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Deep Enough to Dream
Deep Enough to Dream
PG | (Gen) Castiel, Dean | ~3500 words
"I'll do whatever I want, sweetheart. I'm crazy, y'know."
Everything these days kind of reminds Castiel of chopping wood, the same repetitive motion over and over until he loses himself in it and it all turns woodchip grey for days on end and there's splinters up and down his fingers and yet another unsplit log in front of him when he comes back. Axe splinters work their way under his fingers so deep he can feel them crawling through his veins, racing towards his beating heart. Zachariah keeps stacking the logs in front of him sneering up as he pulls at the strings wrapped around his wrists, making Castiel chop harder faster harder. Grey flecks of wood fly past Castiel's face cutting his cheeks. Fog swallows him from the legs up and he's lost in it, waking up sitting in his chair by the door.
They crawl around like flies on meat, settling over tables and chairs to rest and throw cards at each other, swapping cigarettes faster than the human eye can see. The three with the most life all huddle together, clutching at their cards for dear life as they shuffle their cigarettes back and forth and Castiel can't see anything but pale white hands and stark red cards.
Artificial sunlight shines in front of the head nurse as he watches, surveying his domain and all the little flies in it. He doesn't think Castiel can see the little horns curling over his closely cropped hair.
Sometimes his eyes are white.
The fog descends.
___
Castiel emerges just as the aides herd them to bed. Their eyes are hard and black, flat and dead. His bed is a rock slate and they tie him to it, injecting something in his arm that sinks him into sleep.
___
No one ever makes noise when new people show up, no one announces or makes a big deal out of it, there's simply a new person there, no fuss.
Some people makes their own fuss.
The doors fly open before him, their gray repulsed by the color flowing from him in rushes and waves that nearly send Castiel blind. His hair catches the sun and spins gold, red spills from his smirking lips, green drips off his eyelashes and runs over the floor in little rivulets, crawling and swirling around slippered feet. Some of it dies there on the floor.
Some doesn't. The cards are redder than before.
"Well, s'real party you've got goin' on here," he says, his very words are soaked in more life than Castiel's heard in years. He grins, sharp and sarcastic, flashing white teeth.
"Sir," one of the aides walks over to him. "Please don't make such a commotion." She touches his arm and color runs over her hand. He yanks his arm away, miraculously undamaged.
"I'll do whatever I want, sweetheart," he winks at her and she flinches, "I'm crazy, y'know." He saunters away from her hands, gracefully dodging her commands and fingers as he weaves over to the card table.
"Poker?" he asks, interested. He pulls a chair out and spins it around and straddles it backwards. "Deal me in."
"Sir!" the aide demands.
"Alright," drawls Wesson. Their eyes lock as he shuffles the cards with his bone-pale hands. Shirley and Milligan stare on in wonder.
"Angus Young." He's laughing yellow and holds out a hand.
"Bull," Wesson says, sliding a card in front of him. He doesn't shake.
"Jimmy Page," he corrects, turning the hand on Milligan.
Milligan shakes his head.
"Kirk Hammett," he informs Shirley.
"L-liar," Shirley stutters mildly.
He retracts his hand, laying his elbows down on the table as he picks up his cards.
"Dean Winchester," he announces. Wesson nods.
___
Castiel can hear the gears of the head Nurse's brain whirring. The low drone of cogs turning in his head, winding up the threads and threads until he knows just how to break this new, beautiful toy he has laid out before him. Castiel stares at him through the glass.
He'll take all the colors away from Winchester, all the life sucked out of him until he's just like the others, too scared of his own shadow to even speak.
The last man to leave the ward had come in restrained, hissing and spitting and covered in scars, he called the aides demons and threw salt in their eyes.
He left last month, shoulders hunched like his back was broken, carrying a briefcase. All the spitfire in him extinguished.
Castiel closes his eyes, lest he get used to Winchester the way he is.
___
The fog comes up to his waist as he runs, zigzagging to avoid enemy fire, or mines, or maybe just nothing and his pack's digging furrows into his shoulders and his boots pinch his feet and Zachariah's right in front of him, scowling over his shoulder and screaming "run dammit, run" but there's no way Castiel can go faster than this, and his heart's pounding in his head and his lungs burn. Zachariah's gone and the fog is rising, swallowing him up and there's gunshots whizzing past him.
___
Winchester wakes up last in the ward, during breakfast, and his clothes -- worn jeans, dark green work shirt -- have disappeared to be replaced with white scrubs, which he carries balled in his fist as he stomps over to the nurse's station. His boxers are striped.
"Hey!" he demands, his fist slamming into the door.
