weary_head | (no subject)

The tightness in his chest of the first three days had been irritating enough, but now things were just out and out gross. The island was temperate enough that Dean couldn't remember ever taking sick here, but it seemed his body had decided to make up for lost time. He was achy and sore, not enough to be flulike but enough to be annoying as hell. On the third day after waking up feeling like ass he'd wandered down for his shift at the clinic and promptly hacked a big blog of green gunk onto Rollie's shoe. Thank god he hadn't been wearing sandals, or Dean thought there might have been some actual kicking involved when Rollie turned him out again.

So now he was shiftless, and, by virtue of his roommate, temporarily homeless. Dean would cut off his foot before he got Roger sick, and had wasted no time in gathering up his necessities, bundling them into a bag slung neatly over his shoulder.

But where would he go? Twerp didn't need his hacking, so that ruled out his father's hut. Jess and Sam probably didn't want their perfect love punctuated by the sound of rattling phlegm, so that ruled them out, too. That really only left just one place Dean could go and stay near to his family.

"Cas!" he shouted, doubling over in the next moment for a bout of inspired wheezing. He lifted a wobbly hand to bang on the door. "Hey, you in here?"

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"Funky?" Castiel echoed, and thought it over. He was still struggling with finding ways to describe the things he felt. He couldn't ecen explain them all to himself. "I only feel worry for your condition, and pleased that you came here."

Dean gave him a tired grin. "You won't be for long," he said, tugging Castiel's blanket around himself. "I'm told I'm a whiny sick person."

"I...am used to your moods," Castiel said, and there was a very tiny smile threatening to break his somber expression.

"You're saying you agree with them?" Dean chuckled, earning himself a wheeze. "Hurts my heart, Cas."

Castiel knows what he means, but covers Dean's heart with a hand, anyway. He tries to summon the power to heal him, still finding it hard to believe it's all fruitless.

"This is the first I've seen you sick," he admits. He's seen Dean bloody and bruised, tubes in his nose, bones broken. Spirit broken. But never a cold.

He supposes this is better, comparatively.

"You're remarkably healthy for someone with such an appalling diet."

"You liked the pie," Dean replied, too tired of peeling Castiel's hands off of him to bother this time. "Tell me you didn't like the pie. You want to eat it all the time."

Castiel's hand smoothed up the front of the blanket, tucking it just a little farther toward Dean's chin. He touched Dean's neck, then his forehead, and rested his hand in Dean's hair. The Dean he knew would never allow it, only ever seemed to relax in sleep. This Dean was different...lighter. Castiel felt his heart swell with some emotion he couldn't describe, to see Dean so happy, even in illness.

"Yes, I liked the pie. I think three slices was too much. Things happened afterward that was a little...disturbing."

The pressure against his head eased the ache there a little, and Dean let himself relax back against the pillow. "That's what Pepto's for. Haven't found an island substitute yet, but..." Dean yawned. "M'working on it."

"Try to sleep, Dean," Castiel said, voice a low rumble, hand smoothing over his hair, almost petting it. He'd seen mothers do this with their children, he hoped it was a comfort.