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Who Said That Love Was Fire?

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The same week that Castiel gives up his grace and becomes human, Dean breaks his leg.

If it wasn’t so frustrating, he might find it funny. Maybe he will, years down the road when he remembers losing his balance on the bunker stairs because he got distracted arguing with Cas about fried pickles of all things.

Luckily, he only fell down four stairs.

Not so luckily, his leg hit the bunker floor at an angle and instantly made a crunching sound. In the end it was his shin bone that broke.

Cas had been in a flurry since then, regretting giving up his grace the moment he saw the pain riddled on his best friend’s face. As always, Dean waved him off, said he had it handled.

Even when Jack offers to try to heal it, Dean tells him he’ll just do it the old fashion way.

He takes it easy, holes up in his bed and watches as many old westerns as Netflix has to offer. Cas, in his guilt, has spent most of his time holed up with Dean. He watches whatever Dean puts on with little complaint, but points out inaccuracies in time period when they come up.

Whenever Cas leaves the room, Jack takes his place.

Like clockwork, shortly after Cas heads out to quickly use the bathroom, Jack crawls into bed with Dean. Times like these it becomes so obvious that he’s really just a kid. His hands are full of markers and he has a colorful smudge on his cheek.

“Sam said if I draw on your cast it’ll make you feel better.” He says in a low whisper.

“Yeah, ‘course it would.” Dean replies in the same tone.

Jack ends up putting pressure above the cast with his elbow as he leans forward, but Dean withholds any grumbles of complaint. When Jack’s finally done his cast is full of sloppy flowers, the sun, and a bunch of little stars.

They all have wobbling lines and uneven coloring. Dean loves them.

Cas comes back and Jack hops out of the bed, nearly tripping over Dean’s crutches in his rush.

“Your cast is... colorful.” Cas says tilting his head, gathering the markers from beside Dean’s leg.

“Yeah.” He nearly swallows his own tongue watching the way Castiel’s hair falls into his eyes, “Sam told the kid it would make me feel better.”

“Why’s that?” He asks, carefully taking up the space Jack vacated on the bed. He fiddles with the markers, his fingers coming back colorful where Jack smudged the ink on the outside.

“Human thing, well mostly a kid thing. S’fun, I guess.” Dean supplies.

“Could I...” Cas trails off, but holds up the markers.

“Go ahead.”

Castiel takes far more care as he draws, never placing weight on Dean as he draws on the cast. All Dean can see is his side profile, not what he’s drawing, but he watches him all the same. He’s always been handsome, devastatingly so, but something about humanity is treating Cas well.

Cas carefully rotates Dean’s leg at the knee and he damn near passes out at the feeling of the ex-angel parting his legs.

When Cas finishes, Dean sits up to look. Accompanying the childish doodles are neat little hearts. Right on the inner corner of his knee is two stick figures. The blue one seems to be wearing a dress, holding a pointy object. The green one has no obvious outfit, but has a vaguely gun-shaped object in one hand. They’re holding hands.

It takes a split-second to realize the dress is actually a trench coat.

The stick figures are him and Cas.

“Do you like it?” Castiel asks sheepishly, there’s a smudge of color on his jaw from where he rubbed it.

Dean can’t help but grin.

“Love it.”