Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To Mr Larry Ganem

Men of Letters headquarters

Lebanon, Kansas

Waverly Hills Sanatorium

Louisville, Kentucky

The 20 ^th of August 1951

Dear Larry,

As we had agreed upon, I am writing to report my observations after almost three months here at Waverly Hills. The sanatorium is a five-story building, very functional, and it is equipped with all the latest innovations a phthisiologist could hope to find in an establishment that treats about a thousand patients a year. The new antibiotics used for the last few years have brought about a true hope of curing patients who, only a decade ago, would have been doomed in the short term. However, the drugs are not a complete panacea, and sadly we still lose almost a dozen patients each month from this terrible disease.

Consequently, our death rate remains significant enough for paranormal activity to be, as you had suggested, higher than in a standard hospital.
I already observed several phenomenons that indicate a ghost activity. Cold spots are frequent in the patients’ ward, in spite of the high temperatures throughout the summer. I suppose it will be harder to rely on that in the coming months. Unexpected smells are hardly something I can take into account in a medical facility, where they tend to occur for various natural reasons, but the electrical devices are behaving in a way that cannot be explained by deficient installations. Almost all of them – the x-ray machine, laboratory appliances, even the refrigerators – have malfunctioned since my arrival.
The lights flicker on and off almost every other evening in the dining-room, and the janitor has no idea what is causing it. The poor man keeps climbing on ladders to test the light bulbs, without any success so far.

I have specifically asked to be accommodated in the main building, on the floor right under the open-air treatment balcony and the patients' rooms, unlike most of the staff members who have their personal quarters in smaller (but older) buildings in the park, at a short walking distance. This way, I am able to routinely check the corridors at night, and I have caught sight of air disturbances several times.
The most significant event happened last week. I was patrolling the fourth floor and I was turning left to enter the women's ward when I saw, a few feet ahead of me, a white female silhouette entering the nurses’ office. When I reached the room, it was empty and seemed undisturbed, but it was freezing, in a very sharp contrast to the hallway I had just left.

Since this sighting, nothing of importance occurred. I do not think this ghost is posing an immediate threat, but I remain alert about any new development of the situation.

I enclose to this letter a list of the men, women and children who died here in the last year, with the burial location. In case something unfortunate happened, you would still have a basis on which to start your research; but please know that I am not worried and feel in complete control of the situation for now.

Apart from my work as a member of our esteemed society, my life here is quite pleasant, and as a doctor I couldn't ask for a more stimulating employment. Each of the multiple cases is a challenge to fight and vanquish the terrible scourge that is tuberculosis, and the latest discoveries, of which I try to remain informed, are promising. I can only hope that my work will contribute to both my fields of research.

I do hope this letter finds you and all our members in good health. I will write again in a few weeks, or sooner in case of any new developments.

Yours sincerely,

Castiel Novak M.D.

Chapter Text

Dean was diving head-first into the car’s engine when Sam emerged from the motel room. The clunker was having a temper tantrum again, Sam thought. But his brother would have to make it work; they couldn’t entertain the idea of replacing it, even if the 1934 Master Sedan Chevy was pushing seventeen and was beginning to look vintage on the road. It needed a good wash and possibly a coat of paint too, but in the last few months they’d been unable to drop by Bobby’s scrapyard to take care of it.

Since the end of the winter, they’d travelled around the East coast, taking jobs one after the other – some paid jobs to provide food and shelter, and a string of their kind of jobs, the unpaid and supernatural kind. New England especially had brought a good harvest of ghosts and ghouls, along with a nasty pack of werewolves.

Dean straightened up from the engine and smiled at Sam. Fine droplets of sweat shined on his brow. Sam frowned, but said nothing. It was still early in the morning and really not that hot. He noticed, as he had done several times in the last few weeks, that Dean sported dark circles under his eyes.

“Hey,” called Dean. “I think she’s gonna need just a splash of oil and be good to go. D’you think we could stop for breakfast before we head on south?”

“Sorry, we have just enough for coffee after I’ve paid for the room. We need to find a game of pool or cards tonight if we want to eat something.”

Dean sighed but shrugged and smiled all the same.

“Eh, at least the weight won't slow us down, right? Go pay, I'll finish here and wait for you in the car.”

Sam went to fetch two coffees from the diner across the street, and paid for the shabby room they'd shared the previous night. They were really out of cash. He resolved to write to Bobby, ask for a little advance before they managed to gamble – and win – or else he'd have to find a few days' work in the corn fields or in a diner. Of course, Dean would want to work the paid job while Sam did research and ask around for something in their field. But Sam didn't want to rely on Dean to provide for them like he did when they were younger. He wanted to do his share – maybe more than his share these days, as Dean wasn't in his best shape.

If only Dean would accept to settle down a little, at least for a couple of months from time to time. Sam had suggested it countless times, to no avail. The stubborn mule didn't want to hear anything and relentlessly went from one hunt to the next without pausing. He had only been forced to slow down in March this year, when he'd caught a pretty bad case of bronchitis. Two weeks of bed rest at Bobby's (and fortunately they'd been close enough from South Dakota when Dean's temperature had started to skyrocket) and he'd insisted on hitting the road again. Monsters weren't going to take a break while he lay in bed like a lady of yore, he'd said.

But now, almost five months later, he still coughed whenever he had to break into a run, and Sam didn't like that one bit. He wanted his big brother to admit that he needed rest and two real meals a day for some time, or if he couldn't admit it out loud, at least to accept it from Sam when he offered it.

For the time being, Sam could only hand the hot coffee over and watch Dean swallow it with a grimace at its bitterness, before he started the Master Chevy.

They’d spent the last three or four days dealing with a wendigo in Virginia, and Sam was aching all over. Yet, he was striding along the streets of the small town of Lexington at 9pm, in search of something cheap and warm to eat. When they’d finally come out of the woods to the civilization and found a motel, Dean had collapsed on the bed nearest the door and refused to move, even to clean up. Sam had protested at first, but a better look at Dean’s face had shut his mouth. Despite his snarky comment (“Come on Sammy, I’ve done all the work ganking this fucker, I deserve to cool down for a little while”), Sam suspected his brother was exhausted. His eyes were red-rimmed and shiny, his lips pale. He looked like he couldn’t get up even if he’d wanted to.

Sam decided to let him rest and to go find something to eat. Bobby had sent a bit of cash, enough to last them maybe two weeks. But Dean needed real food, not deep-fried stuff that left you nauseous directly after and hungry again two hours later. So when Sam passed a small queue of people waiting in line at the soup kitchen, he didn’t hesitate long. Besides, it smelled like chicken soup, which was the best thing he could bring back to Dean. He’d have to find a good lie, though; Dean couldn’t stand the idea of going to the soup kitchen. He’d rather steal food or glean in the fields. Sam, on the other hand, was completely okay with the concept. He felt like the society kind of owed them that much, as they did a work of public interest without any recognition or recompense.

When his turn came, a nice middle-aged lady handed him two containers of soup with a big chunk of bread.

“Do you need something else, dear?” she asked with a smile. “Clothes, blankets? Oh, I should tell you all, Dr Read will give free consultations at the clinic next Tuesday for people who frequent the soup kitchen. You just need to ask for a coupon at the desk over here.” She had raised her voice for everyone around to hear.

Sam only hesitated for a split second; the thought of Dean’s complexion was enough to make up his mind.

“Thanks a lot, ma’am,” he said, and he walked straight to the desk where a man gave him two pieces of paper with the address of the clinic and a number – Sam assumed its purpose was to know how many people would actually show up.

He hoped he’d manage to convince Dean to go; he knew he’d have to be persuasive. Maybe he could tell Dean that he was feeling down and was in need of a check-up. He tucked the coupons inside his shirt pocket and walked back to the motel.

When Sam closed the door and turned back toward the room, he knew there wouldn’t even be a discussion: Dean was going to go to the consultation, even if Sam had to carry him himself. Dean was still on the bed, dozing, but now he was also curled up on himself and he was shivering. Sam quickly put the soup containers down and went to the bed, sitting on the edge.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean muttered. He was doing a bad job at concealing the shattering of his teeth. Sam touched his forehead and his eyes widened.

“Dude, you're burning up.”

“Bullshit. What did you bring back to eat?”

“Dean, stop. Just get under the covers, I'll give you soup, but we're going to the clinic soon to see what's wrong with you.”

“What? No way! We don't have the money for it anyway. 'm okay. Maybe a little fever. I just need to sleep it off.”

“Shut up,” Sam said without much heat. Dean was right, it was just a small fever. Except he'd been having small fevers like that one almost every night for the last week. He was so going to that consultation. But for now he needed to eat and rest.

Dean sat up in bed and apparently got dizzy doing just that – he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. Sam instinctively put his hand on Dean's waist to ground him. The brothers didn't hug or touch very often, but nonetheless Sam knew Dean's shape. He'd always been sturdy, even a bit meaty around the middle, but now he was clearly thinner; Sam could feel his ribs under the flannel shirt. That was not good; he was waiting for Tuesday with impatience and dread.

The clinic was already crowded when they arrived. Sam had had a hard time convincing Dean to go, but he hadn't left him much choice: Sam was going anyway, and he'd threatened to stop hunting and crash at Bobby's to study lore instead of being on the road with a sick brother.

So Dean was sulking, yeah, but he was here, and his face – pale with the same dark circles under his eyes – showed that he really needed to. The waiting room was decorated with several health propaganda posters about alcoholism and tuberculosis – “coughs and sneezes spread diseases” – that Sam was trying to ignore while Dean was glaring at a picture of Santa Claus buying Red Cross Christmas seals from two children.

They were called to enter the exam room along with three other men, and asked to take their shirts off. A nurse came in, asked some routine questions and began checking their shoulders for vaccine scars.

“You apparently got vaccinated with the BCG, the anti-tuberculosis vaccine; can you confirm that?” she asked Sam.

“Yeah, he was twelve,” Dean answered. The nurse eyed him curiously.

“I'm his brother, I remember,” he added.

Without further comment, she moved on to him, lifting his arm to look closely at his shoulder.
“You, on the other hand, aren't vaccinated, am I right?” Dean nodded.

“Then you need to take a skin test and an x-ray. Follow me, please.”

Dean went with her, throwing Sam a look he couldn't quite decipher.

She guided him behind a screen on the other side of the large room. After several minutes, the nurse came out and knocked at a door marked “Dr Read”. The doctor, a grey-haired, tall man, came out and followed her behind the screen. Sam heard the sound of low voices, but nothing more over the chatter of the other men and nurses in the room.

Finally Dean reappeared and was ushered into the doctor’s office. His jaw was clenched and his shoulders stiff.

The door closed, and opened again mere seconds later. The nurse scanned the room, her eyes settling on Sam.
“Can you come in, sir, please?”

Dean was sitting in front of the doctor’s desk, still bare-chested. Sam noticed a band-aid on his right shoulder.

“Take a seat, please,” said Dr Read when the nurse had shut the door behind her. “You are Mr Winchester’s brother and his closest kin, is that correct?” Sam nodded.

“So, as I was saying to your brother, his x-ray shows spots on the top of the right lung. He also has a temperature and an abnormal wheeze at the auscultation. We suspect a case of tuberculosis, not too serious for now, but it has to be treated right away. I am also under the obligation to report all cases of TB I encounter.” He turned toward Dean, who was looking at him with a carefully neutral expression.

“Mr Winchester, here is the protocol: you shall come back here in two days to have your skin test read, although I have no doubt about the result. Then I will direct you to a specialist, who will prescribe a sputum culture and the right treatment for your case. I understand that you don’t have a permanent residence here, do you?” Dean didn’t open his mouth. Sam gave him a side look and answered for him: “No, no, we don’t. We have an address in South Dakota though.”

“Then the best advice I can give you is to go to the Waverly Hills sanatorium in Louisville, Kentucky. It’s just one state over from here and it’s the best establishment in this area. Furthermore, they receive patients in any… financial situations. The head doctor, Hannah Johnson, is an eminent phthisiologist, and she has had very promising results with the new medicines.”

Dean still showed no sign that he was willing to talk. Sam thanked the doctor, took the envelope containing the various instructions, and listened to the recommendations about how Dean needed to eat correctly, drink a lot of milk, and rest in clean and well-ventilated rooms.

When they found themselves sitting in the Master Chevy, Sam had not been able to take in the implications of the news yet. All he knew was that the worst scenario he’d considered had come true.

Dean stayed quiet for a minute, but then he turned to Sam with a bright smile and said: “Okay, so, where to? Didn't you tell me something about a possible case in Georgia?”

Sam stared at him. “What?”

“Come on Sammy, let's hit the road! We've got work to do!”

“What do you mean? We need to stay here till they can read your skin test, you heard what they said, right?”

Dean still had that smile on his face, like all of this was a good joke, but he was ready to move on and get back to business.
“Yeah, well, as if! Did they really think I was gonna stay in this godforsaken place, and then what, lock myself up willingly in a hospital? Ha!”

Sam couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He tried reasoning, hoping it would be enough.
“Dean, this is TB, man. Not just a cold you can ignore until it goes away. You have to get treatment.”
Dean's face changed expression suddenly, as if he'd been hoping he wouldn't have to go there, but was prepared to.

“Look, Sammy, I'm not going to a sanatorium. You know it, I know it, so what's the point? I'll ease up on the gas pedal for a little while if you really want me to, maybe crash at Bobby's for a few weeks, and I'll be okay. It's alright, you don't have to worry.”

The denial was too much for Sam; it was hard enough to know that his big brother was sick – even if he'd already known, if he was honest with himself – but seeing him bury his head in the sand like that... he couldn't stand it. Dean had always faced the problems to keep them away from Sam, to make things easier for him. He'd faced Sam's problems, actually, with him and for him, and had solved them... but maybe he'd backed away from his own, shoved them to the back of his mind, hoping they'd go away or cease to exist. Sam saw that, now that Dean was cornered. So Sam snapped, because it seemed like the only way to speak to Dean now, and his own emotions were too messy.

“No, Dean, that's enough. I won't hear such bullshit. Go to Bobby's? And what, contaminate him with TB? Hunt while coughing your lung up? Spit blood all over the place in a werewolf lair, maybe? I won't watch you slowly die before my eyes. I won't. You're going to shut the fuck up and let me and the doctors take care of you, and you'll recover, and then we'll go back to hunting. That's exactly what's gonna happen, even if I have to tie you up and drug you, you hear me?”

They stared at each other for a beat, jaws clenched. Then Dean said through gritted teeth: “whatever”, started the car and turned it over toward the motel.

Sam knew he had won. Dean wasn't going to admit it, and Sam wasn't asking him to. But he sensed that Dean was scared shitless, and that terrified him even more.

That night, the fever came back like clockwork, and Dean had a coughing fit that left him out of breath. They didn't talk about it.

Chapter Text

Louisville, Kentucky was a busy town, bigger than the ones Sam and Dean usually stayed in. When they arrived there on the 13 ^th of September, summer still lingered in the air, but they knew it would soon be replaced by autumn entirely. They found a motel, slightly better than the ones they were used to, and the next day Dean had a new check-up at the TB dispensary affiliated to Waverly Hills. His diagnosis was confirmed and the staff told him there were several vacancies, and that he could enter the coming Monday. They gave him an appointment with a doctor at three in the afternoon, and told him he would be admitted right after the medical exam, so he should take his luggage with him.

Everything seemed so smooth and well-organized that the brothers didn’t have time to think twice, and soon they found themselves shopping for the few items on the list they'd been given – a personal thermometer, which was apparently the most important and precious thing a TB patient owned; real pajamas, a piece of clothing Dean had never really bothered with; slippers, warm socks, and a soft green blanket. It was Sam who had insisted on picking up something a bit fancier than the military-style grey scratchy thing Dean was going for. Dean had protested, but Sam had been the one to win the pool game they’d played to add a bit of cash to what Bobby had sent them, so he’d had the last word.

On Monday morning, looking at all his stuff packed neatly into his suitcase, Dean got nauseous. This was really happening; he was sick, maybe even at death's door, and Sammy was dropping him in a kind of nursing home, getting rid of him because he would soon be entirely useless. What made the situation even more unreal was that he didn't feel sick, or, okay, not always sick. The evenings were a bit trying, with the fever that came back regularly and the fact that yes, maybe he felt tired as soon as he'd been active for the main part of the day, but still... he didn't want to go. He didn't know how Sam would manage without him. Sam had promised to take only very easy hunts, to stay in the area and to work with other hunters every time it would be possible; he'd also said he probably was going to look for a normal job in Louisville to be able to stay and visit Dean as often as possible. Dean was still worried out of his mind. It was easier to worry about Sam than to think about his own condition.

When he started the car and took the road that climbed through the woods toward the sanatorium, he did all he could to not think about the fact that Sam would take the drive back in town without him that night, and that he didn't know when he would take this road again in the other direction.

The red-brick building stood high against the blue sky, towering over the already tall trees. They entered the hall in front of the large flight of stairs, and were directed to a waiting room. The person at the reception had told them a Dr Novak was going to see them.

After no more than ten minutes of tense waiting, the door opened on a young doctor in a white coat. He was holding a piece of paper on which he read out loud: “Mr. Dean Winchester?”

“That's me,” said Dean, standing up along with Sam.

“Nice to meet you,” the doctor replied. He turned a questioning face toward Sam. Dean spoke: “This is my brother, Sam. I want him to come in with me.”

“Of course.” The doctor turned and waited for them to enter the room before closing the door and sitting at his desk, gesturing for them to take a seat as well.

“I'm Doctor Castiel Novak and you'll be in my charge here. I gather you and your brother have questions, or maybe worries? I'll try to answer as best as I can. Then I'll have to examine you.”

Dean made a small impatient move at that; he was already sick of being fondled and prodded, and he'd had an exam like three days before at the dispensary; he'd thought it would be enough. Dr Novak caught his unease, and he said with an apologetic expression: “I'm sorry about that; I have received the results of your previous exams, but I like to make up my mind about my patients, in order to be able to treat them the best I can. There will be nothing too invasive, I promise.”

He wasn't smiling a lot, just the faintest lift of the corner of his mouth, but his blue eyes were full of sympathy. Dean felt Sam relax in his chair next to him, but he was still on his guard.

“How long do you think he'll have to stay?”, Sam asked.

“From what I gathered in the file, I wouldn't count on less than two or three months.”

Dean flinched, but Sam nodded, pursing his lips a little, like he expected exactly that. Dean stayed silent. He felt so trapped he couldn't begin to think about a coherent question.

“And what will the treatment consist of?” At least Sam was able to talk like a normal person; to talk about his brother like he wasn't even in the room, like he was just an interesting case they were discussing, Dean thought bitterly.

“The basis of the cure is always rest, fresh air and a healthy diet. Mr. Winchester needs to gain some weight, and we must bring this fever down. Then, as you may know, in the last few years we've been able to use antibiotics, drugs similar to penicillin, with very good results. I still need to see by myself exactly how and if your brother would benefit from them, but my first guess is that streptomycin is worth trying, at least.”

The doc turned to Dean with a concerned look on his face. “Do you have any questions?”

Dean shook his head. “No.” He didn't have the energy to add anything else. Sam threw him a glance, but said nothing.

“Then if you don't mind waiting outside, I'm going to proceed to the examination,” the doctor said to Sam. “It won't be long.”

When Sam had closed the door behind him, the doctor guided Dean in a small examination room adjacent to his office where all the curtains were drawn, and showed him a chair. “Can you take off your shirt, please?”, he asked, while going to the sink in a corner where he washed his hands.

He came back with a stethoscope around his neck and asked Dean to sit on the examination table while he stood in front of him. Dr Novak warmed the stethoscope’s end inside his hand, and listened to Dean’s heart, then his lungs. He moved from the top of one lung to the bottom of the other, front and back, tapping his fingers against Dean’s chest, asking him to breathe deeply, then cough. Dean kept silent, watching his face, hoping stupidly that he would come to the conclusion that Dean, after all, was alright, that he had never listened to healthier lungs, and that the other doctors were all incompetent. Somehow, Dean was sure that if anyone would say things like that, it would be this man. But of course he didn’t.

