Chapter Text
Chapter 1
House has more time to kill than a priest on any day but sunday. He dearly wishes for something interesting to fall upon his lap, wishing being a strong word. He’s more than aware than desiring a tragedy to hold onto and find a diagnosis for is very ethically fucked. Yet there he is, wishing for those strange little numbers that come out as incredible odds.
ER was never his forte, he avoided it like a pest. Can you blame him? There’s no running around going on with that cane. Nevertheless, the initial rush of not knowing what patient would arrive and adapting to what they seem to need, was quite the thrill. Adrenaline junkies know where to get their fix, and the motorcycle in the parking lot had such a charming personality . He does not need to wonder long on why he became a diagnostician. All of those summers spent nose in book would end up paying his bills, his pills and keep his brain an edge away from falling out.
It is only fulfilling if he is winning. And winning rarely comes for free when health and care is the main profession. Working in any hospital is selling your soul under the pretense that you care for the ethical morality that comes with the idea of treating wounds and illnesses.
Doctors are no druids and healers, they have ulterior motives and will leave you crawling if you seem to be too much of a liability. House has no shame knowing he has taken more cases that would end up in court than the typical surgeon. It is not a shame to know people die, it is part of the damn job people.
Oh yeah and the fat paycheck, if you manage to make it out of the ruthless lifestyle of being quizzed on the most trivial of facts endlessly until you manage to finish the equivalent of a dictionary. That handful feels slim if you end up having expensive tastes that only keep you upright if you do ungodly hours at work.
Great, now he’s getting a migraine. He’s more than bored, and it takes a ride to the elevator alone to make him realize no one is following him like usual. The team is probably busy finding someone else to bother.
Or at least, almost alone, he pressed quite quickly on the button to provide insight to the elevator, but to no further change, the other man who is slightly shorter than him does not move an inch. He seems to bear no intention of making it change or adding his own destination.
House knows no one has touched a button before that because he would have heard the faint ring or seen the light of the other number light up. Unless they chose the same one, but even then it wasn’t lighting up as he touched it. This man has no idea where he’s going.
This stranger is getting a free ride on the elevator, with no real purpose. Or at least that’s what he supposed because nothing else seems to give a hint of what he’d be doing in the elevator alone. He uses the fact he retreats back to his number to give room to the man to do the same, and as the seconds grow thick, and the elevator doors close. House understands a very important piece of information that he hadn’t quite noticed before. He’s not getting a headache for no reason, the night lights of the hospital are on. His pills are running out in his bloodstream, because it’s late, very late. And usually he’s already home unless he’s working on an impossible case that takes every cell of his concentration.
Taking this into account, he huffs as he paws the pills in his vest’s pocket. Slightly satisfied by the rattle to remain certain of its presence. He uses the fact they are so conveniently close to take his usual ratio in the silence, he can now feel the gaze of the man on him. For he has moved his chin and face towards him, unashamed and not even looking away when House looks back with a perked eyebrow.
<< I won’t snitch if you won’t. He says casually, the lid closes under his thumb as he downs the pills dry. The man doesn’t even react much more than a light confusion on the arch of his eyebrows.
The man is in a suit, blue tie that seems horribly matched to a beige tan trenchcoat.
House cannot help but wonder if it’s raining outside, from the sight of it. But he figures he’s wearing a suit with sneakers, to which their own . At least his style was practical, it’s not like you’d eventually see him run anywhere, but at least it looked like it.
The man looked like one of many men, overworked and losing their mind at work. There wasn’t a lot to work with, even the clothes didn’t seem to fit him properly, the man’s fingers were a hint with a shadow because the coat’s sleeves were too damn long. Maybe the coat is an atrocious thrift shop impulse, or a radical sense of what they tell you is a must have for interviews.
Nevertheless, the man has not made any sound since the minute they have been wandering their looks around. He’s not even sure the stranger blinked.
House lets the door of his floor open, but does not make any effort to leave. Instead he stays, just willing enough to see where the stranger goes. He’d excuse himself for the sake of pretense, but he feels like the stranger doesn’t care. Or at least, wouldn’t be even aware of the strangeness of not going into the floor you chose yourself. Is he in distress or dissociating?
He seems aware and his pupils react to light well enough, he even reads some social cues like leaving room for House to get in the elevator. He does not seem wet, or sweating. His stare is very serious and confused. Like caught mid conversation, but awfully quiet.
House will not let himself get beat by a stranger in a trenchcoat. He’ll get down to that one, and anyway he has around fifteen minutes to spare until his own headache drift away under the drugs.
- You do this often? Beats the cold outside for sure. He adds in, perking up at the idea of hearing the man’s voice.
If he thought his own voice was deep, this man’s voice was putting narrators to shame. It was gravely and hoarse, as if he never drank water in his entire life. If he was done with his office work, he’d see the man read audio harlequin novellas to housewives on their e-readers.
- Cold doesn’t affect me. He simply states, This is not.. He stops within his own words.
- I won’t tell, pinky promise. He adds in before the man could say more, and parts of him does it simply because this is such a strange event to have at such an early time in the morning.
The man gives only one glance at the hand he’s demonstrating his statement with.
- Dea-- I’m here for someone else . Lets out the stranger as he cuts himself in.
House can’t really imagine this to be anything else but a lie. If anything, he’s not surprised.
- Visiting hours are closed . He simply states to get a bit of honesty out there.
- I don’t follow those peculiar protocols . The stranger states really quickly, and with the tone he has no idea what he means by that. Of course he could think of himself higher than rules, but even then would they take the time to say it that way? Usually people weasel their way out with bullshit arguments to make it sound like they belong here. Not stating their true intentions like butter on bread.
Bold, for such a pretty face.
- Those protocols are there to let doctors and nurses do their job, it’s the rules. Can’t argue that logic, it’s the one that saves lives.
- Are you a doctor? He asks to deviate from the conversation,
- As a matter of fact, yes. And I think you’re not. He deadpans quite frankly.
- You would be correct, my knowledge has no labels.
House perks up at that one, really unsure of the feeling it gives him. It feels very odd to talk to a man that seems to have no social cues. He's not ruling out autism just yet.
- Alright, he sighs, I’ll humor you. Who are you coming to, a patient? He says with a wave of the hand.
- Yes, he’s very ill . Adds the man without more information for House to gnaw at. Frustratingly so, he decides to strike again.
- What does he have, cluster headaches? Cancer? Weird eleventh toe? The vague curiosity and arrogance in his statement seems to do the stranger wrong and luckily for him it makes him talk.
-He’s faced a very great deal, and has fallen into a coma. I am afraid his soul is leaving his body. I cannot afford for that to happen. I left his body for your doctors to take care of as I will work on bringing back his soul to his body before one of the two breaks the bond that solidifies each other. I don’t know which will go away first, time is really of the essence. He says rather seriously, and now that the discussion seems more confirmed, House takes his side of the elevator and puts his back against the wall. He looks back to the man with dark raven hair and bright blue eyes, almost steel-like. And he’s not even starting on the man’s stubbly jaw.
House feels his jaw loosen as he listens. The speech is less millennial-like, and more professional, slightly old. He’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to be, but this is not a casual wording capacity. Maybe his job explains the intricacies of his speech.
- Are you religious? He states outloud like a game of guess-who. Unsure if he’s closer to laughing or to being incredibly confused. Amish?
- I believe in God . He answers with a polite tone, one that seems awfully quiet.
- Not a big fan of his as I hear. Did the big man break your beliefs with big bad things? He says, almost mocking the fact the man makes himself out to be something strange.
The religious undertone seems to make sense with his proficiency in language. He cannot trace a specific accent, the closest he’ll get to one will be american. Because English seems second nature to him, no rounding the r’s or making shapes of words that collide into each other abruptly. Very specific, yet so..invisible. Hidden in plain sight.
- Something tells me you really believe in the concept of souls, what makes you think that? He dares to ask, it’s not like they’re going anywhere. No one uses this elevator because it’s the one that’s the furthest in the corridors, they’re probably gonna stay here until one of them leaves by will.
- I’ve seen things that have deepened my beliefs, cynicism does not negate religious beliefs. The world can be falling, but all forms alike can fall with it. Adds the man with an almost worried stare towards him,
- Cynicism, nihilism, apples and oranges. He waves the statement off like an annoying mosquito.
Why do you suppose body and soul connect, we’ve had people with half their brains cut out have lost half of their cognitive recognition. They were alive and loving but not as smart anymore. Wouldn’t intelligence be a part of the personality of a soul? Your friend’s body may be there but none’s to say his brain is not at large. If you have soul and body but no brains to compensate, how does any of those things matter?
He says it rather quickly, because that specific philosophical question annoyed the shit out of him back then, as it does now. But he’s grown wiser, he knows that shitting on him is not gonna get him anywhere. And honestly, he could actually need a new coma patient to watch soap operas with, George flatlined last week.
- You are very hurt. Let out the stranger with little to no shame. He seems as curious as one can be.
- Don’t change the subject with obvious nonsense, I’m pointing out major flaws in your life philosophy, give the man an answer. Don’t you ever look up at night and stay awake doubting that there’s an entity bigger than man out there and it doesn’t care about you or your feelings?
-I’d need to be able to sleep to make such a statement true. But no, I do not need questioning, I know my duty and what needs to be done. I cannot question it more than I trust my belief in humanity. He states rather unapologetically.
- Let’s say doctors keep your buddy alive until the end of times, what will you manage to do to keep his soul? If that’s even a thing.
- I will reach out to angels, bring aid to those who can provide me a solution or D-my friend relief.
Scratch that, after all of this, House’s pretty sure he can add delusions to his mental white board. Autism? Delusions of grandeur about religion, and lack of social cues. Schizophrenia?
- I definitely need a sandwich, are you hungry? I’m hungry. He says before pressing the cafeteria’s floor under the curious stare.
Disorientation perhaps? He seems to have nowhere in sight to go. More like intense confusion, by the state of his face. It strikes him that confusion might be a personality trait when encountering that man.
- I do not feel hunger. But if you wish to deepen this discussion, I am amenable to it . He states rather politely as the door opens to them. >>
House walks out and the stranger seems to follow him like glue, but leaving enough space for the cane. He knows what this feels like, the man feels like a long lost puppy. Like someone walked into here, walked into corridors and then left him there to fend for himself.
And he has enough of Wilson for the kicked puppy stares, yet he manages to get by the cafeteria rather quickly. The man makes no effort to deepen the conversation, so House figures to give him time. The way his coat hangs into the air as he walks, the straps of it meet the end of the coat, it’s a rather unusual sight.
It’s without a doubt that House finds himself buying a sandwich for the man. He doesn’t ask, figuring this is another denial case. Bonkers but quite amusing to watch interact. Simply under the pretense that his delusions of grandeur are quite an entertaining sight.
It wouldn’t be as interesting if the man’s big blue and emotional eyes, husky voice and mild sex hair was missing.
House is not adverse to spending nights in the hospital, hell, this is the best place to be if you’re having a heart attack. Sure the beds are uncomfortable, the lights stay mostly on and sounds cripple your insomnia. But the rush of life and the end of, is quite interesting to feel. It’s always quite a nostalgic feeling to be there in the early hours of it all.
Like an unforgiven, forgotten cursed moment, like you’re not allowed to be there and moms about to catch you wandering in a little too far.
He does not know what his last words were, but he hadn’t expected to fall asleep in the chair. Considering how dainty and frail they were, he’s one heartbeat away from falling.
Yet the only thing he wakes up to, is a stiff neck, blood circulation going back to his back and his own frustrated groan.
Or that is, until he opened his eyes to catch the strange man’s curious stare.
The groan he recently let out is enough for faces to look back at him from the sides.
If he snored, no one seemed to bother him about it. And the man stayed there, if House were to bet. He didn’t seem to move a single inch.
<< You must either have nowhere to go or no sense of taste . He says under a dry throat.
To which the man's eyes light up, under pursued lips he carefully adds.
-I got neither. He dared to let out, under the cacophony of the hospital’s breakfast rush. The way his voice had lowered in shyness of a lost wanderer. The official honesty in his answer made House perk up, even through the fog of waking up.
He stretches under his stare, looking left and right for an excuse to leave. Even if he doesn’t require one. He feels like he’s talking to someone fatally ill, and a child, all in one.
He clears his throat, to which the man decides to get up. House figures he caught the awkward social cue, but as he sees him walk to the vending machine.He sees him come back with a bottle of water, but the realisation of seeing him pull out money carelessly from his coat pockets.
He comes back and pushes it towards the doctor, in a selfless act.
House does not hesitate to take it as his throat and body is begging for some hydratation. The cafeteria’s table is not in peak bed-material to his already beaten down body.
- So that’s it, you’re gonna stay here until your friend dies? He says, without any filter, to which he witnesses the man’s eyes shy away from him.
His face breaks down in a silent orchestra, one that seems deeply overachieving in what House would call a strike. So his friend is his soft spot, if it’s not religion, money or power. Or at least from the subjects he remembers they’ve had.
He drinks the water, dwelling into the thick silence.
- He’s not going to die. I’m not going to let it happen. He says more serious and warm, colors come back to his face rather fast.
-You know, to meet your angels that would save him. It means you’d be dead yourself. He says, humouring the talk they previously had, who said he didn't listen?
- I know. The civilian adds, thickly wrapped under a self righteous face, one that House would recognize as reckless. He knows it from seeing it in himself, yet the man’s innocence makes him ponder if the man truly knows what he’s implying.
- What's your grandiose plan, you know you’re in the least likely place to die by your own hand? I could have you put into a room with nothing else but cushion walls. Make you prove how sane you are. Why bother tell me if you’re going to kill yourself? It’s counterintuitive.
House realizes how his own voice has heightened in theatrics. Perhaps he’s finally waking up fully, which is rare to say without a godly amount of narcotics and caffeine.
Maybe he’s so bored that this is the peak of him caring. The man is not boring, even if very slow and unwilling to give up the mystery about him.
Usually people would drop a wrong sentence, a way to characterize them. And other than self righteous and ideolizing god and suicide, he does not strung him as the egoist type.
- You’re a doctor of practice. I’m only but one being. I cannot heal, not in the way he needs me to. If you will not do it, I will ask again, for money is not an issue.
The way the man put hands on the table as he sat again. House figured this speech was not his first, he’s clearly a wanted man. Maybe this was a play pretend to get him to care about a stranger in a coma.
He has no idea if the blue eyed man knows him by name or is asking the first doctor he encountered. What are the odds that he’s the one he needs. If this is a coma, there’s more than one issue that could have caused this. Yet he knows so little, maybe this is a boring diabetes prognostic, a head injury or an induced coma from multiple traumas.
- How much? He asks out of curiosity. There's no way the man can afford him out of pocket. And he’s pretty sure his friend has no private insurance. This would be a pro-bono and he’s had enough of those for a lifetime.
- I have no sense of currency. You choose and I will meet your demands. He says rather honestly, in a way that is so genuine that House can’t stop the cackle that gets out.
- You’re kidding. Did Wilson put you up for this? ‘Cause, that’s pretty good acting there. He says with a sly smile as he closes the lid of his bottle.
- This is no joke. He says rather quickly, like a quip. No matter how amused House is, the man seems to keep his act.
- Sure, and what's your name, mysterious benefactor? He barks back with a half bite, half-laugh.
- Castiel. He says under his breath, half bitten off, before leaving money randomly taken in his pocket and put on the table carelessly. >>
House notes that the sandwich is gone already and when he looks back up, he only sees the strap hanging loosely on the man’s waist as he’s leaving.
Well, this went rather swimmingly.
Notes:
I feel like this is very mixed in a dead fandom and one that finished airing. But if one fortunate soul ends up reading this all, thanks! I appreciate it a lot. <3
Chapter 2: -Two-
Summary:
Another encounter for House and Castiel. Casual Coma!Dean hanging around god knows where.
Furthering the plot, hows and why's heavier, but still somewhat light for a cynic and a fallen angel.House can't make up for what little he knows. Castiel is certain of what he needs.
There's no order in Chaos. Only fallen soldiers.
Notes:
I'm no doctor (I'm not even american), but I'm open to feedback. Terms and lingo will go past my head often. Language is a finicky beast.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 2
It took a week and a half, not that he’s counting.
Before he could see a hint of Castiel, or whatever name he actually has, because this one is clearly over the top. But no matter how odd it felt, it did fit the case, the religion theme. The cards were starting to stack in such a peculiar way. The more he gives it his thoughts, the more he thinks the man is under influence. Which is clearly more reasonable than whatever else he can conjure up.
It’s not new that people cling to religion like it's some sort of safety belt, even more so when life gets hard. Add some paranoia and some trust issues and the angels become your only friends.
The idea that the man’s cluelessness is somewhat similar to kidnapped victim cues in the questions that keep bubbling up in his subconscious. He’s old enough to have money, maybe a job somewhere, and yet. No sense of money, only someone sheltering him or grooming him would have kept him away from his own finances, that or a community.
As far as he knows, a cult could be the right guess. He’s waiting here, no one notices him yet. Perhaps if you leave, no one goes out of their way to get you back in. Out here in the open, the suit feeds some of the questionings, but nothing else seems out of ordinary. Probably nobody really questions his presence in a hospital, there’s so much buzz and hurried walks that he could stay here for weeks before someone would notice him in the wrong hall.
That’s why House almost dismissed him in his peripheral vision, his mind skipped a beat when he saw the ugly tan of the double chested trench coat.It took half a second of rewinding the tape to get back to the reality that was facing him. He didn't question it twice. This was a chance. Castiel was at the end of the hall, towards his right as House was talking to Foreman.
Something about questioning logic and gender gaps. He’s not quite sure anymore, but he’s willing to follow his gut. It doesn't take him long to feed the man a task about a case. He’s now dead-on interested to wonder how the man’s mission is going. Perhaps interacting with him will lead him to his casual overlooking self. Because now it's been enough days that he’s tried to let it go, but apparently things seem wrong without an answer.
They do not lack the means to do blood tests, and they're more entertaining to have actual surgeons do. Foreman quits with eyes over head, probably frustrated by his wave of dismissal.
Making them do so many things in different fields here and there was reckless, but if he couldn’t trust them with blood, how can he trust that they will be able to remain efficient in the job?
It takes him enough time to walk off the distance that ‘’ Castiel ’’ is now towards the secretary’s desk. He can hear the rumble of his voice, but not close enough to hear the words yet.
<< What does it look like? The stranger asks with a hint of wonder, under the secretary’s confused stare.
- It’s a rectangle, usually blue but it varies depending on the country he’s from. We need it for the authorities. His face will be on the first page, name, date of birth. If not we could use an ID, drivers license, it would help them figure out who to call. It’s white and has the same information as the passport.
House leaned towards the desk, back against it.
-Let me guess, All you want to know is if your friend will be fine. But we can’t tell you yet so they’re trying to identify him in case he has money for things to go faster. You’re quite in a pickle there.
Castiel turns his face towards him. His hands previously on the counter casually lay there.
Interestingly enough, his face lit up at the sight of him. And House has no idea why, he’s nothing but short of an asshole to the man. That’s being a glutton for punishment, and the sandwich had no undertones that he knew of.
- Yes. They would not take my money when I offered it. They told me to make an appointment, to make payments. He was deeply concerned.
Greg can’t lie, the man is very expressive. His sadness goes out of his pores like sweat and his confusion is very communicative. He watches his eyes, open and wide enough to see his puzzling stare.
- How did you come here, ambulance? They would have brought you to the community hospital, not a teaching one. He asks almost rhetorically.
-I drove until I found it. He says rather seriously, House frowns.
Maybe he was wrong to come, this was creating even more questions. How did the man learn to drive but has no sense of currency?
- From where? He asks back, his curiosity growing into technicalities,
- Fairfield. I was on the high road until a sign showed your facility. He says as he lifts his hands off. Moving away from the desk as the woman starts to busy herself with her computer.
Castiel seems interested enough to talk about it that House keeps at it whilst he can acquire more information.
-You drove an hour and a half to come here with your buddy dying in the backseat? That’s awfully unnecessary. He says with rebuttal, surprised at the answer. He starts to follow the man slowly, his cane floating in between them every few seconds.
-Two hours and a half, I do not know how to drive an automatic engine. Or any engines for that matter. He adds to correct him, as if that was helping or justifying it all.
Doctor or not, this was almost made to be irritating, of course his friend was in a coma. How would he not? Imagine waking up from injury to hit the dashboard at every stop sign? No wonder he’s out of it.
-You-- You drove instead to call 911, when you didn't know how to drive and you had someone injured? That’s careless.
He says with more undertones of irritation.
No wonder he’s like that, the time after injury is crucial. You usually don’t move the body around and you surely don’t bring it for a merry joyride on the highway. He says slower and thicker for the man to understand.
-Dean would have never forgiven me if I didn’t bring his car with us. I couldn’t fly it here. He added as an excuse, as if it could make up for the idiocy he blatantly showed. House couldn’t ignore the talk back as it felt more like an actual option than sarcasm. Hoping to ignore it all, he continued.
- Can’t forgive someone if you’re dead already. Trumps the car by far. If the man’s stupid enough to die for his car, he deserves it. What I wonder is why you cared enough to try it. You’re either very dense or very scared. I’m pretty sure it's the latter, but surprise me.
-I already healed his leg, ribs and wrist, I knew he could withstand the wait.
The arrogance in the statement was thick with annoyance but deep loyalty. I respect Dean, I do not fear him. He’s actually quite like you, he mocks when he’s annoyed. All bark but no bite when it comes to the undeserving.
But there were things I could not induce, like your professionals can. For I cannot figure out why I couldn’t wake him up. This gives me time to learn. You are trained to find the issue, it is human nature.
-Oh I don’t know. He gasps with a glistening sarcasm.Maybe a little on the defensive, he noticed. Perhaps because he’s injured and you tried to fix him with powerful thoughts?
What he had not foreseen was the fact Castiel was leading them to a room. And as far as he knew he hated to talk with the family of the cases, lovers. Yet there he was arguing with the equivalent of a careless child. The sight of the dirty blond man in the bed had him for a loop.
Perhaps the silence of watching the man had caught in for too long because Castiel was the one to break the silence. He couldn’t deny the man was attractive, the one he could really see into his favorite reality shows he keeps watching over lunch.
The white, mid thirties inconscient man almost seemed asleep. Breathing on his own, in the robes and covers.
- Only a few of you looked without going away so fast. I do not know where to ask anymore. I am coming close to being desperate enough to ask the wrong kinds of people. He says with a casual sadness, one that he wore heavier in the room. He walked towards the bed, longing as he walked around it to the other side.
House ignored the way Castiel saw him grow long and distant. He walked slowly to the case file at the end of the bed.
The form was rather empty, casual tests were made but nothing to identify him or his sickness. Only a drip was casually put on every few hours to keep him hydrated. For a coma, this John Doe was under no machines to keep him running, nothing other than the mediums to pick up his heart rate, arterial pressure and overall health meters.
No swelling to the brain had induced this, actually the file doesn’t mention any coma induced decisions. Only that he is under scrutiny and put on casual medication to thin his blood and ease inflammation.
The man’s basically on a cocktail of vitamins and tylenol in a daily drip, he should be awake.
Why isn’t he?
Radiography has found old sealed bone fractures, quite an extensive list of them actually. No internal bleeding, no overdose, light dose of alcohol in his system when he first came in.
- What did you say happened to mister comatose over here? He says in-between a thinking hum,
- A fight, one that I was also fighting. I did not get to see what happened. One second he had a knife and was winning, the other he was on the floor and I had no idea why I couldn’t wake him up.
- It was in a bar, right? He says before looking up to see Castiel attend to his friend’s hand.
Even as a lover, he can’t rule out grooming. Feeding him a location is not his best bet, but he’s growing impatient.
Castiel looks up to him, unsure but his eyes seem rather genuine.
- How did you know? He asks rather carefully, he’s maybe right, but there’s something hidden in the tone of his voice. The way it’s careful and quiet.
- You said his wrist was injured, his ribs,I can see his knuckles from here and this file tells me he’s had a few drinks. You can’t drive but there was his car. He has prior broken bones, oversealed. Some of them seem rushed or overused when healing. You said fighting, but not each other. Sounds like a brawl in a good ol’ bar to me. Or maybe I’m not even a doctor and it was a lucky guess. It’s not like you’d know.
-Perceptive. Perhaps too self-indulging. He said softly, before looking back to the man’s knuckles.
- That’s my job. Now you said his name was Dean? Any last name? He says as he puts the file under his armpit.
- Winchester. He’s not from here. He says with intent, and it’s when House notices the leather jacket on the chair. It’s clearly Dean’s because Castiel has not left his own trench coat off one second, as far as he knew.
- And yours? He says to keep him talking.
-I was not given any. He deadpans back to him in a heartbeat.
- Well lucky for you, Castiel. He drops the name with obvious taunting. We don’t need yours to get him on a program. If I were him, and that I’d love my car like that. I’d probably put my passport in there, maybe try the glove compartment, and since you are both not from here. It would make more sense than a motel room.
You be useful and you go get that whilst I examine your boyfriend? He says as he’s walking up to the chair to drop on it. Quick before I get bored. >>
Leaving the cane against the bed frame.
He looks up to Castiel who seems enlightened at the idea to be told what to do. In a shuffle of clothing and silence, he walks the way to the door. He does not further question him. So docile that when he leaves, House realizes he forgot to ask about the ribs looking fine in the radiology rapport. He wheels away towards the door hoping to catch him in the hall, but no one but a pack of wild nurses in their natural habitat seems to look back at him.
How perplexing. He could have sworn the man just barely left.
Notes:
I was surprised at the quick feedback, this was a project to make me write more again. I missed out on many months of not writing. And now that I'm picking myself back up, this was a very pleasant surprise to wake up to.
Guess the fandoms are not as quiet as I thought they'd be.
Figured I'd write a bit every day or so to kickstart the habit.
Thank you very much!
Chapter 3: -Three-
Summary:
Confrontation and furthering the mystery. House seems too comfortable to mock and question Castiel’s mission. Will he fight back?
Chapter Text
Chapter 3
Now alone with the patient, it fell silent.
House gave more time to the puny file they had, it was merely a few pages long.
His estimates were fairly close, he could always ask Castiel for more input. But Dean seemed like a brawler type of man, and by the look of the leather jacket. He had good taste, for fashion that is.
He either lost a lot of fights or got dirty winning them.
<< If bones could talk... He muttered to himself under his breath, mid-drifting over the words on the page.
He was flipping pages rather nonchalantly as he saw a sentence that struck out as strange.
Herbal religious pouch? he said out loud with everlasting wonder. >>
Without much hesitation, he gets back up. Cane tender against the palm of his hand, file in the other, he walks towards the end of the hall.
He figures he still has time before the stranger comes back, and perhaps he can find out more before he does.
It takes a few seconds to walk up to the elevator, another few to ignore the people in it with intent.
Making his way to lost and found on the ground floor, he takes his badge that was hanging in his suit’s pocket casually.
The noise coming back to him felt rather pleasant, clinical but positive. He opens the door to enter the land of the patient's possessions. Thankfully, the man hasn’t been filed yet, so he can skip the alleys of boxes that are in their own order and system and go straight to the filling pile. Before he can spot any John Doe, he sees the flash of a hand Knife under plastic.
<< There goes out any chance of your modeling career, Winchester. >> He says as he grapes the side of the plastic bag to get a sight of the weapon which he assumed was most likely self-defense.
The benefit of the doubt lays there thick in the air.
The blade was sharpened and had heavy use, with heavy randomized scratches along it’s wooden shaft. House wasn’t one to oblige, but this intense use made itself known to be one of two things. Hunting was still popular, this could be it. Brawling injuries in the man’s knuckles, nose and fists was more of a snitch than his own mouth would ever be.
He wondered about prior incarceration, but a man like him would find himself popular in any type of prison. Pretty face like that, no lacerations or facial scars, it’s maybe followed with the attitude with it. Getting further in trouble, assault? Even with all the signs, and the fact he was accompanied, did not make him think he was being stalked. It looks all improvised with a hint of premeditation, a day or two perhaps. But has he never watched any movies?
Never bring a knife to a gunfight.
It actually could be a safety weapon, one that was still allowed in most states without permits. Its length was dubious for the regulation laws of switching states. Maybe it’s someone else that turned on him. Yet the use still showed some heavy bias. And Castiel had claimed he was overpowering before being put down. No bullet wounds, no stab wounds, only impact play. Fists, strength, body weight, can still pack hell of a sucker punch. And being six feet tall means that his enemy was probably larger than him, rather than taller. Odd wise, the fight was almost fair. Depending on how many people were there, he could almost think the man had a fair chance with his experience and what he was packing.
The fact it was stained with dry blood made it look weary and gloomy to any positive outlooks.
Either way, the blade's fame quickly faded as he finally saw something else. The reason he first came here was laying there, innocently fading in the red plaid shirt.
In between silver jewelry and a leather bracelet was the pouch categorized in the file.
He palmed the contents, the pouch had a thick outer layer, tanned leather. Strange.
A strand of the same material was keeping it closed. He gave it a push with his thumb, the texture felt like mesh, not entirely hard, but not soft enough to change shape.
He looked around in the room with a disinterest until he locked eyes onto a rather large bubble wrap office insulated letter, grabbing it to drop the man’s personal effects.
It fit fine, even if the knife’s outline was slightly noticeable.
It would have to do.
When he finally came about to the floor where the patient was, he figured he could always ask around.
Sadly, the secretary wasn’t on when the man had been placed in the room. And so were the nurses. House figured they already finished their shift that week.
As he walked around for answers, he gave it more thought. It wasn't entirely impossible that this was a case of Resignation Syndrome, but the incident and body trauma could still be underlying. It seemed to him that resignation syndrome was a social disorder masquerading as a medical one. And they decided to keep him under watch for the few injuries still showing up. But even with the extent of these, there was no reason for him not to wake up. A week is a whole other ball game.
Scans showed mental activity, bright one at best. It was beginning to be clear that the man’s plight would not be solved by a neurologist or a brain scan. Once the psychosomatic explanation had been belittled and dismissed, he gave it one last round in his mind. Figuring out that even though it didn’t hurt to try. Lifting Dean’s left arm to see where it landed did not grant a diagnostic just yet.
Dwelling into psychosomatic ends had always left communities pushed into endless cycles of medical testing that led to repeated dead ends. If time was of the essence, he didn’t grant it longer thoughts, he’d treat this as medical before anything else.
Which meant testing any theories fitting enough symptoms. Another fish in the sea, yet he could still pinpoint which sea. That was so little to go on from. But he had done worse, hadn’t he?
Sometimes other doctors are so busy looking inside people’s heads that they forget the social factors creating illness. Figuring out that they’d get that head out of their asses. So, they avoid frank conversations. Or, more likely even, they are afraid to look too closely at their patients’ social worlds for fear that they will be accused of blaming the person, their family or their community for the illness. Of being intrusive and overbearing, yet their world, social or physical, was the answer to most medical questions laying out there.
Dean couldn’t answer much, that’s for sure. But his stuff was a good start, if Castiel was willing to answer questions, it would be best. But people lie, they always do. To look good, to get attention, or any reason under the bullshit rainbow. And he didn’t really get to waste all of his time on that either.
And knowing his team was already working on a case, one funded by the state and apprenticeship hospital did not leave much room for them to help. He could always subdue one of them every chance he got, but then this was a side hustle. Something he needs to be resolved quickly and efficiently.
But House is pretty sure there is something behind his partner’s mental health. Religion does not trump rationality or common knowledge. There has to be a reason all of these odd things fit, and he’s pretty sure it’s laying behind the shadow of what’s unsaid.
There can’t be such a coincidence and the fact that Castiel does not deem as violent, or at least, not hysteria driven. Had made the story feel odd, a bar fight, knives involved, in Fairfield.
Something didn’t sound entirely right.
So when he came back, empty-handed, House sighed.
<< Nothing? He says with disappointment, but a rush of mystery seems to wash over the shore.
- No, I found them. All of them. Says Castiel as he casually walks in. I ’ve only taken a few. For they all look the same. I was informed he required two. He reaches in the large right pocket of his coat to take out a thick stack of what seems to be cards.
Something dangerous, a common spider-sense tingles House with stupor. Is this what he thinks this is?
As he palms them from doubtful Castiel, he pushes one by one, laying it under the stack. Giving them one by one a painful yet surprised look.
- Spears, Glover, Cruz, Hendrix..I’m pretty sure your man isn’t a one-man band. He drops with a hint of a smirk, amused at the celebrities' name easter eggs. But the way this case is getting deeper by each question, constatation makes him think this is deeper than he bargained for.
- He is awful at using the strings of a guitar. No matter how hard he tries. How is that relevant? Deadpans Castiel with a hint of interest, yet music doesn’t seem what he expected to talk about.
House can’t hold back the mean snort that comes out at the repartee, not that he actually would.
- How are you even sure his name is Dean Winchester? With all of these, smuggling into the states would be the last of his problems. Oh wow, FBI, NYPD, County Sheriff. He turns his head towards the man in the bed. You’re quite the undercover cop, johnny-boy. His sarcasm and deflected humor fell flat against the lifeless frame.
Castiel frowns deeply, taking a step closer to him. House can’t tell yet because he’s still in the amusing state of realizing that the knife in the letter is the last of the man’s worries. Yet he still can’t make sense of this, what would require so many fake identities?
Human trafficking perhaps? Had he fallen unto a random bad guy followed by a Stockholm syndrome-affected priest? What nonsense. As he catches back to the reality in front of him, he catches a serious but willing stare.
- He used these often, they are valid. They should still work. I have the pamphlets they described as well. It seems like they are all his and not Sam’s . He says both for confirmation and with a glimmer of hope.
- Their due dates aren’t what’s wrong. I’ll give you a hint, maybe it’s the actual fact they’re fakes. He says slower, and acting as if the man is a child kind of takes off the dense cloud of stupidity that the man seems to wear like a cloak of invisibility.
Is he the bait to the man holding the knife? Is he willingly also a criminal or is he brought anywhere like a long-lost kitten?
Wait, who’s Sam?
He fidgets with the cards, rubbing his thumb against the soft engraved plastic. He knows he’s taller than Castiel, and Castiel has made no movement nor any choice to endanger him. He seems clearly clueless at how illegal it all seems to be.
- Oh, yes, I was aware of that. That has never stopped them before. It’s Sam Winchester. Dean’s little brother, his last remaining family. I am afraid I have no way to reach him. But if you doctors take care of Dean, it’s not impossible for me to search for him. I am not entirely sure I am capable of leaving Dean unattended yet. If ever. He says out loud as if he was talking to himself, but also by the side of it not caring enough to hide his uncertain feelings to the physician.
- Was Sam at the scene when Dean got hurt? Asked House rather quickly, assimilating the different branches of the mentioned information. Are they still on talking terms?
-They were, before last week. He was present. I cannot confirm he has made his way back home safely. He was not there when I visited. I think he must have been abducted by the demons.
-Home? Demons? Flustered House as he blinked a few times, still willing to ask questions but baffled by the answers. This man is too accurate to be on speed, too reactive for weed. He seems to be in good health for any painkillers, he does not consider Adderall abuse to be Castiel’s diagnostic, considering it doesn't take away from the confusion and lack of understanding when it comes to society's established rules.
He does not sweat and his pupils are average in size. His words are not slurred, they are distinct and researched. Intellectual, confused but not forgetful. Strangely put together, yet his clothes and appearance seem neglected. His stubble seems the same as he last saw him. Is he shaving in his friend’s car or in the hospital's bathroom?
-Kansas. He answers clearly and brightly. But leaving room for specifics.
-That’s a lot further away from home. The closest town in Kansas is still 20 hours away from here. Why were you guys here?
-We met someone here. He says seriously, almost finding it enlightening to share this talk.
Perhaps Castiel thinks House is helping him figure out what happened to the abducted one.
-Demons? He said with a half-bitten-off sarcasm.
-As a matter of fact, yes. Crossroad demons. They had something of ours. H e answered without any long wait or dodgy eyes. If anything he is dead convinced to watch him in the eyes. And House knows they can play that game both. So he continues staring at the man, coming up with any questions that can help his diagnosis and maybe even his curiosity.
-Drugs? Weapons? He drops casually, almost innocently.
-The Winchesters aren’t pimps, Doctor. They’re heroes. He says, almost insulted at the idea.
-Hitmen then? Interesting, were they stalking someone in Fairfield?
-Demons rarely hide their spots well, they know they will be put back in a body once they’ve met the king of hell. They do not care if the flesh on their backs will die. We didn’t have to search very long. The Winchesters aren't the ones you should be prejudiced against. They were trying to save innocent lives. He says, justifying his own narrative.
-I’m just like you, brainstorming on the whole thing. He shrugs with a casual swagger. So you said they’re heroes, but what about you?
-What about me? Asks Castiel as he pinches his lips in a thin line.
-Are you a hero? He asks, more importantly, to write off a hero’s complex, even if he could smell the wooden scent of a Martyr complex.
-I was not sent here to be. But I am fighting for the good of this world. House notices the way the man’s hands close into fists.
-What’s good? He says, truly dense and aware of it. The more he talks, the more he notices the man's reactions are the best tales.
-Humanity. He answers rather softly, almost with love even if his facial features are more broken down and cold.
-So you’re fighting for humanity, all of it. He says to humor him, even House’s tone seem to imply that it’s overbearing and stupid.
-Yes, it is almost an impossible task. Without the Winchesters, the earth as we know it is doomed. He says, as his eyes dart away, in shame and sadness. It hues off him like an overheating car, House cannot deny. The man seems to really believe his own reality, the ways of self, and ideas of what it means to be alive.
It doesn't entirely change much, whether it’s the belief that he deserves pain, or that demons are out to get him. As long as he believes it, this lie, he’s as much biased as they all are. In all the order of things, it doesn't seem entirely crazy that he chose two brothers to obsess over.
Religion had way more than one brotherly fight to use as a drawing board. But why the Winchesters, he wonders. Wrong place, wrong time?
-So you want me to save your friend. So that you can leave with him to save the world?
- It is rudely complacent when it’s said this way. But you are not far from the truth.
- I’ll take that as a yes. So when are you going to realize that your fairy tale is cheap and sold under best-selling books stickers? He says, rather harshly, hoping for a reaction.
He wishes he had taken his cane on the side of the bed, because Castiel, as tall as he seems to be. Which is a head and a half smaller than him. Still managed to grab him by his shirt to pluck him against the wall. When his back hit the wall with a dull sound, Castiel’s features stayed cold and silent. House felt his own throat tighten as he swallowed. But his mouth couldn’t stay shut.
Before he could deflect, joke or even say anything really. Castiel took the spotlight to say careful words.
-I don’t have time to waste, perhaps you are too, broken beyond repair. I see your pain. I see inside of you. Your guilt. If you cannot find what is wrong, do not pretend you can. I don’t have nearly enough anymore to lose playing. You either can help me, or leave. My time on earth is sparse. They will know I’ve been gone too long. They will hunt me. I cannot lose them. Try to understand.
As a matter of fact, House had been two seconds away from a bodybuilder joke about what’s hiding behind the trenchcoat and misaligned tie. But with the fact that it was the beginning of the night, and there was no agent of security anywhere near the room when he entered it. Made him listen longer, with more patience than he thought possible.
Castiel lingered, his fist tightly knit against House’s chest. The proximity does not make any hint of discomfort be known on that side of the interaction.
As he talked, House looked away. It wasn’t entirely to blow off the steam, but because he saw his-
Machines started to beep with intensity, one that he figured was a bad sign.
But then a moving hand grew to a moving arm. Shaking softly, ever-growing more erratic, by the time Castiel stopped looking at him.
They were both noticing how Dean’s body was moving without any agency.
Castiel dropped him just like that. House couldn’t hide the nasty flinch at the way the vibration of his weight hurt the inside of his leg as he stooped lower.
He pushed through and shuffled on his right foot to make way towards the bed. He looked at the machines before looking back at the patient.
When Castiel moved his hand towards the man’s face, he didn’t waste a second communicating his order.
-Turn him over, then leave him be. It’ll fade, it's a seizure. If it goes past five minutes then we’ll act.
Castiel made no attempt to listen, his palm went against the man’s forehead. And after a few seconds, Dean was back to his silent and unmoving self. House sighed, hopeful and optimistic about adding a symptom to narrow the diagnosis. But Castiel's self-assuredness and calmness made him wonder.
-It faded quickly. He’s lucky.
-It was physical, I was able to control the source. It seems he was agitated. He drops compliant enough to share the news.
-Oh you’ve got to be kidding me. Seizures fade, they all tend to eventually. He tried, with everlasting rationality
-If I demonstrate to you that this wasn’t luck. Will you start to investigate Dean’s illness?
- Oh sure, I’ll do it for free. He said, darkly huffing out with sarcasm. You show me you can cure cancer and I’ll drop my case and find what’s wrong with Mister Knuckles Dragger. It’ll be revolutionary. >> He said, with no hope left for the basket case in front of him.
Castiel’s constant stare made him even more willing to get to the bottom of this.
He actually respected beliefs, but this was taking it way too far.
Notes:
It’s fun to make research about this fanfiction. I was unsure about tempo of it. But since it’s to keep my finger warm on the keyboard I’m all good with whatever came out of this.
Chapter 4: -4-
Summary:
House would get to the bottom of this, if things always didn’t went the other way. First his patient, and now Castiel is nowhere to be seen. Will he ever catch a break?
Improvising, the art of lies.
Notes:
Did that one in one session. I figured I could get it all out. It's been two hours, this is my cue for the night.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 4
Castiel was a very lucky man. House’s pager activating under the pretense of an emergency at his actual case had been the bell that saved him. And then as he avoided it, his phone also rang. There goes ignoring it all and focusing on the new blue eyed mystery.
As he was walking away towards the actual emergency he was paid for, ignoring painfully the burning stare who had watched him walk out with no context had been disheartening.
He had so much more to do, to ask, to ignite.
Even if the team handled it fine without him, since it was only a little blood spitting. The patient’s lungs were still going under treatment against Pneumonia. Some inflammatory reaction to it all.
It didn't grant getting a call from Cameron, her worry dripping thick like she hadn’t seen this a thousand times before. Yet there he was, walking them to a prognosis, hoping for any of them to take agency over the case. Showing any entrepreneurial spirit, some leadership for god’s sake.
Either way, he knew this would now start to become his new puzzle. Perhaps that was a good thing, it was giving them much more space to make their own errors, wins even.
He found himself caught up in a brainstorm close to the white board. Towards them, he had been his usual lunatic self, nothing out of ordinary, perhaps that was worrisome in itself.
But then he ruled it all out considering he had never been an overachiever in his relationships, oversharing never truly being his thing.
He had no time to waste wondering about the doctors, they were fine. None of them had a silent nonexistent coma, or was emptying their white cells on the linens. Everything was fine.
It took an hour and a half before he was available again to go back to Dean's room. Luckily enough, he hasn't moved since. He found himself sighing as he realized Castiel was gone.
As he was once again alone with the patient, he looked over his features. The man was pale, for he started to show signs of lack of sun. His lips were chapped and dry, his hands seemed calloused from hard work.
He stepped out when a nurse came in to put a new bag to his IV drip.
Seeing the dark uniforms at the end of the hall made Castiel’s disappearance make all the more sense. He’s avoiding them, isn’t he?
House walks by them to get by the elevator, a smug smile and head nod towards the familiar faces of authority.
He is struck with an idea, as he feels the multiple ID’s dangling into his vest’s pocket.
He steps into an officer with his shoulder, perhaps bumping him a little too hard for their taste.
It only takes half a second for the strap to click away, grasping his hand around the keys before they could truly hit each other fully. Cutting any sound coming from them with the dull pressure.
But before the agent could really apprehend him or even scold his lack of manners, the other man, much older, puts a hand on his partner’s back. Casually taking back control of the situation.
<< Don’t bother, it’s just House . He is rather familiar with him, perhaps a little too much.
House finds himself huffing at the quote, somewhat amused at how his name still bears weight. Whether it is of being feared or hated had little to no significance. It is what it is.
- It’s just a dick, you mean. Slither away the voice of a displeased man, answering back to his superior. Not bothering to even check for his belt, unaware of the theft. >>
Even if he has no idea where the smaller man is, he has an idea of how to get some answers.
This was perhaps too easy, he figured as the door of the elevator closed behind him.
He palms the keys under his fingers, feeling for the thicker one, for which he assumes is their car’s. He looks back to it, impressed that his guess ended up being right.
When his cane hits the asphalt, he moves around slowly with the pure intent to find the car. Considering they’re not security and have been called for identification and interrogation. Their car must not be very far. It takes a few minutes of walking, his cane knocking the floor every once in a while.
When the car chips from two alley of cars to his right, he looks up with a snort. This lightbulb moment had him reeling into his own thrill.
When his ass met the creaking leather of the driver’s seat, he turned the computer screen towards him. As it’s bolted into the dashboard, he place himself awkwardly laying on the middle container in between the seats with his elbow. Looking up sometimes towards the way he came in.
He gets out the cards, one by one searching the name, the numbers associated with them. None seems dirty, all of them has little to no cushions of reality, the perfect little scapegoat if you’re used to speeding. No prior injuries, no prior misdemeanors, all the pictures are either with a different angle just enough for the computer to remain bamboozled.
They know what the fuck they’re doing, thats for sure.
House sigh, looking around the car for something worthwhile. But before he can react longer, a knock on his windows startle him. His hand goes directly to his own chest, as his heart stangs at the scare.
<< Should I be asking about this? Asks the familiar face of the Head of Oncology, ogling at him from the outside of the car,
- Wilson! Drops House with glee at the sight of his partner in crime. Just when I need you.
-I’d rather stay outside, I don’t know the legislature about entering a cop car willingly. I’d rather it be for an actual crime, you know, like normal people. He hinted.
- You’re missing out! I’m having a blast, would you like to hear the sirens? I think it’s this exact button.
He says as his hands waves around a particular button in front of him. He has no idea what it does, how exciting!
- God you’re both embarrassing and incriminating . Sighs Dr. Wilson with shame, What are you doing in there?! Get out! They could be coming back at any moment.
House smiled at the hint of a conscience talking back. Perhaps there was still one last thing he could try before giving up on this lead.
- I’m thinking about switching careers. He deadpans unbothered as he starts researching the man’s actual name in the computer. His voice is busy and fades more in rather less enthusiasm. Watch out for me, will you?
-I’m giving you a minute, and then I’ll..I’ll. He blinks a few times, dumbfounded.
There’s something, a thing, but he can’t press it, it’s greyed. He can’t press enter to get to it. It’s locked by a password. He slows down his roll and slowly moves his chin towards the right as he’s thinking.
There’s not a lot of reason as to why a normal officer wouldn’t have access to this. The fact he had just ignited the car and saw the program still opened on a random page had been total luck.
But if an officer had no access to this, it meant someone bigger was on it. It had to. Perhaps the Winchester’s are under an actual investigation. He's stepping in a mess by investigating it himself.
-I’ll take you out myself! Yeah. Is that what you want House!? Said the high voice from the outside, almost freaking out. The tone was more pitched than actually angry, it only meant Wilson was worried, as always.
-Alright, Alright you win . He says, hands in the air, after closing the research he had made.
As he walks out of the car, he takes his cane he had laid on the passenger seat. Cards in the other hand, he closes the door behind him.
His hips against the car, he looks down at James, who seems in disbelief at the length he’s willing to go to for the truth.
- What mess have you gotten yourself into? He asks with a more soft voice, but disapproving.
- The less I tell you, the less they’ll know. He says with a soft smile, his banter was sharp and amused but the smile appearing on Wilson’s lips as they walked out was enough for him to know that they’re fine.
- Always a pleasure to get a measure of how far you’re willing to let me in on your latest cases. What is it this time? He snarks, hoping for a scoop, it is as obvious as a third eye in the middle of his face.
He doesn't mention how his smile is still visible to anyone but himself, Wilson would never agree or assume he’s excited and curious about all of this too.
- How did you find me, Dr. Watson? He drops shamelessly, Maybe you’re the one that should switch careers. He says to make conversation out of the silence, walking by his side as they make their way towards the entry of the hospital.
- And kissing my paycheck goodbye? No thanks. He says rather tenderly, even if his sarcasm is a riot.
- Who would even break the news to your fatally ill patients? He says with a small gasp, theatrics feeding into the theoretical encounter. It’s not like they’ll need you again. You already delivered the macabre news.
-Is that all my job is to you? Charming. He deadpans with arched brows, How are you even going to bring them the keys back? He adds as he hides his face towards House’s shoulder. Hinting at it being illegal and a shameful dirty little secret. >>
House pucker at this visible insult, or perhaps at the fact he has not figured it out yet. But all things come in due time.
This time, it comes in as the officers are gone from the halls. It takes him a shameless walk to the secretary of this level to figure out they actually found Castiel, and went in a room to interrogate him accordingly.
Wilson’s confused stare and nosey state made House wonder if he should share, even if a tiny bit of his discoveries to his best friend.
<< Your dad was a christian, wasn’t he? He asks out of the blue as he’s trying to walk and look in every window to find the culprits who stole his only source of answers.
- I’m not following, this sounds like the beginning of an awful joke. He says with an annoyed stare, yet he still indulges as House doesn't say more, lingering a few seconds longer to let him squirm. Yes, He was indulging in Christianism, Orthodox. Why does it matter right now?
-Not that imagining you as a choir boy doesn’t sound hilarious, does the name Castiel ring any bells in from the holy books? He says, as he pushes a door to see an empty room
James follows him close enough to wonder about each room and window House puts time and curiosity into. Giving them a last look before following him, a skid in his beat.
- No, Not really. Not with a T. He says quietly as he thinks.
- What do you mean? Does it mean anything? In any wording or phonetic possibility capable. Asks House with furrowed brows
-Well actually, If it’s two ss, I think it’s jew. And I have no idea what it matters to you. Can’t I even get a hint? Whines the man, unwilling to let go of the mystery.
-Find me what Castiel means in the bible, any of them, and I'll make it worthwhile. He says with a hint of danger, with his slowed down pace, amused at the fact Wilson will be too interested not to figure it out. Until then, I have to find a way to get this back to its owner. And I’m pretty sure you don’t want to be there when I do. >>
Wilson’s eyes become slits of wonder, but he stops walking as House walks away.
House can’t ignore how insistent James just was, perhaps a little sprinkle of Cuddy was behind all of this. And a little Cuddy always meant someone on his team probably catched up at how vague and overly disinterested he was at the meeting earlier.
He’s willing to bet Cameron, but Foreman was still a potential snitch.
But before he can think further about any of those suspects, he hears voices from within a wall close. As he walks closer to it, he can hear the deep rumble of a voice.
There he is, finally. His legs need a break.
He enters the room with confidence, his back straighter than usual. As he figures out the layout of the room, two heads turn to look at him, and one simply watches him from behind the white neat table.
<< Oh there you are! Michael! Starts House, making it up as he goes, You can’t go your merry way and annoy policemen about the big man! He states loudly as he walks up to the table. You’re worse than a Jehovah's witness. I swear. He says with an overtly obvious eye roll.
The two officers look at each other before looking back at Castiel.
- I’m Castiel, not Michael. My brother has nothing to do with this. He says outloud, puzzled at House to have already forgotten his name. It is rather innocent, but House puts his hand on the table in between them all to take all the attention to himself.
- I’ll lay it flat for you, between gentlemen. This singular basket case is one of my undiagnosed patients, we’re trying to figure out what’s going on in there. Cameron was pretty sure it’s schizophrenia but Chase seems clear that it’s just hallucinations. But really, the biggest issue I can think about is not even why he’s doing this. I’d rather not think about what he would have done with your keys? He says it all with overly-expressive facial cues, at the expense of laying out all of his words as a one-man show. Which means he’s only watching the younger officer.
- What do you mean? What’s this bullshit House? Asks the older one, unsure about the validity of all of this effort.
- I don’t recognize you from before, but I’m pretty sure your boss would be mad if they knew that this agent of god here, managed to steal your keys. He starts, his voice leaving the higher pitch to remain intimidating.
