Was missing the good old days before the Season 6 finale happened. So there you go.
He'd been punched, stabbed and blown to bits, but nothing—nothing at all—was more uncomfortable or more aggravating than the multitude of different things he was feeling right now. And there was only one person he could ask for help.
Dean Winchester leaned against the motel room's kitchen bench under the flickering yellow light. He took a bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully before shaking his head, chuckling with amusement.
"How exactly does a warrior of heaven catch a cold?"
Castiel glowered. There was an aching in his bones, a soreness in his throat, a whole new set of feelings assaulting him all at once. The sneezing, the coughing, the shivering. He did not like any of it. Not one bit.
"Dean," he said, his voice gravelly, his throat sore.
"Seriously. Where'd you catch a cold from anyway? It wasn't me or Sam."
A quick image flashed in Castiel's mind. In slow-motion, the obese human, whom they had been questioning, sneezed; his mouth lurching open as if he was a roaring beast, sprays of germs flying out from him, becoming airborne. In slow-motion, the Winchesters flinched and turned away in unison. They did not have to suffer. As for Castiel, fearless angel of heaven, he did what he always did: he stood stock-still and blinked.
In the end, it all connected with his face.
Castiel scowled. "That is not of import, Dean. Tell me how to get rid of it."
His brow furrowed as he watched Dean give him a lopsided grin before taking another bite out his burger. The deep blue of his eyes dropped to focus on the other man's mouth, the movement of his lips.
"Dean," he said again.
"Alright, alright." Dean finished off the last of his burger with a lick of his lips and a wipe with the back of his hand. "I'll go find you some cold medicine, you go take a hot shower first."
As he ushered the quasi-human toward the small bathroom, Dean paused and looked at him, "You do know how to shower, right?"
"Of course. I'm—" Castiel stopped himself. He wasn't an angel anymore. Angels didn't catch colds. Angels didn't need to feel like this.
The hunter eyed him warily, his face faintly tinged with worry as Castiel blinked and turned away, scowling even further.
Dean got it right away.
"Don't worry 'bout it, Cas." He clapped the angel on the shoulder and steered him into the bathroom. "Take a shower. It'll warm you up."
Cas didn't say a word as Dean closed the door behind him.
There was nothing to say.
He gave the bathroom a quick once over. Beige, stained shower curtains. Fake flowers by the sink. White towels hanging on the rack. Vessel's reflection in the mirror. Jimmy's nose was red and running, smooth face drained and ashen, blue eyes bleary and dull.
Tearing his eyes away, he quickly undressed. Tie, trench coat, blazer, shirt, belt, pants, underpants, shoes and socks. He placed them all down neatly by the sink.
The tiled floor felt like it was made of ice, its cold bit into the soles of his feet. He was shivering uncontrollably as he stepped into the shower and he hated how he can't stop it. He was powerless.
Wrapping his arms around himself, he squinted at the two knobs sticking out of the ocean blue tiles; one read 'hot' and the other 'cold'. Simple. Cas turned the 'hot' knob a couple of times, looked up at the showerhead and waited. Inside the wall there's a thunking of pipes, then the showerhead squeaked, spurting cold water into his face.
Castiel cried out. Eyes clenched shut, he sputtered, quickly stepping out of the way of the showerhead. He was suddenly reminded of the man who had infected him with this—this evil. He should go back and smite the man.
The angel wiped his eyes and glared at the showerhead as steam began to fill the shower.
Stupid contraption, stupid cold.
Water dripped from his chin, hitting the plane of his chest, running down his body. It sent shivers up his spine and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He looked at the goosebumps on his arms.
He could feel the warmth of the water in the air. Letting out a shuddering breath, he stepped back under the spray of the showerhead—the water hitting the crown of his head and his shoulder. It was scalding hot.
For the second time that day, he stepped out of the way of the showerhead. He hopped from one foot to the other as the boiling hot water ran along the bottom of the shower before deciding to get out of the shower altogether.
Immediately there was a loud knock at the bathroom door. "You alright in there, Cas?" called Dean, clearly both worried and weirded out.
"Fine." The word was forced out through clenched teeth.
"Alright then." A hint of hesitation and doubt.
Castiel stood outside the shower, gritting his teeth, glaring furiously at the showerhead, tiles cool against his burnt feet. The thought of tearing the showerhead out from the wall and setting it on fire briefly crossed his mind. Oh, but that's right. No angel super-strength or pyrokinesis. The only reason he was here in the first place.
Twisting to avoid the evil hot spray of doom, Castiel turned the 'cold' knob, outstretched hand gingerly testing the water.
It took a few more tries before Cas got the water just right—not too cold, not too hot—and by then he found that he quite liked the shower. Any thought of tearing the showerhead out from the wall wss washed away and replaced with the feeling of warm water hitting his back and running down his body. He closed his eyes, finally content, already feeling better. Thanks to Dean, the human from which he had learnt many things. Human things. Warm things.
