Chapter Text
Anna ran towards the bookshop, almost out of her mind with worry. Since that first call, Cas had neither texted back nor answered his phone, and she was kicking herself for having assumed he'd be OK. That's when she saw the ambulance pull away from the curb and go tearing past in the opposite direction, sirens on full blast. She stopped and stared, and in a moment of terrible, piercing certainty, she knew that either Cas or Dean was in it, because who the fuck else was it going to be, on this street, at this time of night, after the day they'd both had?
'Shit,' she said, and ran after it, thinking madly that if she'd ever studied law, the crippling debt might just have been worth the comedic potential inherent in becoming a literal ambulance-chaser. Not that it was exactly a cakewalk: other pedestrians stared at her, and even at top speed, she still lost it at the George Street intersection, but not before she saw it turn right, towards Abbeyside General. Clutching at a stitch in her ribs, Anna halted, remembered there were such things as cabs, especially on a Saturday night, and promptly flagged one down.
Directing the driver towards the hospital, she pulled out her phone and called Cas again. He didn't answer, and she was so far past expecting Dean to pick up that she almost didn't bother, except that, if Cas really was in trouble – and now she stopped to think about it, he'd sounded frayed even before she'd dumped the truth about Lassiter on him – she had to try and let Dean know, wherever he was. Still, she hesitated, as much to try and calm herself as for any other reason. After all, she had no real proof that Cas was in the ambulance; just a bad feeling based on the fact that it had been parked in front of Impala Records, in a street where, to the best of her knowledge, Cas and Dean were the only residential tenants, after business hours.
Actually, when she put it like that...
Don't freak out , she told herself, and dialled Dean's number.
And almost yelped with shock when he actually answered.
'Anna?'
She opened her mouth to shout at him, to let him know exactly how scared she'd been, but the clear background sound of the ambulance siren stopped her cold: it was constant, not just a passing Doppler effect, and that meant there was only one place he could reasonably be.
'You're with him, aren't you.'
'Yes.' He was so hoarse, she could barely hear him. 'I came home and I... found him.'
Oh, that didn't sound good, and nor was the fact that he didn't even question how she'd known to ask.
'How bad is it?'
'I don't know. Bad. Maybe. Oh, god.' He went silent, and she could hear the paramedics murmuring to each other.
'Dean?' she prompted. 'What's happening? What's wrong with Cas?'
'Overdose. I think accidental. I hope. I need him, Anna, I need –' he broke off again. 'Find us at the hospital. I have to go, they want to look at me.'
'At you ?'
He made a slurring sound, and after several seconds, she identified it as laughter. 'I'm a bit fucked up,' he said, and only then did she realise how groggy and slow he sounded, like he'd been given sedatives. Which made perfect sense – he hadn't exactly been in his right state of mind to begin with, and coming home to find Cas like that must have pushed him right over the edge.
'I'll come,' Anna said. 'I'm already on my way. Just keep it together, Dean. You've got to keep it together.'
'Trying,' Dean said.
He hung up then, and Anna, who didn't pray, crossed her fingers. She'd decided long ago that luck was a better ally than god; it might be fickle as hell, but at least it still showed up sometimes.
'How much further?' she asked the driver, knowing exactly how far it was, and not caring.
The driver smiled at her in the mirror. 'Not long,' she said, and if there was sympathy in her voice, well, she'd heard the phone call, or half of it, anyway, and she knew where Anna was going.
'Thanks,' said Anna, fidgeting with her phone. She half wanted to call Gabe, but even if he answered, it was a bad idea for about a dozen reasons, and really she just needed something to occupy her. And then, because if Dean was even half as messed up as he sounded, she was going to need to be the sensible one again, and she couldn't do that if she was all jittery, she said, 'Can I ask you a question, ah –' she looked around for the driver's ID, '– Marie, is it?'
'Sure,' said Marie, as they turned the corner.
'OK. So if someone's upset, and you know they're not exactly, you know, coping, but then you tell them something bad because they really need to hear it – well, not need to hear it, exactly, they just need to know – and then they get even more upset and do something stupid, is that your fault? Should you just have kept quiet?'
'Honey,' said Marie, 'if someone's in hospital, then unless you actually beat 'em up, or shot 'em, or gave 'em a blanket infected with smallpox or somethin', trust me: you didn't put 'em there.'
'But what if –'
'Did you want 'em hurt?' Marie interrupted.