The man blinks a few times and swallows as he brings his hand to his belt, clearly reaching out for his keys.
- He didn’t, they’re right here you dic- , He says caught frozen as he realizes that he was too confident at the fact they were right there not too long ago.
House fights the need to celebrate the stare of fear he catches in the man’s face.
- Well there. He says, satisfied. I saw him put it in his coat pocket before you two stole him from his room. I bet they could still be there, all cozy and warm. He says as he steps close to Castiel.
The man seems still unsure of where this is supposed to go, but when House reaches his closed fist in the man’s pocket. He opens his palm, and the ringing of keys hitting each other makes itself known quickly.
- But, I- . starts the younger officer, dumbfounded.
- Really Ricky? Groans the man at his side, disapproving.
- I am deeply sorry officer, it was God's will. Castiel says, his brows knit in a sorrowful outlook towards the cops. House is proud to realize the man isn’t all innocent apparently.
Good for him.
The puppy-eyed look seems to add insult to injury when it comes to Ricky. House throws the keys softly to the serious teammate at his left.
- Now if you mind, before his meds wear off, I have to bring him back to the looney bin. Adds House with a hand on Castiel’s arm. Grabbing for him before the men decide to change their minds, or figure out the ploy. >>
When the door closes behind them, House smiles.
Catching Castiel’s intense stare, he walks with him.
There’s more to this than he can tell, but it’s alright, he has the key right here.
It’s only a matter of time before he breaks.
Everybody lies, and House is pretty sure Castiel is full of them.
Notes:
A lot of things are pretty convienient in these scenes, Thank god I have tomorrow to justify them.
See you around guys! :D
Chapter 5: -5-
Summary:
House is going to get answers, but what else can he do when everyone is getting in the way?
An hospital is not short of hiding spots, yet avoiding confrontation with his boss wins, for once.
Castiel has enough, yet he's growing a soft spot for this particular flawed individual.
Notes:
Here we go again, will they ever get down to buisness and make progress? Tune in to find out!
¯\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 5
Everything went back to Dean. Whether it meant where they walked to, or the subject. Every two questions, Castiel always made his way back to his favorite topic. And the more he heard about it, the more he wondered if he hadn’t seen this on the wrong side of the mirror.
Maybe Castiel is not the victim, the innocent part of this deal. Maybe he’s enabling the man’s obsessions by letting him be anywhere near the John Doe. By taking all of those risks, with the cops, he’s putting himself in a tight spot. And somehow he can almost hear the ghost of Wilson whispering that maybe, just maybe, he’s making it all about a complex of his. Because let’s face it, Castiel wasn’t the one that clearly liked investigating things a little too much. And for what he knows about mental cases, a little attention is all they need to create a web of stories. Sometimes the ones you’d enjoy to hear. But it all felt too real, to be fake.
He had a gut feeling, one of those that he can’t shake off. Meds on or off.
Talking with Castiel close to Dean was now getting him nowhere.
He couldn’t deny the fact his pager kept alerting him of a specific number, and since it wasn’t one of his lackeys. He didn’t bother to follow up, which didn’t mean he had no idea who was taking their role as annoying too seriously. He wanted no part of it, he wanted to focus on this. Get too much into it that time goes out of the window.
The pager’s cellphone number was entirely too familiar.
Cuddy’s patience has been shortened. And he’s almost certain it’s because it happens to be Friday evening. There is no other reason she would be contacting him this late when he had done nothing wrong.
One would think a beast like the robust Lisa Cuddy, Head of Medicine and official pain in his ass, would love Fridays. Since they involved the promise of a weekend, but this rather busy woman never took a goddamn break. Taking breaks was something rather rare in the Princeton-Plainsboro hospital. Which was a very depressing thing to think about when he had a case right there falling into his lap. Making it hard to backpedal on the one he was paid to do.
So there he was, thinking of the myriads of ways he could avoid her and get to know more from Castiel altogether.
And then it hit him.
The reason why she’s so urgent, is exactly the answer he needs.
The clinic duty, that he was due two hours of this week, was exactly the only place where his team wouldn't search for him. It was the exact place where Cuddy wouldn’t expect him to be either. And only Wilson really believed it when he saw his name in the clinic logs, because he’s the only one who can recognize his signature from a forgery.
Castiel happily followed, and weirdly enough, the sense of urgency that he had previously was fading away. House figured that walking away from the source of his stress was both rather peaceful but shame indulging.
Nevertheless, he took all the files of two hours worth of consultations, and backed them into Castiel’s arm. Which he didn’t seem to mind. The more House went by, and the more he’d see him do whatever he did. The more he’d notice Castiel hunger for helping out the ones he taught in need. If that meant that House would fix his boyfriend faster, he’s pretty sure Castiel would go rob a bank. Which was pretty crazy to think about, but his hopelessness seemed rather infectious.
When they walked in the office, he pointed to a place to put the files. Castiel sighed and put them on.
<< Do you have any clues as to what may be affecting Dean? He asks rather hurriedly with a sense of worry.
House couldn’t entirely deny the fact he was basically using him as an intern now.
He took the first file on the pile and opened it, the man beside him looked towards it and he lowered it so that they both could get a legitimate sight of it.
House was pretty sure it was breaking more than one law to let him read confidential patient files. But the curiosity of letting him do it was thicker than his conscience had ever been.
-Have you ever encountered any doctors before? He huffed as he was rapidly glossing over the facts on the form.
- Yes, but not this long usually. He answered with a look up to the counter in the middle of the room.
- Then you’re in for a treat. Started House as he closed the file, artificial glee plastered in the tone of his voice. Take your coat off and get your sleeves up. I might need a second pair of hands.
- What are we waiting for? Notes the smaller man as House cleaned his hands with sanitizer.
After dutifully watching him, he followed up by doing the same. Which he seemed oddly unfamiliar with.
- Not what, but who. Patients.
- I do not see the immediate link between- Starts Castiel with a rather frustrated stare.
- It’s pretty clear to me. Starts House with a sigh,
You’re still holding out on me. I’m actually pretty sure I have a fair shot at finding out what’s going on, but I can’t without the facts. So you better get your priorities straight.
You can always leave and figure out yourself what they do to pretty little liars like you, or whatever plan you may or may not have had before I barged in and saved your ass. Or you play ball and we get a chance to find out what’s up with sleeping beauty.>>
Somehow the speech he dumped on him shuts him up more than he thought. House has no idea if that was too far, but he’ll get over it. They all eventually do.
The fact he doesn't leave is a good sign.
His perpetual stares give up as the man takes off his coat.
Now that Castiel seems somewhat presentable, House busy him by giving him the file to watch. Observing him open a file in the examining room, one could almost mistake him for working here. Leaving his neatly folded coat on a side table was the closest he would get to give the man some style.
He opened the door to scream a name rather dimly before closing back the door behind him. Not caring really much if the patient would show up at all. More time to ask and tell.
He had no actual reasons why he’s bringing him into this, nothing more than wanting to keep watch on his whereabouts and having him around for any questions he can come up with.
One could say he’s outsourcing for a second opinion. It is a teaching school after-all.
The blue tie and the white shirt matched with brought up sleeves to elbows make quite the man out of Castiel.
And his serious stare, the one he seems to bear most of the time for any encounters, is rather fitting in this picture.
Now sitting on the side of the counter, House fiddles with his cane which is in between his legs as one patient comes in. He knows Castiel has not a single idea of why he’s been brought here or what is going to happen. For all they know a woman could come in asking for a vaginal exam and Castiel would be left there flustering or flabbergasted. Which could further complicate things, but isn’t he what he’s there for?
It is rather hilarious to think about, the man screams virgin, which is a paradox to his looks.
Thankfully, the file he had looked over had only a mild case of hypochondria, or worst case, the man did indeed have a fractured rib. They never write enough in those pesky forms.
But the thought of it all still bubbled up a short snort.
A short man, no more than five feet and a half walks in.
He shyly walks in to sit on the inspecting counter, the white sheet of paper under his ass crackles against the pristine leather.
<< Am I too early? He says nervously, perhaps the sight of two men in the same room is what does it, or just the idea of being inspected is the actual problem. But before House could say anything, Castiel pipes in.
- Christopher Andrews, why do you feel pinching in your torso? He states rather boldly, House turns his head towards the poor man faced with all of this confrontation.
He’s not one to empathize with patients facing his own bluntness, but he’s pretty sure this man has no idea on what he walked up on. Castiel is everything but soft as he looks at the man, almost interrogating him dutifully.
What an overachiever.
Mr. Andrews looks up to House startled, but somewhat waiting for some sort of confirmation.
It’s interesting that he picks up on the fact that Castiel is not who he should be listening to.
Perhaps because he looks older by the minute just by standing in the same room as him.
For little does he know about them, it’s rather strange that out of them two, House seems more approachable this time. There’s always a first to everything.
- You heard the man, why? He chimes in, rather amused by the unusual interaction, willing to push it further.
- Aren’t you the ones supposed to tell me that? Blatantly throws Andrews with a rather thick brow frowned. His neat bald head was shining under the room’s neons.
- You’re the one that has a tale to tell, don’t let us stop you. He adds, willing to see how this one goes, waving away the annoyance of having to walk him through it.
-I’m not sure, I didn’t do something out of my habits. It started to hurt overnight, it hurts when I move some ways. He slowly turns to the side, but without moving his legs. His knee buckles at the pressure, even if he seems rather fine in his face. The slight sting is noticeable in the way his breathing shortens when he reaches his limit.
- Does it hurt only then or all the time? House asked, Castiel has not made any sign of his presence yet.
So he continues. Does it hurt when you breathe?
- No, not when I breathe, but when I lay on my back, it feels like I put something heavy on my chest.
He says as he lifts a hand to put on his own chest.
Sometimes my lower back tingles when I lay certain ways. Sometimes it gets on my nerves so much and I’ve been sleeping more lately. I have no idea what I did. My wife says it’s because I’m getting old and cranky. But If it’s that I hope there’s pills for it because this is not who I am.
House huffs.
- There’s two ways I can do this. I can prescribe y - He starts softly as he realizes what the man is troubled with. But Castiel walks in front of him. He gets closer to the man and lifts his hands.
House pinches his lips, reading a meaningless file was something. Allowing him in the room was another thing. But then letting him touch a patient started to feel tense.
He does not trust this man, no matter how kind or caring to the broken. He has no idea what Castiel wants out of life other than to have his friend back.
What he's willing to do to get what he wants.
House knows he’s lacking some leverage. Cops does not seem to bother him, and insults goes over his head most of the time. No one is that patient.
There's no way, right?
- Can I? He simply asks, rather leaving anything up to the man to choose. His hands are open to the client, almost getting into his personal space.
- Uh, Yeah. It’s.. Castiel brings his hand to his rib as Christopher lowers down to be flat on his back. Oh yeah, I still feel it right now. It hurts.
Huffs the man with visible discomfort, his face scrunches off.
But Castiel seems to bring his hands on the man’s ribs over his shirt.
The fact he closes his eyes, not watching anything particularly has House fascinated.
His movements are precise, calm and calculated even if he’s not going to feel for his ribs. He’s only putting his hands on him, not pressing at all. There’s no crease on the clothing, he’s almost hovering his hands over him.
What is even the point if not to be pretentious and all-mighty?
- You seem to be right, you are not ill. But you are not healthy, not entirely. He says softly, his voice is thoughtful and way more warm than before. You are..Clogged. I cannot entirely say there is one source of it all.
House snorts at the sentence.
- You mean that I need to shit? Because I did yesterday, it wasn’t special or anything. Answers the man with a worried stance. Snorting at the thought of it all, but still dead serious.
When Castiel opens his eyes, he looks back at House. His eyes are clear and very calm, there is no tension in his face whatsoever. He’s wondering if he's the only one seconds away from laughing.
- What you need Andrews, is a good old chiropractor. He says as he nods. Taking ownership of the conversation and making sure the focus stays on actual medecine so he can rule him out quickly.
You’re getting older. I totally could prescribe you painkillers for this, but it wouldn't fix your body needing some adjusting, just like your car needs some tuning every few years. You pulled a few nerves in your back and giving you meds for this would just be temporary.
- You didn’t even touch me or look at it yet. States the round man, unimpressed but slightly less worried than when he first came in. His face is tightly knit as he’s watching House, almost blankly disapproving.
If only Christopher knew.
- He did. And I don’t need to. I’m pretty sure your hands and feets are cold lately. Blood flow is restrained and the tingling you feel is pinched nerves, it could be worse but a local chiropractor would do the job just fine. Aren’t you happy? You’ll live.
He says with a shoulder shrug, slightly irritated by how he’s being doubted when it was rather obvious the man would be fine. When encountering zebras on the weekly, seeing horses lose it’s charm rather quickly. And yet he had to prove himself to this metaphorical donkey.
It’s not an infection, or a broken rib because then something as fickle as breathing would hurt badly. I don’t need to touch you to see you’re able to move around fine, it’s your back’s blind spots that are causing unnecessary pressure on your nerves. Like I said, you’ll be fine.
But then he figured the trust Castiel had established with Christopher would probably give him some slack. He turned towards him, the polished smile of customer service plastered on his own face.
Right Castiel?
- Perhaps, it sounds reasonable for earth's standards. He is in fact a Doctor, you should listen to him. Started the intern, with rationality as the client looked at him for any sign of dissatisfaction.
- What does that make you? A student or something? He says pulling his shirt down with frowned brows. Doubting every single man in the room but himself.
- Or something. He said rather simply, leaving some room for House to barge in. But he doesn’t. He rather leaves him stew for a second in his deflection.
If he can pinpoint face cues on his lies, perhaps he can work him over just like he does Wilson over poker. So far, it’s looking grim.
- Don’t you doctors hate chiropractors? It takes all of your well-earned grass. He drops his arms rather conflicted about it all. House would laugh if it wasn't so true for some practices. It as as real as it is stupid. Bias is a peculiar beast.
- How does one become worthy of earning grass? Adds Castiel, slightly unsure whereas it was a good idea to say anything to begin with. It is a renewable source, if anything it should be free for all.
- Amen. He says with a rough snort. Then he gives in to the patient who’s more than willing to argue schematics.
If I could fix you. I would, but you can’t fix what isn’t broken. Now go take an appointment and don’t let me see you again. He deadpans before looking over to Castiel.
This can’t be an act can’t it?
There is a silence of shuffling as the man slowly walks away, somewhat still looking over to them with hesitation. Taking in the paper that House gives him.
When the door finally closes behind him, Castiel doesn’t budge.
- I wasn’t lying. He says, clearing the air with his raspy voice. It makes House look up from the door to him. It’s interesting that he had the cue to wait for the man to leave, whether it would be a social cue or an act of kindness, it is still a conscient choice.
I don’t think someone as rational as you will believe what I am, what I say. I don’t have time to make you care, or make you believe something you’ve rationalized against for your entire adult life. I only need you to do your job. And from here, I only see mockery. Deeply rooted in envy. I can follow you, we can avoid the authorities as you see fit, but it is a losing game if I do not get to save Dean. Do you understand that Doctor? Your kind may be driving the cars, but my kind made the roads.
- House. He says, almost quietly, watching the man’s face like a piece of art that he can’t quite decipher.
His lips are parted and duly merciful. House hates his tone, even if he’s spitting some facts, it doesn’t make it any less bold and annoying. It is cold of him to say, when House can clack fingers and ask the cops to come back. To send him in the madhouse, or to just throw him out of the establishment.
But he’s not entirely sure Castiel thinks about that when he’s mentioning Dean. He is truly acting like some sort of Knight. And he believes it more so than any rules whatsoever.
-I believe Houses would not be relevant to my metaphor. He says taken out of it, the seriousness of it all disappears into thin air as his innocence strikes again.
-It’s my name. House. You’re not the sharpest one in the shed aren’t you? He says, throwing the file in a new bin.
- I was made to love humanity whole and it's flaws. I sometimes require to be sharp, that is what my blade is for. He answers without leaving the shadow of a silence after House’s comment.
- I must be lucky then. He says, regarding how in a few encounters, Castiel had managed to threaten himself, and him twice with the unsaid, or worse, leaving.
He was mostly talking to himself, in a mutter. Yet the man most likely heard him because he jumps on the opportunity to answer.
-Yes, you seem deeply flawed. I was told not to mention it. >> His stare is akward and his hands lay in the air, unwilling to move or show any sign of humanity more than this daft behavior.
House closed his eyes as he was reading the new file. How could he take any of this seriously?
He breathed out at the sentence, surprised by it’s unwanted honesty.
It’s one thing to have people say shit about you angry, sad or scared. He’d be lying if it wasn’t making this all the more interesting. Wilson could say a lot of shit about this one.
Thankfully, he’s not there. And for now House can indulge in this involuntary brutal honesty as far as he likes. He just wishes it granted him results instead of insults.
Notes:
I had to finish that one mid travelling, on my phone.
If it looks unpolished, that must be it.
How come this is 3k of words and I have less scenes than in the Wilson and Cops chapter that is barely 2,7k?
Rants, are a gold mine for words counts, but a misery to cut in and out. I'll bring in more action soon. It’s a thrill to play with an unreliable character.P.S Happy Halloween in advance people! Spooky Scary Skeleton times ahead!
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Chapter 6: -6-
Summary:
Castiel has not made any attempt to eat, drink, sleep or shit. And that was commitment to the role he was playing, House had to admit defeat. Catching each other’s eyesight, Castiel seems caught in a situation where he is not welcomed but does not seem to know why.
House gets unsatisfied of the results. Thank god for Wilson's patience, a lost man's best friend.
Notes:
''Is it such a crime for an angel to speak his mind? ;
How I miss the taste of heaven, its soft and cold embrace
If I were a big boy I wouldn't cry.
But since I'm not a big boy, I'll have to close my eyes and picture what it's like.
I'm just like you, made by He, despised by they.
I'm almost me, I'm nearly human look at me, I'm almost a human being.
Pity me, I'm almost a human being.''
Voltaire - Almost Human.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 6
Two vicodin pills and seven patients later, House is no closer to the truth.
All he’s had is two middle aged women complaining about different types of menopausal side effects, bringing in the smaller man to ponder about the lifespan of healthy ovaries.
He also had the grace and luck to fall onto one teenager in need of a sex talk, which ended up in a talk of birds and bees to one disgusted teenager and a fascinated Castiel.
And an overly enthusiastic woodworker with no insurance to fix his shoulder and that was only the ones worth mentioning.
Thankfully, by now Castiel had proven himself strong enough for him to not need anyone to come in and help him relocate the woodworker’s bone in his socket.
Castiel had been patient, chipping in when seen worthy. But the quietness became a bore rather quickly, who knew having a job could be so enlightening.
If he were to make a brief comment, he knew that the man had no problem talking about religion like it was his second duty. Making his first duty his comatose boyfriend three stages over their heads. He was not familiar with money, medications and a sense of time. He knew the way it worked but had limits to his slang talk. Even if he was head over heels for Ken, he had no idea what sex was meant for other than reprocreating, or at least he only knew by mention.
The more he dug, the less it all made sense.
House had to leave to take a piss, which meant Castiel followed close by.
<< How important is fluoride to you, House?
- I’ll answer you if you answer me first. He says with tact, waiting for a rebuttal.
- Ask away. Continues the raspy voice with a surprising tenderness.
- Do you consider yourself a prophet? Priest? He started, giving in to the curiosity.
Since we met all I can hear about is religious or Winchester related. Ever interested in switching religions? I bet they have trench coats on the dark side.
-I am not materialistic enough to switch morals for- Ah.
He seems to catch the underlying mockery a little late this time.
Well no, I’m an angel.
-Clearly. He deapans, unsure at the answer, his eyes darting to the man’s clothes and appearance with a look of disdain. If that’s how they dress in heaven, then we’re in for a shit bucket.
-I can affirm heaven has plumbing, functioning toilets. Confirms Castiel with a duty to inform even if he seems rather aware it is derogatory. He is following him to the hall with a very dramatic flair, House tries to ignore the stares he gets from the people waiting in chairs.
Not all myths are true. We often interrogate other species for better judgment.
-And they’re also dead or do you wipe their minds out and put them back into wide wheat fields?
He said, as he stopped in the middle of his sentence to watch the man’s face. Unsure of where it all seems to go, he follows the subject with a dirty suspicion he’s being bullshitted on a life scale. Why does he always find interest in the basket cases?
-I am not aware of the protocol for humans, but If I ever do, I will answer you. Now, my turn.
Starting this game of twenty questions was starting to develop into hundreds and he was getting nowhere. Thankfully, the bathroom was within sight. Perhaps there he would catch a break.
-Eh, like anything else, it brings people here. The fact they put it into the water just makes my job much more entertaining. He adds before turning and starting to walk again.
Castiel’s shuffling is his only confirmation he’s been followed. Without continuing the conversation or looking back, he pushes the door to enter.
He makes his way to the urinals, putting his cane on the separators in between them.
He undo his pants with a casual manner, the second he catches sight of his underwear he hears a shuffling to his side.
- Do you mind? He says rather harshly, the words are dense and quite directed towards Castiel as he turns his head to look at him.
Out of nowhere, Castiel looks up to him.
It makes House self aware of the day they’ve had. The man has not made any attempt to eat, drink, sleep or shit. And that was commitment to the role he was playing, he had to admit defeat. The man truly believes he’s an angel, he only hopes it’s the good kind.
Even though he’s willing to let that one slide, he can feel the thick stare on him.
Catching each other’s eye sight, Castiel seems caught in a situation where he is not welcomed but does not seem to know why. And there’s a lack of energy in House’s mood that clearly doesn’t want to bother explaining the reason why.
As the seconds go by and House’s stare becomes more serious, Castiel does not make a move towards anything. Unaware of what could make everything okay again. The man has barely moved an inch since he’s been singled out as being too damn close.
- I do not. He adds shyly, rather unaware of what he should mind.
It is the straw that breaks the tired camel's back.
- Can you just- He fights the need to prove to Castiel he can take a piss as he’s watching him.
As he would to Watson just to bother him, but he’s pretty sure Castiel won’t be as bothered as Wilson gets. And that takes all of the fun out of it, instead he feels pretty much cornered.
Defenseless. He hates it to his core.
It is an uncomfortable place to be, considering his cane is not an option.
Knowing Castiel could lift him up entirely last time, he has no envy to try that again, and not whilst his dick is in the picture.
Instead he sighs.
I need a goddamn break. Go fetch me anywhere else in the building for all I care. I’m busy.
-Oh . He breathes out. >>
It is the only fucking thing he does before leaving.
And House has to swear to himself out loud to not feel guilty. Because the stare the man had was guilt tripping. He genuinely managed to hurt the man’s feelings. And that for wanting to take a piss alone, how unreal was all of this?
Nevertheless he ends up doing so, and when he comes out. Castiel is nowhere to be seen.
Fine.
Instead of searching for him, something he would consider weak and stupid. He’s a busy man, he has more to do than search for a crazy case walking around in a hospital with hurted feelings.
Whilst he is busy, he decides to walk to Wilson’s desk, as it is rather close to oncology.
He knocks once, making himself heard. But to no avail, there are no answers.
<< Wilson, open up. I can hear you caring, hell, worrying. It’s so loud I can’t hear myself think.
It takes a few seconds before the doors open up.
- I suspect you may be projecting.
- Only you would know . He says as he pushes the door to come in. Making himself home by sitting in Wilson’s chair.
Wilson seems tired, the hours are still awfully vague. If they asked, House is not sure he’d know when they are. Thankfully the clock on the wall is a painful reminder he should be in bed right now. He has no idea why James hurts himself with a clock straight ahead from the sight of his desk, the modern ways of tortures. Living the Hustle does not mean you have to get reminded of it each time you look up. That was for free.
- Yet that has never made you listen before. What can I do for you, House? I’m busy. He says, sounding rather dull and irritated. The modest fatigue of doing paperwork seems to affect every inch of his face.
- I thought you’d be done with the secret assignment. It’s the part of the show where my grateful sidekick informs me of the plot twist. Why are you trying to take down modern storytelling?
Wilson gives up about getting his seat back and sits in his own guest's seat. He puts his hands and arms on the seat like the good boy he is. Nodding at him disapprovingly, as one would expect.
- Script makers aren’t always accurate. Have you ever heard any doctors in them? Obvious babbling nonsense. As a matter of fact, this sidekick has to work. And-And..As far as you know, It’s obvious why you think of yourself as the hero of the story. They’re in the middle of the action, everything in the palms of their hands. One wrong choice and they’re one second away from mistakes. They have to make rushed decisions in a nick of time. Does any of that sound familiar to you?
- Can we skip the part where you make me admit I’m a brat with thrill seeking tendencies? He is rather irritated, searching for anything to make sense. Getting Castiel stuck in the room for the last few hours with him has done nothing but confuse him further.
Wilson stops mid beat, blinking at the mention.
- I think that counts as an admission.
- Bite me. He deadpans as he puts his feets on the desk.
- Are you only there for something you could research yourself or you’re here to get feedback, because I got work and an empty apartment I look forward to visiting. Sighs Wilson before looking back to House’s face.
- You could visit mine.Then mine wouldn’t be empty either. He says rather unapologetic, but instead of leaving what he thinks is a rejection driven silence he continues.
I need input. My case has gone stale and I’m looking for answers.
- You could always ask the family. I know you’re allergic but-
- Can’t. Next, I’m sure there’s something worth saving in there. He says as he casually gestures to the man’s head.
- Well, you always send the team to the crime scene, I don’t recommend it, but it did save some lives. No matter how unethical that was. He mumbles in between thoughts.
- Unless Cuddy decides to pay me hourly to visit Kansas, I don’t think that’s an option. And the minions are busy bees.
Wilsons blinks again, this time his mind seems dusty and dazed, but slightly amused with a glint of white in the reflection of his hazelnut eyes.
- Is your client Dorothy? He mocks, a smile widens on his face.
House snort at the repartee. Unwilling to make amends.
Lucky for you, I looked it up when I came back from your dubious trip earlier. Cassiel is an angel of tears and temperance. He’s usually mentioned over the deaths of many kings. Something about him being one of many, god’s childrens. Jewish literature was getting me nowhere substantial.
- Assuming that any of this is. Sighs the grey-haired one.
- Whats your issue, House? I can’t help if you don’t talk.
- That’s exactly my issue with him. How peculiar. He adds too quickly and analytical.
- Him? He says as his eyes perk up.
Last I heard,I thought your case was a woman with decreasing lung capacities?
-It was. Until it wasn’t. He said as he heard the vibrating of a pager. He looks down to his own who seems perfectly fine.
He looks back to Wilson’s who seems to be having the thrill of his life.
Duty calls. He adds with pinched lips, unsatisfied by how empty it all feels.
-Maybe if you click your heels three times you can conjure up the solution. Who knows. Mocks Wilson as he gets up, taking his coat and badge with him. >>
House pondered staying in here, knowing Castiel couldn’t bother him here.
But then he figured maybe Wilson had more interesting things to do for him to watch than staying stuck looking at that rather dull and clearly sadistic clock.
What he didn’t expect is for Castiel to be there. In oncology of all places, what was he even doing there?
When he did catch up to James, he found the doctor on his knees, on the other side of a body on the floor. Castiel was also kneeling at the body’s side unfazed.
James was clearly doing a good job of taking care of the little kid on the floor. So House knocked his cane on the side of the wall as he was still in the doorway. The sound seemed to alert at least one nurse who looked at him confused.
<< Hey you! Come here, we need a cart stat. House said rather loudly to her, taking advantage of the attention he had caused.
- What did you do? Asks the faint voice of Wilson as he continues his check up. Looking up to Castiel who did not seem bothered. The man has a blank slate of a face, House is getting worried about having him be around any children whatsoever.
- I cured cancer. He simply stated, rather seriously as he stood up. Unaware how unlikely that was. Wilson stuttered at the realization.
- For christ's sake Castiel, I was not being literal! Perks up House with an insulted flair. He had no idea what the man had done to the kid but the lack of blood pumping back in his veins was pretty fucking clear.
-Castiel?! Starts Wilson as he looks up to Castiel and then House. His eyes seemed to light up at the association. >>
Notes:
Had to catch up to life stuff, but I'm still here kicking. Ended up doing this in one session as well, lets see how much it holds up. Will the proverbial duck tape hold?
This one is shorter but I'll try make a good balance somehow.
See you around people! :D
Chapter 7: -7-
Summary:
Wilson tries to breathe some goddamn sense into him. Castiel's whatever Castiel is.
House is not so sure anymore of how far the tricks are willing to go, and he doesn't appreciate being left there to figure it all out.
Not when Castiel clearly owns the keys to his questions, yet is not making any connections.Perhaps Castiel's lies are what keeps him alive, but for now House has no idea what keeps Dean alive. And the lack of time is starting to dread on them all.
House is pretty damn sure that out of anyone, he's glad the only one who gets out of it happy happens to be Wilson.
Because right now nothing makes sense yet, and he's not quite sure it ever will make any.
Notes:
''I'm a little put off today and I could not tell you why
Got a really short fuse today, everyone around me's fucking crazySee, I'm a little bit off today, I cannot put my finger on it
Got up a little off today, just to play that same old song
I don't really wanna try today, I see nothing in my reflectionI got a little too high today, got lost inside a sea of madness
Crashed a little bit hard today, crashed a little too hard today
Didn't need a reason why today, I don't need a reason why todayI'm a little bit off today
Something down inside me feels so different
Just a little bit off today
You can all fuck off today. ''-A Little Bit Off
Five Finger Death PunchI loved to blast this song as I was writing, music makes everything better.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 7
The mystical hum of a radiography machine was quite thrilling. He’d hate to have to say it outloud, but this was entertaining. Knowing the kid was still alive and had just fainted had made everyone less unnerved. At least, to everyone but Wilson, who was currently sitting at the desk of the computer. He was currently watching each scan with a heavy stare, unbudging.
Not only was it a child that Castiel chose, it was one of Wilson’s last stage cancer kids. Making this somewhat sensible, so no doubt he was caring deeply. House was feeling for the guy, but he couldn’t get Castiel's particular brand of carelessness out of his head.
If he was willing to go ahead and ‘’cure’’ people, that meant he knew he couldn’t heal his boyfriend. And that was a root of one of their problems, he was willing to pretend for anyone else than the only man he cared for. That was his kryptonite. House had to bet most of his cards on this. He had to think that Castiel knew what the shit he was doing, but was willing to ignore the consequences for whatever reason. What did he have to win in lying about this?
If it was the deep roots of a cult, that he was made the prodigal son, wouldn’t he have figured it out by now that it’s a deeply flawed system? Was he unaware of the plot holes in his life since the beginning? He had to be, there was no way he walked into life acting like he was god.
But lying to keep the system alive, making him feel important and special, that was something House could understand. The man would rather live his life in the way of god than live his own. One of many fallen soldiers following orders without questioning them, House had his fair share of them back in the day. He wants to pop that bubble, get to the real grit of this man. But he can’t, not now when the actual proof the man is a liar is loading right in front of them.
<< What were you thinking, House? Is that why you were in the patrol car? To get his real name ? Starts Wilson with quite the frown.
- Not quite. He’s just one part of a puzzle, I don’t-
- A puzzle? That’s what this is about? Because I’m pretty sure this man should be in another wing of this hospital and you know it.
Wilson strikes again, not letting him get to the end of this.
- That was the plan, until I saw the patient. House admits, unsure of what Wilson will blame him for first, but willing to figure out.
- He’s fine! The oncologist says rather loudly as his voice gets high pitched, making House look at him with a stronger interest.
James waved at the door, knowing Castiel was waiting in a chair outside. House had enjoyed seeing him being scolded by his best friend, but the more the seconds went the more he felt like it might be his turn. How the tables turn.
He’s walking and clearly thinking he’s something celestial, they’ll know what to do with him. Because you clearly don’t.
-Actually, he’s the family. The patient is in the ICU. He’s the only source I have for John Doe in there. It’s all tangled. I can’t quite find what side the corners are yet. He said with a sigh, taking one step closer to Wilson’s chair. Tiredness was weary of him.
The silence is thick as Wilson turns his chair towards him, looking for any regrets in his face perhaps. House has little to none to give, he’s just eager to figure out how it all connects.
Rattling out ideas endlessly, following any sight of patterns, coming to any logical conclusions whatsoever. That was his line, but he’s not some kind of babysitter for god’s little helpers. He could find out what’s the truth, he really could do that. But he needs time, he needs answers. The more he looks at Wilson, the more he hopes the man will know him enough, knowing that House can’t let it go just yet. That he’s unable to, even if he had at least once wanted to.
- Well you better keep him close before Cuddy finds out or I’ll be bringing him in myself. Said the warm voice, as he looked away, trying to distance himself from House and his bad decisions.
House feels the tightness in his chest sag at the answer, clearly winning some time. He could bargain with that, that made everything feel slightly easier. Having Wilson on his side was always half the battle on those. But he could settle on having him around even if disapproving. He’s sure he could use the help, brainstorming together and throwing cooked noodles to see what sticks to the ceiling.
- It’s quite interesting actually. He’s convinced that he healed your kid. That basically could be a psychosis. Minus the hallucinations. He says, showing his gratitude by changing topics.
- His speech was fine. Tell me about John Doe. What makes him any different? Tactfully answers Dr. Wilson.
- No internal injuries, Blood count’s right, brain scan is A-OK. Few bones splintered or broken but nothing too severe. Brain activity is in mint condition. He rats out rather quickly, enjoying the refreshing recap.
- That’s not news. He retorts, his voice gets lower at the remark.
-That’s the catch. House pipes back as he’s hovering a finger in the air. The excitement of being able to talk about this to a half into it Wilson is quite entertaining.
He’s not awake yet, he has given no sign of being awake since we admitted him. It's been a week since they stopped any meds. They aren’t keeping him under willingly. Soon they’ll have to clean him, he’s just like any other comatose case, but this one has no prognosis. They can’t clear him out. Nobody can claim him, Castiel seems to have no papers. Doe reminds me of those resignation cases, at the conventions in DC. Those with no brain swelling.
Somehow it could be all in his head, but what would have been the trigger? One model from Kansas with a shiny knife has nothing in common with Indians tweens in socially inadequate pandemics.
-Maybe he was out of jail, and the shock of life after so long was just too much. Your John Doe, did you dig up anything in the files? Throws Wilson still confused at the comparaison.
- It’s locked. I need a better source or for him to wake up. I’m starting to think about administering some epinephrine. He casually drops as he gives in the thought.
- Are you nuts?! You can’t inject adrenaline into a comatose case and hope for it to work! That’s not how medicine works!
- Have any better ideas that don't involve breaking state laws to get his medical file from Kansas? Because I’m starting to run dry on those. I may start wreaking havoc on Cuddy’s index roller. Maybe she knows someone who knows someone. Calling in a favor or two. All I have is a name.
House shrugs his shoulders, willing to emphasize his carelessness, maybe Wilson would get creative at his hopelessness.
Wilson facepalms slowly as he tries to regain some kind of strength. The reaction is typical, he looks at the other room where the kid is staying still in the CAT scan. House has no idea how Wilson does it, taking care of dying kids has no mystery. They are dying and there was little to nothing stopping it. He was no optimist, but even he knew no one can keep a soul intact telling bad news everyday and managing dying patients every week. Typical of an oncologist, they barely ever run out of hope. They must be the hope.
It’s basically gambling with money that isn’t theirs. Can’t make people believe cancer can be fought if you don’t have a shiny mascot telling you your next options for self-destruction.
And yet, here they were, in hopes of destroying the odds.
- You have the face again. He says, softly this time.
The face, it’s the way the man holds himself, tightly shut. Two screws away from bolting in the different direction, two seconds away from groaning in a parent’s disappointment. He’s pretty sure it takes some strength for Wilson to keep it in, considering the man deeply cares about his patients, remembering the kid’s toys names, parents, brothers and sisters.
He’s not stupid, he can tell Wilson is holding it in. But he doesn’t know why, was it something he said? Is he truly getting used to it or is he just having a good day. There’s no such thing in their lives. Is he getting laid? Why is he so understanding, that was barely a slap on his wrist. He expected the worst, not that he’s complaining.
- What face? Perks up Wilson as he looks up from his hand, arched brows and opened mouth, agape.
- The one that’s still surprised at what shit I pull. We both know better by now. He says, wanting to taunt the opportunity he was given.
- So what, if you become reckless the second you get curious, then I can be surprised. Just take the damn win for once. He says, looking at him directly with pursed lips,
- You know what, I think I peg you as the Scarecrow. If John Doe is Dorothy, that is. He says as he shifts his weight from his leg to the cane. Thoughtful and unsure about how easy this all feels. You want to be smart, sharp, but you care too much to make the hard choice.
-Hah. The small laugh that follows is crooked and nervous. You’re too arrogant to be the lion. You’re definitely Tin man. You take so many risks just to pretend that you don’t care. Barks out Wilson with little to no shame, almost enjoying himself of the comparison he managed to make.
- Huh . Cuddy would make a Wicked witch of the East. He says, but a hint of a smile gets out unwillingly. Maybe I should buy her red shoes for Christmas. What do you think?
- Typical . He huffs back at him. But he can tell that the man’s picturing it now. Good, he reminds himself, they’re fine.
You know. Faith’s something. If Castiel would have been an angel, would it change anything?
-People would still break rules, rebel. I’m pretty sure not much would change. Adds House casually as he looks back to the kid who seems bored out of her mind.
-Then why is it so hard to think it would be true? If nothing would change. Wilson’s eyes are still towards House, almost making a dent in his chin by how much he’s been staring for the few minutes that had passed.
- If people like him are angels, then we’re definitely screwed. The man is in love with a criminal, has no sense of direction and basically follows me like gum on a shoe. He would be so easy to manipulate. He’s just traumatized. Most things have answers, we just don’t like to hear them. To know what’s behind the magic trick. He says as he brings his hip against the desk. Managing to ease off the tension in his lower back.
- That’s part of the wonder isn’t it? Knowing what’s behind the trick makes you clever, sharp, but then the trick isn’t as special anymore. And you search for another trick, instead of staying in the everlasting wonder of the first one. Never having enough. I rather be dull and amazed than too smart that I can’t enjoy anything anymore.That’s your problem, and- Starts Wilson, with a self contained calmness, analyzing and at wonder at his own theory.
Seems like someone is still sore at the comparison to the Scarecrow.
- Not that I want to destroy your perfect metaphorical ideology for addictions, but we have a problem. He says as his eyes darted to the finished scan.
Wilson looks back to it, ignoring the previous subject, captivated by the sight.
- That’s..Something. But that is everything but a problem. That’s fantastic news for her parents.
- Maybe you got the wrong kid, I wouldn’t blame you. Starts House with a sour face, open wide eyes and an intense stare at the scan. Almost waiting for it to start dancing and telling him his secrets.
His voice blabber but his brain is glitched out. He has no idea what’s the trick, what’s the pass. You can’t pickpocket a brain tumor. It can’t be faked. Can it? The jokes and deflection come in rather quickly.
They all look the same without hair and eyebrows. You know. Kids. He waves a hand with a slight shrug.
Wilson looks back to House and snorts stupidly at the repartee, he pushes him towards the side as he gets closer to the mic.
- Jaimie? Would you be a dear and remind me of your mother’s name? He says, still unsure himself.
- Mom? Oh , Melissa, can I go back now? I miss her. She says, softly as her voice wavers in the silence.
Wilson stops pressing on the button with a pregnant pause. He looks at House dumbfounded, maybe he was hoping for a clinical and reasonable answer for it too. But instead the silence reigns and House can’t get over the suspense of knowing.
- It’s her . He is as confused as him. They both look back to the small frame of the girl slowly going back on her feet.
The tumor is gone .>>
Dazed and confused, it's without avail that when they go out, he loses Wilson to him wanting to spread the news to the parents. He’s watching him leave with the little girl’s frail hand in his.
Well there goes the brainstorm session.
He looks over to the side as he sees that Castiel is still in his seat, awkwardly shuffling and watching a man on his flip phone. House makes his way to him, but catches a familiar sight at the end of the corridor.
<<What did you do, what's the trick?
He says rather quickly, rushed. Almost irritated that Castiel has one step ahead of him. He has to know, he can’t..He can’t figure out yet and it makes him mad. The sleep he’s lacking isn’t helping his mood either.
Castiel looks at him, from his seat, he’s not as vulnerable as he seems. His stare is interested but somewhat blank. House wants to shake him off, take him and break down the fact he looks so composed.
The footsteps of Foreman keep growing closer, Castiel does not make any sign that he’s about to say anything.
Until he does.
-You’ll never believe me. He says, rather softly but rather cold. I am wasting my time. He states, monotone but enlightened. His lips are more up than usual, his nose slowly scrunches at the middle. House can feel the blood in his body rush at the stare that seems…
He has no idea what it seems to be, but it is nothing good.
You’re no better than them. But you have all the excuses, you’re human. >>
Castiel stands up slowly, House stare turns to Foreman who walks around the nurse who trespassed him.
<< Wait. I- He’s starting, but only Castiel’s shoulder brushes him hardly as he walks away.
Foreman finally arrives to catch him looking at the trenchcoat way too far to catch up to.
He looks back to him, feeling the tension reeling back into him. Dissatisfied, he looks back at the surgeon with disgust.
-Why do you own a pager if you’ll never answer it, huh House? Starts the young man, rather insulted at the fact he had to find him.
House can’t help but feel like this is ridiculous. All of it.
-That’s not your job to figure out. What do you want?
- Well, if you cared, you’d know that Mary started showing some red and blue spots under her skin caused by low oxygen in her blood. And we treated her for Hypoxemia, but it just confirms my theory.
-Well what do you need me for then? He says as the words feels rash and already feels stupid as he’s saying them. You’re a goddamn surgeon, treat it and get her cleared. That’s not rocket science!
-You think I care what you think, House? I need your clearance, I’ll treat her Emphysema just fine with or without it. This is a horse not a Zebra, her lungs are the key to an Obstructive pulmonary disease. The fact she got some infections as a kid clearly fits. And if you wait longer you’ll just kill her.
-That’s not how it works, you can make me the bad guy keeping her away from meds, fine. But you’re damn well aware her lung collapsed and she wasn’t positive for the AAT deficiency, which I don’t need to remind you, is a genetic disorder. She isn’t a smoker or lives with any, which is a goddamn miracle in this society and she works 9 to 5 at a desk which rules out any fumes. You can treat her for it, but don’t tell me I failed when it comes back negative, you big doofus.
-That doesn’t mean.. This is a horse, if you weren’t such an ass you would have seen it. Sighs Foreman as he looks at House’s eyes one after the other, he’s getting so close that he can feel his breath against his jaw.
-Huh! Well if you weren't up my ass so much, then you would have treated her already and gotten her cleared. Show and tell ! That’s your job, go be the jockey, and leave me to my goddamn senses. You want to be the boss so badly, then make hard decisions, Foreman. Can’t play both teams and then complain nothing’s getting done! >>
He says as he’s throwing his arms up, before walking away. He already knows Foreman has done nothing wrong, but being there at the wrong time, and place. Yet he can’t back up now, he just can’t. He has to go, he has to know. Why did Wilson have to leave so soon? Why did Castiel have to do the exact same?
He’s leaving Foreman to watch him go, grateful the man decided not to follow him.
When he comes to Dean’s room hoping to talk, Castiel is gone.
Notes:
You know, when I start these chapters, I never actually entirely know how it'll go. I know an idea or two I want to develop, an idea that I created and had a light bulb moment the day before. And it's all so fluid, because sitting in my desk and doing it is oiling the gears. Wait a few days too long and I lose or forget the idea, the flame, but then sitting back and rereading it all with a brainstorming mindset always help make it warm again.
It's a good exercise for anyone wanting to pick writing back up again.
The improvising side of it all is very entertaining. All I know is I got characters and their personnality tells me who's gonna do what after I did the first sentence. All there is to do, is to start.
Hopefully this break the 20k seal of this fanfiction, let's pop the champagne! :D
Thank you for the feedback and support, it helps fuels the fire! <3
Chapter 8: -8-
Summary:
House centric chapter.
What's loosing yourself when you stopped searching a long time ago?
Cameron has more power than she thinks. Even more so when House can barely stand up straight.
Notes:
My fault
That I'm this way
I'm in over my headBegging for someone to blame
Uncaged, left with the same debt to pay
A slave to the paranoia
That serves to take awayTear me limb from limb
This panic sets in
My anxiety wins
Just to forget I can only give in
Please tell me again
I'm not worth a thingGive me a way out of this
Emptiness inside my head
I said I'd fix myself
But I can't seem to get a gripThis suffering, is it all for nothing
I can't face what I'm becoming
This is the real me
Falling apart in misery
-Paranoid by Siven
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 8
There’s nothing, in the halls, in the bathrooms, at the vending machines.
Only the void echo of the neons haunting the halls, the faceless doctors willing to prevent death by giving in their sanity and health.
All the walking he’s done today lingers as he hurts, his sciatic nerve is showing up unwanted and he’s really not into it. It’s pain rings into the core of his leg, making each step sting in shame. As if he hadn’t had enough already.
It’s loud. The buzzing of the pain goes through his calf, making it tense up and lose its strength.
He ignores how sometimes his knees grow weaker at the dull thud of his weight.
He really doesn’t want to go back to his office, he can’t go away because he still has three hours to kill. So instead he goes back to Dean’s hospital room.
He waits. But Castiel never shows up. Wilson’s the optimist one, but House knows better than to expect him back today, tomorrow or ever.
The only thing he has for leverage is the unmoving body in front of him.
Castiel will only come back for this, and House can’t miss it. So he sits.
He counts Dean’s heartbeats himself as he time his watch, he listens to the dull breathing, regular for the most part. Trying to kill time before he can take pills again.
The purr of the machines is his only melody.
The snow starts to fall slowly into the night, he’s not sure if he can go.
An hour goes by, and he gets a text saying the patient is stable.
Everything is like usual, but nothing feels satisfying.
The thoughts are annoying as usual. Nagging and chasing fog, never ending and hitting dead ends.
The vicodin must be in, his leg feels empty. He hasn’t dared to walk on it again. In the slight pourcentage his tolerance is showing up. Or maybe because he doesn’t walk away just yet.
It is with perfect timing that a familiar face shows up in the entryway.
<< Foreman went ahead with the treatment. It worked, for now. She drops casually, her voice as soft as silk.
Her eyes wide open, bittersweet, and for what it’s worth..House doesn’t know if his own face betrays him. But she takes a few steps in, quietly in the dimmed room.
Can I do anything? She says as she gets closer. He can see her worry in the way her brow bends, the arch of the trim makes it look so obvious.
Her lips are thinly pressed against each other, the more he looks at her he feels disappointed in himself. Her dark hair is moving slowly as she’s sitting on the guest chair at his side.
He didn’t move yet, but Dean’s leather jacket still digs in his hip.
- I know for a fact you own a phone and know how to use it. He starts, his voice is dry and weary. You can’t help, and even if you could .. Perhaps you shouldn’t. He says, dully watching her as she puts a hand on the arm of the chair.
- I can help. If you let me, House. She adds rather casually, House wishes there was any venom in her words, like the way Foreman had answered him earlier. But there wasn’t any, he couldn't make this about his pain again. He can’t direct it back at her, even if he wanted to, he’s too tired to even try.
- I don’t need your help . He says, rolling the words in his mouth. His throat tightened at the end of the sentence. He gives up a shy look towards her before looking back at the hall. Hoping for anything to use, a joke, but nothing comes up yet. It’s just silence, their breathing and his own doubts. He’s left wondering when the inspiration or banter will catch up.
Wilson’s gone home, House can tell because the night lights are fully on. And the nurses switched shifts, he’s gone home after a good day. His day is over, he goes back home like nothing happened. House couldn’t forget how he looked when he saw the scan. The trick, he needs to know, but hell, Wilson can go home. He can’t.
All he can do is lose himself in the silence, questioning what he saw. And what he didn’t.
Wilson is at home, House only wants a home. But there wasn’t anything left to pity. Not when a beautiful woman was looking at him, pretending to care. Her shiny eyes and her silky smooth skin, her youth and innocence. Even broken, she’ll go home.
- Try again . She says, looking back at him. Her eyes shimmer as only one side of her face is lit. Cameron’s features are something he won't forget soon. She’s still so in need to fix whatever she thinks is happening, he can tell because anyone else would have walked out when he said no. But she thinks she knows. Yet she can’t be further from the truth.
And he doesn’t have the words to say it again. So instead he takes something out of his vest’s pocket. It’s still mushy to the touch and ferm on the outside. He gives it up.
Just like Castiel gave him up. The secret case is gone, and he’s at a dead end. There’s so much more to ask. He can’t let go of it all, but he can let go of the pouch.
He brings his palm open, she takes it carefully, with her dainty hands. They were thin and her nails trimmed, her skin looked rather pale and her thumb was feeling the bumpy ridges of the leather.
- What is it for? She can’t help but ask. Just like he once did.
It takes a few seconds for House to choose what he was willing to tell her. Maybe she can be useful after all. She wants to help, she wants to fix what can’t be changed. But this is something that can help the patients, and he doesn’t have much left to try. It’ll help one patient. Whether he deserves it or not.
- I need to know what’s in it. If there’s anything I can use. All I could smell was ginger. He adds, looking at the unconventional object taking half the size of her palm. It’s still rather odd, to look at it. He almost forgot it was still there, with everything else going on.
- I shouldn’t ask where you got it, right? She says with a huff. The joke hits, but House keeps his stare on her, longer to see behind the genuine smile.
- I knew there was something in that head, you know behind that heavy heart and all. He snorts, half biting off the need to say anything more and ruin it. The light tease is nothing but an olive branch to do like nothing happened, for her to just take it and run. He’d like to think he gave her enough chances to leave by now. The less you know, the less they will. If we’re lucky, it’ll have DNA.
- We don’t all hide behind our brains instead. Yet, you keep proving to me there's something behind yours. She says as she stands up. Her smile is thin and polite, but her eyes were warm.
But instead of running with it, she just stares at him. He scratches his own forehead and swallows.
- Good, Big imagination. Don’t tell your classmates you were here or they’ll think you're the teacher's pet. He pipes in, rather unsure. The compliments bail and goes straight to his conscience. He doesn’t know how much of Cameron’s words he can take before going home.
She could get him home. She has tried before, but this time, he doesn’t think he will stop her. He knows he can enjoy the distraction, use it. But maybe that’s the exact reason he’s glad she doesn’t.
- Copy that. She adds awkwardly, her voice wavers as she turns. Her coat follows the end of her heels. >>
House watches her leave, feeling like home is the last place he’d want to haunt.
He slowly lifts himself up after a few minutes, the jacket is falling on the floor in the motion.
He slowly bends to get it and it reveals a wallet, followed by keys. It’s the stray of the litter, with the fact the leather of it seems molded around the rectangles in it. The color is fading out and chipping at the sides. The keys are worn and there isn’t much to say to what they might open.
A bunch of mysteries, answers perhaps.
He frowns as he has to bend further to acquire it, but when he opens it to figure out if it’s what he thinks this is.
His knees don't fail him, not today.
Not yet.
Dean Winchester is older than he looks. Castiel didn’t lie about Kansas.
Maybe everything he said about Dean was right, but it didn’t mean lying about himself was still relevant or not cowardice.
It didn’t mean he had every right to leave the one he loved. Just because House couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. He’d be lying if he didn’t enjoy the idea of a criminal with an angel, walking on earth, hunting the worst of evil. Yet he knows it’s fairy tales, but for Castiel it’s true. He has to dig into that, to understand it. He has to take it, and not just judge it.
He’s more than aware that if Castiel would have found anyone else, any doctor or surgeon in the whole hospital, they would have let him get arrested. They would have thought it was for the good of all, they would have given up on Dean and left him in the dusty part of the ICU until his contract with the city runs out and they have to unplug him with lack of proof or anyone to take responsibility for him.
He wouldn’t have a chance.
