Chapter Text
“I’m calling it,” Dr. Vallens says, and fuck, Dean hates this part. “Time of death, 5:42 a.m. Someone go notify the family.”
One of the orderlies sighs and nods, scurrying down the hallway with her too-quick inhuman gait. Dean closes his eyes for just a moment, because he knows what comes next.
There’s a wail from the waiting area, and he pretends he doesn’t flinch, because no matter how many times he’s done this, no matter how many times he’s witnessed this, it never gets any easier. He looks at Dr. Vallens, who is unhooking the facemask from her ears, and she nods. “I know your shift is almost over,” she says apologetically, “but do you have time to help draw up the paperwork?”
“Of course,” Dean says, unhooking his own mask and glancing down at the faun on the bed. His skin is a pale, washed-out color, eyes closed, face peaceful. Red hair curls tightly around two stubby horns poking up from the top of his head. Dean unclips the oxygen monitor from the tip of the faun’s finger, turns off the heart rate monitor that shows nothing but a flat line. The family will be in here soon, and Dean doesn’t want them to have to deal with all the machines currently droning around them.
A gentle hand lands on his shoulder. Patience, one of the interns, gives him a soft smile. “I’ll handle this,” she says, urging him towards the hallway. “Go get the paperwork done so you can get out of here.”
“Thanks, Patience,” Dean says, giving her a warm smile in return. “Let me know if you have any questions, yeah? I’ll be at the comp if you need me. And don’t get sucked into doing anyone else’s chores, I know you’ve got class in a coupla hours.”
“You got it,” she promises, and turns to the various machines in the room to start turning them off and wheeling them away. Her movements are confident and precise, but Dean lingers for a moment anyway. Just in case. These kinds of nights aren’t easy, not for anyone.
The paperwork is quick. Time of death: 5:42 a.m. Cause of death: Hypoxemic respiratory failure leading to supraventricular tachycardia. Patient overdosed on vervenalin approx. an hour before arriving on premises. Measures taken: Rescue breathing applied for ten minutes without response. Defibrillator applied three times without success. Next of kin notified: Yes.
He submits the form for Dr. Vallens to review and clocks out, shrugging into his coat as he leaves Heartland Community General. His skin feels too-tight, the way it always does at the end of a difficult shift, like he’s been stretched thin over a drum, and the cold early spring wind whips across his face. His fingers itch for a cigarette suddenly, but Dean tamps down on the craving as he walks down the street towards the enclosed employee parking lot.
The sun is up but still weak, casting a pale light in between the deep shadows that crisscross haphazardly across the street. It’s nearly April but Dean’s pretty sure he saw snow in the forecast for next week. “Shoulda brought a scarf today,” he grumbles, tucking his face into the flimsy collar of his coat as best he can. It doesn’t do much to help against the biting wind. Fucking Midwestern winters that won’t just give up and let spring come early for a change.
There are a few people rushing past with steaming to-go cups of coffee in their hands, but otherwise the street is empty and quiet, the city in the process of waking up for the day. Dean doesn’t do many overnight shifts, but he can’t deny that there’s a certain peace to walking out of the hospital and onto a still city street. There are a couple of pigeons pecking at an unidentifiable smudge on the sidewalk, cooing softly, but otherwise the street is nearly silent.
Which is the only reason Dean is able to hear a muffled thump coming from the head of an alley as he passes. Startled, he looks down the space, trying to make out any shapes from the early morning gloom. He thinks there might be a dumpster back there -- maybe a raccoon or something got caught in it? Should he call Animal Control? A vet?
There’s another muffled thump, and something that sounds like a low, pained moan. Dean bites his lower lip, but he knows his mind is already made up.
“Hello?” he calls down the alley, and he’s half-convinced that he’s about to take a rabid raccoon straight to the face. “Is everything okay?” He moves slowly into the shadowed, narrow alley, listening for any more noises.
Something lets out a grunt on the other side of the now-visible dumpster, and Dean freezes for a moment, because that wasn’t an animal. That was too deep to come from a raccoon or a rat or whatever. The image in his head quickly shifts from a rabid raccoon jumping at his face to a feral kid or something. Why would there be a feral child in this alley? the more rational side of his brain tries to ask, but Dean shuts that shit down.
