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(September)
They’ve been back from Maui for three days when Castiel realizes Dean is sick. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking cups of coffee and smiling coyly at each other. It’s Saturday, just two more days before they have to pop their cozy honeymoon bubble and actually go to their jobs. Castiel has a quiche in the oven, and it smells absolutely delicious, if he’s being honest and ignoring the urge for modesty within his own thoughts. Dean is rubbing circles against Castiel’s ankle with his big toe, a comforting reminder of his presence. The oven timer goes off, and Dean sneezes.
Castiel smiles, rising to turn off the timer. “Was that a coincidence, or are you trained to do that?”
Dean rubs his nose absently with the back of his forearm. “I’ve got all kinds of secret tricks, just wait.”
“Mhmm,” Castiel hums, putting on his brand new oven mitts so he can retrieve his quiche. The oven mitts are yellow, patterned in inorganic black lines and little white daisies. They’re hideous, but they’re a wedding gift, so Castiel feels obligated to use them. Same with the pie plate Castiel is using for his quiche, the placemats on their table, their coffee mugs, their coffee maker, and many, many other things. They spent Thursday opening gifts, and Castiel is determined to make use of all of them, even the tie rack his cousin Thaddeus sent. It’s holding the five ties Dean and Castiel collectively own and looks ridiculous in their bedroom, but he’s making use.
Dean takes out two forks from their ridiculous eighty-five piece flatware set. They couldn’t even fit all of it in their drawer, some of it’s in the hall closet.
“I feel like I’m not fancy enough to be eating with these,” he says, holding up one of the forks. There’s a slight floral design on the handle, but they’re not too ornate.
“You’ll get used to it, these are much better than the ones we had, anyway,” Castiel assures him as he serves their quiche. He puts one serving on his plate, two servings on Dean’s plate, then he shrugs and gives himself a second helping as well.
“Okay but who needs a better fork? I mean are these better at being forks then the ones we got at Target after we moved in?”
“How can they be better at being forks?”
“That’s my point, Cas,” Dean says smugly.
Castiel puts one of Dean’s servings back on the pie plate in retaliation. Dean steals Castiel’s plate instead and sits down at the kitchen table.
“I meant they’re nicer to look at.”
“I ain’t my mom, I don’t need nice looking forks.”
“Well, tough. You have them anyway,” Castiel says, sitting down with what is now his plate. He’s given himself an even larger serving than Dean, and he smirks when Dean notices and pouts.
Dean’s halfway into his second piece when he sneezes again. His nostrils flex a few times, but after that he seems fine.
*
Two hours later, Dean’s voice sounds a little off. He’s on the couch, pawing through Castiel’s many recipe books as he often does when he gets bored. Dean sometimes just likes looking at pictures of food, but often this activity ends with Dean getting hungry and Castiel being asked to cook something. He’s reading out the names of dishes that look appealing to him, and Castiel notes that his voice is a bit hoarse.
“Are you coming down with something?”
“What?” Dean says, looking up from the book in his lap. “No, why?”
“Your voice is sounding a bit rough.”
Dean shrugs. “Probably just a little thirsty.” He holds up the book, showing Castiel the photo and recipe for Baked Alaska and grinning.
Castiel rolls his eyes. “You just ate.”
“I got plenty of room.”
“Pick something easier.”
“Cool,” Dean says, eagerly flipping through the book.
*
By the time Castiel has finished making the brownies Dean chose, Dean has vacated the living room. Castiel looks out the window, checks the empty bathroom, then peeks his head in their bedroom. Dean is on their bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“Are you alright?” Castiel says, frowning.
“Just feeling a little sluggish,” Dean says. “I think two weeks without work is wearing on me.”
Castiel fails to see how less work would make one tired, but he supposes Dean knows his body better than Castiel does.
*
Dean eats maybe four bites of his Fettuccine Alfredo at dinner before he starts poking at his plate with his fork.
“Okay,” Castiel says impatiently, “clearly you’re coming down with something.” He’s never seen Dean get sick before, but everyone gets sick eventually, and they were just on an airplane a few days ago.
Dean glares. “No I’m not.”
“You’re not eating!”
“I just had brownies!”
“You had one brownie six hours ago. Let me feel your forehead,” Castiel says, leaning across the table. Dean jerks back.
“I’m fine,” he insists. “I don’t get sick.” He does what seems like a blink, but lasts far too long.
Oh, dear God in heaven, Dean is one of those men. Castiel has gone and married one of those men. Crowley was like this, and it was insufferable. Then again, Castiel didn’t love Crowley. Castiel loves Dean with all his heart, surely he can endure this stubbornness.
“Dean, you’re fatigued, your voice is hoarse, your generally generous appetite has diminished…”
“It’s a lazy Saturday thing! I’m fine, I can eat!” Dean starts shovelling pasta into his mouth.
“If you’re sick, eating things like quiche and creamy pasta can thicken your mucus,” Castiel says.
Dean chews vigorously, glaring at Castiel. “Okay first of all, can you not talk about mucus at the dinner table? Second of all, that’s a great tip and I’ll remember that if I ever get sick, which I’m not.”