"Yes, sir?" a blonde aide asks, little sparks of frost coating her lips.
"What the hell?" he yells, waving the scrubs at her. "My clothes are gone."
"You have been issued the standard ward uniform."
"I don't want the standard ward uniform."
"Pack of smokes says he gets hauled off to disturbed," Milligan whispers to Wesson.
"I'll take that bet," Wesson smirks. They each hand a carton to Shirley.
"Give me my clothes back."
"I can't, sir."
"Really?" Winchester asks, a dangerous shade slipping into his voice. Castiel looks away.
The temperature in the room drops as the head nurse walks out. He's just an inch, maybe two taller than Winchester, who scowls up at him.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Westchester?"
"It's Winchester, and yeah. I want my clothes."
"You have clothes, Mr. Westchester," the head nurse says, obstinately getting his name wrong again. Winchester smiles, sharp, and drops his scrubs.
"Y'know, my dad met this guy once that couldn't say his name right. That guy went home with a broken beer bottle in his face."
Shirley pushes both cartons of cigarettes towards Milligan.
Two burly male aides come out of the nurse's station.
"Threats, Mr. Westchester?"
"Yeah, threats," Winchester says. The aides grab him by the arms and frog-march him away.
___
At night the screams echo through the ceiling from the disturbed ward. None of them sound familiar, but all sound like pain, fresh red wounds of sound, and Castiel doesn't sleep.
___
He comes back three days later, wearing scrubs. His scowl has widened, and he is not broken yet.
Castiel feels oddly like smiling.
"How was it?" Wesson asks, smirking.
"You knew that was gonna happen," Winchester accuses.
"We all did," Milligan says and Shirley nods. Wesson shuffles his hand around until the order pleases him, then throws two cigarettes into the pile.
"Called," he says.
"C-call," Shirley echoes.
"Raise," Winchester says, pushing four cigarettes to the center of the table. "So, what the hell can we do around here?"
Milligan folds.
"Play poker and smoke ourselves to death," Wesson replies.
"Fun," Winchester says, drawing the word out. "But what do you actually do?" The others just stare at him. "You know," he continues, "bending the rules, living a little?"
"We d-d-don't," Shirley says.
"What?" Winchester asks, outraged.
"You don't bend the rules around here," Milligan says. He nervously places a cigarette between his lips, lighting up with a match out of his pocket. "Or bad shit happens."
"Bad shit?" Winchester asks, cocking an eyebrow.
"Like getting kicked into disturbed," Wesson says dryly, eyes on his cards.
"Not that bad," Winchester smirks.
"How'd you sleep?" Wesson asks.
Winchester scowls. "Fine."
Milligan grins around his cigarette.
A flash of lightning streaks across the corner of Castiel's vision.
"That's what's got you boys so scared?" Winchester says, his voice crackling with thunder, "a few nights upstairs? That nurse's got you all whipped."
"You makin' a bet, here?" Milligan asks, staring at his cards. Winchester grabs a few cigarettes, the white tips filtering between his fingers, when the storm comes to a head. Castiel grabs at his ears to block the thunder, rain drops pelting the back of his neck.
"Yeah. I am."
He grins around at the suddenly nervous men.
"I bet I can drive that nurse as crazy as he drives us," Winchester whispers conspiratorially.
"Y-you what?" Shirley asks, wide eyed.
"That's a bad idea," Wesson says.
"Why?" Winchester asks.
"Because a lot worse things can happen than a night in disturbed," Wesson hooks his thumb over his shoulder, "see that guy over there?"
He's pointing right at Castiel, who freezes. Winchester's eyes slide over to land on him, and Castiel's glad he looked away -- although he's not sure when he did -- because the thought of those green bolts of electricity meeting his eyes directly could blind him, boil his poor eyes right out of his skull.
"Yeah," Winchester says. He doesn't look away for a few seconds, and Castiel's skin crawls.
"He hasn't spoke a word in the three years I've been here, or the five that Chuck's been here. Shock treatment."
"No shit," Winchester says. "What was he like before?"
"No one's s-sure," Chuck says. "Only th-the real b-bad ones knew him th-then." Wesson and Milligan nod sagely.
"So, if I do this badly I can kiss my brain goodbye?" Winchester asks, side longing a glance at Castiel.
"Basically," Wesson says, laying his cards down. "Four Jacks."
"I can take that bet," Winchester smirks. He fans his cards out on the table, the six-seven-eight-nine-ten-jack of spades, a straight flush.
