The Last Spark

Chapter 7

With his angelic blade at ready, Castiel ran into the bathroom. Dean was hunched on the floor, his torso bare. He was leaning onto his hands, trying to maintain balance, bending closer to the ground with each new breath. Just now, Cas noticed how much weight Dean had lost during his illness: his bones literally protruded from under the skin, his ribs and spine were well discerned. Water ran into the sink, disorderly blocking Dean's ragged breaths. Trying to either somehow cover his thinness with Cas' own body, or help Dean up, Castiel grabbed him by the shoulder and led him into the bedroom.

Dean probably only pretended to walk: his legs moved erratically, all his body weight was clearly directed at Cas, who had to make more effort then usual because of his injured knee. Placing Dean carefully on the bed, Cas rushed back to the bathroom to turn off the water. At the bottom of the sink, covering the drain, was Dean's T-shirt with tiny red spots all over the fabric. Cas quickly turned off the tap and immediately went back.

The man was shaking. He desperately clutched his hands on the blanket, trying to calm the trembling, but the tension only made it worse. His skin was unusually pale, even to some extent gray, which made the purple circles under his eyes contrast so strongly with the rest of his face. It looked more like a grease paint than a living person's skin.

Cas had been gone for two days. Just two days brought Dean to this state.

He looked awful.

- I should have gotten back faster.. I'm so sorry, - Castel mumbled, and weekly knelt down next to the bed, not knowing what to do at first. Where did the blood come from? Why is he feeling so bad? Why did he lose so much weight? Why was he choking in the bathroom?
Everything mixed for a second: fatigue, fright, pain, confusion, fluster. It all transformed into some kind of a homogeneous cocktail and immobilized him. He, like a puppet without the strings , lost the ability to think clearly and sat next to Dean's bed continuing to throw nervous glances at him.

He was hoping it would end soon: pass by, like an unwanted storm, or somehow fix itself. He felt so scared that all of that seemed endless for a second: seeing Dean clutching the blanket in front of him and moan out of ailment.

Cas' view began to darken, breathing - to fail.

- I'm useless, Dean. I'm so sorry, I don't know what to do. I should have come back earlier. I should have been here yesterday. I shouldn't have left you at all...
You were already getting better, you were feeling better. I messed it up again, I messed it all up..

Something hot touched his shoulder. Looking up, Cas met Dean's gaze, who was staring at him, puzzled, trying to hold back the escaping sound of the clicking of his teeth.

- Can you ... Fix this.. Please? - Dean couldn't speak distinctly.

- Fix what? - Cas examined Dean once again, trying to understand what he was talking about.

- This.

Turning his hand wrist up, Cas noticed a diagonal cut over Dean's veins. Blood oozed lazily from there, smearing all over his arm and imprinted on the gray covers.

Something seemed to immediately click in Cas's head and made the gears work as they should. Dean was hurt, so he needed to help him. It was simple. No other options.

He finally knew what to do.

After a couple of minutes, Castiel returned with peroxide and bandages in his hands taking way too many than he should've, so some bandages were falling out of his hands along the way to the room. He also stuffed his pockets with antipyretic pills, taking as much as he physically could hold.

Panic surely wasn't helping him much, but at least he was finally doing the job right.

There was no point in consistent help if Dean needed it immediately. Here and now. Cas decided to do everything at the same time and deal with all the symptoms much faster.