap. He isn't even reading it.
"Well?" Dean asks. "Good, bad, or ugly?"
Cas sighs. "None of the above."
If anything, Jack seems a little paler. But Dean isn't going to be the one to mention it. "What if—what if it's something demonic?"
"Demonic how?"
Dean says, "Dunno," and takes a swig of his beer. "I just—Sam said you went a few rounds with some demons while I was gone. Maybe one of 'em—" He trails off with a shrug.
"It's... possible." Cas stands and tosses the book on one of the empty beds. "I suppose it won't hurt to try."
+
Holy water doesn't help. Neither does salt or the blood of a saint. After that, they try three different exorcisms—two Latin translations that don't do anything, and an Enochian version that doesn't do anything and makes a fucking mess.
"Alright," Dean says, wrinkling his nose. The infirmary smells like angelica root and burnt palo santo. He's pretty sure he's got holy oil in his hair. "I guess it ain't demonic."
Sighing, Cas says, "I guess not." He sits and rubs his hand over his face. "It must be angelic."
"Wait. You—?" Dean splits a glance between Cas and Jack. "You didn't check his mojo first?"
"Of course I checked his... mojo first."
"And?"
"And, it's severely depleted," Cas says, leaning back in his chair. "Beyond that, I can't tell much. Perhaps once it begins to regenerate—" He sighs and rubs his face again. "Jack is an anomaly. If his illness has an angelic cause, I wouldn't even know where to start."
Dean says, "Yeah," and grabs a towel to wipe the ashes off his hands. "Look, why don't you go take a load off. I'll stay with the kid."
"I don't need to sleep."
"No one likes a show-off, pal."
"Dean, I'm—"
"Cas." Dean tosses the towel aside and sits on the edge of Jack's bed. "You ain't gotta sleep. Just go upstairs. Go outside and get some fresh air. You've been down here since last night." When Cas doesn't say anything—and doesn't say anything, and doesn't say anything—Dean takes a breath and presses on. "We'll figure it out."
"How?"
"Dunno," Dean admits, shrugging. "But we always do. Sam'll be back tomorrow. He can help us crack the books."
After a long, uncomfortable pause, Cas says, "Fine. I—fine."
+
Dean jerks awake to a loud noise—his book sliding out of his lap and thudding to the floor. He'd been nap dreaming about Michael chasing him, screaming around him like a blue-white hurricane. He grunts, "Fuck," and sits up straight, then takes a few breaths while he waits for his heart to stop pounding. He can't tell what time it is down here, but it feels late. The air tastes smoky. It still smells like angelica and palo santo.
Jack hasn't moved.
"You gotta snap outta this, kid," Dean tells him. His face is a little flushed, so Dean pulls the blankets down to his waist. "Cas is worried about you. I mean, we all are. But Cas, he—you can't do this to him. So, c'mon. Snap out of it."
A door slams upstairs. Jack exhales with a low, wheezing rattle.
+
"I have an idea," Cas says.
"Awesome," Dean grunts. He closes Mechanics of the Celestial Hierarchy, which hasn't made sense since he opened it but really went off the deep end about a hundred pages ago. He hopes Sam is making better progress with Metaphysical Alignments of the Various Heavenly Choirs. "'Cause I got nothing."
"I think it's his grace."
"What d'you mean? I thought you said his tank was nearly empty."
"It is," Cas says, moving closer to the table. The library's yellowish light is leeching the color from his face. "But the speck that remains—I think it's rotting instead of regenerating."
"Okay. Why?"
"I can't be sure. But I suspect it's because he's currently more human than angel."
Dean's going to need a beer for this, he can already tell. He says, "Yeah, alright," then stands up and walks over to the mini-fridge. "What do we do about it? Cut it out of him?"
"No." Cas shakes his head. "I doubt he'd want that. Besides, he's sick enough now that removing it might kill him."
"Okay." Dean pauses to swallow some beer. "Then what's behind door number two?"
"A transfusion."
"You—what?"
