Since Feeling Is First
Title: Since Feeling Is First
Summary: Sam gets a bad cold. Cas isn't so sure how to deal.
Warnings/Spoilers: I alluded to sex at one point. I'll give you a minute to clutch at your pearls.
Author's Note: Okay, here it is, my first swing at an unabashedly Sam/Cas story! It all started when shangrilada had a dream. I hope you like it!
Sometimes when he wakes in the middle of the night he’s not sure what woke him. He’s groggy with sleep and rubs at his eyes a few times, pawing, clumsy and disoriented. Possibly it’s the unpleasant sensation in his throat, slightly full and scratchy, making him feel as if he’s swallowing around something, and Sam rubs at the back of his neck and hopes he’s not getting sick. That would be new for them. Shit.
Behind him, Castiel stirs and rolls half on top of him, ankle locking around his, burrowing his face into Sam’s shirt, and Sam glances down and sees the fabric caught lightly between the angel’s lips. His hair’s all messed up. Sam strokes it fondly back into place, feels Cas snuggle into him. Loving an angel feels surreal sometimes, like a fairy tale, and Cas tries so hard to be human that he actually does himself a disservice, but the dichotomy is so endearing. Sam loves the way Castiel puts himself to bed - like he’s putting himself away for the night, neatly tucked in on his back, hands folded across his chest - and then, during the night, unguarded and careless, rolls into Sam’s body and is somehow most human when he’s not trying at all.
Sam arches awkwardly, reaching for his glass of water to soothe his throat, trying not to dislodge Cas, but it’s probably futile. Cas is such a light sleeper. He’s upright and instantly alert, looking from the door to Sam and back, birdlike, as if trying to suss out a threat. “Sam?”
“No, it’s okay.” Sam sits up, drinks deeply from the water glass, and it does help a little. “I just needed a drink. I’m sorry.”
Cas nods a little, deflating. His shoulders are pulled together so tightly that his back is arched, chest thrust out, that strange posture that means he’s aching with loss. Cas likes his humanity, Sam knows, but sometimes when he wakes in the middle of the night it’s all too much.
“Hey.”
Cas looks up at him, sad almond eyes.
“Still my angel.” Sam pulls him into a hug, rubs his hand over the place where his wings used to be. “Always my angel.”
Castiel’s lips are against his collarbone, not quite kissing, forming themselves to the shape. He’s like a child sometimes, needy and physical, soothed by touch, and at times like this Sam is grateful for his large frame and long arms, the better to cradle his love and rock him to sleep. He curls around Castiel like a shell and swallows hard, and his throat burns a little in response.
***
By morning there’s no doubt, Sam’s getting sick. His irritated throat of the night before has become a full-on battlefield, and his head aches fiercely. He pulls the pillow over his head and tries not to exist. No dice.
Cas is clattering around in the kitchen, most likely indulging his interest in the culinary arts. He’s not the world’s worst cook, but he doesn’t have any particular talent - his eggs are overdone, his steaks too dry, his pasta too soft, and Sam keeps meaning to teach him about cook times and then not bothering because, you know, it’s not like anyone else ever bothered to cook him a steak before. This is still better than anything he’s ever had.
He flips the pillow - it’s too hot already, maybe he’s got a fever, and wouldn’t that just be terrific? The last time he was sick…God, it must have been three years ago, just after hell, when everything was new and his immune system was for shit. A warm body against him, a deep, soothing voice. Dean was with them then.
Fuck being sick.
He rubs his hand across his throat, pressing a little here and there to see where the pain is centered, swallowing hard, convulsively, until his mouth is dry. It’s hard to shake the idea that he could swallow this pain down if he tried hard enough, that perhaps some food would massage his aching throat just right and make it stop.
Cas comes in from the kitchen, whistling, a trick he mastered four days ago and still takes every opportunity to display. He’s trying to do breakfast in bed, clearly, and he’s got the tray and the dishtowel napkin and even a lilac clipping in a shot glass, but he missed something somewhere because all the food is piled directly on the tray rather than arranged on plates. Sam’s charmed all over again. He tries so hard.
The whistle trails off in an interrogatory uptick. Castiel is staring at him. “Sam, what’s wrong?” He says it with such alarm, as if Sam’s going to say he’s got a month to live or that he can’t move his legs or something equally dramatic and decidedly not I have the sniffles.
But in fact it does feel dramatic and alarming, because he hates being sick and because it’s been so long, so he reaches for his angel with both hands and doesn’t try to keep the tremor out of his voice. “I don’t feel good.”