House feels his brain getting pulled by its side as he realizes that there’s some areas he had overlooked because of the lack of information, because of how judgy he had been. Even if Castiel hadn’t reacted at it, until he did. It didn’t mean it got itself anywhere. But he doesn’t need Castiel for them, he can figure it out on its own. Can’t he?
But then a fact hits him, if he has the keys. It means Castiel came here to give them back to Dean. It means that he’s maybe not intending to come back. He clearly said the man loved the car more than anything. Did Castiel leave on foot, or did he take a taxi?
It also means the car is in the parking lot somewhere. And from the sight of it, he has access to it.
He keeps them close, looking back to Dean.
The man has barely moved an inch since they last came here to change his IV.
He slides the glass door and unclip the blinds, letting them fall to the floor.
House takes off his pager, putting it on the nightstand.
He pushes his cane on the side of it, too. Letting it rest against the wood.
He looks at Dean in the bed closer to the window, and he walks up to the second bed closer to the hall. He sits on it, hating how familiar it is under his weight.
The bed feels numb.
Or maybe he is.
Nevertheless, if Castiel comes back, he’ll have to hear him out.
And if they ever need the bed, he’ll get woken up either way.
It’s not like he’ll sleep for ages, he knows he’ll wake up from the pain when the pills run out all over again.
When he slowly puts himself on his back, he looks at the roof.
His mind buzzes with possibilities, it rings with doubts.
He has to fight the memories of what it felt like, to wake up here as a patient himself. In one of those many beds, having his life put in someone else’s hands.
To feel the cold embrace of bandages on his body, of how the medical tapes caught in his leg hairs. Of the sad state of Stacy looking back at him, to then be disappointed and leave.
Her stare as he felt anger rise in the end of his throat, in the walls of his stomach.
The only thing keeping him in the moment is the sound of nurses gossiping, it’s the sound of their footsteps and the orchestra of the many machines of all the rooms.
He swears he can almost hear the electricity running at his side, by the outlet.
It feels like his bones are coated in iron and he can't sleep properly. Any position takes his breath away. His body may reign in his investigation, but his mind is still watching Castiel’s composed stare of disappointment. He has to make it right again, he has to find the answer, whether or not Castiel would ever get to get it was his own problem, but House was sure he needed to find out what’s wrong with the case.
He might never get to fix what’s wrong with himself, but maybe he could give Castiel and Dean a chance.
It was his job, wasn’t it?
Notes:
It's very self indulgent of a chapter, it's kind of a tangled mess. Which granted i'm fully aware of. But perhaps I like some parts of it enough not to rewrite it again. In this chapter, I wanted to have other interactions in. But by how gloomy and how long it was getting, I figured i'd send it all as one chapter.
So prepare for a happier (hopefully) follow up, as this is just part one.
Cheers people, it'll get worse before it gets better.
I couldn't change the song i had on, it was my muse for today.
Chapter 9: -9-
Summary:
Houses gets to see what the new keys he has leads up to.
Wilson ends up collaborating to a crime he has no idea exists.
Another day in Gregory House's life, what's more to say?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 9
Waking up sore was to be expected. The way his back rang as he shimmered back onto his feets, made him groan loudly. An unaffected Winchester remained as graceful as a corpse, laying there in the next bed.
Nothing new there, he isn’t surprised. Rarely does any problem fix itself overnight.
And yet Castiel hadn’t come back. Another thing he knew not to wish for, he wouldn’t be disappointed if he isn’t expecting anything. That issue resolved itself with some inside tuning. Nothing is more enlightening than crossing paths with a half awake nurse with two coffees in her hands, even less when one of them crosses his path far too close than he’d like.
The threat of corporate coffee onto his body has managed to startle him awake.
Yet his body still felt high strung.
Nothing like a little walk towards the cafeteria around five o’clock in the morning couldn’t warm up.
As anticipated, he ended up opening the wallet as he was eating.
Curiosity grew in size as his hunger diminished. The wallet felt rather heavy in his pocket, and he couldn’t avoid it longer.
Going through the identification cards that Dean owned, the random cards in it from various stores. There was nothing truly out of the ordinary, some dinner’s cards with phone numbers behind them. Most of them were females, as he figured out rather quickly, calling them one by one.
Something he had guessed from the sight of them alone, but a lead was a lead. He couldn’t deny that it had been funny to pretend. The pranks never truly got old, didn’t they?
Nothing rang up as suspicious, not yet. But he still had a car to go through, and he dearly hoped it had anything to give him. Because that wallet had a weak streak, and even though Dean wouldn’t miss his puny twenty bucks laying in his wallet. The man surely wouldn’t even think about it when he woke up, hopefully. It’s not like Castiel had paid him anything either, he could justify all he wants but that was an investment.
When the sun hit him, the cold did as well, it was rash and getting through his vest. The wind was glacial, but he couldn’t back down. The cold started to attack his nose and fingers, and as if they had teamed up, the sun was wildly attacking his senses.
As he was walking through the parking lot, he noticed something the hour confirmed, Wilson was not back to work just yet. His spot was empty, leaving House to wonder if he had slept well.
Which was not surprising by how early it still was. Half the staff’s parking spot was empty.
As he tried to find the car, without anything to make it beep, he looked at the keys. The octagonal shape and lack of chunky black parts meant the model was either older, or the key had been duplicated a long time ago. Stolen perhaps?
The GM logo was interesting enough, not that House has enough to go on.
There were two hints, well no, three, as to how he found the car.
Once, Castiel had made him aware he had not driven any cars before. So the parking would end up being either uneven, or it would be in a zone easy to park in.
For the second hint, it couldn’t be a newer car, considering the key’s appearance. So half the capacity of the main parking lot would be overlooked. Also the brand was not entirely hard to catch to the eye, because Chevrolet’s old cars were often very distinctive by their shape.
And for the last one, well, he hadn’t guessed it before he saw it.
The first thing that he had noticed about the car, was all the tickets it had under the windscreen wiper. He didn’t need long before noticing how obvious the car was, parked with all the others.
This one spoke louder in style and attitude than all those Hondas. It wasn’t anywhere near his own parking spot, the tickets he noticed were because he was parked by a fire hydrant.
Someone like Castiel clearly wouldn’t know nor care about it. Which makes everything slowly fall into place.
House couldn’t lie, the man had taste. That car is more than sexy, it’s been snowed on and has some dirt on the skirt, but it has real boner potential. And now he was pretty sure why the man loved his car more than anything. The fact Castiel left it here made more sense when he saw the bootleg on it’s right back tire. He’s pretty sure Castiel driving this with the man on the back seat was a strange sight on it’s own. The white and red sheet taped on the window of the driver was warning enough to confirm the car had been here way too long. He sighed at the sight of the bright orange breaking the sight of the car alone.
He took off the sheet, taking off the warning so that at least the car looked more normal from the outside in.
And when the keys worked, he sighed in relief. Because if this impala wasn’t the car, he’d have no idea what else it could have been.
It is such a shame to notice that Castiel is right, the car’s engine is automatic. Greg would call it a crime, to make such a wonderful car anything else but manual.
<< Taking all the muscles out of the muscle cars aren’t you. >> He mumbled under his breath, sitting on the passenger’s seat.
He first checked the ashtray, which had nothing short of smokes or cigars. But only an army toy dipped in green, for which he couldn’t help but snort at how bittersweet that is. That must have been there for ages, by the way even he recognized them.
He only finds lighters, flashlights and the car's papers in the glove compartment. That and many maps, many states and grounds covered.
When he looks in the backseat, there’s not much he finds, but he can see wear and tear has attacked the seats, he can find old blood stains in the carpet under the seat.
But before his body grows numb at the pose he’s kept, he sees the indented carving in the door. He can clearly see Dean’s initials and what he figures is Sam’s from what Castiel had briefly mentioned.
As he makes his way to the trunk, his breath catches in the air, making itself known. It makes him think about opening the wheel’s cap for air intake, letting it drop slowly.
Hopefully there is enough time to take off that nasty bootleg keeping the car stuck.
He knows for a fact those usually are following the size of the tire that is there when attached, but taking the air out should take care of it easily. That is, if it’s not a newer model that has to be undone with tools.
The click of the trunk opening under the key was another relief, before the inevitable swear he had to mumble to himself as he saw the inside of the trunk.
There is, he thinks, enough weapons in there to kill a small army.
Which sounds very anticlimactic but truly isn’t.
There’s some weapons he isn’t sure are even sold in stores, which makes all of this very awkward. Most serial numbers have been scratched,melted or taken off.The more he delves into this case the more he wonders if it’s not a detective’s job. It probably is, but there he was pretending.
Castiel isn’t the only part of the cast that’s bonkers then. Dean is into fantasy for sure, by the sight of this. The bowie knife he found in his personal bag earlier had been only the tip of the iceberg.
Thankfully, when he lifts the sinter part of the trunk, there is an awaited spare tire. It is such a wonder how it fits all into one trunk. He’s almost certain he saw grenades in the side.
It makes his mind shimmer with excitement, he had expected weirdness, but not that much.
There’s a lot of things, more than he can think about, but he can see first aid kits, books, weapons and shovels. And the sight of those is really what ciment it all in.
This could get really ugly, really quick.
Even if they’re in a sick fantasy, a cult or whatever he wants to call it. Those objects aren’t props, the shotgun he held was very much real. He can tell by the weight of it and by each pack of ammunition sitting in the entry of the trunk. He can tell because it looks exactly like the ones he encountered in the past. This was no duck and shot shotguns, they had some extensive use.
Castiel has no sense of reality, and Dean seems to have experience in fighting, all kinds of it.
This was a recipe for disaster, as he was seeing it. These shovels could technically have dug up a whole body before, and those weapons might have killed. Dean could be a serial killer, and the fact he was comatose was kind of reassuring for half a second. But then he remembered about the brother.
Was he in the wild, thinking Dean is dead? Did Castiel leave to find him and continue the sick fantasy they all seem to be under? Is Dean a cult leader or is he only the charismatic part of it that Castiel wanted to follow and create a whole ideology around?
As he’s rummaging around, the car feels uneven. He notes that the tire finished emptying.
With difficulty, and with the power of painkillers, he’s managing to kick out the bootleg towards the side, sighing at how he had to center himself by using the car on his right to push it out.
He’s still out of breath from the effort.
He puts it on the rear seat, taking a cover from the trunk to put it on. The plaid looks rather innocent enough, considering what it had been hiding. He puts back the cap on the tire’s air intake. Knowing there isn’t a pump anywhere near, unless…
No, there’s no way he can manage to snag one from the hospital without anyone noticing at that point. He has to shrug off the idea coming out of madness. Instead he takes the cigar box in the trunk and goes to sit inside the car, not without forgetting to close the trunk.
Because he was clearly freezing his ass off, standing there like a dumbass over a few life sentences in jail worth of contraband.
He opens it to see that it's probably where Castiel took the ID’s. Since there’s a lot more of them, House figures he can put some of the ones he got back in there. He doesn’t need fake IDs from a man he barely knows. He keeps Dean’s real one, and takes a new one from the other man he hasn’t met. The one with longer auburn hair. He knows his name is Sam, but none of them fits. So instead he picks a random one for the picture in itself, he then notices the book in the end of the box, he almost didn’t catch it because it was as big as the box itself. Covering the bottom of it quite nicely with leather.
He cannot make this shit up, but the second he opens it up, he can see words, hand written.
As he slowly goes through pages, flying over words, images, he notices beasts.
Fairy tales, he figures, look like a diary of some sort, making these tips on how to kill or catch them. Which makes a lot of weapons in the trunk makes lots of sense on the variety of them all. He notices some different handwriting, he cannot help but wonder if Castiel wrote in this.
Dean obviously did, by the sight of signatures and dates.
He closes it and puts it in the glove box.
Sitting in the leather seat of the conductor makes him antsy. If he doesn’t move the car, he’ll get caught. And if he moves it, it’s another crime in the endless list that he’s starting to pile up on.
He cannot play hot potato with this impala, it is a very noticeable car in a crowd. Which somehow impresses him more than he thought possible.
Nevertheless, he’s more than curious to hear the sound of the car, a beauty like that must roar.
And indeed she does roar, it’s satisfying to even feel the motor vibrating in the wheel.
He looks at himself in the reflection of the window, pinching his lips.
He has the hint of an idea, one that his watch collaborates rather quickly.
Who said he had to take the car out of the hospital’s parking lot?
The next time House sees Wilson, the team just backed out of the older man’s office. They left somewhat content, which leaves House rather unsatisfied. Because a smug team does not always rhyme with a successful team.
Nevertheless, the man seems to get to the point rather quickly. Leaving up no choice for Greg to avoid confrontation. But none can stop him from trying.
<< Do you have anything to tell me, House? His tone is dangerously slow and arrogant, almost annoyed yet Greg doesn’t let that stop him in his tracks.
- No, he says with a suspenseful pause, his chin going down as his eyes lock on his best friend with intent. But I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me.
Wilson shifts the weight he had on one leg to the other as he walks in the office. Apparently the answer he received wasn’t enough to make him move on. House frowns, but he is still listening closely. Wilson’s hazelnut eyes are hidden by the way the man squints towards him, very much doubtful.
-So, he says with a pregnant pause, you have nothing to do with the Impala in my parking spot?
House was almost proud of how thick the sarcasm was on that one, but if he did show any sign of weakness, Wilson would hop on it and know something’s up.
- For all you know, it could legitimately be a yakuza’s member’s car parked wrongly in there for an emergency. He wildly guesses, proving an invisible point to an unwilling Wilson.
May I point you towards urgent care? I know you don’t go there too often, it’s real simple you follow the bright red arrows on the floor. You can’t miss them, they’re dummy-proof. He says as he points vaguely towards the left with his palm facing up.
They all get you there, He stops mid-beat, unsure of his statement. He shrugs softly before adding a last quip. eventually.
- Well, is it? James says, his eyes darting on House’s mouth for half a second before going back up.
The bullshit does not hold up long enough for him to run away. Wilson sees right through him.
House feels like he’s living his ultimate cowboy quickdraw fantasy as he’s waiting for either one of them to crack.
- Depends, who would you forgive first? He says as he grimaces, his nose scrunching closer to his eyebrows. >>
Innocently watching the man’s face waiting for a cue, House blinks patiently.
Wilson sighed with hands going for his own hips, the whole interaction ends up as satisfying as knowing he’s got literally a bomb hidden in plain sight.
Unfortunately unintentional, but not entirely out of his lane.
Notes:
Castiel is coming, don't lose hope, dear readers.
I have plans. ( ͝° ͜ʖ͡°)
Chapter 10: -10-
Summary:
Cuddy is an asset, House is just an ass. Wilson's there to lighten the load.
Cracking a few jokes over a new crime to add to the list.
Cameron catches someone in Dean's room. Yet she falls short on finding out his origin or his link to the case.
All she knows is that he cares.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 10
<< Don’t you have some work to do? Greg asks rather nonchalantly towards it all.
Fact is, he enjoys the attention too much to really mean it. And he’s pretty sure Wilson knows.
Walking with Wilson at his side has its perks. People seem to react warmer to him when he’s in the vicinity. That and feeling like he has actually something to do other than babysit three surgeons. Also he’s the only one who walks slower when he sees him struggle without making him notice. Which is a feat on it’s own, the tempo of his three legged rhythm is an art.
- It never stopped you before. Wilson says back, his voice is loud and preposterous, House can’t help but smirk at the attitude.
Having Wilson around is more than a breath of fresh air, even though he doesn’t want him to figure out why the car was there. It had been hard enough to drive the car there with a flat tire, he had to find a solution for that soon. Yet he could postpone that for an hour or so, to brainstorm with his favorite partner in crime.
- So, what’s your theory about Miss Garcia? Did he, A) fuck with the machines, or option B, hired a long con child actor? I truly can’t decipher that one just yet. It’s ballsy. He says, his hand moving in the air with theatrics.
-When you work with patients like mine, sometimes you learn not to ask. He says with a shrug.
Wilder claims have been made before.
James’s smile is soft and his brows are high, he’s somewhat genuine and it really starts to puzzle at House. He wasn’t about to mention it, but he had to now. He’s halfway sure that Wilson is just fucking with him, but there’s still the what if that can’t get out of his head.
He can’t imagine that the man could be content with it all, there must be at least one ounce of curiosity in that whole body.
- Really? You don’t wanna know? He says as he stops mid-walk in the hall, making a nurse behind swerve around them. The intensity of it is what makes or breaks it for Wilson’s act.
-And what, ruin the magic trick? I got a miracle patient and a little girl can go back to school. What more could I possibly want? He says as he stops too, looking up at him.
- The truth, Uh-doy. He adds with a lot of chin and a little forehead sway. The back of his available hand hits the man’s shoulder. You can’t be satiated with that, you’re just toying with me. His voice is dripping with disbelief, yet he can’t get a grip on how puzzled he is about this.
With that repartee on magic tricks, he’s pretty sure Wilson is lying. He’s just making fun of him again, it has to be.
- You wish. I’m totally fine with this, my job is done. And so is yours. W-wait. Why are we going to Cuddy’s office? She’s at lunch-
-Exactly. I knew you would get it! He says as he’s passing the secretary desk that seems conveniently empty.
-You want something of hers, what is it again? Groans Wilson, unbudging.
-You’re warm, continue. He says as he uses a golden key in the lock of the door.
-Is it a file? Tell me it’s not her personal items. He says with a disheartened stare at House’s concentrated face.
-Colder, but not a bad idea. He nods as they hear the clicking sound of a lock opening.
-I will not stand here as you raid her desk like..like, he starts, unsure as to what he has any jurisdiction on in such a situation.
-Like, you’re the one that decided not to work today. He deadpans as he enters the quiet room, it is almost sacrilegious to be in there.
-I’ll let you know I’m on my break, because one of us has to be the responsible one. He answers back with tact, wanting to get it done but also unsure as if he should shepherd House so that he doesn’t end up doing something he’ll regret. House knows it by the way he tiptoes in the doorway. Unsure of himself.
-You’re wasting your break raiding Cuddy’s desk with me? How sweet, I should have gotten you flowers. Be a dear and look out will you? He says as he walks to her desk, making his way around it before opening the computer screen.
-I’m not raiding anything, let it be known. He adds weakly as he looks outside and back in.
-It’s a date, you can’t back out now. What will Cuddy think? House’s pout is rather amused at the sight of a unsure Wilson. He doesn’t let the conversation distract him from the time he has to do this.
-She’ll think I have a conscience. Unlike you. Breathes out James as he puts a hand on the entryway, his body still in between.
-That ship sailed a long time ago, it sank into the depth of the triangle of bermudas. He mumbles as he manages to get into the computer’s desktop.
-Of course you found her password. Christ. I’ll make you sink somewhere if you don’t get out now. His breath hitches as he says it, House looks up to see that it’s only Wilson dramatizing and not someone coming in the corridor.
-Relax! It’s not my fault she didn’t change it last time. It’s basically asking for it. Also we’re good, she got a warm meal instead of a sandwich we still have some time. He explains casually, typing quickly on the grey keyboard.
-How do you even know that? Wilson innocently asks, taken by surprise.
-I have eyes everywhere, you should know by now. I’m omni-present. He deadpans softly with a huff.
-Tell that in the next sexual harassment meeting, you’ll be the star of the show. Adds the brown haired one with a hint of worry in his wavering voice.
-That's perfect! We can plan our next date there, they have donuts, with or without holes. He’s stalling with words, as he hits a dead end on the contact list. No one will notice the email other than himself, great.
-Your ability to mock the gender gaps amazes me. He snorts softly while letting out the words with a thick sarcasm.
What do you even want in there? He continues.
-I need more info on the case, and Cuddy has too many uncashed favors for me to not take advantage of. Being an independent woman and all, they’ll bend in four to send me the files and she’ll not even notice that it has been cashed out. Everything checks out.
-You and I have a different view of everything. He adds with furrowed brows, pulling his hand towards the handle. I should lock you in and leave you for the sharks.
-Isn’t it strange you haven’t already? He says as he presses send and goes to the trash can of her emails. Deleting this interaction forever was obligatory. Forwarding himself the email had been only the cherry on top. >>
Cameron had no idea what House was up to today. She knew he wasn’t with the patient, because she had been monitoring her and taking most shifts to reassure and look out for her and he had been nowhere to be seen.
She also knows that he is not in his office, and it’s been more than an hour. She had one more spot left to investigate before asking Chase. And it meant going into intensive care, which was always such a deathly quiet hall to walk into.
When she did arrive, she did not find House in there. Palming the bag of evidence in her coat’s pocket, she cleared her throat at the man in the room. The first striking feature she noticed on him, as he was looking over to the patient, was that the man was awfully tall.
His brown hair was tied in a bun, and his glasses looked rather flimsy.
The second hint of something being wrong was not seeing the logo of the hospital on his white lab coat. He looked up to her quickly, but his smile was thin and long. Warm even, if she dared to not feel threatened by the fact she had no idea who he was.
<< Oh sorry, I was..I was curious. He simply started, taking a step back. His stares longed to be back on the patient, she could tell by the way his body was still facing it instead of her.
- Oh it’s nothing, I was looking for someone. Can I help you? She adds, shyly as she nods her head.
- No, I-I was leaving. It’s fine. He’s not the one I wanted. He says rather clearly, as his throat sounds harsher. As the man takes off his glasses and puts back the patient’s file, she walks closer to him.
She can catch a glance at the man’s glasses on his breast pocket. They’re just reading glasses, the sticker imprint on them is still visible, strange. She frowns, unsure as to what to say to keep him there.
All she knew is that the patient hadn’t been recognized yet, if this man had any link to it, she couldn’t let him go just yet. House couldn’t share just one detail, she could really use one of those right now.
She slowly puts her hand on his arm, wanting to create some sort of trust, maybe even safety.
It seems to not startle him off, that's a good start.
- He’s..He’s fine. They should clear him out when he wakes up. She adds, as she looks carefully at his sharp jaw, with a light stubble. Her eyes go up to his hazelnut eyes, his narrower face.
Saying this, it should be enough to keep the calm there, even though she can tell he’s worried. His fingers move in closing motions as he’s looking back at her.
By the sight of it, he doesn’t look to be family to the patient, other than their noses they have nothing alike. Maybe cousins? A lover? Best friend? She can’t tell and she knows her time is short.
- I don’t know if he will. Uhm, By the sight of the chart I mean. He looks busted . He blinks twice as he catches his wording,
He looks in rough shape, and has lost some weight. I mean, I wouldn’t know. I’m new. His laugh is breathy and nervous, his voice seems higher pitched than when she first found him.
She can tell it matters, with the way he gives side looks, she’s maybe not as smart as House, but her heart can tell there’s something there.
- Right. He’s going to be fine. We just didn’t manage to identify him, for his family you know?
-Family..yeah. He breathes out, as he doesn’t even look at her anymore.
She pinches her lips, and then looks back to the hall. Unsure that if she goes to tell House they’ll be too late when she comes back.
- You know. I’m the one on his case, since you’re here, maybe you can run it by me? We can maybe help him. I need a fresh eye. She starts with an encouraging smile.
- Ah uh, no, I’m already late for the..the bed pans. Yeah, so, uh, nice talking to you. He says as he bumps into her as he tries to leave hurriedly.
- You too! She says in a rush, as his back is the only thing she sees in the hall. >>
She closes the hand she had in the air, shaking her head in disappointment when he’s gone. She couldn’t force him to stay, but maybe that information would be handy to bring back to base. When she brings her hand back to her coat pocket, the bagged evidence is gone.
The pouch is gone, the only thing House trusted her to do. She looks up in the void as her eyes closed, she sighs as her shoulder sags in disappointment.
House is going to be an ass about that one, she already can tell.
Notes:
It's almost there, the scene I made this all for. I can't wait, I'm so excited. :DDD
Chapter 11: -11-
Summary:
Medical leads, House and time on the clock goes.
Sam and Dean are hardened criminals.
At least that's what the paper says.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 11
It took a week before they could make any advances on the case. What he thought would be just a packaged file neatly left on his desk for him to devour, ended up more than two wheeled-in boxes. Thank god Cuddy had no idea about this, because the delivery had been made by two policemen who made sure they were delivered to the right signature.
House is well aware that someone with such an extensive public record, meant that he had hit the jackpot.
It didn’t take long for him to move the table and start putting all the files in piles on the floor.
Both Sam and Dean winchester had charges of mail fraud, credit card fraud, grave desecrations, breaking and entering, armed robbery, kidnapping, and three counts of first degree murder.
And the best of it all, was most of these crimes had an expired statute of limitations. Some of these were ten years old, and he’s pretty sure no one continued pressing charges on someone who hadn't been found. So basically, they were free of half the crime they committed because they had kept running long enough, using fake IDs to get places and get what they wanted.
He had to give them credit, they were geniuses at avoiding the charges.
Maybe he could learn one thing or two from this.
But the murder ones had no expiration dates and basically made his patient a wanted man. The second he would be filed for insurance, the police would barge in and steal him away. Basically not leaving him a chance to crack the case before putting handcuffs on and keeping them under surveillance.
And as far as House knew, that was always up to no good, since he wouldn’t have full range to do what he wants. Having to answer back to Cuddy, ignoring reporters and journalists stacking up. It sounded like an absolute nightmare.
They were literal ghosts, it was a wonder how Dean hadn’t encountered a hospital before now. Well actually, by the look of a form, he had a car wreck in 2006. House has now proof that the man has had more bones broken than most athletes.
None of his medical records changed his thinking, but it was very useful to imagine what kind of life he must have led.
He was right, this was no simple case. He had already invested time, energy and money in this.
There was no going back, not at least without an answer. And without Castiel coming back anytime soon, House felt rather confused. He wondered what he was up to, and he wondered if he was still alive. The man had mentioned heaven and death enough that House wasn’t sure either to care or make sure Dean would be alive soon and hoped for the best that Castiel would be there to greet him.
Even if Chase had ended up changing the car’s tire in exchange for two hundred bucks, which was rigged to begin with. He would have done it himself if it wasn’t for not wanting to. Having a lackey do it ended up simpler, and probably way faster. He had managed to drive the car to an indoor washing machine, one he knew the owner wasn’t tech savvy. He went simply to get a chance to inspect the weapons without any cameras around.
Thank god he still knew a gas station not too far away from the highway. Driving the car had proven useful, he was seeing how much the man had been taking care of it. The wheel had changed tint around the rubber, making it probably his go to spot to hold it. Knowing he drove with both hands didn’t tell much on if he was a righty or a leftie, but then the crease on the door’s window sceal showed he would grow comfortable to drive with the right only, resting his arm on the side of the window in long drives.
Which House couldn’t be picky about since it was his only hint.
So there he was, a man in peak fighting form, getting a thrill almost weekly fighting who knows what. Adrenaline spikes on the daily, could always have stimulated his heart too much, he was almost forty, if you spent your life on the run, it’s bound to add some years on your body.
But that could be explained as a stroke, and if the man was mentally damaged because of a late failure when it comes to getting help during a stroke, his heart would have failed. And there were no records of the stress on the heart when they checked him in.Other than some blood pressure and drowsiness. No intervention has been done.
As he had his hormone levels and a stimulus test checked, he added in allergies because the file was too empty on the medical side. Nothing rang back. He had to assume the man had somewhat of a heavy hand on the bottle, not just because of the crimes, but simply because the scarring on his liver was ever-so-light.
Even if Castiel had kept Dean drugged under Propofol for all the time he had been there, the time he spent away now shows that it would have faded. And the blood tests he had run two times had not changed that answer. Only undetectable drugs were suspect, and even then where was the man to administer them?
Castiel wasn’t a big fan of Dean enough for a remake of Misery, so it didn’t leave room for much left.
He had Cameron run a polysomnogram and a MSLT to check out if this isn’t a zebra of the narcolepsy kind. And they came back negative, the man was not asleep because of a chronic sleep disorder.
But the tests were to no avail, but they had proof the man had enough mental capacity to dream, because his hippocampus was lighting up under a thorough scan.
His retinas react under light, his body doesn’t flinch under pain.
He had to rule out most logical ideas, but if it wasn’t narcolepsy on an absurd level, drug usage or diabetes, what could it be?
He was ruled out for any tumor, or any that could be caught by eyes and a good old scan. His alcohol levels had been nowhere near an overdose level. And nothing wrong in his blood cells had been spotted.
The only thing House’s brain came back to was the fact the man had lead all over his surroundings. In his weapons, the ammunition and the powder to inhale when he shoots, the gasoline he must be feeding his precious car as he's been living on the road for so long. The fact he had to repair his car for every little break, even after the car wreck. He would have had more than ten years of exposure by the first date of the attempted murder. And that didn’t even account if he was a smoker yet.
He had thought about sexual diseases transmitted, if the man was half the womanizer he looked like. But HIV, syphilis and hepatitis B and C were ruled out rather quickly. And so was the cotton swab for herpes. The normal amount of pee had been extracted out of his bag to test it, and nothing came out wrong other than vitamin D deficiencies. No extra iron in either his blood or urine.
The lead poisoning fit most of the factual story he was being told by the files. But wouldn't the lead show up in the blood tests?
Maybe it’s gone, maybe most lead has been processed in the 20 something days he’s been there. With IV drips and the care he had been given here, maybe most of it is flushed out by now. The man was probably in better environments now than usual for his lead exposure. Didn’t mean it hadn’t done the damage needed before then. That it could become too late. Things that an IV drip wouldn't cure or even approach with a ten-foot pole.
House sighed knowing this wasn’t nearly enough proof.
He could always order up a bone marrow exam to figure out if there was an unseen or unfound cancer hiding or if dean had some sort of underlying anemia he hadn’t been able to see in the tests.
He can’t tell if sleep is the symptom or the source.
He’s at a pass for most of his ideas, and honestly Cameron’s confession about the poach ends up making him groan in frustration. Thankfully, she had already tested it before getting it stolen. He had let it go, but not without spiking her coffee with salt instead of sugar for a few days, and counting. The creative ways he had managed to always have her fall for it was ridiculous by now. He knew he had to lay off the prank but that was the only satisfying part of all of this.
Her test came back. Which meant he knew that half of it were herbs he didn’t care about and the other half was goat DNA, which did not change anything for the ideas department.
It doesn’t keep him from loaning a library book about voodoo, but to no avail does goat DNA and ginger come up. He then tries witchcraft, which gives him the idea that whoever used or made this, believed in all of that crap. It means that they wanted to do something to Dean, whatever it may be. And that he’d have to search like a needle in a haystack to find what effect they wanted to do, just to see what they could have done to him. What kind of crime, or suspect he could look out for.
The only suspects now were his brother, Castiel, or the mysterious person they were meeting up in a bar in Fairfield to bargain with.
Books say that it can be either a curse or a prayer in a bag. Which complicates things because he thought it would only end up being negative. Now Castiel had even more motive to put this on Dean, thinking he’s an angel, he could totally have made this and gave it to his crush in some kind of spiritual alignment bullshit. What was so wrong about paper planes?
But then, why a goat? From little he gathered of Castiel, he cared about animals. He had no alibi to do this for a goat, unless that was a Cult thing. He really needed some information on Castiel’s last name or whereabouts before he met the Winchesters.
That until he reads the book in Dean’s glove compartment, searching for clues. Maybe he had poisoned himself with their reckless plans written in there.
And that’s where he finds Castiel’s name, Lucifer’s and many others. And he has to snort at the asshole meter under each name. The only thing that intrigues him is the idea that the name under Castiel’s is tinier and has the beginning of a phone number.
But it’s faded and there’s two numbers missing. The only thing he can tell is that it’s American, he can recognize the 779 as Illinois.
Is Claire his mother? Wife? Sister?
Castiel’s name is followed by Novak and he has to believe it’s his last name. Which makes it strange by how it’s under parenthesis.
Whereas anyone else has their name all written, why would making Castiel’s last name in between parenthesis? All of the other ‘’angels’’ are void of any last names. Well, not all, Lucifer’s has a name written under it is only Nick. Which kind of makes him snort at the idea of Satan’s name to be Nick. Who’s gonna tell the children about good old Saint-Nick?
By the time they find the patient’s diagnosis and have her discharged, Dean is still in the ICU.
Foreman was wrong by one inch. And House has to hang onto it because he has nowhere else to taunt.
They changed Dean’s placement to make room for new patients but other than that everything is basically the same.
House has no idea what to say anymore.Thankfully, he has a team on hand now.
He had them take pictures of the Illinois’s phone book numbers that remotely either match the name or number he has from the Library of Congress that same week.
He prefers to call himself and no Claire to be seen or heard of. There were more than twenty contestants in a game they’re not even aware of. He’s starting to get really bored at how little he managed to make out of so many different leads.
Of course sharing a coffee with Wilson every few days, trying to crack the case and bounce off some ideas just end up making him think about how he has no info on Castiel and has no idea if the man is coming back. The fact he has nothing else new to bring him if he were to appear out of the blue again, makes him disappointed in himself.
He’s had every chance to figure it out, and there he was looking at him.
He’s two minutes away from giving up and pushing an Epipen in Dean’s thigh for the lack of a lead, when the phone rings.
He wouldn’t have found it strange if it wasn’t for the fact he had three people he had hit voicemail on when searching for Claire.
The voice that talks is rather young, a young woman. He doesn’t have many chances so he takes it.
<< Oh hello there. He starts off, his voice slowly coming down to a warm greeting.
- You called about a Mr. Novak being in the hospital right? She cuts to the chase, her voice is clear and clearly not taking any shit. He can tell just by how passive aggressive it sounds.
- Yeah, he’s been here. By the way, wouldn’t you happen to know a Dean Winchester? He’s his bed bunk buddy. He asks, hoping for any kind of luck. As far as he knew, Castiel could be into young ones. He can’t assume anything with the lack of information he has, that would be shooting his last good leg.
-Is he okay? I mean, both of them. She says, and the worry is dripping through their phones.
- They will be. I’ll text you the hospital details.
- Uh, sure.. Thanks. They’re not dying or something right?
-Not yet. He says as he pops his lips, and then walks up to Dean, looking at his face carefully as he’s putting Claire on speakers. When’s the last time you saw them? They’ve been here for quite some time and no one came yet. You far?
-Sioux Falls. I..I’m coming. Call me if anything changes. She says and House hears the soft click of hanging up. He listens as Dean stays still as a rock.
- And the plot thickens. He sighs as he closes his phone. Don’t you think you will get away with this so easily, I have plans for you. He adds as he puts back the lid on the wild Epipen that he had been carrying. >>
Notes:
Chapter by Chapter.. It all comes together.
I felt like most chapters I posted gave more questions than answers. Lets cross fingers that Claire has some tales to tell.
Jody ain't raised no snitch, but let's see.Any guess on where our resident angel is? His return is all according to my plan. Prepare yourself for angst.
Chapter 12: -12-
Summary:
Claire and House share a little talk over Dean’s bed.
Cameron's is nosey, yet isn't entirely wrong.
House has to be House.
Whatever that means.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 12
<< You’ve got to be shitting me. Deadpans House as he looks back to her round face, searching for lies in her bright grey eyes
- Nope . She says as she sits on the side of the hospital bed. And you lied. So we’re even.
- I call bull. I said he’s been there. Now spit the facts before I call Social Services. He says with two waves of dismissal towards her.
His jaw is wired. How come all of his work ends up fading into darkness at every turn? He’d be lying if seeing a teen related to all of this makes him grateful the lead worked.
- Go ahead. I’m twenty-one . She shrugs.
- You might one to try that one again. Maybe I'll believe you then. He snorts, shifting weight on his hip.
- Fine. She sighs and looks back at Dean’s jacket on her lap, passing a hand on the soft leather. But why call me here, to make me leave again?
- Because you’re avoiding helping? What do you think? He says with a shrug, he uses the wall to prop himself.
- Maybe not, it’s not like I'd let you know so easily. I don’t know you. She says as she looks down at him, narrowing her lips tightly shut.
-I saved your friend. He adds with convenient gasp. I thought you cared. But apparently not. He says, pushing the narrative softly. Hoping for anything, a reaction, a confession..
- He probably left to find something for Dean, he’s that way. She huffs as she looks back to the man in the bed.
- What is he to you? He figures to ask since she doesn’t seem willing to continue on the topic.
- It’s complicated.
- You look alike, same caring eyes. Spill it, I’m here to keep Dean alive. I’m literally his last chance. He says with an open hand, palm towards the sky, back against the cold eggshell wall.
- They saved me. She lets out, carefully. Her eyes darted on him again, searching for something.
- From what? Demons? He deadpans with loose shoulders.
She looked up, frowned at him but the way her stare tried to read him off, the more he knew he hit the right spot.
- How do you-- She started, startled.
-Castiel. They then said in unison, she followed it by a sigh.
- What do you have? Castiel’s not the most straightforward of the scooby-gang, which you’re probably aware of. He starts, his lips dry and his interest glued to the young woman.
- What do you want to know? She adds softly, rather unsure.
- Castiel, what is he? The truth. He retorts quickly, wishing it’ll bring more to the surface.
- An angel, I told you it’s complicated. She sighs as she brings her hair on the other side of her shoulder, taking it out of the way.
- And why do you believe it? He turns his head disapprovingly, his eyes looking at her but his body is tense. This, again.
-Because I saw it. She shortly answers, and House can’t deny it. She really seems to believe it too.
What is it about Castiel that people go dumb or hopeful around for? He’s annoying, caring and he seems to bring chaos wherever he walks to. House is annoyed, that again the second chance he has to talk about his patients with someone, it's again someone who has no logic.
- The forehead thing? That’s just a fancy magician trick . He says roughly, as it seems he’s the only one rational about all of this.
- It’s not just their forehead, it shines inside of them. It lights up the whole room you know? It almost blinded me. It’s real, like, for real.
- Should we find you a bed in here too? He was almost starting to think about it.
-Maybe it’s because you don’t believe it. You can’t see it. She retorts with a shrug.
- You know how unlikely that sounds, right?
- That’s frankly not my problem. If Dean could believe it, I’m pretty sure anyone can. He’s the most stubborn man I've ever met.
- Hello. Nice to meet you. He says with a scrunched nose at the banter. So, Where’s your parents?
- Mom’s dead, Dad’s gone. What do you need more? She says as her thumb rubs against the leather hurriedly.
- Gone but not dead. You’re nervous. What, you’re gonna tell me he’s your dad too?
-’ Told you it’s complicated. She adds with a saddened smile.
- You’ve got to be kidding me. And what, you’re an angel too?
- Maybe I can call Bobby, maybe he knows where Sam is. They usually send him a text before each hunt, for safety. It seems like she ignores the topic, House is deafened by her audacity.
- Wouldn’t a rise in monsters be known everywhere? It sounds to me like it would be hard to hide. Angels, Demons. That’s some heavy noise. He snorts.
- Don’t ask me how. You’re the smart doctor, I just try to help the cause. She cannot help but say, at how confused he looks.
- For humanity? He mocks, irritated at having to feed the obvious line.
- That’s..Yeah no. That’s Castiel’s goal. I just want to use what I lost to make it better. If I can help people not live what I did. Then I call that a good day . She honestly says, her voice doesn’t budge at all even if the subject seems raw.
- By killing, how kind. He adds, feeling like the predictability of all of this is almost out of a book.
- If that’s what it takes. They’re not really trying to hug you when they find out you’re after them. She justifies at the sight of his face.
- And so is anyone with a bounty on their backs. You know, victims. He answers back without leaving time in between.
-It’s not the same, they’re already killing. We stop them. We make it stop. They made it stop! She whips the air with the jacket, hitting the soft bedding with her fist at the movement.
- What about the ones who don’t kill, they get a free pass? Then what it’s your friendly neighbourhood vampire?
-You know, for someone who doesn’t believe, you don’t seem to have a problem picking a side. She says as she’s crossing her arms, her brows furrow.
- Let’s say I humor you. Then what attacked Dean? He says rather slowly.
- I don’t know. Did he have any bite marks? Any scratches or something unusual?
- No. Nothing like that, he’s basically sleeping beauty. His body is intact.
- Spell maybe? It wouldn't be the first time they’ve been cursed. She says out loud, and he has no idea how sensical she thinks it is, it’s still ridiculous.
- Cursed. He repeats, huffing out the word.
- Did you get anything better with normal tools, with anything you doctors have?
She waits for a few seconds. House looks at her silently. Hoping for her to make her point faster.
That’s what I thought.
- Did you get anything about his brother? He asks instead, getting the most of this was still the goal.
- What about Sam? She looks up, her eyes widened at the mention.
-Castiel said he was there at the scene. But he’s not here now, isn’t he? He adds, to further a point.
- He wouldn’t leave, not like that. He cares. You don’t know them.
- People change under duress. Redneck Robin Hood over there isn’t special.
- That’s bullshit. They’ve had worse and stayed together. You have no idea what they’ve been through. >>
It took a shape in the doorway to cut them off.
<< About that. Says the soft voice in the entryway, Cameron’s polite gaze follows House’s towards Claire. Someone visited him a few days ago. He was really tall, white..American accent.
- That’s him. It has to be. She says too quickly for House’s taste.
- He seemed worried and it looked like he didn’t know much. Adds Cameron’s visible boner for empathy. He had enough of Claire being a teenager, if he adds Cameron’s sentimentality towards a criminal then they’re never getting out of the woods.
- Maybe you were just too hot. He says, earning some intense stares at himself.
- That’s..No, he must n't want to get found out. Claire plots within herself, Cameron’s stare lingers on House longer.
-Because he’s a criminal?
She says to Claire, hoping to gather intel. House can tell her overly nice outlook seems to be with deeper undertones. The more she learns, the more she has leverage. Whether she does want to help, or actually need something to work with when it comes to bonding with him. He can’t let it get too far. Not until a diagnostic.
- No! She scrunched her nose. Breathing it out. Well, uh yeah.
- Maybe he’ll come back, if he came once. He’s bound to repeat it. Drops Cameron as she’s altering watching over House and Claire. Looking for connections, House can tell by the way her eyes are less big and caring as usual. The slits of investigation does not stop their mission.
- Unless he saw what he wanted and then fled. Pipes in House’s realism.
-He’s not like that. Claire takes offense to the comment, stepping off the bed.
-Can’t rule it out, there’s no exceptions. He’s not special. Any of them. People do stupid stuff, and most often they do it for stupid reasons. He drops clinically, no matter how simple it sounded.
- I’ll search for him, if he was here. He’s probably at a motel not too far. I know their habits, he’s not far, I know him.
She says with closed fists, looking in the room for inspiration. House can tell the kid can’t catch a break, doesn’t need an extensive talk with her to realize she’s good at convincing herself things.
- Give us a call if you have him. We need some medical history. Adds Dr.Cameron with a shy smile.
- Can’t promise anything. She says as she brings her backpack over her shoulder. Leaving with the leather jacket in one hand. But I’ll try.
- Don’t do something stupid. Drops House as his stare grows stern towards the young woman.
- You sound like them. She said with a huff, giving another look towards him.
I’ll get you what you want, I want him to live too. Give me a call when Castiel comes back.
- If he comes back. He deadpans, keeping it real.
- When, She corrects him willingly. It's not everyday an angel breaks out of paradise to save you. He’ll be back, I know it. Keep Dean alive until then.
- That’s my job. He quips back.
- And this is mine. She says as she leaves the room.
-So about that.. Starts Cameron with interest.
- Shoo , He says with a wave of the hand. Messing in my affairs, I’ll have you know I already have a Wilson for that.
-We share custody. She says with a casual shrug, her smile is brilliant as her face lights up.
- Don’t tell Cuddy, she’ll ask for alimony. He says with a tender snort.
Now let me guess. You came here to tell me the bone marrow tests results are clean.
She pinches her lips with an awkward nod. He walks with her to the doorway, as she follows carefully. She seems to wait for an additional comment, but none follows. House gets to the elevator, pushing the button vaguely disinterested. He looks back and she’s still there.
Waiting.
Come back when one of you has something. He starts rather seriously. She’s about to leave him be, but he can’t miss his chance.
Wait. He stops, looks around and then back at her. He puts a hand behind his own ear, pushing his features to look puzzled. They both focus on the sounds, as he can see her eyebrows lower.
D - Do you hear that?
The elevator doors open, she’s about to step in but he blocks her by entering first.
She frowns and her mouth opens slowly, she seems rather confused. Looking for meaning in his quips. She's about to talk when he cuts her off, once again.
Huh? He looks up at the roof, waiting for the right moment. When he sees the sight of metal in front of him move, he continues.
Dad’s calling for me. He adds casually before leaving her behind closed elevator doors. >>
Notes:
I'm trying different types of chapters, this one is more dialogue oriented, I was wishing to add more to it, but then again last chapter was more ranty. I'm balancing it out somehow. xD
Also the more I add characters, the more I realise I have no idea which season it is timeline wise for Supernatural.
I stopped trying to figure it out and now I'm just enjoying taking the parts I like the most and matching them together in a coherent mess.
See you soon! :D (Arcane is pretty freaking awesome)
Chapter 13: -13-
Summary:
House makes his way to the usual hospital room, but if the cold outside hadn’t fully woke him up, seeing Dean’s empty hospital bed certainly did the rest.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 13
Claire’s texting skills are somewhat inspiring, House hadn’t expected to search the meaning of some of her slangs, but there he was. Out of the loop with teenagers. What had been more than humiliating was how right Wilson ended up at guessing ‘’LMK’’. It truly made one wonder who had more time on their hands.
Nevertheless, he had taken time to come to Dean's room for two reasons. One was to look at the results of the allergy panel, even after a few days it turns out the man is only allergic to cats. And Penicillin will not be used since he seems somewhat reactive to it.
The other reason is that Dean makes the perfect playmate for lunch. He doesn’t laugh at jokes, but he’s a really good listener.
Some small part of House starts to wonder if Castiel would have stayed longer if House had kept more details from him. Had been more elusive and simply treated Castiel like the family’s patient instead of the criminal he probably is. If he actually worked the case the way he had been supposed to. Why had he gave so much of his space to a man he barely knew?
He’s almost done enjoying his lunch break, just not yet. His bag of chips unsteadily hung onto the last centimeters on the lunch table over Dean’s bed.
Since he grew bored of talking to himself twenty minutes ago, instead he’s now sharing the view of the tv’s current soap opera with his client.
He sometimes looks over the phone as he waits for the result of Foreman investigating the man’s chest tattoo. There was something hilarious about sending him to the nearest priest to have it looked over. It wouldn’t have been quite as fun as sending over Cameron or Chase, not after the way Foreman and him had reacted the last time they’ve seen each other.
Instead he sent Chase to the bars that Claire had ended up identifying, there had been three potential places. But considering one was still closed almost three weeks after the fact, means they’ve found it. There must have either been heavy damage, or the man was waiting on insurance money to pay the reparations. Either way it had been very lucky.
He steadily taps the side of the phone with a repetitive pattern, following the mindless dialogue in front of him.
House had managed to get files for Dean, time and now his team, and yet there he was stalling for more time. There was nothing saying the blond would soon have a dying organ, but he couldn’t assume just yet. Knowing he also had no idea how to approach poaching this client from the hospital made him sour.
If he showed any interest whatsoever in this case to Cuddy, she’d get curious. And a curious boss on his back is the least of his wishes.
And either way, he had only a week left to manage stealing Dean’s case without either putting his name in the system or getting too much of Cuddy’s attention. If he failed, the file would still end up at her desk at the end of the week, if no one claims a body, it ends up at the superior’s office after a limited amount of time, roughly a month if he was lucky.
And House has no jurisdiction over other hospitals buying Dean off from them, ones that have enough funding to care about keeping the older Winchester in a daily drip.
It’s in these moments that he would have enjoyed Castiel’s promised money, maybe someone would have bent for longer that way. But there he was, looking for a creative way to keep a criminal away from an unknown death sentence.
That’s when his phone rang, he picked up quickly when he noticed Chase’s number. Dearly wishing for a lead, anything really to keep his mind of how he’d have to basically break another rule for people he didn’t know the month before.
<< Something’s not working. Starts of Chase with thick layers of disappointment in his voice.
- Have you tried to switch the light on and off? Asks House rather obviously, wanting to skip to the good part rather quickly.
- No I mean, Chase sighs.
The theory. You said they used knives?
- The big sharp kinds, bowies. Mouths off Greg as he digs his hand in the shallow end of the chip’s bag. Looking for the last forbidden chip, his hand meets both corners but doesn’t reach it yet. How is that even possible?
-This doesn’t match at all. There’s burn marks on the roof, walls and floor. They’re so distinct they can’t be some random lighted up fire. I also found a cult circle, it’s burned through the epoxy. I sent you a picture.
- Send it to Foreman, he’s going to have it seen by Father Arthur. He says with a snort mid-way.
-Quit torturing the man. He was right, be the bigger man and move on. He says with a strained breath, mid-movements.
- Are you doing some parkour or are you happy to hear my voice? He says, as he ignores the previous statement.
- I went on the floor. Added Chase’s strained voice.
- You wouldn’t be the first. House remarks.
- The burn marks fit a body shorter than both of us. A woman maybe. If her hair burned, there’s none here. No clothing particles, she’s clean.
- Wouldn’t be a first in bars, no hair always means more room for tattoos. Speculates House, bewildered by his own research.
The shuffling he hears intensifies for a few seconds, House annoyedly puts Chase on speaker phone as he rolls up his nose in annoyance. He turns the bag of chips against gravity, hoping for the snack to fall out not-so gracefully.
-I think you’re right. He says, out of breath.
She was stabbed, there’s blood on the side of a table. I’ll sample it. But what kind of fire would not go through her but only around her? I can only think of a blow torch, a giant one. It’s a superficial burn of a flame thrower. What kind of maniac brings a flamethrower in a bar full of booze? Starts off Chase as he’s running the ideas in the air for House to think about.
- Matches are just not as meaningful. He says with quite the dramatic voice, elongating the words as one would in a play. He could be an idiot wanting to die in style. Anyone with a garage with tools has access to a blowtorch, and can own Terminator on DVD.
- But that’s the weird thing, he or she didn’t blow up the room. Some bottles have burn marks, but didn’t explode. It doesn’t make any sense. He adds with a disheartened sigh. They’re just grazed.
- I’ll have the blood worked over by Cameron when you come back, we’ll review the pictures. >>
He says as he looks over to Dean, House’s lips thins into a line as he’s finding all of this so awfully vague and mysterious. Dean remains unwilling to share anything, time’s ticking.
And then he sees it, the chip was there all along. It’s sitting softly waiting to be taken, waiting idly. House looks at it for a long time, hoping for the man to suddenly wake up and eat it. Perhaps he needs more sleep, or better food habits, but he’s more than aware he’s not likely to get any.
When it finally happens, House is in his apartment. He almost misses the calls, figuring he’s going to look at it tomorrow. Foreman’s number rings his cellular phone only once. Conveniently, so does Chase’s, but only twice. And like the last artist in a band, Cameron’s last chance rings his appartement’s phone, it echoes in the flat, bounces off walls and manages to hit him out of slumber once again. It better be goddamn important.
He almost forgot he was still paying for it, but the multiple calls manage to make him get up, not without him feeling like he’s being hit by a truck.
He stumbles in the hall as he’s trying to put on his coat. He calls a taxi because he can still feel the sleeping pills deeply active in his system. He’s reckless, not stupid.
Mumbles of agreements end up enough for the man to bring him to the entryway of the hospital even if the damn taxi driver wanted to avoid his car going into the paywall zone.
House had to knock on the man’s middle window separating them with his cane to make the man realise he can’t walk all the parking in the cold as an handicapped man.
As if that wasn't an insult to injury, he manages to drowsily wake up under the intense neon lights. He texts Wilson to see if the man’s on the premises, but he’s probably still asleep.
Lucky bastard.
House makes his way to the usual hospital room, but if the cold outside hadn’t fully woke him up, seeing Dean’s empty hospital bed certainly did the rest.