"A transfusion," Cas says again, like it will somehow make more sense a second time. "I think giving him a dose of healthy grace will help his recover."
Dean wastes a split-second wondering where Cas plans to get it. Then he realizes Cas means his grace and his gut gives a slow, terrible lurch. "No way. You—no fucking way."
"Dean—"
"Cas, no. You—you can't—you—"
"I wasn't asking your permission."
And—yeah. That stings a little. Enough that Dean just stares at him for a second. His voice dips as he asks, "You think that's what he'd want? You think Jack would want you to power yourself down just to power him back up?"
"I wouldn't need to give him much," Cas insists. "I'd heal in a matter of days."
"Sure. Days. And what if Michael shows up while you ain't up to snuff? What if you bump into some of those juiced-up monsters he made?" You could get hurt, you dumb sonofabitch. You could get killed. Dean still has nightmares about the night Jack was born—about Cas slumping to the ground, about the angel blade in his chest, about his wings charring the sand around Lucifer's feet. "You—you could—"
"Yes," Cas snaps, anger burning in his cheeks. "There is a chance Michael might return before I'm useful again. But—"
"What—? Useful?" Dean's hands are shaking; he feels like he's going to puke. "You think that's what this is about?"
"What else would it be about, Dean?"
"Oh, I dunno. Maybe I don't wanna watch you do something stupid and dangerous. Maybe—"
"Something stupid and dangerous?" Cas repeats sharply. A muscle tics in his jaw. "Something like... letting an archangel possess you? Even after I begged you not to?"
And that—that's it. Dean slams his beer on the table and grabs a handful of Cas' shirt. "Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare. Not—not after that stunt you pulled with Lucifer."
Cas makes a rough, furious noise. But before he can fire another shot across Dean's bow, Sam walks in from the kitchen and clears his throat. "Uh, guys? Everything okay?"
Dean jerks his head around, and—Christ. They're not alone anymore; all the newbies are watching this shitshow, crowded into the library's doorways in twos and threes. Dean takes a step back and makes himself breathe. His hands are still shaking. He snatches his beer off the table, drains it, and lobs the empty bottle at the trashcan.
The glass shattering just puts his teeth on edge. He snarls, "We're fine, Sammy. Everything's fine," and storms out of the room.
+
Dean's only somewhat surprised when Cas walks into his bedroom about thirty minutes later. Sam's usually the one who gets stuck soothing the savage beast, but he's probably busy right now, making sticker charts for his Webelo hunters.
"What?"
Cas shuts the door a little harder than necessary. He cocks an eyebrow and asks, "Have you finished your tantrum?"
"That depends." Dean tosses the pillow he's been punching and swings his legs over the side of the bed. "You done being a piece-of-shit martyr?"
"Probably not."
"Damn it, Cas. Jack—"
"Is my responsibility," Cas cuts in. That muscle in his jaw is twitching again. "I promised Kelly that I would take care of him."
"Yeah, I know." The bed dips and creaks as Dean stands. "Just—you ever gonna let someone take care of you?"
Cas is quiet for a moment—a long, skin-crawlingly uncomfortable moment. A frown tugs at his mouth. Then, quietly, he says, "I'd let you, Dean. But you refuse to be honest with yourself long enough for us to even talk about it."
Dean snaps, "Shut up," and grabs Cas' shirt again. Cas leans into it slightly, putting them nose to nose, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn't give in and close the distance. "Just shut up." He wants to kiss him—badly—but thinking about it terrifies him. He knows once he does, he won't be able to go back. "You —you can't—"
"What, Dean. I can't what." Cas palms Dean's hip, digging his thumb in right above the waistband of his jeans. "Admit that I want you? That I've wanted you? That I'm tired of waiting for you to decide how you feel?"
"It ain't about deciding," Dean says. Somehow, his hand is at the hollow of Cas' throat. "I can't—I'm not—"
"Dean."