Dr Novak's expression remained neutral but kind when he finally lowered his stethoscope and said: “All right. Now, I’m going to look directly at your lungs through radioscopy. It won’t be long, but I have to ask you to stand very still.”

He made Dean stand with his chest pressed against a metallic slab, after warning him that it would be cold. Then, he turned all the lights off and the x-ray machine started buzzing. Dr Novak’s face was illuminated with the glow of Dean’s insides. That was awkward and weirdly fascinating, but it lasted only half a minute before the machine was turned off again. The doctor turned a small lamp on, next to the examination table, and made Dean sit in front of him again.

“The doctors you saw before me told you what they saw, didn’t they?”

“Y-yes. They said something about my right lung.”

“That’s right. You have a cavern, a small one, at the top of that lung” – he put two fingers under Dean’s right clavicle – “about here. The left lung is spotless. What do you do for a living, Mr. Winchester?”

The change of subject made Dean frown.

“I… I’m a travelling salesman. My brother and I work together.”

“So I guess you don’t often sleep in good beds and eat home-cooked meals, do you?”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “Huh, no, I guess not.”

“Well, you’ll find all this here. You need time to heal. You should not think about it as a weakness or an undeserved privilege. And I am sure your brother wants you healthy and rested.” He looked Dean right in the eyes for what seemed a beat too long, but somehow it felt natural coming from this man. Dean wanted to stay wary, but he found he couldn’t quite help to trust him.

The doctor put a warm and firm hand onto Dean’s left shoulder and squeezed lightly.

“We’re going to take care of you, Mr. Winchester. I promise.”

Dean felt a strange impulse to blurt out “Call me Dean”, but he refrained. The guy may have seemed friendly, but Dean didn’t know anything about him. He hadn’t even thought about testing him, he realized with a pang. Then he spotted a silver ring on the middle finger of the doctor’s right hand, a large one with a coat of arms engraved on top. No werewolf, then. When the doctor turned to let him dress, he leaned down to take his shirt and muttered: “Christo”. The doctor froze. When he turned back toward him, his eyes were the same clear blue, but he wore a puzzled expression.

“Sorry, what did you just say?”, he asked carefully.

“Nothing,” Dean replied, holding his gaze. Weird. The strange idea that he knew exactly what Dean had said popped into his head. Likehe knew he had just confirmed that yes, he was entirely human.

Then Dean shrugged his shirt on and the moment passed.

They entered the office again and Dr Novak called Sam back. He told them that they would need to go and sign the papers in the administration office, and that Dean would be set up in his room right after that. He himself would see Dean again the next day, during his daily visit after lunch. This time, after walking them to the door, he shook hands with both of them. His hand was still pleasantly warm.

Chapter Text

The fourth floor was lined up with patients’ rooms on one side and the balcony on the other, facing south to catch as much sunlight as possible. All the floors had the same layout, but this would allow Dean a quite nice view on the woods surrounding the sanatorium, according to the young nurse. She had introduced herself as Miss Anna Milton, and led them to the room 424. It was empty, but she told Dean and Sam that the other occupant, a Mr. Crowley, was on the sunporch for his last open-air treatment period of the day, and would be back soon.

It was almost half past five, and she announced that dinner would be served at six o’clock in the main dining-room on the second floor. Mr. Winchester’s visitor (“He’s my brother,” Dean specified) would have to be gone by then. Visits were allowed on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays, so Sam could come back the following day.

With every bit of information she was giving them, Dean’s throat constricted more. He was going to share a room with a stranger; he hadn’t had time to think about that before. Well, at least he wasn’t sleeping in a dormitory with twelve other lungers who would spray bacilli all around. Seeing this room, the crisp white sheets, the bedside lamp, the curtain that could be drawn in the middle of the room to preserve each patient’s privacy if required, Dean realized that he really had to live here, alone, without Sam. When he was a young boy and their father left them with nice but unknown ladies, at least, Sammy was with him. Here, he wouldn't even see him every day.

Now, Sam was scanning the room and thanking the nurse as she was leaving. They found themselves alone, standing awkwardly between the bed and the closet where Dean was expected to hang his clothes. He decided that everything would stay in his suitcase for now.

“So… everybody seems nice, don’t you think?” Sam began. Dean shrugged.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m here to make friends or anything, is it? I still want to leave as quickly as possible.”

“Dean… I hope so too, but you heard what the doctor said. You should try to get comfortable, if you’re going to be here for several months.”

“He said two months, not several! As in eight weeks!”

Sam sighed. “He said at least two or three months. You know that doesn’t mean eight weeks.”

Dean wasn’t having this conversation now, with the lump that was growing in his throat. He decided it would be better to jump right in, cut the emotions to the minimum; or else he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“I guess you should go. I need to…” The word ‘settle’, or even ‘unpack’, was impossible to utter. “You should go,” he repeated. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They looked at each other. Dean knew Sam knew how he felt. There was no point in saying it out loud.

“Okay,” Sam said, putting his hand on the door knob. “I’ll be here tomorrow, first thing.”

“And take care of the car!” Dean called as Sam was crossing the threshold.

“You know I will.” Sam smiled, and then he walked away.

Dean barely had time to shove his suitcase into his closet when the door opened again. A short man in a black bathrobe entered. He was probably in his late forties. When he saw Dean, he beamed.

“Oh, this is my new roommate, I suppose!” He had a rather pronounced Scottish accent. He gave Dean an once-over. “My, my, you need to regain strength, young man! Good thing dinner will be on the table in ten minutes. I’m Fergus Crowley, by the way, at your service. Everyone calls me Crowley, or sometimes ‘your highness’, but that’s your choice, of course.”

Dean, still lost with the new environment and the sudden pang of homesickness, looked at him owlishly. He wasn’t certain if the guy was serious, but Crowley seemed to be finding his own little tirade absolutely delightful and was obviously waiting for Dean to introduce himself.

“Uh, hello, I’m Dean Winchester.”

“Okay then, nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester. Not the chatty type, are we? Oh well, living with me can do wonders on a character! Too bad my previous roommate left the building feet first. But don’t worry, I’m certainly not cursed or anything. I mean, in ten years in sanatoria,” (he emphasized the Latin plural smugly), “I’ve only buried, what, maybe four of my roommates? That’s a good number, considering.”

Ten years in places like this? Was that even possible? The guy should have been dead, if he really had a case of TB serious enough to warrant a ten years stay. But here he was, the picture of health, and he didn’t seem to stop talking anytime soon.

He guided a befuddled Dean to the dining-room, two floors below, and they both sat in wicker chairs. Apparently, the time for dinner was flexible; people were coming and going, and Dean figured that not all the patients could eat at the same time in that room anyway.

Crowley was eating at rocket speed – and god, the food was good, and Dean felt guilty for even appreciating it; he hoped Sam would be able to eat here with him sometimes. While practically inhaling his food, Crowley pointed discreetly at random people and told Dean about them. Apparently, he knew everything about everyone. Sometimes he stopped himself from saying something, chuckled low and whispered “oh, but maybe you don’t need to know this right now.”

When his plate was empty – Dean had barely eaten half of his – he reclined in his chair and asked: “So, tell me about yourself, roomie!”

Dean wasn’t remotely ready to share personal stuff with the weird guy. He told the minimum lies about his supposed salesman job, about having for only family his brother and an uncle in South Dakota, and shut his mouth again. Crowley squinted, unconvinced, but changed the subject.

“Who’s your doctor here?”

“Dr Novak. I just met him this afternoon.”

“Ah, dear Dr Castiel Novak! I’m in his care too. Not the chatty type either. You’ll get along with him.”

“What’s with that name, anyway?” Dean couldn’t keep from asking. He hadn’t caught the first name when he met the doctor, but it was really unusual. Castiel. He’d never heard a name like that.

“Our doc’s father arrived from Russia in 1917, fleeing the Bolshevik revolution. He must have been a good-looking fellow, because he married right away and little Castiel was born the following year. I heard he’s named after an angel. Pretty fitting for a doctor, I guess!”

That was interesting, but Dean didn’t comment. Something about Dr Novak intrigued him, mostly his reaction when Dean had said “Christo”, but he was certainly not going to share that with Crowley.

After dinner, when they were back in their bedroom, Dean started undressing and caught Crowley throwing glances at him. Feeling uncomfortable, he excused himself and drew the curtain between their beds shut.

Lying between the clean linen of his unusually comfortable bed, wearing his new pajamas, he wasn't even himself anymore. Someone who wasn't Sam was snoring lightly on the other side of the room. He could hear the soft steps of nurses passing his door at regular intervals. The only familiar thing was the fever that was making him shiver. It was earlier than his usual bedtime, and it took him hours to fall asleep, but when he did, he didn't wake up until morning.

The sun was barely up when a nurse came into the room, opening all the curtains, and announcing: “Temperature, please, gentlemen!”

Dean saw Crowley feeling around his nightstand in search of his thermometer, grabbing it and putting it in his mouth. Still half asleep, Dean groaned: his thermometer was still somewhere in his suitcase. He got up and staggered to the closet. The effort, combined with the cold feeling of his bare feet on the tiles, caused a coughing fit. He doubled over, trying to stop it.

“Use your spittoon, boy!” Crowley cried, opening his own nightstand and shaking the bottle that was inside in Dean's direction. Dean found the same object in his nightstand, a small bottle made of blue glass with a metal cap. He spat in it and sat on his bed, trying to catch his breath.

“That's disgusting,” Dean said when he could speak. Crowley snorted.

“You'll get used to it. And I know someone who's going to be delighted.” Then he shoved his thermometer back into his mouth, before Dean could ask what he meant. He didn't feel like talking anyway, so he just went to retrieve his own thermometer and climbed back in bed.

The next hour was busy; the nurse, a different one from the day before, explained to him that he would have to take his temperature three times a day: in the morning, after lunch and before going to bed. She filled their temperature charts and checked on the evolution of Crowley's. Then they had time to have a wash before breakfast arrived: in the mornings, they would usually eat in their room, explained Crowley, except on Sundays. He had not bothered to dress, but was wearing his black robe again. It made him look like some sort of priest. Judging by his extended knowledge about all the people in the sanatorium, hearing confessions was no doubt one of his hobbies.

The breakfast was being taken away when they heard a knock on their already open door. A young woman in a white coat appeared. Her hair was tied up in a bun, but its bright red color was still remarkable.

“Hello, hello, I hear we have a new patient in here?” she said cheerfully. “I'm going to be able to add something to my collection, I hope!”

“Come in, Miss Charlie,” Crowley greeted, “I'm sure our new young man will be way more interesting than me.” He turned to Dean. “Mr. Winchester, this is Miss Bradbury, the most dedicated laboratory technician I've ever met. See, she's already after what you produced this morning.”

The young woman was eyeing the spittoon on Dean's nightstand. He blushed, mortified, and said when she met her eyes: “I'm Dean Winchester. You can call me Dean.”

“Please call me Charlie, then, like everyone here.” Her smile was genuine. “I'll collect this,” she said pointing to the blue bottle. “The sputum culture will tell us how many bacilli you host. Mr. Crowley is a big disappointment in this regard.” Crowley rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I'll also collect your blood each week. Don't worry, it'll be quick.”

She prepared her syringe and the small glass tubes for the blood. Dean wasn't a fan of needles, but Charlie was quick and efficient and she kept talking about how interesting her job was and how she was going to tell him everything about his blood composition. Dean thought that maybe his statement that he wouldn't make friends here would prove wrong; he liked her already.

Charlie left with her precious samples, practically bouncing with excitement at the idea of all the interesting experiments she was going to conduct.

Then, for Dean, began the main and yet most boring part of the day: the open-air treatment. Beds and deckchairs were rolled onto the sunporches, and the patients had to lie down for hours on end, doing virtually nothing. They were allowed to read, but not for too long at a time, to knit or sew, sometimes to draw, and that was it. Meals and snacks punctuated the routine, along with the doctors' visit after lunch and, on the good days, the family visitors' time between five and six pm.

After this first morning, Dean was already bored out of his mind. He welcomed lunch at noon, but was appalled to have to return to his horizontal position for three more hours in the afternoon. Maybe that explained the little flip his insides did when he saw Dr Novak coming at the end of the balcony. He was accompanied by a tall, dark-haired woman, who wore a similar white coat. They stopped at each bed, checking the temperature chart and asking the patient how they felt. While they were talking with a patient two beds away from Dean, Dr Novak looked over to him and gave him a small nod with his barely-there smile. Finally, they reached his bed.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester. This is Doctor Hannah Johnson, Waverly Hills' head doctor. Dr Johnson, Mr. Winchester joined us yesterday. How was your first night, Mr. Winchester?”

This “Mr. Winchester” business made Dean uncomfortable; he wasn't used to being addressed so formally, but this wasn’t the right time to say something about it.

“All right, I guess,” he said. “But staying still all day is not really my thing.”

“I figured that much,” Dr Novak replied kindly, “but you need rest. Your temperature wasn't ideal this morning, I see. I think we can give you permission to read, though, if it helps you relax.” Dr Johnson nodded in agreement. “I'll ask someone to show you the library. Is there a subject that interests you particularly?”

Dean had to think quickly to come up with a half-lie that wouldn't be too far from the truth. “I've studied a bit of mythology and theology when I was younger.”

“Really? Well, we'll see what we have, and I may also be able to lend you some of my own books; those are subjects that catch my interest too.” He was watching Dean with a curious look, like he was seeing something more and wondering if he was mistaken or misled. Dean held his gaze; he was intrigued too.

Dr Johnson cleared her throat and said: “You're in good hands with Dr Novak, Mr. Winchester. Follow his advices and I'm sure you'll do just fine.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Winchester,” said Dr Novak, and they moved to the next bed.

When Sam arrived that first evening, Dean was surprised to discover that, even if he’d been severely bored for half the day, he had a lot to tell his brother. They moved to the common room downstairs after Crowley had greeted Sam with a booming: “Oh my god, roomie, you could have warned me your brother was such a beefy moose! I would have primped myself up!”

Dean suppressed a laugh at his brother’s astonished face, but he didn’t want to encourage Crowley’s shenanigans. The guy was sometimes fun, but he was also weird as hell. And he was giving Sam the same look he had given Dean the night before. Dean didn’t think Sam would notice, but he did and it bothered him.

Dean told Sam about the customs of the sanatorium, about Charlie the nice lab technician obsessed with sputum, about how Sam needed to bring him books on his next visit or he would be going crazy with boredom in no time. When the hour had passed, he was a little out of breath and his vision blurred; the familiar fever was back. He felt more tired than he should have been for having lain down all day.

Sam promised to come back on Thursday with books, writing paper and maybe a journal so that Dean would use his time to actually study lore and help the hunters’ community like Bobby did.

That night, it wasn’t the unfamiliarity of the environment that kept Dean awake; he was more worried about how quickly he felt he had gotten accustomed to the comfort of his bed and the five meals a day.

Thursdays were visiting days at Waverly Hills, and they were also the day of the weekly medical exam with Dr Novak. He received all his patients in his office, examined them and adjusted the treatments.

After a very boring Wednesday when literally nothing had happened – he’d even been forced to borrow a magazine from Crowley during the afternoon sunporch time – Dean kind of welcomed the distraction, even if it meant yet another auscultation.

Dean was called during the morning open-air therapy to go down to Dr Novak's office.  He knocked and entered when he heard the deep voice calling from the other side of the door.

The day was less sunny than the last Monday and trees moved gently in the breeze behind the large window. Dean noticed a pile of books on a table behind the desk. Dr Novak was already opening the door to the examination room, inviting Dean in.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester.” Dean seized the occasion right away.

“You know, doc, if you're going to see me shirtless every other day, you should just call me Dean,” he joked, a little unsure but wanting to at least alleviate this one source of discomfort. But the reaction wasn't in the least what he'd expected. Dr Novak honest to god flushed and stammered: “I... I don't know if I...” He seemed to pull himself together and, making eye contact deliberately: “It would be my pleasure, thank you. Please call me Castiel.”

Dean was taken aback, but he chose to not make things even more awkward, nodded and entered the room. He doubted he would be able to use the doctor's first name, at least in front of other people – but then, why had he asked in the first place? This was ridiculous.

He took off his shirt without thinking and turned to find Dr Novak right behind him, looking embarrassed again.

“I'm going to need you to take off your pants, too. Last time, I didn't want to make it longer than strictly necessary, but today I need to make a palpation of your abdominal organs and ganglions, to make sure there's no swelling that would indicate a possible infection that would cause your fever besides TB itself.”

Dean strongly suspected that this long explanation was unnecessary, and the doc's – Castiel's – discomfort was beginning to amuse him. He toed off his shoes and dropped his pants, standing there in boxers and socks. Childishly, he waited for Castiel to ask him to climb on the examination table before he did, and lay down on his back.

Castiel proceeded the exam with the same concentration he had put into listening to Dean's lungs the other day. He felt Dean's abdomen clockwise, searching for each organ carefully, asking if it hurt, watching Dean's face regularly in search of a reaction of pain or discomfort. The touch was soothing; Dean relaxed into it.

Castiel then asked Dean to turn on his side to feel his kidneys. When he reached under Dean's left loin, it tickled and Dean chuckled. Castiel smiled a hint more than usual at that, before maneuvering Dean onto his back again and starting to feel gently down his groin. That didn't tickle anymore, but it was way more embarrassing, Dean thought. He tried not to be aware of this objectively handsome doctor's fingers wandering mere inches from his privates. That train of thought was obviously the best way to become even more aware of it, especially when Castiel told him to sit down, facing him, and started touching under his jaw and along his neck. His face was close and he was looking into Dean's eyes.

Dean had met all sorts of people in his life of fighting monsters, and he had been aware for a long time that he was sometimes attracted to men. He also liked the ladies very much, so it didn't bother him excessively. Besides, it wasn't something one could easily act upon. It still wasn't a good idea to get lost in his TB doctor's blue eyes, the same doctor who had flushed crimson when Dean had asked him to use his first name.

When Castiel moved his hands to the nape of his neck, still feeling for lumps, Dean closed his eyes, trying to regain his composure. He thought he felt Castiel's breath catch for a second, and then the warm hands were gone from his neck, and he heard the low voice from several feet away.

“Everything is perfect. We'll just have to take care of this cavern, then. I'm going to start you right away on streptomycin. You will get injections twice a day.” Dean cringed visibly at that, but Castiel wasn't looking at him. He was washing his hands, ostensibly keeping his back to Dean. When he faced him again, he averted his eyes right away, and went straight to his office door.

“You can put your clothes back on; I'll wait for you outside.” Then he was gone.

Dean took a deep breath and dressed slowly. He wasn't sure what had just happened, but he knew that it was rather improbable that the doctor had missed his rapid pulse.

Dean came out and sat across Castiel's desk. The pile of books had been moved in front of Castiel who had a determined expression on his face.

“I remembered you were looking for reading material about mythology, and I thought you might be interested in those books. Of course, you're under no obligation... if you don't think they're what you're looking for...”

Dean reached over and put a hand on the pile. “Wow, on the contrary,” he said to stop the spluttering, “It is very kind of you, doc... Castiel.” He could have kicked himself for the warmth he felt spreading on his cheeks.

But Castiel almost smiled again, and answered with a soft “You're welcome, Dean.”

Dean found himself back in his bed on the sunporch, facing the stretch of trees in Waverly Park.

“That was one weird medical exam,” he thought to himself. Sammy would be happy to hear that he had nothing besides TB. That was all he was planning to tell his brother about his morning.

Chapter Text

Letter to Bobby Singer  

Waverly Hills Sanatorium, October 8th, 1951  

Hey Bobby 
 

Sammy told me you wanted some news, so I’m taking time out of my busy schedule of doing fuck-all and going nuts with boredom to do that for you. How about it? 
 

Health-wise, I’m fine, so that’s out of the way. I should be out of here in a few weeks tops. 

But there’s something else I wanted to tell you. I have a doctor here, name’s Castiel Novak, and he seems to have a lot of information about our shared interests, as in an unusual amount. Not sure what to do with that. 
 

I’m almost positive he’s not in the business, but he knows a lot, and when I test him he seems to pick up on it pretty quick. He also lent me some books, which are rare as far as I can tell, and very interesting even for me (Sammy would lose his shit). The doc has Russian origins, so there’s a lot of stuff about Orthodox biblical lore, things I’ve never even heard of. Not sure how specific I can get here. Tell me how much I can share with you in the next letter. 
 