Thing is, they’ve done this before. They call him, but don’t tell him what’s up. They beep his pagers with only the patient’s name, to keep him interested. Because they don’t know him enough yet, or at least that’s what he supposes. And sometimes they’re right, he wouldn’t care about some symptoms more than others, even if in the end they’re all clues.
So it’s with furrowed brows that he gets to the testing room, even if it’s technically more of a guinea pig lab that has his name labelled almost on all furniture because of Cuddy’s sweet sweet culpability. He’s pretty sure they probably found an idea on how to maybe make the man twitch enough in a sign of yes for them to do a biopsy, since they don’t have Cuddy’s approval or a signature just yet.
He amuses himself with the thought, even if his coat starts to feel warm as he’s getting in the basement.
Passing the mortuary, he makes way to the room, the glass makes him catch the behind of Chase's enormous head. Which confirms that they’re probably all here, looking to make a breakthrough. He’d be almost proud if they weren’t young idiots who didn’t know how good they had it by being able to sleep at all.
As much as he’d want to teach them to go to bed whilst they still can, entering the room has him in a loop.
It’s been what, three weeks, give or take, since it all started. And there was his patient, not sitting, not standing, not even walking, but running.
Cameron is by the man’s side, making sure he’s still alert enough, but from the sight of it. It’s not the only thing Dean Winchester is. Chase is looking over the screen of his vitals, looking for anything odd. And there is Foreman, watching him from the end of the room, acting like he encountered his deepest secrets.
<< When were you gonna tell us about this? Starts the man, with a single arched brow, making a statement of keeping his arms crossed.
- I wasn’t going to tell ‘’us’’ anything. Because I didn’t have to. It’s a confidential case, which basically means I don’t have to tell any of you. He starts as he can feel his voice is rough and dry, he should have brought coffee, this is worth staying awake for.
He takes out his scarf and coat as he puts them on the desk, making way around Chase's spot. Dean’s actively not reacting yet to his presence, perhaps too concentrated on both the running and Cameron’s pretty face.
That and the fact he’s in a glass box of a room.
- He didn’t have to because we knew. Dropped Chase as he scratched his nose.
House has to manage everything to not snort at how awkward that is. Even more to not bring up how awkward it all is.
Letting them figure it out seems more wise.
- What keeps me from bringing this to Cuddy? Starts the man as he gets closer to House.
There goes avoiding a problem. House can’t ignore the direct message he’s being fed.
- Go ahead, wake her up. Tell her about the case, I’m sure she’ll love you. Cuddy loves to take care of snitches. Better yet, you’ll be assigned to another case. Win-win. He retorts.
- You’re lying. She can’t be behind this, she would have t- starts the younger man.
- Told you? Why, she’s the boss. She does what she wants, if she thinks I can handle you, then I can. House cuts off.
- Eric. It’s late. You’ve had a double shift and so has he. Come back tomorrow and we’ll bring you up to speed. Catches Chase with more than an ounce of common sense.
- You shouldn’t have to clean his messes.You know that right? He’s supposed to be a teacher, to bring us further. When’s the last time you learned something that actually helped you work on your own? He says, looking towards the younger one. And then he looks back with a sideways look to House with a sigh. I'm not paid enough for this, go to hell House. You better tell me everything tomorrow, I ain’t kidding. >>
House started to look at the screen the second Foreman left the room with a slightly dramatic flair. He’s not nearly awake enough yet to care about who feels part or the team or not.
If any of them knew what was behind it all, they’d be running sideways. And he wouldn’t blame them, even if it would mean he’d lose all the advantages he’s built. He’s damn well aware he can’t do this all alone. He looks back at how Dean seems like an everyday type of man, already flattering who he thinks is a nurse.
It doesn’t make it any less strange when the blond man looks back at him from the glass panel, it’s like seeing those mannequins come to life. House stops what he’s doing when their eyes meet.
One could have always supposed to see him move, imagine him talking. From a hospital bed, all that comes from it would be imagination.
But there was nothing beating seeing the real thing, the man had a heavy stance. He’s a jogger who keeps his fists close to his chest, his feets are not as agile to grant more weight kept on the top of his body. He’s taller than Cameron by a few inches, but he’s pretty sure if she took her heels off he’d be in the perfect height to swoop her off her feet with no effort.
It’s both fascinating and terrifying that he has no idea what the man is capable of. Castiel has him all painted out as a hero. But if they’re in fact in sight of a sociopath then they’re in a bit of a pickle because Cameron is the most sympathetic of them all.
House pushes the level of the pad, making the man run faster and it takes half a second for Chase to catch him doing it.
<< Are you sure about that? He just woke up an hour ago. Starts Chase as an obvious voice of conscience.
-You want to test his heart, I’m testing his heart. He says, watching dutifully the way Cameron seems to be talking to him. She notices the way it goes faster and gives them a look of understanding.
Thing is, he’d really love to trust Foreman. But at the end of the day, he’s pretty sure the man wants his job title. He wants to take his place, and House shouldn’t antagonize him further. But he can’t help the fact that Foreman seems to get on his nerves, with his lectures and his criticisms.
Although he does take them in note, he doesn’t want to give the man any more ground to grow bolder. He was paid for a specific type of job and for a few months he had been trying to weasel his way up. Which made House wonder what kind of fire had crawled under Foreman’s ass.
He didn’t have to wait to find out, not when a potential murderer was in the same room that his team was in. There was bigger fish to fry than whatever Foreman wanted out of him. It’s not like they didn’t knew him by now, all of this is not new to them. Foreman had a reason why he changed his beat and House would rather focus on this case instead of running after an identity crisis in the making.
-I’ll keep a cart close, we can’t be doing this if we’re not at least careful.
- I knew I kept you for a reason. House said with a huff, making his way around the desk.
- Very funny, deadpanned the younger doctor as he walked away.>>
House can’t understand how Dean isn’t suffering from shortness of breath. How he doesn’t seem stopped by muscle atrophy that should have somewhat affected his stamina and reflexes.
He seems healthy, too much so.
What clue is missing out on?
House knocks his cane against the low frame of the glass before entering the room, alerting them both of his presence.
Cameron takes her cue to inform him of the case.
<< BP is steady. We gave him a light dose of ACE inhibitors and a saline. Nothing spiked up yet.
- That’s because I’m fine. Groans the man in between them. The voice was confident but similarly annoyed.
- Go check on Chase. Had him go get a MAX cart and he didn’t turn up yet. He says casually as he moves his body on the side, leaving her space to leave.
She eyes him up and down with suspicion, but he doesn’t let it get to him. Thankfully she plays his game, she leaves with a polite smile.
- So you’re the one they’ve been trying to call for the last hour? I have to say, I expected more. Starts the ashen-like voice, it’s rough. If anything his voice seems the most affected by his long slumber than anything else. The breath in his words starts to be heard but nothing substantial yet.
Painfully average at everything, isn’t he?
House goes to the door and softly pushes the lock of it, letting the weight of it close on itself.
He catches the worried stare of Cameron at the computer outside, but he casually looks back at Dean.
The man has been given some navy slacks, to accompany the hospital robe casually hanging on his chest and shoulders, the robe on him is open and flowing through the light jog that the man is casually showing off.
- I get that often. He starts off as he uses the glass panel in between Dean and Cameron to hold himself against. I could make an endless list of nicknames but spare us the chase.
Dean huffs out with a scrunched up nose. The running seems to catch up to him quicker, and the more House looks at him the more the pressure seems to do half the work for him.
- You tell me. Barked back the man but only half the bite.
You wouldn't be doing any of these tests if you didn’t have insurance on track. That’s how this country rolls.
-God bless America. He nodded, amused at the audacity the man had. As far as he knew, they had nothing on him. So he couldn’t deny the bluff was quite impressive.
- So, you see, I'm fine. I'll be out of your way. He says as he seems to bring his arms higher to somehow focus his weight less on his legs. Putting his hands on the bars on each side of himself. His words are breathy and shorter.
House can’t let go just yet.
- You seem pretty sure about that. What makes you think that the second I let you walk out you don’t faceplant into the snow and we bring you right back in your bed? He says with a slight shrug. His shoulder presses further on the glass as he’s slowly tilted to the side.
-I know you’re the doctor, you’re just doing your job. But I’m telling you, I’m fine. I feel fine. He repeats, his voice is fairly loud even if the end of his breath wheezes.
- That’s not how health works. You’ve been in bed for quite a while, how do you figure that? He adds, curious to see what shit he could make up.
- It’s a freakin’ miracle then. He deadpans, jokingly aside, the man really takes him for a dumbass.
- Yeah, it pretty much is. You’ve been stuck here for a while. Like you said, I’m just doing my job. Saving your life. He lifts a hand in the air for Cameron, who takes it as a cue to stop the running pad.
Dean catches his breath as he puts his hands on his knees. House watches him wait out the cough of his sore lungs.
House toys with the few cards he kept in his coat's pocket.
The one he had been debating to use to run insurance from, in case he’d run dry on ideas for Cuddy this Sunday. Not knowing if it would work, not being sure it was worth the risk. Running of a fake identification card was most likely something that could get him at least a year easy behind bars if he was lucky.
Hoping for any kind of reaction, he could give it to him. Get a sense of his face, as he lies through his teeth so that House has a overall baseline for his lying pattern.
- Where’s my stuff? Dean asks rather quickly, his impatience becoming slowly a personnality trait.
- Locked, until you’re discharged. He says rather quickly, getting it out of the way.
- And how many of these tests I have to do until you let me go? Asks the blonde, visibly irritated.
- As much as I need until I figure out what happened to you. You seem in a hurry for a guy that only got three visits in a month. He huffs out with an arched brow.
Technically he wasn’t lying, there only had been three visitors, counting the police. But Castiel’s had been a weekly long everlasting visit. But Dean didn’t need to know that just yet.
Dean looks up at that, to him, and for half a second, House catches the look before it goes away. The light in his eyes seemed genuine, and not the self-righteous dismissive man he’s been talking with for the last five minutes.
- Then I hope you’re good enough to realize that whatever I had, it’s gone and it’s not coming back. He adds with a grunt as he goes down the pad. House sees him go from his eye line to his chest’s height. How have the mighty have fallen.
- How do you know? He asks with careful slits for eyes.
- I don’t. He so clearly lies as he looks up to House. Correcting himself with no shame.
He didn’t ask what happened, he didn’t ask if the people with him in the accident were fine and he didn’t ask who visited him.
Is he really that arrogant or is he hiding any information that could be used against him?
It could really go either way by how annoying he is already.
Would Castiel fall for the arrogant type? Was he that naive, and Dean loved no one but himself?
House finds that hard to believe, Castiel had some backbone, he had bit back. That didn't sound fitting to the profile Dean was willing to show him right now.
All of this pretense felt fake, it stinks up the whole room.
- Let's get this over with then. Now take your robe off, we’ll put electric ‘nodes on you until the screen tells us what we need to know. He says with a cheerful snort, which makes Dean furrow his eyebrows rather quickly. He does not seem pleased, but House cuts him off before he thinks up something dense and overtly obtuse to say.
Cameron! He shouts through the glass, turning his head towards the woman who has a disappointed look on her face. >>
Chase seems to have barely arrived with vending machine coffee in hand, he’s still in the doorway when House looks back.
House had been dying to get creative to interrogate the criminal as the weeks went by. Tearing apart any kind of idea that had been worth the thought. His answers were one step away, in flesh and annoyingly dashing.
In fact, Dean was the perfect guinea pig for the task. HR can’t say he’s harassing a patient when they’re not even aware of his name just yet. Which makes this the only time he’ll get. He’s pretty sure he’s one day away from the chaos of a red pair of heels.
One day away from someone’s who’s nickname rhymes with “buddy”.
House casually looks for his phone in his pocket, he gives it a quick look as Cameron gets inside. Dean starts talking to her, asking about the procedure and House figures at this hour his phone shouldn’t have much to show him.
As he shrugs away the notifications, he catches the sight of an interesting text received a few hours ago.
This new day was taking upon a new kind of light.
Claire and her slang are painfully present in the message. But this time he’s pretty sure she’s saying she found the younger brother. If Dean would finally crack with the mention of his brother, maybe they would find Castiel or where he might have gone. And the case would finally make sense. Maybe he was closer to the end than he allowed himself to feel.
Just maybe, he will go back to his usual life soon.
There goes wishful thinking.
Notes:
Ayyyyy 5k to make up for the fact i'm late to the party.
Glad to be updating this again, I missed it dearly.
Chapter 14: -14-
Summary:
Dean and House antagonizing each other. That's it, that's the tweet.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 14
His mind was buzzing, and it was not just from the caffeine he had basically inhaled. A dark roast cup he had been given previously by an overachieving Chase.
He had one night to crack what he expected to be a serial killer case, a possible cult leader. Quite the thrilling experience, he might just mess up at any time. But here goes trying.
Whatever he might be, or what the night entailed left him wired. Both by wanting to jump the man with wisecracks and make sure the man would become no threat to his team.
Wanting to assess the situation and also provide insight to the Winchester. That he’s in fact, not actually a threat. It’s his only prerequisite to bringing back the man upstairs to an awaited bed.
Hell, the bed might be missing him more than most.
But something wasn’t right, the more he saw him, the less it made sense.
Cameron was marvelous, really willing to play pretend. Her presence alone made Dean quite playful, which made House nothing short of amused.
If only she knew what kind of mess was flirting towards her, she wouldn’t be so soft with the equipment.
House didn’t bother to wonder if it was to win points about their relationship or to get her own answers, but he wasn’t willing to let her stop just yet. If she was helping things de-escalate, he couldn't deny it was working. The smell of antiseptic was as bad as the side-eye he was getting for ruining the mood. Who knew a hospital basement was the new dating scene.
The four monitoring nodes Dean previously had for running had stayed on his chest and abdomen, but as they walked to a table for him to sit by, they multiplied.
Cameron hadn’t talked when House decided to glue two to each of the man’s temples.
If he knew enough about the Winchester, it’s that he had no medical degree.
And knowing that, meant that those frontal nodes unbudging with sneaky wires on each side of his head were all for show. Given that those weren’t even plugged in. If they could get that heartbeat to spike a little, then it’s all for science.
Considering they were just checking his heart, for now, there was nothing wrong with a little white lie.
It didn’t take long for Chase to snicker at the sight, leaving Dean watching him like a hawk.
Despite the interactions, House couldn’t help but tune out some of the words Cameron was saying to Dean. Currently texting Claire about bringing the little brother to the hospital.
Even if it made wonderful leverage, it was putting her in danger either way. He still figured that the hospital is the safest place for her to be with a possible serial killer.
He’s not quite sure what role the brother has yet. And knowing he was here once before lets him know he already knows a few corridors.
This is possibly quite dangerous, all of it.
And he’s running out of time. Cuddy has already left him a message on his pager he hasn’t answered yet. He doesn’t know how long it’ll take before she shows up in her high heels and disdain. But he’s willing to let time disappear into thin air until it does, see how far she’ll be willing to let him be.
House can’t let go. Not so close to the end of this, even if Castiel never answers the big void of questions he dared to leave him with.
With a little chance, Dean could probably answer most of them.
He can’t let go of the thoughts.
Not when he knows he’s stuck, even with his height, he has nothing on Dean. Physically he’s really conscient that he’s far from his peak stamina.
He has a good decade if not two on most people in this room, and it started to show when Dean had to take his shirt off.
Cameron would truly be a lightweight and Chase would have a passable chance if Dean decided to go haywire. But being alone with the blond, leaving them together with his cane sounds like a recipe for disaster.
If Castiel hung secrets in his steel biceps, who knew what the older Winchester was hiding under that Colgate smile?
Even if he’s thinking about all of the outcomes, he’s not feeling it yet.
There’s only irritation, but little anger in the way Dean moves and talks back.
It’s a minor inconvenience to him to be stuck here, and it makes House wonder if it’s not the first time he’s been stuck by authorities but managed to get away.
It has to be a common occurrence, if not, his last hope in authorities is fading into the toilet.
He’s not one to believe it’s hard to fool them.
Yet Deans seem to small talks like there’s no tomorrow, and it’s quite the spectacle. He’s walking into most topics head-on, pretty sure of himself. Something House can’t help but identify in a leader, a crutch of order and possibly rebellion.
The more he gives in to the thoughts, the more he knows he has limited time before he gets scolded for making so many tests on his John Doe.
He’s basically losing time by the minute.
Tests aren't cheap, and so is the blood work he ordered for the bar’s brisk encounter. That’s it.
Instead of lingering in his own head longer, he walked out of the glass room. Followed by two confused surgeons, who seemed nothing but a liability. He knows for sure there’s nothing safe about this, so why bother putting them further into a danger that they cannot consent to?
Without much backtalk, he manages to dismiss Cameron to go do the blood work from the bar. And then asked Chase to review the recordings they just finished making. For Cameron, it was a whole new rodeo to avoid her questioning and show her how important this was. But they eventually gave up, and House hid the relief he was feeling. Because not only were they safe, now he would be able to talk to Dean without witnesses.
Thankfully everything seems to be running smoothly, for now.
The more time passes, the less legal it all feels. He’s growing averse to it, but he’s not gonna let them know that just yet. He has to take one step closer before letting go. He has to see it for himself. The reason why someone so innocent would fall for a murderer, why someone like Cameron wasn’t picking up bad vibes from him.
Why wasn’t he feeling the void answer back?
<< When we got you, you had a few hits on you. You had a blood test done and it reeked of a bar fight . Starts House, letting himself in, his coat hanging over his arm.
His voice is more tired than he had let out. His mouth felt overly moist and his throat was dry at the same time. How convenient.
No one claimed you, in all the time you’ve been here. He adds as he walks to the side.
House can feel Dean’s stare on him, but he continues.
So you see, it wouldn’t have been hard to just call it off.
- Then why didn’t you? Asks Dean with a concentrated stare on him, he’s not tied to anything, but he might as well be by how tight his body is, and how straight his backstays.
It somehow reminds him of the military, it all seems vaguely familiar.
As far as he knows, there’s security in a hospital and House feels like he’s relying on that assumption a little too much. How far is he willing to see that guitar string tighten before it breaks? He’s not quite sure yet, he figures he’ll trust his guts.
There’s a certain point he has to reach before letting go, now’s the moment to find it.
- I didn’t even know you were there, in fact, I came almost a week later. No name to your case. That’s odd. Don’t ‘cha think? He points out, sitting on the side of the desk by the right of the room. Dean’s stare following him with intent. His stare grew heavy and serious.
- You guys screwed up then. How’s that my problem? I could sue you, but you know what? I feel great so if you get me to sign a discharge I’ll drop it. Pipes out Dean daringly, but to no avail.
The act is well fit, it’s almost too logical. If the man hadn’t been in a coma for weeks, House would have believed he had rehearsed before this.
-But you just never woke up. We gave you everything right, and you were as steep as a brick.
The comment makes Dean slowly move his head lower to the right with lowered lids, casually unimpressed at the comparison. But willing to listen to know more, good enough for now.
- So because you were too dumb to figure out what made me sick, now you’re going to interrogate me until I tell you? Great doctoring there. He mocks, and for half a second, House realizes that Castiel was right. He and Dean really do mock when they’re irritated, very observant of him.
House doubles his stride, huffing his chin towards him.
- Jeez. Someone hated visits to the doctor as a kid. Did they never give you a lollipop? But since you so nicely asked. My fellow doctor friends there went to watch your heartbeats to make sure they’re regular.
He doesn’t need further confusion just yet.
-What are you there for? Barks back the older Winchester.
- Moral support. He says with a forced smile, hinting at polite disengagement.
We needed ten minutes of footage to review. After that, we’ll bring you back to your room. Explains House, with his wavering moral compass. We’ll leave the machine on you for the night to monitor your heart as you sleep, but you should be fine.
He looks at the hint of relief that washed over the man’s eyes, House stares walters to the sides as he assesses that this didn’t feel fake in the slightest.
He’s almost disappointed to find humanity in him, it would have made things easier if it weren't. He’d call over cops, and he’d let the man choose his damn fate.
Why wasn’t he doing that already, god if he knew?
- Then let me sign a discharge if I should be fine. Don’t be a dick. Repeat the blond unbudging.
House sighs with slugged shoulders, making a fool of himself as he’s reacting to Dean’s comment. Almost disappointed in how dense the man seems to be. He has to wonder, after three times would it become a spell? Would he actually let him go if he were to hit a wall with this? It’s not like he can dose him up and pretend he’s still not reactive.
- Way to spoil the mood, Dean. He adds with a slight grimace.
Why didn’t you want to tell us your name wasn’t John? He looks back to the card the same one Dean scratches the side of. His fingers rub the edge as he looks straight in the deep of his eyes.
It’s pretty straightforward, all the cards are on the table, they both know it’s fake.
He knows, they know, it's old news.
Little to no reaction this time in his micro-expression.
He doesn’t seem to care as much as one would in such a scenario.
At least Dean blinked, he couldn’t say the same of his stalker boyfriend.
Furthering the plot, House looks back to him with a higher brow.
The silence grew thick, so he broke it.
What do you have to hide, man? He says slowed, casually. Shrugging his shoulders heavily with brushed off swagger.
Dean furrows his brows at House’s broad theatrics, it’s clearly throwing him off enough to make House think he’s not entirely dead inside. Using his real name seems to throw him on a loop of silence.
House snorts. The machine shows Dean’s tension way easier than the man lets it be seen.
Great acting chops there, he has to admit.
-I don’t need more debt. You know how it works . He chips out between two looks. House can’t ignore the truth, the way he deflects the questions.
One truth for two lies, name’s the game.
- Convenient. House drops with a huff.
He’s not fully going to break the leverage he has just yet.
House takes a rolling chair by a desk and slowly rolls to Dean, now on his level.
-Tell me about your medical history then, those wouldn’t get you to pay a single cent. Private consulting,
He brings his arm up to look at his watch with intent.
Seems to be free when I'm not on the clock.
- You know, I never heard of a hospital that keeps someone against their will. Drops Dean casually, Isn’t there some kind of rule against that?
- Good that we’re a teaching hospital. I had completely forgotten about that one . He barks back with snark.
- You’re starting to get on my wrong side. What are you? Groans Dean as he looks towards the door.
- Your friendly neighborhood doctor, what else could I be? He says with an arched brow, willing to see if the man will share the same illusions as his counterpart. Willing to play dumb to startle a spark, or anything really.
- What do you want from me, you’re clearly breaking lots of rules by keeping me here. He says, rather seriously back.
Good, they’re finally bargaining. House feels the hint of a breakthrough. He cannot brush away the thought of how this is how therapists must feel like with himself. How tedious.
-That’s where you’re wrong. But you know what? I have an idea. I’ll give you one thing back, each time you say answer something true to my questions. He says as he brings a special envelope from the coat.
- You mean if I answer them right, right? He says with a defeated sigh.
- Castiel’s right. You can be an ass too when you’re not in control of the situation. He says with a nod, giving in some slack. Brings the asshole right of the both of us. It puts us in a pickle, you see? I’m willing to negotiate.
He brings his hands in the air, palms up fronting the man.He does for a few seconds before letting go.
He then takes out the wallet from the yellow pocket. The man’s name seems to make Dean perk up.
The look that meets him is open, the pupils dilated. He can see the way the screen on the side, Dean’s heart rate has gotten closer to 150. He has him on a silver platter.
Apparently they’re each other’s weakness. How romantic, yet he can’t pride himself in having made much progress in the information department.
-Dean Winchester, you’re wanted for a lot of things actually. I had a field trip with your files. There’s nothing in there that told me about your childhood medical history, or towards your grandparents. Any sickness in the family? He tries warmly, wanting to breach through that thick head of his.
-Nothing that would explain this. He says back, looking at the envelope, probably wondering what's in there next.
- That’s up for me to decide. He says as he looks up at him.
You must have fallen on your head very hard to get in here, we’re running in circles. He cocks his head to the side with a pout. Do I have to repeat myself?
- I’m not– It’s the truth. There’s none, Nothing. Where’s Castiel? He says with a half-bitten sigh.
-He’s gone. He left, told me he didn’t have time to waste on explaining. He says releasing the leash a bit when he sees Dean’s genuine concern.
- He was here? How recent? Asks the blond, his eyes going from slits to open wide.
-Yeah, he’s pretty sticky. Like strays, you buy them a sandwich at the cafeteria once and they want you to become their family doctor. He waves off, huffing the words with disinterest.
Throw, hook and sinker. He can feel it, it’s close. Dean’s heart rate keeps jumping at every revelation. His hands whitening on the side of the table, he’s either about to jump him or coping with the news very healthily.
- Why was he here? He’s no - Starts off the younger one,
- Because you were in a coma. Cuts off House, willing to see up to where the charade can go.
- No he can hea- Starts the patient, in a huff.
- Heal you? Even if I would believe that, he said himself that he couldn’t.
- That’s impossible he’s-
- An angel? Yeah, that’s pretty unlikely in my line of work. House deadpans with an amused snort.
- You two spent-
- Yeah, he told me all about the likes of you. He’s quite the companion. I understand why you like him. He’s like a lost puppy with no leash.
Is the provocation getting him anywhere? It’s pretty fun to wait long enough until Dean’s mouth opens to say anything he can think up on the spot. It’s a thrill, but his smile would only add oil to a fire.
There is a tight silence as Deans stops talking, probably to leave time for House to say something. Giving him one last chance to not cut him off so rudely again.
The red on the monitor deepens and House feels the tension linger. Nothing the man couldn’t encounter in the outside world.
Tension cut with a knife, losing control. He’s doing him a service really. He won’t embarrass himself in front of his next potential victim instead.
- No way, that’s not how it works. He’s his own–
- Angel? Hah, Yeah about that it’s– Starts out House before the annoyed tight voice of Dean cuts him off, finally.
-Let me speak, you dick. Barks the Winchester with tight fists. His own man.
-I tried that, but you kept telling me there’s nothing wrong. He says rather innocently,
- Well there isn’t. What else can I say? He adds with a tense jaw, it makes the muscles close to his temple move as it grows tighter.
- As far as you know, and from what I know, I’m the one with a medical degree. He reminds him, as a matter of fact.
- That doesn’t mean much, you could still be wrong. The rebuttal is quick and cheap, House huffs.
- Well, Tell me then. Give me exactly what’s wrong with you and I’ll let you go. He offers, his voice is calmer and serious. Less the snark it was a few seconds ago.
-Why would I do that? Breathes out Dean as he looks at him down.
- Because you want to leave, do I have to spell it for you? You’ve been itching to probably punch me, take my coat and leave and never come back.
- You’re wrong. I wouldn’t take your coat, it’s butt ugly. Sparks off the Winchester with a hint of satisfaction.
- I’ll have you know that piece of wool and cotton costs more than the price of a new transmission. Retorts House with rapidity.
- What transmission? W-What did you do to baby? You son of a bitch. Groans the man as he frowns.
That's exactly where the machine starts beeping loudly, alerting House of the reaching point. And also reminding Dean of his priorities. The man had started to stand up, even if the wires had held on tight on him.
- I’m not the one who switched the transmission of a manual car into an automatic. He says to release the pression, hoping it’ll be enough for Dean to sit again.
- My father bought her that way, she’s always been an automatic, you ass. He says as he puts a hand on the table flat.
-And when you broke it in South Dakota, you didn’t even think about it? Not even a little bit? He says, a last taunt before shrugging.
- Listen here you ass, you may have done your research but you won’t tell me how to treat my baby. She’s fine that way. The man’s hand on a table becomes a fist as he slowly sits. Relief can be seen in the way his face untense. His eyes are still hardened but his jaw hangs loose.
-Agree to disagree. He adds to move on, willing to go forward.
- Ask your damn question before I come there and kick your ass. He warns with a nod.
-You would hit a cripple? I shouldn’t have expected better of a criminal.
-What’s your goddamn goal? Where you going with all of this? You either hate me or want to keep me alive but not let me go. Set your mind straight.
- I'm a doctor, of course, I’m not letting you go back into the wild before figuring out what has kept you under for so long. It’s my job to keep you alive until you can go back to being carefree, you doofus . He huffs out with an eye roll.
- Doofus? He repeats with disbelief. What kind of shitty doctor are you?
- The one that has your keys, wallet, and the last whereabouts of your brother, whatever Claire is, and the one who has talked to your boyfriend last. He says, dropping all the pretense.
It’s worth it when Dean’s stare grows thick, his brows go up as he looks him down.
- Don’t you dare touch a single hair of my family. He warns, but then it’s as if he catches the last end of the sentence in a delay. What boyfriend? Wait, you think Cas and I-
- Oh wow, you’re that kind of gay. When I thought I couldn’t like you any less. Baits House, thankfully, the machine has now ceased to beep incessantly. Due to the lack of interaction, it has been updated with the new heartbeat ratio.
- I’m not– Listen man. You may know things, but you’re way out of your league here.
- I noticed, you like them strays. He continues, he’s reached the first threshold, but now there goes the second one.
- What no! I-Castiel is a brother to me. Stop that. He's looking away as he says it, face down. But the words sound warmer, calmer.
The table trembles under his fist.
- That poor man, pining for the jock. He shakes his head in disappointment.
- You’re-.. He starts, confused in disbelief. What?
House’s pager vibrates in his pocket. He looks away at the clock with a sigh. Time’s running out. Now is as good as any. He straightens up from his slouch and looks back at the man, he stands up and takes his cane, and coat to slowly walk to the locked door.
Dean never took a jab at him, even though there's every reason to. He's been nothing but patient. House has a gut feeling that he's missing a crucial part of this. Thankfully, one part was upstairs waiting for them.
- Fact is, you’re pretty much stuck here until I say so. If I wanted to kill you, there’s a ton of drugs I could have given you in the last three weeks, when you were defenseless. He says as he passes a hand on his own face as he sighs.
When I had your not-boyfriend asking me questions all day about you. There’s an endless list of what I could have done to you. But the truth is, I didn’t care enough about what happened to you. I just wanted to know. That’s my job. I take odd cases, I review them, and find what others failed to find.
Dean stops mid-way when he looks at House, then he looks back to the envelope on the table.
So, you can be the good guy. Take your stuff, follow me to go see your brother. He’s been worried sick about you. You let me know what you know about what made you sick. And I go on my merry way, saving other people with that knowledge and leaving you alone.
-I don’t know what you are. But you’re making the right choice. Says Dean, as he stands up and takes the electrodes off his chest. He then takes the envelope and there is a sigh of deep relief as he sees the keys. He palms it all and looks back to House with uncertainty.
- I don’t know about that. Now hush before I regret it. He says, looking away from them both. >>
Dean looks at him, House uses his badge to open the door and lets him go first.
By the time they’re in the elevator, it seems that this show of trust has warmed the man.
<< He’s really an angel you know. I didn’t want to believe it, but it became easy when I saw that assholes can be angels too. He lets out as he’s keeping a key in between two of his fingers . House figures trust issues, but he doesn’t let that scare him off.
- I saw what’s in the trunk. It’s pretty hard to believe in anything after that. He deadpans.
- Then why do this then? Dean wonders out loud.
- You’re not registered in the files here. I’ve got nothing to lose, yet. He says, lying softly not knowing why himself.
- But you don’t think we’re good people. I don’t get you. He says with a huff of disbelief.
- I need to see what's the gimmick. Then I’ll know if I failed or not. It's not over yet. >> He says as he pages his team with his device, leaving room for a favorited number on his phone, one push away from a crisis.
Notes:
December kicked my ass in many unexpected ways. Financially, time-wise and health-wise.
That's how it goes with family, right? I'm back to add some numbers to this piece.I'm surprised this one interaction is at least 4k of words and yet we still don't know crap about what Dean knows. But House has a plan, even when it's just a theory. Family reunion in the next chapter? Tune in soon to find out!
Chapter 15: -15-
Summary:
With each step going by, the sound of their breathing distracted from the stringy sound of sneakers on the waxed floors. Doubt purrs menacingly, making its way into House’s mind as he walks by Dean. It would be fine to have to keep up with Dean’s silent speedwalk, despite knowing that everything is bonkers.
He’s honestly tired of the chase, he’s a cripple, not a marathon runner.
Notes:
At least I post once a month? I have no excuses, but hey, an update! I still am working on this. I rewrote it three times making sure I knew my plan better.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 15
With each step going by, the sound of their breathing distracted from the stringy sound of sneakers on the waxed floors. Doubt purrs menacingly, making its way into House’s mind as he walks by Dean. It would be fine to have to keep up with Dean’s silent speedwalk, despite knowing that everything is bonkers.
He’s honestly tired of the chase, he’s a cripple, not a marathon runner.
The stealth of it all doesn’t transpire to him, so instead of catching up, he looks the way the man has a few steps on him in the corridor even if he’s not sure of where he’s going. Seeing him so tense is not lost on him. It reminds him of those animals a little too hurt for comfort.
It would be simpler if it wasn’t so damn familiar.
Thing is, even with this permission he just gave. It just might be the one decision that cost him his job, once again. It’s a good jab at a joke, another Tuesday for him, as if. Meanwhile he thought there wasn’t a better way to know about the brothers than to see them interact.
What bullshit that had been.
Despite all the fuss, Dean had answered most of his questions back in the basement.
With his actions mostly, the things he hadn’t decided to do rashly, the way he had looked hurt at the right things and angry at others. Even if he’s aware everyone lies, he’s not full of himself to think he can decipher why without more context. Dean wasn’t a total sociopath!
Why was that so disappointing?
The man only reacted to family, to the people he liked the most, to his brand of car and his cheap thrills. There would be no benefits of staying longer there as they were both sleep deprived.
Instead, now they’re walking in a thick silence, one that’s respectful but not anywhere near absolute.
There’s a nervous energy that he can’t deny having.
Fact is, seeing Sam and Dean meet had been so underwhelming that he wondered why he thought it’d change anything. They were almost whispering, exchanging obvious glances and misdirects.They hugged and talked. They mentioned very little knowing House wasn’t going anywhere.
Claire was happy for them, but still ominous on her role in all of this. She’s some kind of survivor, but she looks up to the two men.
Yet she hates house, luckily that factor was shared in equal parts from most people in this hospital so he knew not to waste time on it.
Sam had been overwhelmingly tall that House was already cooking over a thousand of jokes he always wished he could make. It was not everyday he met someone taller than him and there was no way he was wasting that opportunity.
The rest had been anti-climatic, and it didn’t deserve further thought. Maybe later, the tiredness made him way too cranky.
But here he was indulging in a fantasy. Why was he so ready to listen to nut cases?
He was thinking of Wilson’s perfect face on a wonderful fluffy pillow and a warm blanket. And the sight made him jealous, because his legs started to tingle and he’s not sure he’s gonna stop walking anytime soon.
Thing is, when the lights of the morning kicks in, they blink once. It’s just how it’s always been.
The fact the lights decided to not light up at five o’clock was not his priority. Nevertheless, a combination of the halls being cold and the lights having some sort of problem was enough for the brothers to become certain something was wrong.
Claire backing them up had House in for a pickle, if Castiel had been able to lift him up like dead weight. He wasn’t sure he wanted to figure out how much those two hunks could deadlift. So instead of fighting the potentially problematic wave, he followed it.
It led back to the basement, obviously creepy without the lights. Yet he could see how tense and ready to throw punches Dean is.
House just felt like he was babysitting for free and he already had enough of it. But there he was following Dean close as can be.
Thing is, reminding the Winchesters about the existing season that was winter hadn’t been enough to dissuade them to investigate. Apparently it wasn’t enough to grant moving on, and that’s where House had to indulge in critical thinking. If they were right and there’s actually someone or something hiding in the empty halls. Then separating had been an idiotic idea.
So, as expected, Claire and Sam are long gone to the other bay. And if he knew his movie trivia enough by now, separating was the worst idea in the case of a serial killer on the loose.
Not that he believed them that something was wrong, if anything they were the problem.
They were the ones with enough to blow up the white house in the back of an Impala.
It hadn’t took long for Dean to transfer his stuff from the enveloppe to his own self.
He looked still quite feeble under the emergency lights that would light them up every couple of meters. The scrubs he had gathered weren't enough for most of his personal items. The wallet was bulging in the breast pocket, hanging at each swing of his chest towards the sides.
Dean was so careful that most of the time, House’s sneakers were the main sound in the whole basement. It was enough to make the cane sound like a natural force of nature with its thumping.
But there was something, when Claire had looked back at him. Back when the brothers were reunited and that they gathered that something was wrong. It was innocent and real, only for a few seconds, her face looked terrified, looking for any kind of reassurance from the brothers.
That’s ultimately what House wanted to explore, but apparently it meant indulging in going into spider-webs. Exploring unused units of the hospital, waiting to see anything worth mentioning.
What a pity, Dean doesn’t budge at the sound of the ringtone. House is startled awake back to the current moment, finding himself to be lost in thought previously.
Dean gives him a silent look, one that looks so utterly condescending as he takes the call.
House grimaces, if anything he’s stuck with terminator on his side by the look of it. That man seems to be a mystery on foot.
<< Found anything? He asks, his voice heavy and serious in the dark hall.
- Y-Yeah, Actually. Broken glass by the entry, someone didn’t bother with doors. Let’s put the younger brother’s voice.
- Didn’t the staff see anything? That’s ridiculous. Drops House by the side with low eyebrows.
- About that... It’s odd, but everybody’s gone. Declares Sam, his voice haunted by the statement,
-Like, gone gone. Lets out the gentle voice of Claire, letting her presence known by the phone.
- It’s a hospital, they’re always at least used by nurses, security. I’ll go back to them and see what’s up with that. Starts House as he turns around,
- Shut up. I think I heard something. Lets out Dean, still looking in front. But this time there’s a hand on House’s shoulder. Preventing him to go further without being rash.
He looks back at House to convince him perhaps. As if he’s safer with him around, perhaps about to play a cheap card to make him stay.
- You’re not going to get me with that one. It’s old, try again. Starts House as he walks back the steps he took earlier. His voice echoes in the hall. >>
For half a second, Dean’s stare is serious and in action. House catches a shadow in his vision from the end of the hall, but his reaction is delayed as he focuses on the sight. This time there’s nothing and he’s puzzled.
<< You’re a hard man to find Dean Winchester. Starts a sultry voice, a female one. That one is British, he’s certain of that.
House tense at the voice, it’s rather strong for no one being in front of them just yet. It hits House’s ears as if it’s close by proximity, licking the shell of his ear.
Dean turns and looks at the end of the hall.
- I already said no, the answer’s the same, lady. Says Dean with a careful stance.
- Dean? There’s something with us. Let's out the voice of Claire out of the phone on speakers.
House takes the phone that Dean pushes on his chest mindlessly without looking at him.
House brings the phone to his mouth.
- Did you see it? Do you have a description? There’s an ax behind the secretary’s desk behind glass. He says quickly, looking at Dean unsure.
- Higher orders, I couldn’t find a reason to care, Winch- It cuts off as Dean stops touching him.
Dean walks further into the hall, leaving House at the beginning of it.
-It’s like, followed by fog. Dark, thick, Sam was fighting and I fell.
- If you can’t breathe in it, stay as close as you can to the floor. Maybe it’s on fire. It can probably trigger the alarms if the generator ever backs up.
Dean, they’re in danger. We should get to the-
House couldn’t believe what he saw. Dean had done half of the hall length’s with a cautious jog. Things seemed fine, until they weren’t anymore. That’s exactly when things turned sour, when the shorter man reached the turn.
His bowie knife fisted roughly in his palm, he had seemed pretty fearless.
Despite the invisible hit he took, making him go into the wall. His body supported by the broken drywall, he can see a brown beam on his right under the cracked paint.
The thud is violent, pretty thick and it’s tough to make any sense of it as it happens.
It gives them both whiplash.
House can’t go there, he can’t see what did that. He’d be going into a line of fire with no idea how to take care of the issue.
But apparently, when Dean looks up, he seems to look at something at the corner of the hall. Is there something on the other side of those walls that Dean sees from his angle?
- I’ll get you back. The Winchester groans as he slowly falls onto his feet. He kept a close arm to his ribs, even if the knife never faltered. He huffs a word under his breath, the pain lingering into his body. Bitch.
If House was to do the only thing he could at the moment, which was assess the pain and the stance that the Winchester had. It meant that his collarbone had probably taken a big slug of that push, it probably broke or shattered. His ribs would be bruised pretty soon and it was possible the man had a commotion now.
He’s lucky to be standing, his spine hasn’t took all the hit. The shoulder plates taking most of the hit like a thick sponge.
His stance was still, as if he was pumping himself back into fighting. And with a scream of effort, he seems to hit something in the air with his knife.
And if it wasn’t for the previous impressive hit he had just seen, the man looked like he was fighting air. The heavy breathing made House think that a hit had been given to the man’s plexus. His air cut off and he wheezed out.
- Claire! Claire. If you see a way to run away, do it. I’ll call you back. He says before closing the call.
He tries to call 911, but when he does, the phone seems to ring.
This day is never ending, he can’t tell the outcomes of all of this just yet.
The ring continues, and that's when House tries to lightly jog with his limp to the nearest door. When it’s locked, he reaches for the badge in his pocket hurriedly, his skin starting to sweat profusely.
He can feel the cold embrace of nothing behind him and it reminds him that he has no idea where the thing could be next. There’s no time to mention that he’s terrified of a British woman’s voice.
When he enters the room, he looks around. It’s mostly boxes and endless recyclable supplies. He finds syringes, apparently expired ones too. He rummages through boxes around and manages to find a 22c gauge needle. His hands shake as he tries to open the packaging and then put the needle and cap on the syringe. He then turns around, pops the cap of the thing. He fills it with air, hoping it’ll be enough.
The phone is still ringing, the numbers on the screen show a minute and a half of waiting.
Whatever’s fucking with the generator seems to block any phone calls to outside of the hospital. Or at least it’s the last idea that House can come up with, he can’t imagine such a thing not being military grade. He thinks about hanging up and calling Claire again, but thank god his phone payment plans allow multiple calls at once. She could call still, the line wouldn’t be blocked.
It’s with a last look at the innocent phone that he wonders.
Why target a hospital, and yet how did they manage to empty it all out?
House can’t think further about the causes as he goes back outside. Dean isn't at the end of the hall anymore, but House tries to hurry without overstepping. His leg feel like a dead weight, that he’s dragging along. He hears a groan from further when he finally reaches the sight of him.
He sees the man on the wall, holding something in front of his throat, like an uneven cylinder with his bloodied hands.
And that’s when he sees the blood hanging in the air that he realizes.
It’s real, there’s someone here. They’re invisible to the eye, but the blood managed to make it seen again.
He walks slowly, and it’s as if Dean is listening to them because he grunts every once in a while in disagreement even with hands around his throat.
It’s when House is closer that Dean finally talks.
-I don’t think so. He says, his voice is a low rumble of rage and hurt.
House finally tries to stab where he thinks there should be flesh. But the echo of pain flares back into his own wrist.
The needle is bent awkwardly when he looks back at it.
Dean is falling on his knees, back sliding off the wall when the bloodied stain seems to turn in an unnatural twist.
House swallowed thickly as he tried to take a step back, he got his cane up in the air, not knowing where to hit. He looks back at Dean, the way he looks back at the invisible frame helps. It seems to be tall, maybe around his own height.
-I’m not going back and you’re about to die. Sa- Starts Dean, but he stops mid-sentence as House figures the invisible woman is possibly answering back.
It seems enough of a distraction, because House looks down and sees the half of a heel print on the floor. She stepped on Dean’s blood when choking him.
He dearly hopes this trace is the current one and not her previous ones.
House uses the two information to start swinging but then, mid-air, the cane stops as if stopped by an invisible wall.
The soft metal starts to become molded in his hands, the hotness of the material rises.
He lets go before burning himself further followed by the hiss of pain he lets out.
The cane is now on the floor, twisted and melted in an uncomfortable shape. The hands gripping it on each side seems to have been molded in. House looks back to them with disbelief.
Dean caught enough of that to use his knife on the invisible force. It is as if he opened a pocket with a low flashlight as it hit his face in light. It seems to come out of the wound hole, as it is restricted to a tiny area.
And before they could do anything, the pressure Dean had in the action of stabbing started to dissipate. The gravity pulled his arm slowly down as he was hovering it in the air. The knife no longer in something dense. The blood in the air slowly falls to the ground in drops.
The scream of hatred echoes in the wall like a delayed gunshot and House falls on his ass as the air seems to punch him at the chest. The wave of sound seems to make his eardrums ring as the sound is like broken glass. The fall is rough, he can feel it sting in his coccyx and goes down his legs, his back is tense and uncomfortable at the impact.
The floor trembles under him, as if they’re within the earthquake. Tiles shatter under the uneven pressure. Only the ones between him and Dean, in quite the circular shape. House covers his own face with his forearm to protect himself. When the shaking loosens, it fades into the thick silence.
It’s then when Dean lets go of the knife, his eyes awake and alive that House can finally breathe.
His gasp of air is relieved because whatever was there seems to be no threat to Dean anymore.
They’re alone again, he hopes.
They reach each other’s eyesight in the silence of their rough breathing, House’s lungs and throat are on fire. He’s hyperventilating some bit, but he’s starting to feel the blood rush leave his head. His heart beats tries to lower against the tidal wave of his arteries. His stare is blurry from the blood rush, leaving him slowly coming back from being dizzy.
Dean looks back at the knife, it seems dark. Ashes and a black rim seems to stick to it and his hands. They both see it and inspect it for a few seconds as they come back mentally from surviving this.
The smell is horrendous, but he could recognize it anywhere. Copper, burnt flesh and fire smoke, the variety of smell seems to marry each other in a thick and dense experience. It makes him want to puke. But he knows half of it is the nerves wearing off.
- Get up. We need to go get the others. Deans huffs, his dirty hand in the air hovering in front of him.
House tries to sit instead of lying on his hand and ass on the floor. But when he moves, he can feel the metallic sting of pain in his leg. He realizes that he must have fell wrong on it when the backlash had him pushed back.
He tenses up at the feeling, looking back at the hand hovering.
- Go. I’ll catch up. He then looks for the phone in his pocket and then puts it in the open hand. I’m fine. Your brother is still fighting one, we can’t lose time.
And with the last words, it seems it was enough to make Dean’s decision falter.
If he was dead on wanting to bring him, now the mention of his brother seems to do the exact contrary. The man nods silently and takes the phone, it is with the sound of steps that House can feel himself dissociating.
He tries to slowly drag himself against a wall, his ass feels like electricity is shooting through his tailbone. He hisses at the attempts, but sags against the wall when he finally reaches it.
He snorts at the broken hole at his right, visibly real.
Time passes, in the silence.
House doesn’t bother to look at his watch, but he can tell it’s been more than an hour when the power comes back on. The lights flickers to life and House finds the strength to use his pager for only one number.
It is with a certain smugness that he imagines Wilson’s careful sleep once again broken by his messes. He holds onto the feeling, as tightly as he can. Closes his eyes and waits for things to come back to normal.
Notes:
Now, with veritas, I can confirm,action is still in the next chapter. It is half-written at the moment, fucking finally! I was eager to get to this part of my ideas.
Also, fuck me for having House in a very actions scene. He's always the center of most action-based moments in the show that it felt strange to have him be a bystander of Dean's and Sam's show's moment. I like the mix even if it's complex to make it work sometimes. House MD is too logic based for Supernatural's spirituality. It is both an interesting challenge and a pain in my ass. xD
Chapter 16: -16-
Summary:
Sam and House interaction. Chaos ensues.
(Next chapter coming real soon)
Notes:
I cut the chapter in multiple parts because it was getting too damn long. Also damn, it's been two months? Mental health is no joke.
Cheers, It's still alive, this fanfiction that is. If you're still here, Thanks!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
That’s not how it usually goes.
This time, the only proof that he hasn’t been hallucinating is the blood on the floor and on House’s clothes. The cracked tiles on the floor and the broken drywall in the hall.
One hand in his pocket, he toys with the broken syringe. His neck is strained from the weight of his head, lowered lids. The neon irritated his line of sight, unable to quite ignore them even under the deep of his eyelids.
There was a small compensation, from knowing he had waited for a while. Replaying the whole thing in his mind, searching for the silent and invisible wires of such a demonstration of raw power. But he’s left with a tight sting when he moves ever so slightly to accommodate his numb ass. Thankfully, he’s unbothered by the blood. His wrist is soaring waves of tension that leave him tense all over.
What has happened and what will happen cannot coexist. How unfucking likely was all of this?
How would he even describe what had just happened? Would anyone even believe any of this?
The wheezing from the hyperventilation is now gone, he glimpses in and out of time and consciousness. He wonders if he’s had some sort of commotion despite being sure he never hit his head anywhere. Probably the adrenaline is running out, but so is the painkillers. Fighting to fall asleep for good, but pain keeping him alert and awake enough. It’s textbook torture.
He had no idea how long its been since he woke up. His shoulder felt tight and stung deep into his back, a firm hand was holding it around the wrist so as not to lose grip. The fact House felt like he was pulled up instead of down meant that whoever was helping him up was tall.
Even though his mind is fading, hard to reach. He’s able to slowly feel the adrenaline kicking in once again when he hears a gunshot. It seems they’re moving faster than he can handle. Even more so when they reach stairs. House has barely time to put the bridge of his sneakers on one stair that he’s being dragged into the second one. The action is repetitive that he starts to lean into it. Even if his whole back is going to kill him tomorrow, even more so his right shoulder blade. It’s soaring and unresponsive, the limited blood flow makes him think the tall guy managed to finish the harm by accident. He’s probably dislocated. Stairs are long gone, thankfully.
He manages to open his eyes to see brown strands of hair in his vision. Before he can truly focus on what’s in front of them, he’s aware of the warm and strong embrace of Sam Winchester’s presence. He’s painfully remembered the fact he has little to no information as to who he is and what the man could be doing. The thing he can feel digging into the pit of his stomach, it’s dread.
He groans and it does not fall to a deaf ear. It alerts the man of his consciousness quite rapidly.
<< We’re almost there. We’re really going to need your help. He starts with a huff, pained by the weight of them both. It can be heard in the short breaths.
- What..What was it, the.. He starts, his head rings deep.
He can’t recall much, his migraine is disgustingly annoying.
- We think it’s a witch. Powerful one. Answers back the younger brother, entirely too serious for the words being heard.
-She’s a bitch . He manages a mumble with a groan, feeling pulled towards a door.
-Y-Yeah, the man’s light nervous laugh is very much real and awkward. Thrilling differences between the brothers there. Not that they looked alike anyway. He really has to focus, this is elementary. He can’t go on and be a doctor if he’s almost unable to talk.
Her guard was worse. Dean’s hurt. He continued.
-Again? He sighs, looking at the empty hospital corridor in front of them, unwilling to fall back to sleep. He has to get a grip. Lean into the pain, for it’s temporary. They’re in a hospital for christ sake! Wouldn’t it be the best place to get help!?
-He didn’t have much of a choice, it was aiming for Claire. Do you think you can help? I know you can’t walk but–
-I can walk just fine, I’m just a little hurt. Get me a cane of some sort. He huffs, clearing his throat from all of the angst still stuck in it.
Guard? He starts again, adding the information into the pile. Dean actually made the british bitch vanish. It stayed even after she left?
- Seems so. Can’t locate any cane though. Is a chair enough? Apologizes Sam under a shallow breath. >>
When they reach the waiting room, Dean is laid out awkwardly on three armless chairs. Thank god for the wonders of inherently confusing designers. Does none of them have heard of not moving bodies when they’re hurt? They could further the damage and actually make things even worse. Things can always be worse.
House can feel the training kick in when he notices the unconscient blond man. The way his arm bloody limp lower towards the floor because chairs aren’t thick enough for a whole torso and even less two muscular arms.
His injuries seem to have doubled since he last saw him. At least last time he was still conscious and on his feet. This time the big scratch on his stomach seems deep enough to leave scars. The blood pooling in it isn’t leaving much to the imagination. They have to add pressure.
He falls onto his knees by the man, it fucking hurts his knees because he didn’t cut the trajectory with anything else. But the radiating pain is only one of many accumulating by the minute. He looks up and down to access the most information.