Cas sets the tray down and goes to Sam, wraps his arms around him as if he’s said the most important thing in the world.
***
Sam makes a list, and Cas goes to the store with the debit card because he doesn’t know his way around cash yet. He returns with bags of soup and juice and bread and tea and honey and various extracts and supplements, enough to combat several weeks of rhinovirus. Sam listens to the bang and thump of cabinets opening and closing as Cas puts everything away and feels remarkably taken care of, as though all he has to do is stay in bed and someone will make everything all right for him. Not having to do anything - it’s freeing. He relaxes into the pillows and swallows around his throat (which feels swollen to the point of trying to choke him) and thinks maybe all this isn’t so bad after all.
When Cas comes into the bedroom, it’s with a glass of orange juice and a bowl of broth. “It’s important to eat,” he says solemnly, like he’s the first person in the history of human illness to draw a connection between nutrition and recovery, and Sam can’t help laughing a little even though it grates over his throat.
“What is it?” Cas frowns.
“Nothing. You’re right. It’s just sweet.”
Because he’s Cas, and he’s accustomed to these little moments he doesn’t quite understand in the course of his daily life, he lets it pass. “Sit forward,” he says, and slides behind Sam, legs bracketing Sam’s hips. Sam sips at his juice and sips at the spoons of broth Cas lifts to his mouth and drags Cas’s foot into his lap so he can play with the toe of his sock. Cas hums quietly, tunelessly. Sam suspects, but has never confirmed, that he’s echoing Dean’s habit of humming rock ballads but hasn’t internalized any of the songs. It’s a tic he both loves and hates, for the way it reminds him of his absent brother.
When the juice is gone and the soup bowl is empty, Cas sets them aside and pulls Sam back into his arms, rocking him slowly from side to side. He plants kisses across the back of Sam’s neck, runs his hands down Sam’s arms to turn his palms face up and threads their fingers together. Sam opens his mouth to tell Cas this isn’t necessary, he’s really not all that sick, but the whole thing just feels so nice that he can’t bring himself to put a stop to it.
***
He’s sweating under five blankets, and Castiel is still bringing more. “Cas, enough. I don’t need these.” He kicks at them, frustrated with Cas for not understanding, frustrated with himself for his own impatience.
“You said you were cold.” He’s being an angel. Sam hates when he gets like this. It’s at once the farthest he gets from human - cold, clinical, detached - and a painful reminder to both of them that he’s no longer what he was. Angel-Cas wouldn’t be fetching blankets.
Angel-Cas would have healed Sam.
That’s not something either of them talk about.
“I said I have a cold.” He’s going on two hours’ sleep. Anyone would be cranky. “Pass me the Kleenex?”
Cas does so, and Sam takes one and blows his nose mightily and dissolves into sneezes. A minute later he feels the gentle pressure of Castiel’s hand - not on his back, as he would have anticipated, but on his chest. Probably Cas can feel the congestion, the discontented rumble of his breathing. His touch is hesitant, and Sam’s reminded of months ago, in bed with Cas, learning each other for the first time. The way he took the angel’s hands in his own and showed him, silently, what to do, where to touch; the way Castiel watched him, eyes wide with worry and confusion, eagerness and love.
The sneezing fit subsides and Castiel eases him onto his back. “You’re sick,” he whispers, his hand cool on Sam’s face, yeah, that’s a fever. “You’re shaking.”
“Cold.” He is, suddenly, and he’s thankful for the pile of blankets. He shrugs down into them until he’s buried up to his cheeks. Abruptly he doesn’t want Cas at all, wants him to go away and learn how to be human on someone else, wants Dean, who knows how to do these things, to come and make him tea and toast with honey and sit in a chair with his feet propped on Sam’s bed and act like he’s only there to watch TV. Sam wants to fall asleep to the familiar sounds of his brother channel-surfing and muttering about nothing good on. He doesn’t want to explain to Cas that he needs vitamin C and fluids and not this fluttering, hovering concern.
He doesn’t want to have to teach Castiel how to be human.
He rolls away and buries his face in the pillow, and after a moment the press of Cas’s weight leaves the mattress
***
He wakes in the dark, sweaty and panting for breath, confused, distressed, and a hand grips his and a voice whispers right into his ear, “Shhhh, Sam.”
