Part 3: Pontiac
Master Post
Part 2: Eye of a Hurricane
Part 3: Pontiac
The young man's name is Michael ―“But please, call me Mike!”― and Castiel does his very best not to flinch. Mike's girlfriend, Winnie, is behind the wheel of the car, and although she looks a little uncertain at taking in a filthy man and a little boy, she gives them a timid smile when Mike helps Castiel limp to the car. She and Mike both look at him as though he's lost his mind when he tests them for possession, but she passes it off with a nervous giggle.
“Where are you headed?” she asks.
“Idaho.” He straps Dean into the back seat, making sure the seatbelt doesn't cut into his neck, then eases himself in behind Winnie, stretching his leg out to rest in the footwell behind the passenger seat.
“Oh,” Winnie chews on her lip, glances anxiously at him in the rearview mirror. “We're not really going that far...”
He resists laughing, thinks she'll probably take it the wrong way, and lets his head fall back against the seat. He feels weighted down. “We just need to get to somewhere populated. We were attacked last night ―our van, I mean. It overturned.”
Mike turns in the front seat, his eyes even wider than Winnie's. “Oh my God, you were in that van we passed? Jesus. That was a bloodbath. How did you get out alive? It looked like everyone got thrown out of the van when the doors open.”
Castiel makes a vague motion with one hand. “Seatbelt. Just lucky, I suppose.”
“That leg looks pretty bad.”
“It'll keep.”
“You said you were attacked?” Mike is eyeing the shotgun Castiel has propped next to him. “What happened to the people who attacked you?”
“We got away,” Castiel says shortly, and Mike lets the subject drop. “How far are you going?”
“Mike's got family in Illinois,” Winnie ventures, pulling out onto the road after very thoroughly checking all the car mirrors and what Dean once told Castiel was a 'blind spot' behind the driver's seat, as though she's trying to negotiate racing traffic on a busy highway instead of an almost-deserted stretch of road. “We're heading there. We were going to go before, you know, but... well, stuff happened.”
“Winnie...”
“Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean... anyway. We're going to Rockford. We were going to stop overnight in Pontiac, so I guess we can leave you there?” she phrases it as a question, as though Castiel somehow has any control over the decisions they make on their driving destination.
“That will be fine, thank you.”
It's useless to tell himself that he would rather gnaw off one of his own limbs ―to coin a phrase he once heard Sam use― than spend any time at all in Pontiac, Illinois. Still, it's closer to their destination than he'd hoped to get, and now he has a way, he hopes, to at least attempt to repay their kindness.
“I used to live in Pontiac,” he says, the words like ash on his tongue. Castiel has never lived in Pontiac, but Jimmy Novak's life used to be there.
“Did you? That's a coincidence!” Winnie says brightly. He can't decided whether she's vapid, nervous, or maybe both.
“I don't believe in coincidences.”
“Oh.”
The seat isn't comfortable, but he's exhausted. Dean is already dozing against the door, his hair mussed and sticking to the glass of the window with some sort of static electricity. He's pale, Castiel notes with a twinge of concern, with dark circles under his eyes that aren't entirely due to the dirt smudged all over his face. Winnie keeps looking between him and Castiel in the rearview mirror.
“Your son is really cute. What's his name?”
“Dean. He's not my son, though.”
“Oh.”
He manages not to roll his eyes. “I'm sort of his guardian. His parents are both gone, and we don't know where his brother is.”
“Oh poor thing!” Winnie has visibly been smitten ―Castiel is amazed at how women still seem to fall for Dean even in his current incarnation. If the boy ever talks again, he'll have to ask him just what it is that he's doing that has that effect on them. “That's so sad! He must be devastated, poor little kid.”
Castiel makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. “I don't know if my old house ever got sold, but if it's empty, we can always stay there. I haven't been back in... a very long time. I don't know if...” he doesn't know what he's trying to say, doesn't bother finishing his sentence.
“I don't know... We were just going to stay at the community centre there. They have beds and food.”
“That's really nice of you to offer, though,” Mike says, apparently eager to mend whatever bridges his girlfriend might have inadvertently burned by refusing what was at best a diffident offer of hospitality. Castiel decides he's never really going to understand humans.
“We're not there yet,” he reminds them, letting his eyes close.
He dozes for the rest of the trip, doing his best to pretend that he can't hear Mike and Winnie arguing in undertones the entire way.
*~*
Castiel rouses to the sound of Dean coughing next to him in the seat. He sits up, bites back a groan at the crick in his neck and the feeling that his spine might never be entirely straight again. The light is already beginning to fade, but in the distance he can see the outlying buildings of Pontiac, Illinois, and the sight is achingly familiar. He turns to look at Dean, who's already stopped coughing and is struggling to get on his knees to peer out the window in spite of the fact that he's still securely strapped in by his seatbelt. Castiel reaches out and places a hand on the boy's forehead ―another half-remembered gesture of Jimmy's― but he doesn't seem feverish. If anything, he seems better than before, more rested and alert. Certainly, he looks better than Castiel feels.
“Oh, hey, you're awake!” Mike notes, as though it's the revelation of a lifetime. As if they haven't already stopped a few times to attend to calls of nature and to 'stretch their legs,' as Winnie put it. Castiel is beginning to think that he doesn't really like people all that much, but that might be the infected leg wound and the sleep-deprivation talking. It's hard to tell. “We're almost there! Where did you say your old house was?”
“I didn't.”
He slides forward in his seat, wishing he had some form of pain medication, or perhaps that someone would just do him a favour and knock him out until his leg stops feeling as though it's been lit on fire. He notes how Winnie's grip tightens on the steering wheel as he gives directions, but she follows them nonetheless. He's already beginning to regret the invitation he extended, although it was probably the right thing to do. It's not his house ―perhaps isn't even Jimmy's house anymore― and it feels wrong, somehow, as though he's intruding on something sacred and taboo.
When they pull up in front of the house he feels his breath catch in his throat. Even Dean, who's been squirming for the past thirty minutes becomes abruptly still. It was right here, in this very spot, that Jimmy Novak allowed Castiel to use him as a vessel, the first but definitely not the last time. He fights the urge to close his eyes, to bolt from the car. He takes a deep breath, fumbles with the door handle, nearly takes a header into the pavement when his bad leg buckles under him.
Mike trots around the car. “Woah there. You better let me give you a hand,” he tucks a hand under Castiel's elbow, props him up. “You okay?”
Castiel nods. “I just need a minute. I'm a little stiff.”
Understatement. He can practically hear Dean's voice in his head, bites back a smile.
“Yeah, okay. This is the place then?”
“Yes. I have to get Dean.”
He hobbles around the car, Mike's grip firm on his elbow, and opens up the passenger-side door. He unhooks the seatbelt, and pulls Dean out of the seat, staggering a bit under his weight until they get themselves sorted out. He holds the boy on his hip, wavering a bit. Mike helpfully pulls the bags from the trunk and trots to the veranda with them, dropping them at the top of the steps.
The house has not weathered the years well, obviously abandoned for months, if not longer. A fading 'For Sale' sign has fallen over on the lawn and is partially covered in dirt and leaves, the yellowing grass well beyond the point of merely needing to be mowed. Most of the first-floor windows have been boarded up, and the paint is peeling from the clapboard facade and the veranda floor. Castiel finds himself stretching out a hand to scratch at a paint flake on the closest post, places his palm against the wood instead, the grain rough against his skin.
“So, uh. Cas.” Mike rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Look. I, uh. You. I mean...”
Castiel takes pity on him. “You're going to keep going.”
Mike relaxes so fast that it looks like he's melting. “Yeah, man. Look, I'm sorry, but you, uh, you kind of make Winnie nervous. She won't explain it to me, but you really freaked her out with that whole 'Christo' business, whatever that was, and she's kind of superstitious... and who can blame her these days? I'm really sorry, but you know how it is, and...”
He holds up a hand. “It's fine. I understand. I'd be nervous if I was Winnie too,” he attempts a smile, but judging by Mike's expression it might be more of a grimace. “Thank you for the ride. You are very good people. Good Samaritans.”
Mike chuckles, but still looks embarrassed. “Hey, no sweat. I mean, we were coming here anyway, right?”
“Still. You didn't have to stop.”
He gets a snort. “What kind of people would we be, leaving a little kid stranded on the side of the road?”
Castiel manages a more genuine smile. “Like I said: good people.”
Mike claps him on the shoulder. “You okay from here?”
“I'll manage. If you're ever in the area of Meridian, Idaho, look me up. The name is Cas.”
“Sure thing, Cas. For what it's worth, I think you're a good guy, even if Winnie thinks you're cursed, or whatever. You take care.”
And with that Mike trots back down the front walk, dead leaves rustling under his feet, slides back into the passenger seat. The car takes off, and neither of its occupants look back.
*~*
The house is musty when Castiel ushers Dean inside. He easily located the spare key where Jimmy and Amelia kept it hidden underneath a planter in the yard ―now filled with dead and dying weeds, and let them in without undue ceremony. The whole place has an empty, echoing feel to it, and a small cloud of dust rises when he drops their bags on the floor.
“It's not quite how I remember it,” he mutters.
Dean has already let go of his hand and is trotting away, craning his neck to get a better look at everything, running small fingers along the wall and leaving black smudges in his wake. Castiel bites his tongue, clamps down hard on the sudden irrational urge to call him back, to keep him away from the dusty remains of a long-vanished family. He doesn't even know if Claire and Amelia are still alive, where they might be if they are, Jimmy's pained You promised, Cas! echoing in his mind again, the way it used to before the end. Over and over, the reproach eating at him.