Fuck, he should’ve looked for a makeshift weapon or something to defend himself. Why are there no convenient two-by-fours laying around in this alley? Aren’t all alleys supposed to have convenient two-by-fours laying around in them? He could’ve sworn that was part of city building code. Sucking in a breath, Dean makes a fist around his keys in his pocket, steeling himself to go for the eyes if he has to. It’s the best he can come up with.
Another groan comes from the other side of the dumpster. Alright, Winchester, time to rip off the band-aid.
Dean jumps forward, brandishing his fist of keys, but the “Nice try, motherfucker!” he was about to shout dies in his throat. Because there’s no feral child, no crafty mugger lying in wait on the other side of the dumpster to accost him.
There’s a man. And a lot of blood.
“Oh, shit,” Dean says, and the man looks up at him, and even through the bruised slits of his eyes, Dean can tell his gaze is an unearthly blue.
“No --” the man gasps out, and then he coughs, spits out more blood onto the dirty ground, and Dean immediately shifts modes, tucking his keys back into his coat pocket. The man is curled on the pavement, an arm slung almost protectively over his abdomen, and he’s covered in bruises and other marks, some of which are bleeding sluggishly from where they’ve broken the skin. One of his ankles is starting to swell, too, a sure sign of either a badly sprained or broken ankle. His dark hair is plastered to his skull, indicating blood from a probable head injury.
Oh, and he’s naked. Dean would blink in surprise, but it kind of makes searching for injuries a lot easier.
“Hey,” Dean says, kneeling down next to the man, going for the soothing voice he uses with patients who are just waking up from anaesthesia, “my name is Dean Winchester, I’m going to help you, okay? Is that okay? I think you need to go to the hospital, which, great news, is literally just up the street.”
That jostles the man into opening his eyes wider, panic making his face go white. “No!” he says again, voice stringent, “No hospital, please! I can’t --” He cuts off with more coughing, and Dean lifts his hands up in surprise at just how forceful this dude is about not going to the hospital.
“Okay, alright,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice low and easy. “No hospital, I gotcha. But can I help you, at least? I’m a trained nurse, just got off shift actually, so I promise I know what I’m doing.”
The man bites his full lower lip, considering, and then gives a curt nod. “No hospital,” he says again, a warning this time, and Dean nods.
“No hospital. Even though you really should go.”
That earns him a glare, which he would probably find amusing at any time other than literally right this moment with a bleeding and bruised naked man at his feet. Dean reaches out his hand carefully, telegraphing his movements with a slow deliberateness to show that he doesn’t have any tricks up his sleeve. “I’m gonna feel your foot and ankle, okay? To see if something’s broken, or if you just have a bad sprain. Tell me if anything hurts especially bad when I press on it.”
He waits for the man to nod before pressing his fingertips down gently just above the ankle, applying light pressure to the skin and tissue. There doesn’t seem to be any shifting bone underneath his touch, which is a good sign. The man hisses out through his teeth but otherwise doesn’t make any noise.
After feeling over the entire ankle and foot, Dean nods and gives what he hopes is a reassuring pat to the man’s… shin. Right, this dude is still naked. “Well, your ankle isn't broken, just sprained pretty badly,” he says, trying to keep his tone light and positive without letting on about any awkwardness. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take a look at your head now, and then we’ll get you somewhere warm so I can take a look at your ribs, okay? I just need to make sure that you don’t need a brace for a head or spinal injury before I take you anywhere.”
The man squints at him like he can’t quite figure Dean out, but nods in acquiescence. Dean scoots forward enough that he’s able to run his fingers lightly over the man’s scalp and down his neck, moving through his wet and matted hair, though he can’t find any open wounds that would explain why his hair is damp. Maybe it’s not blood? Did he get a bucket of water dumped on him earlier?
There’s a large bump on the back of the man’s head that feels tender, and it makes him yelp when Dean presses lightly on it. “Don’t touch that!” he says, baring his teeth a little bit at Dean.
From their closer proximity, Dean can tell that the man’s pupils are dilated and fairly uneven. He frowns, humming distractedly in the back of his throat as he peers closer. “Hey,” he says, holding up a finger, “follow my finger with your eyes. Don’t move your head at all.” He waves it back and forth in front of the man’s face, slowly at first and then faster.