'No, but –'
'Did you try and help 'em?'
'Yeah. I mean, I've been out looking, I've been calling, I was heading to his place –'
'Then quit blamin' yourself. Trust me. It won't help 'em, and it won't help you, neither.'
Anna took a deep breath and nodded, the knot in her stomach easing. 'Thanks,' she said. 'I needed that.'
'Hey, I'm a cabbie. Dispensin' advice is part of the job description.'
As they pulled into the hospital car park, Marie turned in her seat, and for the first time, Anna got a good look at her. She was younger than she'd assumed, only in her late twenties, with gorgeous dark skin and a full, smiling face.
'Here,' said Marie, and handed over a business card. 'That's my cab number. You need a lift home latter, gimme a call. I'm out all night, and doctors always take forever.'
'Thanks,' said Anna, touched. 'I'll do that.'
She paid Marie, said goodbye, and headed into Abbeyside General.
*
The sedative had helped Dean stay calm in the ambulance, but once they arrived at the hospital, and the doctors tried to take Cas one way and him another, it suddenly ceased to work. Pulling away from his intended escort, he started following Cas.
'Sir, your friend is going to be fine, there's nothing you can do right now and you're clearly hurt, so just come this way –'
'The hell I will,' Dean growled, and kept on going, struggling to keep up with Cas. He picked up the pace, ignoring the increasingly urgent voices urging him to stay put, and when someone grabbed his arm and physically tried to steer him around, he didn't even think, just shoved them away and kept on walking.
'Sir? Sir! Can someone please stop him? Doctor!'
A broad-shouldered man in scrubs loomed large in Dean's path. He grit his teeth: Cas's guernsey was headed for a T-junction, and he didn't have time for this – he had to stay with him, had to make sure he was OK.
'Step aside, man. I gotta go with him.'
'Sir, he's in good hands, I promise. We're taking care of him, and now we need to take care of you, too.'
Dean didn't know which was worse: how calm the guy was, or the fact that he still wasn't moving.
' Please ,' he begged, frantic as Cas disappeared from sight, 'you don't understand, I left him alone, I just left him alone and it's all my fault –'
'Sir,' said the doctor, gently, 'to look at you right now, I don't think you 'just left' anyone.'
That brought him up cold. The doctor raised an eyebrow, daring Dean to contradict him, only he couldn't, because that would mean explaining about Lassiter and Ruby Blue and Meg –
Abruptly, he could feel every burn, every cut, every missing strip of skin, and this time, when the doctor nodded him back towards casualty, he went, letting himself be herded like a lost dog, that calm, soothing voice washing over him in waves.
'I promise we'll keep you updated on – what's his name?'
'Cas. Castiel Novak.'
'– on how Cas is doing. And who are you?'
'Dean Winchester. I'm his partner.'
'Well, Mr Winchester, I'm Dr Singh, and I'm going to leave you in very capable hands.'
They were back in the casualty ward, with all its bustle and open beds, and without quite knowing how it had happened, Dean found himself perched on the edge of a mattress, watching mutely as Dr Singh gestured reassuringly to a cross-looking intern, who was, to judge from the fresh bruise spreading across his cheek, the same man Dean had just shoved into a wall.
'Stay here, please,' said Dr Singh. 'Is anyone on their way for you? A family member, someone like that?'
Reflexively, Dean almost said no, then realised it wasn't true.
'Yes, actually. My friend, Anna. Anna Milton. She's coming.'
'That's good to hear.' The bruised intern was skulking; Dr Singh beckoned him closer, then said, 'Thomas, you can deal with the admission forms for Mr Winchester and Mr Novak, but first, stop by the nurse's station and make sure someone knows to send Ms Milton here, all right?'
Thomas looked like he wanted to mutiny, but instead mumbled, 'Yes, doctor,' and hurried away, clearly just glad to be out of Dean's range.
As he departed, another doctor arrived, which served as Dr Singh's cue to exit. He gave Dean an encouraging nod, which Dean returned, and then strode off, presumably to go and be calm at someone else who needed it.
'Mr Winchester, is it?' said the new doctor, looking him up and down. She was youngish, pale and light brunette, with a spray of freckles across her nose and the skinny, hard-knotted musculature of a rock climber. 'I'm Dr Evans. Now, can you tell me what happened?'