Castiel follows Dean into the kitchen, which looks untouched. He's not sure why he was expecting the place to have been ransacked by vandals or looters, but apart from the broken windows in the front ―which might be from storms for all he knows― everything is as it was, though liberally coated with dust. He runs a finger along the formica counter, and suddenly Jimmy's memories come flooding back. He can hear Amelia making plans to replace it with granite, or even marble one day if they can swing it: selling ad space isn't all that lucrative, she's saying in Jimmy's mind, her expression speculative, but they aren't hurting for money, either, and she has visions of a new kitchen in which she could try her hand at making homemade candy.
Castiel does his best to shake off the voice of Jimmy's ghost. Dean is looking at the refrigerator, reaching up with questing fingers to play with the ladybug-shaped magnets there. There's a family portrait, taken about eight months before Jimmy Novak said 'yes,' that has slid halfway down the door of the fridge, and Dean tugs on it, pulls it down to look at it. He glances up, hazel eyes narrowing, as though he's assessing Castiel, comparing him to the familiar-yet-different features of Jimmy, smiling at the camera, one arm wrapped around Amelia's shoulders, his left hand resting on Claire's shoulder, wedding ring polished and bright. They all look happy, smiling and relaxed, and Castiel knows that Amelia had started talking about perhaps trying for another baby, now that Claire was older.
“That's Jimmy,” he tells Dean. “You remember him, right? You met him... a long time ago.”
Dean doesn't answer, but holds the photograph carefully in both hands, taking care not to smudge or crumple it. After a moment he hands it over, clearly expecting Castiel to put it back. Castiel plucks a magnet from the fridge and sets it where he remembers it belonging, next to what looks like Claire's last report card. It's mostly A's, a couple of B's, and a gold star from her teacher along with a note written in that curling cursive script that all elementary school teachers seem to have. He's not sure how he knows that, thinks it's probably one of Jimmy's opinions rather than actual fact. He looks down to see Dean staring up at him intently.
“What is it?”
Dean points to the picture.
“That's Amelia and Claire, Jimmy's wife and daughter.”
Dean huffs impatiently, shakes his head.
“That's not what you were asking. Do you remember them?”
A nod, and another questioning look.
“You want to know where they are?”
Dean nods, puts his knuckle in his mouth to suck on it, and without thinking Castiel reaches out and pulls it away, a little more roughly than he intended. Instantly he feels terrible, the stricken look on Dean's face ―eyes suddenly brimming with unshed tears― it's like a stab to the gut.
“I'm sorry, Deano. It's just that your hands are filthy. How about we go see if there's anything like running water left in this house? Then we can wash your hands and you can put your entire fist in your mouth if you want. How does that sound?” he tries for a light-hearted tone, but Dean has his bottom lip trapped in his teeth, and Castiel is pretty sure that he's about to be treated to his very first bout of honest-to-goodness tears. He lowers himself stiffly to one knee, biting back a curse as the movement sends pain lancing through his leg, pulling at the edges of his wound.
“Come on, don't cry,” he brushes the first tear away with his thumb, and somehow manages to feel even worse when Dean swallows very hard and makes an obvious effort to hold back his tears. “I'm sorry, okay?”
He gets a nod and a quiet hiccup, decides that's probably as close to forgiveness as he's going to get. He uses the counter to pull himself to his feet, and on impulse he twists the taps in the sink. To his surprise, he hears the pipes shudder and clang, and a moment later a stream of rusty water pours from the faucet, spattering the sink with brown droplets, before running clear. Castiel throws his head back, feels a jubilant laugh bubble up from somewhere inside his chest.
“Would you look at that? I guess there's life left in this house after all.”
*~*
He runs a bath for Dean once he's managed to get them both up the stairs. He's kind of amazed that there's hot water at all, can't really remember what kind of hot water heater Jimmy had. It wasn't the kind of thing Jimmy was often given to considering. He bends over to strip Dean of his clothes, only to have Dean squirm away from him.
“Dean. Hold still.”
Dean shakes his head, pulls back, yanks insistently on his sleeve instead.
“What?” It comes out a little more impatiently than he intended, but he's cold, he's tired, his leg hurts, and he just damned well wants to get them both clean and fed and put the last twenty-four hours behind them.
Dean lets go of his sleeve, drops his hand and puts it carefully on Castiel's knee, looks at his leg then back up, his face screwed up with worry, and suddenly Castiel understands.
“Are you worried about my leg?” A nod. He rubs a hand over his eyes. “Okay. You don't need to worry about that. You let me deal with it, all right?” Dean shakes his head, and Castiel recognizes the stubborn set to his jaw. “You're not going to let this go, are you?” Another headshake, and Castiel scratches the back of his neck, sighs. “Dean, I can't... I need to make sure you're taken care of first, do you understand? Just do it for me.”
Dean huffs a sigh, then rolls his eyes and lifts up his arms so Castiel can pull his shirt over his head, and submits pliantly enough when Castiel strips the rest of his clothes off and lifts him into the tub. He squirms as Castiel rubs him downs with a washcloth, giggles when Castiel sticks a washcloth-covered finger in his ear and wriggles it, and splashes water at him when Castiel washes his hair.
“Hey!” Castiel sputters, then laughs. “I can't figure you out,” he says after a moment, scrubbing the dirt from the boy's back. “One minute you're four years old, and the next you're acting as though you're exactly as you were... well, before.” He looks down, trying to find any sign at all of the Dean he knows in the wide hazel eyes, but then he's never been especially good at reading Dean's expressions.
“All right, I think that's as clean as you're going to get.” He lifts Dean out of the tub, wraps him in a big blue towel he pulled from the linen closet. It's clean enough, once he's beaten most of the dust off the one side that wasn't protected from being folded, and tucks it clean-side in around Dean's shoulders, rubbing him down until he's sure he's dry. “Okay. We need to find you pajamas.”
He carries Dean down the hall, covers up his moment of hesitation before opening the door to Claire's bedroom, her name still carefully printed on the wooden star hung on the door. He settles Dean on the bed, still swaddled in his towel, bare feet just sticking out under the folds. The boy makes an unmistakable grimace of disgust when Castiel pulls out some of Claire's old pajamas from a drawer.
“What, does the pink offend you?” Castiel quirks a smile, bites his lip as he runs a careful finger over the rhinestone stars on a nightgown, swallows the sudden sob that threatens to rip through him. Claire wasn't even his child, he reminds himself sternly, although he knew her more intimately than even Jimmy did. The bond between angel and vessel is nothing like the one between parent and child, and yet... He finds a pair of green footie pajamas with a teddy bear on the front, outgrown by Claire and buried at the bottom of the drawer years ago. Dean's nose has managed to start running again in the five minutes it's been since Castiel got him clean. He pulls out one of the cloths he's been using as makeshift handkerchiefs and wipes the boy's nose, ignoring his offended squirming.
“You hungry?”
Dean shrugs, then looks meaningfully at his leg. Castiel just rolls his eyes and tugs the pajama pants up over his hips, threads his arms into the sleeves, and does up the zipper. “All set. You want to lie down for a few minutes while I get cleaned up?”
Dean nods, crawls up onto the bed, and Castiel turns back the quilt so he doesn't get covered in dust. He pats Dean's arm, murmurs an order to stay put, and goes to run the shower. He keeps the water lukewarm, bordering on cold ―he doesn't know whether the hot water will last, and he wants to save some for the morning― but the shower still feels heavenly on his aching muscles. The water stings as it hits his shoulder and runs down his leg, and he ends up having to sit under the spray when he tries to wash the worst of the dirt from his leg, biting the inside of his cheeks against the pain.
He switches off the shower and sits on the toilet lid, foot propped against the lip of the tub, the Novak's first aid kit on the counter next to him. It's harder than he thought to deal with the injury: for one thing, he's at an awkward angle, and for another he keeps having to stop when the pain intensifies. He's beginning to develop a whole new appreciation for Sam Winchester's ability to stitch up his own wounds, often one-handed. He looks at the clothes he's left lying on the floor, filthy and covered in blood, both human and whatever passes for it in vampires, and feels his gorge rise. He resolves to burn the clothing in the morning, unwilling even to try to salvage it. He'll use some of Jimmy's clothes ―at least he's sure those will fit.
He's not hungry, even after spending most of the day without eating so much as a bite, but he tells himself he should probably try to make something for Dean. There's even cutlery in the kitchen drawers. When he goes to fetch the boy, though, he finds him curled up on the bed, the knuckles of his right hand in his mouth, left arm around the stuffed rabbit Claire always kept on her bed. It doesn't even occur to Castiel to try to wake him for food. Instead he tucks the blankets up tightly around Dean's chin, watches him for a moment, the even rise and fall of his chest, then on an impulse he doesn't entirely understand leans over him and brushes his lips in a gentle kiss to his forehead.
*~*
It's still dark when Castiel awakens, twisted on himself in the armchair in the Novak's living room. He doesn't remember falling asleep, just wanting to sit down and rest for a moment. He scrubs at his eyes, stretches the kinks out of his back, and is pleased to discover that the fierce burn in his leg has eased. It still hurts, but it's a distant ache under the bandage, and he thinks he may have escaped infection after all, in spite of everything.
He should go to bed, but he can't bring himself to sleep in Jimmy's old bed, the one he shared with his wife. The one in which Claire was conceived, the one blessed by their union. It feels wrong, like a betrayal. Even the thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, makes his skin feel a little too tight. Instead he pulls back the dust-covered sheet that was draped over the living room sofa and lies back, staring at the ceiling until exhaustion claims him again.
In the morning he awakens to Dean patting his face insistently. He sits up with a groan, scrubs a hand over what feels like much more than a day's stubble. It's barely light out. “Sleep well?” he manages. He doesn't think he's much of a morning person.