I’ll probably find out more about where the doc stands if it turns out, as I suspect, that we have something going on in the sanatorium. There have been some signs over the last week. There are cold spots in the hallways, unmistakable. Also, the lights flicker in the main dining-room almost every night. Yesterday at dinner the lights went completely off for a few seconds and when they came back on, one of the bulbs exploded. 

There was a bit of a panic, and I looked over at the staff table. He was the only one not moving. He was frowning, like he was trying to figure something out. Suspecting something, just like I was. Then he looked over at me, and it was like he knew. 

I haven’t told Sam about this yet, but I think it’s time now. I’ll talk to him tomorrow when he comes to visit. 

Any advice is welcome, as always. If you can spare the money and the time, I could even use a visit from you. Sammy’s got a job as a handyman and gets to stay in his employer’s guesthouse. She seems nice, she’ll probably agree to let you stay with him. 

Be safe.  

Dean  

*** 

Castiel Novak’s journal – October 12th, 1951 

[written in stenography] 

[…] Dean. Dean remains a mystery for me in various fashions. We’ve talked about the books I lent him – apparently he at least browsed through them. He had pertinent remarks, but I could feel he was being cautious about what he actually wanted to ask. I can’t figure out if he’s just interested intellectually in those subjects or if there is something more. In the same way, I’m still not sure if he is genuinely interested in befriending me (if not, why ask to use first names? He still uses Crowley’s last name, and they share a room), or if he plain hates this place and everything that reminds him that he’s ill, including me. I’ve watched him; I know he made, if not friends, at least acquaintances amongst the patients and even the staff. I do not think he considers me a friend, and yet… but that must be just me being hopeful against my better judgement.  

I still wish that his elevated pulse when I examined him is caused by something else than the stubborn fever that doesn’t seem to react to the antibiotics. This is worrying me more than anything else. Medically, if streptomycin fails, I'll run out of options. It’s always hard to see patients deteriorate and – I don’t even want to think about a more gloomy possibility about Dean. I know I shouldn’t have preferences for certain patients, let alone write it down. But no one is interested enough in my thoughts to bother with this journal, and even if someone was nosy enough, they would have to be able to read shorthand. So I can admit it to myself in the safe haven of these pages: I desperately want to cure him… but maybe not too fast. I’d like to enjoy his presence here for a few more months. I’m not hoping for more. 

*** 

A month. He'd been here for over a month already. Dean couldn't quite believe the mural calendar he had inadvertently caught sight of on Castiel's office wall. He counted backwards quickly: this was his fifth visit with Castiel, not counting the one on his arrival. 

“I've been here for five weeks.” He couldn't stop himself for stating it aloud. Castiel was currently listening to his lungs. 

It had become a habit, sitting here in the dim light of the examination room, facing Castiel, not thinking about much but rather letting himself relax under the gentle touches of the ever warm hands. Chest, back, throat, stomach, sometimes a reassuring press on his thigh; a soothing dance over his body. 

Castiel hummed. “I know.” 

“I had hoped that... that maybe I would be on the way of recovery by now.” Castiel looked at him and frowned. 

“I know,” he repeated. “Me too. You are not responding as I was hoping for to the treatment. But we must keep going. You have gained weight, that's something.” 

“Just losing muscles and gaining fat,” Dean grumbled. Castiel half-smiled in his usual way. 

“What I would like to get rid of is this crackling rale in your right lung. You know I wouldn't lie to you, Dean; I don't prescribe treatments just to pass the time, either. You must follow my prescriptions, if you want your health to improve. Are you sure you're getting enough rest? I know some patients organize... distractions at night sometimes. It wouldn't be reasonable for you to engage in them.” 

Dean was surprised Castiel had even heard about that. Yes, he had been playing cards after curfew sometimes with Charlie and several of the younger patients – Garth and Ash were the most regular. They were a fun gang, and their company was one of the few things he was enjoying here. Crowley was a nosy pain-in-the-ass most of the time and he didn't see Sam nearly enough for his taste. 

Dean would have liked to meet up more often with Castiel, but he was very busy all week – he actually worked, Dean thought bitterly, while he himself was some sort of parasite now that he couldn't do his job. The weekly visits were always too short and Dean caught himself making mental lists of what he intended to ask when he was reading during the long hours of open-air treatment. Castiel always took extra time to talk to Dean when they were back in his office after the examination, and he looked apologetic when he caught sight of the clock and told him that he had to receive another patient. Outside of these Thursday conversations, they were only able to exchange a few words, even if they did see each other once or twice a day. 

Now, Castiel looked not only worried about the possibility that Dean was endangering his health by staying up at night, but also almost angry. 

“Sorry, doc,” Dean said, “it's only a few card games. We're not exhausting ourselves, I promise.” His smile was a bit sarcastic, as he wondered what Castiel had imagined. 

“Oh.” Castiel looked puzzled. “Are... do ladies play cards?” 

“Ladies? No, there's only Charlie – Miss Bradbury. She's a good chaperone” Dean smiled fondly. He didn't think of Charlie as a lady – not that she didn't deserve all his respect. She was by far the best player in their little gatherings. 

Looking up, Dean was shocked to see a clearly relieved expression on Castiel's face. Something dawned on him. “Did you think we... you know what, never mind.” He felt himself blush. “I'll try to rest more, okay, doc?” He didn't know why he felt compelled to justify himself to his doctor, but somehow he couln't stand the thought that Castiel would have a bad opinion of him. Castiel straightened. 

“I apologize; I shouldn't have listened to rumors. I... have never doubted your morals. I hope you'll forgive me.” 

Dean shrugged. “No harm done, doc.” 

“Please...” 

Dean knew at once what he was going to ask, so he corrected himself. 

“Castiel. Sorry.” 

They looked at each other. It had become familiar somehow, to stare into Castiel's eyes like that, for longer than he had ever done with anyone else. Dean was trying not to think too much about what it meant, as he was trying not to think about his illness, but it was becoming harder and harder because most of the time he could do nothing but think. His old life felt unreachable, Sammy slipping slowly away... Castiel oddly seemed like the only tangible thing in this other-worldly universe. 

Castiel let out an small sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath. He told Dean to put his clothes back on. He didn’t wash his hands. 

*** 

Halloween was approaching quickly. Traditional festivities were celebrated at Waverly Hills just like everywhere else, and the patients, like the staff, were putting the final touch to their costumes for the party that would take place two days later, on the 31st of October. But Dean was preoccupied by real supernatural threats rather than imaginary ones. 

The electrical incidents had occurred at a worrying frequency in the last two weeks, especially on the second floor, in the halls as well as in the dining-room. The weather was changing slowly, and Dean was grateful that Sam had insisted on buying the green blanket (not that he had told his brother). He had learned how to position the covers during the long hours on the sunporch so that his body would be protected from the chilly wind that blew over the hill. But the colder weather couldn’t explain the sudden changes in temperatures in the building. Dean had even sensed a cold draft on his shoulders last Thursday during his medical exam, one that had made his hairs stand on end – and Castiel’s office was always comfortably heated. 

Dean had finally told his brother about it, and Sam was worried enough that he had provided a silver knife, a pack of salt and a small bottle of holy water; better safe than sorry, he’d said. 

Sam had hunted occasionally since Dean had entered the sanatorium, but he had arranged his schedule to be able to visit Dean three times a week. He had only missed one day, when his landlady, Mrs. Mills, had had an emergency with her boiler. Sam had slipped a few times and Dean was pretty sure that his brother was on a first name basis with her now, and he was happy that Sammy had at least someone friendly in his daily life while he was locked here. 

And who knew how long it was going to be. For all he knew, Sam would have time to marry and father a pair of kids before Dean would be able to get out – if he got out alive. He knew TB had a good hold on him and wasn't ready to let go. He still had terrible coughing fits that left him sweaty and panting. And even if he was accustomed to seeing his pale face in the mirror, he never lingered too much in front of it. He didn't have to look pretty for anyone, anyway. Some of the ladies hovered around him at lunch or during the few Sunday entertainment afternoons in the common room. But he wasn't interested. He told himself that Castiel's attitude the other day when he had assumed and almost accused Dean of promiscuity had nothing to do with it. 

That evening, two days before Halloween, Dean went to bed early, like most of the patients. People were saving their strength for the Halloween party, and the weather was chilly enough that no one was willing to wander the halls after the curfew for a card game or a drink. 

Sleep came easily enough, but after what felt like a short time of unconsciousness, Dean woke up with a start. Crowley was still snoring on the other side of the curtain. Dean checked his watch: 11:20pm. He had slept for an hour and a half. Something had woken him though, and he listened carefully. The curtains moved with one of those drafts, seemingly coming from nowhere. He decided to check the hall, got up and put his slippers on; he didn't bother with a bathrobe, as he wasn't planning on going very far. His stripped pajamas were warm enough, but he shivered nonetheless when he opened the bedroom door and checked on the right – nothing. The security light above the nurses' room was flickering silently, but there was no one to be seen. 

And then, when he turned to the left... he saw it. He had known for some time that it had to be a ghost, and yet, he jumped when he caught sight of the white, foggy figure disappearing through the door that led to the main stairs. He couldn't say if it was a man or a woman, but he didn't think twice: he closed his door carefully and rushed toward the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. 

Dean took the stairs two by two, following the cold that spread along the ghost's way. The door to the second floor fell closed. When he opened it, he saw the pale silhouette disappear through a door down the hall, on the left. 

“Shit, shit”, he breathed, running towards it. He was already out of breath, just from the two flights of stairs he had taken down. Still two doors away from the room, he heard a muffled sound that sounded like a curse. He reached the door and slammed it open, and came face to face with Castiel. There was no sign of the ghost except from the deep chill that had the doctor shivering slightly. He was holding a wrought iron poker. 

“Dean! You should be in bed!” 

“No time for that! You... did you see it? Castiel, it was a ghost, there's not really time to explain...” 

“I know. The iron repelled her for now but she's coming back, I guess. She tried to attack me.” 

Dean blinked at Castiel in the dark, trying to process what he’d just heard. This wasn’t how a civilian – however well-read and informed on supernatural lore – usually reacted to a ghost attack. This cool-blooded determination. The use of iron. It was surprising to not have to calm Castiel down, to help him focus on what was to be done and save the panicking and soul-questioning for later, as he had done so many times for so many regular folks confronted to monsters for the first time. But Castiel didn’t need any of that. He was ready for the hunt. So Dean switched to another mode : he was with somebody like him, somebody who knew, and somebody who fought. 

“She?” he repeated. “Do you know who she was?” 

“Yes. Her name was Bela Talbot. She died in July. She... she was one of my first patients here.” He swallowed visibly. “What I don't understand is that she was cremated. She was a British citizen and her ashes were sent back to her country.” 

“Can you think of something that could tie her to this place? Physical remains?” 

Castiel seemed to think, hesitated for a beat. “Maybe... I know the laboratory staff sometimes keeps blood samples, maybe sputum too...” 

“Charlie!” Dean exclaimed, “Miss Bradbury, she'll know. We can trust her.” 

“I'll go find her, then. She lives in the nurses building, just a bit farther in the park.” 

“I'm coming with you.” 

“No way, you can't go outside, it's way too cold! You shouldn't even be up at this hour!” 

“I won't let you wander alone in the park with this rogue ghost who apparently has a grudge against you lurking around. Let's go!” 

“At least put on some shoes and something warmer,” Castiel said, handing Dean a spare pair of boots and a wooly black coat. He himself put on a tan trench-coat. Dean slipped into the coat and the boots. “Come on, now!” 

They took the stairs down to the great hall and Castiel lead Dean through a smaller door on the back, which he had a key to. Soon they were out on the parking lot, crossing it quickly, their breath transforming into a light fog in front of them. Dean knew he was unable to straight out run, and Castiel didn't push him, but they walked rapidly side by side, cutting thought the woods. They could see the light from the nurses building a few yards ahead. When they arrived in front of it, Dean pushed Castiel toward the door: “Go, I can't enter, it would seem too weird. Come back with Charlie, I'll talk to her.” 

“Be careful, I'll be as quick as possible,” Castiel told him before entering the building. 

When he found himself alone, Dean scanned the dark woods. He thought he saw a light silhouette float behind the trees, but nothing more. Soon, Castiel walked out with Charlie, who looked like she'd been woken up and had dressed up in a hurry. Her hair was down, and it was surprisingly long. When she saw who was standing outside the front porch, her eyes widened. 

“Dean? Wha...” 

“Charlie, it's an emergency, okay? You know the doc wouldn't have let me go out if it wasn't the case. Do you trust me?” She stared him right in the face. 

“Yes, I trust you. Although I still don't think it's a good idea for you to be out in the cold,” she scolded. 

“Okay; this might seem weird, but do you keep blood and sputum samples from dead patients? And would you know where they are and to whom they belong?” Charlie looked a little outraged. 

“Of course I would know; my lab is well organized, thank you very much.” 

“So we need you to come with us and see if you have some from a lady Bela Talbot, who passed away in July. Then when we find them, we need to burn them.” Dean was expecting Charlie to ask questions or even protest, but she merely met his eyes for a second, and nodded. “Let's go, then.” 

The walk back to the main building was uneventful but when they reached the hall, Dean was panting and he was hearing his blood rush against his eardrums. Good thing the laboratory was on the first floor, and they didn't waste time to reach it, only stopping to grab the poker Castiel had left in a corner at the bottom of the stairs. As soon as Castiel had locked the door behind them, and Charlie was rummaging through the glass cabinet to find the samples, the temperature dropped several degrees all of a sudden. Dean turned around sharply, holding a salt shaker like a weapon. The ghost appeared mere inches from Castiel, and she looked terrifying. 

She must have been a beautiful young woman, but her ghost sported the signs of the disease that had taken her life: she was so skinny it bordered on skeletal, her face was white with almost black circles around the eyes and a trickle of blood ran down her chin from the corner of her mouth. But the most terrible sight was her chest, which was caving in on the right upper side, making her shoulder dip unnaturally. 

Dean barely had time to reflect on her appearance; Charlie casted a glance above her shoulder and let out a cry before turning back to her task while muttering hysterically “Talbot, Talbot, it should be here, who messed up my alphabetical order!” 

Bela Talbot didn't mind her, though; she went straight for Castiel, seized him by the throat with inhuman strength and pushed him against and up the opposite wall. The poker fell on the floor with a sharp metallic noise. Dean leaped ahead, not even questioning his physical state, seized the poker and swung it like a golf club, catching Bela in the legs. She vanished in a fog just when Charlie cried out “I've got it! There's just blood!” 

Dean stuffed his hand into his pocket, fumbling for his lighter, and threw it to Charlie as Bela made a new appearance next to Castiel. “Burn it! Now!” 

In the few minutes while Charlie threw the small glass tubes in a metallic dish and fumbled with the lighter, the ghost managed to pin Castiel against the wall again by the throat, holding Dean back with her other hand. Castiel’s face was turning blue. Time was slow, sluggish like dark blood – Dean heard himself cry: “Charlie! Please!” and the ghost suddenly caught fire and went up in smoke, vanishing. 

Castiel fell down in a lump, sliding along the wall. Dean was already on him, his hands on his chest, his cheeks, not daring to touch the red marks on his neck. 

“Castiel? Cas! You okay? Come on, Cas!” Blood was rushing in his ears and it was all he heard, along with his own wheezing breath – he couldn’t hear enough to make sure if Castiel was breathing too. 

A hand touched his shoulder and Charlie, very pale, pushed him aside and checked on Castiel. 

“He’s okay, Dean. Look, he’s coming to.” 

Castiel’s eyes fluttered open and he immediately sat up, locking eyes with Dean. 

“Is she…?” His voice was hoarse. 

“Yeah, she’s gone, it’s over. How do you feel?” 

Castiel croaked: “I’ll be alright. Miss Bradbury, how are you?” 

Charlie had sat on the floor. She looked shaken.  

“Well, Dr Novak,” she said, “I'm not going to lie: as a scientist who had just discovered that ghosts are real, I have to admit my system of beliefs is just a tiny bit disturbed. But then, her existence was apparently tied to bodily fluids, so I guess I'll run with that. I might destroy my collection in the morning. Or not. I don't know yet.” She looked distressfully at the cabinets where all her precious samples were kept, and stood up. “Right now, I probably need to go to sleep so I can pretend that it was all a bad dream.” 

Castiel was standing up too, with Dean's help – they actually were leaning on each other more than anything else. 

“I'll walk you back,” Castiel said. But Charlie shook her head. 

“Oh no, you're going to walk this one” – she nodded in Dean's direction – “to his bed. I know the way out.” She hesitated. Dean muttered sheepishly, “He knows.”  

“Yeah, so it's not like I'm not taking that path twice a week at night, is it? Good night, gentlemen.” She saluted with two fingers on the side of her head, and left. 

“She'll be alright. Charlie's a queen,” he said with a fond smile. 

He looked at Castiel, who was watching him and swallowed around his sore throat before saying carefully:  

“So... I guess we have things to discuss.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

“Let's go back to my apartment, then. I'll make some tea.” 

Castiel led Dean back to the second floor room where the ghost had attacked him the first time. Dean hadn't had time to really see the place, so when he entered, he looked around curiously. It was a room identical to the one he shared with Crowley, but furnished like a real apartment, and it lacked the medical feel of the bare tiles or the plastic curtains. Bookshelves lined the walls, there was a soft carpet on the floor and a quilt on the bed. 

“I didn't know you lived in the main building,” Dean remarked. 

“Yes, I find it easier than to have to go back to another place every night. And it would seem like a waste to occupy an entire house by myself anyway.” 

Dean had known that Castiel was a bachelor since the first day, courtesy of Crowley, but he'd never imagined that he was sleeping two floors below him every night. 

Castiel helped Dean slip out of the coat he was still wearing and said: “You get into bed, I'll make tea and we can talk before you go back to your room.” Dean's eyes widened. 

“No, it's okay, I don't need to... I'm gonna sit over there.” He pointed to a chair in a corner. The idea of climbing into Castiel's bed made heat creep up his cheeks.  

But Castiel was having none of it. He used his stern doctor's voice to reply: “Dean, you were completely out of breath earlier, and I don't think this little run in the cold was ideal for your condition. So either you get into that bed and lie down, or I'll walk you to your room right now and maybe I'll hand your file to another doctor.” 

Dean didn't feel like he had much choice, so he toed off the boots Castiel had lent him and climbed into bed. The sheets were soft and Dean realized with a pang that Castiel's scent was familiar and comforting, from the time they spent in front of each other during the weekly medical exams. After a few minutes, his body relaxed and he felt a sore throb in his muscles and deep in his chest. He watched Castiel busy himself putting water to boil on a small stove. Dean had never seen him without his white coat or a jacket and a tie. Like this, socked-feet on the carpet in his shirtsleeves, he looked younger. 

When the two cups of tea with milk and sugar were ready, Castiel moved a chair close to the bed. Dean sat back upright and leaned against the headboard. 

“Are you a hunter?” Castiel asked. Dean was relieved he had chosen to be direct. 

“Yes. Are you?” He was still confused about Castiel. He didn't have the hunter vibe, and yet, he obviously was part of this world in one way or another. 

“I'm a Man of Letters.”  

Dean gasped. He had heard rumors about a secret organization with this name, but even Bobby believed it was just that: a rumor, some sort of legend or maybe something that had briefly existed a long time ago. 

“I... I never thought it existed! Really? You know about hunters, then?” 

Castiel looked a bit embarrassed, but he replied anyway. 

“The Men of Letters know about hunters, yes, but we don't... hold them in high esteem. Men of Letters don't like to get their hands dirty, so to speak. I don't always approve of this elitism, and I was proven tonight that Men of Letters and hunters can work together and complete each other.” He lowered his eyes into his teacup. “I wouldn't be alive if you hadn't been here.” 

Dean didn't want to dwell on that – even less to imagine that Castiel could have been gravely injured or worse – so he asked: “You said she was a patient of yours?” 

Castiel's face fell and he got up, going to the window. 