He’s shaking so hard it feels like he might be starting to cry, like his body might be just physically doing that to him, and he buries his face in Castiel’s chest. Shame and regret are warring for his attention, though he doesn’t quite know why. He mouths, sorry, sorry, into his angel and lets Cas cool the back of his neck with a washcloth, which is just this side of the razor-wire line between pleasant and agonizing on his fever-sensitive skin.
“Hush,” Cas says quietly, sliding a hand under his chin, and moves the washcloth to his face. Sam breathes as deep as he can - it’s so hard, his face is leaking and maybe he is crying, how would he know - and shudders. The air’s too cold. Cas reaches behind him and draws the blanket up higher around Sam’s shoulders.
It’s too hard to articulate everything that’s going through his head, so goddamn sick and Dean and thank you, thank you, I love you so much, Castiel, please don’t ever leave, so he concentrates on his shaky little exhales and tries to steady them. Cas is still moving the washcloth, dabbing, his shoulders, his upper back, did he fall asleep without a shirt or did Cas take that off him at some point? Doesn’t matter. Slow down. Breathe.
Then Cas slips a thermometer under his tongue and it’s too cold and for some reason that’s just it, he’s crying for real. He’s quiet, but Cas knows, of course, he always does, and holds Sam tighter. “Please,” he whispers. “Anything, just…please?”
The thermometer beeps. It’s too loud, and Sam hears himself moan a little, but that couldn’t have been him, he couldn’t have made that sound. Cas is rocking him again, but this time he does need it, this time he is that sick, and he’s still murmuring, “please…please…”
Please what?
He looks up a little. Cas strokes his hair, and his voice changes, gentles. “You’re okay, Sam. We’re doing fine. Could you drink some more juice?”
No, he tries to say, but the same shaky moan comes out, and Cas kisses him so, so carefully. “Okay. A little later.”
He’s almost asleep when he hears it again - “Please - please -“ and understands.
Castiel - cut off from heaven, wingless and powerless, so angry at God for so long - is praying.
Oh, Cas.
***
He wakes in the washed-out light of early dawn, coughing and coughing. He’s convulsing with it. He can’t get a breath in.
Cas is holding him, one hand bracing his back, the other rubbing slow circles on his chest, pausing occasionally to slip a piece of ice between his lips. “Don’t chew it, Sam. Suck.”
He tries, but the next coughing fit sends the ice chip flying out of his mouth. Not fair is the first thought to enter his mind, and it’s childish and pathetic and maybe that’s why he wraps both arms over his head and hides, or maybe he just can’t deal with this anymore. Being sick is so awful.
The worst part of coughing, probably, is the attention it gets. The way everyone around you has to know, the way they all try to pretend it isn’t happening. The way, after you’ve been trying to swallow the explosive feeling for ten minutes, someone (Dean) will solicitously offer a cough drop or point you toward a drinking fountain as though the idea had just occurred to him, destroying your tenuous illusion that you were doing something private, that he hadn’t been listening the whole time.
Castiel does none of that.
He holds Sam, listens to him cough, and it’s fine.
And in the absence of embarrassment and trying to hide, Sam understands just how miserable coughing really is. His stomach cramps with it, and he grips Cas’s wrist and drags his hand down. He’s hoping for a warm press, a makeshift heating pad, but Cas seems to intuit what’s going on and massages in slow circles. The coughing slows, but doesn’t entirely subside, and Sam’s starting to think maybe it never will, maybe this is what life will be like now, fucking cough factory when Cas climbs out of bed and disappears into the kitchen.
He returns with Sam’s water bottle, the one he used to carry with him on long runs, and Sam expects him to pass it over, but he doesn’t. Instead he crawls back into bed and wraps his body around Sam’s wracking one. He’s high on Sam’s back, arms slung over Sam’s shoulders, one knee wrapped over Sam’s shaking hip. He squeezes gently, hugging, not constraining, and helps him lift the bottle to his lips.
He’s coughing too hard at first, and shakes his head, pushes the bottle away, but Cas rubs at his neck and whispers, “come on, Sam, you can, come on” and finally he forces himself to drink in a bit and swallow. It’s as if the muscles dedicated to coughing have been placed under a waterfall and the sheer flow of a thousand tons of liquid is forcing them into submission, it feels so good.
The bottle’s filled with orange juice, and Sam suckles at it and feels his chest muscles quiet and hears Cas say, “please.”
***
Sometimes things change in the night, and when he wakes up he feels the difference before he can put a name to it.
When Sam opens his eyes, Dean’s asleep in the chair by his bed.
And Castiel’s face is tilted upward as he whispers, “thank you.”