"Dean," he murmured aloud.
Dean was sprawled on the bed watching television when he heard the click of the bathroom door opening. Castiel came out. Hair dripping. Shirt ruffled. Tie loose.
"You feeling better, Cas?" he asked.
Cas stopped for a moment, thinking, and not blinking. Finally, he reponded, "Yes. I can breathe properly through my nose again. It seems to have stop running also."
"That's good." Getting up, Dean grabbed a pack of cold tablets and a mug filled with warm water from the kitchen bench, handing them to him. "Take one of these. And finish off the water."
Green eyes watched as he popped a tablet in his mouth and gulped down the water. Dean sucked in a breath and turned around, running a hand down his face, stopping himself from staring at pink lips and neck muscles. He was tired.
Mind racing for a distraction, Dean muttered, "You gotta dry your hair properly." He immediately began to pull open drawers and cupboards in search of a hairdryer.
Taking a seat on one of the beds, Cas looked about. "Where's Sam?" he asked as Dean bent over to check the bedside table.
"He's out researching," replied Dean, shutting a draw and pulling open another. He found the hairdryer in the second draw and handed it to Cas.
A pregnant pause.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Dry your hair with it."
Castiel examined it, turning it over and around in his hands. Rolling his eyes, the hunter grabbed the plug and stuck it into a power point.
"Alright, sit still." He switched on the hairdryer bringing it up over Cas's head when a thought suddenly occurred to him. He turned the hairdryer off. "Tell Sam I blow-dried your hair and I'll end you."
Castiel's brow furrowed as he attempted to decipher Dean's words, though the message is quite clear. The hairdryer whirled again and Cas felt Dean's fingers carding through his hair as the hot air hit his scalp.
Neither of them bothered to speak over the noise of the blow dryer. Dean fidgeted. Standing there in front of Cas, who sat unmoving on the edge of the bed, he couldn't help but be overly conscious of the fact that the angel's gaze was directed straight ahead. At his stomach and—nether regions.
Dean switched off the hairdryer, placing it on the bedside table. He studied Castiel slouching before him; the hunter could almost see the dark gloom seeping out from the angel.
He cleared his throat, "Cas. You know do know that angel mojo or not, we still need you, right?"
Castiel did not reply. In fact, he made no movement or sound indicating that he heard him at all. Dean wondered if that was the problem at all and was flustered when he realised that he still had a hand in Castiel's dark hair. He quickly corrected this. It is then—feeling a warm hand disentangle from his hair—that Cas tilted his head up to look at the hunter, as if just noticing he was there.
"You alright, Cas?" Dean asked with a slight frown. The distant look on the angel's face vaguely reminded him of the spacey and high ex-angel he had met in the bleak future Zachariah had thrown him into.
Not saying a word, Castiel's hands reached up towards his face, wanting the warmth to return. Dean blinked, tensing, before subconsciously bending closer, feeling the angel's hands resting on the back of his neck.
Their faces were close, barely a few centimetres apart, breath intermingling. Dean momentarily considered making a joke about personal space but decided not to ruin the moment.
They stayed like that for a while; Dean bent over, Cas's hand holding the back of his neck, their breath intermingling. Finally, Castiel said softly, "Thank you, Dean."
Dean stared at the angel's slightly parted lips. He swallowed and mumbled distractedly, "Yeah. Yeah, anytime, Cas."
Castiel's lips tipped up slightly, an almost smile as his eyes fell on the other man's neck.
His breath catched as Castiel moved closer, the angel's warm breath brushing against the skin of his neck. He remained still and waited and let Castiel do as he pleased. He had to suppress a groan when he felt Castiel's lips on that tender spot between his neck and shoulder. He felt the angel's lips moving along his jaw with the lightest touch, closer and closer, until he finally pressed a soft kiss to his lips. It was quick and it was not enough and Dean wanted more.
Grabbing the back of the angel's head, Dean moved in, tilting his head for a deeper, harder kiss, finally letting out a groan as he felt Castiel moving his lips against his own. There was a buzzing in his head, the rushing sound of blood pumping in his ears, the fierce desire for more, heat spreading through him like wildfire.
Then they stopped and stared at each other.
Then their lips met again.
Castiel made a faint noise as Dean gripped him by the shoulder and pressed him back against the mattress into a more comfortable position. There was one last kiss before they stopped again. Feeling breathless and light-headed, Dean hovered over the angel, studying him. His hands laid languidly by either side of his head, his chest rising and falling, gradually slowing. Pink lips slightly swollen, the trickle of darkness gone, his eyes fluttering shut.
"You better get some rest, Cas."
He wasn't quite sure what to do next.
Dean's probably caught Cas' cold by now. Would you like a sequel, yes or no?
The review button is just right there.