House looks over Dean enough to assess what should be the priority. Yet he’s on the floor which imitates the area to interact with. He checks for his pulse which seems under the average but still fairly beating considering the amount of blood he must have lost. Goddamn miracle of a man.
House looks out to the room and then waves a hand towards the secretary's desk. Almost avoiding contact with Sam.
<< There’s some carts behind there, go get me one. He hushes him out quickly with understandable rudeness under consideration. He can’t let this become another of his mistakes. He told himself he would get to the end of it, then he’s going to at least try his best. He’s the only sensical one in the bunch, it’s got to work for something in here.
He knows for a fact there’s a lot of this he can’t justify or explain just yet. But medicine is his thing if he can save Dean’s life and manage to at least make him stable enough for an operating table. Then he’s pretty much set to success.
- We can’t! We need to leave in the portal. Let out the worried tone of the other man.
- What portal? He asks startled and dumbfounded. This was so not the time for games. Are you fucking kidding me?
- There! He points to a spot in the air, further ahead of them by the entryway. House has no time for this, there’s an actual life in play.
So instead he continues pressing on Dean’s stomach.
Claire’s already jumped into it, she thinks the guard thing killed Dean. But I have to ger her back before she gets hurt too. He explains rather quickly, stumbling into his words. Not leaving one second in between the words to breathe too.
- Get me the cart now! He’ll die! He screams, his patience running out. The ache does not leave a lot of leeway. At least screaming seems to work better to let some of it out.
Sam opens his mouth, stuck between the two options.
Now! He screams again, hoping to share his hurried tone and how urgent the demand is.
He then runs away to go get one cart, but instead of bringing it to him, he pushes it to roll to him.
-I can’t leave her out there. Save my brother. Please. I’ll be back. He says even faster, as the voice slowly feels more distant in the room.
The cart’s push isn’t strong enough to do the whole way to him by the chairs. But it doesn’t matter as much because as he looks up to make him aware of that, the man is running towards the spot he previously pointed at.
-Sam! He lets out before the man disappears of his sight entirely. All he catches are brown eyes that are thick with guilt and determination. >>
And then he’s gone.
Notes:
Bear with me, shit's gonna make sense...Probably. :D
Chapter 17: -17-
Summary:
House is holding on until someone else manages to take care of him the way he needs.
Despite it all, he's not sure if there's anyone else he would have let drag him in a wheelchair like that.
Wilson's not everyone.
Notes:
Multiple parts are coming, hang in there! I'm capitalizing on this self-made motivation. Let's see how it goes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Echoes of footsteps tap into the dull of his skull, his breath of relief is loud and long when hands that aren’t his came to apply the pressure he felt too numb to keep up.
He collapses on his ass, kneeling on the floor. His bloodied hand was on the rugged of his jeans.
His pain roars so loud that he can’t hear the questions that come from both sides. Instead, his vision blurs and he can’t escape the pain in his own body. It’s running every beat of his heart, dull ring of vibrations. Making it’s way everywhere his nerves can allow.
His feet are getting numb under the weight of his body.
Screechings of chairs are being heard, then there’s a gurney and Dean’s moved rapidly onto it.
House’s eyes can catch enough of the colors to deduce it.
A couple of nurses try to interact with him, he’s not quite sure he can even mumble something coherent.
Dean leaves with House’s vest heavily pressed onto his stomach. A woman straddles him into the rolling gurney to keep chest compressions on. And then the halls engulfs them, there isn’t anything House can do for Dean anymore. He’s lost his pager, he has no way of doing anything.
All he knows is it takes some time before some hands slowly warm his back with wide circular strokes. He can feel his own sweat drying off his back, and yet the stranger lowered to his level carefully.
When he slowly looks up, he can catch the worried stare of Wilson. With his deep brown eyes, he looks like a doe, but a reassuring one.
He mumbles something, hoping to be reassuring, but instead, Wilson touches the shoulder of his free hand. His eyes feel lazy and lingering, he’s pretty sure he’s properly cut bloodflow in his legs by sitting this long on them.
Wilson’s mouth moves but the sound of the rush, the hospital’s night shifts seem to swallow it all.
With no external confirmation, Wilson leaves him. House feels the dread come back so quickly it punches him in the gut. He tries to look back for where the man has left, but he’s nowhere to be seen and the neons look like lines of light. His eyes feels wet, flooded by pain.
When Wilson comes back, he has something metallic in his hands. It’s big, and when he’s helped up, House falls onto it.
It’s a chair, a wheelchair. Wilson brought him a wheelchair. Wilson seems to asses his hurting body as he helps him in. He’s not actually hurt in anything but superfluous pains.
He’s pretty sure the mix of adrenaline with withdrawals manages to imitate a deep-set migraine. The leg will hurt either way but the pain irradiates from the shin and the usual spots. He’s probably got a sprain of somesort. His dislocated shoulder should be attended to soon enough before damage sets in. Yet he can’t manage to let his diagnosis be known.
House doesn’t budge, but he groans every time they hit a bump. He’s being brought somewhere but he’s unable to focus on where.
When some men try to stop them, that’s where he catches sight of Cuddy. She’s visibly unable to not look at him either. So they both look at each other until Wilson manages to hush away the police.
She comes to talk to Wilson, something about it is too fast. He doesn’t focus on her words as much as on her face. She’s worried sick, stressed about the mess. He can tell he’s going to hear about it once he’s back to normal. If that ever happens.
She looks down when Wilson puts a hand on House’s shoulder, letting them go, for now.
All House can feel right now is the disappointment in knowing his pills are gone with the vest too. The relief of seeing Wilson’s face, the weight of responsibility away, having to take care of himself right now would be impossible.
Wilson asks for something, leaving him by a window.
The sun is loud and obnoxious on his eyes, he groans and tries to lever his weight to the left.
The chair is lousy enough to back upon where the weight pushed it. The light only annoys his arm now, he can deal with that.
When Wilson comes back, he has a medical bag and he looks tired, possibly annoyed.
House can’t possibly imagine why he’s annoyed, he’s not the vegetable one here.
The road home to House’s apartment is silent, and it’s quite the weird arrangement. Since it’s long enough, all he can do is watch the speed. Sometimes catching the long-lost stare of Wilson towards the road.
It all blurs together, even if all of the minutes are incredibly alive and annoying. He’s blinking it away enough to hiss when a prick hits the inner of his elbows. He opens his eyes to see that he’s in bed. Not quite sure of what to do with himself, he tries to focus on Wilson’s expert hands as he’s delivered an IV.
Thankfully, James knows his way around his flat by now. That’s how a cold wet towel makes its way to his forehead. It feels fresh and House groans with satisfaction.
Wilson’s shy laugh makes it to his ears, somehow under all of the blankets of tiredness.
<< Hold on. I’ll get you your meds. He says softly as he shuffles to open the bag on the nightstand.
House opens his mouth as he breathes, it’s dry and so is his throat. He has no idea how it’ll get in there when it feels like sand.
- Wa.. He stars in an elongated moan of annoyance.
-Yeah, yeah, Water. I got it. He hushes over to the bathroom rather quickly and comes back with the glass he usually leaves there for brushing his teeth. It must be used but he doesn’t care nearly as he would any other day.
Instead, he groans as he tries to lift himself enough to be able to drink it.
Wilson’s hum of disapproval almost manages to beat his own hiss of pain.
- Shit. He lets out inelegantly. His pain is thick enough to remind him. My shoulder, set it in. He lets out clinically.
- I was waiting for the pills to kick in first . He says as he's lowering to take a pillow by the side to put it on the man’s chest. But fine, let’s get rid of it. He huffs with a disapproving tone. >>
The man takes his vest off and puts it by the chair he dragged in earlier.
House anticipates the pain of replacing it, dreading it despite knowing it’s for a good outcome. He’s already lucky he hasn’t passed out from everything he’s been feeling for the last hours.
It’s like he needed to make sure Dean would be attended to, that he didn’t own a choice. He didn’t even debate the morality of the thing, he simply did as his training allowed. Hoping it would be enough, hoping it would save one more person that night.
When Wilson slowly shuffled to the other side of the bed, on his knees and a bit timid.
House looked at him, how they rarely shared a bed and how he hadn’t expected it to be like this.
When Wilson takes his hand, gripping his wrist just like Sam did some time ago. House has a thought for the man that disappeared, how unusual and crazy that had been to witness.
His mind is clouded and hurts when he thinks back on it, so instead, he tries to focus on Wilson's kind eyes. His lips thin under the pressure of his concentration.
And when a knee slowly pushes some pressure on his ribcage, House knows the rough of it all will happen soon. He breathes in anticipation, his mind breaking at the idea of enduring that pain again. Almost not wanting to feel it, but his rationality taking over.
It’s Wilson, he’s safe. He’s just going to make sure this won’t have more long-lasting effects.
He’s looking out for the both of them, he’s taking care of House. Despite the reminder, the feeling of his bone moving into place, there’s nothing quite like it.
He screams a grunt, and so does Wilson with empathy for the animalistic tendency of delivering pain to his best friend.
Despite the huge amount of pain it rings into his nerves, it then settles like nothing happen. Yet the warmth and the phantom of void in his shoulder lingers.
<< Th- , he huffs as his eyes go over the room to Wilson once again, -hanks. He breathes it out with a wave of relief that it’s done. He can feel it.
- I’ll monitor you for tonight since I’ve been discharged. But if you need more we’ll get you a nurse . Mumbles Wilson under his own breath.
House blinks a few times, tiredness is really not something he feels like fighting, not when he’s home. Safer now than ever.
- I don’t care . Just stay. He says, his mouth hitting the ridges of his words in haste. He reaches out with his good hand to grasp the man’s nearest body part, which end up being his ankle.
-I’ll stay, try to rest now. He lets out peacefully, warmed up to the very ‘’House-like’’ demand. >>
And that’s all House can hear before the freshness of his pillow simply swallows him whole.
Notes:
I did tag this ship late in the game but god do I like me some Wilson/House. I will go down with that ship.
Soon the Greg Castiel scenes will come in, and either I'll wing it and it'll work well or not. Crossing fingers it doesn't feel too OOC.
There's only a few ways I see these both characters actually showing that part of themselves, so let's see if i'm right.
Chapter 18: -18-
Summary:
This one goes out for my Wilson/House lovers, things are evolving. The natural course of evolution if you ask me.
House's blowback for what happened starts with the most forgiving of them all, but it's barely the beginning. Isn't it?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 18
Under Wilson’s dutiful eye, never falling free from his adoring hand. House can’t honestly say it’s a remake of Misery just yet. He’s been woken up twice for meds, something he usually would do by himself. He’s not sure if that’s reassuring, considering he hadn’t woken up by himself. All of this must-have knocked the wind out of him more than he previously thought.
After everything, he’s still unsure when the other shoe will drop. When will Wilson drop the act, even if this thoughtful part of him isn’t a ploy, it’s going to run out at some point. It has to, or else he’ll feel like an ass.
The warm steady palm against his back as he’s trying to stay sitting in bed to take the medication makes him shiver right under his shirt.
He’s one hair shy of feeling the man’s breath against his shoulder, perhaps the thought of it shouldn’t make his brain delve into such a trainwreck of thoughts. He’s not quite sure if he’s to question what was real or what was a trick. Whether to fully believe what he had seen or to awkwardly keep it in and investigate further. Wilson was a dick, but he wasn’t a bad friend. He wouldn't have created something so huge for April's fools joke. And the look on Cuddy’s face told everything about her not knowing this would happen.
Despite wanting the answers, now he’s forced to stay in bed for a few more hours. The sun hasn’t come up yet and Wilson is still at his side, perhaps hoping that he’d go right back to sleep. But he wouldn’t press him, no instead he waits by the side of the bed. Helping him up, his dehydrated body and tight sore back is tense. Arms and hands with a slight trembling aura to them, he’d rather have Wilson feed them to him than have him notice the shaking. Thankfully it couldn’t have been more than twelve hours, could it?
How much time had passed whilst he was waiting against the cold wall of the basement? Had his sense of time distorted that much? How much time had passed before the hospital looked normal again? How did this even work? None can pay a whole hospital staff to disappear.
Wilson’s breathing is calm, kind of helpful actually. He’s kept in this bedroom more easily with it than lost in the space between his ears.
But now that the morphine wore off, and that a new one has been almost inhaled in the space of an instant. He’s left to wait for it to linger into his system like thick cotton balls, his leg is heavy and warm when he moves it, thankfully he knows it’s probably a turned-over ankle instead of a broken bone. His shoulder is still a tight sting when brushed past with the brown’s careful fingers.
There wasn’t anyone better at this than Wilson, the years had told him that much. Because instead of prostitutes who’d only wish for the time to pass, or actual nurses who were shamelessly overworked and often less careful of a touch. Wilson actually cared about him, because he was treating him both as a friend, and as a patient with prior history with medical issues. Wilson..Genuinely was a great guy for this.
Thinking of it, he’s surprised no one had him in for a CT or any scan whatsoever, before leaving to make sure he was fine. His thoughts feels loud and almost too tight in his chest, he could be having some sort of commotion. Things feel slow and intense. He can remember feeling so foggy that there was no way no one hadn’t noticed, had they thought it was a reaction to meds? He can tell from a lot of lacking symptoms that he’s not dying, but the dread of the things he can’t feel in his own body. The neverending list of things that could happen to him that would fail him, that would kill him without the right action or reaction.
Having Wilson around had to work for something, because he’ll get swallowed by the paranoia.
House can’t bring himself to ask. About reassurance, because he’s probably going to be an ass under the anxiety. About simply reaching out, or perhaps anything that can distract his mind from the irrational things that had just happened. How can a man enter the void like a door? How can one be invisible to the eye and manage to move around in real-time? What kind of technology of the future would have done this?
He’s unsure whether or not he should even talk out loud, perhaps he should simply shut up and wait for things to resolve. Not to seek a fight, because it’s ultimately what he’s the best at lately.
He should really apologize to Foreman soon before he thinks he’s not part of the team anymore.
Perhaps looking at Wilson, his soft hazelnut eyes from the bed helps, because his breathing is heavy and low. He’s not sure, but none of them says anything for some time. Not until Wilson breaks contact to get a sight of his watch.
Just because Wilson’s morals are going to get him to spill what happened, and House ain’t exactly sure it’s bedroom talk. There weren't a lot of ways to say that you think you’ve seen something that doesn’t have a natural execution or reasoning. Even less when you’re deeply having a hunch that you’re being pranked and that at any time someone’s going to come in with a camera to debunk it. The pain was more real than anything else at the moment.
Well, scratch that, instead he looks over to the man who’s putting the glass of water by his bed table. He looks back to House with confusion as they watch each other. It’s not like House was big on communication when in pain, it seems Wilson got to learn what his pained faces meant. It was quite endearing if not worrisome how often he would have got to encounter them on the daily. It really said a lot about his chronic pain problem.
<< How did you know it wasn’t a fraud? He states, voice hoarse proving he’s been snoring for quite some time. Breaking silence with hollow cheeks and furrowed brows.
- What? Answers back Wilson, taken aback by the randomness of the question. His voice is low, perhaps tired. He’s the kind to want to sleep but not ask, by principle, they’re both quite peculiar about help.
- The kid, how did you know? That it’s real. He cracks back at it, putting his back against the bed frame. He slowly goes to scratch his own beard with nonchalance. He couldn’t quite crack it.
- Ah, That’s complicated. You know.. -Starts the man as he’s fumbling with his hands, he’s sitting on the side of the bed. House can feel the weight shift on the mattress and the round curve of the man’s body against one of his legs.
- Bullshit, you know why but you don’t want to tell me. Spill it. You think I'll mock you for being daddy’s little choir boy again? That’d be redundant. He states, and the irony makes itself known as Wilson snorts.
- You’re so driven to get it, but you don’t wanna accept I just may just have faith. Wouldn’t that be quite the twist? Lets out Wilson with a shy smile, almost too warm.
- Out of nowhere you start praying again? There’s more interesting vices for you to take back, you know.
The huff that comes out of Wilson is heartwarming, he doesn’t seem too angry at him for getting hurt or for the banter for that matter. He’d probably have to know what happened to be entirely mad anyway. He hoped. Maybe seeing him like this was winning enough pity points not to be scolded just yet. He’d have to prepare for that eventuality. No matter when, he still dreaded to be told he’s cared about enough to bring a grown man in anger fueled anxiety about his well being.
- Well there weren't any cigarettes close.. Wilson’s side smirk is almost irritating, his banter is not as sharp as usual, House’s being spared and he hates it. Despite loving the sight of this genuine smirk being so playful under the lampshade’s golden glow.
He groans, and waves the man away. His neck stings under the quick movement, he sighs.
-I just don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense. He closes his eyes as he passes a hand over his own face, looking for any kind of lead. Maybe in the hollow of his skull, rolling his eyes just manages to bring out the ache further.
- Dorothy is fine, he’ll be out of surgery soon. Lets out Wilson softly. He’ll be put under as the swelling in his brain and ribs has to go down, but they’re optimistic. Cameron keeps updating me.
House looks up to the man, having forgotten to ask. It’s not like the man hadn’t managed to take so much out of him in only one day.
-What does it look like, this mess? From the outside in. He says with a gloomy tone, searching for any kind of reassurance. Being unsure if this is casual enough to ask, he’s leaking in desperate undertones.
Wilson’s help is a good beginning to feeling normal, in this crazy month. Perhaps the closest to stability in this whole scandal.
- I’m not sure, but if anyone can figure it out.. It has to be you doesn’t it? He says with a twinkle in his eye.
This kind of faith can fill up the most selfish of men, with those eyes and this mouth. House swallowed thickly before exhaling.
-I can’t. Not when everyone keeps avoiding answering me. Castiel was playing fish with explanations, but I’m starting to think he actually believed himself. Dorothy was the most obtuse and abrasive of the bunch and Sam didn’t get much time to spill it either. I’m at a dead-end . He says with sagging shoulders, slowly digging himself into the bedframe to lower himself.
- Listen I-..Fine.The-There was a light . Starts Wilson, he looks towards the lamp with a fond stare. House can’t help but look at him intensely, if there were any puzzle pieces left out, he’d better hear them now.
It was so bright I thought I’d become blind if I stared for too long. So I covered my face with my arm and just waited, and when I looked back Castiel’s eyes were different. They were glowing, no iris, nothing. Just.. white. And when it had faded, I heard your voice asking for a cart. It brought me back from…it? You know, I didn’t want to believe it. I really didn’t, that’s not how science works. Like how-how..anything works actually.
But I really do think he’s healed her. You know…She’s back in school, with two loving parents who have no idea who to thank. I was speechless when they thanked me, I just watched the miracle happen. You’re the one who asked him. Wasn’t it? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?
House frowns, he can’t recall light, or anything at all for the matter. He just knows one moment Castiel had a hand in the situation but only that she was convulsing on the floor from his involvement.
But then the words he’s heard Claire say seems to hit home.
- Claire, the kid said the same, about the light, but you guys never talked to each other. He lets out with a frown. Puzzled by such a cheap trick, easily one of the first words in the bible. Blinding white light, holy spirits.
- I did see that. You know, I’m not paid to say any of this, I wouldn’t joke about a patient’s cancer statuts, you’ve got to know that somewhere in you. He says as he lowers his own hands on his lap, leaving House to think it through.
- The brat insinuated only believers can see. But believe what? God? Castiel? Where’s the science in that? Blind faith isn’t quite rational.
- Miracles . Lets out the thin voice of James within a single breath. His whisper was thick and excited. Enlightened even. You can’t rationalize miracles. They’re statistically odd, unable to be resolved. It’s your magic trick.
House is left at a wall, any build up of excitement of having heard a new testimony goes to sink in darkness from the analysis, how can he even fix something he can’t see? There’s something rather unfair about it all, despite the irony of not being worthy. He actually tried to believe in something so fickle once upon a time, but god wasn’t there in the pain. He didnt get to be there in anything else either. Wasn’t it quite the selfish sense of community he’d now also feel not a part of. Adding it to the endless list.
There’s a conspiracy brewing under his eyelids, drowning in the silence between them.
He’s somewhat left for words here, unable to truly come up with something either smart, cunning or simply heartfelt. Wilson seems to have it figured out, enough for House to not want to burst his bubble. The man clearly wanted to believe in this theory, but he’s not sure himself he’ll ever do. It sounds too..elitist.
-Anything can be a miracle if you don’t know how it works. That’s the whole gimmick of them, to rationalize the lack of meaning. Why do they care if I have faith in Science instead? Sure saved a lot more lives, it’s a gift that keeps on giving. We’re…I’m too tired for this. He sighs, before looking at the empty spot on the bed by his side. Unable to debate further without feeling dizzy and self defeated. Wilson be damned.
- You know, even if it’s faith. You’ll still get to the bottom of this, I’m not sure you can even turn it on and off like that. Believe me, I tried to get you to. There’s nothing quite like this. I’m starting to get I wasn’t meant to block your way, you know..To protect you but be by your side instead. Shares the younger man with a well rounded sigh, rubbing his hands together with a slight shyness in his face. And now they’re both looking at the side of the bed that’s unoccupied. There’s a warm hollow on his leg, but it doesn’t push enough to hurt, instead its almost hovering heat.
- I’m not even sure that’s right. I must have been hit pretty hard. He snorts, unsure what to do with the confession. He turns back his face to look back at Wilson and he’s faced at how close they are.
He can see most pores on his face, the wrinkles even when his face is resting. The nook of his neck was a hint of flesh under his pristine white collar.
The warm hand on his thigh is supportive at best, that’s what he’s telling himself when he meets the man’s eyes. It’s not like any of the thousands of innuendos over the years got him to this moment where he’ll get kissed and have to explain they were jokes. You know, between comfortable men with their sexualities.
But instead his lips part and he’s just breathing in and out, his eyes are looking at anything Wilson greatly encompasses. It’s distracting, perhaps the morphine kicked in because his eyelids are thick and he’s aware of his own blinking by the minute.
-Don’t get yourself killed for this. You have people here, actually rooting for you, you know? Whispers Wilson with a certain flair, his eyes are soft and worried. House can’t help but want to shrug that intimacy right off with a joke, but his throat is getting dry again.
- Of the top of my head, I’m persuaded three hookers would lose their main incomes. He starts off with a light tone, perhaps a bit amused. Ah, you. You’ll find another annoying old man to bicker with, knee issues are common in middle-aged men.
Wilson sighs with a light side-smile, something quite beautiful to look at.
- It would be pretty hard to find one this stubborn. You’re an ass, House. He snorts back with trembling shoulders of quiet laughter.
- Tell me something I don’t know already. He pipes back without much effort. Sarcasm dripping thick, feeling pretty pleased with himself.>>
Notes:
Man, my Castiel lovers are being tested. I really can't help but end up making scenes that were planned to be tiny end up big enough for a whole chapter. But I can tell you, Castiel is in around 3-4 scenes, my ass just manages to make too-long scenes that would be shorter usually. I'm a romantic, what can I say, I take my pizza extra cheesy.
Chapter 19: -19-
Summary:
House can't deny he's had enough of keeping secrets if they're getting him nowhere.
Wilson's only looking for ways to reach deeper than the surface level.
Unbeknownst to both Wilson and House, they thrived in the interactions despite hating parts of them.
Notes:
Another scene that was supposed to be shorter but ended up going on longer than intended. Though I'm not mad, it helps me build on their connection. I am looking forward to the scene I kept picturing for most of these chapters.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
<< House! Lets out Wilson, the frustrated huff being heard is almost comical despite being scolded by it. Perhaps it would have been funnier if it wasn’t because House was on the freezing floor.
He genuinely looks up to catch sight of the assault to his ears. Wilson’s usual pristine shirt is messed up and his tie is long gone. It looks better this way, Wilson has horrible tastes in ties. Perhaps he should focus on the man’s face, it’s not like he can see much from here. Hair messy as one’s pillow could allow. He’s not going anywhere considering trying to get up puts pressure on his fucked up shoulder. And he’s not going to put his weight on his bad leg, so instead he waits for the inevitable. Wilson’s aura of helpfulness isn’t without resentment.
There was no correlation with the fact the man had fallen asleep in the bed with him. It was now with dread to recognize it was that same fact that had gotten him awake. Being too close, suffocating in sudden proximity, and then waking him up from the sound of flesh absorbing the hit. It had been rather fast, so much so that House barely grunted as an answer. He could easily guess it had been muffled by the wooden floor that he actively hated at the moment being.
Thing is, he overcompensated by using his good leg to walk on. But even that hadn’t been enough, shunned as he is, there isn’t much to say when Wilson gathers strength to help him up. They’re both groggy and he can tell they’re not very grant about smelling each other’s sticky breath.
Propping him up carefully against his warm embrace, House gets a whiff of the Wilson’s hair scent, a sweet shampoo, as close to Lavender as it gets. He could bet it’s a woman’s for those strands to stay so soft. It wouldn’t be that surprising after so long, but was it enough to become proof?
- 's Nothing. Have to take a leak . He grunts off still mid-drift, perhaps his usual morphine dosage is slightly lower than now because he feels rather drowsy. Considering they both woke up for it, Wilson sighs and helps him to the bathroom. And he thens awkwardly shuffles back when House starts undoing his joggings enough to start a light stream.
The sound of it is very clear in the room, but after the water Wilson fed him all night, basically each time he woke up. James really couldn’t complain, he was in fact, the exact reason this moment was taking so damn long.
As usual, House’s brain boots up on the current issues. As the fog disperse, the gears start getting in order. Like being hit by a tidal wave, he remembers the night before with a slight flinch. Feeling especially raw and sore, it was rather hard to forget. Bitter are the thoughts that follows, the lack of understanding. The whole deal of not being sure where things must stand, he thrives in the certainty of facts, this is horrible to even think about. These tangled strings are more bite than he could chew, but he’s too deep to back out now, isn't he?
As if his life couldn’t get any more messy, he finishes rather quickly under Wilson’s worried stance. It’s polite to make sure he’s stable and propped up properly to piss, but rather uncomfortable because James actually cares, it’s not just clinical. He wouldn’t admit out loud, but he actually cares about being naked around him. Who knew so much of his world depended on Wilson’s polite staring. Despite all appearances, Wilson wasn’t anyone else. Even if many could resemble a hint of him, barely few could follow such a charade for so long. Point is, there weren't a lot of people he’d endure in such a tight and intimate environment without wanting to make them run for their lives, there isn't much of it that Wilson would actually consider scary, this long in their relationship. He’s not sure who would give in first in this specific situation, Wilson’s need for providing or House’s annoyance.
- You know, if you’re into that, you just have to ask. He grumbles before getting a hand on the sink, using it to lever himself against it. Limping felt worse today and it gnawed at his mood. Joggings hanging loosely on his body, but now covered, he felt rather casual.
Wilson stutters at the implied joke, resembling the Ugly Duckling by his shifty grimace from the reflection of the mirror. It looks surprisingly good on him though.
- W-What? It wouldn’t have happened if you woke me up for help, now I have to worry you’re going to fall again out of pure stubbornness, or spite. I can’t tell which is worse. He says under pursed lips, proving once again that they both can be grumpy if they so choose. Considering his worry, it was the anguish House could live with. Wilson's justifications were somewhat rational.
- Murphy’s Law really did a number on you, didn’t it? He barks back before lowering himself to splash water on his own face, hoping to reach some sort of mental clarity by it. Or simply wash away the night terrors and sweat. I’ll be careful mom, now hush.
-You’re delusional if you think I’m leaving you alone after the stunt you just pulled. Lets out the scolding voice of an overprotective Wilson. James' enthusiastic anger is shown with a step inside the bathroom to prove his point.
And there it is, the other foot. Is it because he showed a gram of bodily autonomy that he’s now unable to be spared from scolding? If he’d have his luck he’d choose a better moment than this to be reminded, this is more humiliating than anything else.
All he required was the bathroom, if he can’t spare some time in there alone there isn’t much else he can do that Wilson won’t pry.
Leaving the line between Caring and Overprotectiveness very blurry. House sighs as he realizes this is going to be tiresome to deal with the aftermath of his actions.
- Which one? He jokes, but the sigh that followed couldn’t follow through in the thick silence. There’s handles bars in the shower, I’m going to be fine. He says with a tight and serious look towards Wilson through the reflection of his bathroom mirror. His voice is fairly monotone and flat, hoping it’ll proceed to make Wilson believe him better, despite having him groomed into not trusting anything he usually says with his actions.
WIlson blinks twice, realizing what’s implied but before this shocks him the rationality kicks in.
- You really had them installed? I thought you said they were demoralizing. He lets out with everlasting wonder, probably because he had been bugging him for years now about getting those drilled in.
Something about the man’s surprised stare and brilliant eyes of pride and comfort will not make any of this easier.
- Don’t believe me? Check for yourself. He says with a shrug, hoping to get at least some sort of distance between them.
It seems to work, Wilson walks into the rather large installment, and it doesn’t take long before House presses the shower’s numeric pad to start the water out. Something about seeing it under the bathroom’s light, and seeing the beginning of a knowing smirk on Wilson’s face had managed to create this exact situation.
It usually takes a few seconds before it kicks out wildly, so that the heaters can affect the water’s temperature. The man barely looks up that he’s under the line of fire. The spray is thick and Wilson’s hand on the disabled handles crisps into a tight hold. His knuckles turn white and his face goes through a whole character development, from the pride of finally winning an argument with House over his own wellbeing ; to pure shock as the water out of the hose is getting out, and then to deep seated disappointment.
Initially he hadn’t intended for this to go this way, but it’s the improvisation of it all that seems to get to him.
House snickers at the sight of the man’s wet damn curls on his head and face. His white shirt starts hugging him under the spray and his socks are drenched rather quickly. He can see the darker spots where a light area of his torso has hairs. It’s quite the discovery to see that he stopped shaving the area, it’s probably faster this way.
-Hah, It’s– Shit. House! Shrieks the man under the newly found pressure and wet embrace of the water.
It doesn’t take long for Greg to press the button to stop it, ending the man’s sentence rather quickly. The initial stun was optimally the only thing he wanted out of this. His point made there was no reason to keep going, not when they were both clothed at least. The man’s trousers were now soaking as well, deep seated brown.
Using the glass panel to stay upright, House lowered his head towards the side. His hair brushes past the cold glass softly as he bemoans a pale imitation of the man.
- I’d think twice before assuming I'll make any of this easy for you if you start to stick to my ass like glue. I’d rather make any of this clear, you’ll think the Home Alone kid was shy If you don’t lower your whole schtick by at least 20 % . He lets out with a steel-like bluff, hoping the man wouldn’t catch on.
Considering he’s barely able to stay up without shit propping himself up, that’s actually the one time where this annoying piece of gear works for its intended purpose other than holding shampoo bottles in the clear gap. Despite going through the whole deal of having them installed, and also having to ask the owner of the block apartment for his approbation to modify the already existing before he moved-in bathroom. It’s the hassle of any disability, yet he can’t complain that being better safe than sorry is stupid. He’s dense and stubborn but not blind to his age and how the curve of time towards his health wasn’t going forward in a smiley face. It was..a precaution, the fact Wilson had complained about them was only a reminder of his own mortality.
They were only a few hundreds worth of a fashion statement, unless he was too high to stand upright too late at night after terrible shifts. Then they became apparently the best item in the whole area. Having to rely on them came with the bitter aftertaste of being weak.
Perhaps Wilson has half of good ideas sometimes, only sometimes.
- You think you can intimidate me into not caring for you? Starts Wilson, aghast by the audacity of the statement, he’d look credible if it wasn’t for the fact he looked straight out of a wet t-shirt event.
House snorts, looking away to the pattern of the tiles he’s been aware of for the past ten years like it’s the most fascinating he’s ever seen.
- I don’t care, just give me some air. He deadpans, hoping it’ll get the point across faster. I’m suffocating under your worry. It’s not attractive to be too damn attentive. He says before reaching for the towel holder by the right of him, slowly reaching for it without balancing his weight wrong. One wrong movement and he’d lose this credibility he has fought to earn. It wasn’t everyday he had to start from the floor up, literally.
Once acquired, he then throws it on Wilson’s chest softly, it thuds against him before falling into his arms, who were moving uphill to catch it by a mile late.
- My ex-wives wouldn’t agree with that statement. I’m pretty sure yours as well. Huffs Wilson as he’s drying his own face off, patting away the warm water, reaching droplets nearing their escape. You could learn a thing or two about attentiveness! I could have had my phone on me, or worse.
House ignores him to leave the room, barely making a run for it considering his loose knee and the sting in his ankle. He manages to get by the nightstand, looking up to see if Wilson followed him before taking the phone in his folded vest.
- The plural of your comparison is not looking good on your resume . Multiple wifes aren’t usually a thing to brag about, unless you’re scoring them all at once . Have you never been on a first date? No wonder you even managed to get one. He says louder, to keep the man unbeknown to the fact he’s texting the team to now reach him on Wilson’s phone, since his was with his vest when he used it to apply pressure on Dean, it’s over at the lost and found of cuckoo cases for now until he can have access to the hospital. That goes for his keys, wallet and pills. But he could probably get them later if they’re not being reviewed as crime scene clues.
It doesn’t take long to erase this message, leaving the phone to lay back in the velvet pocket. When he looks up on cue, Wilson is drying his hair in the doorframe. Unaware as a lamb, a very wet one at that.
- You’re proving my point further, it’s no rocket science that you’re the only one annoyed at people caring about your wellbeing . Which is even more worrisome. If I didn’t know you I’d think you’d want me gone so you can off-yourself in the most innovative way . Lets out the man with a warmer tone, whilst he delves into what-ifs.
House walks back around the bed, hating he’s had it in the middle of the room for so long, considering he had to avoid corners and basically walk along for it. It’s not like being able to put the last corner of the blanket in the right spot when making his bed was that important when today it was downright in the way of his plans. He was reconsidering his whole decision for the moment being. He looks at Wilson for most of it, an intense gaping stare to let him steam in his own statement.
He shuffles back in the bathroom, leaving Wilson in the doorframe. Under his dutiful stare, and deeply unsettling comment. How gritty, has the man gotten some edge from the bathroom to the door? He carefully ignores how the man has not commented on his ridiculously gauche walk-cycle.
- The more you try to analyze me the more I want to stick my electric toothbrush into the outlet, I’d stop here if I were you. He slowly pushes the door to close as he talks.
I can’t be taking in more pills on an empty stomach or I’ll burst. Make yourself busy with breakfast, will you? He says before closing the door on him. >>
Leaving a wet Wilson clinging to a grey water-stained towel with an everlasting buzzing phone.
Notes:
t's still all in the works, whatever happens to the other fictions, I will finish this one fic. Because this one is the closest to my heart. Can't say how long it'll take but I'll keep going
Chapter 20: -20- P1
Summary:
Kickstarting plotlines and adding a surprising character to the mix. Cameo by our beloved bobby for a hot second and House's attempts at opening up.
Notes:
P2 of this chapter should be coming up rather quickly, I only need to review a few things. I realized I was pressuring myself too much about who's what. When this fanfic was made to keep writing, no matter what it meant to the story or the grammar.
The real ones will keep reading whatever happens. One comment I received on a past chapter really went to my heart about it. Thank you whoever you are, Never change as well <3 I love your enthusiasm.
All of the comments are so nice, that it makes my heart sing. Thank you y'all! I couldn't have asked for better feedback, y'all provided more than I imagined this older set of fandoms would. Yet both of them are so wonderful that I'm having so much fun exploring the psyche of them characters. Picking them apart and trying to make something of it in here. Put your seatbelts on people, this fiction is not stopping anywhere near now. I'm planning K's of words and I'm having a blast summoning a cynical and sarcasm-driven doctor and the Team Free Will. Cheers! :D
Chapter Text
He can feel the ticking clock on the wall mock him, there’s no making sense in it all. Perhaps if he hadn’t gotten himself a group of strays as colleagues, they’d all be better off. That’s easier to tell himself than actually listen to the deep concern he’s being given. It’s rehashed, already seen before, it’s not like they’re bringing out new concerns in the years he’s known them. There’s nothing actually wrong about them, they’re doing their job, as friends, alas Cuddy’s a superior. Meaning he’s got to sit at the principal desk and take it like an adult, sign papers and cross his fingers when he’s being told to say he’s not going to do it again.
Hell’s bells ring into the tight of his temples, not loud enough to deafen Cuddy’s worry in her angry passive tone. His thoughts become a humming buzz, forecasts say it’s bound to stay cloudy for some time.
It usually hurts the most when it’s genuine, when it’s about his life, when they care. Easier to brush off with a good old dose of ignorance and denial. But House hasn’t had enough of it, clearly not if she’s to have any say in it. So he sits, hand tight on his left leg’s jeans. The other hangs loosely on the high cane in between his legs. As nonchalant as they come, which is rich coming from the fact he’s been dumped exposition of a lifetime by the cops.
The tight hold of the cast and its hardened plastic bites into his calf. Damn you Wilson and his good intentions. He’ll have a blast trying to pierce it later when he’s back home. What a price to pay to be allowed here. Thankfully, being reviewed medically had been enough to give him some calm into the shitstorm that was brewing every minute away from the hospital staff.
He’s not really looking peachy and that would supposedly help his case usually but now it simply makes everything feel like utter bullshit.
He can feel the heavy eyes of Wilson’s puppy stare from Cuddy’s right side. If she’s to be the devil this time, he’s the angel on her shoulder reminding her to lay easy. He’s a cripple afterall, a victim of whatever that was, and most importantly, prone to suicidal intents. As folders goes, he’s the antagonist.
As far as they knew, he was both the victim and the perpetrator, who knows what the investigation will dig up. He’d probably listen deeper to their debate, but he’s still vibrating in nervous energy since he’s been dumped information about the whole debacle. There’s too much of it he’s missing out on. So much of it didn’t help whatsoever. He needs time to process it, take it apart and find out what it actually connects.
Unable to pipe in a word in their stern voices, he’s as invisible as the artistry pot laying on the desk on his left. Collecting dust and outdated since the beginning of the 2000’s.
Waiting on them, it makes him dull, losing the edge of the current case.
If he were to bring it back into his mind, focus on the case, he could remember a few events, in the rush of things.
Somehow, he had entered early, 3 maybe 4 AM to discover Dean Winchester in peak shape with his team in the basement? The math didn’t check out, or his mind was lapsing. Wilson had no way to have found him at Midnight.
He couldn’t have stayed that long, could he? It would explain the tired ache in his bone, the burning fatigue under his skin. The dull headaches every couple of hours if he doesn’t drink an ounce of water. Like a man at sea, he’s left feeling brittle.
He’s been starved and dehydrated for more than 15 hours? There was no way he slept through most of this. Passing out that long was unhealthy, thank god he was breathing.
And where had everyone else been? How did nobody notice not going to work for a whole day? Do people call it the skip day now? What is happening? It’s too much, maybe Wilson’s right. He’s in over his head.
He’s feeling himself getting madder by the minute. And venting to them right now could actually make them think he should get some time off, which he’s looking to avoid like the pest. He’s fine, it’s them with their strange lives. The Winchesters, Castiel, the whole of them. He’ll be back to normal in no time. Once this has been investigated thoroughly and debunked.
He needs room to think, to actually make some progress without having to read other people’s moods in the room, even less when they’re intent on making everything about him. His mistakes, his carelessness and flaws. It’s way too much.
The whole concept of him sitting there in the basement for at least 12 hours wasn’t sitting right by him. Ass numb and passing in and out. It felt wrong, rather idiotic of an explanation. How could that even be? He hadn’t been hit hard, he’d simply gotten pushed by air.
Dean had fought for what had felt half an hour, had it been way longer? How long had they been in the basement talking to each other, sizing each other up? Dean had endured the worst injuries, and yet there he was forgetting a whole day.
He barely had a coffee that Chase had brought in, a few sips of that and then he’d been off meds and any sustainable fuel for the next 15 hours maximum? No wonder he felt so void inside, withdrawal was laying still behind the other more noticeable symptoms. Even with vicodin in his bloodstream now, his body is still catching up to the tidal wave of the events. The fever was still making his back sticky and his throat sore.
What was most frustrating, was there was no fucking cameras working on battery, nothing. What kind of hospital relies entirely on regenerators but doesn’t link their cameras to it? There was so much to this that was convenient for the enemy forces. How had they not lost many patients to this? Had it all been hallucinations?
It was a thick dread in the lining of his stomach, coating the inside with his anxiety. It finally sunk in that he had been on his own for whatever long that had been. It’s nuts. Hallucinations or not, he’d been in the basement for over 12 Hours on his own. Staying there for some reason, unable to remain stable enough to stay awake.
It was hard to make sense out of it, so much so that House walked out when Wilson and Cuddy started arguing. There wasn’t anything cute about it anymore, Mom and Dad were starting to gnaw at his nerves.
He’s almost sure they haven’t noticed yet, it’s not like they actually cared about what he had to say by now. They had made it painfully clear.
Being stuck in Cuddy’s office hadn’t been the right move to keep him interested or even listening.
After encountering the police for what felt like forever, having to make some sort of sense from where he’s not a criminal and hasn’t been working on one for weeks by now. Whatever unimportant clue that would let them get lost, and give him some room to finally breathe.
Anything that would work, anything at all. That’s how desperate he feels. He’s had every reason to lie, he hasn’t lost this much not to figure it out. Too much time in this, not enough results. Was it truly lying if he’s avoiding answers with some of the truth? Distracting at the very least.
He didn’t have time to debate on the morals of it all, one thing he knew. He’d lose access to it all if all of it would be uncovered.
For once, he was happy that his vest had been on Dean’s chest by choice. Despite it saving his life. Because now, the fake ID he had given him after the interrogation time they had together, he had it on and it had been scanned by the feds and they were off the hook on his actual identity. He wasn’t this Hendrix Cooper or whatever it had been on those fake identity markers from all of the random states. Thankfully those were still in the glove compartment.
No one could be a state police and own so much contraband in their trunk, that’s for damn sure.
He would get treatments, bills. It’s not like he’ll go on correcting them when it benefits him more than he could ask for.
Even on his own he’s not sure he could have pulled this one off without collateral damage. He’s not worried about Cuddy sending Dorothy off to another hospital willing to deal with the bill. Now that he’s profitable. Now that he’s an actual patient, with actual medical problems who makes sense. And for them, the case hasn’t changed much. It’s still someone in a coma with medical care, as helpful as that could be.
House feels himself walk painfully towards the secretary desk. After obtaining Dean’s new room number, he doesn’t miss a heartbeat wondering about Cuddy and Wilson. If they want to battle over custody, addictions or perhaps even his license. He’ll let them debate over it wherever they want, as long as he’s not asked to defend himself. Not now, not yet. He doesn’t have the energy to care.
He’s not entirely sure he deserves his license, perhaps for selfish reasons. It’s a clear wonder why he’s still owning one by now, he’s one wind away from losing it all way too often to count. Some of it becomes a gamble, laying your hands off away from the meter, letting it run its course. Taking your hand off the wheel and closing your eyes, waiting for the road to lead you astray. Awaiting the doom, the karma of whatever this had been, this self-sacrifice of a life.
He’ll stay as long as it’s allowed, when it’s out, he’ll get creative. Isn’t that what he always does? He’s not going to lose it today, he can feel it. It’s in the air, it’s in the way they didn’t really cared about what he answered to the cops. As long as he was alive, and in most pieces, they’d eventually start forgiving him for the broken hospital toys. They’d be monthly billed on his income, making some nights colder. But eventually they’d lose track of time and let it down tenderly, perhaps even forgive and forget.
Move on, optionally.
It’s not his time yet. Gambling it away never felt like a choice, but a reaction to his actions. Waiting for the verdict was only part of the chase.
The lingering aches in his body makes him decades of years heavier, pondering about the meaning of his stunts for such an unsatisfying result. When he’s finally reached the room, Dean’s there lying peacefully unaware. This time he’s on a respirator and actually looks like he belongs in a hospital bed. At least now they know why, as if that was any reassurance. His chest is tightly secured by bandages, body lifeless and monitored by the second. It makes House ponder on his previous predicament and if it would interfere with this one. Would the man be still in a coma, after all of his wounds healed? Swelling and all gone, would he walk up again?
It’s striking to now know what those eyes looked like, what his voice sounded like. There was a fighter under this veil of sickness. Even he could notice as much. He could still hear his low voice register with annoyance, and then again it was gone like the wind. There wasn’t a lot to it House could feel relating to, but the sheer stubborn need for belonging surely did it’s job. He could humbly find that respectable about Dean, the soldier in him seems brave and incredibly stupid. Which House wasn’t entirely averse to.
It was incredible what that man had managed to do in so little time. Not everyone caught his interest and respect all at once.
House shuffles towards the man’s chart, and in silence he manages to connect each injury to the moment they shared in the night. The incredible loss of blood was still painfully tainting House’s hands in his dreams. He hadn’t done too bad considering the man was still alive. He couldn’t say the same for the others. He doesn’t entirely adore the idea of a ¼ success ratio, not when it came to human lives.
He was left wondering about the man’s sacrifices, wounds and stubborn striving to save his family from whatever that was. If it had been real, it was brave and reckless. He must truly care about Sam, Claire even. How much of a hero complex could one man hold? It reeked of self-sacrifice, he could tell. One can always find another, martyr complexes aren’t easily found on the streets.
<< They said it’s going to be fine, that some swelling went down on the most crucial days and it’s looking bright. A woman’s voice lets out behind him, her voice clear and authoritarian. But somewhat warm, like a disappointed mother. Aura of a substitute teacher if he’s to believe any of it.
House turns his body towards her, making up for the lack of mobility in his neck. His face stayed somewhat blank.
Chart wavering under his hand as he’s taking in the sight of the woman. He gets a full sight of her, she’s sitting in the visiting chairs by the bathroom. And he’s not sure how he hasn’t noticed her before, she’s not bad to look at, if you’re into the strict but loving teacher type. She’s round-faced with some square edges, her jaw is prominent and her hazelnut eyes soften the blow that is the result of age in her face.
Time and stress visibly been eating at her, openly and visually.
She’s probably younger than him by a few years, maybe a decade. She looks somewhat rough, weary, perhaps worried. As if he’s one to talk, it’s the longest he’s been standing in three days.
- They say a lot of things . He mutters under his breath, before frowning. Let me guess, Claire’s mom?
She huffs whilst putting her coat on her arm to rest it, she looks at him with a side-eye of incredulity.
- Not exactly. She starts softly, walking to his side to then look at Dean with a fond stare. Step-mom, more like. She snorts softly. Lately closer to Legal Guardian.
- You’re very late, he’s been in those twice over now. He deadpans with curiosity leaking out of his pores. All of his thoughts gone by the wind, to this new clue standing here by his side.
The woman’s haircut is short, so short she probably gets called a man from behind. With the thousands of flannel layers on her, and the dark hair. It’s a wonder she isn’t Sam’s mom. He’s pretty sure she'd be way older if she was, but one could wonder if they shop all at the same stores. Since they both dress exactly the same. As a matter of fact, Castiel was the only one with just two layers as it seemed. All the Winchesters and progeny seemed to come in a bundle of casual lumberjacks attire. He’s unsure whereas it’s for protection or simply dressing for the winter. They seem to stay somewhat in deeper and darker shades where Castiel and his bright blue tie was definitely more of an eye catcher. Showing even more of an intent in their choices. Choosing to stand back, blend in with civilians in this winter. Where Castiel probably hadn’t even pondered about changing to look according to outside’s shiver inducing snow.
Her boots creak on the floor when she shifts her weight on them, still wet and squeaking, she sternly is looking past Dean to the machine monitoring him. House can’t help but stare at the hints of collected calm in her eyes. She’s determined but aghast by what she’s looking at.
-He’s family, but I’m not exactly here to get him. Claire texted me four days ago, saying she needed help. She texted eight of us, this address exactly. Since then she’s not answering her phone and I’m terrified of the worst. If he’s like this because of something big, I’m not sure how she’s ever going to be fine. It’s terrible.
-You sound like you’re expecting him to get hurt. But if I learned anything from her is that she’s trying to be like them. I can imagine that’s why you’re only hearing about this now. He says, somewhat honest in his pattern seeking tendencies, he’s got nothing to lose to ask.
-That’s just part of the job for them. She’s just a kid, she wants to belong. I’m sure you can empathize, being a doctor. You must see many teens make life-changing mistakes.
Her tone is displeased at the topic, perhaps hurt and House is unsure if she’s in the know. Is she part of it all? Is she an enabler? She’s definitely against her daughter hunting, which for once shows some common sense in their weird family. That’s a first.
- That's the risk of the job. He lets out in a huff, putting the chart back carefully before taking a step towards the chairs. Until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter. Teens are into anything that’ll make them feel alive. It’s a tale as old as age.
The woman’s eyes narrow on him, they meet halfway in silence. Her lips are thin into a tight line.
-I told them I'd check here first, then call them if she’s safe. I’m not even sure what to tell them now that I have no idea what happened. She confides with a sigh. He sits with a huff. She doesn’t hook to the bait, instead she goes on forward with the topic. Which ends up adding even more questions to House’s backlog.
-Maybe we can rectify that. If we share, we’ll have enough to go on in our lives. He lets out whilst laying his back against the chair. I happen to have information on how he got like this, but I have no idea what did it. If you’re like them, you might know.
-What are you? She says whilst frowning, her stare growing suspicious.
This is the ultimate sentence they all seem to throw at him, despite his shabby exterior he’s pretty sure he’s not what a demon would think to look like. Unless said-demon wants to appeal to only a specific array of clients. Actually he has no idea how he could get away with it if he tried to answer anything supernatural. Maybe they’d be so used to it that it would fall like spit in rain. Would they believe him if he said God? It was amusing to think they wouldn’t bat an eye at such a ludicrous lie. Nevertheless, they all seem so suspicious and paranoiac that an ulterior force is there only for them. Only to capture or vilify whatever this is worth for them. It’s almost bothersome in more ways than one. Not only it makes it harder to get what he wants, but it’s also very true to trauma and PTSD. Confirming that they probably truly hunt something. And this path of thinking gets him in a very dark place again where innocent lives are hurt and killed over psychosis and demented people. It’s hard not to cling on it, but he tries to shake it off by answering in the most honest way he could gather in such a time of need.
- Overqualified for this. He says with a sigh, he scratches his forehead before continuing.
What’s invisible, British and strong?
She stutters half into surprise and confusion.
- I-I don’t know that one. She lets out with a confident streak, despite the weary stare.
-No, in your magical books there was nothing to it. Everything Vampire to Chupacabras. Theory is, Dean didn’t write it yet because it had just happened. Unless they didn’t figure it out. I’m left at a wall here, there’s too many different labels I can’t pinpoint what it could be. I don’t know what that she was.
She opens her mouth, unsure of what he had just said but the shock doesn't seem to linger towards the monsters. Instead she takes a step forward and stands in front of him on the chair, eyes lingering on him tighter than a diamond under pressure.
- Tell me what you know. She says, serious and somewhat angry. Maybe she hadn’t said his name yet, but then again it proves he’s actually involved in this.
- You people aren’t listening. Do I have to spell it out? He’s bedridden because something, some sort of invisible force threw him in drywall like a paperweight. She sounded British and I couldn’t hear her all the time. It’s like I was holding a radio and it was giving up in the frequency. It’s– He looks away, feeling close to something, anything. His hands fidgets in the air as he’s trying to grasp it, it's still thick in a blur. It physically gives him a migraine the more he tries to give into the lack of logic this all has. It’s extremely dense in its lore. When will this be over?
It stopped when he left. Was-Was he the radio? He was pulling some sort of frequency, giving me access to it only when he was near. But why bother? Even if he wasn’t aware of it, why would I even get to hear and not see? How could they even pull that off? It’s not like we had time to test it, or discuss it.
-Dean’s totally human. Castiel’s the one for frequencies, or at least that’s as much as I know about the angel radio. She lets out, still stunned by his self-talk. Or perhaps letting him talk himself deeper into a hole. He’s not entirely sure yet, but doesn’t have the strength to care. Anything to further himself into answers, he won’t let that go.