Summary: Sam gets a bad cold. Cas isn't so sure how to deal.
Warnings/Spoilers: I alluded to sex at one point. I'll give you a minute to clutch at your pearls.
Author's Note: Okay, here it is, my first swing at an unabashedly Sam/Cas story! It all started when shangrilada had a dream. I hope you like it!
Sometimes when he wakes in the middle of the night he’s not sure what woke him. He’s groggy with sleep and rubs at his eyes a few times, pawing, clumsy and disoriented. Possibly it’s the unpleasant sensation in his throat, slightly full and scratchy, making him feel as if he’s swallowing around something, and Sam rubs at the back of his neck and hopes he’s not getting sick. That would be new for them. Shit.
Behind him, Castiel stirs and rolls half on top of him, ankle locking around his, burrowing his face into Sam’s shirt, and Sam glances down and sees the fabric caught lightly between the angel’s lips. His hair’s all messed up. Sam strokes it fondly back into place, feels Cas snuggle into him. Loving an angel feels surreal sometimes, like a fairy tale, and Cas tries so hard to be human that he actually does himself a disservice, but the dichotomy is so endearing. Sam loves the way Castiel puts himself to bed - like he’s putting himself away for the night, neatly tucked in on his back, hands folded across his chest - and then, during the night, unguarded and careless, rolls into Sam’s body and is somehow most human when he’s not trying at all.
Sam arches awkwardly, reaching for his glass of water to soothe his throat, trying not to dislodge Cas, but it’s probably futile. Cas is such a light sleeper. He’s upright and instantly alert, looking from the door to Sam and back, birdlike, as if trying to suss out a threat. “Sam?”
“No, it’s okay.” Sam sits up, drinks deeply from the water glass, and it does help a little. “I just needed a drink. I’m sorry.”
Cas nods a little, deflating. His shoulders are pulled together so tightly that his back is arched, chest thrust out, that strange posture that means he’s aching with loss. Cas likes his humanity, Sam knows, but sometimes when he wakes in the middle of the night it’s all too much.
“Hey.”
Cas looks up at him, sad almond eyes.
“Still my angel.” Sam pulls him into a hug, rubs his hand over the place where his wings used to be. “Always my angel.”
Castiel’s lips are against his collarbone, not quite kissing, forming themselves to the shape. He’s like a child sometimes, needy and physical, soothed by touch, and at times like this Sam is grateful for his large frame and long arms, the better to cradle his love and rock him to sleep. He curls around Castiel like a shell and swallows hard, and his throat burns a little in response.
***
By morning there’s no doubt, Sam’s getting sick. His irritated throat of the night before has become a full-on battlefield, and his head aches fiercely. He pulls the pillow over his head and tries not to exist. No dice.
Cas is clattering around in the kitchen, most likely indulging his interest in the culinary arts. He’s not the world’s worst cook, but he doesn’t have any particular talent - his eggs are overdone, his steaks too dry, his pasta too soft, and Sam keeps meaning to teach him about cook times and then not bothering because, you know, it’s not like anyone else ever bothered to cook him a steak before. This is still better than anything he’s ever had.
He flips the pillow - it’s too hot already, maybe he’s got a fever, and wouldn’t that just be terrific? The last time he was sick…God, it must have been three years ago, just after hell, when everything was new and his immune system was for shit. A warm body against him, a deep, soothing voice. Dean was with them then.
Fuck being sick.
He rubs his hand across his throat, pressing a little here and there to see where the pain is centered, swallowing hard, convulsively, until his mouth is dry. It’s hard to shake the idea that he could swallow this pain down if he tried hard enough, that perhaps some food would massage his aching throat just right and make it stop.
Cas comes in from the kitchen, whistling, a trick he mastered four days ago and still takes every opportunity to display. He’s trying to do breakfast in bed, clearly, and he’s got the tray and the dishtowel napkin and even a lilac clipping in a shot glass, but he missed something somewhere because all the food is piled directly on the tray rather than arranged on plates. Sam’s charmed all over again. He tries so hard.
The whistle trails off in an interrogatory uptick. Castiel is staring at him. “Sam, what’s wrong?” He says it with such alarm, as if Sam’s going to say he’s got a month to live or that he can’t move his legs or something equally dramatic and decidedly not I have the sniffles.
But in fact it does feel dramatic and alarming, because he hates being sick and because it’s been so long, so he reaches for his angel with both hands and doesn’t try to keep the tremor out of his voice. “I don’t feel good.”