Castiel drums his fingers against the tabletop. “Right, of course.”
*
When Castiel wakes up the next morning, Dean is leaning against the headboard and playing Angry Birds on his phone. He has tissues stuffed in both his nostrils.
“Good morning,” Castiel says, looking pointedly at Dean’s nose.
“Hey,” Dean grunts. His voice is even worse than it was yesterday. “Nose was running a bit, but I feel fine. Up early, playing some games, enjoying the last day off before work tomorrow.”
“I don’t think you should go to work tomorrow,” Castiel says, eyeing the pile of used tissues on the nightstand on Dean’s side of the bed. He wonders if he has any Lysol in the house or if he’ll have to go to the store.
“Why not?” Dean says, as though the answer is not obvious. Why he’s determined to deny that he is sick is completely beyond Castiel.
“Because you’re ill,” Castiel says slowly.
“I’m fine,” Dean says, then sneezes.
Castiel sighs. “I’m going to make some breakfast, I’ll bring you up some.”
*
Castiel comes back twenty minutes later, and the pile of tissues has tripled. He’s carrying tea, toast, and some diced fruit on a breakfast tray; another wedding gift. Dean looks at the modest breakfast, then back up at Castiel, the back at the food.
“That’s an ungrateful look if I ever saw one,” Castiel says, setting the tray across Dean’s lap.
“This is like… Sam food,” Dean says, pouting.
“You barely touched your dinner yesterday,” Castiel says, trying to summon reserves of patience that he rarely has early in the day.
“Yeah, but… tea?”
“This blend is supposed to be good for respiratory problems.”
“I don’t have respiratory problems,” Dean says, taking a deep breath for emphasis. He coughs lightly. “Coincidence.”
“Well, I did go through the trouble of making this,” Castiel tries.
Dean lets out a put-upon sigh. “Yeah, fine, I’ll eat it. Thanks, Cas.”
*
They’re sitting side by side on the couch, watching Stardust. Every ninety seconds or so, Dean sniffs. He still has his nostrils plugged up, he has a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom in his lap. Every few minutes he takes the snot-soaked toilet paper out of his nose and stuffs more up there, then drops the disgusting garbage on the newspaper sitting on the coffee table. Castiel wasn’t actually done with that newspaper, but he certainly is now.
Halfway through the movie, Dean pulls off his socks and rolls the legs of his sweatpants up to his calves.
“Warm in here,” he mutters.
Twenty minutes after that, Dean’s tugging his pant legs back down with his toes and pulling the afghan Anna crocheted as a wedding gift over himself.
“Cold,” he says.
By the end of the movie, Dean’s fallen asleep, mouth hanging open because his nose is blocked.
*
“Caaaaaaaaas.”
“Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas!!!”
Castiel is in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich when he hears Dean’s hoarse cries from the other room. He shuffles into the living room, eyebrows shooting up at what he sees. Dean’s sprawled on the couch, naked, sweating, staring up at him.
“I, uh… what can I do for you, Dean?” Castiel says, trying and failing to look Dean in the eye instead of in the crotch.
“Wanna do stuff?”
“Stuff like… take a cool shower and drink some Gatorade?”
Dean wiggles his hips. “Come on, you know you want it.”
“Dean,” Castiel says, kneeling next to his naked and obviously ill husband. “You are my light, my treasure, my first thought when I wake, my last thought before I fall asleep. But no, I don’t want it.”
“Come onnnnn,” Dean whines.
“Dean, you’re obviously sick, can we just—”
“Dude, I’m not sick. If I were sick, would I have this?” Dean gestures at his erection.
“People can still get aroused while sick, Dean.”
“I can’t believe you won’t have sex with me on our last day of honeymooning.”
“Dean, your skin is clammy, your face is flushed, your nose is a fountain, it just doesn’t feel like the right time for sex.”
“I’m fine, for fuck’s sake!”
Castiel rises to his feet and folds his arms, glaring down at his husband. “Alright, we can have sex.”
Dean grins. “Yeah?”
“If you admit you’re sick.”
Dean’s grin vanishes instantly. “That’s not fair.”
“Not everything in life is fair.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“You have a faulty understanding of what constitutes blackmail.”
“I’m not sick, Cas.”
Castiel goes back to the kitchen.
*
Castiel eats his sandwich, then calls Sam.
“Hey, Cas! How’s Ezekiel?” Even after getting two of his own cats, Sam remains very attached to Castiel’s. It annoys Dean, but Castiel thinks it’s sweet.
“She’s well, she’s sleeping on our dirty laundry. I’m calling about Dean.”
“Trouble in paradise already?”
“Yes,” Castiel groans emphatically.
Sam snickers. “How can I help?”
“You know Dean better than anyone, Sam, how can I get him to admit he’s caught some sort of cold or flu?” Sam bursts into a fit of laughter so loud Castiel has to hold the phone away from his ear. “That’s very helpful, thank you.”
Sam’s laughter dies down to a couple of wheezing giggles. “Sorry, it’s just… Dean has a cold?”
