Chapter Text
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His original thought when he opens the usually-unlocked front door of his house, is to slip into the shower and get clean before he does anything else. It's Friday, which both means Dean's day to cook dinner and no work in the morning, and Castiel's body thrums with a pleased kind of tiredness – but all thoughts of this plan leave his mind the minute he steps into the house.
He doesn't have to step into the living room to know that something is very wrong. He smells it even in the hallway; a sickly sweet, wooden smell – mingled with the unmistakable smell of fresh vomit. Castiel barely takes off his shoes before he runs into the living room, but there he stops as if a paused video and just – just takes everything in.
Their couch, two years old, stained with yellow-green bile that steadily drips onto the soft carpet below. The shattered remains of Dean's old cellphone, in pieces, scattered across most of the room – as if it were thrown so hard it practically exploded when it hit the wall. There is even a phone-shaped dent in the wall at his right, Castiel dimly notices.
His favorite blanket, stained with sick and crumpled together, pulled over Dean's face and torso in the couch. Castiel can only see his legs; his usual jeans on, flecked and smelly like the rest of the living room, and with bare feet.
And on the table, an empty bottle of raspberry Sambuca. Castiel's stomach twists into a tight, painful knot.
Dean doesn't move when Castiel walks up to him; barely twitches when the blanket is removed. He looks... he looks terrible, Castiel notes with a dim feeling that resembles grief. His usually fresh face is pallid and sweaty, his closed eyes are rimmed wit red and salt from dried tears, and there are traces of puke on his cheek and in the corners of his mouth. He's not so much sleeping as unconscious, Castiel thinks, and bends down to make sure that his fiance is breathing like he should.
He is, luckily. Deep, gurgling breaths that puff the horrid stench directly into Castiel's nose, who gags a little despite himself. He reaches over to grasp Dean's shoulders, trying to fit a sick-free spot, and shakes him gently.
Dean's eyelashes don't even flutter.
A flare of frustration hits Castiel, like it does every now and then – a flare of why can't I just talk like everyone else – but he clamps down on it and shakes Dean harder. Dean's head lolls, but there is no reaction. However much and fast Dean drank this bottle (Dean drank a bottle of liquor, Dean drank) and expelled most of it again, there is obviously enough alcohol left in his system to keep him out for a while longer.
Standing up with a twinge in his back, Castiel contemplates texting Sam. But this is in the middle of the exam period, and even if Sam was not in class right now, it is Friday afternoon – a part of the week he generally spends asleep to get back some of the rest he has missed during the week. Besides – Castiel doesn't know if he can tell him before he knows why. Dean has not drunk a drop of alcohol in five years; something big, something awful, must have happened for him to fall off the wagon so swiftly and brutally. Castiel looks at the sad remains of Dean's phone, and wishes he could find out for himself. The knowledge that most likely, someone he knows is dead (because death has never been something Dean handles well, and four years of domestic life will not have changed that) tortures Castiel.
But first things first.
When he tries, and fails, to rouse Dean, in the end he is forced to drag the ex-hunter out of the couch and through the living room. He isn't strong enough to carry his fiance, not nearly strong enough, but he drags Dean through the room by his leg and makes sure that the Winchester's head doesn't bump into anything on the way. Castiel brings Dean to the bathroom; hoists him up and flips the sleeping man as gently as he can into the bathtub. Clutching the rails there, Castiel steps in with him, and starts taking the stained clothes off his man.
Dean groans once, low in his throat, but that is the only reaction Castiel's ministrations manage to get out of him. Castiel stuffs all the clothes in a heap behind Dean's head, so he is as comfortable as he can be, curled up in a bathtub. Lowering the shower head and pointing it towards the drain instead of the sleeping man, Castiel turns on the shower. He checks the water temperature with his other hand, making sure that it is neither too hot nor cold. Only when it's pleasantly lukewarm does he steer the shower head towards Dean's legs. He rinses off the remains of sick, Dean's legs twitching from the water, and by the time Castiel is cleaning up his torso, Dean is starting to regain consciousness.