Cas sets the tray down and goes to Sam, wraps his arms around him as if he’s said the most important thing in the world.
***
Sam makes a list, and Cas goes to the store with the debit card because he doesn’t know his way around cash yet. He returns with bags of soup and juice and bread and tea and honey and various extracts and supplements, enough to combat several weeks of rhinovirus. Sam listens to the bang and thump of cabinets opening and closing as Cas puts everything away and feels remarkably taken care of, as though all he has to do is stay in bed and someone will make everything all right for him. Not having to do anything - it’s freeing. He relaxes into the pillows and swallows around his throat (which feels swollen to the point of trying to choke him) and thinks maybe all this isn’t so bad after all.
When Cas comes into the bedroom, it’s with a glass of orange juice and a bowl of broth. “It’s important to eat,” he says solemnly, like he’s the first person in the history of human illness to draw a connection between nutrition and recovery, and Sam can’t help laughing a little even though it grates over his throat.
“What is it?” Cas frowns.
“Nothing. You’re right. It’s just sweet.”
Because he’s Cas, and he’s accustomed to these little moments he doesn’t quite understand in the course of his daily life, he lets it pass. “Sit forward,” he says, and slides behind Sam, legs bracketing Sam’s hips. Sam sips at his juice and sips at the spoons of broth Cas lifts to his mouth and drags Cas’s foot into his lap so he can play with the toe of his sock. Cas hums quietly, tunelessly. Sam suspects, but has never confirmed, that he’s echoing Dean’s habit of humming rock ballads but hasn’t internalized any of the songs. It’s a tic he both loves and hates, for the way it reminds him of his absent brother.
When the juice is gone and the soup bowl is empty, Cas sets them aside and pulls Sam back into his arms, rocking him slowly from side to side. He plants kisses across the back of Sam’s neck, runs his hands down Sam’s arms to turn his palms face up and threads their fingers together. Sam opens his mouth to tell Cas this isn’t necessary, he’s really not all that sick, but the whole thing just feels so nice that he can’t bring himself to put a stop to it.
***
He’s sweating under five blankets, and Castiel is still bringing more. “Cas, enough. I don’t need these.” He kicks at them, frustrated with Cas for not understanding, frustrated with himself for his own impatience.
“You said you were cold.” He’s being an angel. Sam hates when he gets like this. It’s at once the farthest he gets from human - cold, clinical, detached - and a painful reminder to both of them that he’s no longer what he was. Angel-Cas wouldn’t be fetching blankets.
Angel-Cas would have healed Sam.
That’s not something either of them talk about.
“I said I have a cold.” He’s going on two hours’ sleep. Anyone would be cranky. “Pass me the Kleenex?”
Cas does so, and Sam takes one and blows his nose mightily and dissolves into sneezes. A minute later he feels the gentle pressure of Castiel’s hand - not on his back, as he would have anticipated, but on his chest. Probably Cas can feel the congestion, the discontented rumble of his breathing. His touch is hesitant, and Sam’s reminded of months ago, in bed with Cas, learning each other for the first time. The way he took the angel’s hands in his own and showed him, silently, what to do, where to touch; the way Castiel watched him, eyes wide with worry and confusion, eagerness and love.
The sneezing fit subsides and Castiel eases him onto his back. “You’re sick,” he whispers, his hand cool on Sam’s face, yeah, that’s a fever. “You’re shaking.”
“Cold.” He is, suddenly, and he’s thankful for the pile of blankets. He shrugs down into them until he’s buried up to his cheeks. Abruptly he doesn’t want Cas at all, wants him to go away and learn how to be human on someone else, wants Dean, who knows how to do these things, to come and make him tea and toast with honey and sit in a chair with his feet propped on Sam’s bed and act like he’s only there to watch TV. Sam wants to fall asleep to the familiar sounds of his brother channel-surfing and muttering about nothing good on. He doesn’t want to explain to Cas that he needs vitamin C and fluids and not this fluttering, hovering concern.
He doesn’t want to have to teach Castiel how to be human.
He rolls away and buries his face in the pillow, and after a moment the press of Cas’s weight leaves the mattress
***
He wakes in the dark, sweaty and panting for breath, confused, distressed, and a hand grips his and a voice whispers right into his ear, “Shhhh, Sam.”