-Angel radio? Are you implying all angels talk to each other through some sort of frequency? That’s..She can’t be an angel can’t she? Angels aren't known for invisibility as a superpower in the big books. Even if I pretend Castiel is actually what he says he is, none of this clicks.
- You met him and still don’t believe it? He fried a woman’s eyes off, sounds like one of those assholes angels to me. If that doesn’t do it, I don’t know what will. She says with some sort of build up of anger towards the man.
Something he was surprised to acknowledge even more than what was being said.
Castiel was lousy but not specifically easy to hate. His charm was more in his childlike wonder and endless curiosity, half the populace could deal with that, use that. Step-mother alike, she probably had more to say about the father of her kid. House scratched the arm rest nervously.
Last I heard he followed Dean around since saving him, but it wasn’t great. Man couldn’t wait until someone took his feathery ass out. He’s a magnet to all of the others, demons and all. Getting them all in danger simply by being there. Claire has enough to deal with already. I don’t need to get to know him to know he’s bad news. I don’t have to like him after everything he’s done.
-When did you last see him? He left a few weeks ago. He lets out, still processing what has been said.
- Over a year, but people like him don’t change. He looked obsessed with his mission, and didn't mind putting anyone else in danger for it. Like some sort of terminator. She looks towards Dean’s silent frame. At least they cared, thought they’d rub off on him. But if he’s able to leave them like this, I’m pretty sure his family’s not too far behind.
-Wasn’t that you and him, the tall hunk? Claire said that was her family. She didn’t even get to mention you actually. He lets out with a tight gaze towards her micro-expression. Would she even take any of his bait by now?
So, Castiel had been bad. That was an interesting turn of events, considering the man had been nothing but compliant for so long. House felt hairs on his arms bristle under the thought it was all a play.
He would have clocked it, wouldn’t he? It couldn’t have been manipulation, the man had no idea about so many things that it was extremely hard to fake and keep up for so long. It would be extreme to pretend so many behaviors at once, wouldn't it? Or had his mask eventually slipped when he finally broke and left?
If it’s all an act, then that makes House a fool. And such frustration makes him want to confront Castiel again, after so long to finally get the end of it. Even if that means he gets thrown in hall by the man himself.
- The Winchesters usually don’t stay long in one town. Unless they’re like this. She waves towards the bed, to Dean’s silent frame and hovering chest.
This kind of life isn’t good for them, and if I can help it, I’ll steer Claire away from it. As much as I can, if it’s to save her life. She thinks she knows what it’s like to lose everything, but she still has her future. You and I know that’s more valuable than whatever she feels when she’s putting herself in danger for pride. She has a chance to live a normal life, that has to count for something, right? She vents softly, her voice dropping in the depth of her chest. Hurt bleeding from it.
- Would that have worked on you? He said with a huff, laying his hands on the armrest with a high chin. You don’t strike me as a follow the rules type. What makes you think a teenager will follow yours? Dad’s basically out of the picture, and mom’s dead. You’re just one more person she’s probably terrified of losing. She wants to matter. I know a falling plan when I hear it.
She looks at him with thin lines for eyes, jaw tight and one fist is over her hip, almost cop-like. Is she armed? She’s like them isn’t she? How many guns is she hiding in her trunk?
-I don’t remember asking you for your opinion. Where are they? She lets out with venom in her words.
- Sam’s gone for Claire. Can’t say where, all I know I was over Dean’s bloody chest. Sam ran into oblivion. Just like that, saying he needed to go get her. I can’t make sense of it either.
- They’ve never encountered that before, portals? That sounds crazy. And I thought hearing about angels was the peak of this, whatever this is.
-You tell me. Yet here I am with mister Comatose over there. He’s my only clue, each time. I don’t know how to contact Castiel, man didn't seem to know how phones worked, let alone pagers. He mocks with despair, finding one person actually making some sort of sense was a relief. Not that she was easy to pry, but she did answer with more clarity.
-Dean used to pray, and Castiel was there in a heartbeat. Considering it’s the only one he cares about. If only he did the right thing and gave Claire her father back . She muttered to herself. If you really need him, I’m not sure there are more ways to get to him.
House snorted and casually looked at Dean with a stunned look on his face, mouth slightly open. His voice came out rasp.
- You’re starting to make this sound like a sitcom. Or a great Roman tragedy. One’s never awake when the other is near. I’m starting to think it’s related. He says outloud with the intent of bouncing ideas in the air. He looks back to her, sensing a lack of answer. She’s opening her flip phone to call a number. House looks at her intently. Who’s the lucky fellow being called so early? Wherever Sam is I don’t think there's a connection out there.
She looks back at Dean and him, stare stoic and unstoppable.
-Bobby? Hey, It’s me Jody. I need you to listen to that. She says before pressing speakers on her phone. She wavers the phone over to him, stare growing thick and serious. You. Tell him what you told me. We may have a case.
House arches his eyebrows but lingers long enough to catch sight of the number on the dial. It’s somewhat familiar, it's a long distance. Kansas’s local area code is what begins it.
He clears his throat and starts.
- It sounded British, woman, maybe mid-thirty, maybe forties. He could see her but I couldn’t. She was strong, she pushed him against a wall. Making it look like paper maché, I didn’t succeed in breaking the barrier of her skin. My syringe bent halfway, damn thing almost broke my wrist trying. He says under a low register, hoping to reach whoever’s on the other side. He’s too desperate to think he’s being recorded.
She left when he stabbed her with his bowie, there was a bright light under her stab wound. I think, it was near her 5th and 6th left rib. It’s almost as if it cauterized it as it hit. The blow pushed me backwards, like a strong wind. My eardrums had a field trip of it. What’s the verdict?
He looks up to Jody, who seems deep in thoughts.
-I know your voice, you’re the shady one that kept calling every burner phone we had. You know how hard it is to find 6 different women to answer your calls? Jody, what’s going on? The man’s voice was rough and older, a thick american accent was leaking in between his sentences. Heavy breath and worry leaking from his growl of a voice.
- He’s fine, for now. She says before catching his eyesight, warning him almost.
Did you hear? It’s nothing like I heard them talk about before. Did they tell you where they were going before it all started? I can’t recognize what the case could be.
-Unless angels started to find how to become invisible I'd think it’s the witch they were going to meet. Last coordinate I got is the bar on 5th Avenue. Been blank ever since. None of their phones have been answering. Only this weasel has been calling with one of Dean’s every once in a while.
She probably could be behind something like that, don’t know what they could have done to piss her off though. But don’t call me surprised, these boys get into loads of troubles lately. Are they fine?
- Well..Dean’s here, he’s– She starts with a defeated tone, almost whispering her words with disappointment.
- He’s sustained a few injuries, he’s probably going to live considering he’s already starting to come off ventilators soon. House said, looking up to her with concern. Passed out from brain swelling and blood loss, we kept him under until it checks out clear.
The giant one’s gone, last I saw he jumped in the air and totally disappeared. He mentioned a portal, which was not my priority at the time, considering Dean was bleeding under my hands. He’s gone with the kid, and wanted to get to her. Hasn’t come back since. Castiel’s gone for sometime. If you have any input, now’s the time.
-Listen you ass, it’s my family you’re talking about. Don’t you be rushing this, all information is necessary to get them back. Lets out the man from the phone, voice lower and irritated.
-He’s all we got, we can’t be picky. She says with a sigh, When did Claire last contact you?
-She texted me about getting Sam out of Allentown, around three, maybe four days ago? They were on the road to Dean, ‘said he was awake though. Sam was on digging duty, something about a banshee in Jersey. They were in a rough patch, not really talking much. Somethin’ about a demon called Ruby.
-Wait you’re saying Sam Winchester wasn’t near here before that? It’s what, two hours of high road from here. Two to five hours from the bar that first injured Dean. But Cameron said she saw Sam in his brother’s room. Days before any of this.
-Ruby can teleport, I’ve seen her do it before. Maybe she brought him there to make a point. Let Bobby go with a dooming silence following. Maybe he asked to go see his big brother.
- I’m really running on empty here, one brother loves a demon and the other is lovestruck by an angel? He snorts.
I’m in a play out of the sudden.
Even if I humor you all, where’s Castiel now? Could Ruby try to kill Dean to get Sam for herself? It’s–
- House! There you are! Lets out the familiar voice of Wilson, breathless as if the poor lad had been running to find him. He’s on the doorstep, face worried as ever. I got what I needed from my secretary, let’s go home. Cuddy bought you some leeway, hoping it’ll wisen you up. Oh hi! Who are you supposed to be?
-She’s family, Dorothy’s. But she was about to leave. Right? House cuts before she can get to answer. She hangs up her phone, catching a sight of House’s face and somewhat understanding the topic change.
- Y-Yeah, I have people to get a hold of. Nice to meet you, Doctor. She says before passing Wilson as she gets out, somewhat pressed to leave and investigate the new information.
- You’re really not going to let me in on it aren’t you? Sighs Wilson as he walks in, looking back to the woman in the hall. He looks confused and fascinated by what he caught on.
- Why would I? You’ve got a lot on your mind already. Sick patients to treat . Bluffs House, hoping it’ll blow over. He holds on tightly to his leg with a pained look on his face, hoping Wilson would notice.
- As if you care. Obviously you’re the only sick patient I'm currently actively treating. How’s the wrist? If it’s still sore we could get you some ointment. He says before looking towards the real patient of the room.
You know, if Dorothy wasn’t potentially dangerous, I’d think he's in the movies. He’s the kind of character you always fall for in those sitcoms of yours, like Brock.. Sterling wasn’t he? Prescription passion. Did I get that right?
House felt a smile hover on his face, how did Wilson remember one of his guilty pleasures? It hadn’t been just to tease him about it, was he?
That would be simply petty, and House couldn’t help but love it.
- Go get me a damn chair before I change my mind. Leg’s been killing me . He lets out a thick exhale, looking up to his best friend with a smile despite the side grimace of pain throwing back in the thick of his skull. Too much at once, he’s definitely having a commotion of somesort. He’s not one for taking it slow, so he lingers.
- You got it. He says before leaving the room, and House waits before he’s long over the hall before standing up with his cane. >>
He slowly make way around Dean, leaving with one last look towards him.
He takes the other side of the hall, hoping it’ll win him some time.
It doesn’t take too long to reach the room with the wooden benches, it’s not too far from the urology, and coma bay. Most people wouldn’t be here at such an early time of day. So House shuffles towards the front of the aisle, making way to sit at the first bench. Getting a full view of the autel of candles and pictures, the crucifix on the wall looking morosely his way. He rings someone on his pager considering the police still have his phone to review as evidence before deciding if he can get it back.
It takes him a while before his mind starts to slow down. His rushing thoughts hitting each other under the helm of his head. He’s breathing in and out by the nose, hoping it’ll help.
He feels rather stupid to even try, but he’s left at a crossroad, either he commits or he gives up.
And with such a new lead like Jody, he’s not ready to give in just yet. Wilson can wait.
He prays for a man, feeling ridiculous for it. But his heart soars towards the end of his prayer, as it’s been decades since he last believed any of it could work.
He’d be dense not to give it one last try.
Wouldn’t he?
Chapter 21: -21- P2
Summary:
Tying up some loose ends, House finds himself pondering if he ever had faith in the Lord. Either of them.
Notes:
The next chapter is right by the corner, I'm stacking them like legos.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
House’s heavy set of shoulders dug against the wooden bench, after slouching for some time, it needed stability. The silence was dull, awfully quiet. His brain rummages through information to find some sort of connection. Perhaps praying to Castiel, or for Castiel, he wasn’t entirely sure, wasn’t enough to keep him concentrated. It was almost ridiculous, to watch the Christ's morose face and ponder about where it all started. Where he’d lost faith, as it were. Shields were always better to cope, and easier to charge in with.
Maybe it had been over the younger years, before the deeply cynical crisis he’d started to arbore. Perhaps in the youth itself of bearing the new secrets of the lord, the thing is. It never really stuck, did it?
Even then, it felt like silly, petty rules. The community had always been Christ's only good thing going on. That’s where it felt real, concrete in its heart. And such things could be found to be more forgiving and open elsewhere, this old dog really never managed to quite stick to it even when it was the difference between getting a meal in the evening or rather going without. Rewards towards following the lord, hadn’t always quite made sense. He’d rather admit it all not to make much sense and go on. Even when he pretended to be into the gist of it, every soul out here was twisting it to benefit them. How was any of it staying fair?
Easier to let go of this emotional and nonsensical part of humanity.
But seeing Castiel so miraculously driven by his faith, despite not judging him for lacking any. It had been enough to make House wonder about his core. Praying felt rather odd after so long ignoring this possibility for the lack of proof. So instead he chose to pretend it wasn’t important. Because ultimately, it wasn’t what would save Dean, bring Castiel home, or fix their problems.
Even if it was all real, all of it was within resilience, self-awareness and discovery, empathy. It forced you to ponder about your mortality, your kindness and ability to relate to those you can’t begin to understand... Which could be taught without the need of a priest, but with two loving parents. As if that’d be enough to prevent kids from growing up as empty shells of who’d they wish to be.
If you truly believed in god, you believed it was in order to believe in yourself. Or at last, that was he’d caught onto the most. The only sensical part of this neverending nightmare was the scriptures he’d have to read as punishments over time. Interpretations were flawed, but so was religion.
House wasn’t sure he had done any of it in as long as he could conjure memories. It wasn’t very hard to deeply believe in facts, science, perhaps even talents. But he drew the line at what he could debunk, touch and see.
All of this system seemed to make him deeply lost into his mind with no Wilson to hold on. It was pretty much lost in an endless whisper of thoughts. When steps started to be heard, House presumed they were James’s. He hadn’t gone that far, and he honestly doubted anyone else would be so early to pray in this dusty part of the hospital anytime soon.
But when a dark hand held on the edge of the bench, House looked up to recognize Foreman.
<< Out of all places, it’d probably be the last i’d think of looking for you. But I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it? His round and bored voice let out as he sat on his right.
- Remind me to demote Cameron to the bed pans. He complained, lighter of seeing a familiar face but still somewhat annoyed. Foreman wouldn’t be his first pick of the team currently, considering he still had to deliver an apology.
- You paged her, she paged me. Delegating is usually encouraged, just not to you. If you ask me, I think it serves you well. For trying to pass one up to me. He sucks on his front teeth with an unimpressed look towards House.
Greg can’t withstand the closeness for too long, not when his head’s been so tight and his shoulder so heavy. He sighs, giving up to the moment.
- Maybe you’re right. Still doesn’t tell me why I got dumped by Cameron. He lets go, deflecting as much as possible considering how unfair he’d been to the man.
- She’s on a date. He says, looking fiercely towards him. You’d seriously bother her just for your pity party?
- This early in the morning? What is she dating, a surg–
-It’s noon, House. He frowns, and that's where the worry starts to leak into the conversation.
Are you sure you're up to be here?
House blinks as he gathers the information. It’s starting to make him feel out of the loop, but he’s not going to let that be known so easily.
- It was part of the joke, if you’d have let me get to it. He deadpans, hoping to win some time.
So, what are you searching to get? As far as I know even if Cameron was so busy she couldn’t come, Chase was still a far more viable option for you. Less work to just let him come instead.
- Do you hate me all that much? I’m a doctor, I’m here to challenge your ideas, even more so the whimsical ones. I’m as recent as the others. Unless it’s racially motivated I'm starting to get a draw at what makes me so different from Chase or Cameron bothering you. He lets out whilst crossing his arms, somewhat sure of himself.
-You’d think it would be so easy, but no. You’ve been doing more than challenging me, you’re starting to sound like me. I’m sure you can see where the issue is. Unless you want to look like me, you’d probably be better off letting me know why you’ve been so hellbent on making yourself heard more than your teammates.
He breathes out, somewhat charged with such heavy of a shield. He’s not entirely sure he’s on the right path but as it were he doesn’t have the strength to pretend otherwise.
Considering I’m in charge of you three equally, it ain’t fair to them if you’re coming in the after hours to debate me on my diagnostic without them around. Maybe hoping to get me to change my mind when you know it won’t work. I don’t know why you’re barking on the wrong tree there, but it won’t get you brownie points from Cuddy . He finally lets it out after so long of pondering.
-You think this is about Cuddy? You think I’m trying to one up you with the board director? He asks, genuinely surprised, which makes House backtrack rather quickly in confusion.
- Then if not, what’s been up your arse and died? Each time we passed each other it felt like you’d be taking my notes at class without being paid. I’m pretty sure you’re well compensated for your work in this establishment, Foreman. Even if you didn’t know what you were getting into then, you’ve known for over a year now.
God he’s tired, this is too much confrontation for one day.
- That’s not it, House. You’re way out of left field. I was starting to feel you drift away and it looked as if you didn’t care if the patient died or not. I was never about a promotion, as much as I’d deserve it. The work we do out here isn’t done anywhere else. I just want my boss to have his head in the game.
He moves his hands in the air, putting further emphasis on his frustration.
With what you’ve kept me out of, can you really blame me for doubting you cared about the patient we were assigned to save? You’re sick and twisted if you’ve been starting to think I was trying to take your place by going to you in overtime to make sure you’re aware of the choices you’ve been making. They often don’t make sense to us, but lately they’ve seemed worse. The only reason I come to you last and make sure is to follow through and try to understand what’s going on in there that actually makes you think it’s worth risking the patient’s life.
-You like her. The single mother, how is she? He connects out loud, things starting to click further. He’s being dense, he actually is starting to hate being stuck in here. Knowing so little about the man reminds him he’s lacking. He’s been so obsessed with the winchesters he’s starting to let his team down. Why has that managed to happen? He’s not entirely sure. But it feels terrible.
- She’s dead, House. She died four days ago. He lets out seriously, almost startled by House’s ignorance. She was a good client, she didn’t deserve for her body to give out. She was young, had kids. Did you know any of that? Or do you just check the parts of the charts you can dissect?
-She had a 3 centimeters scar under her jaw. She hid it with her haircut, she probably hated it. She liked jazz. I don’t have to know the name of her kids to be able to keep her alive. He mumbles as he looks back to the crucifix. Feeling like crawling inwards. Cuddy shouldn’t learn from Foreman’s sass. The both of them would be unbeatable.
- I’m sure it wouldn’t have hurt to know it. You know. He says softly to let House digest the news. House almost hates how kind that is. To just linger together in the silence.
- Then why would I have any of you if I did? He attempts at a joke, somewhat dizzy under the weight of things he’s missing out on. He can feel the worried lingering stare of his employee on him. It’s heavy and low, as serious as it gets. >>
The steps behind them almost startles them, but this time it’s actually Wilson. House lifts himself up under the two sets of eyes. They’re so dutiful and clearly watching him stump to the wheelchair before slumping into it. He groans as he slides his cane in the side of it with his legs. He’s fighting not to feel like he’s on the wrong side of the hospital. As much as he hates the beds in here, sometimes it’s what he needs and he can’t say nightmares at home seem all that much alluring. If Wilson weren’t there it’d be this empty place, void of pleasure, fun. Just an apartment anyone else but him could be also occupying.
<< You know by the end of this, I’ll know all of your tricks House, It’s just a matter of time. Lets out Wilson with a slightly amused tone that doesn’t hit right after his discussion with Foreman.
The man gets up, and looks towards them as he’s walking in between benches.
-Is there anything I can do whilst you’re gone? You know, now that you actually know what I’m up to. Eric sounds genuine, his voice metaphorically landing a hand in time of need.
House bites his lip, looking down at the floor, hoping for the buzzing inside his chest to go away. He finally lets it go by looking up to his friend.
- If you see a man, looking lost, black hair. The deepest voice you ever heard and piercing blue eyes. Awful beige trenchcoat. Call me, or bring him over. I don’t care, just don’t lose sight of him. He's code Yellow.
He gives up with hope it’ll help. He hangs in the coma bay often, if you ever find him you–
- Call you or bring him, Yeah, got it. Repeat the younger man, professionalism leaking out of his tone.
- Hey Foreman? He starts softly, silence lingering. Thanks. >> He says before waving at Wilson for them to leave.
Notes:
Thanks for getting here, reading all of that further up. I'm glad you have some sort of belief this is going somewhere. It's fueling me to figure it out. Gotta keep those fingers warm on the keyboard, no excuses.
I'm trying to not lose myself in the improvisation that is all of this fanfic. It's fun but challenging.
Chapter 22: -22-
Summary:
That's it. Castiel's back.
But at what cost?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When he wasn’t the assigned doctor for it, hanging in the urgency room wasn’t all that bad. He could sit in the waiting chairs, by now he knew which ones to avoid. It’s not like Cuddy cared if he was actually treating everyone in there, as long as he hit his quota, he could choose anyone he’d rather want. It was easy to lay off kids, most of them were brats or there because babysitters weren’t all on quick notice when it comes to urgency. He wasn’t really into the real contagious-looking kind, sniffles, deep fevers but nothing actually urgent.
Seeing them from inside was making it real easy to find out who was actually worth treating fast for something the hospital wouldn’t spot right away before it got worse. The real difficult cases he was paid to fix, because there is a limitless amount of doctors who seem to be doing their job just fine with the casual encounters.
How would he actually find it if he wasn’t right in it? It surely beat the odds of waiting for them to enter his office randomly hoping to get Willy Wonka's golden ticket. And looking at files was dreadful, so he would creatively get away with it by going around with them, like a weight to his ankle.
Today was no different. Instead of taking the first case Cuddy handed to him, he had his team run off to help Wilson’s deadbeat case with a tumor on their least favorite kinds of glands. The man had asked for a second opinion, so House figured he could do with a third and a fourth. They were a teaching school afterall. Sending the kids to him managed to make House a free man for a few hours. Lest there be no teaching, he’d bring some files to look over in the corner of the room. Perhaps the constant noise around would keep him busy enough to challenge him. Knowing most of these files were terribly average.
In order to not get blue balled no more, House really avoided seeing Wilson in today’s daycare because of how much of each other he’d be seeing in the evenings. Not that they were terrible, but his body is itching at the routine beginning to start. It’s as if the man had seen his health as an excuse to overstay, and House can’t say he’s mad at it. Just simply mildly annoyed at best, thing is, it’s not like Wilson’s always into the idea of hookers, or sharing them either. It’s mundane, boring, and rather domestic. He’s two seconds away from bringing a crisis, like a calm night before the storm. Where you can taste the electric humidity in the air.
He’s missing half the fun of it all, but he welcomes the company, it does keep his mind at bay enough to not even miss the single life too much. Not that he’d mentioned it to him truly. Something about how serious it would have become was very uncomfortable to think about. And there’s something about seeing Wilson stay hours in the bathroom to do his hair that keeps House feeling like a bored husband when he’s waiting to go take his first shit of the morning. But seeing him smile over a good takeout, or the way their feets touch when they hang onto the coffee table when watching TV has him feeling enough not to mention it to Wilson’s sweet soon to be departing ass. It’s only been a week and yet he can imagine it staying like this, like old times. Like college but with more pee breaks. More balding and a little less flexibility. If they go on longer, he won’t be able to block out the thoughts, the overall heart soaring what-ifs.
Maybe he can wait another ten years when his libido will entirely dry out, and having Wilson around as old men would do nothing to his nerves. It’s not like he wants to jump the man, but knowing he can’t is unfair. He’d be an idiot not to notice how he gets cabin fever from it all.
Hell, it’s not the first time they shared a space and it shows. Wilson knows where everything is, and it’s very normalized. Very endearing for him to know exactly what he needs when House is having night terrors and he’s hoping there’s still some peas left in the freezer for his aching shoulder. They talk more and more with their eyes in public and it’s been a blast to see the team’s confusion trying to follow up. House couldn’t imagine their relationship could grow this close. Considering he’s an ass and Wilson is usually much busier. Maybe something is different this time, but maybe he’s reading too much into it once again.
It feels great to have someone around, even if it’s short-lived. It had been a while since he truly allowed it. If he wasn’t so butt-hurt he’d throw himself in the stairs to keep having that kind of care for free. Sticky but caring, unconditional.
It’s not as if Cameron could do exactly the same, House couldn’t pretend so easily he could fake this kind of intimacy with anyone else. You’ve got to see the worst in someone to even start to disregard the disgusting parts of it. How House’s a mess when the meds kick in before bed and Wilson manages to talk about any subject just to hear him say nonsensical things, some he does tell him about next morning.
How he’s often helped back to bed with an arm around his shoulders because if not he’d bump into most objects on the way to it. And by how grumpy House’s being when awoken at any reasonable hour.
Wilson’s really been silent about the annoying parts, and House’s really not sure what got into him. Did he scare him for good? He’s still kicking and snarking, but none of the bite when it comes to actions. And House’s not going to say it, but he’s missing some of it. Something ain’t exactly right, he’s lived far worse. That couldn’t have been what worried Wilson too much, did it? Is it some sort of existential crisis when it comes to the mortality of House?
He’d rather have the man as a friend than his nurse, even if Wilson is pretty good at both. It feels innate, he’s wondering if he should get him something for the help. Wilson wouldn’t accept any kind of payment, he was so selfless that way. But he sure could think of a thing or two to get by.
If he were to guess, it’d be why he’s actually thrilled to do some charity urgent care time. Being away from Wilson, having time to think about what to do for his team, how to bring it all into action in a sensical way that doesn’t involve breaking the law once again. Not being distracted as easily, hiding in the noise of chaos.
Thing is, when looking into it. He realizes Foreman ain’t half wrong. He’s on point about Mary, their last collapsed lung patient, she maybe wouldn’t have died if House hadn’t been so distracted. Yet he can’t be sure, he wasn’t being dense at it. He was reviewing the work, his team’s actions and making sure they were on the right track when it came to treating her. But somehow it hadn’t been enough. On the way to recovery her lungs hadn’t managed to get back up in order in time and it had caused some irreversible damage. Enough for the machines not to be enough to keep her breathing. Leaving kids to Child Services with no father to be found, they probably had a grandma somewhere, right? Admitting that it was unfair to hear that his patient died whilst he was off work this way had hit harder than if he’d been there.
There was tons of tragedy in this story, something he’d feel he should have done something for it. But not knowing what had been happening with the brothers and Castiel, would have he been through the same treatments? Would have she lived and would he have done this any differently? As far as he knew, Foreman’s line of work hadn’t been entirely wrong, the woman had been needing some quick action. And he had provided a very safe line of order. Looking for consistency, for an obvious pimple. When House had been against going on about that blackhead that’s been there for ages, metaphorically of course.
Thing is, he’s perplexed at it for too long when he’s usually moving on. And he’s terrified as to why. Were they right that he was overtly careless? Or were they overreacting and she was only one of many bodies they’d add to their conscience?
Going the safe route hadn’t saved her. He wasn’t thinking Foreman had done anything wrong when it came to treating her this way but he wasn’t sure how to encourage them to actually trust the process without physically requiring the oldest tricks in the books. He’d seen a pattern of them trying to keep up with the newest works out there, the medical field keeps on innovating. They’re trying endlessly to catch up to him, not truly realizing the age gap in between them.
He doesn’t need them to type out by memory every disease, but to recognize them. The pattern of the clients always sounded like piano notes. Needing some tuning, to be in working order again. Lies, medical mishaps, forgetting an aspect of their lives this could affect, why wouldn’t it be but just a note out of tune?
His mind was reeling into the facts, but dreading what would be to be done in order for him to fix it.
It was hard not to think about Jody, the fact was she hadn’t come back since. Probably in the research for her lost daughter with the little crumbs he had given them.
House wasn’t sure what to think of it. That whole conversation they last had, it had been running in the back of his mind like a broken record. Despite wanting to ignore some of it to benefit his job and his team, the joy of his boss and the heart rate of his best friend.
Asking Wilson to help him pack the Impala in a rented space with a few locks in, a few roads away from his apartment, had been the least he could do not to endanger himself back up with the investigation. Dean had been holding on to the keys, of course but nothing like going into Cuddy's office in off hours to open the box of evidence they’d gathered to epoxy a mold of the Chevy's key, it wasn’t too shabby. It had dried in a few hours in the drawer of his desk, untouched and unseen. Like nothing happened at all.
Thankfully most older models like this old lady didn’t need any chip in the helm of the key. Which made it perfect to both open the doors and the ignition. The least he could have done to give Wilson his spot back in the parking lot. But honestly, the man was boiling with questions about his new acquisition.
He wasn’t sure there was a lot to say, despite a lot happening. There wasn’t much to say as to where it would end up. Thankfully he’s able to focus on patients at the time being, but he’s itching for the end of that chapter. There’s this hovering feeling that he’ll see them again, that like the scooby-gang, they’re pretty much glued to danger. And unfortunately, House is a shit magnet for it just as well. It’s not like denying it would help anyone.
At least the equivalent of the Scooby-van was a beautiful muscle car, if he’d have anything to win from this was to have got to drive such a gorgeous beast. Something about its dark paint was still ominous. Like a marching mule of a war’s ration hidden under a black silk robe and pretty thighs. Quite the understatement of a car.
How can something be so beautiful and deadly? He can’t imagine what would have happened if Castiel got rear ended mid driving his sleeping beauty to the hospital. A few of those unstable weapons could have blown up, leaving Dean with a high probability of death. And 3th degree burns on most of what would be left of Castiel on that driver’s seat.
Despite how marvelously macabre that was, he was glad he'd acquired his phone back. Adding Bobby’s phone number as a contact and calling for news once in a while would be proven helpful.
He doesn’t use it just yet, hoping it’ll be a lead for when he’s totally out of any. Hoping he’d get a chance to add Jody’s whenever she would show back up.
Right now, new leads are growing. Simply by the mention of a few women.
House felt satisfied to connect the pouch they had tested to the Witch Bobby had mentioned, so Dean and Castiel had gone to the bar to meet a Witch, but supposedly encountered a Demon by Castiel’s testimony. They still had a spell on them, which was still neutral on its intent. If the witch hated them, it had to be a hex. If it wasn’t then maybe protection? Had the witch came back for her pouch? Or had it been the brother and his new girlfriend? Could he be unaware of her theft?
That was barely the details on the side, the surface of the water.
If he were to focus on any leads, he’d rather start with the most fresh. Jody hates Castiel, but Castiel never even mentioned her. He’s pondering on the fact he’s either been forced in a relationship he did not want whatsoever, perhaps by being gay. Or Claire’s actual mother and him had a child in wedlock.
And yet that’s something House questions, he hadn’t noticed if the other man had shown any interest in women in his short stay. Only Dean had been on his lips, confirming his pining for the Winchester.
Jody had mentioned rather briefly how she felt about it, basically hating him for being an ass and emotionless, but perhaps that had been before he met Dean. That would explain such a strong fling without any of the awareness of it, and perhaps some Aspergers. She also mentioned violence, which House could consider true with the fact that Castiel had lifted him up like a crinkled-up juicebox. He didn’t cast him as violent without a reason, regardless of what morals such reasons would be.
He’s starting to think Wilson’s right, this is like a sitcom. He’s feeling a pattern out of it all, and how they all interconnect in a web. As if they’ve been interacting for longer than a year together, perhaps On and Off.
Before he could actually zone out entirely out of this chaos, a small sound makes its way to him.
He didn’t have to think it further, his pager informed him Cameron’s been paging him a few times in the lapse of the two hours he’d been staying here. Somehow only now had managed to startle him out of the fog. He’d been ignoring it since it was a basic instinct by now. But this last one had 911 as its content.
It wouldn’t be so confusing if it wasn’t paging him to go to urgent care.
He’s already here and she isn’t near, he actually considered it a prank but it’s not exactly her style.
He gives up and goes towards the chief of management for tonight.
<< Thought Cameron wasn’t on your shift today. And here I was convinced I could actually get some peace in here. He starts with a lingering stare towards the dark woman, her hair tied up wavering as she walks. He’s keeping up from behind, but if she’s to get faster he’ll have to give it up.
- You and I have very different visions of peace . The woman said, her voice as judgemental as her side-eye.
- It doesn’t tell me what I need to know. You’ll get me out of your leg hairs if you take care of it sooner. He proposes, hoping it’ll get him near his goal.
- One of mine had been on overtime. Had to switch it and send him home, and Cameron’s been doing great with the rookies. What do you want House? Sighs the Chief with a judgmental stare.
- We’re sure glad you’re keeping the hospital safe from overzealous overworkers . He deadpans under her disapproving stare.
What bay did you send her? I haven’t seen her in all the time I’ve been here. She would have gotten to pass here once, I’d notice. Probably.
- I’m not her babysitter, Dr. House. I’m sure you can figure things out on your own. Isn’t that what you’re paid for? She lets out as she closes a now empty chart and puts it by an unoccupied bed. Now shoo before I assign you a case. I’m sure Cuddy would be thrilled to see you put time in here that isn’t in those god-awful chairs.
- It’s pretty quiet tonight. Let’s hope it stays that way. He says softly, walking away but hearing her groan at his response. >>
Before he can get any chance to spot her, his phone rings in his pocket rather violently. It’s ignored widely under the chaos of urgent care. He picks it up when he notices the caller.
<< I’m starting to think you like me. He chips in with a smug smirk, looking around for a Cameron-shaped body in the masses.
- Are you near a TV by any chance? Perks up the dark and thick voice of Bobby, something about his tone isn't right.
- Hang on. He lets out as he limps towards one. But without avail there seems to be no controller near. He points to a secretary not too far away shamelessly.
Hey you! Where’s the damn remote?
- Put the news inter-state should be covering it too. They would be damn stupid not to . He hears from the phone, the man’s voice is a mumble of disappointment and anger, annoyance for sure.
By the time he’s got the remote, apparently from a kid playing with it ruthlessly, he skips a few channels under the curious and collective stares of the row of people on each side of him.
-What am I looking for? The News? He asks with furrowed brows and a half-open mouth from concentration.
-You’ll know when you see it. You kept asking for Castiel back, then you got what you wanted. Be careful what you wish for. Fix this goddamn mess.>> It’s the last thing he hears before the man hangs up out of annoyance.
House keeps skipping until he finds a more widespread news anchor. Because there’s no sound, it’s almost ominous in its title.
‘’Global Meteor Shower.’’ Stands in bold white letters overcast a deep red border.
Behind him, the Chief swears under her breath.
<< You should have shut your mouth. You know better than to call a night quiet in here. Goddamn jinxed the rest of us all night. >> She mumbled as she walked away, her footsteps lingering like stomping.
Footage of it was on replay, House’s eyes stuck to it like glue. It was as if there were stars in the sky falling, the few images succeeding to show were blurry and the sky was a deep blue navy. Indicating that had been a few hours ago, give or take.
His chest was deeply sunken in as he forgot to breathe, unmoving with a hum of thoughts following by.
He barely blinked as he looked away, deciding to hold his cane tightly at the knob, he walked by the doubled door exit. Wanting to see it with his own eyes, perhaps to give in and believe it.
But the sight of a dark void that was the sky under this unshaken winter night ended up being there.
Snow was piling up on the nearest nurse's car, and the third layer was icing on the surgeon’s.
House breathed out, his air manifesting as smoke in front of him.
Nothing at all, there’s nothing. Why would they call it Global if there wasn’t any in Jersey?
Was it already over? Had he missed it? What was it?
He swallowed thickly, figuring he’d become another icicle if he dared to stay longer.
Walking back into a busy room hadn’t been a surprise, but catching Cameron’s worried stare, actually was. Her face was rather pale, her eyes big and aghast.
He caught her stare, feeling like something had happened but not being sure he had every clue in hand for it to form.
He walked to her, she met him halfway.
The blood on her hands wasn’t a coincidence, it couldn’t be. Not when his gut felt like he swallowed a dumbbell.
<< When Foreman relayed the information, we didn’t think much of it. It’s not like your description fits everyone in here, but without the clothes I'm not sure I would have found him. Until I saw him by Dorothy’s old room. I-I don’t know how he got there without anyone rushing him to a bed, chair or anything really. Brad wasn’t there, so he gripped a rail and just..His knees gave up. He asked for you.
House opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Something about this was so unlikely, but instead he followed her. His pace slowly went up whenever he could skip corners. Hearing her use Dean’s fake name had been unusual, but he had bigger fish to fry then Brad Withford’s identity thief and beloved nutcase still comatose. Dean Winchester’s body in a bed could wait when Castiel was in here somewhere, again. Perhaps she had investigated his case on her own time but for now they had possibly a big breakthrough in this otherworldly scenario.
I got him in a room, but he wouldn’t let me near him. He’s catatonic, I haven’t gotten him to talk about anything else. He’s only asking for you.
- Bring us some BZs, anything that could smooth out this spark of shock. I don’t know the extent of where he’s been, but some bags to rehydrate him could be a good start. Where’s the blood from? He asks rather professionally, his throat tight and dry.
- Benzos aren’t a good idea, I think he’s depressed already. It could come back negative, we don’t have his history he could be having a def–
- I’ll take the fall. Just do as I say. He says when he spots the only room in the bay with no chart on the door and closed off window panels to only see the ugly hospital curtains. He starts going faster, something about not wanting to miss him by a few seconds like last time had left him bitter.
She diverges towards the pharmacist in a hurry whilst House gets to the door. He slowly pushes the handle, breath held in.
He couldn’t be so graceful as he walked in, his leg was still fairly stiff from sitting for so long downstairs.
His limp gave him out to Castiel whose head was looking towards the floor. The first thing he managed to notice was how withdrawn the man was. If he had been straight edge and standing upright, now Castiel was flexing over himself. His body was curved and his coat looked torn and dirty.
He hadn’t been sure before, but by the time he got closer, he realized he could hear the man breathe. Wheezing and whistling in his huffed breaths.
House wasn’t sure what was the best move right away. So he stood there, analyzing the man’s needs. Left silent by the sight of him. Perhaps he’d have given up on the idea of seeing him again. After the suicidal undertones the man had lingered every once in a while, could he really blame them?
He didn’t look too great.
His skin was grim, beard had become unkempt and his eyes felt sunk in from lack of sleep. The trench coat had always felt rather hollow, unfilled. But this time with its burned marks and torn shreds, it wasn’t looking great. It felt as if they washed out the color out of the man, by giving him blood and ashes instead.
House hadn’t dared to look away, and didn’t when Castiel looked up. His deep baby blue eyes were wet and empty.
<< Don’t worry about me, what are you doing for Dean? His rasp and dry voice let out.
- That’s the last of your worries, by the sight of you. He lets rather sober,
- I’m fine. He lets out in a whisper, it falls short in a slight drizzle.
The man’s stare might be hollow and exhausted, but it is still as serious and ambitious as ever. House must hush away the sentiment, for it is a soldier’s favorite sacrifice. There is nothing about the man’s frame and body that screams fine. Yet the man’s still only here for one reason, the one he couldn’t help but ask about the second House got in. It’s obvious he hasn’t taken care of himself in a long time.
Yet this man isn’t here to be taken care of, he’s here because it’s the only way he’ll get to know if he has a reason to keep fighting. And House isn’t buying any of it, he’s seen this before. Way too much to pretend to believe in it.
- Bullshit. You’re breaking apart at the seams. He starts out with a soft but firm voice. Hoping to bring some sense into him, even if it’s a lost cause.
You don’t have to tell me what happened just yet, but you’re going to let us do our job.
- I’m not sure I’m worth healing. Not when I’m nothing but the pawn in their schemes.
-Don’t be an idiot . He says with a slight annoyed huff. It’s obviously what you’ve been led to believe. You’ve got options here, they don’t regard anyone but you and I. I’ll get you the prettiest nurse and won’t let a soul in. When you’ll be actually fine, I’ll bring you to Dean.
- I want Dean now. He looks back to House with more heat than bite. That’s all I want. His voice cracks under the pressure of his unwithered pain. He’s holding himself in one piece, it’s not sure when he’ll actually release.
- I won’t let you die in his bed just because you don’t know how to accept help when you need it. He says before reaching a hand on the man’s shoulder.
Half of it is to take a mental note of each pain he can encounter by the simple act. The man’s eyes are dilated and bloodshot.
House moves it towards the man’s neck, passing fingers on the cold skin. Felt the man’s tight muscle over his shoulders towards the behind of his neck.
Castiel looks at him unwavering, eyes getting wetter by the second as he isn’t blinking.
There’s a thing he’s tempted to attempt, a thing he’d seen the brothers do when they first interacted with each other. When all of his worries were how to hide all of this from Cuddy since Dean had just woken up.
House sighs, under the adoring stare, the sinner’s weight on both of their shoulders.
He puts his palm against the man’s neck, his warm hand against the cold scruff of it. Just like Dean had done to Sam before they hugged. He remembers finding it odd between brothers, but something only felt right when you were doing it instead of watching it, he supposed.
It’s almost intimate by how Castiel actually breaks down from realizing the warm action House’s trying to share with him. His face begins to wet with tears, silent and individual tears finally leaking. He can feel the trembling pain under the man’s head. The tight shivers under his skin, the pressure of holding himself up under the weight of the dead tired muscles. He’s close enough to see the dark spots on the man's trench coat, the ones on his back who look rather wet and ominous. He slowly shifts his cane against the bed and uses his free hand to touch the man’s neck further. Shuffling his good leg to bear the weight of them both.
His thumb near the birth of Castiel’s jaw, fingers against the curls of his hair.
- He woke up once, he can do it again. What about you? Are you ready to wake up? He says under a dry throat, meeting the man’s stare. Hoping it would be enough because he can feel himself crawl under his skin. Something about this feels so intimate that he’s thankful Castiel is too focused on his pain inside and out to notice.
-I don’t know if I can. I’ve never been like this before.. It never hurt like this before. The man’s dry sob died before it even began to shake him from his chest and stomach. It died within his throat and trembled under House’s fingers. It’s incredible the length this man is trying to stuff it all in, it’s almost as if he doesn’t allow it. I-It’s all inside.
- You’ll get used to it. He says before moving his fingers in a calming motion. He looks up to the snow falling outside of the window, and the dark sky and he wonders how much of this he’s still in need to unfold.
Believe me. >> His voice was thick with an overtly protected yet raw emotion he hadn’t expected to let out.
Notes:
Any guesses as to what happened to Castiel?
I've left a few canon takes in, and added others. Hoping it'll sort itself over time with chapters and words.
Chapter 23: -23-
Summary:
House hadn't expected to see how human an angel can be, but he's taking it all in.
Castiel's ready to bow, there's nothing he needs more now. Believing him or not, it's his last attempt at hope.
Notes:
Slow and steady wins the race.
Can't wait to see how it unfolds.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Castiel’s rage is within his fists. The way his fingers hang tightly against House’s shirt. It’s in the tight heat around House’s chest and Castiel’s face as he meets it to shun himself into it.
His shivers are broken down in dry chokes and big airy breaths. He couldn’t call them sobs just yet, there was no moaning involved. It’s definitely up there in the panic attack territory, perhaps his chest feels thick and constricted by the amount of effort it takes to sob this way.
It all breaks the rhythm of his chest, and House’s pretty sure he’s breathing less because of it, probably entirely constricted by House’s clothes against his face. But then again, maybe that’s where he felt the most comfortable to break down. In the warm wet in the making, deepening by the second for every inch.
House slowly enters the man’s hair at first, before passing his fingers in the dirty dark strands. Hoping it’ll reach him, somehow. There’s isnt much he could genuinely say that’s going to do something, Dean isn’t entirely back. Sam’s wherever Claire is, and Jody is not looking to see him anywhere near.
He’s truly alone for the time being, and it doesn’t take much to empathize with that. Lost stray, back rounded as his hands come to shelter the man’s body. He’s not much, but he’s all Castiel got, if he were to have to assume.
House’s attention shifts when Cameron walks back in silently, she had managed to get him to ingest pills and left the bottle by the nightstand and some water. His Adam apple intruded under the dry pressure of swallowing with a raw throat.
Not much for someone who’s probably never ingested meds before, Mormons aren't fond of their Adderall as far as he knew. So it would probably take most of his pain out if not all. They’d still have to assess the extent of his injuries in order to bring him back in order.
Cameron looks towards him and he nods towards the door, she goes right away to close it.
She seems careful when she gets closer, her face seems to know what to do more than House ever would right away. His mind is silent and concentrated on the sound of the man’s breath, his heartbeat that he can feel under his palms. It’s growing slower, despite it being steady in its panic earlier. It may have taken some time, but it’s finally kicking in. Thank god, because he’s running out of things to say.
House has this sick twist in his gut, but he’s slightly fascinated and horrified at knowing exactly how Castiel is rushed with relaxants without having a chance to fight it. There are so many comments, some ridiculous, some actually witty about this, any of them he’s dying to say. Anything to clear out the dread depression of the wet quietness.
Despite heavily relating to it, or wanting to relate by making some sort of comment, he’s reading the room enough to stay silent. Perhaps Wilson would ponder if it’s the wisest he’s been lately. But then again, he’s not that wise to take upon a stray soldier when he’s already torn himself. He’ll let the man ponder about it later, for now, his hands feel the shivers under his fingers.
If the man’s really out of a cult or its equivalent, it’s his first drug interaction and he won’t ruin a good trip when it’s well deserved. Instead, he keeps a close embrace to try to give the man some sort of comfort as he’s letting go. His limbs are heavier by the minute, so much so that House starts to look around to see if he’d be able to break the fall with anything if need be.
There’s not a lot he can really say at that, it feels terrible to be on the other side of it sometimes. To feel how this man usually is, and now to feel how broken he seems to be. He didn’t have to meet him long to know he doesn’t know how to rest. That was as obvious as a nose in the middle of most people’s faces.
He can feel the man try to tense his arms, blink a few times looking up at him. His pupils are dilated, and House isn’t sure if it comes from the meds or the constant touch he’s had for almost half an hour now.
His few wrinkles are going away, some of his pain fading out of his features. It’s almost beautiful if it wasn’t so tragic. His beady blue eyes are detailing House’s face, slowly and every inch like he’s an artist looking for a new muse, or like a child in adoration. He isn’t sure why, Castiel’s the pretty face out of both of them. If anything, he’s the one worth looking at.
It’s not entirely intimidating, the way he lacks the shame to look away, instead House feels drawn into the river of his stare. Unable to look away himself, by curiosity over the behavior and the feeling there’s something going on.
The man’s been starting to doze off, his breath becoming shallow and his body heavy in exhaustion. His eyes become slits, hiding away much of what he’d seem to feel. Shattered yet relaxed. Castiel smiles lazily, it’s how House realizes he’s never seen him smile before. It’s..Something.
House’s been making himself sturdy, but even he will run off of power at some point. And so will Castiel, optionally sooner than him.
House isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep lifting him soon. So he lets Cameron do what she does best.
She puts her soft hand on his shoulder first, trying to shift his weight towards the bed. Castiel doesn’t question it too long, he follows the weight and pace. But his hands remain tightly secured on House’s shirt at the chest area. Close to the wet spot by a few inches. His tight fist seems to be the only constant decision he’s decided on taking. His last fight, was to keep House close by.
Technically dragging him wherever Cameron would lead him, by the seam of his shirt.
None of it seems to make sense.
Yet House was starting to see a pattern of either daddy issues or codependency in the younger man.
There wasn’t much else that would explain why Castiel would care so much about having him around this way, one last string of hope.
Cameron tries to help by putting her hand on Castiel's, maybe soothing it away from House, but nothing seems to work. She even tries to interlace her fingers softly to his, maybe easing his death grip with tenderness but he doesn’t budge.
So House starts taking a foot forward with Castiel, considering he can’t use his cane much in this particular arrangement, he uses Castiel’s dead weight as a stability he desperately needs to move forward. It’s ridiculous and he can feel some shame linger into the back of his head, his leg feels like a deadweight he’s dragging over. His legs cramp up at the move, it’s actually an awkward shifting and shuffle closer towards the bed. House huffs in the tight moist silence, Castiel’s eyes dart towards Cameron with deep in-set curiosity.
By the time the bed softly hits Castiel’s legs as a warning not to go further, House manages to bend with him. It does seem to trick the man into sitting on the hospital bed, even if he’s somewhat silent other than the gasps for air every once in a while. His leg cramp is tight when he bends himself over, it stings in his hamstrings, he can’t help the words that comes out of his mouth to feel somewhat rushed and dry.
<< Let go. I’m not going anywhere. He hushes with a pained look towards Cameron. She has her brows higher set in her face, a mix of surprise and the improbability of them pairing up makes her look absurd. Maybe she’s also somewhat worried for them both, hopefully for different reasons.
Cameron pulls a chair for House, and his legs would never be able to communicate how grateful he is for that. He hunches over to it and sits tightly, and Castiel’s grip is lost, his open hand is by the side of the bed. Palm up and somewhat lost. He sighs. At least the man’s sitting now, that’s a start.
- You see the comically small lady here? He starts, hoping to bring life into the room, where there wasn’t any. Waving towards Cameron who’s opening a rehydratation bag and preparing it to go intravenous style.
She works for me, she took care of Dean before. She can take care of you, but you’ll have to let her strip you. You don’t have to be shy, she’s seen a wide variety of male anatomy and nothing will surprise her anymore. For me, I’m a blushing virgin and I’ll get beet red everytime. I’ll stay outside by the door whilst she gets you in robe–
-You’re not going anywhere. He hears from Castiel’s serious tone, it’s almost dangerous until House realizes he’s repeating him.
- The more the merrier then. Any other demands whilst you’re at it? He lets out with a huff. The only attempt at leaving, merely a twist of his hips and a hand on the hem of the chair had managed to tell him Castiel was right. He wasn’t going anywhere, whether he wanted to or not. His leg had been inactive for long enough to feel annoyingly painful and he’ll have to warm it up with his hand. Castiel isn’t the heaviest but he hadn’t warmed up to it and he was paying the price.
- You remind me of Hannah. Castiel whispers towards Cameron, his voice low and shy, like it’s something he isn’t sure how to feel about.
- Oh who is she? Your girlfriend or– Starts tenderly Cameron as she goes to undo his shoes.
- She’s my sister. Or Was. He corrects himself, his shoulders sagging. His voice is very neutral, soft and a low rumble in the darkness.
House lingers in the conversation, unwilling to break it off with his presence.
- She must have been sweet. What was she like? Cameron starts to get him talking, hoping he’ll fall asleep soon but still her usual caring self.
- Self-less, pragmatical, she used to say I care too much for humanity. His eyes hover onto Cameron as she’s moving towards him. The nightstand light is enough for Cameron to find his veins in the inner of his elbow. She does it very professionally, like a nurse would.
- This might sting, hang on. She connects the needle to his skin, but he doesn’t really register it, instead his other hand goes to her hair, framing her face and House can’t help but let them interact. Hoping it’ll solve this huge piece he’s missing about Castiel. I think there’s nothing wrong about caring for one another.
Now that he’s back, and Dean should be fine, things are better than they were weeks ago, but then again, at what cost? He’s left surprised by the events, and how he’d written off Castiel as dead. His cynicism getting the better of him once again. But someone so pure rarely gets out there and ever comes back.
Castiel's index finger is heavy but graceful, going to touch the loose strand on the side of Cameron’s hair. It doesn’t seem flirty, he’s taking in the view, like it’s the first time seeing it. It’s..soft, tender.
- I don’t know anymore, if it’s right or wrong. There’s so much that I can hardly tell. He whispers, his voice feeling rough towards the edges.
- What do you love about humanity? She says as she pushes the drip to get the fluids going and verify the pressure of the drip.
- Innovation, everlasting adaptation at their expense and survival. Some humans spend all of their lives worshiping love, creativity. I used to wonder what it’s like. He continues, almost forgetting about House by his left, un-appalled by the endless staring.
- What changed? Lets out the woman with a careful smile, her hand meets his in the air as she brings it down and takes it under her fingers. Holding his hand with compassion and perhaps sadness, House can’t tell if she’s empathizing or relating. She lets his arm rest by bringing their hands on the bed, and slowly encouraging him to ease into the bed.
- I fell. He lets out quietly, his stare goes to the wall, dimmed by the closed lights. Lowering his back onto the bed slowly. And, there was no going back. I didn’t know it yet.