“Gnnnh,” he manages, blinking one eye half-open and flinching at the harsh bathroom light. He tries to turn to his side, but he can't seem to be able to on his own; his hand scrabbles weakly against the porcelain and his legs twitch. “Nnnnuh, naaauus,” he gurgles. His tongue sounds big in his mouth, making all the vowels wrong and gravel-like, but Castiel thinks he might try to say that he is still nauseous.
Placing the shower head back, so there is a rain of water falling onto them both, he leans down and helps Dean move onto his side. Castiel lifts his fiance's head, cradling the skull beneath the soft, wet, sticky hair and tilts Dean's head down a fraction. Dean instantly retches again, his body convulsing with the effort; hacking and coughing. But it is a good thing, Castiel can see; all that comes out is a mostly-clear, smelly liquid, which means that there isn't much left that needs to come out. He mouths soothing words at Dean and strokes his hair, and the remains are soon washed away by the water. Dean groans quietly – a lost sound. One of his hands seek blindly in thin-air before Castiel entangles their fingers, but Dean doesn't relax. Instead he feels around Castiel's hand, almost desperately, and his body – even half out of it – is tense like he is in physical pain.
It takes a moment for Castiel to understand what the man is wordlessly trying to convey. Talk to me, Cas.
He is not angry; he doesn't feel like he has the right to be. Whatever made Dean pick up his old way of dealing with emotional loss, it must have been something absolutely terrible, and Castiel is sure Dean has reasons good enough. But his heart nearly breaks when Dean still feels around Castiel's fingers, desperate to see if the fallen angel will speak to him. Dean cannot open his eyes yet, but he is not so drunk that he is beyond communication.
It's okay, Dean, Castiel signs, slow and clear so he is sure the Winchester will understand. Let's get you cleaned up and to bed. You can tell me later what happened. When Dean relaxes minutely, but still clings to Castiel's hand, Castiel signs one more sentence. I'm not angry, Dean. When he leans down to press a kiss to Dean's wet brow, the Winchester no longer smells of vomit. Instead he smells mostly of water.
Castiel deems him clean enough and shuts off the shower, shedding his own, soaked clothes and leaving them in the bathtub. He grabs a few extra towels from their linen closet and spreads one of them out on the bathroom floor, like he dimly remembers Dean doing for him years ago, after Castiel had run away without shoes on. Castiel still bears the scars underneath his soles, but they are minor and they don't cause him any pain thanks to Dean's expertise back then.
Slowly, gently, Castiel moves Dean's sleeping body out of the bathtub and onto the floor. There he spreads his fiance out, grabbing the second towel and drying him from feet to hair. Dean sleeps through it all, sighing softly when Castiel dries his hair. Next, Castiel isn't sure what he can do. He still cannot carry Dean, but neither can he let him lie here on the warm, but hard tile floor. In the end, he has to drag Dean by his leg into their bedroom – keeping the towel under Dean's now naked frame so he will not suffer carpet burns. It is slower, now; Castiel's arms and legs burn with the effort, but he doesn't stop until Dean's body is sprawled next to their bed.
From there, it is almost easy. Hoisting Dean over his shoulder and lifting with his legs, not with his back (as Sam taught him when they first got Turnpike and Castiel's back started aching from when he would lift up the medium-sized dog) Castiel stands up and lets gravity pull him forward and down. He tumbles onto their bed, Dean with him, and Castiel gets him safe under the covers in the matter of minutes. Dean's brows furrow briefly, but Castiel smooths a finger over them and Dean instantly goes slack.
There. That is one part over.
Sighing, Castiel leaves Dean's sleeping form and goes to clean up. He finds a bucket beneath the kitchen sink, and fills it with soapy water. Then he begins to clean: the couch (though he will need to strip it and send the upholstery to a dry-cleaner tomorrow, at least it will not smell quite as much), the table, the living room carpet. Then, he washes the way between the couch and the bathroom, where he dragged Dean, before cleaning up the bathroom as well. He rinses off the wet clothes and hangs them to dry outside in the garden; they will need to be cleaned properly, but he doesn't have the energy to do laundry as well today and he doesn't want the clothes to grow moldy.