___
The next day, at end of Winchester's first week he's put on the rotating duty roster. It says rotating on the board, so that's what Castiel calls it, even though he's mopped the floors more times than anyone else and almost never does other duties. Winchester gets toilet duty.
The entire hallway is bathed in a light pinkish haze.
___
There's a crowd gathering around the latrines, although it's trying to make itself look like a large group of innocent bystanders, but Castiel can see them sneaking looks in when the nurse isn't looking.
"Mr. Westchester, what do you call this?" he asks patiently.
"A toilet," Winchester smirks.
"A filthy toilet," the nurse says, shaking his head.
"Well, yeah."
"Excuse me?"
"They're not for eating out of," Winchester says.
The nurse fixes him with a paint-peeling glare. "Mr. Westchester, you will clean these adequately."
"I will?"
"Yes, you will."
Winchester makes a carefully neutral face, not quite subservient, but close enough for the nurse to nod at him gruffly, call in an aide to assist, and then leave. The peanut gallery begins to disperse, leaving only Castiel mopping the hall.
"Dude," Winchester says, resting his arm around the aide's shoulders, "how much does toilet duty suck?" The aide doesn't answer, eying Winchester wearily. "I mean, he can't like you very much, if all you're doing today is watching me clean the bathroom."
The aide nods. Slowly.
Dean pats the aide's shoulder with his free hand. "Sucks, man, I tell ya." Winchester heads back to the stalls, but his work is done. Winchester grabs the brush in one hand and the aide stands by the door, glancing out. Winchester disappears into a stall and the aide watches for a few seconds, then walks out, staying close to the wall.
Winchester sticks his head out the door and watches his progression down the hall. He turns to Castiel -- who's busy staring at the floor and trying to look invisible -- and says, hushed, "if only taking candy from babies was that easy."
Castiel feels his lips twisting in a smile.
"That's interesting," Winchester says, stepping towards Castiel. "They told me you were deaf."
He walks away, grinning like a fool.
The fog rushes in.
___
Winchester pulls him back out of the fog that's so deep he was sleeping in it and didn't even notice until Winchester throws a pillow at his head. It hits him in the face with a soft thump and he's laying in his bed.
"Hey," Winchester hisses, "wake up." Castiel pushes the pillow away and stares at him blankly. "That's not gonna work, I know you can hear me."
Castiel opens his mouth, his jaw cracking and creaking like a rusty hinge, but no sound comes out. He closes his mouth a simply nods his head.
"You can't talk?"
Castiel shrugs.
"Okay," Winchester says. "Wait here." He darts into the hallway for a few minutes, Castiel counts the seconds with his padded footsteps, and comes to stand in the doorway and waves Castiel over. Castiel doesn't think it's a good idea, but his legs move of their own accord, marching him silently over to Winchester. The other man grabs his wrist and pulls him away.
"Gotta go faster, man," he says, looking around nervously. "The janitor likes me, but if anyone else spots us we're in deep shit." Castiel nods and tries to ignore how warm his skin is where Winchester's fingers are touching him. Winchester pulls him into the break room where the aides eat lunch and closes the door behind them. There are little black smidges on his fingers and it makes Castiel's heart ache to think he put them there.
A flimsy plastic cup of water is thrust into is hand, obviously from the water cooler in the corner.
"Talk," Winchester says, pulling a seat out for Castiel and another for himself, dragging it close so their knees are touching when he sits down, like he doesn't want to miss a word.
Castiel open his mouth again and tries to remember how, it's more than a little scary that he forgot in the first place, what has it been, eight years since he's tried? He tries to remember his last words and they way they felt coming out of his mouth, but he can't. His breath won't shape right, clinging to the back of his throat when he wants it in the front and his tongue can't seem to remember how to make the right moves.
"I-" scrapes past his teeth like a grunt. He tries again. "I don't have much to say." He doesn't remember his voice ever being that hoarse, or the sandpaper-raw feeling in his throat, but they are words.
"Bull," Winchester says, grinning a little. Castiel blinks at him. "Start with your name."
"You don't," Castiel has to stop and sip at the water, "... you don't know my name?"
Winchester shakes his head.
"It's Castiel."
"What?" Winchester asks. "Castiel? Really?" Castiel nods, finishing his water. He remembers that, the strange looks that accompany his given name. "Is that a first name or a last name?"
"First," Castiel croaks. Winchester waits for him to offer his last, but he doesn't.
"Dean," he says, holding out his hand like he did on that first day. Castiel takes it and shakes, one strong smooth pump like he hadn't quite known was in him. "Why don't you talk?"