- My mother used to tell me that sometimes things have to fall apart, to then fall into place. If you let the dust settle, you might find solace, you know? She says with a shy but overtly warm smile, her eyes almost heart-shaped. House wasn’t surprised that she’d like him. He’s the exact kind of strays she’s been always looking for.
Castiel doesn’t seem to bother correcting her, instead he turns his stare towards House, almost remembering his presence in the room.
- How’s Dean? He lets out, a little louder. Perhaps he’s getting used to the paper towel feeling in his mouth because the words are clearer, like he’s fighting again.
- He’s sleeping it off. He should be awake by a week or two, if he’s not hexed. He lets out carefully, and he gets his phone out of his pocket. Texting the team one by one but Cameron, in the hopes someone is on duty still.
It doesn’t take long before Foreman’s answering and House gets confirmation that he’s available.
- Will I be able to visit him? You said I would. He says hurriedly.
- Slow your roll, you might not feel it, but the pain’s still there. We need to stitch you up. If you let us do that, we’ll arrange a visit.
Cameron profits from the situation to put a hand on Castiel’s chest, looking for a sunken rib, or a protruding one under his shirt. And by the time she’s over this check-up, House looks up from his phone to then hover it in front of Castiel’s face.
The picture isn’t entirely clear, but it’s enough to recognize Dean's profile, and when he does, Castiel rushes to take the phone in his hands. Bringing the flip phone close to his face to see it closer. Almost making sure it’s really him.
He wouldn’t take a career as a photographer if he was Foreman, but the sight of Castiel’s eyes seems to be worth the shot.
The man doesn’t take his eyes away from him, but he shifts his head towards the side, not strong enough to keep his arm in the air hovering any longer, he uses the pillow to hold his wrist and elbow higher.
He looks at the picture like his life depends on it, and House can tell Castiel’s only here for this. Any doubt he had earlier, it’s gone.
- Did you go back to them? He asks Castiel with determination.
Castiel looks back at him, the phone slowly sinking into the pillow. He may be slowly fading out like a candle, but the fire seems too bright in Castiel’s face. He’s pained by it by the sight of his wrinkles fighting to stay. He seems to be slightly startled by his question. Dean's picture fades away into the dark screen because of the screensaver.
- They didn’t care, they never did. I’m no longer their pawn, as far as they know, I’m better off dead. Castiel’s dread lingers like the vibrating strings of a violin. He’s not far from the darkness with his empty stare, yet meeting House’s eyes seem to breathe life into them. The honesty of it all seems to wickedly blow years onto the man’s face.
-That’s why you like him. He lets out, analytical. He always cared, even when he pretends not to. Especially when he pretends not to. That’s what Humanity looks like to you.
Castiel's bittersweet smile is the only thing he communicates before falling asleep in front of him.>>
House's heart soars at the sight of him drifting away, looking far from the cold and tight-arse man he’s met last time. Instead, he’s left lingering in the afterthoughts of it all. At how fragile the man’s face looked when he smiled, how rare.
Notes:
Thank you for reading this new chapter! Is it weird to say I printed some of y'all comments and pinned them on my pegboard? What can I say, they make me feel nice.
Cheers! See you in the next one <3
Chapter 24: -24-
Summary:
House and Wilson reach some sort of understanding over Castiel's body. Maybe help is what was missing all along, even if coerced.
Castiel's loss is at a great price, but he's stuck with some world-shattering news and finding balance in a world he has never experienced quite like this before.
Notes:
I'm not a doctor, but I'll play pretend. Now hush and have some Hilson, technically Castiel's there but don't count on him being able to talk.
I genuinely had no idea this chapter would exist, but there it is. The muse has spoken.
Chapter Text
<< Sending me your goons wasn’t enough for today? Sighs Wilson with quite the exasperated tone. House catches up to him by the meeting of the two halls, but Wilson doesn’t make it too easy for him to do it.
- Gosh darn. Who stepped on your tail today? Big ol’ rectal cancer? And technically we’re tomorrow. He says whilst vaguely looking at his empty wrist for the theatrics. Hoping to get some time to think, or maybe a rebound buddy. But by the look of it, Wilson seemed not only grumpy, but also radiating quite the unusual and introverted aura.
- If you don’t let it go I’ll step on yours. Is his only answer, considering the tired bags under Wilson’s eyes, he’s not kidding. He’s dead tired or close to going home by the telltales. Shame that home isn’t House’s anymore. He’d get used to that again in a heartbeat. Yet it’s interesting to hear his repartee when he’s low, it’s lame and kind of easy to pity, it’s almost adorable. If you’re into the idea of a deadbeat puppy in busy downtown traffic.
House huffs, Wilson’s mood would do, he’s not about to get picky when he already didn’t show up earlier when he was needed.
- Kinky. You’ll give the nurses lots to think about..Perhaps I’m rubbing off on you? He bounces back, having to shift gears to remain able to keep up with Wilson who’s too mad to notice he’s being obnoxiously bipedal.
- The only rubbing going on will be of stem cells, the furthest from me and on a molecular level. He grumbles in one quick breath.
I’ve run dry on treatments. Your team of incompetence just made me loose my time. Gosh. Next time I ask you to come, I need you, House. Ain’t that clear?
It almost felt nice to hear, too much so in a time of wonder. But then again the man was saying it out of anger, he didn’t really mean it the way house would have gotten it.
- Hey, only I get to demean them. Get your own team or I’m going to get jealous . But he sighed and gave-in. But what did they do this time? Piss on the carpets? Use the sharp end of the speculum?
- Chase punched my client’s father. And now I’m the one running away from the justice system. It’s the preposterous part of the bill that I’m not sure will contribute to my perfect finances. My accountant will be disappointed. Maybe I should write it off as a vacation. Rants off the oncologist with a fast pace yet a monotone voice.
- Oh yeah? I heard Hawaii is lovely at this time of year. Maybe we will make it real at last, on me.
Perfect for two husbands on a honeymoon. Anyone would kill for such an offer, better take it before it runs out. He says with a wide open arm towards the hall in front of them. It’s not like he actually thinks the man will accept, and perhaps that’s why it’s so easy to say out loud. Thing is, he’d enjoy it far too much to tell.
- I’m not looking to be your valet for drinks. And actually, sand and a limp doesn’t sound thrilling. You of all people should know that. He deadpans quite realistic about it, perhaps the least fun way to take it if it were to him. Yet it feels familiar, very Wilson of him, considering he’s been flirting with him for so long it had become its own brand of humor. As painfully obvious as it all was, he wasn’t sure if he’d be ready for anything to be different.
- That’s what they say about beach sex and but I say don’t knock it until you try it. He shrugs, hoping to get the man thinking about anything else but the curiosity lingers. He looks at him from a side-eye, hoping to catch the moment where the tension leaves his shoulders and Wilson lets go of what he cannot control. When the stress levels and the cortisol in his body will settle.
- We’re too old for beach sex, House. Grunts Wilson with an overcast look towards the secretary’s desk he’s walking towards. There’s this similar shy side-eye that’s avoiding no one else but House, it's timid and there’s something hot about it. At least if the man wasn’t so uptight. They’re enough in-tune to be able to know this wasn’t out of ordinary, yet House kept wondering what it would be like if it was.
- Is that a proposition? Because you know me, I’m up for the challenge. He says with a confident stride and polite– if not overtly read as a sarcastic smile. He looks off to the rooms when Wilson looks up some charts from one of the nurses. Figuring the man would shrug it off like always.
- Why am I booked to be in the OR right now? Nobody paged me about this! It’s probably for O’Malley but I told him I was off the case. I-
As Wilson was quite enthralled in his rant and looking on his phone to catch any email or messages he could have received in the last hour. House went to the Nurse's desks and found Wilson’s number on the pagers. Pressing the computer’s initialisation, hoping it would soften the blow. He’d really have to make it up to him sometime soon.
- It’s not O’Malley. He’s off today. He states whilst looking at the screen.
-Are you looking it up? If I hadn’t lost my star of the day I'd be asking you to write me off it. Sighs James with a tired everlasting stare.
- Nope, if I’m any good with computers you should know who was supposed to page you in approximately three seconds. The exposition makes itself somewhat less dramatic for a change.
By the time they look at each other eager for a change, Wilson’s pager vibrates and shows House’s number.
It doesn’t take him long to connect the dots, the clever little man doesn’t give in.
-That’s why you’re talking to me? Because you’re in need of a consultation? What would be so important that you’d go over me this morning, and now need my expertise? Is it some sort of aggressive lymphedema? It has to be serious because I’m going to kill you over the patient. The rants overflow with his surprise, voice getting higher in a tell tale that can be spotted from a mile. House can’t help but wonder if that’s what Wilson sounded like when arguing with his ex-wife. That had to be it, they were already so far off the road that Greg isn’t quite sure he knows how to make a path back to it. Perhaps the friendship hiking trail was down to last. It was dreadfully boring to consider.
-You’re starting to sound like you’d really need the vacation right about now. Should I book it or book off away from you? He says rather seriously, but by the sight of it Wilson’s already way off his marbles to notice. If anything it’s gonna take some time and some cafeteria lunches on his tab to make things feels mundane again. That somehow makes him smile faintly, Wilson catches sight of it with an intense hazelnut stare.
-Shut up, House. Why didn’t you text me? I would have answered, I am actually the reliable one in this relationship, the only one. He heavily staggers the side-eye as he delivers the line. It’s well rehearsed like he’s been thinking about it all day, and knowing him, he probably has.
-Fact is, I have an overly attached patient who’s done nothing but juice down my phone for the past day and a half. He’s actually the one I need a consultation about. I genuinely have a good reason not to be back home before midnight, might you give it a try before you start looking like a pumpkin out of sheer frustration? He lays it down, rather bluntly hoping to meet halfway.
-What is he doing, testing your unlimited phone plan with your contacts of the best sex workers? I won’t partake in that, if you’re asking. Wilson tries to slide with a slight over exaggerated swagger. And what’s with the Cinderella talk, I'd rather we stick to Oz.
He’s totally trying to play it cool and not vent on him, about him. But House’s one second away from opening that bottle of worm simply by the look on the oncologist’s face.
-Where’s the fun in that? I actually need you for your speciality. House deadpans.
-Oncology? There’s not much I can teach you there. This old dog hasn’t got new tricks. Haven’t had the time to update on the most recent works. You’d probably find a way to break down my diagnosis in multiple ways before I got by the end of my sentence. Don’t get me wrong it’s brilliant but I’m not particularly into the idea of throwing myself head into the den of wolves. Not today. Nuh-huh. He overthinks it through his mouth, and House can’t help but want to smile more. But instead he starts to walk off the unoccupied nurse’s office, getting in some steps before Wilson’s eventual body catches up.
-Not wolves, birds. And more appropriately, a bird’s anatomy. He pipes out, ominous, but finding it quite enthralling to watch Wilson take the words apart to find the meaning. To find out what it all comes down to.
-Please don’t tell me your sex worker maniac put a bird up his ass. He laughs nervously at the mere idea of it. If it's your morbidly questionable humor striking, spare me for today I’m done with your tricks. He sighs as he goes in to rub his face, maybe to shake off the absurdity of it all.
-Didn’t you used to go with your dad to those bird viewing competitions? I’d really find that neat on hand right about now. He mentions with a shrug, hoping to warm the conversation enough to perhaps coerce the man into following him further.
-It was once! How do you even remember that, I almost forgot about it. A-And he forced me. Until I saw a Cooper’s Hawk, ‘twas when I was eating my sandwich on a wooden bench. Back then it felt like the highlight of my day. Because nobody wants to stay quiet side by side with their dad silently testing your knowledge about birds as a fourteen years old. He realizes his ranting before nearing the end of the hall they’re walking to. Enough! What do you need a bird consultation for?
-You’ll see. So, Why did Chase beat up your non-client? He ponders with a hint of curiosity at whether or not Wilson will spill.
-Domestic abuse, despite knowing we have loose evidence of it. He spills fast, probably the high and dry of it being so recent. And the juiciness of it all, Wilson himself can’t avoid how scandalous that was.
-But you know the dad’s violent don’t you? You spend all-day with those kids, you know the signs. Chase’s not dumb, he won’t misinterpret it on day one and gets himself in trouble for a peach bruise. I'm willing to bet he didn’t miraculously lose some IQ overnight, as hard as it is to believe. He vouches, hoping to get things going, perhaps even get Wilson to breathe it out. Hopefully by the time they get to Castiel’s medicated body.
-He’s dumb enough to think an uppercut will fix the problem. That’s now how these things work in the system. Imagining that the domestic abuse is the child’s least problem going on since the kid’s sporting an incurable skin disease. Now an ego bruised dad dealing with life changing issues isn't making any progress. Worst it’s going to strain the doctor patient trust the kid barely has gotten over time. He’s ruining months of my work with one too many fucks to give. You see why I’d prefer it was you? You don’t care enough to save the world and end my career with it.
It’s with that statement they enter the Or’s washing station. It’s awfully quiet despite the growing buzz of the neons. Taking the robes off the appliances and giving one to Wilson’s aghast face. They put it on simultaneously, efficiently for the little time he has booked the OR for at such an hour. Thankfully, Wilson’s proactive enough to rant as he’s walking. House wouldn’t have made it as quickly without it.
House focuses on washing his hands in the sink, the routine hanging deep-set into his bones. Wilson’s body lingers close to him as he comes to do exactly the same thing. His arm hovers against his and House looks over to the glass panel where there’s only two people for such an unobtrusive booking.
-Can’t say I disagree with Chase, we have to appreciate the irony. What’s better than showing him his own kind of medicine? Heck, have him hide his bruise at daycare now, too. He lets out with a huff.
-House. Warns Wilson with a sigh. It’s not something I'd like to joke about. Wilson’s stare burns the back of his head when he puts the gloves on, and then he breaks a small pourcentage of his sterility by taking gloves and putting them on Wilson himself. It’s not like they’ll be deep set into the tissues, it’s superficial at best.
-Good because we’re here and I need you to focus. He shares honestly as he pushes the door with his back to enter the OR.
-Foreman told me about one of your patients being back. Shall I assume it’s the one I'll be consulting on? You wouldn’t bother me with some emergency care triage. Then again with birds involved I’m not sure I want to know. Wilson finishes his statement by the time they get to Castiel’s covered body with a dry blue panel of felt. He slowly takes it off as Wilson is still staring at him ogling every once of his being.
-Shush, you’re overthinking and it’s crowding us. Pipes out House out loud.
-You shut up. I’m the one doing you a favor, remember? Let’s out James with little to no time to have a comeback.
-That’s only because you’re curious about my bird case. He grimaced.
-Both can coexist. Now spill. Wilson’s tiredness with his ambition matched up in arrogance and it’s almost fun, if it wasn’t dead set on being against him.
-Remember your latest miracle? You have what’s left of it. Lacerations on multiple areas in the back, lombar’s coverage is the heaviest but there’s two bones I need you to pick apart from the lots.
Wilson looks around, realizing something’s off. That’s how House knows he’s gotten his full uninterrupted attention.
-Why is there no one else but an anesthesiologist? No offense. He says waving towards the older woman doing sudoku by the end of the room, close to Castiel’s head. It’s as if she ignores him all together, and that’s good enough for House. He didn’t pay her to have fun, did he?
-Because it’s a consultation, it’s not an actual surgery. He’s still under from when I had Foreman take most of the dead tissue from the wounds in the last half an hour. Told me there was something I had to see. But that’s the problem. I can’t see it.
-What do you mean you can’t see it? There’s tools for that. Use a magnifier, don’t overburden your friends just because you find it interesting, or worse entertaining.
-Wilson, would you just look at the damn thing?
-What do you even want me to l- Oh, wow. He manages to pipe out.
That’s where the blood ran away from his face, by the lack of information House had managed to keep it all under covers. Foreman wouldn’t peep at anyone unworthy, but then again it was another thing to involve Wilson into this. Perhaps it’s because he’s already more than involved when Castiel had decided to run his tricks on children and patients.
As far as he knows, the anesthesiologist doesn’t tell apart their scientific enthusiasm from any other cool surgeries they had going on. And as long as they kept listening to their music and writing their little numbers. He’ll be one of a few to know about this.
House looks exactly where Wilson is for a second, the enigma of seeing the everlasting wonder on his best friend’s face is enough to make him feel envy.
It’s deep set and ingrained in his stomach, but instead he focuses on the man’s back. The way his arms are protruded on each side managed to keep the area large and open. The wounds are clean, Foreman’s done a good job maintaining sterility but also showing off the issue.
The man’s fat tissue is slightly bent on the side of the two wounds, they’re similar sizes despite the irregularities of damage by fire.
There’s some wounds already plastered with the good stuff that keeps them wet and thriving to heal,all of them but the two right where the man’s shoulder blades. There’s a gaping hole, and he’s pretty sure that’s the part he can’t see. Which is fascinating that where science decides to lay off is around the actual issue.
House goes to the metallic tools on his left, dipping his cyan blue plastic glove into the sponges container, he squeezes one of them still full of humidity and blood. His fingers look pretty gnarly but he goes towards the hole, he goes to feel up what would be empty in his eyes. But when his fingers hit softly, what could be only said as invisible matter. The sponge simply bounces against nothing. It’s so fascinating to see and deeply irritating because it’s testing the boundary of his beliefs. He takes back to the container, throwing the sponge back in to prove his point.
Wilson makes a sound, startled by the action.
-What you see right here, I can’t see it. Is it what I think it is? He says truthfully with a lingering stare over his friend under the spotlight of the OR.
-I..I can’t say. It could be a deformity, there’s so much of it missing. It could be a congenital disease, tumor cells interaction. It can’t just be w-
-Wings? Right because that would be so surprising after seeing him pull your toddler out of the death penalty. He deadpans with uncertainty, looking up to his friend for guidance perhaps.
-I mean, I said I believed, but wings? Ain’t that too literal? Not that I’m complaining, but it’s exactly as if they were mimicking a bird’s ligature, the cauterized veins are following such a complex pattern that I can’t help but think is designed. If it’s god’s work he sure knew what to do to not make him develop blood clots. There’s almost an admiring undertone in the softness of his voice.
-That’s as far as I go for believing this isn’t some kind of prank. I’m starting to think they worshiped him for a birth defect and he’s now haywire because god’s little angel went to havoc for love. As far as they go, they’ll go as long to accept a birth defect but not dear old sodomy. He says, his voice harsh and irritated.
-They? You can’t just let that slip and not explain. Do you even get any information from him? Has he talked about it? Are you asking the right questions? Ponders Wilson softly, slightly light-headed but finding ground to use his PHD.
-He’s..Peculiar, I just woke up from an all-life long coma yesterday, kind of peculiar. That has to be some sort of island or cult-driven community. It wouldn’t be a first, they just fell on a bad egg and called it god’s creation. Give it a pretty flower crown and make him twirl. But now that it’s within society it’s empty, obsolete so it grasps at his romeo til the end. But the problem is, Romeo's not only acting as straight as they come, he’s also in coma in 07. I’m not the most efficient suicide watch, as you know. Cameron picks up where I lay down. He’s unable to take care of himself and we’re not physical therapy.
-That’s pretty far stretched. Even for you. Let’s out a suspicious Wilson.
-More than believing there’s an angel on my operating table? Wouldn’t angels be omnipotent and unable to be cut under a dull scalpel? Why would he even come back here and not go back to wherever heaven is? That’s a bunch of stuff overlooked, considering I have a stuck up, grown gay man with aspergers tendencies grasping at my shirt like a toddler. If it’s not what it looks like, then what is it?
-You care about him. Lets out softly Wilson with this strange stare over the table. House looks away to the anesthesiologist, he knocks over the metallic rod of the machine, the vibration makes the woman look up from her book and lift a hand up, all fingers up.
-I don’t have time for this. Do you recognize this, or don’t you? Huffs House with a stripped frustration.
-I want to work this case with you. You owe me time to pay up. Wilson’s ambition is admirable, it gives it this shine in his eye.
-What can you do than Cameron and I haven’t got covered? He counters, hoping for an out.
-The same thing that had you come here and spill it over something you can’t solve. I can see something you can’t, let’s use that. Let me talk to him, at least once. You’ve got nothing to lose. He balances it out with some reasoning and House can’t exactly say he’s surprised.
-I’ll think about it. Now, is it what I think it is? He concedes.
-It’s the beginning of a coracoid, with the equivalent of nature’s girdle, it usually would be pectoral for bird but I’m pretty sure it only reaches towards the side of ribs and spine. I’m not exactly sure which muscle would be picking up the slack of missing a set of pectoralis major. If he did have wings maybe he could barely lift them. They would have to be three times his height to even lift such weight. I’m not sure how any of this is possible, House. He shrugs with a deep exhale.
-Thus I feared, we’re going to have to give him the news. He says with an ominous tone, pondering the ethics. Birth defect or not, it was likely to feel as if he lost limbs. There was enough to relate. Perhaps Wilson would know how to deliver the news better. Any tips on telling chickens they can’t fly any more?
-I’m sure he was aware of having such a heaving thing on his back, in fact it explains the trenchcoat pretty easily, if he’s watching any movies as a kid. Ignore Wilson, thinking out loud.
He wouldn’t need too long to gather that’s one of a few items that would fit him and make him look as normal as possible. But it would still look clammy and stuffed, I can’t say I noticed something so big last time. He looked fairly empty in the back, opening them would collapse the seams. It’s a wonder of biology, no wonder you’ve been keeping this to yourself.
-Time’s up. He sighs, lifting the blue felt back to cover the naked man’s back to keep it less oxygenated. I’ll holler at Cameron to reintegrate him. Go home, come back tomorrow, you’ll get your interview.
-You know. If I have to consider our history together.. Surprisingly, it barely breaks the top ten of peculiar encounters. >> Lets out Wilson as he backs out, House watches him wash out and leave, to then hover his stare on the man’s tan skin under the harsh light.
He can’t keep on hanging onto these dissolved theories, not with Wilson around. If he’s kept one step behind, there ways to manage, but Wilson’s not as dumb as he looks. He’ll soon figure out how much House’s out of his lane and time’s ticking on how much time they have left because reality catches up and Dorothy wakes up. Wilson’s too much his conscience to consider this worthwhile to risk his sanity, but House can’t help but need to reach the end of this. If there’s even any.
Chapter 25: -25-
Summary:
If he were to think about it deeply, Castiel’s need was one of a piano that was misaligned, unable to use the keys without the use of strings holding them tightly shut, but needing to be loose enough to vibrate and hit the perfect notes. He needs dedication, selfless physical therapy, and reinsertion into life as if he was an inmate walking away from a life sentence. Guilt-ridden and repenting for the past.
Something about seeing her show him how to appreciate fries from the cafeteria or how to use the soap had House torn between pitying the man or watching with fascination.
He doesn’t want to believe, there’s no way he can entirely believe in a lie knowing it is a lie. But his heart is finally pumping and thrilled to be in the middle of it, to be in between the worlds, tiptoeing the line with the uttermost care for its fragility.
Notes:
I kid you not, in my research I found out that Gregory Novak - Mentioned in Supernatural: War of the Sons (sixth book), is the father of Jimmy and grandfather of Claire.
How fucking odd that both Dr.House's name and Jimmy Novak's father's name are Gregory? Was so weird to find out, yet a fun connection to use as a winky face in the texts.
Nevertheless, enjoy these two sad fools for a hot minute. Castiel's hopelessness was only seen as a recurrent theme in most of his appearances as a human, so I thought to give it a voice here for that same reason. He'll be his badass self in no time, but even badasses have to find a reason to live.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The blood work had come back, at least way before Foreman had cut the dead tissues on the patient’s back. The fact they found a blood match to put on a file shouldn’t be so important to him. Not when that happens pretty much everyday. The endless everflowing list of files getting dug up in hospitals daily shouldn’t concern him so much.
He may be biased, but he was not stupid.
Yet he had little to care yet what would the file mean, what would it actually prevent or fix. Thing is, Castiel was never his case to begin with. If anything the man’s odd and entirely off the rail of common society. Something he was not, was a result of this file, it’s filled with more questions and answers than any of them bargained for.
He figures he’s not ready to jump into Alice’s rabbit hole just yet. And as much as he hated to admit, looking further at the file would actually mean Wilson’s right and that he cares.
He’s not sure if he should even bother, the man’s issues aren’t peculiar, in the physical sense at last. He’s burned, charred in the back, he’s got some odd growths that he could rule off as abnormalities yet nothing worth being his actual patient. Right?
The growths aren’t killing him and he’s not asking to take them off. He’s not something for him to cure. He’s not his kind of client, he’s not there to save his life, or at last, not in the usual sense.
So why bother?
He’s different but not enough to grant actually upgrading him to his team’s care. He welcomes the freaks, but he doesn’t treat them all for things that are unnecessary cosmetics.
Was it enough to go on from? Cameron’s nurse skills were one thing, the whole team’s eyes and dirty little hands were another. Would he trust the kids to know how to handle any of this?
There’s the man’s identity under the files he’s sporting in the crook of his elbow. As casual as ever, it's been hanging there since forever. House’s mind deeply pondering about its content and the meaning of it.
Once he would have opened it and ravished its information for an endless amount of times he’d be finally satiated, but for now he’s almost dreading it.
Wilson’s words seem to wither in the hollow of his skull. Would he actually rather focus on the magic trick or would he become aware of its strings? Puppeteering from the top isn’t his cup of tea, considering he’s no god, his hippocratic oath leaving little room for playing with lives enough to create a difference. He’s simply tending his skill for a motive bigger than him, yet there’s this willingness to believe in magic that keeps nagging at him in this annoying way. It shouldn’t be there to begin with, it was mostly Castiel’s fault for being so attractive and oddly charismatic despite his lack of effort to maintain it. Who was he to say no to pretty boys in need of a peculiar knight in shining armor. But was it all it was about?
There was a certain aura to him that left them listening to his rough and desperate voice, his eyes and mouth leaving enough to the imagination.
There’s no cure to Castiel’s loneliness, to being a long lost homosexual with a few years’s worth of missed school days. Of systematics rules of the universe and intricacies of human life. He’d have to catch up in no time, but then again who were they to impose this world on him if he was actually sane. If he was, only but delusional and working towards aiding forward.
Castiel’s not the magic trick, he’s just this overdue homework that keeps nagging over and over until you do it last minute.You can’t help but think about nothing else but it, but you’re not taking care of it for good. And thus procrastinate and obsess simultaneously.
House’s not fond of it, nor does he feel fond of the man’s issues.
Despite respecting his integrity and strength, he was no more ordinary than anyone else. And the sooner he could stop treating it any differently, the closer he’d be to fixing Dean Winchester’s odd case. Even if the man would wake up any day now, he’d still crave knowing what had induced this coma.
To be almost walking in a fairy tale, hand-made and carely crafted by years of denial. These two had a way to make you feel special, and you were definitely not.
It’s almost as if he couldn't entirely ignore it all, the folder metaphorically burning a hole in his arm.
There’s this pride, this feeling of inadequacy if he hadn’t figured this part out on his own by now. And reading this file will most likely give him more context clues about all of this, but he’s not one to deny plausible deniability. Foreman hadn’t gasped and ran away when reading it, that was a good sign.
He’ll read the damn file eventually, but there’s something fragile about it all. He doesn’t want to break it, he’s not known for his eloquence when it comes to patients, and he usually wouldn’t care if it weren't that it cost him weeks of his time last time. He cannot have Castiel walk away now, he has to stay, no matter what. He hates that he actually cares, but he’s not going to dwell on that now. Half the work was the realization, wasn't it? At least he had a medical trace somewhere of the man, to prove his existence, to prove that all of that was play pretend.
He finally drops the neat folder on the nearest surface in front of him, this time it’s on the cart that he’ll be dragging over. As it quit his elbow and met the dark metal, he hadn’t gotten any freedom in leaving it there. Almost drained and hyper fixated on it like it would disappear at any given time, perhaps exactly like Castiel did, or the taller Winchester.
He’s stuck in thoughts enough that it's a welcome surprise when he finally gathers up words to answer to Chase who’s being dull as a butter knife. He’d forgotten the man had been following him here. As it tends to happen when his cast was unimaginative or worse, boring.
<< Weren’t you god’s little helper once upon a time? He raps out as he unplugged a wire. Bending over had him groaning from the strain as he’s hovering from the left of the metal frame. I can recall a faith somewhere in between whoring your way to university and having sex before mariage.
-I fail to see where that’s relevant. It’s not like it could actually be the case. Angels are supposed to be this metaphorical thing that we hold onto for hope. They are unflawed by humanity, above the rest of us. If he wanted to develop a god complex why not jump straight to god? Talk about self-induced pressure. Chirps up Chase with a curious stare. Blonde strands of hair bouncing in the stance of a lowering head as he follows House’s movement with his stare and chin. It’s one thing to have faith, another to be a fraud. To induce other people in lies, and to ultimately put them in danger. It’s a false practice in the making.
- Better safe than sorry. He huffs, passively ignoring the pink elephant in the room. That medical license is as real as we pretend it is. End of day, it’s faith that you’re able to do your job. House starts eagerly. Almost looking to rid of the younger blond man, he’s distracted, and as far as he knows, they both are. Yet he can’t finish, the younger man has a mind of its own, how dreadful. How many Hannahs are there in a Motel’s favorite piece of literature?I lost coun–
- As if you wouldn’t know, out of all of us, you’re old enough and most likely to have been there when they built the church. That’s if you didn’t jump yourself from the clouds once you realized there wasn’t Vicodin in-there. Responds the younger man with some light teasing, lights shimmering in his eyes of vivacity. Or perhaps it was only the room’s neons. Being called Lucifer wasn’t a first, he lost a few points there. He’s testing the boundary of his patience with some creative thinking. Like an absolute kid, and House’s two steps from indulging in it.
There’s this daring aura, and he likes it. At least if it wasn’t turning so sour.
- Oh gee, Don’t spare me and tell me how you really think Robert. He deadpans grin curving upwards as he throws the electrical wire on the metal shelf, he uses the butt of his cane to unlock the wheels under the stare of his co-worker. All of those wheelchairs of the past and future, were enough knowledge to catch them being locked and fixing it before actually gathering his strength to push the cart.
They click all one after the other, declaring his need to pass, and Chase obliges by shuffling to the side. At least he knew better than to block him physically, he’d remain a philosophical thorn in his bosom instead.
-But really, you can’t be believing it, right? It’s a sham. He says as House starts pushing the TV on the rolling cart, CDs start to slide off and Chase’s hand stops them before House gets to it.
They meet each other’s stare for a minute as he stops. Those eyes are awfully bright and tight.
-Well duh. He honestly lets out, critically thinking yet observing the man’s face for a hint of rationality. Do you? His stare lingers, until Chase is uncomfortable enough to look away with a choked up snort. At least the old tricks never got old. As far as he knew, Chase would wake up a cuck if one day House stopped questioning his reasonings, that’s for sure.
- Of course not. If you’d let me meet the man, I'd be able to tell you he’s unapt. It all feels so breezy and simple under his words, yet House grimaces. It doesn’t feel right, and he’s no ethics major yet there’s something in here that doesn’t feel in tune with the natural order of the usual team. Yet it was still fair and rational reasoning.
And yet, what would Chase know more than him on Castiel that he didn’t think about first hand himself in the weeks he’s been pinning over this case? Totally swooning over the moon there without any ounce of shame from the Australian doctor.
It was awfully odd to see the man so against religion when he’d usually been so forward with it.
Wouldn't Chase actually encourage the presence of god in someone’s life if they benefited from it? He’d been religious, still is in ways that didn’t matter anymore. So why would he choose Castiel as the bait for his misplaced irritation? Why did he even care about a man he’s never met? A religious one at that?
He’d usually be much quieter, wait it out. Perhaps even manage to get under his wing enough to meet the man himself and treat him. So what had him be so stupid? There wasn’t a lot to go on from, but then again human intricacies were pretty easy to funnel. If it wasn’t his health, and it wasn’t money, could it be about love? Or then again, sex sounded more plausible because love would have produced a overtly pleased aura. Not this caged squirrel fighting for a single nut, who he’d forget in a matter of hours. It was ridiculous.
- By what , outsmarting him on religion trivia? Not bad. And closing the door on science and its everlasting wonders? Didn’t find you to be so stoic about a holy spirit. He says as he starts to push the TV again, making way to the hall. It wasn’t his greatest comeback, but then again, Chase didn’t deserve more attention to his temper tantrum. You’re usually the greatest spirit of Christmas’s past. What’s gotten into you?
- What about him? Chase’s frantic waving hand goes towards the room they’ve barely left. The coma patient unbothered and old, frankly a depressing sight.
You’re stealing this man’s TV rights, ones he reasonably paid for and that because you believe he can’t hear it in his coma. How many of this guy’s entourage has been denied rationality because of his disillusions? Ever think about that? As far as we know he’ll think he can fly and jump over the next bridge he encounters. What’s so bloody important about this case that you’re not taking any new ones? Let out the man’s passion, perhaps too much of it. Someone’s antsy today and somehow the stare he received towards the latest comment makes him think it wasn’t too far from the truth accidentally. He’s not our usual type of cases, don’t you dare and deny it.
Thing is, Chase is right in some ways. Castiel is only one ladder to get the truth about Dean’s self induced coma. There’s no reasonable excuse for him to say to the irritated man that will get him to think this is normal and that Castiel’s the actual patient they’d cure. He’s not there to be cured, and if anything he’s only ill of things that cognitive dissonance therapy will probably fix. His burns may sting now but they’ll fade and heal, scars of something traumatizing, a thing of the past. He’s not sick, he’s not another of his cases, one he can afford to spend so much on. He’ll get discharged with or without his help. Thing is, Chase was sneaking his nose in things that weren't his business. He had enough of Wilson for that, unfortunately.
So instead of feeding the man’s worries, he looks over to Chase and smiles.
- I’m still on watch, Cuddy’s tight fist over my metaphorical blue balls hasn’t been merciful. It doesn’t matter. Worst case it’s a dead end and I spent my chaperone time being mommy’s favorite. And best case we learn something that breaks science as we know it. Win-win. He does smile and it’s in uttermost arrogance and brashness, pushing the TV’s stand with passion, hoping the man might get a hint. He’d ponder that Chase will rule it off as his usual lunatic antics, but then again, he wasn’t sure if it was one just yet.
-Unless you lose your time, get overly involved in the case and can’t get your head out of your ass when we tell you to let it go. And by the time you’ve done something illegal or had us do something illegal, Cuddy’s fist won’t release because it wasn’t worth the hospital’s time and didn’t add many zero’s to the hospital’s net worth. Bye-Bye balls and–and license. How’s that getting us anywhere, huh?
And this time Chase is following fast, his body is tighter and his frustration leaks out of him.
How long have you been working on this anyway? Was it even before you had me inspect the bar? Was that even for? How is this related to–
-Did the cute girl you saw in church and you fell for last night even leave you a note on your nightstand? No number? Did you stop to believe in the Holy Father after or before the anal? He mocks, hoping to get the end of whatever this is. His eyes only leave the man’s when he turns a corner of the hall. If you’re not interested in helping, don’t ask questions. You’re sending mixed signals here, thinking of it, probably why she left you hanging.
With that mug of yours, I’m sure you can make your work worth your paycheck in any other bay. I’m sure the patients would be riveted to see this pretty face of yours in proctology. He says as he’s rolling the stand slowly to make his point to him.
-That’s not fair and you know it. Says the man under tense fists. You literally hired us to question your logic, find the problem and fix it. Well I’m telling you. If whoever in there believes he’s an angel he’s cruelly lying to himself and Cameron’s in there believing him. And now Foreman’s not saying anything about the reconstruction surgery. What did he do in there? There’s something going on and it’s fishy. Chase’s voice is fading as he lies there, defeated.
You can’t be falling for him too! That’s not who you are! >>
By the time Chase’s finished his rant, House catches the way he says Cameron’s name. It’s hurt and slightly possessive, enough for him to connect the dots about what Foreman told him in the church.
Instead of answering any further, he ignored Chase who ended up slowing down and sighing under his own irritated state.
The two lovebirds have been meeting each other outside of work? Was that why he was getting all the prissy parts of his colleague and not bothered to try to be the intelligent surgeon he carefully hired? He'd find use only for one of them, not both. He’d have better use of him when he wasn’t so stuck on something he can’t help but be obsessed with.
Things is Cameron has been at Castiel’s bedrest every hour she had at work, and perhaps even overtime. House wasn’t always there to vouch for it, but simply by thinking of their personalities, there wasn’t a huge doubt that she’d take him over under her bird’s wing, nurturing him. Being what a loving nurse would be, despite the huge inflation in her paycheck.
Then again she was trying to help House figure himself out, she had been clearly stating so when asking to help him before things were even established. She wasn’t questioning his methods as it were, perhaps because she was busy bathing a full-grown man every few days and curing his nails. Making sure his levels were fine and spending remotely most of her awake time keeping him sane for House to work on whatever she believed was the key to helping them both. She was not worse for wear, Castiel was more than remotely attractive, and he was more conscious than most cases in his bay.
He had to agree that it was satisfying to have her actually not doubt his process but simply work for it, finding respect with hard work. With help of Foreman’s indirect style and judgy stares but open words.
Huh, who knew they were so helpful when not asking the wrong questions?
And he had no use for Chase’s misplaced anger. If he was jealous of Castiel’s bathing time he’d better get in line.
Now that Chase was misplacing his anger and hopelessness, House was grateful he hadn’t slept with her last month. Not that it had remotely gotten there, but the thought had lingered. It whatsoever had no matter what he was currently doing and he honestly didn’t have much time to entertain this little peck.
Chase was being possessive, and whether or not he got to do that to Cameron, he wasn’t going to entertain it much more if the man’s choices already splattered on her entourage. He’d never been one to force her to do this, she’d volunteered. Worst case he’d have some incentives, perhaps some brilliant exchange, heck in the worst cases blackmail. Like the adults they were.
If he’d be to bring this up to anyone, Chase would have to bring it up to her. What was awful about this was to see how much this reaction seemed out of proportion, for what would be a date, maybe even sex overnight. It had to be more, they had to be seeing each other for days, if not for a week or two now.
Castiel care had been on for as much. Enough to be a fling and grant such deep reactions.
Now that he’s thought of it, he wonders if Cameron wasn’t also one of the incentives for why Chase punched Wilson’s client. Hadn’t she been in ER he’d have bet on it, but then again, staff could walk miles in here without it even showing. She could have easily been there in both places in the evening and night, in different intervals. Wouldn’t surprise him if she’s the one who found some bruises and couldn’t stay quiet about it. Chase the ever-loving knight coming in rescue of a cancer kid. It painted an awfully pretty picture.
So instead of pursuing it further, he looks in front of him, deep in thoughts about whether or not getting Chase his spot in this is really worthwhile.
Wilson’s probably waiting in his office impatiently and reviewing Castiel’s tests. Thing is there’s little to it House was ready to address, and perhaps it was a good thing Wilson wanted to take care of it. Castiel was clearly an emotional nut to crack and House wasn’t there to befriend him more than fix whatever was wrong with his boyfriend. As much as he’d like to find out what Castiel has within his ears, his objective had to remain about Dean’s case. Chase wasn’t even a blemish in his thoughts despite being annoyingly buzzing around in the hospital and possibly running to be making his case to the woman in question.
The fact House was on watch indirectly by Wilson was enough to have him think the both of them could handle it without Chase all over Castiel’s case as well. Wilson would get enough to feed Cuddy’s curiosity and also House would get another chance at cracking this.
But Wilson hadn’t been wrong when he declared House cared about Castiel, because even when he rationally knew he could back off and let them work it. Because they clearly better able to get there with him than House ever would simply by talking, he’d simply force it out in the ways he knew how and somehow with that case it sounded like a ticket to losing the case under ramifications of the basement’s events. Despite his salary being cut partially and his surgery license being temporarily on hold until he’s visited a damn therapist and gotten cleared he wasn’t of much use. As long as he didn’t declare himself further to the police, he’d have to be creative with his treatments and delegating. The price of being vague and dashing, he supposed. It was good to have Foreman and Cameron on his paycheck in moments like this.
By the time he’s gotten to Castiel’s door, he stops and looks over the hall. Chase’s long gone and off to whatever else he’d come up with.
He pulls the folder that had been vibrating on the DVD reader, knowing that the name on it seems to tease him.
Of course, Foreman had known enough of the folder to be able to operate and be safe, but House hadn’t truly looked over the file until recently . Perhaps because he’d promised to keep an open mind to Wilson. And Castiel burns had been time-sensitive, enough for Foreman’s knowledge in skin damage to be quite useful on the spot. Not like the man wasn’t a well certified neurologist and surgeon or anything like that.
But the temptation had broken over the day and a half he’s had this stupid file, and now he’d had opened it. He would have been a moron not to, considering Wilson was about to interrogate him soon, or worse, make bigger discoveries about this case that House needed to be on top of.
Seeing the name on the file, had him for a loop.
He hadn’t pegged Castiel for a Jimmy, even less a Novak.
It did sound somewhat mormon, but then knowing he was from Illinois is odd.
So the man is wonderfully kept for being born in ‘73, House had given him way less.
Being a July baby made him a Cancer and as far as he knew that wasn’t saying much but it’s the kind of thing the man probably wouldn’t have told him himself. Not that it mattered anymore since he had the answer right in front of him.
He’d keep wondering how the man would react to this identity he was reading about, was he in denial or unaware of his real name?
His family history does mention Claire’s birth in St. John's Hospital, and how he’d given blood for Amelia Novak, which he figures would be Claire’s mom. Perhaps needing a transfusion for some type of blood loss or anemia. At least he’d been there for that, it was a slight given.
Had she died in the delivery room? He’d have to ponder until the man could say as much. Or he’d check over the database at some point to make sure.
What keeps him unsure about it all is to see the man’s parent’s names. Of course Annalise Cooper was fine and looked average if anything. She’d maybe been a simple woman. It was the father’s name, Gregory Novak, oddly reminiscent of his own. Perhaps that’s why the man had heard of him or even had any affinity to seek him out in the hospital? If he’d even known his first name.
It was incredibly odd to see, if he’d be able to marry the man, it would have followed with a confusing but revelatory christmas night.
If he were to think about it deeply, Castiel’s need was one of a piano which was misaligned, unable to use the keys without the use of strings holding them tightly shut, but needing to be loose enough to vibrate and hit the perfect notes. He needs dedication, selfless physical therapy and reinsertion into life as if he was an inmate walking away from a life sentence. Guilt ridden and repenting for the past.
Something about seeing her show him how to appreciate fries from the cafeteria or how to use the soap had House torn in between pitying the man or watching with fascination.
He doesn’t want to believe, there’s no way he can entirely believe in a lie knowing it is a lie. But his heart is finally pumping and thrilled to be in the middle of it, to be in between the worlds, tiptoeing the line with the uttermost care for its fragility.
It’s almost as if he couldn't entirely ignore it all, the folder metaphorically burning a hole in his vicinity.
There’s this pride, this feeling of inadequacy if he hadn’t figured this part out on his own by now. And reading this file will most likely have given him more context clues about all of this, but he’s not one to deny plausible deniability. He knew he would have read the damn file eventually, but there’s something fragile about it all. He doesn’t want to break it by proxy, he’s not known for his eloquence when it comes to patients, and he usually wouldn’t care if it weren't that it cost him weeks of his time last time. He cannot have Castiel walk away now, he has to stay, no matter what.
Since he’s right and Castiel is a made-up name to glorify him, there’s another man’s name under this folder. There’s these doubts that it’s never been used more than to describe a child, enough so for it to be legally his name. He knew he should ask Castiel, and he would, but it felt surreal.
There’s this hanging feeling of a stolen victim, somewhere deep within the man’s too young and old at the same time. His maturity and knowledge of books and folklore seems like he’s been isolated for ages, nose in book to mimic anything he couldn’t fantasize enough to live.
Young in all of his actions towards others around him, his choice of word doesn’t deem it as so, but the man’s face and eyes seem to speak volume about his neverending youthful outlook on the intricacies of life. He hadn’t seen someone so relieved toilet paper existed. Yet the man could still talk about the sound of a gunshot ricocheting in ribs with vivid details. It was the oddest spectacle House had seen in some time. Competition was off by a mile.
The man was clearly old enough mentally to be called a man no matter his age, he seemed to understand the most basic subjects despite not having lived them. It would be ridiculous to call him anything but a full grown man, at least physically.
He’s too knowledgeable about certain things to be an amnesiac and he’s claimed not having pain that wasn’t physically perpetrated onto him. He could be lying, but House isn’t sure what’s there to believe.
One good sign was the fact that the man had insurance, it had been checked out. To be able to perform surgery on him, it had been checked out rather easily. Foreman had every information needed before performing the surgery, and yet House couldn’t get himself to open up and ask the damn angel about his past. It felt like violating a rape’s victim last wish, yet he was dying to ask it. He’s no virgin Mary to it all, but maybe Wilson’s right. He’s usually not caring that much for patients whatever they may be. Perhaps he does actually care about the man. There’s no other reason he can come up with that would make him so jittery inside.
He’d rather figure it out himself, not needing the file at all, but Castiel's odd quietness was making it harder. It wouldn’t be too hard to take the time, if the man had known how to take care of himself. But seeing Cameron act as a substitute mother to him made everything questionable. Not that the ethics of this weren’t clear, but that he wasn’t sure where the line was to cross.
Despite making small talk or answering Cameron, he’s not really talkative about his time before entering the hospital for the first time. And House had been dying to know where he’s from, what’s his medical history. And there it was, laying there on A4 paper grids and dotted lines. All of its gospel was entering his brain in the hope to find something, seeking patterns.
It’s been two days, and all he’s got is substantial. There’s enough to go on for Dean, but Castiel really didn’t seem to get to know himself. It was taking time to introduce every little thing or simply explain them all, like to a child who’s done nothing wrong but is tiring them both by explaining things that seem like a given.
He sniffs and turns as he’s pushing the TV Cart towards the room, opening and closing the door behind himself.
Castiel’s open baby blue eyes are unaware and calm, looking at him as House pushes the damn thing towards the wall in front of him. There’s this silence, the one that keeps on lingering about it all.
Of course Castiel’s uncomfortable with being told he’s hurt physically or needs assistance but it didn’t make it any less the truth.
When he plugged in and used the remote to find a cable channel, he managed to find the right one. Considering his show doesn’t start in another five minutes, he turns his head towards the younger man.
He looks frail and whiter than when he first came in, his skin losing the color he’d be sporting in the Kansas sun, or Illinois he supposed. It itched at House to spill, something about getting some shock, some sort of reaction that wasn’t monotone or jaded.
But Castiel had gone back to his activity whilst House had taken care of the entertainment. He was eating some Jell-O, the green tainting the moist part of his inner lips. The slow drags of the spoon in the plastic was more of a shrug. He was in no hurry to get the bottom of it, there was still half of it uneaten.
<< Don’t you ever get tired of urinating? Let out the gentle gruff of the man’s voice, and it makes House huff.
-Don’t tell me. It gets worse with age, you’d think as we start shriveling like frat boys cocktail sausages in winter would make the human body keep all the water it can get. He lets out, looking back to the window, today the snow was almost unnoticeable.
Too much sun and too little time before they would be covered for good. Weather has been a fickle mistress, making it unpredictable whether to bring your coat and mittens out to your locker today or not.
House’s stare lingers back to Castiel's frown.
- I’ve grown tired of suppressing my worry and my emotions. I don’t know what to do. He rasps, pushing the Jell-O forward on the bed-table, the spoon’s weight making the damn thing tip over and spill on the lightwood.
- Then don’t. Cameron’s doing it everyday and it surprisingly didn’t kill her yet. He says with a careless shrug. We can get you a shrink, you tell him about things. The ones you don’t want to tell us.
-Dean used to say that if I said some things I would get in trouble. But I didn’t listen, I was too strong to care. Now that I’m not. I find it hard to distinguish what can be said. I do not want to put him or myself in further trouble. He says, hands over each other as he swallowed thickly.
- Daddy’s not going to be mad at you if you say what you think. He said as he walked towards the end of the bed.
He’s told you all of this, but he’s alone in a hospital bed. I don’t see where that logic has gotten him further than you. He added, poised at the idea of making something of this peculiar discussion.
- I’ve been disobedient before, and look where it has gotten me. He sighs, his face is weary and tired.
I’m not so willing to part ways with the truth, it has gotten me this far. Have you no news of Sam? He says, eyes looking up at him from the sad and weary Jell-O. He has never left for so long before.
- No, not yet. You’ll be the first to tell if we’re in your vicinity. He lets out. Tell me something, why is it that now that we cut you apart like sushi, you’re willing to admit you’re human? What did it take, a little blood and you’re giving up?
- Because that’s the truth, for now. Giving up has never been an option before now.
- How can they both be the truth? Aren’t you tired of pretending to be something you’re not?
-I am, my patience is thinner than it ever was to begin with. This shape or another, I am failing at my purpose. But what of it, if I’ve been cast away. How can you watch humanity fall apart and remain the same? Feel yourself wither inside, knowing I’m barely half of what I used to be?
-Humanity’s gotten me good at it, it pays me well enough. He breathes out, blinking a few times in the statement the other one had laid. Somewhat relating to its depth despite being entirely stuck into searching deeper than what he barely hints at.
- Who’s Jody Mills to you? She didn’t speak highly of you. You must have screwed that up pretty bad. A band-aid kid mustn't have fixed it the way you thought it would. He lets out casually, hitting dead-ends.
- She’s..an inspiration . He says after considering his question. I was careless in my execution, she was one of the humans I encountered, and didn’t realize how much they were sacrificing to us. I spent so long with Dean and Sam..I’ve longed to realize the price of their humanity, to feel it raw.. I’ve never experienced it until now. I can say I am of regrets.
- Now doesn’t sound so great, does it? He says with humor, almost sardonic. Perhaps using the man’s words, vocabulary would get him anywhere closer.
- I fail to see a purpose in all of this. Confides Castiel with a soft yet lost voice. His eyes are perplexed and hollow. I fail to see why you’re still here.
- Cameron’s been taking good care of you, if all you’ve got to worry about is purpose. He breathes out, playing with the cane under his nails.
- I can worry all about them, all of the time. For many nights, with nothing to show for it. I can barely walk outside this room before crumbling apart. I fail to see how relevant purpose is, yet it’s all I can think about. I used to disregard those notions, for the better lack of purpose. I would rely on the mission to guide me, for the Winchester to tell me what was worth our time. Humanity is always this flaw that I would look up to, that I now find myself unable to escape. I would look at it, and find it a human’s greatest strength. How little did I know about its hopelessness.
- You’re catching up to speed. He says under pursed lips. Didn’t take long before reality set in.
- Some things are better left unsaid. Said Castiel, looking away.
- Would Dean believe you? If you’ve told him all of this. That you’re giving up. He said, eyelids kept tight and thin under disbelief.
- What does it matter? Groaned Castiel, irritated. He’s dying away from me. I’m losing the ability to feel him. I’m drowned in grief. I can’t reach him with my thoughts, nor hear his prayers. I cannot crawl to him, find him. I’m failing him. What of it, don’t I already know enough to torture myself with?
-I think I know just the thing for that. He said without a care in the world for the main theme song of his favorite show which had started in the room he’d barely just left. >>
He’d felt Castiel's curious stare on his back lingers into him for as long as it took for House to reach Dean’s bay.
He’d seen not much of it had changed. Dean was still in his arm cast, body heavy and unaware. Fluttering eyelids had been a good sign to actually see change from his last embodied state. Perhaps Castiel was giving up, but House knew how heavy a hospital room could be on one’s sanity.
Who knew he’d longed for the man to think of himself as an angel again? Seeing him so broken was simply wrong. Yet he was saying everything House had previously wished. There was something about sharing cynicism in a room of ever-so optimist doctors, and doing it with a depressed patient.
House ignored the sound of the alarms as he unplugged most machines around.