Dean grins at him, baring pearly little baby teeth in a smile that in another twenty years will have women throwing themselves at him. The boy follows him to the kitchen in clear hopes of breakfast, padding along in his footed pajamas, the fabric whispering quietly against the floor. Castiel manages to cobble together a makeshift breakfast of more spam and canned pears, while Dean sits on a high stool, elbows on the island in the centre of the kitchen, feet kicking at the rungs.
After breakfast Castiel takes them to the community centre, little more than a small office building that's been emptied out and then filled again with long trestle tables and white boards filled with lists and names and what appear to be projects. He catches sight of Mike and Winnie, but their half-hearted acknowledgment of him is a clear enough signal, and he steers clear of them, Dean trailing behind him, knuckle stuck firmly in his mouth. Castiel has dim recollections that it's not good for small children to suck their fingers ―something about their teeth growing crooked― but he also remembers much more vividly the expression on Dean's face when he tried to stop him from doing it the night before, and he's not sure he can stomach the consequences. He puts out a hand to attract the attention of an older woman who acts as though she might be in charge of the place, or at least know what's going on.
“Excuse me,” he starts. She turns, startled, and he has to resist the impulse to apologize for even existing. “Uh, I... it's just. I mean, I used to live ―I used to know people who lived here. Before, that is, and I was hoping to find out what happened to them. Do you know if anyone has kept track of that sort of thing?” He doesn't know when he began fumbling his words. When he was an angel, his diction was impeccable, his choice of words always exact. He's never had to search for what he wanted to say, the way humans do.
She nods. “There's a list. It's not complete, but people add to it when they can. It's in the back room,” she motions with one hand. “Just go straight down that hall, you can't miss it.”
“Thank you,” he takes Dean's free hand and all but pulls him along behind him.
He stops short when he arrives in the back room, feels his mouth drop open. He had imagined a list of several pages, perhaps pinned to a cork board, but it's nothing of the kind. The names of the dead and presumed dead have been carefully printed on brown paper pasted to the walls. Everywhere he looks there are columns of names, written in letters half the size of his thumbnail, lined up in neat rows as far as the eye can see, so many that after a moment they seem to blur together. He clutches the door frame, no longer certain that his legs can support him.
Dean wriggles past him, sucking on his finger, and places his palm on the list, eyes wide. Castiel forces himself to take a deep breath, and, reaching up, places his index finger next to the first name, and begins to read. It takes the better part of twenty minutes, but eventually his finger finds what he was both expecting and dreading.
Novak, Amelia 1972-2010
Novak, Claire 2002-2010
He pulls his hand away from the wall, presses it against his mouth, can't stifle the sob that rips through him, threatens to tear him apart from the inside out. For the second time he staggers, and before his knees give way he lets himself slide down against the wall, the weight of the names behind him propping him up. Another sob wells up in his chest, and a third, and he curls in on himself, shaking. He barely feels Dean's hand on his knee, but he straightens a bit when Dean burrows insistently under his arm and wraps small arms around his chest.
“They're gone,” he chokes. “I promised him, and they're gone. Oh, God.”
*~*
He doesn't know how much time passes. Dean climbs into his lap and stays there, head resting against his chest, maybe listening to his heartbeat, both fists bunched in Castiel's shirt, and Castiel is almost ashamed at the comfort it brings him. Dean coughs, and it sounds deeper than the quick, dry cough he had the day before. Castiel rouses himself, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, then presses a hand to the boy's forehead.
“Hey, you sick?” his voice comes out as a croak. “I bet if you could talk, you'd sound like me.” He strokes Dean's head, isn't sure whether he feels any warmer than before. “Dean?”
Dean coughs again, and against all odds tries to burrow further into Castiel's ribcage. He rubs Dean's arm. “You want to head back? Maybe have a nap?” He can't tell if the movement he feels is a nod or a head shake, but he decides to take it as acquiescence. “Okay. I'm going to see if there's medication to be found around here. I don't like the sound of that cough.”
It turns out that cough medication isn't to be had for free anywhere in the country anymore, or at least not in Pontiac. He has nothing in his meagre belongings worth bartering, but after a few minutes of intense negotiation with a man who appears to be wearing more grease than clothing, he finds himself agreeing to help prepare a meal for what sounds like several dozen people in the morning in exchange for a small bottle of the stuff. He sends a mental 'thank you' to Charlie for teaching him how not to ruin eggs, and gathers Dean into his arms.
“Ready to go?”
Dean just leans his head against his collarbone, and not for the first time Castiel feels a bit breathless at the apparently unwavering faith this child has in him, as though Castiel is the only thing standing between him and the world.
“I suppose I am,” he murmurs, then feels his mouth quirk when Dean pulls back to look at him. “Never mind. It's not important.”
He finds fresh sheets in the linen closet and makes up Claire's bed. He rescues the stuffed rabbit from where it nearly got smothered by a pillow, and hands it back to Dean. Dean is definitely sick, he thinks, feeling as though some small creature has taken up residence in his stomach in a wild fluttering of fragile wings. The boy's cheeks are flushed, but the rest of his face is pale, dark smudges under his eyes, and Castiel wants to kick himself for not noticing before, for dragging the poor kid behind him all morning while he indulged in his guilt.
Dean wriggles determinedly off the bed when Castiel tries to get him to take a nap. He might be sick, but he's obviously not sick enough simply to go to sleep until he's feeling better. He glares at Castiel at the merest suggestion that he ought to lie down, and Castiel rubs the back of his neck, at a loss.
“You never wanted to rest when you were fully-grown, either,” he comments, resigning himself to the notion that Dean at four years old might be even more stubborn than at thirty-one, something he wouldn't have thought possible up until now.
He doesn't know the first thing about sick children. He has a few of Jimmy's memories of Claire being sick, but it appears Amelia was the one to spend more time with the child during those times, with a few notable exceptions. Well, if the child won't sleep, he reasons, then they need to find something else to keep him occupied. He scans the room, sees a stack of boxes on a low shelf containing what appear to be jigsaw puzzles. He squats and sorts through the boxes, finds one featuring a zoo scene, and pulls it out.
“How about this? It has monkeys,” he offers, picking up the wooden board that Claire used as a flat surface for her puzzles and settling cross-legged on the floor. Dean stares dubiously at him, sucking on his knuckle, apparently oblivious to the fact that his nose is running again. Castiel shrugs. “Suit yourself. I'm going to put this together. You can help me, if you want.”
He pulls the lid off the box, and begins sorting through the pieces. Dean watches from the other side of the room, expression doubtful, coughing quietly every so often. After a few moments he edges closer, plops down on the floor next to him, watching intently. Then, slowly, he reaches out and plucks a jigsaw piece from the box, keeping a wary eye on Castiel out of the corner of his eye, as though he might change his mind and confiscate the entire thing. Castiel gets the feeling that, the last time Dean was a child, there wasn't much time for jigsaw puzzles.
“You have an edge piece there. It's green, so that means it's part of that tree in the picture,” Castiel says, and Dean gives him a flat look. “All right, all right. You can do it entirely by yourself if you want. I'll just work on the zookeeper over here, then.”
Dean doesn't answer, just bends over the puzzle with a look of intense concentration, and slowly begins fitting the pieces back together.
*~*
The puzzle comes together slowly, but once they've been working on it for a while, it becomes obvious to Castiel that there are pieces missing, that it will never be complete again. He thinks it might be in the nature of puzzles to lose pieces of themselves that can never be regained. It might be a metaphor for something, but he can't bring himself to care. Dean is listing against him, eyelids drooping, and his coughing has increased in frequency in the last few minutes. Castiel makes him swallow a spoonful of the cough medicine, trying not to laugh at the disgusted face he makes, then carefully cuts an aspirin in half and makes him swallow it in an attempt to bring down the fever that's still making his face flush.
“I know you don't care for the taste, but it will make you feel better. Trust me.”
Dean makes another face, and wriggles away when Castiel tries once again to put him to bed. This time, Castiel puts down his foot. “No, there's no negotiating this one. You are taking a nap. Even if it means just lying down quietly. You don't have to sleep if you don't want to.”
Dean's lower lip juts out, and for a moment Castiel thinks he's going to have a fight on his hands, but it seems as though the boy might be feeling sicker than he's been letting on ―another thing that hasn't changed much. He accepts the stuffed bunny Castiel hands to him, holding it to his chest with his forearm, allows himself to be coaxed under the sheets, and Castiel wonders just how long he's been feeling sick and never let on.
“I'm so sorry,” he murmurs, once Dean is tucked up in the bed again, watching him with fever-bright eyes. “I should have noticed earlier that you were sick.” Predictably enough Dean doesn't answer, and he sighs. “Try to sleep, okay? I'll... make soup. If I can.” Dean settles, but keeps his eyes open, watches him as he leaves.
He rummages in the kitchen cabinets, finds the pantry, and locates several cans of soup, along with a box of instant rice, remembers Sam saying something about Dean making tomato rice soup when they were sick as children. He hasn't tried his hand at rice yet, but the instructions are clearly marked on the label, and although he does scorch the first batch after forgetting it on the lit burner, he manages the second batch well enough, and scrapes the rice into the tomato soup, stirring it until it's thoroughly blended and steaming. He pours it into a mug, reasoning that it will be easier to consume in this fashion rather than risking a spill on the bed. Dean is drowsy but still awake when he brings the mug upstairs, set on a small tray since Castiel doesn't quite trust his balance on his still-injured leg. He puts the tray down on the foot of the bed, sits next to Dean.
“I brought soup. I believe you are partial to tomato rice?”
Dean nods sleepily and sits up. His hands are a little small for the mug, and so Castiel puts a hand underneath it to help him hold it steady, cautions him to blow on the soup to cool it before drinking. Dean takes a couple of noisy sips until Castiel tilts the mug for him, then manages to drink about half of it before pulling away, nearly dropping the mug and the soup in the process. Castiel grabs the mug before Dean scalds himself, and puts it aside, tucking him back under the covers. Soup can be re-heated. He looks down, realizes that Dean is watching him, his eyes anxious under heavy lids. He smooths the hair from his forehead.