Dean shouldn't touch; he knows he shouldn't touch. But Cas is close, so close. Dean runs his fingers down the line of his jaw, then skims them over his lower lip. Cas opens up a little, enough to wet the tips of Dean's fingers. Dean shuts his eyes. Something warm and bright uncurls under his ribs.
It's a soft kiss, just their lips catching, brushing, catching again. Cas makes a low, quiet noise into it and strokes his hand through Dean's hair. Dean leans closer, wrapping his arm around Cas' waist.
"You've decided, then?" Cas asks.
Dean mutters, "Asshole," and bites the hinge of his jaw. "I told you, it ain't about deciding. It's—you died." He clears his throat—once, twice. "You died, and I—I wasn't okay."
"I know," Cas says. "Your brother told me. So did Jack. If it's any consolation, I wasn't okay when Michael took you away."
"I'm sorry. I—"
"Don't." Cas cups Dean's face. "Just kiss me again."
+
It's been a while since Dean's done this—since he's even really wanted to. He fumbles a little as he gets Cas on the bed, as he unzips Cas' slacks and pulls out his dick. But there's a rhythm to it, a kind of ebb and flow, and once Cas is in his mouth, Dean remembers it. He hollows his cheeks and draws his tongue up Cas' length, and when Cas bumps the back of his throat he swallows and breathes through his nose. Cas touches Dean's throat and jaw, then sifts a hand through Dean's hair. Dean tips his head until Cas' palm is a warm weight at the back of his neck.
Cas smells like heat and clean skin. He arches up when Dean bobs his head, and he claws at the sheets when Dean tongues his slit. He moans, low and rough, and Dean feels it everywhere—under his skin, behind his ribs, in the pit of his gut. Dean sucks in and in and in, wrapping his hand around the base of Cas' dick so he can stroke up to meet his mouth. Cas' thighs shake. He murmurs, "Dean, Dean, Dean," like a prayer. The light on Dean's nightstand flickers and spits as he comes.
Dean sits up and sucks in a breath. Cas reaches for him, touching his cheek and his jaw and his wet, swollen mouth. He grabs Dean's sleeve and pulls until Dean is sprawled out on the bed beside him. They kiss until they're both breathless, and Cas rubs Dean through his jeans until Dean is rocking up against it. When Cas finally wraps a hand around his dick, Dean chokes out a ragged, embarrassing noise. He doesn't need much, just the weight of Cas against his side and the warm-rough drag of Cas' palm. Dean comes with his head thrown back and his fingers twisted in Cas' hair.
Cas strokes him through it, touching him until it's too much, too much, too much.
+
Dean paces and paces outside the infirmary. He had been pacing inside it, but after he hip-checked a table and knocked over a chair, Cas called him a nuisance and threw him out on his ass.
"I need to concentrate, Dean," Dean mimics. "You can't stay if you can't be still." He pauses in front of the door and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Dumb sonofabitch."
"Hey," Maggie says, touching his arm. "It's going to be okay."
Dean bristles a little—she doesn't know that—but the other newbies are watching him, and most of them still look like they think he's a nutjob. He gives her a jerky nod and grunts, "Yeah." Then he starts pacing again.
He's on his sixth or seventh trip down the hall when Cas comes out looking tired and drawn. His mouth is tight, and blood is smeared underneath his jaw. The skin around it is already healed, but seeing it still makes something sour twist into Dean's gut.
Everyone's watching them, but that doesn't stop Dean from reaching for him. He says, "Cas," and wipes the blood away with his thumb. "How'd it go?"
"I'm fine," Cas says, his voice hoarse. "And I—Jack should be fine."
"Okay."
+
Sam walks into the kitchen as Dean is spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread. He's supposed to be downstairs with Jack, so Dean points the knife at him and says, "You're supposed to be downstairs with Jack."
"Well, he's awake," Sam says. "And he's asking for you guys. He wants—and I quote—'all of his dads.'"
"All of his dads," Dean says, snorting. He sets the knife in the sink and looks at Cas. "I guess you saved the day."
Cas smiles. "One of us always does."