"Didn't know I could," Castiel says. It's half true. He'd forgotten, which is worse than never knowing at all. Winchester -- Dean doesn't push it. "Are you going to tell everyone?"
"No," Dean says. There's a reddish haze around him now, lazy and dangerous looking.
"Why not?"
"Because, you never show your cards until the game is done."
___
Castiel remembers that once they'd had a magician in the ward. The Amazing Singer, who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, a grizzled old man with the quickest hands Castiel'd ever seen, who used to say to anyone who'd listen that half of magic was misdirection, making people look the other way with a pretty girl or a shiny bauble while you do the real magic.
Dean is a magician in the realest sense, and misdirecting with his loud voice and bright face while Castiel does the magic.
It begins when Dean settles down with his lunch, scoops a spoonful of mashed potato up and flicks it at the wall.
Grinning, Wesson follows suit, his pat of potatoes landing just to the left and higher than Dean's. Dean lets out a high, almost childish laugh. They catapult food towards the wall, Wesson has a little frown of concentration between his eyebrows, seeing who can get globs the highest, the farthest, the closest to the floor. The rest of the cafeteria becomes spectators, softly cheering. Including the aide Dean had his conversation with the other day, nervously clapping.
"Mr. Wesson! Mr. Winchester!"
"Damn," Wesson says, setting his spoon down.
Dean lets a decent sized glob fly, and it hits the aide squarely in the forehead, mashed potatoes dripping down the side of his nose. Wesson is startled into a laugh.
___
"He's a menace."
"A disgrace."
"Simply awful."
The head nurse watches as the board argues over Dean's fate. The words fly back and forth over his head, little wisps of slime-green, the accumulated sludge of words coats the walls slick and Castiel labors in the corner, trying to clean them. He could scrub until his hands bleed and not get rid of the malice in this room.
"We need to be rid of him."
"But how?"
"Gentlemen," the nurse speaks up. The room is silent, still except for Castiel's working hands. "We do nothing."
"What?" the board members ask in unison.
"This Winchester is a nuisance. And we can not treat him any different than a normal patient because of it."
"Of course."
"Certainly."
Their cowardice is blue.
"So, we do what we would do to any other patient."
Castiel clenches his hand around the rag, the only way he won't scream and let them know he's heard them.
"Electroshock."
___
They've already taken Dean away by the time Castiel makes his escape and he's not sure what he would have done if he'd been there, but he should have been there, even if it was to do something stupid and get sent down with him, Castiel should not have left Dean alone. There's fog at the corners of his vision and Castiel tries to hold it back long enough to quit panicking and actually help.
They're probably strapping Dean to the table right now, pushing a plastic semicircle in his mouth so he doesn't bite his tongue in half. Is Dean scared? He's alone. Castiel would be scared. Has been scared, in the place Dean is right now.
And there's nothing he can do.
Even if Castiel marched in there right now there would be no way to stop it, no way to save Dean and no way to save himself if his secret got out.
For the first time in a long time, Castiel lies on his bed and waits for the fog to take him.
___
And Dean's different when he returns. His colors are less bright, his eyes always downcast when no one's looking. His hand seems to twitch when he eats. There are no more late night talks.
The magic has failed.
Now Dean's too well behaved to punish. He never cheats at cards. Never raises his voice. Keeps his head down.
Castiel can feel himself slipping back to the place Dean drew him out of. The whole ward is following him, it seems.
___
Castiel remembers his father, who was the smartest man Castiel had ever known, and even as one of many children Castiel had always felt loved best. When he was around he'd say things that Castiel never quite understood, but he does now.
It's supper, the sun is going down in a haze of red through the barred windows. The silence feels like thick wool, itchy and suffocating.
Castiel looks up from his plate, stands taller than the others, taller than the nurse, taller than the building. He feels people staring and doesn't care.
Dean is staring as he approaches. His eyes are little sparks, double A batteries compared to what they were. Castiel's hand touches his shoulder and a spark winds it's way up Castiel's fingers, sinks into his skin and Castiel gently squeezes in thanks.
The chair next to Dean is empty and Castiel slides it out with both hands and whips it at the window, he hears it deflect off the bars as he turns the table on it's side, plates shattering on the floor and food smashing into a glorious sticky mess on the floor. Castiel laughs, there area around him suddenly clear, of people, of color, of fog and hallucinations, leaving only tables and chairs waiting to be destroyed and Castiel does.
Strong arms wrap around his waist and arms, picking him off the floor and carrying him off.
And, at the front of the gathered crowd, Dean is smiling, a lemon yellow mist hanging around his shoulders. Castiel's answering grin feels like it could tear his face in half.