“Don't worry,” he says, unsure what might be going through the boy's mind. “Everything's going to be fine.”
Dean blinks, then appears to accept the verdict, his fist held close to his mouth but not quite in it, resting on top the rabbit's head. He's still watching Castiel, though, his eyes tracking his every movement, obviously fighting to stay awake. Castiel suddenly remembers Dean being awake early that morning, remembers that he didn't check to see that he was well and truly asleep the night before, and his gut twists when it all starts to make sense. He sits on the bed, strokes Dean's hair.
“It's safe to sleep here. I won't let anything happen to you.”
Try as he might, though, Dean is still fighting sleep with every ounce of strength in his body. “Dean, are you still having bad dreams?” There's no answer. “Would you like to take a nap with me, then?” He gets a tired nod. “All right, then. But you have to promise to sleep.”
Gently he nudges Dean over a bit, stretches out next to him on Claire's small bed, his feet hanging off the end of the bed until he draws up his knees a bit. He wraps an arm over the boy's tiny frame, draws him close, a hand splayed over the small chest. He can feel Dean's heartbeat flutter beneath his palm, then gradually slow, his breathing evening out into sleep. For a long time he stays absolutely still, listening to each breath in the quiet of the room, and wonders if, after all, he might not find a measure of peace, here.
*~*
His peace of mind is short-lived. By the time night falls Dean is well and truly ill, his fever climbing steadily, and he's coughing almost constantly, in spite of Castiel's giving him the maximum dosage of the cough medicine. The cough turns nasty, wet and hacking, and near midnight it begins to sound like... well, like nothing Castiel has ever heard before. The nearest approximation he can think of is a bark, like a dog, or perhaps a seal. He's never felt as helpless in his entire existence, not even when the world nearly ended.
Dean clings to him like a limpet, or perhaps more accurately like a very small octopus with an insufficient amount of limbs, and won't let go even long enough for Castiel to fetch water or medication. Castiel concedes defeat, wraps a flannel dressing gown that used to belong to Jimmy around him, and simply carries him whenever he needs to move. It seems a simple enough solution, and it keeps Dean reasonably content, even if it's not particularly restful for either of them. He coaxes the remainder of the soup into the boy, gives him another dose of the cough syrup and aspirin, and holds him in his lap while he coughs, stroking his head because he can't think of anything else to do, waiting for him to fall asleep again.
In the morning Dean seems a little better, the cough easing a bit, but he's still listless and mildly feverish, and definitely cranky. He fights Castiel on everything, from the medicine to the idea that he should brush his teeth or even have breakfast, and after less than two hours Castiel is at his wits' end, trying to clamp down on the impulse to shake Dean until he does what he's told. Intellectually he knows that the boy is sick, frightened, and very very young; that he doesn't entirely understand what's happening. But it's hard to remember that the fourth time Dean twists away at the last moment and nearly spills the cough syrup on the bedspread.
“Dean, come on!” he snaps, and is rewarded with instant tears. Dean is obviously trying to hold them back, with no success whatsoever, and hiccups miserably. Castiel feels his shoulders sag. “Aw, Deano, don't cry. Come here,” he pulls him into his lap and presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Come on, now, I didn't mean it like that,” he murmurs.
That's apparently enough to destroy what little self-control Dean had left, and he twists around and sobs brokenheartedly into Castiel's shirt, stopping only when he starts coughing too hard to keep crying. Castiel scoops him up, carries him to the bathroom and sits him on the toilet, wipes at his face with a wet facecloth as Dean hiccups and coughs, wiping away the worst of the tears and snot, trying to gauge just how bad the coughing is. The fit does pass, much to his relief, and he rinses the facecloth and washes Dean's face again, until it's pink and shining.
“You want to give that medicine another try?” he asks gently, and this time he gets a reluctant nod, Dean's eyes fixed on the floor. He chucks him under the chin. “Hey, I'm not mad. I just want you to get better. You want that too, right?”
Another nod, and this time Dean opens his mouth and swallows the medicine without fuss or complaint, and allows Castiel to carry him back to bed, where he resumes his tenacious arthropod act. There's no question of going out again ―although he feels a bit guilty at defaulting on his promise to help cook that meal― but it's clear that Dean is too sick to go out, and to leave him alone here is unthinkable. He looks down at the boy, who is stubbornly refusing even to try to sleep, and decides to try a different tactic.
“Would you like me to read you a story? There are books in here. We could read one of those.”
Dean thinks about it for a moment, then nods and puts his knuckle back in his mouth to suck on as Castiel gets up to peruse Claire's bookshelves. His gaze lights upon a small yellow book with a rabbit on the cover, and he's suddenly flooded with memories of Jimmy curled up on the bed next to Claire, reading to her from it. He plucks the book from the shelf, comes back to settle next to Dean, letting him lean against him, and pulls the blanket up over them both.
“Here was once a velveteen rabbit,” he starts, “and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen.”
Dean looks up, scrunching up his nose, and Castiel explains. “It was Claire's favourite book. I think you'll like it.”
Dean lets his head fall back against Castiel's ribcage, which Castiel takes as agreement. He keeps reading for a while, until he feels his voice starting to give way. He tells himself it's because he's not used to reading aloud, keeps going.
“'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.'”
He looks down, sees that Dean has fallen asleep, the stuffed rabbit under his arm. He settles back to wait, and closes his eyes when he feels them unaccountably begin to burn.
*~*
By the time night rolls around again, all of Castiel's hopes that Dean might be on the mend are dashed. The cough is back in full force, the fever so high that Dean just clings to him and whimpers between bouts of coughing. Castiel seems to remember that small children are prone to high fevers, but it's the barking cough that worries him the most, accompanied now by a raspy, wheezing sound when Dean inhales. As far as Castiel knows, there are no functioning hospitals anymore. There's no one to call, no way to figure out what might be wrong with him ―which is clearly more than just a simple cold― and he is, once again, entirely out of his depth. It's becoming commonplace, he reflects bitterly.
After a while he remembers that Amelia kept some sort of medical encyclopedia in the house. Sam would probably recommend he research Dean's symptoms, and if he can find the book it would go a long way to at least tell him what he's dealing with. He extricates himself from Dean's grasp with whispered promises to come right back, that he's not going far, and hardens his heart when Dean looks as though he's kicked him repeatedly. He goes through the few bookshelves in the living room until he finds a thick hardcover book titled the “A-Z Family Medical Encyclopedia,” which must be what he was thinking of. He brings the book upstairs with him along with a mug of re-heated soup which Dean refuses, and spends the next half hour carefully researching all of the symptoms he's witnessed. Finally he shuts the book, speaks softly to Dean so he won't startle him.
“Okay, Deano. We're going to try something that's hopefully going to make you feel better, okay?”
He keeps Dean wrapped in a blanket and carries him to the bathroom, limp and unresisting in his arms, although the boy is still awake and reasonably alert. He seats him on the mat by the tub, hurries back to the bedroom to fetch some pillows and another blanket, and when he comes back he sets about making him as comfortable as possible.
“We're going to pretend it's like a nest,” he says as seriously as he can manage. “You're going to be like a bird in... a tropical rainforest.”
He thinks he's babbling, a bit like Dean and Sam used to do when they were nervous. He reaches past Dean and switches on the shower, hot water only, drawing the curtain back so the spray doesn't hit them, and sits back while steam slowly begins to fill the room, wiping Dean's face with a cold washcloth to try to keep the fever at bay, at least a little bit. Soon he's sweltering, sweat running down his neck, and Dean's face is flushed bright red, but he's no longer coughing as badly, and the awful rasping noise he was making has ceased completely, and by now Castiel is willing to take any sign of improvement at all.
He keeps Dean in the steam-filled bathroom for as long as either of them can stand before carrying him back to bed, and Dean drops off to sleep almost immediately, wrapped around Castiel's midriff. The bed isn't really made for someone of Castiel's height and build, and his thoughts are turning too quickly in his head to afford him much rest, but he finds that he's not as disturbed by the idea of staying awake as he might be. Before, when he was still an angel, he had no need for sleep at all, and he likes the thought that, now, he can still hold vigil over Dean while he sleeps, and keep the worst of the nightmares at bay.
Sometime in the wee hours of the morning the fever breaks, and once daylight begins trickling through the bedroom window, he's almost certain that Dean is now through the worst of the illness. His breathing is steady and unlaboured, his colour good, no longer the hectic flush of fever or the unhealthy pallor of the day before. He blinks sleepily when Castiel presses a hand to his forehead to confirm his diagnosis, and offers up a tentative smile. Castiel smiles back.
“Good morning. I see you are recovering. That's very good. Are you hungry?” Dean nods, his smile widening. “All right, then. We'll have breakfast, and then you can have a bath. It will make you feel better after being sick all night.”
Dean doesn't say anything, but he gets up on his own, the stuffed rabbit tucked under his arm, and pads down the stairs. If nothing else, the fact that he's no longer clinging to Castiel like a piece of Velcro is a very encouraging sign. Castiel follows him down the stairs, mentally reviewing their food stores. Tomorrow he'll go back to the community centre, once he's certain Dean is completely recovered, in order to fulfil his obligation to the man who sold him the cough medicine, first, and second to see about restocking their supplies, perhaps with something a little more palatable than canned fruit and spam. Dean waits for him at the bottom of the stairs, bares his teeth in a grin.
“What are you so happy about?”
Dean just shrugs, keeps grinning, and at least for now Castiel can't bring himself to resent any of it.