He’s shaking so hard it feels like he might be starting to cry, like his body might be just physically doing that to him, and he buries his face in Castiel’s chest. Shame and regret are warring for his attention, though he doesn’t quite know why. He mouths, sorry, sorry, into his angel and lets Cas cool the back of his neck with a washcloth, which is just this side of the razor-wire line between pleasant and agonizing on his fever-sensitive skin.
“Hush,” Cas says quietly, sliding a hand under his chin, and moves the washcloth to his face. Sam breathes as deep as he can - it’s so hard, his face is leaking and maybe he is crying, how would he know - and shudders. The air’s too cold. Cas reaches behind him and draws the blanket up higher around Sam’s shoulders.
It’s too hard to articulate everything that’s going through his head, so goddamn sick and Dean and thank you, thank you, I love you so much, Castiel, please don’t ever leave, so he concentrates on his shaky little exhales and tries to steady them. Cas is still moving the washcloth, dabbing, his shoulders, his upper back, did he fall asleep without a shirt or did Cas take that off him at some point? Doesn’t matter. Slow down. Breathe.
Then Cas slips a thermometer under his tongue and it’s too cold and for some reason that’s just it, he’s crying for real. He’s quiet, but Cas knows, of course, he always does, and holds Sam tighter. “Please,” he whispers. “Anything, just…please?”
The thermometer beeps. It’s too loud, and Sam hears himself moan a little, but that couldn’t have been him, he couldn’t have made that sound. Cas is rocking him again, but this time he does need it, this time he is that sick, and he’s still murmuring, “please…please…”
Please what?
He looks up a little. Cas strokes his hair, and his voice changes, gentles. “You’re okay, Sam. We’re doing fine. Could you drink some more juice?”
No, he tries to say, but the same shaky moan comes out, and Cas kisses him so, so carefully. “Okay. A little later.”
He’s almost asleep when he hears it again - “Please - please -“ and understands.
Castiel - cut off from heaven, wingless and powerless, so angry at God for so long - is praying.
Oh, Cas.
***
He wakes in the washed-out light of early dawn, coughing and coughing. He’s convulsing with it. He can’t get a breath in.
Cas is holding him, one hand bracing his back, the other rubbing slow circles on his chest, pausing occasionally to slip a piece of ice between his lips. “Don’t chew it, Sam. Suck.”
He tries, but the next coughing fit sends the ice chip flying out of his mouth. Not fair is the first thought to enter his mind, and it’s childish and pathetic and maybe that’s why he wraps both arms over his head and hides, or maybe he just can’t deal with this anymore. Being sick is so awful.
The worst part of coughing, probably, is the attention it gets. The way everyone around you has to know, the way they all try to pretend it isn’t happening. The way, after you’ve been trying to swallow the explosive feeling for ten minutes, someone (Dean) will solicitously offer a cough drop or point you toward a drinking fountain as though the idea had just occurred to him, destroying your tenuous illusion that you were doing something private, that he hadn’t been listening the whole time.
Castiel does none of that.
He holds Sam, listens to him cough, and it’s fine.
And in the absence of embarrassment and trying to hide, Sam understands just how miserable coughing really is. His stomach cramps with it, and he grips Cas’s wrist and drags his hand down. He’s hoping for a warm press, a makeshift heating pad, but Cas seems to intuit what’s going on and massages in slow circles. The coughing slows, but doesn’t entirely subside, and Sam’s starting to think maybe it never will, maybe this is what life will be like now, fucking cough factory when Cas climbs out of bed and disappears into the kitchen.
He returns with Sam’s water bottle, the one he used to carry with him on long runs, and Sam expects him to pass it over, but he doesn’t. Instead he crawls back into bed and wraps his body around Sam’s wracking one. He’s high on Sam’s back, arms slung over Sam’s shoulders, one knee wrapped over Sam’s shaking hip. He squeezes gently, hugging, not constraining, and helps him lift the bottle to his lips.
He’s coughing too hard at first, and shakes his head, pushes the bottle away, but Cas rubs at his neck and whispers, “come on, Sam, you can, come on” and finally he forces himself to drink in a bit and swallow. It’s as if the muscles dedicated to coughing have been placed under a waterfall and the sheer flow of a thousand tons of liquid is forcing them into submission, it feels so good.
The bottle’s filled with orange juice, and Sam suckles at it and feels his chest muscles quiet and hears Cas say, “please.”
***
Sometimes things change in the night, and when he wakes up he feels the difference before he can put a name to it.
When Sam opens his eyes, Dean’s asleep in the chair by his bed.
And Castiel’s face is tilted upward as he whispers, “thank you.”