Sure, though Dean. No problem. I was knocked unconscious by criminals, kidnapped, tied up, burned and cut on for a few hours, and then I drove home to find my lover half dead on the floor. How's your day going?
'I tripped and fell down the stairs,' he said.
It was such a baldfaced lie, she actually looked a little impressed. Mostly, though, she looked like she wanted to slap him.
'You fell.'
'Yes.'
'Down the stairs.'
'Yes.'
'And did this .'
'Yes.'
'Uh huh . Right.' She seemed to weigh the costs and benefits of arguing, then decided the former outweighed the latter. She gave a long-suffering sigh. 'Take off your shirt, please.'
Dean complied, wincing with the effort. Now he thought about it, he was actually surprised Meg had bothered to leave it in tact, given what she'd done to the rest of him; but then, she was hardly a rational thinker. I'll kill her, he thought viciously. I'll cut her throat with her own damn knife.
Dr Evans was clearly made of stern stuff, but when Dean laid his shirt aside, her face betrayed a mixture of shock and sympathy. Pressing her lips together, she looked him in the eye and said, 'That must have been one hell of a staircase.'
'Yeah,' said Dean, weakly. 'A real killer.'
*
Anna's general experience with hospitals was one of bustle, disorientation and criminally bad sandwiches, and for the most part, Abbeyside General didn't disappoint. Once she finally found her way to reception – Marie had dropped her off at a different door to the one she remembered from other visits, and she'd floundered a bit – she expected to be told to wait, especially as it was Saturday night and she wasn't family. But just as she was asking for directions, a harassed-looking intern with a bruised cheek intervened and lead her straight through to casualty, all the while muttering under his breath about crazy masochists.
Then Anna caught sight of Dean, and stopped. She'd had time to adjust to the idea of Cas in bed with tubes in his nose, but even though Dean had said he was fucked up, she'd just assumed he meant emotionally, mentally, not that someone had come at him with a straight razor.
He was shirtless, legs dangling off the side of a raised bed like he was six years old, and visibly wincing as a white lady doctor swabbed a series of nasty cuts on his abdomen. No, not cuts, Anna realised; it was worse than that. He was missing actual strips of skin, like he'd been selectively peeled, leaving behind a series of livid, horizontal streaks still weeping blood and ichor. Sickeningly, she counted six separate wounds, each one about the length and width of her little finger: two parallel lines on each side of his navel, one above it, and one below. But as terrible as the raw flesh was, it was the symmetry that truly appalled her: it had been done slowly, care taken to keep the lines equal.
His arms weren't much better, patterned with shallow cuts from wrist to shoulder. These, too, were symmetrical: all straight lines, an equal number on each side and disturbingly parallel, like someone had wanted to give him stripes, and it finally hit her that Dean, in direct contradiction to her earlier fears, hadn't done this to himself. Someone had gone out of their way to hurt him, and if it hadn't been Lassiter – and as much as she loathed him, the timing didn't fit; he'd still been with Cas when Dean had vanished – then that left only one person she knew of: Crowley.
At which point, Dean glanced up, and finally noticed her noticing him, the look on his face a heartbreaking mix of shock, relief and gratitude, as though he really hadn't thought she'd come. If Gabe had looked at her like that, she'd have been insulted, as though he were passing negative judgement on her loyalty, but coming from Dean, it was just another manifestation of how unworthy he found himself.
'Anna,' he croaked, and god, he sounded terrible; she had an awful intuition that he'd screamed himself hoarse. 'Hi.'
'Hi yourself,' she said, and as the doctor stepped aside, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. 'You idiot ! I can't let you go anywhere, can I?'
Dean winced. 'Evidently not. Uh, Anna? You're kind of, um hurting –'
'Oh, shit! Sorry!' She leapt back, biting her lip with embarrassment, and that was when she noticed the cigarette burns, of which there were easily more than a dozen. She stared at them, wondering how she hadn't noticed sooner, and was horrified all over again when she realised the answer. Apart from his knuckles, he'd been burned in a pattern so vilely specific, she wanted to shoot whoever had done it: each burn – or each cluster of burns, rather, as most were grouped in twos and threes – corresponded to one of his lovebites. Every place Cas had marked him in pleasure, someone else had marked him in pain, and the naked, careful cruelty of it was almost more than she could bear.
'Anna?' Dean asked. 'What is it?'
She blinked at him. 'Oh, god. You haven't seen it, have you?'
