Map of the World: September 28

It’s not over yet.

—Day 56—

It’s like falling off a cliff, slamming into consciousness at terminal velocity, but worse, because he has to survive it.

Sucking in a shocked breath, he tries to orient himself, his entire body screaming in pain for a few agonizing moments before it settles into a mid-grade ache in every muscle: even his bones feel bruised.

Right, so he’s alive, and taking stock, he’s pretty sure he’s actually on a mattress instead of lying at the bottom of a gravelly ravine off the side of a mountain. When he warily opens his eyes, he figures the existence of a blurry ceiling and what appears to be walls confirms that he’s in a room somewhere.

Turning his head is an effort, but it gets him a window, and from the slant of weak light against the wall, it’s maybe afternoon. Sighing, he stares back up at the ceiling and tries to decide how to deal with this; it would help to know what the fuck this is, but maybe he’s just asking for too much or something.

“Huh.”

Abruptly, the center of the bed dips, and Dean feels something solid and very warm pressed against his right side. Frowning, he tips his head sideways and blinks at the sight of Cas looking down at him from black-ringed, bloodshot eyes. Opening his mouth, he starts to ask him what the hell is going on—not to mention what the fuck Cas has been fighting and hope it looks worse than he does—but before he can get his tongue to work, Cas uses his speed to cheat and has a hand over his mouth.

“Tell me your name,” Cas says, voice low and rough, and Dean tries and fails to suppress the thought he could listen to Cas sound like that all goddamn day. Slowly, Cas removes his hand, though it hovers in his line of sight, like he thinks Dean still needs the warning. “Only your name, nothing else.”

Dean licks his lips and grimaces: rough, with a residual metal edge, and his mouth tastes like shit. “Dean Winchester. What—”

Immediately, Cas covers his mouth again; Christ, now he’s okay with using his speed for totally unfair purposes. “You may only speak when I ask you a question. Nod if you understand me.” Dean nods and hopes he actually rolled his eyes and didn’t just imagine he did. Looking wary, Cas pulls back again. “Do you know where you are?”

Head starting to clear, he wonders what the hell is with the twenty questions, but there’s something in Cas’s expression that makes him really want to know the answer Cas wants so he can tell him and get that goddamn look off his face. He’s lied through his teeth cheerfully for a hell of a lot less.

“Dean, tell me you know where you are,” Cas says, and Dean hopes to God he’s imagining the way his voice shakes. “If you say anything else, I’ll have to cover your mouth again.”

“Uh. Give me—” The hand hovers significantly, and it’s annoying enough that Dean tries to swat it away and fails to move his arm any appreciable distance. “Chitaqua.” Cas goes still. “Kansas. Earth. Apocalypse. End of the world.”

Cas closes his eyes briefly, covering his face with one shaking hand before looking at him again, and all Dean can see is incandescent blue framed in wet lashes, electric, like he flipped the lightswitch for a living star. “It’s not over yet.”

Dean feels his lips curve in a grin, tiny pricks of pain from the pull of too-dry skin. Licking his lips again, the gummy taste of his own mouth sets off a flare of nausea; water would be good right now. He braces himself to sit up, and he must have been really out of it not to notice there was a reason he couldn’t lift his arm earlier.

Frowning, he follows the faint pull around the area of his wrists when they move more than a couple of inches. Shifting his right arm experimentally, he feels something like a pressure around his wrist and tilts his head down to stare blankly at—is that velcro?

“Am I—” Dean tries again, tongue thick and sticking to the roof of his mouth; God, he wants a drink of water. “Am I. Tied to the bed?”

“Yes. It was necessary to restrain you for your own safety.” A hand rests on his forehead, and it’s so familiar that Dean relaxes before he can wonder why. “And ours, for that matter.”

Still, though: Dean looks up, waiting until Cas meets his eyes, and smiles at him before saying as seriously as he can, “Cas? I think. I forgot. My safe word.”

It’s everything he could have hoped for; Cas’s eyes widen, staring down at Dean before he starts to laugh. It sounds rusty, rough like his voice, and Dean really has to work on getting Cas to do that more. The guy’s finally picked up a sense of humor; no reason not to get some mileage out of it. After he gets some goddamn water.

“How ‘bout. ‘Thirsty’?”

“I’ll get it,” someone else says, sounding strangled; Dean tries to see who spoke, but then Cas straightens, laughter trailing off with what looks like a physical effort. “Be right back.”

“I think it’s safe to remove the restraints now. Hold still.” Cool fingers brush his hand as Cas peels open the cuff from his wrist, and Dean tries to flex his hand against the mattress, then move his arm. While his arm throbs at the motion and his fingers feel thick, uncoordinated, like they’re wrapped up in layers of plastic, all sensation muted, there’s no stiffness in his shoulder. Letting his hand relax, he looks up at Cas speculatively. The more you know: Cas learned the right way to tie someone up.