*~*
Part 4: The Individual Language of God
Part 2: Eye of a Hurricane
Part 3: Pontiac
The young man's name is Michael ―“But please, call me Mike!”― and Castiel does his very best not to flinch. Mike's girlfriend, Winnie, is behind the wheel of the car, and although she looks a little uncertain at taking in a filthy man and a little boy, she gives them a timid smile when Mike helps Castiel limp to the car. She and Mike both look at him as though he's lost his mind when he tests them for possession, but she passes it off with a nervous giggle.
“Where are you headed?” she asks.
“Idaho.” He straps Dean into the back seat, making sure the seatbelt doesn't cut into his neck, then eases himself in behind Winnie, stretching his leg out to rest in the footwell behind the passenger seat.
“Oh,” Winnie chews on her lip, glances anxiously at him in the rearview mirror. “We're not really going that far...”
He resists laughing, thinks she'll probably take it the wrong way, and lets his head fall back against the seat. He feels weighted down. “We just need to get to somewhere populated. We were attacked last night ―our van, I mean. It overturned.”
Mike turns in the front seat, his eyes even wider than Winnie's. “Oh my God, you were in that van we passed? Jesus. That was a bloodbath. How did you get out alive? It looked like everyone got thrown out of the van when the doors open.”
Castiel makes a vague motion with one hand. “Seatbelt. Just lucky, I suppose.”
“That leg looks pretty bad.”
“It'll keep.”
“You said you were attacked?” Mike is eyeing the shotgun Castiel has propped next to him. “What happened to the people who attacked you?”
“We got away,” Castiel says shortly, and Mike lets the subject drop. “How far are you going?”
“Mike's got family in Illinois,” Winnie ventures, pulling out onto the road after very thoroughly checking all the car mirrors and what Dean once told Castiel was a 'blind spot' behind the driver's seat, as though she's trying to negotiate racing traffic on a busy highway instead of an almost-deserted stretch of road. “We're heading there. We were going to go before, you know, but... well, stuff happened.”
“Winnie...”
“Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean... anyway. We're going to Rockford. We were going to stop overnight in Pontiac, so I guess we can leave you there?” she phrases it as a question, as though Castiel somehow has any control over the decisions they make on their driving destination.
“That will be fine, thank you.”
It's useless to tell himself that he would rather gnaw off one of his own limbs ―to coin a phrase he once heard Sam use― than spend any time at all in Pontiac, Illinois. Still, it's closer to their destination than he'd hoped to get, and now he has a way, he hopes, to at least attempt to repay their kindness.
“I used to live in Pontiac,” he says, the words like ash on his tongue. Castiel has never lived in Pontiac, but Jimmy Novak's life used to be there.
“Did you? That's a coincidence!” Winnie says brightly. He can't decided whether she's vapid, nervous, or maybe both.
“I don't believe in coincidences.”
“Oh.”
The seat isn't comfortable, but he's exhausted. Dean is already dozing against the door, his hair mussed and sticking to the glass of the window with some sort of static electricity. He's pale, Castiel notes with a twinge of concern, with dark circles under his eyes that aren't entirely due to the dirt smudged all over his face. Winnie keeps looking between him and Castiel in the rearview mirror.
“Your son is really cute. What's his name?”
“Dean. He's not my son, though.”
“Oh.”
He manages not to roll his eyes. “I'm sort of his guardian. His parents are both gone, and we don't know where his brother is.”
“Oh poor thing!” Winnie has visibly been smitten ―Castiel is amazed at how women still seem to fall for Dean even in his current incarnation. If the boy ever talks again, he'll have to ask him just what it is that he's doing that has that effect on them. “That's so sad! He must be devastated, poor little kid.”
Castiel makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. “I don't know if my old house ever got sold, but if it's empty, we can always stay there. I haven't been back in... a very long time. I don't know if...” he doesn't know what he's trying to say, doesn't bother finishing his sentence.
“I don't know... We were just going to stay at the community centre there. They have beds and food.”
“That's really nice of you to offer, though,” Mike says, apparently eager to mend whatever bridges his girlfriend might have inadvertently burned by refusing what was at best a diffident offer of hospitality. Castiel decides he's never really going to understand humans.
“We're not there yet,” he reminds them, letting his eyes close.
He dozes for the rest of the trip, doing his best to pretend that he can't hear Mike and Winnie arguing in undertones the entire way.
*~*
Castiel rouses to the sound of Dean coughing next to him in the seat. He sits up, bites back a groan at the crick in his neck and the feeling that his spine might never be entirely straight again. The light is already beginning to fade, but in the distance he can see the outlying buildings of Pontiac, Illinois, and the sight is achingly familiar. He turns to look at Dean, who's already stopped coughing and is struggling to get on his knees to peer out the window in spite of the fact that he's still securely strapped in by his seatbelt. Castiel reaches out and places a hand on the boy's forehead ―another half-remembered gesture of Jimmy's― but he doesn't seem feverish. If anything, he seems better than before, more rested and alert. Certainly, he looks better than Castiel feels.
“Oh, hey, you're awake!” Mike notes, as though it's the revelation of a lifetime. As if they haven't already stopped a few times to attend to calls of nature and to 'stretch their legs,' as Winnie put it. Castiel is beginning to think that he doesn't really like people all that much, but that might be the infected leg wound and the sleep-deprivation talking. It's hard to tell. “We're almost there! Where did you say your old house was?”
“I didn't.”
He slides forward in his seat, wishing he had some form of pain medication, or perhaps that someone would just do him a favour and knock him out until his leg stops feeling as though it's been lit on fire. He notes how Winnie's grip tightens on the steering wheel as he gives directions, but she follows them nonetheless. He's already beginning to regret the invitation he extended, although it was probably the right thing to do. It's not his house ―perhaps isn't even Jimmy's house anymore― and it feels wrong, somehow, as though he's intruding on something sacred and taboo.
When they pull up in front of the house he feels his breath catch in his throat. Even Dean, who's been squirming for the past thirty minutes becomes abruptly still. It was right here, in this very spot, that Jimmy Novak allowed Castiel to use him as a vessel, the first but definitely not the last time. He fights the urge to close his eyes, to bolt from the car. He takes a deep breath, fumbles with the door handle, nearly takes a header into the pavement when his bad leg buckles under him.
Mike trots around the car. “Woah there. You better let me give you a hand,” he tucks a hand under Castiel's elbow, props him up. “You okay?”
Castiel nods. “I just need a minute. I'm a little stiff.”
Understatement. He can practically hear Dean's voice in his head, bites back a smile.
“Yeah, okay. This is the place then?”
“Yes. I have to get Dean.”
He hobbles around the car, Mike's grip firm on his elbow, and opens up the passenger-side door. He unhooks the seatbelt, and pulls Dean out of the seat, staggering a bit under his weight until they get themselves sorted out. He holds the boy on his hip, wavering a bit. Mike helpfully pulls the bags from the trunk and trots to the veranda with them, dropping them at the top of the steps.
The house has not weathered the years well, obviously abandoned for months, if not longer. A fading 'For Sale' sign has fallen over on the lawn and is partially covered in dirt and leaves, the yellowing grass well beyond the point of merely needing to be mowed. Most of the first-floor windows have been boarded up, and the paint is peeling from the clapboard facade and the veranda floor. Castiel finds himself stretching out a hand to scratch at a paint flake on the closest post, places his palm against the wood instead, the grain rough against his skin.
“So, uh. Cas.” Mike rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Look. I, uh. You. I mean...”
Castiel takes pity on him. “You're going to keep going.”
Mike relaxes so fast that it looks like he's melting. “Yeah, man. Look, I'm sorry, but you, uh, you kind of make Winnie nervous. She won't explain it to me, but you really freaked her out with that whole 'Christo' business, whatever that was, and she's kind of superstitious... and who can blame her these days? I'm really sorry, but you know how it is, and...”
He holds up a hand. “It's fine. I understand. I'd be nervous if I was Winnie too,” he attempts a smile, but judging by Mike's expression it might be more of a grimace. “Thank you for the ride. You are very good people. Good Samaritans.”
Mike chuckles, but still looks embarrassed. “Hey, no sweat. I mean, we were coming here anyway, right?”
“Still. You didn't have to stop.”
He gets a snort. “What kind of people would we be, leaving a little kid stranded on the side of the road?”
Castiel manages a more genuine smile. “Like I said: good people.”
Mike claps him on the shoulder. “You okay from here?”
“I'll manage. If you're ever in the area of Meridian, Idaho, look me up. The name is Cas.”
“Sure thing, Cas. For what it's worth, I think you're a good guy, even if Winnie thinks you're cursed, or whatever. You take care.”
And with that Mike trots back down the front walk, dead leaves rustling under his feet, slides back into the passenger seat. The car takes off, and neither of its occupants look back.
*~*
The house is musty when Castiel ushers Dean inside. He easily located the spare key where Jimmy and Amelia kept it hidden underneath a planter in the yard ―now filled with dead and dying weeds, and let them in without undue ceremony. The whole place has an empty, echoing feel to it, and a small cloud of dust rises when he drops their bags on the floor.
“It's not quite how I remember it,” he mutters.
Dean has already let go of his hand and is trotting away, craning his neck to get a better look at everything, running small fingers along the wall and leaving black smudges in his wake. Castiel bites his tongue, clamps down hard on the sudden irrational urge to call him back, to keep him away from the dusty remains of a long-vanished family. He doesn't even know if Claire and Amelia are still alive, where they might be if they are, Jimmy's pained You promised, Cas! echoing in his mind again, the way it used to before the end. Over and over, the reproach eating at him.