Finally, he rinses off the bucket and the rag he has used, and puts the clean bucket by Dean's side of the bed. Lighting a scented candle in the living room, it doesn't take too long before the nauseating smell transforms into something more pleasant. Castiel throws the empty glass bottle into the recycling bin, and makes himself a cup of coffee. He is exhausted.
Finding his phone on the table, Castiel sends Sam a text. I think Dean heard some very bad news today. Have you heard anything? He doesn't expect an answer; Sam is probably still sleeping. But he deserves to know.
Someone dear to Dean has died. And it is someone that is close enough to the Winchester that he will lose himself, if only for a brief moment – but not someone so close to Castiel that Dean immediately contacts him. Based on this simple, yet fallible logic, Castiel thinks it is not anyone from Grass Valley. Dean would have told him immediately.
And as much as Castiel is loath to admit it, there is one person that fits all these criteria – and would explain how Dean reacted to the news.
His phone buzzes. What bad news? How bad? I haven't heard anything, says Sam and Castiel sighs.
I think... I think Bobby might be gone.
Sam doesn't reply to his text for a long time, and Castiel doesn't expect him to. Sam is calling Bobby's old numbers, for sure, checking up on Castiel's hunch – Castiel would do it himself, but it is so much easier for Sam to take a phone call than for Castiel to text all of Bobby's numbers. Instead he waits in the living room, hands clasped around his rapidly cooling cup of coffee, watching the scented candle as it slowly but surely burns down. The smell of pine fills the room, Dean's quiet snores can be heard from the bedroom, and Castiel is so unbelievably tired.
It takes twenty minutes for Sam to respond, and the text is unusually brief. You were right. I'm coming down to you tomorrow.
Castiel reads the things Sam didn't say – 'please take care of my brother until I get here', 'I'm gonna help you', 'jesus, Cas, Bobby's gone'.
I'm here, Castiel writes back, and hopes Sam hears all the things he doesn't say.
Then he blows out the candle, pours the rest of the coffee out in the sink, and goes to bed. Dean doesn't so much as stir when Castiel crawls in beneath him, and Castiel lets exhaustion drag him down swift and deep. He awakes at around three in the morning, when Dean dry-heaves into the bucket without managing to dispel any more liquid from his body. Castiel crawls up to him and puts a hand on his neck, steady and sure, and simply waits until Dean's stomach finishes convulsing. When Dean utters something between a heave and a sob, Castiel crawls out of bed and into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights as he finds an unused roll of toilet paper. He returns to the bed and wipes Dean's mouth first; then his brow and temples. Feverish spasms are wracking Dean's body, and his eyes are glassy when they focus on Castiel's. But they do focus.
“Cas,” Dean croaks and looks so terribly lost. Castiel puts down the paper and pulls his fiance in; wraps his arms around Dean's bigger frame so the Winchester can curl into himself and take as much of Castiel's comfort as he can.
“I'm sorry,” Dean mumbles into his night t-shirt, words still groggy from the alcohol, but Castiel just shakes his head. There is nothing to be sorry for.
He cards his hands through Dean's sweaty hair, and the Winchester shivers and breathes deeply – as if Castiel is his main source of air. He doesn't speak again, and after a while, the trembles subside enough to allow him to slip back into sleep. The alcohol, once Dean's best friend after Sam, is now his enemy. His body doesn't appreciate the two of them trying to reconcile, and Castiel imagines it must feel a little like his first human experience with alcohol; when he saw how Dean grew numb under its influence and wanted nothing more than to feel numb himself. It was what had prompted Dean into quitting in the first place, Dean has told him once, two years ago. Remembering that he, Dean, was the one who had poured alcohol down Castiel's throat when it wasn't even a week since he had lost his Grace. Castiel's body had reacted to the strong alcohol in much the same way as Dean's does now.
Dean lies with his head on Castiel's legs, curled up like a small child, and sleeps restlessly. Castiel manages to maneuver himself into a more comfortable position eventually, and with one hand still in Dean's hair, he goes back to sleep.
~*~