“She was, and it's my fault that she died and suffered so much. Hann... other members of the staff thought that her condition was desperate, and maybe it was, but they wanted to try a last surgical move – a thoracoplasty. It's consists in the removal of several ribs, to help the lung deflate and rest. I don't believe in it, for me it's something from another era. It has terrible after-effects and the survival rate is so low it's basically murder. But there have also been a few miracles – patients recovered, even if they were mutilated. I spoke against it for Bela Talbot, but I was new here at the time, and I didn't want to insist too much. So I accepted defeat, although I refused to perform the intervention. But the results were what I had feared. She died after two weeks of terrible suffering.” His voice broke. “I understand that she wanted to take revenge on me. I deserve it.” 

Dean made a move at that, almost involuntary, to get up and go to Castiel.  

“Cas, it's not your fault! As you said, you neither took the decision nor did the operation. And she would have died anyway...” 

Castiel turned to face him again and walked up to the bed, holding up a hand to stop Dean from getting up. He sighed deeply and sat on the edge of the mattress next to Dean. 

“Maybe you're right. But I feel guilty for every single patient who gets worse or dies on my watch. It shouldn't happen.”  

Suddenly, he seemed to remember something.

“What did you call me? You already called me that earlier, when I was half passed out, didn't you?” His tone was almost eager. Dean rewound the conversation in his head. 

“Oh, I'm sorry! I'm used to shorten everyone's name, but if you don't like it, I won't do it again.” 

Castiel cut him short. “No!” He lowered his voice, looking bashful. “I like it. I've... never had a nickname like that before.” 

The idea of being the first and only one to call him 'Cas' made Dean both happy and sad. Had Castiel never been close enough to anyone to warrant the use of a nickname? Dean wanted to know about Cas' youth, his family, but he didn't dare ask. Instead, he oriented the conversation once again on the Men of Letters' organization, their work and their studies. Soon, he and Castiel were talking animatedly about all their shared interests, leaning toward each other, forgetting about the hour. 

Dean tried to ignore the shivers that coursed through his spine, and the pain in his chest when he breathed. He didn't want to worry Castiel or to be sent to his own bed. But Castiel caught on it. 

“You're shivering. Is it the fever again? Let me take your pulse.” 

He took Dean's hand in both his, and put two fingers against the inside of his wrist. It felt a bit pointless to do this, as Dean knew his pulse was going to be elevated anyway, just because they were so close, sitting on the same bed in the dead of night. But he couldn't say that, so instead he blurted: “Can I ask you a personal question?” 

“Of course.” Castiel was focused on his count and his eyes were lowered, but when he heard the question, his head snapped up and he locked eyes with Dean. 

“Why aren't you married?” 

There was no mistaking what the question really was, and Dean was almost light-headed that he had gone there just like that, maybe because he could feel Castiel's thigh resting against his and it seemed right.  

But now it was said, and he didn't elaborate further, waiting, hoping that Castiel knew he would welcome an honest answer. 

"I wouldn't want a woman to become my wife, to put her trust in me... only to have me lie to her every day." 

Dean's heart was hammering now, but he ignored it. 

“Lie about what? Being a Man of Letters?” 

“That too, yes.” 

They just looked at each other. Dean's hand was still in Castiel's, and all he had to do was squeeze it gently. Something started blooming inside Dean's chest, something warm and probably blue. And he wanted to let it grow and expanse, but TB was already rooted in his lungs and it wasn't going to give way so easily; so it bit back in the form of a sudden cough. 

Dean hunched forward; the cough was tearing his lungs apart, wrecking him. He was used to it now, but it didn't make it any better. Castiel seized him by the shoulders, and tried to pull Dean to him, murmuring blatant lies like “It's okay, Dean, you'll be okay, just breathe.” And Dean was both trying to push Castiel away from his utterly useless, sick, disgusting body, and clinging to his forearm like it was his only salvation. 

When the coughing fit started to calm down, leaving him dizzy, he forced his breath into a calm rhythm, regaining a bit of steadiness, before realizing that Castiel had circled him into his arms. He let himself fall forward, gently, let himself be caught into that embrace, resting his full weight against the solid hold of Castiel’s body. His head rested on Castiel's shoulder like it belonged there. Castiel was carding his fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck. Dean let out a shivering sigh, eyes closed. Castiel was pulling him even closer, even tighter. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held so tight. This was the safest he'd felt in forever, and when Castiel pressed a kiss to his temple, he knew he couldn't do this. 

He flinched, pushing Castiel away. “No!” was all he could utter at the moment, his voice still hoarse.  

Castiel's eyes widened with shock, then he straightened up, his features going stony. 

“I am very sorry, I misjudged... It won't happen again.” He averted his eyes, refusing to meet Dean's, backing away from him. An icy feeling coursed through Dean's back, worse than the cold drafts the ghost of Bela Talbot had brought. He couldn't stop his hand from finding Castiel's again. 

“No, it's not like that. No misunderstanding. But I'm sick, Cas. I may be dying in a few weeks, and I can't be here in your bed – in your bed, goddammit, spraying bacilli all around, maybe contaminating you!” He was so mad at himself for letting this happen, for daring to hope for... something, maybe something softer and brighter than his future had ever been. “What if you catch TB because of me?” he asked, looking at Castiel with pleading eyes. He wanted him to understand. 

Castiel responded with a burning look.  

“You won't die, you're going to live and I will be the one to cure you. Do you hear me? And don't worry about me. I have a three inches long scar on the back of my left lung. I had a primary infection when I was young, so I'm immune. If TB was to restart in my body, it would be in a spontaneous process, not from contagion.” 

Dean scrutinized his face, trying to assess his sincerity. Castiel added:  

“Do you trust me?”  

Dean simply nodded. He felt like he was falling and was certain that someone was going to catch him. It was like finally letting go. 

Castiel leaned forward and gently pressed his lips on Dean's. The kiss was chaste, close-mouthed but burning a seal there, like a promise. Dean was surrounded by Castiel's presence, his warmth, the scent of him, and he reveled in it, in the protective sense that emanated from him. The sickness wasn't a barrier between them anymore, it was a common enemy that they could fight together, like they had fought and vanquished the ghost.

Castiel broke the kiss very slowly, his lips lingering ever so lightly on Dean's, barely a real touch, and he rested his forehead against Dean's. They stayed there for a while, breathing together.

“You do have a fever again, though,” Castiel said with a smile. “And it's very late. I think you should follow your doctor's advice and go get some rest.”  

Dean was out of words; his heart was swelling and his head spinning, but in a good way, because he knew Cas would be here to steady him now. He forced himself to come back to reality, squeezing Castiel's fingers in his, making sure he was there, flesh and bones and shiny blue eyes. 

Dean was sure his own bed was going to be cold and Crowley's snores more annoying than ever, but he also knew he couldn't be found in Castiel's bed by morning. He got up reluctantly, trying not to imagine how it would be to stay between the soft sheets, to rest here in Castiel's arms, safe from everything.  

Together they took the stairs and the corridors to Dean's room. They didn't talk much, but Dean realized when they arrived in front of his door that they'd been holding hands all the way. The bright and warm feeling was still blooming behind his solar plexus. 

Castiel briefly cupped Dean's cheek with his palm. The hall was deserted and the whole building seemed quiet, but the nurse on duty could come out of her office to make her rounds. Dean realized sadly that they were always going to have to be careful, and it started now. 

“Goodnight, Dean.” Castiel paused, as if considering words. His eyes were speaking for him anyway. But he only whispered: “I'll see you tomorrow.” Dean opened his door slightly, his hand staying on the doorknob. 

“Goodnight, Cas.” He waited for Castiel to disappear on the stairs, then entered the room. It was quiet, as was his mind. 

*** 

In the morning, when the nurse walked into room 424, the patient Dean Winchester couldn't take his thermometer himself on his nightstand. He was burning with fever, his breathing shallow and wheezing. Mr. Crowley insisted in a harsh tone that she called Dr Novak at once, and he watched her go with a somber expression on his face. 

Chapter Text

Castiel was buttoning his white coat in front of the mirror in his private bathroom, but he wasn’t paying attention to his reflection. A steady litany had settled in his mind for the whole night – Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean – making him sleep rather poorly, but he didn’t mind. At thirty-three, having known from his teenage years that he had preferences that were disapproved by society, and now being a member of a secret organization, he had renounced the hope of finding a romantic partner, someone who could share his secrets – there were too many of them. He would remain alone and dedicate his life to his patients and to finding ways to help humanity. He had made his peace with that. And now… he had seen glimpses of something possible, different and bright. His brain was telling him to be careful, that so many things could take a turn for the worse, and he knew it, but at the moment, all he could think about was Dean’s warmth wrapped in his arms.

A knock resonated on the door. He wasn’t late for the staff meeting and he frowned as he went to answer. A young nurse – Miss Milton, he remembered – stood in front of his door.

“Dr Novak, I’m sorry to bother you, but one of your patients is not well this morning. I thought you should know.”

Something ominous settled in the pit of Castiel’s stomach. He ignored it.

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Winchester. He has a high fever and couldn't get out of bed.”

“Lead the way,” he said in a haze, closing the door behind him. The internal litany of Dean-Dean-Dean sped up along with his heartbeat. Of course something had gone wrong; of course, people like him were not allowed to have good things, and on top of that, they were forced to watch the consequences of their own selfishness impact the ones they cared about. That was the only thing they deserved, no matter how hard they were trying to help.

He entered the room and his eyes fell on Dean's face, pale with red blotches on the cheekbones. He pushed down the wave of desperation that was threatening to drown him from the inside, and asked shortly: “Miss, bring me some aspirin, a basin and a towel. Then finish your tour. You can come back after.”

She went out, but Castiel wasn't paying attention to her anymore, even when she came back and efficiently disposed the basin on the nightstand.

Dean was asleep, or at least his eyes were closed. Castiel found the thermometer and sat on the edge of the bed, pressing Dean's hand in his, hidden between them, out of sight.

“Dean,” he urged, and the green eyes fluttered open, “Dean, I need you to open your mouth. I want to know how bad your fever is.”

He slipped the thermometer gently between the dry lips, and busied himself wetting the small towel, wiping Dean's brow. He counted the five minutes required to read the temperature. Dean's breath was labored, with an audible wheeze. Castiel took his stethoscope and listened to his lungs while he waited, even if it was not really necessary: he could hear it without his instrument.

Finally he retrieved the thermometer: 102,6°. The first thing he had to do was to break the fever. All the progress that had been made in the last weeks was ruined, and it was his fault. If he'd been able to deal with this ghost sooner, and by himself, Dean wouldn't have been involved, and he would be better now. He didn't want to consider the fact that without what had happened the night before, Dean and him would still ignore that they were from the same world, shared the same occult knowledge; he refused even more to think about the kiss they'd exchanged. If he could have wiped it from his memory, it would have been better for both of them; he couldn't even imagine the pain he would endure if Dean... no. Now wasn't the time to let the fear overcome him. He had to think clearly to help Dean.

Suddenly, he heard a soft noise behind the half-drawn curtain that separated the room in the middle. Crowley. Castiel hadn't even thought about him probably still being in the room at this hour in the morning. He'd been conscious of nothing around him but Dean.

He stood up and opened the curtain entirely. Crowley was sitting in his bed, reclined against two pillows, a book open in his lap – he wasn't reading, but looked up at Castiel.

“Dr Novak,” he said like they were meeting in an elegant restaurant, “I hope you approve of my request that you were informed at once that Mr. Winchester was in a bad condition this morning. After all, you had quite a late night yesterday. I thought you would be more reasonable with your patient's health. I'm not that surprised to see Mr. Winchester with a fever this morning, given that he came back at daybreak.”

Castiel felt an icy shrill down his back. Crowley prided himself on knowing everything about everyone, and he used his knowledge for his own interests. If he was awake when Dean had come back the night before, he would likely draw the right conclusions. Castiel had to put a stop to it right now. He couldn’t afford to deal with blackmail from Crowley, or even just nasty little double-entendre, when he was trying to fight TB and cure Dean. He needed to strike first.

“I can see that you, on the other hand, look quite healthy this morning, Mr. Crowley,” Castiel said dryly. “I think I should bring back the subject of your return to the civilian life with the staff.”

Crowley had self-control, he could only grant him that. Castiel knew, as did several people, that Crowley’s life was at Waverly Hills, and that the only thing he dreaded was having to leave. But almost nothing showed on his face, except for a flash of anger. He just straightened up a bit more in his bed.

“You will do none of that, doc, as I’m sure you don’t want the direction to be bothered with my medical case, or, say, uninteresting stories about inappropriate encounters between staff and patients. Dr Johnson wouldn’t be pleased to work with people of dubious morals, would she? But what she doesn’t know doesn’t hurt her. Or you.”

That was it, then – the cards were on the table.

“I suppose none of us wants to have to leave, then – the status quo is sometimes a good strategy, even medically. Unless you want to move in another room, with a less troubling roommate?”

Castiel asked this last question thinking Crowley would jump on the occasion, but he was surprised to see the other man’s face crumble somewhat before he pulled himself in check. Interesting.

“No need,” Crowley said, “I’ve gotten used to Mr. Winchester. Besides, if I stay in his room, I can… keep an eye on him for you. We don’t want him to get sicker, do we?” That was a strategic move made in an unctuous tone, but there was something else under it. Like Crowley really cared about Dean’s health and sounded… worried? Could he actually feel genuine concern? If that was the case, that was something Castiel could use – be it against Crowley or in favor of Dean, both were good. He felt that things were settled for now and nodded curtly. “Fine.”

Then he turned back toward Dean’s bed, and pulled the curtain close to get Dean out of Crowley’s sight for the time being. Dean needed to take some aspirin at least. Castiel sat down again and ran his fingers over Dean’s brow and cheek. Dean’s eyes opened slowly under the touch. They were shiny and unfocused, but after a few moments his gaze settled on Castiel’s face.

“Cas…” he croaked. “Don’t know when you’ll see me not lying in bed. You must think I’m either very lazy or very easy.” He half-smiled at his own innuendo, but Castiel’s heart contracted.

“Shh, Dean, don’t talk too much,” he said out loud, then mouthed, glancing toward the curtain, “Crowley.” Dean blinked once to express that he’d understood.

“Take these pills. You’ll feel better.”

Castiel helped Dean swallow the medicine with a few gulps of water, which helped too, because his voice was a bit clearer when he talked again. His tone was urgent.

“Cas, you need to call my brother.”

Castiel nodded. “Sam, right?”

“Yes. He lives in town at Mrs. Mills’ guesthouse. You must tell him about…” He hesitated, searching for a way to phrase it without revealing too much to indiscreet ears. “… about Bela. Okay?” Castiel didn’t feel comfortable about that.

“Are you sure? He…”

“He’ll know.” Dean emphasized the word strongly. “He’ll help.”

Castiel nodded. He knew Dean was living with his brother before entering Waverly Hills. They must have worked together. And in any case, he needed to speak with Sam about his brother’s health.

“Today’s Tuesday. Maybe I can see him during visiting time?”

“Yes, he’ll be there.”

“Then I’ll see him before he gets up here to see you. Before that, you must rest, sleep preferably, and eat something.”

This time, it was Dean who reached out to take Castiel's hand.

“You... have to go already?” he asked in a small voice.

Castiel wanted to say that his only wish right now was to take Dean in his room and lie down with him until he got better. He tried to convey it by stroking his thumb along Dean's.

“There is a staff meeting this morning that I need to attend, but I'll come back as soon as I can.”

Dean swallowed and nodded before closing his eyes slowly. He didn't let go of Cas' hand, and Castiel had to force himself to release Dean's and gently put it on the blanket. He had learned a lot about Dean since his admission at Waverly Hills; he was strong and proud and hated to depend on anyone. Seeing him in such a weak state, almost needy, was painful and made Castiel's heart swell at the same time. Dean needed him and his defenses were down enough that he actually asked for it.

Castiel didn't want to leave him, but he got up anyway, and opened the curtain. Crowley was still sitting in his bed, his face unreadable when he looked at Castiel, and when he spoke, his tone was restrained but determined.

“I will have you called if anything changes.”

“Thank you.” Castiel didn't want to trust Crowley, but he had little choice; they were in this together, even if it was merely by threatening each other's pressure point.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer , Castiel thought when he closed the door.

***

Castiel was sitting at his desk when he heard a knock on his office door. He had asked the receptionist to bring in Mr. Winchester’s brother here when he arrived. When he opened the door, he greeted “Sam” at the same time Sam said “Dr Novak”, and Castiel cringed at his own stupidity. He had practiced the conversation they needed to have, and had forgotten that he wasn't in a position where he could adress Dean’s brother by his first name. But either Sam hadn’t caught it, or he had more pressing worries, because he simply entered and asked, as soon as Castiel had closed the door:

“Is Dean okay?”

Castiel had anticipated that there wouldn’t be much small talk, and had braced himself for that. No need to waver now.

“His health has deteriorated since your last visit, but he isn’t in immediate danger. He woke up with a high fever this morning. You can see him later, but I needed to talk to you first, at Dean’s request.”

Sam had clenched his jaw, but he said: “I’m listening.”

“Something happened yesterday, something in relation with… your profession. And mine.”

Sam kept an impassive expression, but his attention was fully focused on Castiel, who continued bluntly:

“Dean and I chased and killed a ghost last night. We had no choice but to go out in the cold, and as I had feared, it didn’t help Dean’s condition.”

Sam leaned forward at the other side of the desk.

“Are you…”

“No, I’m not a hunter; I’m a Man of Letters.”

Sam’s eyes widened in the same way Dean’s had the night before.

“Oh! I didn’t think…” Cas interrupted him again.

“The organization is good at keeping its secrets, and I am not supposed to reveal them. But your brother saved my life yesterday, and I intend to do the same for him now. We need to collaborate to find a way – any way – to cure him.”

“But, as a Man of Letters, don’t you already know more secrets than basically anyone?”

“I was initiated quite recently, and I’ve always stuck to science as my profession. The recent discoveries are promising. But I feel that there is no time left to wait. If something, any solution, can be found in the other field, I – we need to look for it. Men of Letters have always refused to work with hunters as equals; they’ve used them as tools at best. This segregation, in my opinion, has slowed the progress we could have made by working together. If you’re ready to trust me, we can hopefully save your brother and change our organizations for the better.”

Castiel looked at Sam pleadingly. He hoped Sam would understand without asking the obvious question: why did Cas care so much about this particular patient that he was ready to challenge his organization’s orders? The fact that Dean has saved his life would have to be enough for now. The whole truth wasn’t Castiel’s to reveal.

Sam, after a short silence, nodded solemnly.

“I’m in, of course I’m in. What can I do?”

“I can provide documentation from the Men of Letters headquarters. I’ve already thought of a few books that could be sent to me. Can you read Greek and Latin?” Sam nodded. “Perfect. We should meet every time you come to visit Dean, to discuss what we’ve found.”

They kept talking about what their research would entail; Sam asked questions about the Men of Letters, and explained Bobby’s role in the hunters’ community. Castiel made him promise not to reveal anything he learned, as Castiel was already taking risks by giving away his identity to both the Winchester brothers.

Finally, Castiel stood.

“We should go see Dean, now. And please, call me Castiel,” he added, extending his hand for Sam to shake.

“And you call me Sam.”

Castiel thought briefly that Sam was a good man to have by one’s side. He didn’t know if he meant for Dean or for himself.

***

Castiel entered the room without knocking. He knew that at this hour, Crowley was on the balcony for the open-air cure, and he didn’t want to wake Dean if he was asleep.

The room was cold, as the window had been opened to let the patient benefit from the fresh air even if he couldn’t go out. Dean’s breath was clearly audible, the rasping sound making Castiel’s throat constrict. Dean’s eyes were closed. Castiel looked at Sam, waiting for him to go to the bed, but he wasn’t moving, taking in his brother’s pallor and the wheezing from his lungs.

Castiel moved forward, leaning over Dean, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Dean…” Dean startled and opened his eyes. As soon as he recognized Castiel, he seized his hand.

“Cas…” Castiel tensed.

“Dean, Sam is here to see you. I’m going to let you two talk.” He tried to withdraw his hand, but Dean didn’t let go.

“Stay a bit, please? Heya, Sammy,” he said, looking around Castiel to find Sam.