"Go, Cas," Dean says.
~fin
PG | (Gen) Castiel, Dean | ~3500 words
"I'll do whatever I want, sweetheart. I'm crazy, y'know."
Everything these days kind of reminds Castiel of chopping wood, the same repetitive motion over and over until he loses himself in it and it all turns woodchip grey for days on end and there's splinters up and down his fingers and yet another unsplit log in front of him when he comes back. Axe splinters work their way under his fingers so deep he can feel them crawling through his veins, racing towards his beating heart. Zachariah keeps stacking the logs in front of him sneering up as he pulls at the strings wrapped around his wrists, making Castiel chop harder faster harder. Grey flecks of wood fly past Castiel's face cutting his cheeks. Fog swallows him from the legs up and he's lost in it, waking up sitting in his chair by the door.
They crawl around like flies on meat, settling over tables and chairs to rest and throw cards at each other, swapping cigarettes faster than the human eye can see. The three with the most life all huddle together, clutching at their cards for dear life as they shuffle their cigarettes back and forth and Castiel can't see anything but pale white hands and stark red cards.
Artificial sunlight shines in front of the head nurse as he watches, surveying his domain and all the little flies in it. He doesn't think Castiel can see the little horns curling over his closely cropped hair.
Sometimes his eyes are white.
The fog descends.
___
Castiel emerges just as the aides herd them to bed. Their eyes are hard and black, flat and dead. His bed is a rock slate and they tie him to it, injecting something in his arm that sinks him into sleep.
___
No one ever makes noise when new people show up, no one announces or makes a big deal out of it, there's simply a new person there, no fuss.
Some people makes their own fuss.
The doors fly open before him, their gray repulsed by the color flowing from him in rushes and waves that nearly send Castiel blind. His hair catches the sun and spins gold, red spills from his smirking lips, green drips off his eyelashes and runs over the floor in little rivulets, crawling and swirling around slippered feet. Some of it dies there on the floor.
Some doesn't. The cards are redder than before.
"Well, s'real party you've got goin' on here," he says, his very words are soaked in more life than Castiel's heard in years. He grins, sharp and sarcastic, flashing white teeth.
"Sir," one of the aides walks over to him. "Please don't make such a commotion." She touches his arm and color runs over her hand. He yanks his arm away, miraculously undamaged.
"I'll do whatever I want, sweetheart," he winks at her and she flinches, "I'm crazy, y'know." He saunters away from her hands, gracefully dodging her commands and fingers as he weaves over to the card table.
"Poker?" he asks, interested. He pulls a chair out and spins it around and straddles it backwards. "Deal me in."
"Sir!" the aide demands.
"Alright," drawls Wesson. Their eyes lock as he shuffles the cards with his bone-pale hands. Shirley and Milligan stare on in wonder.
"Angus Young." He's laughing yellow and holds out a hand.
"Bull," Wesson says, sliding a card in front of him. He doesn't shake.
"Jimmy Page," he corrects, turning the hand on Milligan.
Milligan shakes his head.
"Kirk Hammett," he informs Shirley.
"L-liar," Shirley stutters mildly.
He retracts his hand, laying his elbows down on the table as he picks up his cards.
"Dean Winchester," he announces. Wesson nods.
___
Castiel can hear the gears of the head Nurse's brain whirring. The low drone of cogs turning in his head, winding up the threads and threads until he knows just how to break this new, beautiful toy he has laid out before him. Castiel stares at him through the glass.
He'll take all the colors away from Winchester, all the life sucked out of him until he's just like the others, too scared of his own shadow to even speak.
The last man to leave the ward had come in restrained, hissing and spitting and covered in scars, he called the aides demons and threw salt in their eyes.
He left last month, shoulders hunched like his back was broken, carrying a briefcase. All the spitfire in him extinguished.
Castiel closes his eyes, lest he get used to Winchester the way he is.
___
The fog comes up to his waist as he runs, zigzagging to avoid enemy fire, or mines, or maybe just nothing and his pack's digging furrows into his shoulders and his boots pinch his feet and Zachariah's right in front of him, scowling over his shoulder and screaming "run dammit, run" but there's no way Castiel can go faster than this, and his heart's pounding in his head and his lungs burn. Zachariah's gone and the fog is rising, swallowing him up and there's gunshots whizzing past him.
___
Winchester wakes up last in the ward, during breakfast, and his clothes -- worn jeans, dark green work shirt -- have disappeared to be replaced with white scrubs, which he carries balled in his fist as he stomps over to the nurse's station. His boxers are striped.
"Hey!" he demands, his fist slamming into the door.