The man’s eyes keep up at first, but there is a noticeable lag as Dean keeps going, and he puts his finger back down. “I’m pretty sure you have a concussion, though I can’t say for sure unless you let me take you to the hospital and do either an MRI or CT scan --”
“I said no hospitals!” the man snaps, and his eyes seem to glow in the dim light of the alley with the ferocity of his words. “They’ll fi --” he cuts off with another harsh round of coughing, spitting out blood with a groan onto the pavement and clutching his side.
“Shit,” Dean says, trying to jump backwards on his goddamn knees. They bang against the ground and send sparks of pain shooting up his legs. He’s in his scrubs and his coat, kneeling on the dirty ground next to a naked beat up guy who’s spewing bodily fluids all over the place, and not a piece of PPE in sight. This is like the perfect storm to get hepatitis or something. Thinking quickly, he sighs and makes a decision he hopes he doesn’t regret in a few hours.
“Alright, dude,” he says, sitting back up into a crouching position. “My car isn’t too far from here. I’m going to take you to my place and take a look at your ribs and get you cleaned up. You gotta promise that you’re not gonna steal all my shit and murder me, yeah? Or curse me somehow, if you’ve got magic or whatever. Deal?”
The man looks up at him, blue eyes going more and more unfocused. “I won’t harm you,” he says, the words rasping out of his throat like they’re being dragged over a cheese grater. “Just… please.”
Dean sighs again and reaches down, carefully slinging one of the man’s arms over his shoulder to help him up. “Come on,” he says, “I’ve got some blankets in the trunk so you don’t bleed on Baby’s upholstery. Keep your weight off that ankle while we walk. Lucky for you, it’s still early so no one’s gonna really see all your goods.”
The man grunts as Dean lifts him up, his weight solid and heavy against Dean’s side. He looks down at himself like he’s only just realized he’s naked. “Oh,” he says, a note of surprise coloring his voice, “that’s… good?”
“Yeah,” Dean laughs, can’t help it from bubbling up. “Okay, keep leaning on me, let’s get you into those blankets before we both catch hypothermia.”
They stagger forward slowly, and Dean watches from the corner of his eye as the man’s face tightens on nearly every step, though he doesn’t give any other indication of the immense pain he is most likely in. His body is littered with bruises and scrapes, but thankfully nothing too life-threatening on its own. The major risks at this point are the cold and the probable concussion.
Baby is parked in the employee garage, tucked carefully between two pillars that keep other drivers from parking next to her, and Dean directs the man to lean against the side of the car while he spreads a blanket out over the seat, then sits him down, tucking another two blankets around his shoulders. They’re a little musty smelling from spending too much time in the trunk, but Dean knows they’re thick and warm. He steps back from his work, looking down at the bundled up man, who looks suddenly small and hunched in his blanket cocoon.
“You good?” he asks, then winces. “I mean, are the blankets okay?” he amends himself. “Sorry, dumb question.”
The man gives a small smile and nods. “They’re warm,” he says, voice husky. His eyelids seem to be drooping, which, oh no, that’s not allowed to happen.
Dean gets into the car and turns it on, turning the heat on low enough that it won’t feel like burning air to the man. “Hey,” he says, turning towards him and snapping his fingers in his face a few times. It’s rude but has the intended effect, as the man jerks up and looks more alert. “No sleeping until we get to my place and I can figure out what’s going on with your head,” Dean warns. “Which means you gotta talk to me.”
“About what,” the man grouses, pulling a blanket tighter around his shoulders.
“I don’t care. Whatever you want.” Dean shifts the car into drive and pulls out of the garage, heading towards his apartment.
The man doesn’t say anything, just stares at the side of Dean’s head.
“Oooookay,” Dean says, tapping his fingers against the soft leather of the steering wheel. “I’ll pick the topic, I guess. What’s your name, for starters?”
The man blinks, eyes struggling to focus. “I --” he says, then pauses, frowns. He’s quiet for a few moments, mouth struggling to shape an answer. “Castiel,” he says finally.
“Castiel?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Is that an old family name or something? I don’t think I’ve ever met a Castiel before. You got a last name?”