“Hey Dean, how are you, man?” Sam’s eyes flicked briefly to their clasped hands, but didn’t linger. Castiel felt himself blush anyway. Dean's low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“Ah, I’d serve you the usual I’m fine bullshit, but you have eyes, so… Cas has talked to you, right?”

Sam sat on the bed. Dean pressed Cas’ hand before finally releasing it, and Castiel took two steps back, leaning against the table.

“Yes, Castiel told me everything about the ghost and his… affiliation. We’re going to research together until we find a way to help you.”

“Yeah, you do that. Because I’m sick of this son-of-a-bitch of a disease, pun totally intended.” Sam smiled weakly.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

“I’ll manage,” Dean said, pursing his lips. Castiel frowned at that.

“I can give you something if you’re hurting, Dean. We’re not entirely powerless, fortunately.”

Dean looked at him, his expression soft.

“I’ll tell you if it becomes too much. But I don’t want to be dazed, you know? I want to be able to follow your progress, and participate if I can.”

“Of course. I’ll dose the treatment myself. I… don’t want you to suffer uselessly.”

What Castiel couldn't say was that the very idea of Dean suffering was twisting his insides. They looked into each other's eyes, holding back what they wanted to say and do.

“Sammy,” Dean said, and only then he broke eye-contact with Castiel to look at his brother, “I trust Cas with my life. Just thought you should know that.”

Sam looked back at Dean, searching something in his eyes that he finally found, because he answered: “Yeah. I get that. I'm glad, Dean.”

Castiel wasn't sure what had passed between the brothers, but none of them dwelled on it. He chose to focus his thoughts on what Dean had said: he trusted him fully, and Castiel felt that trust like Dean's weight against his chest the night before. Now that he was allowed to cherish it, he wouldn't lose it to TB. Not without a fight.

***

Telegram from Sam Winchester, Louisville, KY

To Bobby Singer, Sioux Falls, SD

Dean unwell but no worries - - Time to second science with our own research - - Please start looking in lore - - letter follows - - Sam

Chapter Text

To Mr Larry Ganem

Men of Letters headquarters

Lebanon, Kansas

Waverly Hills Sanatorium

Louisville, Kentucky

The 31 ^st of October 1951

Dear Larry,

I have a lot to report, and some requests to make. I know you trusted my judgement in the past, and I value your advice; I hope you will approve of my behavior in the current situation.

As I suspected, the supernatural activity in the sanatorium was caused by a ghost. I was prepared, but I couldn’t find any indication of its identity before it tried to attack me two nights ago. It was strong, corporeal and aggressive, considering the short span of its afterlife: it turned out to be the manifestation of a woman who had died less than four months ago. I think the circumstances of her death might have accelerated the process – I will have to concentrate my future research on this hypothesis.

I quickly found out that the laboratory had kept blood samples from this patient, and the spirit returned to its legitimate dimension when the samples were burned.

Unfortunately, two persons were involved in the incident; a patient and a lab technician. The technician is a young woman of great intelligence; she was affected, as one should expect, by the event, but she understood the necessity of secrecy immediately. I gave her the usual explanation that ghosts are caused by energy lingering in the physical plane. I trust her to remain level-headed about it all.

As for the patient, circumstances are different and something I couldn’t have anticipated in any way: this man is a hunter. He was already aware of the signs, and helped me get rid of the ghost – actually, he saved me. I admit I was unprepared for this possibility, and had no time to reflect on whether or not it was safe to disclose my true profession. He swore secrecy, and he has gained my trust. I do hope this won’t affect the Men of Letters or my affiliation to them in any negative way.

Now that the most immediate danger has been taken care of, I wish to concentrate my focus on discovering if our occult knowledge could be used to help my more specific medical concerns. I believe my practice could benefit from extensive research in our documentation, to try and find mentions of treatments for phthisis in ancient times.

I am enclosing to this letter a list of books I know are stored in our headquarters’ library. If you would be so kind as to send them to me, and I trust you to add whichever title you will deem relevant.

With all my gratitude

Yours sincerely,

Castiel Novak, M.D.

***

The Halloween party was about to begin. Nearly all the people living in Waverly Hills, the staff and all the patients who were able to get out of bed, were gathering in the great hall. Some of them had chosen traditional Halloween costumes – monsters, ghosts, witches; but others had gone with something more in tune with the sanatorium life: they were dressed in thermometers, spittoons, syringes, temperature sheets. And of course, many had switched their roles: patients were dressed as doctors and nurses, and vice-versa. For one evening, they were able to make fun of their fate and taunt death.

Castiel wasn't in costume, and he didn't plan to go to the party; Dean was still bed-ridden, likely for several weeks, and Castiel wasn't in the mood for entertainment. He walked to the fourth floor office where a nurse had to stay on duty to keep a close watch on the two patients who couldn't attend the party: one of them was Dean, the other one an old man who had undergone surgery three days ago, and had refused to be wheeled downstairs in his bed.

“Good evening, miss, I'm here to replace you tonight; you shouldn't be deprived of the party.”

The nurse stood from her desk.

“Oh, Dr Novak, I don't want you to sacrifice your evening!”

“Don't worry, it's no sacrifice at all; I have work to do and I wasn't planning to attend the party for more than maybe a half-hour. Go, go; I'll make sure the patients are all right and everything is in order.”

She was obviously glad to not have to stay alone in that office all night when all the others were celebrating, and after thanking Castiel profusely, she trotted out and toward the stairs. When she was out of sight, Castiel crossed the corridor and checked the old man's room. The patient was sleeping and would likely do so until the next morning.

Reassured, Castiel walked to Dean's room and entered quietly, not wanting to disturb him if he was resting. But Dean was awake, half sitting in his bed, and pouting. Castiel didn't know why exactly, but as he hadn't been able to tell Dean that he planned to spend the evening with him, he knew he wasn't expected. As soon as Dean saw Castiel, his whole face lit up.

“Cas! Thank God, it's you! I thought it was this stupid nurse who came back to scold me again about not being allowed to read and how I'm going to kill myself if I don't sleep for like 22 hours a day. As if I didn't know I'm sick or something. But the evening is the only time of the day when I feel a bit stronger...” He stopped, smiling and looking at Castiel with eyes too shiny, and added in a softer tone: “You hadn't told me you were coming tonight.”

“I sent the nurse to the party; we’re alone upstairs for a few hours.” Castiel sat on the bed and put his palm on Dean’s brow. Dean had a low fever, nothing too worrying for now, but his cheeks were still a shade too red. Castiel’s hand trailed down one; Dean leaned into it and covered it with his own hand. They looked at each other. Castiel bent his head, magnetized by the plump mouth, but Dean turned his face away. At the same time, he drew Castiel against him, speaking low against Cas’ shoulder.

“I want to… so much… but kissing you would feel like stabbing you in the chest.” He cursed in a restrained voice. “I hate this disease…”

Castiel’s heart was pounding with the desire to throw caution to the wind. He didn’t care about his own health, especially if Dean’s wasn’t improving. But he knew he would have felt the same if their positions had been reversed, and knowing that Dean wanted this just as much as him, and had to restrain himself in the same way, made it a bit easier to wait.

“We are going to fight and win. Together. I wrote to the headquarters to ask them to send books. I won’t rest until you are fully recovered.” He put his arms around Dean’s torso and whispered: “Can I hold you at least? I won’t be in any greater danger than when I examine you.”

While Castiel was talking, Dean was trying to position them in a comfortable way to be hugging; he apparently didn’t want to let go of Castiel to do so, but there was no way to maneuver easily with Castiel sitting on the bed and the covers between them. Dean huffed, annoyed, and pulled back a little to look at Castiel.

“Are you sure no one will come barging in for now?”

Castiel turned toward the door.

“I don’t think so, but I can close the curtain. It would at least keep us out of sight from the door. ”

“Yeah, do that, take off your shoes and come in here with me.”

Castiel drew the curtain closed quickly before untying his shoes and taking off his white coat almost bashfully. He shivered from the cold tiles under his socked feet as well as from the recklessness of what he was about to do. If someone other than Crowley came in (and how twisted was it that the only person he could trust was Crowley), he would lose his job, his reputation, maybe even more. A male doctor found in a patient’s bed, even if all they did was innocent cuddling, would have been in trouble if the patient was a woman – but if it was a man’s bed… they could both be institutionalized or even imprisoned.

In any case, what was bothering him the most was that Dean risked to be expelled from the sanatorium. But even in that dramatic turn of events, they were both protected by their secret lives. If something happened, they would flee together, and he would still be able to take care of Dean. What a miracle it was that they had found each other, Castiel thought as Dean lifted the covers; he climbed into the warmth.

The hospital bed wasn’t designed to fit two grown men, and as soon as Castiel lay down, he was pressed against Dean’s body. He opened his arms and Dean didn’t hesitate. He snuggled against Castiel's chest, snaking an arm around his waist. Dean kept his face pressed against Castiel’s clavicle, and Castiel was glad about it: if he looked into Dean’s eyes, he feared he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from kissing him.

Dean sighed, puffing hot air on Castiel’s skin through his thin shirt.

“Have you… done this before?” Dean asked.

Castiel's hand roamed across Dean’s back and shoulders. The body under his fingers was broad and strong. If TB continued its sinister work inside it, Dean would soon lose his muscles and grow dramatically thinner. Castiel tightened his arms around him.

“Not really. I had a brief intimate relationship with another boy when I was eighteen, and there have been men I… admired very much since. But I stopped hoping for more a long time ago.”

Castiel’s heart was beating so wildly he didn’t know how he managed to keep his voice steady. Dean moved his legs and intertwined their feet.

“You never liked women?”

“Not in that way. What about you?” Castiel dared to ask.

Dean cleared his throat. He was obviously embarrassed but he answered nonetheless.

“I’ve been with my share of ladies, but, you know… I’ve been raised as a hunter. I never thought I could have something serious without endangering the person’s life. And as for men… never even considered it. My father would have killed me. Preferably with his fists.” He swallowed. “He passed four years ago,” he added curtly.

Castiel pressed a kiss on Dean's temple. He smelled like soap and camphor, and the sweet musk of his body, a little too warm from staying in bed all day.

“And now that you can... consider it... what do you want?”

Dean laughed bitterly.

“You mean, if I'm not dead in two months? Maybe that's my father punishing me for having dared to give in to my perverse penchant. And it's not fair that I'm dragging you in this with me. But he always told me I'm a selfish bastard.”

Castiel backed away to look at Dean.

“You're not dragging me anywhere. I want this. The situation and the world around us may be twisted, but you are not.” Dean was staring right back at him. “I want this,” Cas repeated. “You.”

Dean's eyes were shining in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Castiel didn't know if the waves of desperation from not being able to kiss each other were coming from him or from Dean. They slotted their bodies together, chest to chest, legs intertwined, faces hidden in the other's neck, and they hugged tightly, tightly, until there was no space left between them.

Dean mouthed at Castiel's neck, sending shivers down his spine, and Castiel suppressed a moan. It still was not close enough. Castiel's hands found the bottom of Dean's pajama shirt and he slipped his fingers under it, feeling the silky skin of Dean's back. He drew Dean even closer, their hips aligning. They were both hard and when they rubbed together in the embrace, Dean let out a small gasp, before shaking his head against Castiel's shoulder.

“Not now. Not here,” he whispered.

“We have time. I am here with you.” Castiel held back the my love that was threatening to fall out of his lips. They had time for that too.

They slowly relaxed, resting together, enjoying each other's presence. Castiel felt Dean progressively melting into him, his breathing evening.

“Don't fall asleep here,” Dean slurred, already half under the lull of sleep himself.

“I won't.”

Castiel stayed for another hour, holding Dean and marveling at the feeling, and worrying about what the future held for them, but certain that they would face whatever would come together.

Chapter Text

Telegram from Castiel Novak, Waverly Hills sanatorium, KY

To Sam Winchester, Louisville, KY

Monday, November 5 ^th

Will be in town this afternoon - - Would like to see you - - Will stop by at 4 - - Castiel

***

The thick fog wasn’t lifting even now, in the middle of the afternoon. Castiel had borrowed one of the sanatorium’s cars and driven to Louisville central post office to take delivery of the heavy crate of books from the Men of Letters’ headquarters. He hadn’t wanted to send someone else to bring them back, and he’d thought it would be a good opportunity to stop by Sam’s apartment and maybe leave some of the books with him. They needed to split the research if they wanted to make progress.

Since Halloween, Castiel had been too busy to meet Sam when he’d come to visit Dean. He’d also wanted to give them some space, and he still wasn’t entirely comfortable with Sam seeing him and Dean together; he didn’t know what exactly Dean had told his brother about their relationship, and while it was easy enough to act as if Dean was a patient amongst others when there were other people around, he found it harder to disguise his feelings in front of Sam, who knew most of his other secrets.

He parked the car in the quiet street in front of the house Dean had given him the address to. It was a three-story tall, four windows wide building, with a small, well-groomed front yard. He rang the bell and a dark-haired woman of around his own age came to the door. She introduced herself as Ms. Jody Mills, and asked about Mr. Winchester’s brother’s health when she heard he was the doctor from Waverly Hills. His chest constricted when he was unable to give her good news. Dean’s state was stable but not improving; in the last few days, he’d had an almost constant fever. The coughing fits were not too frequent but long and painful, and they left Dean panting and Castiel desperate to find a way to help him.

She knocked on a door on the second floor, and Sam opened, smiling as soon as he saw her. They looked comfortable with one another, exchanging easy small talk before Ms. Mills excused herself and went back downstairs, while Sam let Castiel in.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hey, Castiel, did you find the address without trouble?” Castiel nodded. “And how is Dean?”

“Same. That’s why I wanted to plan our research with you and get started at once.”

Castiel didn’t want to put too much responsibility for Dean’s health on Sam’s shoulders. The possible medical outcomes were already keeping him up at night; he didn’t want Sam to lose sleep as well.

“I’m glad you came, it’s going to be easier to talk about some things,” Sam said, indicating a chair for Castiel to sit. The room was clean and quite comfortable, with a large window, a round table covered in books and papers, and two armchairs in a corner. A door left slightly open led to the bedroom.

Sam sat down at the table across from Castiel.

“So I started putting together what I can gather on my own and the various people we know who have an interest in helping us. We’ve talked to you about Bobby; he’s already been nose-deep in his documentation since Dean came to the sanatorium. So far he’s got nothing, so I’m sure he’d take any suggestion from you so as to where to dig. Now,” and Castiel felt him hesitate, “I’ve taken upon myself to make a call to someone who might have a different approach. His name’s Benny Lafitte, he lives near Bâton-Rouge and he’s a… a voodoo practitioner.”

Castiel frowned at that, but let Sam continue without interrupting.

“We met him several years ago; we were dealing with a case of possession, and at first we thought he had something to do with it, but we were wrong. He helped us. He and Dean got along almost instantly, which was quite surprising in itself.”

“Why?”

“Dean hates witches. I mean, he isn’t fond of any supernatural creatures, but witches are collectively his personal enemy. So I guess voodoo isn’t exactly witchcraft, but they still use similar magic, you know? But Benny stuck with Dean from the beginning, and we try to stop and have a drink with him every time we’re near Louisiana, so I thought it was fair to let him know about Dean’s condition. I talked to him on the phone yesterday, and I asked if he could think of something that would help Dean… He said he’d look into it, maybe try some reverse doll spell…” Sam’s shoulders slumped a little. “He didn’t sound too optimistic though. He’s never tried it himself, but he said many people die of TB in Louisiana, and if there was something really helpful in voodoo, he’d most likely know about it already.”

Castiel looked out the window. He could barely see the building right across the street through the white and cottony fog. He tried to imagine that man, Benny, speaking in a thick southern accent, burning herbs and chanting incantations in the humid heat of the Mississippi estuary. It was a foreign image, and Castiel repressed a peak of jealousy. Of course Dean had friends Castiel had never heard about; he’d travelled a lot across the country, and it was no surprise that other people liked him enough to want to help him.

“Wouldn’t it be better if he came here and saw Dean in person?” he asked, because he wanted Dean to survive, whatever it took. Sam shook his head.

“I told him he was welcome but he said if the spell is useless, physical presence won’t help either. And I think he’s not comfortable leaving his wife alone right now; she’s expecting.” Sam smiled, and relief mixed with shame washed through Castiel.

“We must go on with our research, though. If he said there wasn’t much hope…” Castiel looked at Sam who shrugged, his face showing distress.

“There must be something,” Castiel went on, “he can’t… He must live.” He stopped, fearing his voice would crack if he kept speaking. Sam’s face softened.

“My big brother is strong; he won’t give up easy. Especially now. Don’t worry too much. He… I think he needs you to have faith.”

They looked at each other. Castiel still didn’t know Sam's thoughts on the situation, but he certainly wasn’t hostile. He swiped a hand on his brow, trying to regain some calm.

“I should be the one comforting you.”

Sam smiled, then got up and clasped a hand onto Castiel’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Not sure about that. Let’s get to work. Did you bring some of those rare books with you?”

***

The next Saturday, Castiel was feeling exhausted enough that he decided to go spend his evening in Dean’s room, despite the risks of starting rumors. He’d spent the week burrowed in lore and history books every time he had a few minutes to himself. He’d stayed up every night to research, but so far he had found nothing. Tuberculosis – phthisis, consumption, the white plague, whatever name each era had used for it – had existed since before the first papyrus was written. It seemed that, where there were humans, there was TB too, and every cure imaginable had been tried at least once. The best thing they had so far was still streptomycin, and it was never a one hundred percent success. But sometimes in history, secrets had been discovered and then lost again, and if there was one lying hidden in the old pages of the various manuscripts of the Men of Letters, Castiel needed to find it – he would find it.

Tonight though, he needed a break. He’d barely seen Dean all week, and they’d only been alone together for the medical exam on Thursday. It was the only moment when Dean was allowed to get out of bed and out of his bedroom, and when Castiel had shut his office door behind him, he’d been so relieved he’d practically fallen into Castiel’s arms. Dean had stretched and walked around the space, marveling at the freedom of being out of these “bloody four walls” where he’d been locked in with this “bloody Crowley”. Then he’d had to stop pacing because he was already out of breath, and he’d managed with difficulty to rein a coughing fit in.

Castiel had performed the physical examination with difficulty too. He’d always been careful with and respectful of his patients’ bodies, but he realized now how different it was to stay professional in front of a loved one. Emotions crashed through him as he touched and listened to Dean’s body, offered half-naked on his table while he was standing there in his stupid white coat and tie.

Dean had begun losing weight again, and Castiel wanted to cover his limbs with his own body; he wanted to heal Dean with his bare hands just laid on his chest, like gods and angels did in old legends.

Protectiveness and lust were battling inside him as he tried to force his attention back to concentrate on the task at hand: evaluating the progression of the illness in Dean's organism. He hadn't realized his hands were trembling until Dean had placed his own hand on Castiel's, pressing it against his belly. They'd ended up hugging desperately, Dean still sitting on the edge of the examination table, Castiel standing between his legs. Dean had joked that he hadn't expected to enjoy his medical visits so much, and that at least he hoped that Cas behave more professionaly when he examined Crowley. Laughing together almost eased the terror creeping at the edge of Castiel's consciousness: Dean wasn't getting better.

That had been two days ago, and now Castiel was waiting for the nurse to finish collecting the temperatures on the fourth floor before he could slip into Dean's room without risking that someone would interrupt them – not that he cared that much. Of course, they could do without things becoming more complicated than they already were... but he needed to be with Dean more than he feared the potential consequences. He'd spent the afternoon almost unable to concentrate on any of the cases he'd reviewed with the staff, just because he was craving Dean's presence. That's why he didn't even bother to check if Crowley was in the room before he opened the door and stepped in.

Dean was alone, though, and he was reading in bed, reclined on his pillows. When he saw Castiel, he smiled, looking tired but pleased.

“Look at that, my handsome private doctor has come to check on me,” he teased. “I must be the luckiest lunger in the whole country.”

Castiel felt himself blush as he stepped forward and closed the curtain automatically.

“Hello, Dean,” he said. “If I'm here as your doctor, I should have kept my white coat. Do you want me to go fetch it?” He was wearing a deep-blue knitted cardigan over his shirt and tie – the sanatorium halls were still cold, even without Bela's ghost wandering around anymore.