After freeing his left hand, however, Cas’s fingers close around his wrist as he tests it—normal flex, fingers digging weakly into the rough fabric of the blankets, he needs to follow up on that—pinning his arm against the mattress.

“What—?”

“Don’t move yet,” Cas says quietly, and Dean lets his arm go limp. Turning his head, he focuses on his left arm and sees the tube taped to the crook of his elbow and halfway down his forearm, leading to the inevitable IV bag (bags, plural) hanging from a rack by the bed. It also occurs to him there’s been something beeping all this time, but from here, he can’t tell where it’s coming from or what it is.

Turning his gaze to Cas, he fights down panic, trying to form a question, but he’s not sure where to even start.

“You’ve been very ill,” Cas answers quietly, letting go. “You’re doing very well, but you still require care, so please don’t pull it out again. We’re running out of usable veins in easily accessible areas, and while I can be creative, I think you might find my next choice rather inconvenient.” He sits back on the bed. “Do you remember what happened?”

Reflexively, he starts to nod before shaking his head. Not even a clue.

“Perhaps—”

“Still up?” Cas looks away in transparent relief, and Dean loses his train of thought when a glass materializes in front of him, held by a dark-skinned hand, fingernails cut brutally short. He follows the hand to a long bare arm and a loose grey t-shirt before he skips up to the tired face that smiles down at him, red-rimmed brown eyes dancing despite the deep circles beneath them and wet lashes. Looks like Cas isn’t the only one who needs to sleep.

He tries to smile back; she’s really hot. “Hey, Vera.”

“Nice to see you too. Think you can sit up for a second?”

He nods: fuck if he knows, but why not?

Gently, Cas slides an arm under his back, easing him semi-upright, and the wave of vertigo sends the world spinning briefly before he’s leaning back against something solid (Cas, on a guess).

“Good,” Vera says, handing Cas the glass. “Go ahead and see if he can handle it while I get his meds. Slow and easy: this is just a test.” Despite that, she watches intently as Cas gives Dean one tiny sip, just enough to tease, before taking it away, glancing up at Vera. She nods in approval, expression lightening. “Just like that. Dean, you tracking? I have some pills you need to take, all right? Give me a minute; I didn’t think you’d be awake this soon.”

This soon is almost enough to jar Dean away from the pursuit of water, but when he’s offered another sip, he forgets everything else. Eventually, Vera returns, and a reward system is established that requires he take a pill for each swallow of water, which is so fucking unfair that if he wasn’t so tired, he’d tell them to fuck themselves. Finishing the last pill, however, he stares at the half-full glass and realizes he’s really not thirsty anymore: just thinking about drinking more makes him tired. For that matter, looking at the glass is making him tired.

“Good job,” Vera says warmly, patting his shoulder when Cas eases him back down, smoothing the blankets over him again. It’s weird how lying still and swallowing on command can be so goddamn exhausting. “How’s his fever?”

“Ninety-nine point two,” Cas answers immediately, which gets Dean’s attention. He doesn’t remember any thermometers. “It’s been dropping the last hour.”

“Really good,” Vera says, almost as if to herself, then looks down at Dean. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he tries. “Tired?”

He licks his lips, fighting off the exhaustion with sheer can-do, which is destined to fail in probably a minute or less. “A. Little.”

“We’re in the process of forming a fellowship for that,” Cas answers irritably, apparently not aware he’s stroking Dean’s forehead. Dean has no intention of letting on; it feels way too good. “If you wish to apply for membership—”

“He means, ‘join the club’,” the woman—Vera—says, sounding amused. “He’s just fucking with you to show affection and relief that you’re alive and not pledging your soul to everyone you’ve ever met. Or exorcising them, which I assume was for variety’s sake.”

“Did I. Make good deals?” Dean asks, eyes falling closed despite himself; the stroking is hypnotizing, and he could really get used to this. Which of course is when it stops, because this is his life. Cracking his eyes open enough to make out Cas, he glares as hard as he can. “Don’t stop.”

To his surprise, Cas starts back up immediately; he always figured the universe hated him too much for that to actually happen.

“You make terrible deals,” Cas says roughly in contrast to the gentle stroking. “If you were a Crossroads demon, your service record would be a disgrace.”

Vera snickers softly. “Cas, I need to update his chart; you stay with him for a bit, alright?” Cas gives her a look that says there was no reason to assume he was about to do anything else, which makes her laugh again on her way out the door.

Dean watches her leave before looking at Cas curiously. Chart.

“I think she misses the formalities of hospitals,” Cas answers, mouth quirking, and despite himself, Dean’s eyes fall closed under that slow, rhythmic touch. Secret angel weapon, maybe; who knew?

“Go to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”