Castiel follows Dean into the kitchen, which looks untouched. He's not sure why he was expecting the place to have been ransacked by vandals or looters, but apart from the broken windows in the front ―which might be from storms for all he knows― everything is as it was, though liberally coated with dust. He runs a finger along the formica counter, and suddenly Jimmy's memories come flooding back. He can hear Amelia making plans to replace it with granite, or even marble one day if they can swing it: selling ad space isn't all that lucrative, she's saying in Jimmy's mind, her expression speculative, but they aren't hurting for money, either, and she has visions of a new kitchen in which she could try her hand at making homemade candy.
Castiel does his best to shake off the voice of Jimmy's ghost. Dean is looking at the refrigerator, reaching up with questing fingers to play with the ladybug-shaped magnets there. There's a family portrait, taken about eight months before Jimmy Novak said 'yes,' that has slid halfway down the door of the fridge, and Dean tugs on it, pulls it down to look at it. He glances up, hazel eyes narrowing, as though he's assessing Castiel, comparing him to the familiar-yet-different features of Jimmy, smiling at the camera, one arm wrapped around Amelia's shoulders, his left hand resting on Claire's shoulder, wedding ring polished and bright. They all look happy, smiling and relaxed, and Castiel knows that Amelia had started talking about perhaps trying for another baby, now that Claire was older.
“That's Jimmy,” he tells Dean. “You remember him, right? You met him... a long time ago.”
Dean doesn't answer, but holds the photograph carefully in both hands, taking care not to smudge or crumple it. After a moment he hands it over, clearly expecting Castiel to put it back. Castiel plucks a magnet from the fridge and sets it where he remembers it belonging, next to what looks like Claire's last report card. It's mostly A's, a couple of B's, and a gold star from her teacher along with a note written in that curling cursive script that all elementary school teachers seem to have. He's not sure how he knows that, thinks it's probably one of Jimmy's opinions rather than actual fact. He looks down to see Dean staring up at him intently.
“What is it?”
Dean points to the picture.
“That's Amelia and Claire, Jimmy's wife and daughter.”
Dean huffs impatiently, shakes his head.
“That's not what you were asking. Do you remember them?”
A nod, and another questioning look.
“You want to know where they are?”
Dean nods, puts his knuckle in his mouth to suck on it, and without thinking Castiel reaches out and pulls it away, a little more roughly than he intended. Instantly he feels terrible, the stricken look on Dean's face ―eyes suddenly brimming with unshed tears― it's like a stab to the gut.
“I'm sorry, Deano. It's just that your hands are filthy. How about we go see if there's anything like running water left in this house? Then we can wash your hands and you can put your entire fist in your mouth if you want. How does that sound?” he tries for a light-hearted tone, but Dean has his bottom lip trapped in his teeth, and Castiel is pretty sure that he's about to be treated to his very first bout of honest-to-goodness tears. He lowers himself stiffly to one knee, biting back a curse as the movement sends pain lancing through his leg, pulling at the edges of his wound.
“Come on, don't cry,” he brushes the first tear away with his thumb, and somehow manages to feel even worse when Dean swallows very hard and makes an obvious effort to hold back his tears. “I'm sorry, okay?”
He gets a nod and a quiet hiccup, decides that's probably as close to forgiveness as he's going to get. He uses the counter to pull himself to his feet, and on impulse he twists the taps in the sink. To his surprise, he hears the pipes shudder and clang, and a moment later a stream of rusty water pours from the faucet, spattering the sink with brown droplets, before running clear. Castiel throws his head back, feels a jubilant laugh bubble up from somewhere inside his chest.
“Would you look at that? I guess there's life left in this house after all.”
*~*
He runs a bath for Dean once he's managed to get them both up the stairs. He's kind of amazed that there's hot water at all, can't really remember what kind of hot water heater Jimmy had. It wasn't the kind of thing Jimmy was often given to considering. He bends over to strip Dean of his clothes, only to have Dean squirm away from him.
“Dean. Hold still.”
Dean shakes his head, pulls back, yanks insistently on his sleeve instead.
“What?” It comes out a little more impatiently than he intended, but he's cold, he's tired, his leg hurts, and he just damned well wants to get them both clean and fed and put the last twenty-four hours behind them.
Dean lets go of his sleeve, drops his hand and puts it carefully on Castiel's knee, looks at his leg then back up, his face screwed up with worry, and suddenly Castiel understands.
“Are you worried about my leg?” A nod. He rubs a hand over his eyes. “Okay. You don't need to worry about that. You let me deal with it, all right?” Dean shakes his head, and Castiel recognizes the stubborn set to his jaw. “You're not going to let this go, are you?” Another headshake, and Castiel scratches the back of his neck, sighs. “Dean, I can't... I need to make sure you're taken care of first, do you understand? Just do it for me.”
Dean huffs a sigh, then rolls his eyes and lifts up his arms so Castiel can pull his shirt over his head, and submits pliantly enough when Castiel strips the rest of his clothes off and lifts him into the tub. He squirms as Castiel rubs him downs with a washcloth, giggles when Castiel sticks a washcloth-covered finger in his ear and wriggles it, and splashes water at him when Castiel washes his hair.
“Hey!” Castiel sputters, then laughs. “I can't figure you out,” he says after a moment, scrubbing the dirt from the boy's back. “One minute you're four years old, and the next you're acting as though you're exactly as you were... well, before.” He looks down, trying to find any sign at all of the Dean he knows in the wide hazel eyes, but then he's never been especially good at reading Dean's expressions.
“All right, I think that's as clean as you're going to get.” He lifts Dean out of the tub, wraps him in a big blue towel he pulled from the linen closet. It's clean enough, once he's beaten most of the dust off the one side that wasn't protected from being folded, and tucks it clean-side in around Dean's shoulders, rubbing him down until he's sure he's dry. “Okay. We need to find you pajamas.”
He carries Dean down the hall, covers up his moment of hesitation before opening the door to Claire's bedroom, her name still carefully printed on the wooden star hung on the door. He settles Dean on the bed, still swaddled in his towel, bare feet just sticking out under the folds. The boy makes an unmistakable grimace of disgust when Castiel pulls out some of Claire's old pajamas from a drawer.
“What, does the pink offend you?” Castiel quirks a smile, bites his lip as he runs a careful finger over the rhinestone stars on a nightgown, swallows the sudden sob that threatens to rip through him. Claire wasn't even his child, he reminds himself sternly, although he knew her more intimately than even Jimmy did. The bond between angel and vessel is nothing like the one between parent and child, and yet... He finds a pair of green footie pajamas with a teddy bear on the front, outgrown by Claire and buried at the bottom of the drawer years ago. Dean's nose has managed to start running again in the five minutes it's been since Castiel got him clean. He pulls out one of the cloths he's been using as makeshift handkerchiefs and wipes the boy's nose, ignoring his offended squirming.
“You hungry?”
Dean shrugs, then looks meaningfully at his leg. Castiel just rolls his eyes and tugs the pajama pants up over his hips, threads his arms into the sleeves, and does up the zipper. “All set. You want to lie down for a few minutes while I get cleaned up?”
Dean nods, crawls up onto the bed, and Castiel turns back the quilt so he doesn't get covered in dust. He pats Dean's arm, murmurs an order to stay put, and goes to run the shower. He keeps the water lukewarm, bordering on cold ―he doesn't know whether the hot water will last, and he wants to save some for the morning― but the shower still feels heavenly on his aching muscles. The water stings as it hits his shoulder and runs down his leg, and he ends up having to sit under the spray when he tries to wash the worst of the dirt from his leg, biting the inside of his cheeks against the pain.
He switches off the shower and sits on the toilet lid, foot propped against the lip of the tub, the Novak's first aid kit on the counter next to him. It's harder than he thought to deal with the injury: for one thing, he's at an awkward angle, and for another he keeps having to stop when the pain intensifies. He's beginning to develop a whole new appreciation for Sam Winchester's ability to stitch up his own wounds, often one-handed. He looks at the clothes he's left lying on the floor, filthy and covered in blood, both human and whatever passes for it in vampires, and feels his gorge rise. He resolves to burn the clothing in the morning, unwilling even to try to salvage it. He'll use some of Jimmy's clothes ―at least he's sure those will fit.
He's not hungry, even after spending most of the day without eating so much as a bite, but he tells himself he should probably try to make something for Dean. There's even cutlery in the kitchen drawers. When he goes to fetch the boy, though, he finds him curled up on the bed, the knuckles of his right hand in his mouth, left arm around the stuffed rabbit Claire always kept on her bed. It doesn't even occur to Castiel to try to wake him for food. Instead he tucks the blankets up tightly around Dean's chin, watches him for a moment, the even rise and fall of his chest, then on an impulse he doesn't entirely understand leans over him and brushes his lips in a gentle kiss to his forehead.
*~*
It's still dark when Castiel awakens, twisted on himself in the armchair in the Novak's living room. He doesn't remember falling asleep, just wanting to sit down and rest for a moment. He scrubs at his eyes, stretches the kinks out of his back, and is pleased to discover that the fierce burn in his leg has eased. It still hurts, but it's a distant ache under the bandage, and he thinks he may have escaped infection after all, in spite of everything.
He should go to bed, but he can't bring himself to sleep in Jimmy's old bed, the one he shared with his wife. The one in which Claire was conceived, the one blessed by their union. It feels wrong, like a betrayal. Even the thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, makes his skin feel a little too tight. Instead he pulls back the dust-covered sheet that was draped over the living room sofa and lies back, staring at the ceiling until exhaustion claims him again.
In the morning he awakens to Dean patting his face insistently. He sits up with a groan, scrubs a hand over what feels like much more than a day's stubble. It's barely light out. “Sleep well?” he manages. He doesn't think he's much of a morning person.