“No way,” Dean protested. “You could even have lost the tie, it's not like I made a special effort to dress up myself.” He gestured to his usual gray stripped pajamas. “Come here.”

Castiel stood close to the bed.

“What are you reading?”

“Oh, that? It's a crime novel I picked up when the librarian stopped by the other day. There's only so much lore and mythology one can read before having their brains fried up, you know? It distracts me. Actually, I was just reaching the interesting part, but nevermind. How are you?”

Castiel sighed and sat on the bed near Dean's thigh.

“I'm tired of not finding anything relevant yet... I now Sam came up dry, too. But we'll find something,” he added, to convince himself as much as Dean. He didn't want to linger on the subject, so he offered a bit shyly: “Would you like it if I read to you?”

Dean lit up at that, but looked instantly worried.

“Are you staying for a while? Crowley may come back any moment, you know.”

Cas shrugged.

“I don't care about Crowley. And yes, I was planning to spend the evening here, at least until you get tired.” He averted his eyes, blushing again slightly. “I missed you this week.”

“Me too,” Dean said softly, squeezing Castiel's fingers between his. “Make yourself comfortable, then, and Crowley can go to hell.”

He scooted over to the side of the bed, leaving room for Castiel to sit beside him, his back against the pillows. As soon as Cas had changed position, Dean pressed himself against his side, and Castiel automatically lifted his arm and put it around Dean's shoulders. They both sighed in contentment, as if they'd held their breath for a long time, and they chuckled, relieved to see that the other felt the same way.

Castiel took the book, which was opened upside-down on the blanket, in his free hand, and began to read out loud. Dean slid further down, slowly, tucking his ear against Castiel's chest until the deep voice resonated directly into his skull. The wool of Castiel's cardigan was soft under his palm but a bit scratchy against his cheek.

They didn't even hear the door open and close before Crowley lifted the side of the curtain and cleared his throat.

“Aww, what a touching picture,” Crowley cooed in a snarky tone. “Please, don't mind me. I just wonder what you were planning to do if someone other than me had entered the room?”

“Shut up, Crowley,” Dean said, straightening up. “If you don't want to be involved, whatever; I'm sure Cas can find me a single room, and it'll suit me just fine.”

Castiel pressed the shoulder he was still holding onto in a calming gesture. Crowley pursed his lips.

“I completely get that my old and ugly self isn't your first concern, but I thought you'd be a little more protective of the doc's reputation. You may not live long enough to be dishonored and fired, but he likely will, and as it is, I've already had to diffuse two different rumors about his special interest in your case. Frankly, I don't even know why I bother, given that I don't get much anything out of this deal.”

Dean had gone pale at the insinuation that he didn't care about what would happen to Castiel if they were caught together, but Cas didn't give him the chance to speak.

“I am to blame for our carelessness tonight. Thank you for taking care of those rumors. I'm not sure if there's anything more I can do, apart from certifying that you still need treatment here.”

Crowley seemed to have thought about it, though, and he eyed Dean with an almost predatory look.

“Well, maybe Mrs. Butterfly here could share her precious sputum with a poor man in need.”

Dean's eyes went wide. “Eww, I hope you're not suggesting I kiss you or something!” he said indignantly. Crowley shrugged.

“Of course not. I was suggesting we could trade spittoons so that Miss Bradbury would have an early Christmas present in the form of healthy bacilli in my sample.”

Dean looked incredulously at Castiel, who rolled his eyes.

“Well, it won't hurt anyone at this point, I guess.”

Crowley beamed and went to retrieve his small blue bottle from his nightstand.

“There you go; don't let it go to waste. And now, I'll guard your door like a valiant knight. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.” And with a bow, he let the curtain fall again.

“Ugh,” Dean said, disgusted, looking at the blue object on his nightstand. Castiel didn't spare it a second look. He pulled Dean against his chest and had them both lie down again.

“I don't care what people say,” he whispered into Dean's hair. “I'll take care of you, even if I have to leave here.”

“I know, Cas. I know.”

Chapter Text

Knock. Knock. The sound repeated itself, not loud but insistent. There was no reason for this sound to intrude into the blissful peace of sleep. Then another one – the door opening. Castiel jostled awake this time. He'd fallen asleep with the light still on, and he opened his eyes to see Crowley, approaching. What? The mild disorientation ebbed away as soon as he adjusted to the situation, and to Crowley's expression – pale, anxious. His voice sounded strained.

“Doc, wake up.”

“What are you doing here?” Castiel cut in.

“It’s Dean... he woke me up coughing. It wouldn't stop. There's... there's blood.”

Seeing Crowley in his room in the middle of the night, speaking without any trace of irony or smugness, was the most terrifying moment Castiel had ever endured. He was already up, passing Crowley, not even waiting to see if he followed.

The door to their room was still slightly ajar; Castiel pushed it, hurrying towards Dean's bed. He took the scene in in small glimpses, panic clouding his senses.

Dean, sitting on the edge of his mattress. Bare feet on the cold tiles.

A bloodied handkerchief in his hand. Drops of bright red blood on his pajama shirt.

His brow shining with sweat. Red-rimmed eyes. There were also two red spots on the sheet behind him.

A distant part of Castiel's brain supplied that it wasn't a lot of blood; a small hemoptysis, nothing unexpected at this stage of the disease. But Castiel couldn't think as a doctor in that moment, and the strangled “Dean” that passed his lips was full of fear. Green eyes found his, equally terrified.

“You don't have to rush here every time something happens to me,” Dean said, and Castiel had no idea what he was saying, until he went on, “I'm as good as dead anyway. Why bother with me?”

Then Castiel's hands were on Dean's neck, and he didn't even check to see if Crowley had come back or not.

“Don't say that. Never. I won't let you die.” When Dean only swallowed, he growled: “Now, take off this shirt and get your feet on the bed.”

He went into the en-suite bathroom and came back with a wet towel, stopping by the closet to retrieve a clean pajama shirt. The sheets would have to wait until morning to be changed. Dean's torso shone with sweat and he was visibly trembling; Castiel wiped the warm cloth down his shoulders and chest before helping him into the shirt. While Dean buttoned it, Castiel put a hand on his foot and rubbed along the arch. It was icy-cold and Dean looked like he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. His breath was still labored and his skin had never been so pale.

“Get under the covers,” Castiel urged, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. Dean closed his eyes as soon as he lay down. Castiel moved a chair next to the bed and took Dean's hand into his. Dean's eyes fluttered open and he said, with a lopsided smile:

“At least I'll have seen your bedhead once. Your hair is a mess. I like it.” He closed his eyes again and fell asleep within minutes.

Castiel sat there, dumbstruck. Dean. Beautiful, perfect Dean, the best thing that had ever happened to him, so amazing that he still couldn't quite believe he was real – but he was, as real as the blood drops on the sheet, quickly turning brown now that they were drying. Dean, the perfect gift that had been given to him only to be taken back. Why had he believed that maybe things could turn out for the best? Dean was dying and it was his fault, because he was so useless he couldn't even save what had become the most precious thing in his life in the span of just a few months.

Tears burned behind his eyes and he let them fall, burying his face against Dean's hip. He clutched at the soft green blanket and fought to keep his sobs silent – he didn’t want to wake Dean and let him witness his breakdown.

***

“Doc. Wake up. You can’t stay here.”

Castiel woke up with a start. For a moment he thought he was back in his bed, being shaken awake by Crowley for the second time in the same night, and terror washed through him when he remembered Dean, the blood, his desperate eyes. He must have fallen asleep, crying and praying for something, someone to help his – the word popped into his mind, unexpected – his beloved.

Crowley was standing behind him, and he waited for Castiel to rub his eyes and move his aching neck before speaking.

“The nurse will be here in an hour for the morning temperature.”

Castiel didn’t answer; he bent over Dean, taking in his pale complexion, the familiar dark circles under his eyes.

“He’s been sleeping calmly,” said Crowley, and Castiel turned to face him. “But if I can give you some advice… I’ve probably seen more dying people than you have, and I can tell you he won’t last long. You should protect your reputation. Apart from making a pact with the devil, there’s not much you can do for him.” He’d said that with a humorless smile, his face dark. There was pity in his eyes, but no real sympathy. Fear, too. Who was Crowley afraid for? It couldn't be himself, as he was definitely immune to TB now. But Castiel didn't care.

“He will live. He will.” He sounded like a pathetic scratched record, even to his own ears, so he didn't bother adding anything else and walked out the room after a last look to make sure that, at least for the time being, Dean's chest was moving peacefully.

***

Sioux Falls, SD – Friday, November 16 ^th

Letter from Bobby Singer to Sam Winchester

[…] got your telegram only this morning because the new mailman thought it could wait – when he departed from my yard, he had changed his mind.
I hope nothing else happened in the meantime. If things turn out for the best, I should maybe get a phone line to the house, that way you boys can kill me quicker with worry.
I'm still buried in European Middle Age witchcraft but so far I got nothing. Will let you know if anything comes up.
Tell Dean to hang in there or I'll come spoon-feed him myself. Sure he remembers that he didn't like it even as a kid.

Bobby

***

Castiel Novak’s journal – November 17th, 1951

[written in stenography]

[…] Dean doesn't want to eat even when I try to persuade him.
Why am I still writing in this journal? I won't stand to put the truth on paper anyway. There's nothing, nothing in all these useless books. Over the last three days, since the hemoptysis, one thing has been haunting me: what Crowley said to me, ignorant of the implications. I haven't read much about demon deals, but the more I think about it, the more appealing it becomes. If Dean dies, I will be in hell on Earth for the rest of my miserable life. If I could buy us ten years... and he would have even more after I'm gone... I remember fearing for my soul when I was younger and still listened to what my father and the priests said about sin... maybe I was destined to end up in hell anyway; that's what they said about people like me. So if I can at least make it count... I'm sure Sam, as a hunter, knows the specifics of it. I need to find a way to ask without raising suspicions.

***

“What? Why are you asking about this?”

Sam frowned, leaning towards Castiel over his desk. So much for not revealing what I intend to do , Castiel thought. He’d tried to find a less direct way, had spent half the night thinking it over, but time was pressing. He still wanted to ponder over his decision, but he needed all the information he could gather to make his choice. Sam’s face at the moment was certainly not a good sign. He looked horrified.

“You can’t possibly consider this.”

“I have to consider every possibility. This is too important, Sam, you’ve seen him! I won’t give up on him. I can’t.” Castiel finished speaking in a whisper. He was so tired, exhausted with worry, and he feared it would cloud his judgement and weaken his resolution when time would come to take action.

“But this is not a solution, Castiel! You don’t know… Look, Dean and I have always stayed away from people who had made deals. They… they can’t be helped. Every hunter knows that. But we saw a man once… his time was up, and he was terrified. More than that; I can’t explain the look in his eyes. And then, we saw his body, after… he’d been ripped apart. With… claws or something.” Sam shook the memory away and looked directly at Castiel again.

“You can’t do that. I won’t let you, if only because Dean would kill me if I did. I know it’s terrible for you right now. I know. I’ve seen you two together.” He averted his eyes at that. Castiel was grateful that Sam was accepting, even if he was still embarrassed about spelling out the real nature of his brother’s relationship with his doctor. Sam continued. “But if it’s hard for you, just imagine what it would be like for him if he knew he’d have to watch you pay the price in his place… He would hate himself, me, maybe even you for it.”

Castiel deflated. He knew Sam was right. He couldn’t stand the thought of making Dean suffer even more than what the disease was already putting him through. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, sighing. He would keep the demon deal as a last chance solution. For now.

***

Report of the staff meeting – Wednesday, November 21 ^st

Patient : Dean Winchester

Weight 147 lbs (-6 lbs)
Hemoptysis (mild) – Nov. 14 ^th
Fever – no improvement
Poor appetite
Abnormal breath sound – no improvement (crackle, upper right lung)
Treatment: Streptomycin daily IM 975 mg
Discussed surgery: artificial pneumothorax (4 ^th intercostal space)

Dr Novak expresses doubts about the urgency. Unanimity minus 1.
Decision postponed to next week meeting and subjected to an improvement of the patient’s general condition.

***

It was Thanksgiving and Castiel didn't want to celebrate. He didn't know if he should be thankful for having met Dean or devastated by the apparently unstoppable progression of TB. And who would he have been thankful to? He'd stopped believing in God a long time ago, when he'd understood he would never be welcome in any church without hiding a crucial part of who he was.

Visitors were allowed to stay longer on this special holiday. Sam had come to visit, and Dean had insisted that Castiel spent as much time with them as possible without it looking too weird. Everybody else was having a festive lunch and celebrating, so there was no real risk. Castiel had to talk to them both anyway, this time as Dean's doctor – a role he found more and more difficult to play.

“The staff has advised strongly in favor of a pneumothorax. I asked to postpone it for another week, but if we don't make progress in our research, it could be a solution to consider.”

Dean, who was sitting against his headboard while his brother and Castiel had pulled chairs on each side of his bed, frowned, but his eyes were fixed on Cas. The trust in them made his heart swell.

“Can you explain exactly how that works?” Sam asked, while Dean said at the same time “Who would do it?” Castiel locked eyes with Dean.

“I wouldn't let someone else do any surgery on you. I would do it, of course.” He turned to Sam. “The goal is to collapse the sick part of the lung to force it to rest. I'd insufflate air in the pleural cavity through the intercostal space...” Castiel stood up and gently lifted Dean's right arm, pressing his finger in a precise point under his arm. “Here.” He withdrew from Dean, letting the hand that had held his arm up trail along it until their hands met and pressed each other briefly. Then he sat down again. “I'd do a local anesthesia at the injection place, and the insufflation itself is painless.” He looked at Dean with an apologetic look on his face. “Although, I have to tell you, Dean, the trocar...”

“The what?” Dean interrupted.

“The needle. It's big. But it won't hurt, I promise.”

Dean swallowed at that; Castiel knew he didn't like normal needles in the first place.

“Then I won't look at it,” he said, putting a brave face on. Still, he gestured discreetly towards Castiel, who took his hand and held it on the covers, stroking his thumb along the side.

Sam smiled tightly, not acknowledging the gesture. “If you think it'll help, and Dean trusts you, then you must do it. It could buy us the time we need to find a more lasting cure.”

Buying time was the key, Castiel thought. He still hoped he wouldn't have to actually buy it from an infernal entity.

***

To Dr Castiel Novak

Waverly Hills Sanatorium

Louisville, Kentucky

Men of Letters headquarters

Lebanon, Kansas

The 22nd of November 1951

Dear Castiel,

Having not heard from you since your last letter, I’m taking it upon myself to write and ask about your progress with the documentation I sent you. I hope nothing of importance has occurred on our side of events, and that your medical work is going in the right direction. I trust you to let us know about any new development you might encounter.

I may have something of interest for you myself, and this is another reason for my letter. One of our members is currently stationed in the Indian reservation of Many Farms in Arizona, to study Navajo traditions, and he reported extensively last week about secret medical tests that are about to be conducted on the Indian population. The doctor in charge of the study was apparently looking for a population affected by TB in a significant proportion but who wouldn’t have been treated with recent medicines.

I am not in possession of much more details about the drug they’re planning to test, but I thought you would be interested in it, and I did manage to find out about the doctor in charge. He is head of the department of phthisiology in the New York Medical College, name Dr Gabriel Winckler.

If you were to get in touch with him, remember he wants to keep his research secret, and must not under any circumstances learn the name of our organization.

Hoping that this letter will find you well and the information will be helpful,

Yours truly

Larry Ganem

***

Letter from Castiel Novak, M.D., Waverly Hills sanatorium, KY

To Gabriel Winckler, M.D., New York Medical College

November 24 ^th , 1951

My esteemed colleague,

I would like to request a meeting with you as soon as possible. I would rather keep the reason for my visit confidential for now, but please don't doubt my great interest in your work.

Thanking you in advance,

Yours faithfully

Castiel Novak, M.D.

***

Telegram from Gabriel Winckler, M.D., New York Medical College

To Castiel Novak, M.D., Waverly Hills sanatorium, KY

Nov. 25 ^th

Always happy to chat with a colleague - - Will receive you on Friday November 30 ^th - - Cheers - - Gabriel Winckler

***

“Cheers? You sure this guy's a serious doctor?” Dean asked, squinting at the pink paper in his hand. Castiel, who was leaning on his desk in front of Dean's chair, shrugged.

“I was surprised too, but all the information I gathered tell me he's the big name in my field these days. Even if he's a little eccentric, he's still head of department in the New York Medical College, and believe me, that's something. There's no way I'm passing the opportunity to take advice from him, and maybe to come back with a new drug for you.”

“An untested drug,” Dean pointed out.

“If he wants to test it on a significant scale like a reservation, he must be fairly sure of his results. And we can't afford to wait for the marketing authorization.”

“Mmhmh. All right. I don't have much to lose, huh?” Dean sighed. His open bathrobe didn't conceal how much weight he'd lost in the last couple of weeks, and his eyes were always too shiny now.

“So I'm leaving tomorrow for a few days; I told Dr Johnson I had to deal with family issues. That's why I received the patients today instead of Thursday. I hope I'll be back on Sunday. I also managed to delay your pneumothorax for now, but if this doesn't bring results soon, I'll have to do it.”

Dean nodded curtly. “So you'll be away, what, five days?” he asked casually.

Castiel smiled and cupped Dean's cheek. “I'm going to miss you too.” Dean chuckled self-consciously and put a hand on Castiel's thigh.

“Well, I'm kinda used to see your face everyday, you know...” He rolled his eyes. “God, I swear I wasn't such a needy mess before.”

“You and me both...”

Dean got up, crowding Castiel against the desk. Castiel was always a little surprised that Dean was actually taller than him – not by much –, as he saw him mostly in bed or sitting down. Dean hugged Castiel tighly.

That was all they'd done so far, hugging and cuddling, but Castiel knew that they both wanted more. He always felt the restraint in Dean, almost physically – the hardest part was to abstain from kissing, but that was a no-go area for Dean, even if Castiel had told him that he wasn't really at risk of being contaminated. Today, though, Dean was eager, as if the prospect of not seeing Castiel for a few days had cut something in him lose. He buried his face in the crook of Castiel's neck, breathing deeply as he pushed one knee between Castiel's legs.

Castiel slid his hands inside Dean's bathrobe and around his waist, holding him close. Dean's warmth and his scent surrounded him and made him almost dizzy, and it took him a minute to become aware of the hard length that was pressing against his groin, insistent. It wasn't the first time, but when Dean tried to shove his hand blindly between their bodies, the door that separated the office from the waiting room suddenly seemed way too thin.

“Not here,” Castiel breathed, and he pulled Dean towards the examination room. As soon as the door closed behind them, he pushed Dean against it, gentle but firm, and started mouthing at his neck. He knew Dean wouldn't kiss him on the mouth for now, and this was the next best thing, nibbling under his ear and feeling him buck up against him. Dean grasped at Cas' waist with one hand and palmed him through his pants with the other, making Castiel groan. He wanted to lose himself into that touch, to think of nothing else but that for a while, but he couldn't ignore the wheeze in Dean's breathing, and how he trembled in his arms. Whether the tremor was caused by the excitement of finally acting on their desires, or TB still claiming Dean's strength, Castiel didn't know, but Dean wouldn't be able to stand up for much longer. Castiel guided him to the examination table and Dean leaned on it, half-sitting on the edge.

Castiel reached for the waistband of Dean's pajama pants. “Is that okay?” he asked, searching Dean's eyes. Dean nodded urgently, and when Castiel's hand closed around his erection, he shuddered and just gripped at what he could reach – Castiel's white coat, which was hanging open and hiding their hands from the sides, and the waistband of his pants. Castiel stroked him reverently, listening to the tiny moans that escaped Dean's lips. As a doctor, he was used to have power upon other people's bodies, but he usually had to inflict pain, even if he tried to lessen it as much as possible. Being able to give pleasure to someone, above all Dean, precious Dean, was exhilarating. He wanted to catch every noise, every shiver, every heartbeat. He would have liked it to last, but it was not the time or the place yet, and it didn't take much time before he felt Dean tense and pulse into his hand, breathing “Cas” between his teeth.