“He does. Or the flu. I think he might have caught it on the plane home.”
“Dean doesn’t get sick that often, but when he does it always knocks him on his ass, and he’s always totally fucking weird about it. He gets it from our dad. One time Dean had pneumonia and wouldn’t admit he was sick. It was ridiculous, it got so bad he had to go to the hospital to get antibiotics, and even then it was only because our mom made him.”
Castiel grimaces. “That doesn’t sound very promising.”
“Yeah, Dean is seriously a pain in the ass when he’s sick because he won’t admit it, so he won’t take care of himself. Tough love is the way to go.”
“Tough love.”
“Be assertive.”
“I can be assertive.”
“Don’t back down.”
“I can do that.”
“And if all else fails, sic Mom on him, I’m serious.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Good luck, Cas,” Sam says, snickering again as he ends the call.
Castiel sighs and goes to locate his husband.
*
After an evening of bickering, Dean and Castiel go to sleep and head to their respective jobs in the morning, following even more bickering. Ephraim and Hannah have taken care of the early prep as usual, and they’re extra excited to see Castiel and ask how his honeymoon went. Castiel tries to shake off the irritation of dealing with his beautiful, stubborn, and phlegmy husband in order to share stories and photos from their time in Maui.
It feels a bit odd to be back at work after two weeks, but Castiel gets back into the swing of things pretty easily. By noon he’s made two custom cakes that are lovely in his professional opinion, gotten an order for a large wedding in three weeks, and he’s only had to yell at Gabriel for monopolizing the business phone once since they opened. Not bad, for a Monday.
Then Gabriel comes into the back to tell Castiel he has a phone call.
“Hello?” Castiel grunts, cordless phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. He’s currently trying to scrub some incredibly burnt dough off the edge of one of his cupcake pans, and it refuses to come off.
“Hey, kid.” It’s Bobby, which is odd. Bobby never calls Castiel, and certainly never at work.
“Bobby?” Castiel sighs. “You’re calling about Dean, aren’t you.”
“You’ve gotta come get him, he’s gonna make us all sick. Just caught him coughing right by the damn fridge. The fridge, where my food is.”
“Can’t you just send him home?”
“He won’t leave. Cut me a break here, boy, I’m old.”
Bobby’s not that old, but Castiel supposes as his husband, Dean is his responsibility. “I’ll be there soon,” Castiel says reluctantly.
*
Castiel spends twenty minutes coaxing Ephraim into coming back in and covering for him, because Castiel is fairly certain he won’t be back today. He drives to the store to buy cold medication, flu medication, cough drops, Gatorade, saltines, tissues… anything that he thinks Dean has the faintest chance of needing, then he heads to Singer Repairs.
The first thing he hears when he steps into the front office is Dean, coughing and growling “I’m fine” at someone. Castiel sighs. Oh, he won’t go easy, will he.
“Dean,” Castiel says, not quite yelling, but loud enough for Dean to hear from the next room.
He hears Dean mutter “oh, fuck” before he comes out. He looks absolutely awful, far worse than when he left a few hours ago. He’s practically glowing with sweat, his nose is red, his lips are dry and flaky. Sam was right about illness taking Dean down hard.
“Who called you?” Dean asks.
“Who do you think?”
“Don’t listen to Bobby, man, I’m fine,” Dean groans.
“You look disgusting, we’re going home.”
“Cas, I just got back to work.”
“My reserves of patience are dwindling, Dean.” Castiel feels like an asshole, but… tough love.
“Cas,” Dean says, trying and failing to pull Sam’s trademark puppy eyes.
“Dean…” Castiel grimaces as Dean grabs the collar of his t-shirt and uses it to wipe his nose. “I mean this in the nicest way, no one wants you here.”
“You don’t know that,” Dean whines.
“No, he’s right,” Ash calls from the other room.
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean barks.
“Dean.”
“Cas.”
“Dean, you’re sick. You know that, I know that, Ash and Bobby know, and if Benny is in here somewhere he knows too. It’s time for you to accept that and come home so you can start recharging. All you’re doing is prolonging your illness and making yourself look like a macho asshole.”
Dean glares, arms crossed over his chest. His left nostril is leaking. “Look, I’m—”
“Nope. Nope. I’m leaving, and you’re coming with me.” Castiel turns and walks out of the building without stopping to see Dean’s reaction.
He tries not to smile at the sound of Dean’s reluctant footsteps behind him.
*
Back at the house, Dean is sprawled on his back, peering at Castiel with sleepy eyes while Castiel rubs Vapo Rub onto his chest. He looks pleased.
“This is nice.”
“The Vapo Rub?”
“No. Well, yeah that makes breathing hurt less, but I mean this. You. Taking care of me.”
“Isn’t this easier than trying to pretend you aren’t sick?”
Dean smiles. “Yeah. I guess I’ve always just… I don’t even know why I’m like that. It’s stupid.”
“Yes.”
“But this feels good. I feel safe, like everything’s gonna be okay soon and until it is I’ve got you looking out for me.”
“You do, beloved.” Castiel leans down to kiss Dean, who sneezes right in his face.