"Yes, sir?" a blonde aide asks, little sparks of frost coating her lips.
"What the hell?" he yells, waving the scrubs at her. "My clothes are gone."
"You have been issued the standard ward uniform."
"I don't want the standard ward uniform."
"Pack of smokes says he gets hauled off to disturbed," Milligan whispers to Wesson.
"I'll take that bet," Wesson smirks. They each hand a carton to Shirley.
"Give me my clothes back."
"I can't, sir."
"Really?" Winchester asks, a dangerous shade slipping into his voice. Castiel looks away.
The temperature in the room drops as the head nurse walks out. He's just an inch, maybe two taller than Winchester, who scowls up at him.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Westchester?"
"It's Winchester, and yeah. I want my clothes."
"You have clothes, Mr. Westchester," the head nurse says, obstinately getting his name wrong again. Winchester smiles, sharp, and drops his scrubs.
"Y'know, my dad met this guy once that couldn't say his name right. That guy went home with a broken beer bottle in his face."
Shirley pushes both cartons of cigarettes towards Milligan.
Two burly male aides come out of the nurse's station.
"Threats, Mr. Westchester?"
"Yeah, threats," Winchester says. The aides grab him by the arms and frog-march him away.
___
At night the screams echo through the ceiling from the disturbed ward. None of them sound familiar, but all sound like pain, fresh red wounds of sound, and Castiel doesn't sleep.
___
He comes back three days later, wearing scrubs. His scowl has widened, and he is not broken yet.
Castiel feels oddly like smiling.
"How was it?" Wesson asks, smirking.
"You knew that was gonna happen," Winchester accuses.
"We all did," Milligan says and Shirley nods. Wesson shuffles his hand around until the order pleases him, then throws two cigarettes into the pile.
"Called," he says.
"C-call," Shirley echoes.
"Raise," Winchester says, pushing four cigarettes to the center of the table. "So, what the hell can we do around here?"
Milligan folds.
"Play poker and smoke ourselves to death," Wesson replies.
"Fun," Winchester says, drawing the word out. "But what do you actually do?" The others just stare at him. "You know," he continues, "bending the rules, living a little?"
"We d-d-don't," Shirley says.
"What?" Winchester asks, outraged.
"You don't bend the rules around here," Milligan says. He nervously places a cigarette between his lips, lighting up with a match out of his pocket. "Or bad shit happens."
"Bad shit?" Winchester asks, cocking an eyebrow.
"Like getting kicked into disturbed," Wesson says dryly, eyes on his cards.
"Not that bad," Winchester smirks.
"How'd you sleep?" Wesson asks.
Winchester scowls. "Fine."
Milligan grins around his cigarette.
A flash of lightning streaks across the corner of Castiel's vision.
"That's what's got you boys so scared?" Winchester says, his voice crackling with thunder, "a few nights upstairs? That nurse's got you all whipped."
"You makin' a bet, here?" Milligan asks, staring at his cards. Winchester grabs a few cigarettes, the white tips filtering between his fingers, when the storm comes to a head. Castiel grabs at his ears to block the thunder, rain drops pelting the back of his neck.
"Yeah. I am."
He grins around at the suddenly nervous men.
"I bet I can drive that nurse as crazy as he drives us," Winchester whispers conspiratorially.
"Y-you what?" Shirley asks, wide eyed.
"That's a bad idea," Wesson says.
"Why?" Winchester asks.
"Because a lot worse things can happen than a night in disturbed," Wesson hooks his thumb over his shoulder, "see that guy over there?"
He's pointing right at Castiel, who freezes. Winchester's eyes slide over to land on him, and Castiel's glad he looked away -- although he's not sure when he did -- because the thought of those green bolts of electricity meeting his eyes directly could blind him, boil his poor eyes right out of his skull.
"Yeah," Winchester says. He doesn't look away for a few seconds, and Castiel's skin crawls.
"He hasn't spoke a word in the three years I've been here, or the five that Chuck's been here. Shock treatment."
"No shit," Winchester says. "What was he like before?"
"No one's s-sure," Chuck says. "Only th-the real b-bad ones knew him th-then." Wesson and Milligan nod sagely.
"So, if I do this badly I can kiss my brain goodbye?" Winchester asks, side longing a glance at Castiel.
"Basically," Wesson says, laying his cards down. "Four Jacks."
"I can take that bet," Winchester smirks. He fans his cards out on the table, the six-seven-eight-nine-ten-jack of spades, a straight flush.