The man -- no, Castiel now -- furrows his brow, like he’s not sure what Dean means. Maybe it’s a cultural thing; there are certain groups of fairies that don’t use their clan name as their surname, though most people and creatures use them by now. Or it could be a memory thing.
“You know,” Dean says, trying to explain, “a last name. My full name’s Dean Winchester. Winchester is my last name.”
Castiel appears to think for another moment, then shakes his head very slightly. “Just Castiel,” he says. “If I have a last name… I can’t remember. I’m not even sure where I am, honestly.”
Dean frowns and glances at him from the corner of his eye. “That’s not a great sign,” he says. “Impaired memory and memory loss are pretty concrete symptoms of a bad concussion, and maybe something even worse. Do you remember what happened?”
“No,” Castiel shakes his head and winces, but he just leaves it at that. He probably has a pretty nasty headache, all things considered.
“Take it easy, we’ll figure it out,” Dean says, and he smoothly parks the Impala outside of his building. “Okay, let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”
Thankfully no one gets onto the elevator as they ride it up, and Dean sends up a silent thank you (that he will never voice out loud) that Sam convinced him to live somewhere with an actual elevator and not another fifth floor walk-up. Castiel leans against him the whole way, and his face looks pale and exhausted, his eyes rimmed with red. He still has one of the blankets clutched around his shoulders.
Dean ushers him inside his apartment and makes him sit down on the couch. “I’m gonna go get my first aid kit, and then I’ll take a look at your ribs,” he says, heading for the bathroom. He digs under the sink for the kit, and also pulls out a roll of gauze tape with it. His hand knocks against a bottle of Tylenol, but he knows it’s expired, so he leaves it behind.
Castiel looks like he’s about to nod off again as Dean walks back into the living room. He’s made himself at home on Dean’s plaid couch that has definitely seen better days, leaned back against it like he’s taken many a nap on it before, the blanket falling down around his shoulders.
“Hey, no sleeping yet,” Dean says, putting the kit on the coffee table and snapping it open. Castiel startles awake again, his eyes focusing on Dean immediately. Even with the (more than likely) concussion, he’s sharp, Dean has to admit. His gaze feels like it’s peeling Dean apart layer by layer, letting Castiel peer inside to his very core. It’s unsettling but exhilarating at the same time, and, shit, Dean realizes he’s been staring back for way too long.
He blinks rapidly, and Castiel’s head tilts a degree to the side. “Um,” Dean says, scrambling for his derailed train of thought, “right, okay, I just need to… uh, if you could pull the blanket down, I’ll finish patching you up.”
“Okay,” Castiel drops the blanket, letting it pool around his hips on the couch, and if Dean wasn’t a consummate professional he’d totally let himself be distracted by the wall of muscle that greets him. As it is, he kneels down to get a closer look at the bruised skin.
Opening the med kit, he rolls on a pair of medical grade latex gloves, brows starting to knit together. Maybe it was just the lighting in the alley, but Dean could’ve sworn Castiel’s injuries were much worse the last time he’d taken a look. He presses his fingertips lightly into Castiel’s side, feeling for anything wrong beneath the skin.
“Is there any pain?” he asks, pressing just above Castiel’s ribs. It’s a rather nasty bruise, and Castiel recoils.
“Yes,” he hisses, “that hurts. Quite a bit.”
Dean hums, biting his lip in concentration. Nothing feels broken beneath his touch, which is odd, because Castiel has definitely sustained some sort of abdominal injury -- he’d been clutching his sides when Dean had found him, like he had a fractured rib. “It’s possible you bruised your ribs, on the bone itself,” he muses out loud, “but I can’t confirm that without --”
Castiel makes a small snarling sound, and Dean glances up in surprise.
“How many times do I have to say no hospitals.” Castiel’s eyes are narrow slits, his mouth a hard line as he glares at Dean.
Swallowing against an instinctive burst of fear, Dean glares right back at him. “I already told you I wouldn’t make you go to a hospital,” he snaps. “If I was lying, you’d already be at one. Are you gonna trust me or not?”
Castiel glares at him for another moment, then slumps back with a sigh. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away. “I’m -- my apologies. Keep going.”