Dean grins at him, baring pearly little baby teeth in a smile that in another twenty years will have women throwing themselves at him. The boy follows him to the kitchen in clear hopes of breakfast, padding along in his footed pajamas, the fabric whispering quietly against the floor. Castiel manages to cobble together a makeshift breakfast of more spam and canned pears, while Dean sits on a high stool, elbows on the island in the centre of the kitchen, feet kicking at the rungs.
After breakfast Castiel takes them to the community centre, little more than a small office building that's been emptied out and then filled again with long trestle tables and white boards filled with lists and names and what appear to be projects. He catches sight of Mike and Winnie, but their half-hearted acknowledgment of him is a clear enough signal, and he steers clear of them, Dean trailing behind him, knuckle stuck firmly in his mouth. Castiel has dim recollections that it's not good for small children to suck their fingers ―something about their teeth growing crooked― but he also remembers much more vividly the expression on Dean's face when he tried to stop him from doing it the night before, and he's not sure he can stomach the consequences. He puts out a hand to attract the attention of an older woman who acts as though she might be in charge of the place, or at least know what's going on.
“Excuse me,” he starts. She turns, startled, and he has to resist the impulse to apologize for even existing. “Uh, I... it's just. I mean, I used to live ―I used to know people who lived here. Before, that is, and I was hoping to find out what happened to them. Do you know if anyone has kept track of that sort of thing?” He doesn't know when he began fumbling his words. When he was an angel, his diction was impeccable, his choice of words always exact. He's never had to search for what he wanted to say, the way humans do.
She nods. “There's a list. It's not complete, but people add to it when they can. It's in the back room,” she motions with one hand. “Just go straight down that hall, you can't miss it.”
“Thank you,” he takes Dean's free hand and all but pulls him along behind him.
He stops short when he arrives in the back room, feels his mouth drop open. He had imagined a list of several pages, perhaps pinned to a cork board, but it's nothing of the kind. The names of the dead and presumed dead have been carefully printed on brown paper pasted to the walls. Everywhere he looks there are columns of names, written in letters half the size of his thumbnail, lined up in neat rows as far as the eye can see, so many that after a moment they seem to blur together. He clutches the door frame, no longer certain that his legs can support him.
Dean wriggles past him, sucking on his finger, and places his palm on the list, eyes wide. Castiel forces himself to take a deep breath, and, reaching up, places his index finger next to the first name, and begins to read. It takes the better part of twenty minutes, but eventually his finger finds what he was both expecting and dreading.
Novak, Amelia 1972-2010
Novak, Claire 2002-2010
He pulls his hand away from the wall, presses it against his mouth, can't stifle the sob that rips through him, threatens to tear him apart from the inside out. For the second time he staggers, and before his knees give way he lets himself slide down against the wall, the weight of the names behind him propping him up. Another sob wells up in his chest, and a third, and he curls in on himself, shaking. He barely feels Dean's hand on his knee, but he straightens a bit when Dean burrows insistently under his arm and wraps small arms around his chest.
“They're gone,” he chokes. “I promised him, and they're gone. Oh, God.”
*~*
He doesn't know how much time passes. Dean climbs into his lap and stays there, head resting against his chest, maybe listening to his heartbeat, both fists bunched in Castiel's shirt, and Castiel is almost ashamed at the comfort it brings him. Dean coughs, and it sounds deeper than the quick, dry cough he had the day before. Castiel rouses himself, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, then presses a hand to the boy's forehead.
“Hey, you sick?” his voice comes out as a croak. “I bet if you could talk, you'd sound like me.” He strokes Dean's head, isn't sure whether he feels any warmer than before. “Dean?”
Dean coughs again, and against all odds tries to burrow further into Castiel's ribcage. He rubs Dean's arm. “You want to head back? Maybe have a nap?” He can't tell if the movement he feels is a nod or a head shake, but he decides to take it as acquiescence. “Okay. I'm going to see if there's medication to be found around here. I don't like the sound of that cough.”
It turns out that cough medication isn't to be had for free anywhere in the country anymore, or at least not in Pontiac. He has nothing in his meagre belongings worth bartering, but after a few minutes of intense negotiation with a man who appears to be wearing more grease than clothing, he finds himself agreeing to help prepare a meal for what sounds like several dozen people in the morning in exchange for a small bottle of the stuff. He sends a mental 'thank you' to Charlie for teaching him how not to ruin eggs, and gathers Dean into his arms.
“Ready to go?”
Dean just leans his head against his collarbone, and not for the first time Castiel feels a bit breathless at the apparently unwavering faith this child has in him, as though Castiel is the only thing standing between him and the world.
“I suppose I am,” he murmurs, then feels his mouth quirk when Dean pulls back to look at him. “Never mind. It's not important.”
He finds fresh sheets in the linen closet and makes up Claire's bed. He rescues the stuffed rabbit from where it nearly got smothered by a pillow, and hands it back to Dean. Dean is definitely sick, he thinks, feeling as though some small creature has taken up residence in his stomach in a wild fluttering of fragile wings. The boy's cheeks are flushed, but the rest of his face is pale, dark smudges under his eyes, and Castiel wants to kick himself for not noticing before, for dragging the poor kid behind him all morning while he indulged in his guilt.
Dean wriggles determinedly off the bed when Castiel tries to get him to take a nap. He might be sick, but he's obviously not sick enough simply to go to sleep until he's feeling better. He glares at Castiel at the merest suggestion that he ought to lie down, and Castiel rubs the back of his neck, at a loss.
“You never wanted to rest when you were fully-grown, either,” he comments, resigning himself to the notion that Dean at four years old might be even more stubborn than at thirty-one, something he wouldn't have thought possible up until now.
He doesn't know the first thing about sick children. He has a few of Jimmy's memories of Claire being sick, but it appears Amelia was the one to spend more time with the child during those times, with a few notable exceptions. Well, if the child won't sleep, he reasons, then they need to find something else to keep him occupied. He scans the room, sees a stack of boxes on a low shelf containing what appear to be jigsaw puzzles. He squats and sorts through the boxes, finds one featuring a zoo scene, and pulls it out.
“How about this? It has monkeys,” he offers, picking up the wooden board that Claire used as a flat surface for her puzzles and settling cross-legged on the floor. Dean stares dubiously at him, sucking on his knuckle, apparently oblivious to the fact that his nose is running again. Castiel shrugs. “Suit yourself. I'm going to put this together. You can help me, if you want.”
He pulls the lid off the box, and begins sorting through the pieces. Dean watches from the other side of the room, expression doubtful, coughing quietly every so often. After a few moments he edges closer, plops down on the floor next to him, watching intently. Then, slowly, he reaches out and plucks a jigsaw piece from the box, keeping a wary eye on Castiel out of the corner of his eye, as though he might change his mind and confiscate the entire thing. Castiel gets the feeling that, the last time Dean was a child, there wasn't much time for jigsaw puzzles.
“You have an edge piece there. It's green, so that means it's part of that tree in the picture,” Castiel says, and Dean gives him a flat look. “All right, all right. You can do it entirely by yourself if you want. I'll just work on the zookeeper over here, then.”
Dean doesn't answer, just bends over the puzzle with a look of intense concentration, and slowly begins fitting the pieces back together.
*~*
The puzzle comes together slowly, but once they've been working on it for a while, it becomes obvious to Castiel that there are pieces missing, that it will never be complete again. He thinks it might be in the nature of puzzles to lose pieces of themselves that can never be regained. It might be a metaphor for something, but he can't bring himself to care. Dean is listing against him, eyelids drooping, and his coughing has increased in frequency in the last few minutes. Castiel makes him swallow a spoonful of the cough medicine, trying not to laugh at the disgusted face he makes, then carefully cuts an aspirin in half and makes him swallow it in an attempt to bring down the fever that's still making his face flush.
“I know you don't care for the taste, but it will make you feel better. Trust me.”
Dean makes another face, and wriggles away when Castiel tries once again to put him to bed. This time, Castiel puts down his foot. “No, there's no negotiating this one. You are taking a nap. Even if it means just lying down quietly. You don't have to sleep if you don't want to.”
Dean's lower lip juts out, and for a moment Castiel thinks he's going to have a fight on his hands, but it seems as though the boy might be feeling sicker than he's been letting on ―another thing that hasn't changed much. He accepts the stuffed bunny Castiel hands to him, holding it to his chest with his forearm, allows himself to be coaxed under the sheets, and Castiel wonders just how long he's been feeling sick and never let on.
“I'm so sorry,” he murmurs, once Dean is tucked up in the bed again, watching him with fever-bright eyes. “I should have noticed earlier that you were sick.” Predictably enough Dean doesn't answer, and he sighs. “Try to sleep, okay? I'll... make soup. If I can.” Dean settles, but keeps his eyes open, watches him as he leaves.
He rummages in the kitchen cabinets, finds the pantry, and locates several cans of soup, along with a box of instant rice, remembers Sam saying something about Dean making tomato rice soup when they were sick as children. He hasn't tried his hand at rice yet, but the instructions are clearly marked on the label, and although he does scorch the first batch after forgetting it on the lit burner, he manages the second batch well enough, and scrapes the rice into the tomato soup, stirring it until it's thoroughly blended and steaming. He pours it into a mug, reasoning that it will be easier to consume in this fashion rather than risking a spill on the bed. Dean is drowsy but still awake when he brings the mug upstairs, set on a small tray since Castiel doesn't quite trust his balance on his still-injured leg. He puts the tray down on the foot of the bed, sits next to Dean.
“I brought soup. I believe you are partial to tomato rice?”
Dean nods sleepily and sits up. His hands are a little small for the mug, and so Castiel puts a hand underneath it to help him hold it steady, cautions him to blow on the soup to cool it before drinking. Dean takes a couple of noisy sips until Castiel tilts the mug for him, then manages to drink about half of it before pulling away, nearly dropping the mug and the soup in the process. Castiel grabs the mug before Dean scalds himself, and puts it aside, tucking him back under the covers. Soup can be re-heated. He looks down, realizes that Dean is watching him, his eyes anxious under heavy lids. He smooths the hair from his forehead.