___
The next day, at end of Winchester's first week he's put on the rotating duty roster. It says rotating on the board, so that's what Castiel calls it, even though he's mopped the floors more times than anyone else and almost never does other duties. Winchester gets toilet duty.
The entire hallway is bathed in a light pinkish haze.
___
There's a crowd gathering around the latrines, although it's trying to make itself look like a large group of innocent bystanders, but Castiel can see them sneaking looks in when the nurse isn't looking.
"Mr. Westchester, what do you call this?" he asks patiently.
"A toilet," Winchester smirks.
"A filthy toilet," the nurse says, shaking his head.
"Well, yeah."
"Excuse me?"
"They're not for eating out of," Winchester says.
The nurse fixes him with a paint-peeling glare. "Mr. Westchester, you will clean these adequately."
"I will?"
"Yes, you will."
Winchester makes a carefully neutral face, not quite subservient, but close enough for the nurse to nod at him gruffly, call in an aide to assist, and then leave. The peanut gallery begins to disperse, leaving only Castiel mopping the hall.
"Dude," Winchester says, resting his arm around the aide's shoulders, "how much does toilet duty suck?" The aide doesn't answer, eying Winchester wearily. "I mean, he can't like you very much, if all you're doing today is watching me clean the bathroom."
The aide nods. Slowly.
Dean pats the aide's shoulder with his free hand. "Sucks, man, I tell ya." Winchester heads back to the stalls, but his work is done. Winchester grabs the brush in one hand and the aide stands by the door, glancing out. Winchester disappears into a stall and the aide watches for a few seconds, then walks out, staying close to the wall.
Winchester sticks his head out the door and watches his progression down the hall. He turns to Castiel -- who's busy staring at the floor and trying to look invisible -- and says, hushed, "if only taking candy from babies was that easy."
Castiel feels his lips twisting in a smile.
"That's interesting," Winchester says, stepping towards Castiel. "They told me you were deaf."
He walks away, grinning like a fool.
The fog rushes in.
___
Winchester pulls him back out of the fog that's so deep he was sleeping in it and didn't even notice until Winchester throws a pillow at his head. It hits him in the face with a soft thump and he's laying in his bed.
"Hey," Winchester hisses, "wake up." Castiel pushes the pillow away and stares at him blankly. "That's not gonna work, I know you can hear me."
Castiel opens his mouth, his jaw cracking and creaking like a rusty hinge, but no sound comes out. He closes his mouth a simply nods his head.
"You can't talk?"
Castiel shrugs.
"Okay," Winchester says. "Wait here." He darts into the hallway for a few minutes, Castiel counts the seconds with his padded footsteps, and comes to stand in the doorway and waves Castiel over. Castiel doesn't think it's a good idea, but his legs move of their own accord, marching him silently over to Winchester. The other man grabs his wrist and pulls him away.
"Gotta go faster, man," he says, looking around nervously. "The janitor likes me, but if anyone else spots us we're in deep shit." Castiel nods and tries to ignore how warm his skin is where Winchester's fingers are touching him. Winchester pulls him into the break room where the aides eat lunch and closes the door behind them. There are little black smidges on his fingers and it makes Castiel's heart ache to think he put them there.
A flimsy plastic cup of water is thrust into is hand, obviously from the water cooler in the corner.
"Talk," Winchester says, pulling a seat out for Castiel and another for himself, dragging it close so their knees are touching when he sits down, like he doesn't want to miss a word.
Castiel open his mouth again and tries to remember how, it's more than a little scary that he forgot in the first place, what has it been, eight years since he's tried? He tries to remember his last words and they way they felt coming out of his mouth, but he can't. His breath won't shape right, clinging to the back of his throat when he wants it in the front and his tongue can't seem to remember how to make the right moves.
"I-" scrapes past his teeth like a grunt. He tries again. "I don't have much to say." He doesn't remember his voice ever being that hoarse, or the sandpaper-raw feeling in his throat, but they are words.
"Bull," Winchester says, grinning a little. Castiel blinks at him. "Start with your name."
"You don't," Castiel has to stop and sip at the water, "... you don't know my name?"
Winchester shakes his head.
"It's Castiel."
"What?" Winchester asks. "Castiel? Really?" Castiel nods, finishing his water. He remembers that, the strange looks that accompany his given name. "Is that a first name or a last name?"
"First," Castiel croaks. Winchester waits for him to offer his last, but he doesn't.
"Dean," he says, holding out his hand like he did on that first day. Castiel takes it and shakes, one strong smooth pump like he hadn't quite known was in him. "Why don't you talk?"
"Didn't know I could," Castiel says. It's half true. He'd forgotten, which is worse than never knowing at all. Winchester -- Dean doesn't push it. "Are you going to tell everyone?"