With a huff, Dean pulls out a couple of antiseptic wipes and gauze from the kit, his skin buzzing, because holy shit that had been an intense moment. “This may sting a bit,” he says, softening his tone, offering a metaphorical olive branch. Castiel nods and shifts on the couch, turning a bit so Dean has easier access to his back, where the worst of the scrapes are.
Both of them are quiet while Dean carefully cleans and bandages Castiel up, only the sounds of people heading to work outside Dean’s door filling the air. Castiel doesn’t make any noises of pain or discomfort, though Dean can see his eyes tightening when he disinfects a few of the larger scrapes. As he finishes, he can tell Castiel is quickly on his way to falling asleep, his chin starting to droop down to his chest, his breathing slower. He looks… better than when Dean found him, that’s for sure. Some of the pained lines on his face have smoothed out, though the bags under his eyes still seem fairly pronounced. Dean wonders when the last time this guy slept was, and he makes a quick decision.
The med kit snaps shut louder than Dean expected, and Castiel returns to alertness with another start. “Ah, sorry,” Dean mumbles, using the arm of the couch as leverage to get up off the ground, wincing as his knees pop a bit. “Just let me get you some spare clothes, and you can sleep here, okay? I’m also beat, so we’ll figure out next steps after some rest.”
Castiel nods, so Dean slips into his darkened bedroom, rummaging through his drawers for an old pair of sweatpants and a shirt. He pulls out a stretched-out gray AC/DC shirt and folds it over his arm. He hesitates for a moment, hovering over his underwear drawer, before he decides he’s not willing to let a stranger wear his boxers. Just a little too weird for now.
Back in the living room, Castiel is examining one of the larger bandages on his side covering a laceration that runs from his oblique to nearly up to his shoulder blade, his back to Dean. Thankfully it hadn’t required stitches -- which had been unexpected -- but Dean had hissed in sympathy as he’d cleaned it out, because whatever had left it had been nasty.
Dean’s eyes travel down the line of Castiel’s back, looking over his handiwork to make sure he hasn’t missed anything and… oh. Castiel has dropped the blanket, his whole body on display. Powerful thighs connect to a well-muscled torso, his thick waist curving into his shapely ass --
“Here you go!” Dean says, his voice about an octave higher than it should be. He chucks the clothes across the room, a hot flush creeping up his cheeks as he whips himself around so he can’t see Castiel anymore. Fuck, he’s such a fucking asshole, checking out the injured, possibly homeless dude without him knowing. Sure, it’s been a while since his last relationship ended, but he is not that hard up. Cas may be ridiculously attractive -- only a person without eyes couldn’t see that -- but Dean has a strong personal “don’t be creepy” policy that he lives by. And right now he’s shattering it six ways to Sunday.
“Thank you, Dean,” he hears Castiel say, the telltale rustling of fabric in the background.
Dean clears his throat. “You decent?” he asks after a few moments.
“Yes.”
When he turns back around, Castiel is indeed wearing the clothes. Dean notes, a little hysterically, that his thighs seem to be testing the limits of the sweatpants. “Great!” he says, and he knows he sounds manic but maybe he can blame it on sleep deprivation. “There’s some clean towels in the bathroom if you wake up and want to take a shower, and you’ve got some pillows for the couch and the blanket, so you’re all set.”
Castiel nods and picks the blanket up off the floor. “Where should I leave it when I wake up?” he asks.
“What?” Dean says, taken aback.
“For when I leave later,” Castiel says. “Should I just fold the blanket over the couch?”
“Who says you’re leaving?” Dean frowns. “You’re still injured, not to mention concussed. I need to monitor you and make sure I didn’t miss anything, or make sure nothing gets worse. If you wake up before me, feel free to help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge if you’re hungry, I guess, but I’m not gonna kick you out or anything.”
Castiel gives him a small, grateful smile, and it makes something in Dean’s heart twist strangely. “I understand. Thank you again, Dean. You’ve been very kind.”
“Just doing my job, man,” Dean deflects. “Go ahead, get some sleep. I’ll talk with you later, Cas.”
Castiel blinks and tilts his head a degree, but then his smile grows wider.
“Talk to you later,” he promises.