“Don't worry,” he says, unsure what might be going through the boy's mind. “Everything's going to be fine.”
Dean blinks, then appears to accept the verdict, his fist held close to his mouth but not quite in it, resting on top the rabbit's head. He's still watching Castiel, though, his eyes tracking his every movement, obviously fighting to stay awake. Castiel suddenly remembers Dean being awake early that morning, remembers that he didn't check to see that he was well and truly asleep the night before, and his gut twists when it all starts to make sense. He sits on the bed, strokes Dean's hair.
“It's safe to sleep here. I won't let anything happen to you.”
Try as he might, though, Dean is still fighting sleep with every ounce of strength in his body. “Dean, are you still having bad dreams?” There's no answer. “Would you like to take a nap with me, then?” He gets a tired nod. “All right, then. But you have to promise to sleep.”
Gently he nudges Dean over a bit, stretches out next to him on Claire's small bed, his feet hanging off the end of the bed until he draws up his knees a bit. He wraps an arm over the boy's tiny frame, draws him close, a hand splayed over the small chest. He can feel Dean's heartbeat flutter beneath his palm, then gradually slow, his breathing evening out into sleep. For a long time he stays absolutely still, listening to each breath in the quiet of the room, and wonders if, after all, he might not find a measure of peace, here.
*~*
His peace of mind is short-lived. By the time night falls Dean is well and truly ill, his fever climbing steadily, and he's coughing almost constantly, in spite of Castiel's giving him the maximum dosage of the cough medicine. The cough turns nasty, wet and hacking, and near midnight it begins to sound like... well, like nothing Castiel has ever heard before. The nearest approximation he can think of is a bark, like a dog, or perhaps a seal. He's never felt as helpless in his entire existence, not even when the world nearly ended.
Dean clings to him like a limpet, or perhaps more accurately like a very small octopus with an insufficient amount of limbs, and won't let go even long enough for Castiel to fetch water or medication. Castiel concedes defeat, wraps a flannel dressing gown that used to belong to Jimmy around him, and simply carries him whenever he needs to move. It seems a simple enough solution, and it keeps Dean reasonably content, even if it's not particularly restful for either of them. He coaxes the remainder of the soup into the boy, gives him another dose of the cough syrup and aspirin, and holds him in his lap while he coughs, stroking his head because he can't think of anything else to do, waiting for him to fall asleep again.
In the morning Dean seems a little better, the cough easing a bit, but he's still listless and mildly feverish, and definitely cranky. He fights Castiel on everything, from the medicine to the idea that he should brush his teeth or even have breakfast, and after less than two hours Castiel is at his wits' end, trying to clamp down on the impulse to shake Dean until he does what he's told. Intellectually he knows that the boy is sick, frightened, and very very young; that he doesn't entirely understand what's happening. But it's hard to remember that the fourth time Dean twists away at the last moment and nearly spills the cough syrup on the bedspread.
“Dean, come on!” he snaps, and is rewarded with instant tears. Dean is obviously trying to hold them back, with no success whatsoever, and hiccups miserably. Castiel feels his shoulders sag. “Aw, Deano, don't cry. Come here,” he pulls him into his lap and presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Come on, now, I didn't mean it like that,” he murmurs.
That's apparently enough to destroy what little self-control Dean had left, and he twists around and sobs brokenheartedly into Castiel's shirt, stopping only when he starts coughing too hard to keep crying. Castiel scoops him up, carries him to the bathroom and sits him on the toilet, wipes at his face with a wet facecloth as Dean hiccups and coughs, wiping away the worst of the tears and snot, trying to gauge just how bad the coughing is. The fit does pass, much to his relief, and he rinses the facecloth and washes Dean's face again, until it's pink and shining.
“You want to give that medicine another try?” he asks gently, and this time he gets a reluctant nod, Dean's eyes fixed on the floor. He chucks him under the chin. “Hey, I'm not mad. I just want you to get better. You want that too, right?”
Another nod, and this time Dean opens his mouth and swallows the medicine without fuss or complaint, and allows Castiel to carry him back to bed, where he resumes his tenacious arthropod act. There's no question of going out again ―although he feels a bit guilty at defaulting on his promise to help cook that meal― but it's clear that Dean is too sick to go out, and to leave him alone here is unthinkable. He looks down at the boy, who is stubbornly refusing even to try to sleep, and decides to try a different tactic.
“Would you like me to read you a story? There are books in here. We could read one of those.”
Dean thinks about it for a moment, then nods and puts his knuckle back in his mouth to suck on as Castiel gets up to peruse Claire's bookshelves. His gaze lights upon a small yellow book with a rabbit on the cover, and he's suddenly flooded with memories of Jimmy curled up on the bed next to Claire, reading to her from it. He plucks the book from the shelf, comes back to settle next to Dean, letting him lean against him, and pulls the blanket up over them both.
“Here was once a velveteen rabbit,” he starts, “and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen.”
Dean looks up, scrunching up his nose, and Castiel explains. “It was Claire's favourite book. I think you'll like it.”
Dean lets his head fall back against Castiel's ribcage, which Castiel takes as agreement. He keeps reading for a while, until he feels his voice starting to give way. He tells himself it's because he's not used to reading aloud, keeps going.
“'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.'”
He looks down, sees that Dean has fallen asleep, the stuffed rabbit under his arm. He settles back to wait, and closes his eyes when he feels them unaccountably begin to burn.
*~*
By the time night rolls around again, all of Castiel's hopes that Dean might be on the mend are dashed. The cough is back in full force, the fever so high that Dean just clings to him and whimpers between bouts of coughing. Castiel seems to remember that small children are prone to high fevers, but it's the barking cough that worries him the most, accompanied now by a raspy, wheezing sound when Dean inhales. As far as Castiel knows, there are no functioning hospitals anymore. There's no one to call, no way to figure out what might be wrong with him ―which is clearly more than just a simple cold― and he is, once again, entirely out of his depth. It's becoming commonplace, he reflects bitterly.
After a while he remembers that Amelia kept some sort of medical encyclopedia in the house. Sam would probably recommend he research Dean's symptoms, and if he can find the book it would go a long way to at least tell him what he's dealing with. He extricates himself from Dean's grasp with whispered promises to come right back, that he's not going far, and hardens his heart when Dean looks as though he's kicked him repeatedly. He goes through the few bookshelves in the living room until he finds a thick hardcover book titled the “A-Z Family Medical Encyclopedia,” which must be what he was thinking of. He brings the book upstairs with him along with a mug of re-heated soup which Dean refuses, and spends the next half hour carefully researching all of the symptoms he's witnessed. Finally he shuts the book, speaks softly to Dean so he won't startle him.
“Okay, Deano. We're going to try something that's hopefully going to make you feel better, okay?”
He keeps Dean wrapped in a blanket and carries him to the bathroom, limp and unresisting in his arms, although the boy is still awake and reasonably alert. He seats him on the mat by the tub, hurries back to the bedroom to fetch some pillows and another blanket, and when he comes back he sets about making him as comfortable as possible.
“We're going to pretend it's like a nest,” he says as seriously as he can manage. “You're going to be like a bird in... a tropical rainforest.”
He thinks he's babbling, a bit like Dean and Sam used to do when they were nervous. He reaches past Dean and switches on the shower, hot water only, drawing the curtain back so the spray doesn't hit them, and sits back while steam slowly begins to fill the room, wiping Dean's face with a cold washcloth to try to keep the fever at bay, at least a little bit. Soon he's sweltering, sweat running down his neck, and Dean's face is flushed bright red, but he's no longer coughing as badly, and the awful rasping noise he was making has ceased completely, and by now Castiel is willing to take any sign of improvement at all.
He keeps Dean in the steam-filled bathroom for as long as either of them can stand before carrying him back to bed, and Dean drops off to sleep almost immediately, wrapped around Castiel's midriff. The bed isn't really made for someone of Castiel's height and build, and his thoughts are turning too quickly in his head to afford him much rest, but he finds that he's not as disturbed by the idea of staying awake as he might be. Before, when he was still an angel, he had no need for sleep at all, and he likes the thought that, now, he can still hold vigil over Dean while he sleeps, and keep the worst of the nightmares at bay.
Sometime in the wee hours of the morning the fever breaks, and once daylight begins trickling through the bedroom window, he's almost certain that Dean is now through the worst of the illness. His breathing is steady and unlaboured, his colour good, no longer the hectic flush of fever or the unhealthy pallor of the day before. He blinks sleepily when Castiel presses a hand to his forehead to confirm his diagnosis, and offers up a tentative smile. Castiel smiles back.
“Good morning. I see you are recovering. That's very good. Are you hungry?” Dean nods, his smile widening. “All right, then. We'll have breakfast, and then you can have a bath. It will make you feel better after being sick all night.”
Dean doesn't say anything, but he gets up on his own, the stuffed rabbit tucked under his arm, and pads down the stairs. If nothing else, the fact that he's no longer clinging to Castiel like a piece of Velcro is a very encouraging sign. Castiel follows him down the stairs, mentally reviewing their food stores. Tomorrow he'll go back to the community centre, once he's certain Dean is completely recovered, in order to fulfil his obligation to the man who sold him the cough medicine, first, and second to see about restocking their supplies, perhaps with something a little more palatable than canned fruit and spam. Dean waits for him at the bottom of the stairs, bares his teeth in a grin.
“What are you so happy about?”
Dean just shrugs, keeps grinning, and at least for now Castiel can't bring himself to resent any of it.
*~*
Part 4: The Individual Language of God