Castiel put his forehead on Dean's shoulder and just held onto him, trying to calm his jumping pulse, but Dean's fingers were already fumbling with his pants' button, opening them and pushing them down a little. Dean took him in hand, not moving much first, as if he marvelled at being allowed to do this, to feel the weight and the hardness in his palm. He stroked up and down once, twice, then reached over to Castiel's hand with his free one, took it and wrapped it around Castiel's erection along with his own.

“Show me... show me how you like it...” he murmured, his voice shaking. A hot wave flushed Castiel's cheeks, but he wrapped his fingers around Dean's hand and together they found a rhythm. Castiel was overwhelmed by Dean, Dean, all around him, humming low into his ear without even realizing it, and the sweetness of his scent and touch sent him over the edge, holding back a cry while pleasure surged through his whole body. He shoved his face into Dean's neck, panting, and closed his eyes.

When he came back from the high, the dizziness dissipated but the warmth in his chest seemed to have settled permanently. He reached for the table on the side where he knew he would find a stack of towels, and cleaned most of the mess on their stomach. Dean was still holding onto him, not helping and entirely relaxed. Castiel wrapped him in his arms again, and the words tumbled freely from his lips : “I love you...”

Dean took a sudden breath and pulled Castiel even closer; his face was hidden in Castiel's neck.

“Me too,” Dean whispered. “Yeah... me too.”

***

The next morning, Castiel took the train to New York.

Chapter Text

Castiel had been gone for… what day was it, again? Dean wasn’t so sure. For the past… yeah, three days, that was it – he hadn’t been able to leave his bed, except to shower, and even that had worn him out. He’d refused any help from the nurses, or worse, the bed-bath they’d offered.

He kept replaying in his head what had happened in the examination room before Cas’ departure, and it left him hot and bothered, or mostly bothered, because hot he was already, with the fever that never relented now.

Whether it was the physical intimacy or the love declaration, he didn’t know, but the moment had changed something for him. He had already been hooked before, of course he had, but he’d tried to push Castiel away, to make him understand that he, Dean, wasn’t worth it. Now, he didn’t have the strength to do that anymore. He accepted that Cas loved him and that he wasn’t going to let go – and Dean didn’t want him to anyway. He needed him, needed his warm and protective hands on his skin (he also needed to stop thinking about stuff like that when Crowley was in the room, except that the bastard was almost always in the room.)

Crowley left the radio on, and the constant chatting and singing punctuated Dean's days. Maybe it was to keep them both occupied, or so that they wouldn't have to talk much, Dean didn't know. It was soothing sometimes, but also disorienting, when his mind drifted, or he fell asleep without noticing, and woke up to the same song playing again, except that several hours had passed and the sun had set in the meantime. One song had settled permanently into his brain, it seemed; Nat King Cole was singing Unforgettable just behind his more conscious thoughts without relenting. He didn't mind that much; it reminded him of Cas.

Dean tried to imagine him in New York, striding along the large avenues lit with Christmas lights already, meeting the mysterious Dr. Gabriel Winckler who wrote “cheers” in a telegram to a colleague he'd never met. He had trouble picturing the guy; would he share his work with Castiel? Would he chat with him about whatever doctors talked about, maybe take him out for dinner to continue their discussion? Maybe he would be a bright, young and healthy guy, and he'd invite Cas to work with him on his new project. Cas would just have to wait for Dean to die before going to New York and have the carreer he deserved. The thought was both torture and relief. They hadn't made any promises anyway, there was no point – they had no idea if there even was a future ahead to make promises about.

When Dean was too exhausted to worry, he just looked out of the window at the tall trees, the white sky. It had begun to snow, fat snowflakes that fell silently on the frozen ground. He just wanted Castiel to come back, to be here and to hold his hand. He tried to mute Nat King Cole in his head and replay instead what Castiel had whispered while he held him in his arms in the examination room. Somehow, he believed him.

***

When Dean woke up on Sunday morning, he didn't care so much about his temperature – still too high – or the menu of the breakfast – it had been several weeks since he had last been hungry. What he wanted to know was when Castiel was exactly coming back, and how, and to be sure he wouldn't be delayed by the thin layer of snow that had fallen during the night.

As he had no way to know which train Castiel intended to take, he thought it safer to expect his return by the end of the day, and he spent the good hours of the morning, when his mind was clearer, reading yet another lore book Bobby had sent. By the end of the morning, though, his eyelids started to grow heavy, and his vision became blurry. When he had read the same sentence three times without comprehending a word of it, he decided to lay back on his pillow, just for a minute... if he could just rest his eyes a bit...

A soft sound of voices woke him up some time later, and he had a split second of disorientation when he wondered where he was, until the weight in his lap told him he had once again fallen asleep while reading. He opened his eyes to two figures standing at the foot of his bed: Castiel and Sam, who were talking low while removing their hats and gloves.

“Cas,” he croaked, but of course using his voice just waking up wasn't such a good idea and the cough cut in. He snatched the handkerchief sitting on his nightstand and held it against his mouth. Castiel came to him in two strides and sat beside him. Dean managed to rein the cough in, folded the handkerchief and was about to put it back on the nightstand, but Castiel took his hand and swiftly glanced inside the tissue – no blood, thank god – before putting it down and locking eyes with Dean. Something new shone in them; Castiel smelled like snow and the cold wind, fresh and clean, when he leaned forward to place a kiss on Dean's forehead. From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam looking pointedly out of the window; he was still wearing his coat.

“Sammy,” Dean began, still a bit dizzy from his interrupted nap.

“Sam drove me up here from Louisville,” Cas said, at the same time Sam began, “Castiel called me asking if I could pick him up at the station.” They both smiled, amused.

“Good,” Dean said. “Are the roads safe with the snow? You're still taking care of my baby, right?” he asked, looking at Sam with a mock scowl. Castiel looked puzzled for a minute, so Dean added: “The car. I intend to get her back in one piece when I...” He stopped in his tracks; he'd wanted to say “when I get out of here”, but he couldn't forget that he might never get out, or at least, not alive.

But Castiel jumped in, his eyes smiling in a way Dean hadn't seen in many weeks now.

“You will get out and get her back, Dean, now I have high hopes for it.” He got up and removed his coat, walking around the bed to draw a chair nearer. Sam sat down too and asked:

“Now, tell us the details, please.” He turned to Dean. “He wouldn't tell me anything more than 'I have good news'.” Dean looked at Cas, who started:

“Gabriel gave me the medicine, and it's very promising. I'm almost sure we're going to have good results with it.” Dean frowned.

“Gabriel? You guys are on a first-name basis already?”

“Well, he wouldn't have it any other way. He said that as we were both named after angels, we were practically brothers... This man is a bit strange, I have to admit.” Castiel tilted his head on the side like he still was pondering the behavior of the other doctor, and Dean couldn't help but smile at his expression. “The people who work with him said he loves jokes and pranks, but other than that he's intellectually brilliant. But he's not the point. What's important is, his discovery is revolutionary, and he agreed to make you a part of the testing process, as long as we don't talk about it to anyone, and report the results to him. He showed me his experiments, Dean; this drug is powerful against TB. It's going to work, it's...” He swallowed, his eyes never leaving Dean's. The hand he had placed on Dean's wrist trembled. “It will save you.”

Dean didn't know what to think. Hope was a sweet poison; surrendering to it felt like a big mistake, especially considering his current state – not that he wanted to dwell on that too much, because that wouldn't change anything either.

Cas looked so sure, and he was the doctor. So far, he'd always been cautious, except when his feelings got in the way and he repeated that he would save Dean like a mantra, but Dean knew how to recognize these moments. Now, it was different. There was a certainty in his tone that wasn't there before.

“My god, this is great, Castiel,” Sam said, visibly trying to keep his voice steady. “When are you changing his medication, then? What will the treatment be?”

“We won't change it, we're adding the new drug to it. That's what's new. You see, to get the authorization for it, Gabriel needs to test the isoniazid – that's the name of the new drug – on people who are taking as few other meds as possible. That's why he's doing the experiment in the reservation in Arizona. But he told me his intuition is that the most effective treatment will be to cross medications, and to take isoniazid combined with streptomycin. Apparently, Dean will be one of the first patients to receive both at the same time. And,” he smiled, obviously for Dean's benefit, “it's pills; you won't have to receive more injections than the usual ones.”

Sam was beaming now, and as Dean continued staring into Castiel's eyes, he found himself unable to remain skeptical. Let's go for it , he thought. Even if it doesn't work, at least I'll get to see them smile for a few weeks.

***

Report of the staff meeting – Wednesday, December 12th

Patient : Dean Winchester

Weight 147 lbs (stable)
Cough – stable, no new hemoptysis
Fever – see temp. sheet – slight improvement of the average.
Treatment: Streptomycin daily IM 975 mg

Stabilization of the patient's general condition. Dr. Novak asks to postpone the pneumothorax again to see the evolution. Decision approved by a majority.

***

“Good morning! It's temperature time!”

The familiar greeting woke Dean up completely. He'd been already half awake, gathering his senses. He felt more comfortable than he usually did in the morning. In the last months, he'd become used to waking up drenched in sweat, his pajamas damp on his chest and back. This morning – the second Sunday since Castiel had come back with the new meds – he lay between dry and warm sheets, and, wow, his stomach actually gurgled when he thought about the Sunday breakfast, always more copious than the other days.

He seized his thermometer in an all too familiar gesture, without even looking, and placed it under his tongue for the required five minutes. He glanced over to the other side of the room; Crowley was also momentarily mute – small blessings – but he conveyed a “good morning” with his eyes. When Dean sat up in his bed, thermometer still in his mouth, Crowley squinted, and he spoke as soon as he was able to.

“You look better this morning.” He always managed to make his remarks sound slightly sarcastic, and Dean was about to reply in the same tone when he glanced at the mercury line on his thermometer. 98,5°F. It had stopped exactly at the red line that indicated a normal temperature. Dean didn't know when he'd seen that for the last time; he'd had an almost constant low fever since before he'd even entered the sanatorium.

He must have stayed silent, staring at the instrument in his hand, for a beat too long, because Crowley cleared his throat, and when Dean looked up and saw his inquisitive look, he couldn't help to say blankly: “I have 98,5.” Crowley's eyebrows shot up.

“Well, that's an achievement. Our good doctor is going to be pleased with you.”

He never let go of any opportunity to remind Dean that he knew about their secret, but Dean was also surprised to glimpse something that looked suspiciously like a genuine smile on Crowley's face. Teasing was a second nature for him, but Dean was starting to suspect that he was actually happy for him every time the news about his health were good. They'd managed to keep the new treatment from Crowley, but somehow, Dean wasn't too worried about him potentially finding out.

Anyway, he was starting to slowly let himself be hopeful that maybe it wasn't his time to die quite yet. He couldn't wait to show his temperature sheet to Cas, and in the meantime, he got the impression that he could eat more than one piece of bacon without getting nauseous, and that was one of the best feelings he'd experienced recently.

***

The next Thursday, Dean spent half his morning trying to read and failing entirely. He was so impatient to see Castiel alone, and the medical exams were still the only time in the week when they were sure to not be interrupted; they managed to steal shorts moments together once or twice a week, but usually they had to be very cautious.

Dean had felt better every day since the last visit, and he also wanted for Cas to confirm that the new drug was working. So when it was time for his appointment, he almost ran downstairs to Castiel’s office. He knocked and entered without waiting for an answer, and froze when he saw that Castiel was not alone. He only had time to glimpse at a red batch of hair before he was engulfed in a hug.

“Charlie!” he chuckled. The young woman released him as quickly as she had hugged him, clearing her throat.

“Sorry, uh, hi Dean. You couldn’t arrive at a better moment! I just gave Dr. Novak very good news about you.” She was beaming, and Dean turned to Castiel, ready to ask a question. Cas was sitting at his desk, looking dumbstruck. His eyes were shining.

“Tell him, Miss Bradbury,” he said in a restrained voice.

Charlie turned to Dean with a huge grin.

“I got the results for your last sputum analysis, and I checked twice to be sure: the bacillus is undetectable!” She was visibly trying not to bounce with joy. Dean croaked: “What… what does that mean?”

“It means you’re in remission,” Cas said, and Charlie added: “We’ll just have to do another analysis in about two weeks to confirm it. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m so happy for you, Dean!”

But Dean didn’t answer. He had locked eyes with Castiel, his mouth hanging open, and he was staring at him like he was petrified. Castiel stared back, his cheekbones pink and his eyes full of awe.

Charlie looked back and forth between them, and her mouth opened in a silent ‘o’ shape. She blushed too and stammered: “I’m… I think I have stuff to do in the lab, so… I’m going to go now…”

Dean managed to get a small “Bye, Charlie” out while Castiel tore his eyes off Dean’s to say “Thank you so much, Miss Bradbury”, but by the time she closed the door, they were back to looking at each other.

Castiel stood up and Dean followed him to the examination room. When the door was closed, Dean began: “So... it's good, isn't it?”

Castiel's eyes widened. He took Dean's hand.

“It's better than I had ever expected, and in barely three weeks! It's... close to a miracle!”

Dean felt shy now, standing here, nearly drowning in Castiel's liquid blue eyes. Suddenly, what he was facing wasn't the perspective of a tragic final goodbye a few months ahead anymore; it was maybe a lifetime – however long it might be – of companionship, of the most meaningful relationship Dean had ever known apart from his brother, if only Cas was ready to take the leap with him. And Dean would have doubted, would have been frightened and ready to back up first, if it wouldn't have been for Castiel's hand in his. Since the first night after the ghost, it had always felt easy, natural, to hold Cas' hand. He had done it countless times in front of Sam by now, without even thinking about it. It grounded him. He just needed to be sure about one thing now.

“Does that mean that I'm not contagious anymore?”

“No more than me,” Cas answered with a smile.

Dean took a step forward, and then they moved together, closing the distance that had been so hard to maintain since that first kiss so many weeks ago. They pressed their lips together, resting there, breathing each other in, feeling the softness and the give of each other's lips.

Dean had closed his eyes and he let Cas slide his hands around the back of his neck before taking the lead. He deepened the kiss, opened his mouth against Cas' and pushed a little until Cas gave way with a low whimper that reverberated in his chest. He slid his tongue along Cas' tenderly, tasting him, finally taking him all in like he'd wanted for so long, freed from the fear of dragging him along in sickness. Cas explored his mouth hungrily and reverently all at once, and they clung to each other for a long time, not wanting to let go or to go further, just reveling in the long string of kisses. Their chests were pressed together, their hands roaming across shoulders and backs, making sure the other was here, and stayed.

Finally Cas leaned back just enough to rest his forehead against Dean, gazing in his eyes.

“We'll have to send Gabriel a big Christmas present.”

Dean chuckled.

“Yeah, and I kinda want to shake his hand, too. Speaking of Christmas, you know Sammy wants me to come celebrate it with him in Louisville next Tuesday? I guess I'm in good enough shape now, but you're coming with me.” Dean was ready to argue if Cas expressed doubts, but he just nodded with a content smile.

“Thank you, Dean. I'll be glad to.” He then proceeded to kiss Dean deeply again, stroking his cheeks and his hair, and the medical examination stayed very minimal that week.

***

Plans had been made for Dean and Castiel to drive to Louisville on Christmas morning in one of the sanatorium cars and spend the day with Sam. Castiel was supposed to go back to Waverly Hills in the evening, while Dean stayed with his brother for one night. Dean was therefore quite surprised when Sam arrived right after lunch on Christmas Eve, meeting him and Cas outside the dining-room.

Since Dean was feeling good enough to eat out of his room again, he enjoyed having his meals in company, even if he rarely actually ate at the same table as Cas, as it would have attracted too much attention. They still took every chance to talk to each other, especially on days like this; some patients and staff members had left the sanatorium for the holiday, and everybody was more relaxed than usual. The dining-room and the halls had been decorated for the occasion, too, and the festive atmosphere reflected in the smiles around.

“Sammy! What are you doing here?” Dean exclaimed.

“Hey Dean, good morning to you too. Hello, Castiel.” Sam smiled at Cas, who nodded in response, and turned back to Dean. “Have you looked out of the window? It's been snowing for two hours, and apparently it's not going to stop anytime soon. I figured that if it keeps going on like that for the whole day and night, the road will be closed and you'll be snowed in here tomorrow. I want to spend Christmas with you, so I came early to take you down to Louisville.”

Dean turned to Castiel. “Can we do that? Can you leave early and stay for the night, or maybe even two?” He didn't say more, as they were in public, but he tried to convey the rest of it with his eyes: “If you're not coming, I'm staying too.”

“I think it can be arranged. I'm not on duty today or tomorrow. I'll go and inform Hannah. You should go and pack your bag, and meet me in my office.”

About half an hour later, they were piled in the Master Chevy. Dean was almost deliriously smiling because Cas had deemed him strong enough to drive; Sam had agreed to ride in the back seat so that Castiel could ride shotgun. They had packed bags for two nights, just in case, Castiel checking twice that they had all the meds, thermometer, stethoscope, syringes, anything they could need.

There was already more than an inch of snow on the ground, and heavy snowflakes kept falling relentlessly. Dean started the car and engaged carefully on the road he had last taken more than three months before. He had trouble believing it; in his whole life, he had seldom stayed in the same place for so long, and his life had changed so completely since the summer, that he wasn't even sure he was the same person anymore. The falling snow swirling in front of the windshield didn't help the mild disorientation he felt, and he was so concentrated on these thoughts that he almost missed the question coming from Castiel.

“So, Sam, what are the sleeping arrangements going to be at Ms. Mills' guesthouse?”

Dean glanced at Cas, who was half-turned towards the back of the car, and waited for Sam's answer.

“Well, there is one room available, and she's happy to let you stay in it; I thought Dean could bunk with me. We're used to it.”

“Oh. Will you be comfortable, though? I seem to remember that you only have one bed in your apartment. How many are there in the free room?”

Sam thought about that for a minute.

“Two, I think. Twin beds.”

“Then I think it would be more reasonable that Dean and I shared the room. I could watch over him, and it would be more comfortable for everybody.” Castiel used a serious and professional tone, and Dean had to stop himself from smirking. He loved his brother and didn't mind sharing a room with him, but if he had to choose between that and spending the night alone with Castiel on his first leave out of the sanatorium... yeah, easiest choice of his life. Still, he avoided looking directly at Sam, and hummed in agreement.

“I'm not a nice bunkmate, these days, Sammy, even if I feel better every day.”

“Okay, that's fine by me, then.” Sam's tone was light, like it all was just logistics, and they all let the subject drop, but Dean's heart was beating faster. He'd rarely been looking forward to Christmas more.

Chapter Text

When they entered Louisville, Dean followed Sam's directions to get to the guesthouse. The streets were busy with cars and people on their last Christmas errands, and Dean started to realize that even if he'd lived in the same building with dozens of other people in the last months, it was still a reclusion, and he was getting giddy to see new faces and new surroundings.

He didn't want to admit it to Sam, but he was glad to enter the house and to be met with Jody Mills' friendly face. She shook his hand enthusiastically, telling him how glad she was to finally get to meet Sam's big brother, and asked him to call her Jody, as Sam did. She also seemed to know everything about the recent progress of his health, and when Dean was seated in Sam's small living-room with her serving tea for the four of them, he grinned at Sam, who returned the smile, his cheeks blushing just enough for Dean to notice.

They had a quiet dinner in Sam's apartment, as they were planning to attend Christmas lunch on the following day at the communal table with all the other guests of the house. Sam talked about the most recent hunt he'd done – a ghoul – and asked Castiel about what he knew about the various creatures, and how the Men of Letters dealt with monsters when studying them wasn't enough. Dean stayed silent; he was jealous of Sam's hunting, he missed it in a way, and yet he didn't know if he wanted to go back to his old life. Thinking about the future was somehow even harder than when he had been sure he had only a few months left. He wanted to get out of the sanatorium; the sickly sweet routine that got into you until you basically forgot how to live by yourself. But leaving would mean leaving Cas, and that was out of the question. They would have to come up with a plan together, something that would work for the two of them, or rather, the three of them, because Sam was always going to be a part of his life, no matter what.

Castiel seemed completely engrossed with his conversation with Sam, but suddenly he looked at Dean, squinted and said: “You're tired.”