'Seen what?'
Wordlessly, she looked at the doctor – Dr Carol Evans, according to her ID – who seemed to know instantly what she wanted.
'Hang on a tic,' said Dr Evans, ducking around a corner, and when she returned a handful of seconds later, she handed over a small, compact mirror. Puzzled, Dean flipped it open, looking at himself – and then his breath caught, the blood draining from his face.
'Oh,' he said, softly. 'Son of a bitch .'
He almost flung the mirror away, but stopped himself at the last second, shoving back at Dr Evans instead. She pocketed it with a flash of silent sympathy, then said to Anna, casually wry, 'Apparently, he fell down the stairs.'
Anna glared at Dean, who had the good grace to look slightly ashamed of himself. 'That's because he's an idiot.'
'Hey!' said Dean, and 'Ow!' as Dr Evans started sticking gauze strips to his stomach cuts. 'Go easy, will you?'
'Sorry,' she said, only marginally contrite. 'Nearly done.'
Which was a lie, of course: she still had to disinfect and bandage his other cuts and burns, too. Dean grit his teeth, hissing as Dr Evans swabbed and covered each injury; Anna tried to distract him, telling him about how the store had fared in his absence, but though he prompted her when she faltered, it was clear he was only hearing about one word in three, his head tipped back in pain.
By the time Dr Evans was finished, he looked like – well. Anna had to be honest: between the gauze, the tape and the symmetry of his injuries, he looked like some small child's idea of a teddy-bear hospital patient, and when he asked, that's exactly what she told him. He looked briefly affronted, then burst out laughing, which under current circumstances meant he wheezed like a deflating balloon and almost smiled.
'Just about done,' said Dr Evans, lips twitching, and gave him a shot of something before either of them had even noticed the needle.
'Hey!' said Dean. 'What was that for, anyway?'
'Antibiotics. We don't want any open cuts getting infected; I'll write you a script for a follow-up course when you're discharged.'
'Great.'
All at once, Anna blurted, 'And what about Cas? Is he OK?'
Dean paled again, looking desperately at Dr Evans, and Anna could have kicked herself for being so tactless. Just the fact that Dean was sitting here, letting himself be looked after, meant that Cas was still alive; if he'd been in any serious, immediate danger, then even if Dean had been missing a leg, she couldn't imagine him consenting to be anywhere other than by Cas's side. But she'd been so startled by Dean's injuries, she'd momentarily let herself forget about Cas, and now that she'd remembered, she had to know.
And so, clearly, did Dean, who had an expression on his face like getting himself patched up after a torture session was an unpardonable luxury he should never have indulged in. Dr Evans seemed to notice it, too, because she said, quickly, 'I'll go get an update. Just wait here.'
She hurried off, and into the silence she left behind, Dean said, 'If he dies, it's on me.'
Anna looked at him, her pity mingled with frustration that he was being so dense, that he couldn't step outside himself for two consecutive seconds and realise how nuts this was. 'How do you figure that?' she asked.
Dean's eyes were far away. 'Because I let him go with Lassiter. I knew what kind of man he was, and I just let Cas walk right out the door without even trying to stop it.' He turned to her, pleading. 'Anna, I knew .'
'No,' she said, gently. 'I don't think you did. Not in a way you could talk about, or think about, even. This isn't your fault.'
'But if I'd just thought it through – I should've known Crowley was still watching the house, should've known there'd be trouble – if I hadn't been taken, if I'd just been there for him –'
'Stop it. Stop blaming yourself.'
'But I –'
' No .' Her vehemence took both of them aback, but she still pressed on, because there was only so much self-pity she could take, and he needed to get past it before it killed him. 'Lassiter wasn't your fault, getting kidnapped wasn't your fault, and Cas overdosing wasn't your fault, because you, Dean Winchester, are not personally responsible for every bad thing that happens in your vicinity. It's correlation, not causation, OK?'
'Meaning?'