"No," Dean says. There's a reddish haze around him now, lazy and dangerous looking.
"Why not?"
"Because, you never show your cards until the game is done."
___
Castiel remembers that once they'd had a magician in the ward. The Amazing Singer, who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, a grizzled old man with the quickest hands Castiel'd ever seen, who used to say to anyone who'd listen that half of magic was misdirection, making people look the other way with a pretty girl or a shiny bauble while you do the real magic.
Dean is a magician in the realest sense, and misdirecting with his loud voice and bright face while Castiel does the magic.
It begins when Dean settles down with his lunch, scoops a spoonful of mashed potato up and flicks it at the wall.
Grinning, Wesson follows suit, his pat of potatoes landing just to the left and higher than Dean's. Dean lets out a high, almost childish laugh. They catapult food towards the wall, Wesson has a little frown of concentration between his eyebrows, seeing who can get globs the highest, the farthest, the closest to the floor. The rest of the cafeteria becomes spectators, softly cheering. Including the aide Dean had his conversation with the other day, nervously clapping.
"Mr. Wesson! Mr. Winchester!"
"Damn," Wesson says, setting his spoon down.
Dean lets a decent sized glob fly, and it hits the aide squarely in the forehead, mashed potatoes dripping down the side of his nose. Wesson is startled into a laugh.
___
"He's a menace."
"A disgrace."
"Simply awful."
The head nurse watches as the board argues over Dean's fate. The words fly back and forth over his head, little wisps of slime-green, the accumulated sludge of words coats the walls slick and Castiel labors in the corner, trying to clean them. He could scrub until his hands bleed and not get rid of the malice in this room.
"We need to be rid of him."
"But how?"
"Gentlemen," the nurse speaks up. The room is silent, still except for Castiel's working hands. "We do nothing."
"What?" the board members ask in unison.
"This Winchester is a nuisance. And we can not treat him any different than a normal patient because of it."
"Of course."
"Certainly."
Their cowardice is blue.
"So, we do what we would do to any other patient."
Castiel clenches his hand around the rag, the only way he won't scream and let them know he's heard them.
"Electroshock."
___
They've already taken Dean away by the time Castiel makes his escape and he's not sure what he would have done if he'd been there, but he should have been there, even if it was to do something stupid and get sent down with him, Castiel should not have left Dean alone. There's fog at the corners of his vision and Castiel tries to hold it back long enough to quit panicking and actually help.
They're probably strapping Dean to the table right now, pushing a plastic semicircle in his mouth so he doesn't bite his tongue in half. Is Dean scared? He's alone. Castiel would be scared. Has been scared, in the place Dean is right now.
And there's nothing he can do.
Even if Castiel marched in there right now there would be no way to stop it, no way to save Dean and no way to save himself if his secret got out.
For the first time in a long time, Castiel lies on his bed and waits for the fog to take him.
___
And Dean's different when he returns. His colors are less bright, his eyes always downcast when no one's looking. His hand seems to twitch when he eats. There are no more late night talks.
The magic has failed.
Now Dean's too well behaved to punish. He never cheats at cards. Never raises his voice. Keeps his head down.
Castiel can feel himself slipping back to the place Dean drew him out of. The whole ward is following him, it seems.
___
Castiel remembers his father, who was the smartest man Castiel had ever known, and even as one of many children Castiel had always felt loved best. When he was around he'd say things that Castiel never quite understood, but he does now.
It's supper, the sun is going down in a haze of red through the barred windows. The silence feels like thick wool, itchy and suffocating.
Castiel looks up from his plate, stands taller than the others, taller than the nurse, taller than the building. He feels people staring and doesn't care.
Dean is staring as he approaches. His eyes are little sparks, double A batteries compared to what they were. Castiel's hand touches his shoulder and a spark winds it's way up Castiel's fingers, sinks into his skin and Castiel gently squeezes in thanks.
The chair next to Dean is empty and Castiel slides it out with both hands and whips it at the window, he hears it deflect off the bars as he turns the table on it's side, plates shattering on the floor and food smashing into a glorious sticky mess on the floor. Castiel laughs, there area around him suddenly clear, of people, of color, of fog and hallucinations, leaving only tables and chairs waiting to be destroyed and Castiel does.
Strong arms wrap around his waist and arms, picking him off the floor and carrying him off.
And, at the front of the gathered crowd, Dean is smiling, a lemon yellow mist hanging around his shoulders. Castiel's answering grin feels like it could tear his face in half.
"Go, Cas," Dean says.
~fin