Dean couldn't help the knee-jerk reaction of denying, and he shook his head. “Nah, I'm okay.”

“Come on, you need to take your meds, anyway. Let's get you to bed.”

Cas had said that in a casual tone, but still Dean's cheeks burned at the implications of the statement in front of his brother. He glanced at Sam, who sported an embarrassed smile, but his eyes were soft.

“Yes, Dean, you should rest. It's okay; I'll see you two tomorrow.”

“Good night, Sam,” Castiel said. He looked comfortable with the situation, or at least more comfortable than Dean, but maybe he had actually been oblivious because he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him”, to which Sam couldn’t help responding under his breath “Oh, I don’t doubt that” with a smirk, and this time Castiel flushed deep red.

Dean let out an outraged “Sam!”, but he made eye contact with his brother and a second later they were both giggling, Castiel looking at them, totally confused. Sam clapped him on the shoulder, still grinning.

“Good night, guys.” And just when they reached the door, he added in a much softer tone: “I’m happy for you.”

Dean didn’t turn to look at him, but he smiled to himself, before leading Cas to their room.

Sam knew, and he approved, and now Dean had Castiel all to himself for a whole night, and that was more than he’d dared to hope only a week ago. As soon as they’d locked the door, he put his hands on Cas’ cheeks and kissed him. That was something he was allowed to do now, and Castiel responded and kissed him back, slow and sweet. When Dean started to reach up for the buttons of his shirt, Castiel pulled back.

“You do need to take your meds. We can’t afford to forget a dose, not when it’s working so well.” He went to his medical bag and rummaged through its contents to find the drug. Dean had no choice but to go to the bathroom to bring back a glass of water. He swallowed the pills while Cas was looking at the twin beds critically.

“This won’t do. We should move them together.” He started pushing and pulling and removing the nightstand that separated the beds, as Dean watched him with his heart beating faster. He loved that about Cas, how he seemed sure of what he wanted and how practical he was about it, and didn’t care if it involved moving furniture around. Cas, clearly satisfied with his work, came back to him.

“Maybe I should examine you,” he said with his hand on Dean’s heart, squinting at him like he was trying to evaluate his physical state. Dean shook his head.

“Nuh-uh, enough with playing doctor,” he smiled. “You’ve seen me half-naked from day one, but you,” he tugged at the blue cardigan Cas was wearing, “you’re always wrapped in, like, sixteen layers. Not fair. Take all that off.”

Castiel seemed more than happy to oblige, and Dean helped him out of his sweater and shirt until he could roam his fingers across shoulders and arms and chest. Cas was more muscular than he looked under the usual white coat or jacket, and his skin was a tone more tanned than Dean’s, but soft and sensitive. He shivered as Dean caressed him, and Dean didn’t want to stop, ever.

“Dean, please… I want to be naked with you.” The pleading tone in Castiel’s voice shot directly to Dean’s groin, and he could only nod frantically and finger clumsily at his buttons and his shoelaces, while Cas got rid of his own remaining clothes.

Dean sat down on the bed to take his socks off, and when he looked up, Cas was in front of him, in all the gloriousness of the long expanse of his skin, and he could have been intimidating, towering like this, but his eyes on Dean were so full of adoration that Dean felt the love in them showering him from above. He lifted his hands, intending to touch whatever he could reach, and the movement looked like something else – a prayer, a gesture of worship. Cas tumbled against him on the bed and they lay pressed together, and Dean’s senses all chanted Cas’ name – the scent of Cas’ skin and the velvet of it under his fingers and the taste of his lips and the music of his sighs. Dean had to close his eyes to try and keep himself in one piece; he dissolved into the bright light of his sensations, until Cas gathered him in his arms, put his hands on him and sewed him back together.

Cas pushed his hips against Dean’s and they both exhaled shakily at the friction, and suddenly Dean knew what he wanted. He kissed his way down Cas’ body, first scratching their stubble together, then catching a nipple between his teeth and enjoying the moan it elicited. When he reached his lower belly, he stopped for a second to meet Cas’ eyes, his gaze so intense that Dean had to close his eyelids again, before licking from the base to the tip of Cas’ erection and taking it into his mouth. He’d never done that before, but it didn’t matter: this was Cas, who’d saved his life, who’d taken care of him when he was sure he was going to die, and the hard weight on his tongue grounded him. He let himself be filled, listening to the changes in the rhythm of Cas' breathing, swirling his tongue in an erratic pattern. The delicate skin, sleek and soft, and Cas' reactions were so enjoyable that Dean thought he could have kept sucking and licking all night, but after a few minutes, Cas carded his fingers through Dean's hair, pushing him back gently.

“Dean... wait... come here...”

Dean move up to meet Castiel's mouth and they kissed deeply. The idea of Cas being able to taste himself on his tongue made Dean ache to be touched, and Cas obliged without being asked. He pushed Dean gently until he lay flat on his back, wrapped his long fingers around him and didn't linger in soft touches, but stroked firmly, and Dean's back arched off the bed on its own accord.

“Gorgeous... You're so beautiful, my love,” Cas murmured, more to himself than to Dean. He reached between Dean's legs and found his entrance, and Dean couldn't breathe for a second. Cas stayed there, circling the rim, even when Dean started squirming and pushing his hips down, and damnit, Cas was going to make him ask for it.

“You can do it... please... I want...” Cas lifted his head and watched him, his eyes different with the pupils all blown with desire.

“I don't want to hurt you. I'd need something to... ease the way.”

“Do you have that here?” Dean asked, not caring about how eager he sounded. Cas nodded, then rolled over to reach for his medical bag, and Dean instinctively followed him to the edge of the bed, like he couldn't let his warmth go more than a few inches away. Cas came back with a small recipient in his hand; the dark blue label read Vaseline. He quickly unscrewed the lid and dipped two fingers into it, spreading the gel onto both his hands.

Then Cas' fingers were on him again, on him and around him and oh, inside him, and the sensation of breach took some getting used to until Cas crooked his finger and Dean's vision whited out. In a distant way, he was aware that those desperate noises must come from him; the wave of pleasure that was building in his lower belly threatened to flood every conscious thought left in his brain. He didn't know if he wanted more to push up in Cas' right hand or down onto his left one, but having all his most sensitive points cradled between both Cas' hands gave him such a sense of security that he just let go, and that wave crashed through his body, again and again, while he came over his own stomach and Cas' hand. His broken cry seemed to trigger Cas' whimper, a small sound resembling Dean's name. Dean, still riding the aftershocks of his orgasm, held onto Cas' neck with both hands, while Cas shoved his groin against Dean's, their hips meeting rhythmically. Dean moaned into his mouth: “I love you so goddamn much...” It took only a few thrusts for Cas' body to go still, and he spilled on Dean's belly in complete silence.

They took time to catch their breath, holding onto each other, mindlessly drawing patterns on each other's skin with their fingers. When Dean started shivering with cold and exhaustion, Castiel retrieved a wet towel from the bathroom, cleaned them both, and they piled all the covers of the twin beds upon their tangled bodies, nestling together like two puppies in the same basket. Dean was warm and happy, and he would have had trouble believing it, but his head was pillowed on Cas' chest and he could hear his heart beating steadily. He fell asleep to that sound with a feeling of belonging he'd never quite experienced before.

***

Dean woke up to the dim daylight coming from the wrong direction, and for a few seconds he didn't know where he was. Then the weight of a leg against his own and the sensation of warm sheets on his naked body made his heart swell with joy. Castiel was still sleeping, not a foot from him, in the same bed, under the same blanket. They had drifted away from each other a little during the night, as they were both so used to sleeping alone, but they were still touching, as if to remind the other that they were really there.

Dean rolled over and slipped his arm around Cas' waist, nuzzling between his neck and shoulder until Cas turned to face him and, his eyes still shut, drew Dean to him. He kissed Dean's forehead and slid his hands down Dean's back, making him melt into the mattress.

“No fever,” he half-said, half-growled, “good.” Dean chuckled against his clavicle.

“Do you always sound like that in the morning? I'm going to feed you honey or something.” He paused, savoring Cas' presence in the calm of the early morning, then added: “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

“Merry Christmas, my love,” Cas murmured in his hair. The endearment made Dean warm all over; he still had trouble being sure he deserved it, but today he decided to take it as a present. The best present he'd ever received.

They stayed there for a while, unhurried and drifting between sleep and wake, until Cas said: “Do you think it's normal that we don't hear any cars in the street?”

“I don't know.” Dean was so used to the deep silence that surrounded Waverly Hills, that he hadn't paid attention to it.

They listened more, but no noise was coming from outside. After a few minutes, Cas got up and went to the window, lifting the thin curtain a little without exposing himself. He was still stark naked, and Dean watched him, way more interested in looking at Cas' round ass and his strong shoulders than in what was happening in the street. But Cas breathed a small “oh!” and he turned back to Dean with his eyes shining.

“There's at least ten inches of snow! It must have fallen all night.” He shivered and came back to the bed. “I'm glad Sam came to pick us up yesterday. I'm going to have to phone the sanatorium today, though, because I don't think I'll be able to go back up there before tomorrow at best.”

“You won't hear me complaining,” Dean smiled, as he received an armful of doctor and held him tight. Cas chuckled and scowled mockingly.

“You're going to have to let me take care of other patients, too; I can't focus exclusively on you.” But the way he was framing Dean's face and tracing his eyebrows tenderly with the pad of his thumbs looked much like he was in fact focusing completely on Dean.

“I wouldn't deprive the world of the best doctor ever,” Dean said, before kissing Cas' mouth slow and wet.

Cas was hardening slowly against his thigh. The feeling of the solid body weighing him down on the bed and the soft flesh filling up were making Dean react in the same way, but there was something else on the back of his mind and he wanted to drive the conversation just a bit farther, so he went on.

“It's just... leaving the sanatorium for the night made me realize how much the life up there isn't me, you know... I know I had no other choice but to go there, and it saved my life, and... and I met you, so it was way more worth it than I expected, but...”

Cas looked at him with a serious expression.

“But you want to leave as soon as possible.”

“A few weeks ago, I'd have answered 'yes' without hesitating. Now, if it implies leaving you, I don't think that's what I want.”

“What do you want, Dean?” Cas asked gently.

Dean held back the first thing that came to his mind: “I want to wake up with you like this every day.” It was way too cheesy, even if, knowing Cas, he probably wouldn't mind.

“I want to live with you. Hunt, study with you. I don't care about the Men of Letters' prejudice against hunters; we make a good team. And seeing you and Sam talk yesterday... I'm sure Sam would go nuts if he could access your knowledge.” As Castiel opened his mouth to answer, he added quickly: “And of course, you should be able to practice medicine.”

Dean waited for Cas' reaction. He hadn't planned to talk about all that right now, but these were things he'd had time to think about, over and over, and in the last weeks, since he'd known he wasn't doomed, he had let himself hope that maybe they could become true. But Cas just snuggled against him, hiding his face on his chest, and said in a careful tone:

“Maybe we should just wait a little longer to be sure that the treatment is really efficient.”

Dean couldn't see his eyes, as Cas was avoiding his gaze. The heat that had been building just minutes ago receded; a cold feeling seeped in Dean's heart.

“Look, Cas, if that's not something you want, I...” But Cas cut him off, talking low against his chest.

“No, Dean, it's not that. What you just described... it just sounds too good to be possible, you know? I've never hoped to find anything like this. I always heard that I didn't deserve anything like this. So I don't dare consider... I keep waiting for something to go wrong again. You could relapse. We could be... discovered. Committed. Society doesn't like people like us.”

His thumb was tracing circles around Dean's nipple, and the touch, at the same time mindless and precise, warmed Dean all over again.

“Fuck society,” he said, squeezing Cas' shoulders firmly. It was his turn to take care of Cas now, to try and alleviate his worries. The idea of giving back a little of the strength Cas had given him in the past months made his heart beat quicker. “We'll have to hide, so what? We're both used to keeping our secrets anyway.  We don't have to make plans just yet. But don't ever tell me that you don't deserve good things, you hear me?” He put his finger under Cas' chin and lifted it so that he could meet his eyes. “You gave me my life back, but I don't want it if you're not in it. We'll find a way to make it work.”

Cas nodded, almost solemnly, and closed the space between their mouths. His kiss was fierce, searing, and it made Dean's head spin, before Cas wrapped him in his arms once again, leaning his heart onto Dean's. They stayed in bed for another half hour, trading kisses and whispering small nothings to each other, basking in the intimacy they now were allowed to share.

Finally, they got up to wash and join Sam for the day. They had Christmas dinner with Jody and her guests, talked endlessly with Sam, and even went outside for a short time to see the streets covered in snow. Every time they made eye contact, Dean felt his heart swell with happiness.

In the evening, they went to bed and made love again, slowly, rocking together into Dean's hand. Castiel fell asleep first and Dean held him, listening to his regular breath. Then he let himself sink into the velvety dark behind his eyelids.

***

To Dr. Gabriel Winckler, M.D.
New York Medical College

Waverly Hills Sanatorium
Louisville, Kentucky
Friday, January 11^th, 1952

Dear Gabriel,

I have never been so happy to write a letter. As we had agreed upon, I have waited until I had all the results at my disposal. It appears that they exceed everything I expected. We started the new protocol of medication as soon as I came back here, on December 2^nd, so it hasn't even been six weeks. After two weeks, the temperature went down to normal, and barely a week later, the bacillus was undetectable in the sputum analysis. The general condition of the patient has steadily become better. The only symptom that seems to take longer to recede is the cough, but it is less frequent and, more importantly, less painful and debilitating.

I got the last result only yesterday, and I decided to write right away. We performed a pulmonary radiography for the first time since the beginning of the new treatment. The cavern, which was very visible six weeks ago on the upper-right lung, has started to shrink in significant proportions. I had to ask another physician to double-check my reading, as I couldn't quite believe my own eyes.

I am sure you will get all the honors of our profession for this discovery, but no one will be more grateful than I am that you trusted me enough to let me and Dean be part of this. As soon as he is rested enough to make the trip, we will come to visit you in New York City and thank you in person.

Yours truly,

Castiel Novak, M.D.

[enclosed in the same letter]

I can't wait to shake your hand, doc. I owe you and Castiel my life, and I won't forget it.

Yours sincerely,

Dean Winchester

***

To Dr. Castiel Novak, M.D.
Waverly Hills sanatorium
Louisville, KY

New York Medical College
January 15^th, 1952

Dear Castiel,

Thank you for your letter and the great results you're reporting. I'm thrilled to hear that your young man is in better shape, and I'll be happy to see you both here in a few weeks. Just let me know when you want to come.

The other testings are as promising as yours, but given the various results, I should advice you that you continue the treatment for at least two more months, maybe three.

I remember we also discussed the possibility of prophylactic treatments, for people like you who had an early primary TB infection. I'd rather talk about it again with you in person, but it is something I'm considering too.

I hope you and Dean like waffles; I just discovered a new place that serves the best I've ever had, and you absolutely have to try them when you visit.

Keep the good work going,

Cheers

Gabriel

***

Report of the staff meeting – Wednesday, March 11^th

Patient: Dean Winchester

Weight 172 lbs.
Sputum analysis – clear for six weeks
Temperature – normal
Cough – residual

Unanimously voted:
Authorization for Mr. Winchester to leave the sanatorium, provided that he undergoes follow-up visits regularly for the next six months (here in external visits or in a qualified dispensary).

***

To Dr. Hannah Johnson, M.D.
Waverly Hills sanatorium
Louisville, KY

Thursday, March 27^h, 1952

Dear Dr. Johnson,

I would like to inform you that I am resigning from my position at Waverly Hills, effective May 1^st 1952.

I want to thank you for the opportunities that you have provided me during the last year. I have truly enjoyed my work here, and I am more than grateful for the encouragement you have given me in pursuing my professional growth objectives.

I will of course do everything to facilitate the seamless passing of my responsibilities to my successor, and I will remain at your disposal for any question that may arise concerning the follow-up of my patients.

I wish you continued success in our shared profession.

Sincerely,

Dr. Castiel Novak, M.D.

***

To Dean Winchester
Lazarus Dispensary
Junction City, Kansas

From Miss C. Bradbury
Waverly Hills sanatorium
Louisville, KY
May 25^th, 1952

Hi Dean,

How are you and Dr Novak Castiel? Sorry, it's hard to lose the habit, he was my boss after all. I hope his new job is going well. Dr Johnson made a special announcement the other day during the staff meeting about how Castiel had taken over as the head doctor at the dispensary in Junction City, and how it was a great responsibility for him. I think she's still bummed that he resigned so soon. Anyway, she avoided mentioning you completely; the competent doctor going away with a patient doesn't sit well with her. I, for one, think it's great that you get to help him at the practice; you have good people skills and being a former patient can help you reassure the new ones.

Here, things are going as usual. Ash and Garth say hello; they both had good results lately, and I hope they can leave here soon enough. Mr. Crowley, on the other hand, has got quite a populated sputum, as was to be expected; but other than that he's his usual flamboyant self, and he goes around singing Castiel's praise and telling everyone how it's a shame that you two went away. It's quite funny actually!

The woods around WH are all green and in some places there are so many flowers that the undergrowth looks like a painting. It's too bad that you didn't get to see this place like this... but I understand that you were eager to leave it behind. I do hope that I'll be able to come and visit you all one day.

Give Castiel and your brother my regards,

Love,
Charlie

***

To Ms. Jody Mills
Louisville, KY

From Sam Winchester
Junction City, KS
June 10^th

Dearest Jody,

Things are settling down here. Dean spends half his days working on renovation work for the house. It's big enough to accommodate the three of us, and far enough from the city that we can afford it and its wooded land that offers us the secluded environment we prefer (even if I hopefully won't stay here all year long).  The rest of his time, Dean spends at the dispensary, helping Castiel with patients' files and medical appliances maintenance. The practice runs very well and is crowded all the time; I think Castiel will have to hire another doctor to help him soon. People here are friendly and seem to have adopted the new doctor pretty quickly.

I have been very busy with the new studies I took upon, making regular trips to Lebanon at the beginning. Now that things are on their tracks, I should be able to work from anywhere, and that's why I was hoping to come and spend at least a month in Louisville, if you'll still have me. That way, I would be able to tell you more about these studies and my current occupation, as I promised; it is not something I care to discuss in writing, and I think – I hope – that we have other things to talk about as well.

Please tell me when I can come and how long I can stay – the longer, the better, for me at least.

Yours,

Sam

***

To Bobby Singer
Sioux Falls, South Dakota

From Dean Winchester
Junction City, KS
July 18^th 

Howdy Bobby,

Just this small note to let you know that we came back home safely. Thank you for having us over last week, and sorry again we couldn't stay much longer, but Cas is something like a messiah around here, and the patients were already queuing at the dispensary door yesterday when he reopened.

I will be thinking about your idea of becoming some sort of “consultant” for hunters, but I gotta say that it's already something that appeals to me. Truth be told, I don't feel like being on the road much now, and I have stuff to do on the house here. Besides, I'm not sure Cas would let me go away for long periods of time, as he says I still need regular check-ups... and, well, leaving him alone wouldn't sit right with me either, especially with Sammy away in Louisville too.

Anyway, we'll have to talk about that again shortly. I'll write again soon.

Stay safe.

Dean

PS: I'm glad you got along with Cas. He's It means a lot to me.

***

[a letter hidden in Dean's suitcase]

August 20^th

My darling,

I know you won't be gone very long, and I'm very happy for you that Benny asked you to be the godfather of his baby, but I still wish I could have come with you. I hope you won't find this letter too “cheesy”, as you like to say when I become sentimental – I suspect that you actually like that about me, so I won't stop until you really ask me to.

Please be careful, and continue to take your temperature regularly while you're away. Beware of the mosquitoes, and take your quinine! We don't want you to catch malaria now. I am sure Benny's family is going to take good care of you. I would have liked to see Louisiana with you; hopefully we will have another occasion.

I will write at least once while you're there, I think, but don't forget to telephone when you can. Your absence will be trying, but if I can hear your voice, I should be able to tolerate it (and I can be over-dramatic if it pleases me).

I love you, Dean. I can't wait to show you how much once again when you come back home.

Yours, always

Cas