' Meaning ,' she said, exasperated, 'that as far as I can tell, that you've spent your whole life getting the shit kicked out of you, and instead of thinking, Hey! Maybe the people kicking me are a bunch of bastards, you've started acting like you deserve it, only you don't , Dean, OK? No one does. I mean, it's bad enough you thinking that people like Crowley and Lassiter are right to hurt you, but now you're acting like being hurt is failing Cas, and punishing yourself all over again, and can you even understand how wrong that is? It's like – it's like –' she was struggling for words, knowing she had to find the right ones, and suddenly she had them, and it all came out in an angry rush, '– it's like you're stuck in this utterly toxic emotional loop, where if you get hurt, you don't even think about self-care – you just assume your pain is somehow hurting other people, which makes you a bad person, which means you deserve to be hurt all over again, which hurts other people, which makes you a bad person, and it just goes on and on and on, and as of this second, you need to cut it right the fuck out, OK? You're allowed to feel hurt, to be hurt, for as long as it takes you to get better, but that doesn't mean that people are right to hurt you in the first place.'
She exhaled sharply for emphasis, and Dean said, ' Oh ' in such a small voice that she knew what he was about to say, and so she got in first and said, with every drop of friendly menace in her blood, 'If you apologise, Dean Winchester, then so help me, I will smack you upside the head.'
He opened his mouth, and went red enough that she knew he'd been on the brink of doing exactly that, and she would have laughed out loud, except that Dr Evans suddenly reappeared, and they both shut up to look at her.
'He's stable,' Dr Evans said. 'Unconscious, but stable. We've given him charcoal to help absorb what's left in his system, put him on IV fluids, and really, until he wakes up, that's all we can do.'
Dean gulped. 'But he's not – I mean, he hasn't – he is going to wake up, isn't he?'
Dr Evans smiled. 'I should think so, yes. It's pretty difficult to overdose on just Diazepam; the lethal dose for an adult is so high, you'd practically have to swallow a pharmacy to reach it. I've seen patients come in who took twice, three times what your partner did, and they all walked out again within a few days. No. Inasmuch as there's still a risk factor, it's not the pills – it's that he took them with alcohol, and that can make things tricky. But based on how he is now, I wouldn't be too worried. You got to him in time –' and Anna could have kissed her for that, Dean's trembling relief was so profound, '– and he's otherwise pretty healthy. He should wake up within the next 48 hours; probably sooner.' She hesitated. 'From what you told the paramedics about his state of mind, it seems like it was an accidental overdose, but we'll probably want to do a psych evaluation, just in case.'
'Sure,' said Dean. He seemed at a loss for words, and after a moment, Anna said, 'Can we go and see him?'
'You most certainly can. He's in K Ward, Room 43. Oh, and Mr Winchester?'
'Yeah?' he said, easing himself up off the bed.
Her mouth twitched. 'For the love of god, if you're going to insist on lying, find a story that's even remotely plausible, will you?'
The look on his face was priceless. 'He will,' said Anna, trying not to laugh.
'See that he does,' said Dr Evans.
'I like her,' said Anna, watching her go. 'Now, come on, bandage boy. Let's find Cas.'
'Uh, Anna?' said Dean, as she started walking. 'Little help?'
'Oh! Oh, sorry. Sure.' She put an arm around him, supporting as much of his weight as she could, and together they headed off in what Anna fervently hoped was the direction of K Ward.
'Thanks,' said Dean, after a moment. 'For, you know. For what you said before. And for being here. And... and for this morning, too.'
'Don't mention it.'
He fell silent, grunting slightly as Anna steered them out of casualty and down one of the less populated hallways. They passed a complicated sign which seemed to suggest they were going the right way, which was encouraging, but hospitals were tricksy places, and Anna knew better than to assume it would be that easy. Sure enough, they got turned around and had to backtrack, and it was another five minutes before they finally found themselves in K Ward, counting down the room numbers until they hit 43.
It was a private room, which surprised her; she hadn't figured that running a second-hand bookshop entailed much in the way of sold medical insurance. She would have asked Dean, but just at that moment, he was busy hovering his hand over the door like he was suddenly afraid to go in, so she rolled her eyes and said, 'It's not going to bite,' and turned the handle for him.
Cas lay on his back in bed, a drip in the crook of his elbow and a heart monitor clipped to his finger. He looked like a genderflipped Snow White, a sleeping prince under a witch's curse, and as Anna shut the door, Dean made a noise that was somewhere between a sob and a whimper. Limping over to the bed, he gently smoothed Cas's hair back behind his ears, then bent down and kissed him, once on the forehead, once on each eyelid, and once on his lips, and if fairytale justice had had any traction in the real world, then that's when he would have woken up. But he didn't, not yet: he just lay there, breathing softly, as Dean whispered, 'Hey, baby,' and slowly sank into the chair beside him.