It didn’t take long for a nurse to run to the room in an alarmed state, it took even longer to convince her of his lack of ill intentions. Yet again, he’d managed to roll the man’s bed away quite easily under the pretense of an epiphany about the REM cycle. It’s not like she’d see a difference with him in or not, he’d vouch for his well being. It’s not like his case was dangerous to leave unattended for as little as using the elevator.
It killed House to see Castiel’s stare light up from the windowed wall, as he was riding Dean’s bed to it. In the hall, outside looking in, Castiel's eyes were far more alive than they’d been in days. And House couldn’t admit he missed it, but the pride in his gut managed to make it obvious.
Castiel had barely managed to get out of the bed before his IV’s would stop him in pain. He groaned in frustration, it was barely audible but it was there. This will of survival and selflessness.
<< Let me set him up, and then we’ll let you get up. He roughly said as he guided the bed with unease, his leg stirring under the pressure of moving things around today and it lingered way too long for comfort.
He started to plug back in the heart monitor, the plastic vial at the man’s left elbow and put back the blood pressure over the man’s finger. Thankfully the man’s state was in no danger to actually rely actively on the heart monitor, considering his heartbeat was roaring back up since they’d cleared out his ribs.
It was a matter of time before he’d wake and what sight would it be to catch them interacting right away?
House couldn’t predict what would make Dean wake up, but he’s pretty sure he’s the perfect incentive to get Castiel going, to feel somewhat safe. A few minutes in, Castiel was already getting up on his own. How’s that for progress?
He was taking many risks of having the man in the room, but then again. As the days passed, the less he thought Dean was forcing Castiel to be at his side. Dean hadn’t badly reacted to Castiel’s mention, there was a chance somewhere that having them in the same room would become beneficial. Wilson would say so with the uttermost hope, and somehow House wanted to believe in this corny science for the time being. He’d cope with the outcomes of this, until then, he brushed the man’s slippers on the floor to give them towards where Castiel’s feet were hovering.
You need to bring this with you, otherwise, you’ll bleed out on your boyfriend. He says under his breath as he’s waving for the man’s intravenous bag on the silver chrome stand. Go ahead, he’s good.
Castiel looked at him, then at his cane and House had to sigh at the empathy leaking out of his face.
You can do it, it’s barely a meter. Your legs aren’t broken. My cane will just slow you down, you don’t need it. I’m your doctor, I would know. He says with a slight irritation.
Castiel disregards the slippers and goes ahead with naked feet on the cold tiles. He barely makes a step out that he stumbles onto the side of the nightstand. House barely moves in order to brace for it. Hoping he’ll manage enough for the both of them.
Castiel uses the nightstand as a lever to help himself, that and the silver stand to make way to Dean’s bed. He’s weak in the knees and it hurts to watch him be so slow. It’s painful to witness, considering it’s desperate.
Castiel finally manages to bend over Dean’s bed, putting his forehead against Dean’s. His face remained so inanimate, peaceful even. Castiel’s voice is barely but a broken whisper. House can tell he doesn’t care to be heard, but simply is in awe of the man he can finally touch, seeing after all of the days he’s been cooking up in the room, unable to be close to him.
-I’m in need of a sign. He gives up, his nose traces the man’s face towards his temples.
You have to tell me, Dean. You’re the one that taught me I should know what I’m fighting for. I’m not sure what freedom is if it’s spent without you. He said as he grabbed the cold hand, his voice giving up under the strain of his grief.
-Is that purpose enough? He asks, his voice hovering with a silver lining of hope.
-It will do. Answered Castiel as he lowered himself enough to leave a dry and tender kiss on the man’s forehead. I was reeking of doubts, I should have known the love I felt then, would flood me now. Perhaps you weren’t wrong, I simply cannot bear losing him. He turns his teary eyes towards Greg without any ounce of shame, his hand in Dean’s doesn’t let go until the last second. But House can tell that Castiel’s muscles aren’t going to last too long, but he sees the man give up appearances and sit on the man’s bed. His ass falling flat against the mattress. Pushing Dean’s body slightly to the left, as he decides to remain with him for some time. He brings the man’s hand on his chest, coddling it.
They both look back to the TV with bright eyes.
- Humanity is resilient, you better start including yourself in it. He says, before putting the volume higher, perhaps to drown the answer in. >>
Notes:
See you soon, I hope you enjoyed this 7,5K of bargain. Cheers <3
Chapter 26: -26-
Chapter Text
<< What’s up with the cane? Ponders Cuddy with everlasting wonder.
House leaned on said item, or at last if it still could be called as such.
Thankfully it was tall enough to find balance, but the heavier and bulkier part of the bottom was making every step feel wobblier. Something about decorum and the theatrics of his costume wasn’t truly efficient to use as actual workplace props. Considering it was making clicking sounds every few steps, using the guard was cutting half of it by mesure. Oh that and the silver breastplate. He hadn’t gone full in and acquired the hat, but he figured any metal funnel would do. Nothing he couldn’t have acquired in between the party city and home depot right by the mall.
Then again, the use of an ax could get handy. Even with a very accurate prop, dull and carved in. If at least one cuckoo patient would be familiar with The Shining, perhaps they’d get a cue for a reenactment.
He’d follow Cuddy every other day with uttermost glee, but considering the heavier prop, he'd better let her catch up to the office first. He won’t get much anywhere today if he’s overachieving.
He is rewarded with a view of her most tight pencil skirts, which is quite the naughty treat. There goes trick or treating with something for his sore eyes.
By the time they get there, he’s managed to answer with a side smirk. She looks as busy as ever, even for the first half an hour of her shift. Paperwork under her dainty elbow and phone in the other, a truly fantastical balancing act with the keys within her finger’s grasp. The act of women and keeping everything in their capable hands in the most awkward of ways, purses and pockets are overrated anyway.
- Ah yes, it’s a new persuasion tool. I found myself depleting in wood, and I remedied the situation by overcompensating. He deadpans softly, looking down to his own junk as she watches over him. Her face opened in both amusement and horror, ever so subtle in the lines of her wrinkles.
- It doesn’t look practical, don’t get a strain in your back for such a useless gag, House.
She says as she’s unlocking the door. House puts his body against the wall to ease off the weight .
You’re lucky I didn't compound it for the rest of the day, yet. Don’t let me hear that you’ve used it for anything other than walking. Because we’re going to have a serious problem.
-Your hospital is 30% made of glass, you should have thought of this before. But ah, You’re no fun. And there I thought you had a sense of youthful joy in your cold dead heart, boss. I should have known you’re not going to be slowed down by some holiday cheer. He says with a carefully crafted pout. What’s going to happen to the gift on your desk then?
- This is not Christmas, whatever’s waiting on my desk is for you to bring back. This will not become an incentive for bad behavior. She says, her eyes ogling at the windows in the carved out door. Perhaps wanting to lock her eyes on said item. Or maybe just avoiding full frontal eye contact, it’s not like he’d know truly. The amounts of accumulating sentences he’s been trying to repay aren’t getting any thinner with Cuddy, perhaps that’s why she’s growing thin in stress and overachieving behavior. At least if she waited to see it before saying anything, perhaps it would cut half the chase.
- It’s okay, you didn’t get me anything. You can outright say it, I’m a big boy. He says as he looks at her features somewhat seriously, his eyes wavering in between the curls of her hair and the purple of her blazer. Something about her softness reminds him of Castiel. Which is too strange considering the soprano of her voice and Castiel’s low bass baritone of a voice. She wore pencil skirts and earrings, shoulder-length haircuts and french manicures. Why was she even remotely making him think of him of all people? It’s not as if they’ve ever met. And god that would be terrible, he’d better not think about that if he doesn’t want his breast plate to become a traditional gong at the projection of these two in a low light bedroom.
- Halloween isn’t–People give candy out for children, this isn’t a gift giving day. You’re using it as an excuse to bribe me. And god knows what for. She says, deliciously outraged.
- Any day can be a gift giving day. You’re not making sense. It’s absolutely an excuse to give a gift to my favorite boss. He bemoans, overly cheery and amused. Perhaps enjoying the omission of truth the most out of it all.
- I’m your only boss, House . She says before they hear the soft click of her office lock. There’s rules about giving your superior a gift, and I'm sure you broke all of them with whatever this is.
- I wish I had enough time to thoroughly explain how wrong you are. But I have a Wilson stranded at sea, preparing to bombard my patient with dainty little beliefs. Spare me the morals against accepting the gift, wear it even. It goes with that obnoxiously open cleavage of a dress you wear when the inspectors come by each year.>>
He huffs with a self assured tone, confidence leaking in the seriousness of his voice. Tone remains somewhat elongated by rushed anxiety of mentioning Wilson meddling in affairs with Castiel.
By the time she reached the big black box with a red bow on it, House left with a smirk tainted on his lips.
His limp visibly squared and required a more slow approach. His thoughts do not betray his satisfaction, one that is entirely splattered in his features by the smiling pressure of the wrinkles on the side of his eyes.
Had she not gasped softly when opening it and seeing the expensive Louboutins in a deep shade of scarlet, shimmering from the holographic sheen, he’d known he lost good money to his best friend on a bet.
By the time he gets to his own office again, he walks over to the white board, taking out the ax and putting it straight on the table with a heavy thud. The folding table vibrates under the weight for a second and half, somewhat finding its footing with the new item. His body feels like it’s floating for the lack of better words, he’s left feeling empty for not having to lift that god awful costume.
He opens the marker with his mouth, spitting the end of it towards the cardboard box on the chair. That’s when he decided to write with it. Making it squeak under the deep squeeze of the nib against the soft surface. That must have been showing him as available because that’s when Cameron shows up in the frame. Or at least he thought it was only her by the sound of her voice.
<< What are you working on? She says softly, her voice is still somewhat raspy from the heavy mornings and House feels younger for once. Perhaps it’s because he’s been awake for way longer than he’d can justify. But he’s somewhat in a good mood, and those usually pass quickly. Time fades and habits die hard. He can’t help but hope today it’ll linger.
- Have you chosen your outfit yet? He asks, teasing yet very honest. The tone is delivered quite carefully as he’s making a curved letter on the board with the squeaking marker. She’s as careful as ever as she walks in.
- My outfit? Oh, you mean my costume. I didn’t really expect to finish work early enough to justify delivering kids candy. Even less make an outfit for it. I would have died to see their little faces in their costumes though. They are precious. She says as she’s sitting on her chair, voice light and ever-so joyful.
-All I hear are bad reasons why you’re not using the only day at work that allows you to betray the dress code. He says with somewhat of a shameful outlook. Even pajamas would have worked. You’re lazy.
- I don’t expect you to be saying this, considering you’re always betraying any kind of codes. Lets out Foreman as he’s shuffling his way to the chair by House’s left side. If anything we betray the rules by not having chosen anything. All I hear is that you followed the rules for once. –Wait actually, don’t you already wear whatever you want at any given time?
- Oh well that leaves me no choice. We’re going to have to make due with the lost and found. He says, wavering a hand towards the box with random items on the chair the closest to him.
- We don’t have time for this H – Starts Foreman once again, exasperated.
- You’re going to be..a bird. Yes, take this. He says as he’s rummaging through the box, determined.
- That’s cupid’s wings, House. Not a bird. She says with gears working in her mind, she can see the tint of malice in her soft eyes. She probably got it, but he’s not leaving it to them to figure it out as quickly. She still takes them.
- Same thing. C’mon. And you, Foreman put this on, you’ll be a lumberjack. He says, throwing a flannel shirt by him. It lands precariously on his chest, sleeve hitting his face in an airy sound.
- Awful. You people should keep doctoring because these are atrocious . What are you supposed to be? A soda can? What’s up with the breast plate? Peeps in Chase from the doorframe.
- I’m Alexander The Great. He deadpans with sarcasm. You’re not spared. Come here and put this on. He comes by, throwing a leather jacket on him from the same box. He finds a butter knife and slides it off on the table towards Chase’s side.
- What is this? Some kind of punk rock killer? He says with a wide smile, amused and not seemingly finding this too annoying.
- Exactly! You’re the hunter. Possibly sociopathic, Who knows. He says with a shrug, and then he goes back to the board. He makes three rows of columns. Hoping any of this could help.
- How are any of these children’s costumes? Foreman asks, the flannel away from his face now as he’s collecting it away from his face.
- Beggars can’t be choosers on lost and found items. Wear it, if you want explanations.
- Typical. He says as he’s taking off his white coat to put the shirt on. The red brings out the earthy tones in his face and eyes. Almost an odd sight after seeing him for so long in scrubs or suits. He’d make a great hermit.
-You know what, I kind of dig it? What do you think, Cameron? Let's out Chase with a chuckle.
- You look like what America tried to be like when the UK had its punk underground era. She says with a smirk, and her backwards compliment seems to make him puff his chest subconsciously. House frowns at them.
- That’s not awful, I’ll take it. He flirts back.
- You two. You’re together. Chase and Cameron’s surprise is genuine and visible from their faces. Caught in the headlights.
But he, House points towards Chase. Is very attractive and closeted. Macho-man with a tendency for danger. He’s way too much into cars.
-I like this game. Gloats Chase in between two words.
-And you , House points towards Cameron . You’re like a baby with a gun. You’re codependent on him. You don’t know how to be alive without anyone telling you what to do.
- What about me? Asks Foreman from the left.
- What about you? He turns towards the man, the one who he has almost forgotten he was there.
You’re freakishly tall and you weirdly smell like mahogany wood.
-That’s not a personality, House. Or anything I can use for whatever game this is. He says, testing the limits of this..thing that House is desperately hanging onto.
-Shush. You’re his brother but you’re less hot in a Tom Brady kind of way. You have a girlfriend. I think she might be a bad girl. He frowns.
-I, What– stutters Foreman out of confusion.
-He gets shot, what do you do? He rapidly points at Chase but talks to Cameron quickly, his voice louder. He’s bleeding out in your arms and you don’t know the country you’re in. You’re not even sure if people speak your language. You–
-I try to get a first aid kit, I, I don’t know. I’d be freaking out. I-
-You’re a baby, remember? You can’t use those, nobody taught you how to. He says, rushing in the words for intent.
-I try to find someone to help. Maybe someone tells me about a hospital or they tell me to bring him when calling 911. Maybe I use my gun to have someone help me, if he’s a criminal they might not like him. But I like him enough to use it. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him alive. She says, taking it so seriously that House smiles softly.
-Not bad. But actually you try to drive his car and you learn how to drive for four hours with a head trauma in the back. He comes in and out and you finally get here by miracle. You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.
He says, voice louder and more intense. He’s trying to make it more pressuring, maybe they’ll come up with something he hasn’t himself by now. He then turns his head towards Foreman, the man’s eyes linger on him, daring him to test him. Prove himself to him, in any way whatsoever.
And you, you’re with your hot girlfriend and she’s drugging you but you don’t care. Your uncle keeps warning your brother that you might die. But you only show up when he’s by the brink of death. You’re dangerous too. He is serious and somewhat transferring the anxiety of the situation towards Foreman.
-I won’t want anyone to see me if I’m dangerous enough to have a record. Even less around doctors who can catch me here. And I can’t visit him when he’s awake if he’ll try to discourage me from getting drugs. I only visit him when it benefits me. Foreman blinks and then sighs. When he’s out.
Does that do anything to you? What is this even about?
-Why would you steal something of no monetary value from him if you’re looking for drugs? We’re in a hospital you were hiding and you had nothing stopping you. There’s so many drugs in here, it’s candyland for you. He says with a huff.
-Maybe the drug I need isn’t in here. Maybe only she knows how to get it and I don’t. Am I smart?
-Surely not a street drug. Enough not to make you look drugged so you can pass as a doctor but not a patient. House groans. Why would you even care to visit him then? It has been weeks, why now? You’re smart enough to buy the right kind of clothes to come here but not to take off the stickers of your pharmacy glasses. Maybe you think all hospitals are the same. You don’t care to check which color of scrubs you pretend to be.
That’s where Cameron’s eyes light up with understanding once more.
- Maybe I got too guilty or maybe I needed money, sell his belongings. Maybe even get to see him even if I can’t really talk to him. Hell, it might be better this way if I think he hates me for using drugs. Maybe we’re not really on talking terms and I’m ashamed. Maybe it’s better if he’s dying, I won’t have to own up to myself if he’s asleep.
- You don’t really look the type. I think you’re more likely to lie when he’s here and pretend it’s fine. Hypocrisy doesn’t seem that relevant to you. He says, and Foreman huffs.
- Then I’m codependent on her too. Because there’s no way I can have a normal relationship with my girlfriend if she’s my dealer. Counters Foreman with a challenged tone. Hoping for some rationality, grasping at it helplessly.
- You, He points at Cameron, and then at Chase.
You keep talking about him. He’s your favorite topic and you can’t really imagine yourself being anything more than this thing he can want and need all the damn time. Why can’t you just choose yourself for once? You almost died! Ain’t that incentive enough to make your reptilian brain act up for survival? He says, hovering hands in the air, displeased.
- I think I love him. That’s why. It’s not hard House. I love him more than myself. Says Cameron with a sad smile.
- Can’t you take a hint? He doesn’t want to be gay. He’s been your friend forever and he hasn’t got a clue by now. Why would you even try anymore? Why don’t you want to fight for yourself? He adds on to dig deeper.
- I’m still a baby. I don’t know my value. Maybe I try to convince myself I don’t care, that I’ll take whatever he can give me. Even if it isn’t conventional for a relationship. I’m a baby that doesn’t understand what real couples do. I’ll settle for anything he can give me, even if I could get better. I care only about what I know.
-You’re not dumb, you can’t figure out why he’s rejecting you? He says, frustrated.
- I think I just want to believe he likes me enough to change his mind. She looks over to Chase with something in her face. Chase’s smile is gone and he’s seriously looking back at her. They’re talking with their eyes, and somehow they understand each other. The double meaning of it all hits backwards.
- That’s stupid and you’ll die. What do you need to move on? >> He is outraged by the lack of boundaries and the density of her statement, despite knowing it’s only pretend. House knows she’s right. He has hated this since the beginning and itches him from within. It just doesn’t fit, it’s not right.
<< Time, purpose and maybe something to feel worthy. The sweet voice of Wilson starts from the doorframe, his stare is deep and almost sad. That's what he needs.
- Ah, that’s the bell, kids. Don’t forget to take the eggs on your way out. He says, taking the ax on his way out, leaving the group more confused than when they first came in.
By the time he’s on Wilson’s side, he looks over to his makeup. Sees the whiskers and the brown spot on his nose. It’s sweet and the paint looks like it has been made by a 4 year-old. And probably could have been. It aches to see him smile with it.
-Mr. Lion. Fancy seeing you here. He says, lifting an arm up for Wilson to take.
-I tried by Castiel’s room but you weren’t there, Mr. Woodman. He slid his into the nook, they both started to walk. House’s ax hovering in the air instead of against the floor.
- You’re too predictable, as usual. He says with a scrounge up nose, amused at the fact he managed to fit his costume without even trying hard.
- And you went overboard, as always. Says Wilson with a sour smile. >>
Notes:
This was supposed to come out on Halloween but shit hit the fan, so hey, welcome to the after party?
Also a very self-indulgent chapter, just for fun. As much as I want things to happen, I write also for my needs so sometimes it's corny.
Hilson is just *chief kiss*. I can't wait to have a Wilson x House x Castiel moment in the next chapter. :D
Chapter 27: -27-
Summary:
Castiel, House, and Wilson have a talk that finishes quite violently. Despite their best efforts, Castiel's tolerance for pain has met new thresholds.
Notes:
I got sick for the last two weeks of a common cold, winter, and snow being here as the culprit. My asthmatic ass had to catch up to a lot of shit in the month of November. I'll be fine, but I have to say being sick was the least of my problems. I missed this whilst I was away.
Also AndyJeyNikola7? You're awesome, I got your comment when I was writing and it helped in more ways than one. <3
Chapter Text
The sun was setting in quite nicely against the frozen shut windows. The morning mist had managed to take upon every inch of the hospital’s exterior under a thin wrap of ice. Soon the malls would start playing christmas jingles, and so would the hospitals waiting rooms. He’d rather have the holiday of the day finish before he’s reminded about another, and yet the hollowness of how lonely Christmas is likely to feel lingers within.
The cold bites right into the reflections by the windows. Castiel’s face is lit by them effortlessly, golden over his thin white skin, highlighting how open his eyes are, they seem very hypnotic in nature. He’d lost a few months of tan in the span of days, but nothing that couldn’t come back ever again. There’s a hint of this coagulating curiosity that keeps him looking rightfully awake and alive. His face stoic and calm, blue eyes curiously dancing over the features coming in. Quiet fluttering of those thick set of eyelashes that seems utterly ridiculous to find himself gawking at, of all things.
Under Wilson’s previous demand to leave the axe by the outside of the room, he’d obliged by putting it right against the metal moulding. Something about HR and harassment complaints, as if Castiel even knew about that department and his willful rights. Not that he’d bother saying so to his best friend, it wouldn’t run right considering the man’s ethics and overall goody-two-shoes outlook. Possibly would split him further to read such rights to the man before getting to the meat of it. Which House frankly was looking to avoid. One had to look straight into death’s eyes and call it a waste.
House barely got in the scenery that Wilson’s voice filled in the otherwise silent room. Their arms started to hover as they broke the escorting thing going on.
<< Hi, I’m Dr. Wilson. I’m usually in oncology, as you visited briefly before. I’m here to conduct an evaluation, I’ll be basically asking you a few questions, you must answer them with the most accuracy you can gather. Does that sound good by you?
House has to strangle in the groan that keeps on edging to come out. Perhaps if Wilson’s costumer voice wasn’t so bland and understanding, he'd be out in a heartbeat by Castiel’s face. If he’d knew the man was about to give his patient a psych eval, he’d re-evaluate needing him anywhere near this with a ten-foot-pole. He’s cuckoo, that’s obviously been established, but he’s still valuable in this state. Can’t ever-so-straight James Wilson take a goddamn hint before bringing him in a therapy session of his own making?
- I’ve answered many of those before. To him, them. What of it? Castiel lets out, his rasp of a voice echoes in House’s brain for a second too long. By spending time with the man, he’d found himself recording the sound of it, like a slow rumble through asphalt. He’d been on the joyride of figuring it out if it was remotely the man’s actual voice or his act. But then again, there was so much to keep in check that a voice didn’t really make sense to fake. Yet there was so much of it that felt unreal.
It probably stirred Cameron’s heart as much as it stirrs House’s mind blank. It sounded awfully bored, tired and irritated, all bundled together in a well kept pair of tight lips. His jaw haywire and his hand on the blankets fisted and kneaded by his palm. It didn’t take Wilson long to catch the ball. It was truly a pre-Christmas miracle.
- You’re right . The slight nervous chuckle there is rather genuine, as far as House can tell as he’s shuffling his way out of Wilson’s way. Without a cane, he ends up using a wall as his centering tool. Something about putting his back against it in the corner of the room as Wilson conduct his interrogation makes him ponder about the good-cop/bad-coop arrangement of it all. That’s all fine and dandy, that is until he has to play bad cop for Wilson’s inflatable heart.
I’m afraid it’s protocols, we’re to make sure how long we need to keep you and if you need anything more from our competent team. I heard Cameron’s been taking care of re-introducing you to items that felt unfamiliar or strange? Wilson’s question ping-pongs back into Castiel's yard quite rapidly but carefully, it’s enough to make Castiel look away, thinking of his answer.
James manages to make a few steps in before stopping by Dean’s bed. He looks over to the comatose patient with this stare that House can tell is every bit of genuine. Is it all that it takes? A pretty face in a gown and he’s already fawning over it? House huffs, he wins a quick sideglance from the doctor at play.
- Yes, she did. Answers back the man on Wilson’s right, his stare lingering tightly as he’s not entirely sure of the man’s intention. But House figures that being there and fetching Wilson himself is vetting enough for the dubious patient.
- Before everything else, may I look over your friend’s state? I have knowledge on neurology and it would be my pleasure to make sure he’s well taken care of. That’s all it took for some of the tension in Castiel’s shoulders to sag, he blinked but didn’t miss a beat before answering back.
-Yes, you can. In fact, you both should focus on his well being. I’m fine. He states in such a blank statement that it has to be especially false by definition. For someone out of this world, the man seems used to those last two words as if they’re this well versed lyrics of an overused song.
- You’re not fine . Bark back House in quip, which earns him another side-glance from Wilson. He’d recon collecting a bouquet of those stares by the time they leave. He waves a single hand, giving up under those hazelnut eyes. Waving the metaphorical white flag, as Wilson made it painfully clear he’s looking to run a bit that House has to remain out of.
Castiel lingers his deep seated stare onto them, smart enough to notice but not to comment on it.
- I’m not fine, obviously. But so is he, I’m talking, walking, he’s not. Keep searching for my concern in your delicate feelings over my vessel’s state. The sass almost bites back and House doubles down on his dead-on stare, something about the man’s answer leaks of pain and irritation. He just can’t tell from what yet. Pain seems to make true colors shows, and something in House revels at the sight.
He gets it, and that’s all he needs to realise Castiel’s way more than he lets on.
Wilson’s the sage one, because he cuts them off– merely by voice, their stares keeps fencing each other for a few everlasting seconds.
-His vitals are moderate, he’s gathering some bed sores but he’s not having any seizures anymore. He says towards them both, but then turn his head towards Castiel. It probably worried you didn’t it? With him in the room.
- I can be there for him if they arise. It’s relieving, I find no satisfaction in him alone unattended. He says rather seriously, perhaps too much so. House knows it’s not safe to have brought the man here, but he’s the only thing that kept Castiel from being vegetative too. It outweighs most of the risks by now, he doesn’t regret it. They’ll deal with the consequences as they come, and from which way is up, they’ll make up for it.
- But he’s not..Unattended. That’s what those machines are for, that’s what the nurses are for. He’s having over five overqualified attendings and surgeons at his health’s whim. Slowly drags in Wilson with an ounce of reality over the man. He takes out the chart over Dean’s bed, at his feet. Reading over it quickly as a refreshener. He couldn’t be in better hands, than ours, all of us.
It’s interesting to see the man’s strategy. He's had these files since he’s asked for them by secretary yesterday, ever-since House gave him access. He’s probably overworked himself last night making sure he’d be helpful to this case, provide something worthwhile. Caring enough about whatever else House might be guarded to share at him. And yet, House couldn’t really spit on his tactic.
He’d made sure to remain cordial, but also to show interest in taking care of Castiel’s main source of interest. Which probably gain a few brownie points by the mention. If the halloween costume didn’t threw him off yet, Wilson had good odds of making good of this conversation. And probably getting somewhere near helpful about this all.
House hated to admit it, but Wilson hadn’t needed more time to prove to him that he was the right person for the job. Because even if House couldn’t or wouldn’t admit it to himself, he didn’t really trust a whole bunch of people on this. And the man already cared enough for that, enough so that it became this important thing to add onto his already full schedule. Wilson was annoyingly the perfect fit for the humanity missing in the equation.
If Castiel isn’t really rational enough, or using too damn much of his paranoiac side just yet, Cameron’s soothing voice of knowledge and Wilson’s aiding hand would probably get the better of him quicker.
He’d hate to admit it. It’s interesting to watch, somehow there’s an akin of similarity in-between the two men, which wasn’t something House would usually find himself attracted to. But there he was, working the case with his best friend. He shouldn’t feel so excited, knowing the other foot would likely drop at any moment. Wheter it’s funding with Cuddy or simply Castiel breaking out, Dean’s limp body dragged out like a nine year-old’s teddy bear in Castiel’s grasp. Heck he shouldn’t be excited to any of these prospects, but there he was. He’d better not get started at imagining what those two would get up to with enough power at hand.
As far as Wilson’s statement goes, Castiel withdraws into himself and looks back to that godawful lampshade of his. Hospitals may have high budgets, but one cannot simply buy good taste.
- I cannot trust something I can’t..understand. Those machines are as comfort to me as any mistake possibly made by your staff. Things bigger than you and I await to harm him and if I can be of any shelter to him in this shape, I will . It is with the uttermost belief and faith that the man delivers his lines, they’re well versed and quite selfless and it makes House gag physically.
He’d debate that it’s for attention, but the idea of this sense of selflessness seemed to reek in every one of them Winchesters. That’s not how they’d get any results, you don’t go around playing chess by sacrificing every pieces for the sake of passion. Not unless you’re a romantic sap. It doesn’t get you anywhere far.
- That’s a lot. Wilson’s voice is warm and soft, his compassion leaking out of all pores. He slowly turns the side of Dean’s bed to come by Castiel’s. On you, on your shoulders.
-It wasn’t, it used to be enough. I was enough. But now..It isn’t. Starts Castiel with a hint of regret. Each dreams are haunted by regrets of something that hasn’t happened yet.
-Do you get those often? Nightmares. If you’re not sleeping enough, we can fix that. Lets out Wilson with a polite sigh. Hands fiddling with Dean’s case file im his hands.
-In those, my breath is stagnant, my screams cannot reach him. But Allison says it reaches him quite well in here. I find it comforting, despite him unable to save me from them. Castiel quietly avoids the question, somehow lost in meaning.
-Did he do that before? Save you. Wilson’s attention is totally on Castiel now, Dean be bygones. He’s doing the thing, where he’s putting himself in this man’s shoes and House can tell by how quiet the room feels. How tense House is getting is an exponential number in the stocks. He’s left wondering if this will be the illustration of the mess he’s been imagining all night, or the dawning success of friendship?
- Sometimes yes, but I would recall it being advantageous before, even for him. Now I think it is because he needs and want to keep his assets close. Perhaps he is too, afraid of things that lies ahead. Sam says he’s hiding his feelings well. I have grown unsteady at reading some of them, for I am now troubled with my own. Castiel’s voice is somewhat thoughtful, slower and pensive.
- That’s..Sam. What do you think? Lay out Wilson’s voice barely a second appart.
- We’ve saved each other enough for many human lifetimes. He had every possibility to walk away, but never succeed. Even now, he’s here. It speaks volumes. He is not as good a liar as he pretends.
Allison said he asked for my name when he awoke. I used to think of it as endearing, now I can’t help but imagine what his voice must have sounded like. Was he afraid? Was he longing just as I am? Not being there for him as he asked, prayed.It made the fall feel endless. It is the worst of my regrets as I’m waiting for the inevitable.
- And what’s that? And just like that, House can tell Wilson is out of depth. Taken by surprise by the complex man in the hospital bed. There’s this line of tension in the side of his neck, and it’s vibrating like the strings of a cello. House’s unsure how to break it off, without making them flail in the air rapidly.
- I’m not certain. Is these the questions you were intending to ask? I can hardly imagine you using this to heal him. Castiel’s voice is almost a warning in disguise.
- He’s a doll ain’t he? House’s low roll of sarcasm hits the room with a huff.
-Actually, yes, Castiel. Starts Wilson slowly to keep Castiel’s attention on him. They linger a second too long on House’s dim-lit frame in the end of the room.
I’m here to check-in on you, make sure you’re well taken care of. So if there’s anything you need, you can always ask for me. Or for House, he may not look like it, but he’s been working on your case for quite some time now. There’s no reward in losing either of you, at the price of the other.
-It’s not a dilemma I find hard to answer. Lays out Castiel with a swallow.
-Love is this..Wonderful thing, but only if both of you are equal. That’s hardly what I’ve been hearing.. Starts Wilson with a sober look over the man.
House clear his throat and it manages to get both of their faces towards him.
- Can’t really love someone back if he’s waking up to nothing awaiting him. Most restaurants in town don’t allow urns near the food, it’s bad for business. Say bye-bye to fancy dates. He says with a shrug, hoping to rattle something in him.
- I’m not simply idle and waiting to die, Zachariah is coming. It’s my fate to be the last pillar before encountering him. This I cannot fail. Or else..
Before Wilson says anything else to ruin it, House has to jump on this. It’s not everyday that Castiel drops anything about the mission he’s on that isn’t past tense. He straightens up quickly, tapping the wall with the inner shell of his hand.
- Let us help then. We help guard the guy off, maybe take him off the path for good. His recovery is a span of days now. He can wake up anyday, I’m sure he’s smart enough to welcome back up at his weakest.
Castiel’s shimmering eyes lingers on House.
- Sometimes it feels like I can hear him through the radio. I don’t know what to make of it .
- Who, him? Or Zachariah? He asks dumbfounded.
-Both. It shouldn’t be, I’m not..I’m different now. This vessel shouldn’t obtain access to these frequencies.
Wilson steps away, looking back to House with this hurried worry on his face. That’s not what he signed up for, but House knows it isn’t time to debate these finicky details just yet.
- If I bring you a radio, we can fiddle with it until you find the frequency you hear them best. Maybe we can get a heads up on the guy. What do you think, Angel Dust? He runs it by him. Making it as concise as can be considering the man’s confused stare.
- I cannot say it will work for sure, but I would regret if we did not try. He says with a newly acquired determination.
-Then that’s it. Says House, looking back to Wilson with a victorious smile on his face. See Wilson it’s–
-I put an Enochian spell on the Impala, for safe keeping. Despite not accessing it’s power now, it shouldn’t have warded off. Perhaps I could get a better access with it’s radio. It is the most protected item under the bunker, afterall. Castiel is now fully talking to himself, and House has to entertain it for now.
- You what? I can’t understand any of this. House what is this? Lets out Wilson with worry dripping off his words one by one.
- Shut up, this is what a breakthrough looks like. He says waving a hand hovering near Wilson’s face, hushing him out as he skipped his body over Castiel’s bed, falling his ass flat upon it’s end. So the car, that’s what you want?
- It would greatly help our chances to reach any informations. The sense of self seems to have increased by the minute, Castiel looked somewhat more confident.
- Sure, sure. How do I know you won’t knock me out and leave with it? With the amounts of weapons in that bad boy, it would be maddening to try and guess your weapon of choice. He says, willing to be convinced.
Castiel looked as if stung by the sentence. It works enough to see his intentions right away. But it couldn’t hurt to make sure. House blinks lazily awaiting an answer.
-I cannot leave, running would be endangering them, again. The man’s voice darkened by the end, convincing enough considering how desperate both of them are.
- Yeah the man will be bonkers mad if you go full Bonnie and Clyde on his favorite car. Better have the keys right here when he wakes up. But that doesn’t mean we can’t use it whilst he’s still under. He plots to Castiel’s fleeting stare.
-I would prefer not to mention this to either of them, yet. The Impala is of a home for the Winchesters. He has not qualified you worthy of being it’s driver. He pipes out looking away and his body closed off, enough for House to gather he’s ashamed.
-You either and you still drove him here. C’mon Jimmy. It’s a lead, don’t write it off for sleeping beauty over there. You’re doing it for him, man’s gotta be grateful you’re this loyal to his car when he’s out. But if it’s your best bet on getting an advance on that Zachariah man, then you’re at the halt. Time’s ticking. Don’t be an idiot. He’s excited and it comes off rather frenetic to the patient, enough to actually be visible in the man’s face. It looks torn and almost about to burst. Castiel’s confidence seems to go away in a whisper, something’s off. The second lingers as Wilson and House looks at him.
- House, you’re stressing him out that’s not a good ide->>
Castiel’s hand went on the untouched food tray, pushing it carelessly as the man used his other hand to crutch at his stomach. An apple fall to the floor with a dull thud, but the remaining items on the tray remain intact.
Castiel’s face scrunched up in pain and for once that surprised House.
The man has walked off very deep burns and footsores to get here, he did so in pain and driven by mindless desperation.
What has been hurting so much that he’d groan in pain by the second his blood pressure spikes up? The machines aren’t helpful at all on the man’s state, and it’s quite irritating. He looks them over twice, in between stares to Castiel’s plea for relief.
That’s exactly when House spots the man’s fingers.
<< Check his ankles, fast. House orders towards Wilson who catches up quickly.
- They’re a bit swollen, feet too. But he’s walked miles over, that’s normal. I don’t see why it would bring him abdominal pain. It doesn’t make sens–
- Because it’s not his feet the problem . House says lifting up Castiel’s hand, the one pushing the tray.
Unless you’ve been hiding and using cigarettes by the hundreds over the span of your stay. He’s having liver failure. Ring out Foreman, I’ll spike his IV with acetylcysteine and get some laxatives from a nurse.
- How did we miss that? Blindly lets out Wilson aghast.
- Sometimes the line between sick and crazy is the painfully similar. Come on now, I– >>
Castiel doesn’t even try to fight the urge to vomit, and House almost bothers wondering if he’s ever had to vomit before by the sight of the man’s surprise and utter confusion. It doesn’t take long, that’s why he’s not surprised to receive some of it on his lap. Identifying the stare on the man’s face as he was about to vomit blood was not quick enough to keep him away from the darn awful smell and blast radius.
Wilson runs away in hurry at the sight of the blood in the vomit, paging nurses and by the occasion, getting a hold of Foreman’s whereabouts.
House is glad the cart isn’t too far in between the two beds, he runs the syringe under the look of a male nurse who is coming in.
One thing House won’t forget is Castiel dead-set grip on House’s pant-leg as he dry-heaved blood onto them both.
Chapter 28: -28-
Summary:
Time to act, House does what he's the best at. Foreman actually takes charge. And maybe Chase isn't as bad as House would like to pretend he is.
Notes:
More of a medical chapter with some confrontations.
I also had to find ways to make some things make sense despite not being a doctor myself, I hope it reads fine for the average reader. I genuinely research for it, but I can't overdo it or else I'll overcomplicate it. It's actually fun to link every piece of the mystery together, maybe you can even start to see things go a certain way with some hints here and there. If not, no worries I don't actually know how obvious it is to an outside eye.
Chapter Text
Their reflections on the glass panels of the room were quite unequivocally of a wide array of reactions. Wilson’s confusion and panic was slightly alarming but none of them truly saw it as dangerous knowing he’d tap into his knowledge for the big decisions. That doctorate was there for something, granted right now it wasn’t as helpful considering the intensity of the situation.
It was still quite unnerving to see him interact with the nurses about Castiel’s habits and lifestyle since he’s been in here. Rushing to an understanding but finding none. If House had to guess, there was a comfort in knowing Cancer remains Cancer until the end. It almost makes him ponder if that’s why they align with each other so well. Wilson and him, basically living to both side of the medical field’s spectrum. There was a certainty to cancer that was reassuring. Wilson wouldn't find himself ever-so often grasping at straws to explain to himself what was wrong with someone's body by the time it was deteriorating in the disease's grasp. The pendulum wouldn't exactly feel the same if the cluster of cells that is cancer wouldn't be detectable. Wilson was right to feel worried, it's not like he'd gained a case that was easy to comprehend. House couldn't exactly blame any of them for Castiel's surge of pain. Only medicine would fix this, the way it always would. But better get to it before anything deepens to the point of no return.
It wasn’t enough to grant this much panic yet, Castiel is in the best hands possible considering they have no idea what just did this. They’re basically made for this.
Foreman’s joined them with a quite distinguishable annoyance, like a kid brought back up to the principal’s office. Too bad House didn’t really have the mood to entertain it further. It’d been real easy to put gas on that well lit fire. He figured he was better off, since he’d need some hands to get dirty soon enough. With his license held-in, he’d have little to no credibility with Cuddy, he’d better have some back up readied-up.
What a shame that Castiel was about to get cleared physically, knowing his remaining physical attributes were fine enough to heal in a home somewhere. And then it had to hit now, out of all moments.
It’s quite strange they’d caught it now, whatever this was. House wished he hated himself for having hoped for a real reason to take Castiel as a patient now. It did clear things up but added a whole nest of problems on top. At least that’s exactly where he could help, because the therapy didn’t seem to pan out quite like expected. One shouldn’t recognize so much of themselves in it, and there he was, achingly vibrating with anticipation. If anything he could do, this was it. Wilson had perhaps been the poison Ivy to Castiel’s mood today, which had been quite the greeting. Things weren’t going like they were supposed to, enough that House find himself pondering about today being a contradictory day.
There’s so much to it he’d dig in, if Castiel wasn’t so busy being inspected. Maybe it’s why he can’t take his eyes off him, even through the thick glass of the window panels.
<<- How did that even happen? There’s no way he would have been cleared into any reasonable OR. The cells in the liver are the most resilient cells in the body! How could you even bring him into the OR with such damage? How would you even live with yourself if he died on the table for a plastic surgery? And you had me examinate his oddities, like no major issues were at hand. T-That’s ludicrous House, even for you.
Wilson’s stare and oogling is loud and it does startle a few people passing by. Foreman look at him with this mild disgust at the thought he was anywhere as risky as House on this, or at last, that’s what House’s trying to decrypt only by mere eyesight. The association isn’t lost on him and his delicate sensibilities.
- It’s because we didn’t. Oubids Foreman with quite the enthusiasm, if one could call it that.
His liver was fine before surgery, we cleared out the usual. We doubled checked the most important bits twice. Considering we didn’t have much in his file regarding his health history we couldn’t risk it. You don’t know how long it took to convince him how necessary it was to have an MRI when all he thinks he has is a few scratches and bruises. He explains it rather quickly, almost challenged by the idea that it wasn’t true but also probably doubting every step he took since House gave him access to Castiel’s folder.
- As if. We had him open on the table at least, ready for the conquering, now we need to get consent from Cuddy to investigate. Mumbles House, stare still dead-set on Castiel’s state. Mildly annoyed at the prospect.
Cameron’s dainty hands were taking care to give him a manual touchdown. Maybe establish the type of pain he was in before they’d run him to take a battery of tests. He’d still need the injection to stabilize.
Once the test is done, they’d deliver some laxatives to ease up some tension, and House would call it his cue to research in his office without two heads hovering and breathing over his shoulder.
-I can’t believe you. Starts off Wilson with quite the flair.
Cuddy’s actually the least of your problem, you’re accumulating strays with surprisingly as many issues as you. He’s doing that walk that’s way too fast to be called one, leaving Foreman’s statement in the metaphorical dust.
- What could have caused this to go so fast? He was feverish for a few days but that’s normal with this extent of wounds. Cameron’s checked his back and calves on the daily, she wouldn’t have missed an infection, and it would have smelled or at least hurt enough for him to talk about it. Shares Foreman, almost avoiding Wilson’s morality to encourage House to actually do his job. The sentimental sap wanted probably to get him to feel like at home again. And the worst of it was that it was working.
- Maybe the high body temperature isn’t from the healing process, maybe it’s a symptom from something else. Pipes in Wilson, trying to watch House dutifully, sharing his process outloud for the class. It would have been better if it wasn’t so simple of a step, House felt reeled back in reality without a warning. He looked back towards the source of the bickering with a bored stare. His eyes lingering on the lines of the men’s faces.
- Whilst you’re at it, have Cameron test him for Hepatitis. He says, his voice thick with gloom, but he couldn’t rule it out. Not even if it is unlikely. He really doesn’t think it’s it. But better be safe than sorry.
- You’ve got to be kidding me, you’re suspecting foul play? Lets out Wilson with a huff of absurdity.
- Or gay sex, any sex actually. Lets out Foremen with frowned eyebrows. But no one but Cameron’s been in and out. Who could have even–
- That’s not what we need to know. I think she’s the only one allowed on-site until we figure this out. The staff’s not ruled out until proven otherwise. We might have to take out dumb and dumber from each other soon if this doesn’t clear up.
-It would explain the fever, the pressure on his liver. The anesthesia slowed down most of it, but it’s kicking back to full strength. Why wouldn’t have it ruled out when checking his blood counts? It doesn’t check out entirely House. Barks back Foreman with vigor, perhaps the lingering soul of their last case weighting on him as they spoke.
- Not the first time they’ve been coming out Negative before they had time to nest. Under 6 months, they’re too early to tell. You really don’t feel like home in your new shiny appartement until you’ve undid your boxes, put sheets on the beds and hung a few posters.. The metaphor doesn’t take long to hit for them both, even if it’s everything but pleasant. They were responsible for this, they’d better put it all in motion to get it cleared out.
-Even then, we’d seen the liver act up before, we slowed it down and seen no difference until today. What if the anesthesia did this? We used some Sevoflurane to put him under, maybe the regulation skipped and it put pressure on the liver? All we’d need is to take out the diseased part and he’d be fine again. It’s probably that damage that’s taking down the rest of the liver with it. Delivers Foreman with hope plastered on his face, his eyes glimmer with this idea that he’s not holding onto. Much better than rape he’d admit or exchanging needles, but he wouldn’t rule out the others without papers to account for it.
- Not bad. Have Dorothy tested for compatibility, he’s O neg so there’s chances that Castiel’s AB+ will do just fine but we still have to check it out. I’ll take care of Cuddy. That’s when House looks down to the nook of the door, exactly where he’d put the axe before entering with Wilson. His face is oddly static as it dawns on him that it’s gone. Not only he’s caneless, he’s also left an actual weapon be lost in an hospital. Perhaps that re-enactement of the Shining was offering itself on a silver plater.
- They’re even potential donors to each other. How are the odds of that? Lets out Wilson with frustration and adulation all in one.
- Wilson, go get me a cane in your office, we have a possible Franken-Liver to have audited by one’s Wicked Witch. Foreman, any idea where I could get a hold of Chase? He says with a wave towards the hall, his excitement picks up at the idea of having to open the man up again, perhaps there was other deformities inside they hadn’t found before. Anything to reel in how much human Castiel is, backed up by oh-so-sweet biology.
-Last I saw him he went to OB Gyn. Something about them needing a hand with recovery. Lets out Foreman, with a vague stare towards him. He’d probably be here if you apologized and asked him to come back.
- What cane, don’t you have the Axe for- Simultaneously to Foreman’s answer, Wilson’s stare goes down to the same spot House’s were a second ago. Oh for Christsake House, what have you done again?
-I can hardly be at fault for it disappearing, I did what I was told. He says with a nudge towards Wilson, his statement enhanced by the need to bring them both in the fault. Better not to mention that one to Cuddy just yet, I’ll go bribe the right people to see what happenned to it over lunch. He says to Foreman, the man nods.
-What axe? He says with an innocent tone before moving away, his shifty smile is enough to reassure House, When his back is turned to leave, House looks back to Wilson.
- Not kidding for the cane, my lower back’s killing me by overcompensating the weight shift. He adds a groan as he stretches.
- You’d deserve to go get it yourself. I’m not your goon. Spits out Wilson with an exaggerated tone, he’ll bend soon, House can tell. Something about how fidgety his hand is in the medical coat’s side pocket and the way his eyes shifts towards House’s leg inadvertently. He’s still too much in the adrenaline from Castiel’s health drop to have something better to do. He needs to get busy for it to melt out.
- Aw don’t be mad. We’ll figure this out. Wilson…Fine, I’ll make it up to you over lunch.
- It better be the greatest lunch , says the man as he sighs, leaving House by the door to get it.>>
Castiel’s still busy with Cameron, so without missing a beat, House goes towards the hub of the floor and takes a rolling chair. Thankfully, the gynecology bay isn’t too far gone.
By the time he gets there, it isn’t hard to spot Chase in the neonatal care. House knocks clearly on the glass, which makes Chase duck, startled out of his mind.
<< Nobody told you not to make sounds in here? Babies are sleeping, not that you’d know what’s thats like by the look of you. I thought you hated wheeling chairs.
- Did you give my patient an STD?
- By what, sleeping with him? I’m not gay, House. I thought that much is obvious.
-Run that one by me again, If that’s your only defense you’ll have to get creative for the subpoena that’s going to appear on your desk. I’m not sure they take homosexuality as relevant close for motive.
- Relax! I didn’t, why would I even do such a thing? The man gesticulate nervously, defensive enough to be shady, but House tries to remain centered.
- I don’t know, maybe you’d know if Cameron’s sleeping with him because she’d come to you wondering if you gave it to her. Considering your reputation and the limited amount of times you guys had sex, it wouldn’t be that far of a hypothethical.
- Cameron can do whatever she wants. He says, looking away with a bitter after-taste.
- You’re making a weak job at convincing me here. I vouched for you with Wilson, as much as i’d wanted to be there to see your right hook. It’s not your usual quota, I’m starting to consider neutering as a viable treatment for this problem . House lets out, dead-pan to make the man squirm a little. It really wouldn’t create tension if it wasn’t so true.
- It was a left, a left hook. Let’s out Chase with a tight-lipped smile.
- Nice. He says with a huff, amused at the image. But it doesn’t explain why my patient has an STD.
- He actually does? Starts Chase surprised out of his mind. House catches the half second of relief in the man’s face.
That’s exactly how he knows he hasn’t done it. Even if Chase went this far, he’d have no relief over being found out this way. It was already a leap to suggest he was, but he was anything but not thorough about this. Well fine, this lead led to mud. But he better get back to the drawing board then. Waiting for Foreman’s confirmation over plan B.
- No, we don’t know yet. Get to it before I find out what else you’ve been doing behind my back. And apologize to Wilson if you get the chance. He just might be useful about this case and I don’t want to have to catch his resentment leaking off on you.
-Fine . Scoffs Chase as he passes him off, leaving the way House came from. >>
House looks at the babies with an empty stare, through the lined window, and by his height on the chair, there’s not much to see more than a bunch of names with stickers and resin basins.
That’s until he sees a baby’s name, the similarity of Jo and it's all it takes for the inspiration to strike in the oddest of ways.
Chapter 29: -29-
Summary:
Wilson's endless worry will be the death of him if Cuddy doesn't get to him first.
Castiel's still under Cameron's capable hands, and the boys take time to get a meal in them after the unexpected news of Castiel's health. But they can't catch a break, do they ?
Notes:
Some Hilson and set-up for the next chapter. Bit of an amuse-bouche for chapter 30's length.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wilson’s face was aching to watch at that damn device. House could tell by how antsy he was, no right adult man would eat their rice pudding this way. Eyes darting over to the beeper as if it was a bomb about to detonate. The table they were sharing felt ridiculously tiny when half of it was gone under food trays. Their drinks bringing color to the very bland and healthy food on Wilson’s plate.
<< Stop doing that, you’re ruining my frozen yogurt. House says, and it gathers enough attention from the man.
His lips are tighter and the spoon in between his fingers is long forgotten in his hand. This line of tension in the man’s forehead is enough to confirm some assessments.
- It was a bad idea, we should go back. Maybe we missed something and – Starts Wilson, under his breath.
-Why do you care so much? House can’t help but ask, putting down his cup.
Might as well give it up if the man wasn’t about to relax. Lactose doesn’t taste great when the air is thick and full of worry. It’s not like the food was about to run away, he couldn’t say the same about his colleague just yet.
-Eh-Ah Why don’t you? He’s your patient! Struggles out the other man, startled at the bluntness. Somehow caught not slacking, betrayed by his own expressions.
- Exactly, if he croaks right now, it’ll be my fault, so you can rest easy. He starts, eyeing the man up with a suspicious aura to him. Unless you know something I don’t.
-It’s not that..I-You made it sound like I was the right fit for this, even if you made me fight for it. I wouldn’t be there if you actually didn’t need me. But I’m starting to think you were wrong. He sighs, and move a strand of hair away from his own face. His little eyes looking at the table instead of House, avoiding them at all cost.
- The new kid doesn’t hate you, he’s in pain. You’re a doctor, we’ll take his pain away, you’ll get to pet him then. I reckon you’re usually on the other side of this argument. He huffs.
- No that’s not it House, he sounds like you.. H-He liked you.
It took a second before the man looked back up to him, somewhat apprehensive.
I might have asked the right question to ignite your little games together, but I can tell when I’m not wanted in the room. He was waiting for you to do something. And I’m not sure if I wanted to see it. You’re playing a sick little game with him. I sometimes can’t bear to watch it. Wilson’s voice is odd, very hesitant and somewhat vulnerable. That’d make any yogurt taste like commitment, he’d have to admit he didn’t imagine having this discussion here.
-Wilson..Are you jealous? He asks, his voice goes higher like a high school student over lunch. Gasping over the topic like America’s sweetheart. Making light of it, deflecting automatically with humor.
- I’d let you know it was strictly medical, House! He clearly yearns for your bluntness, why did you ever think i was the right one for this? Wilson’s shoulder goes down a peg, sagging lower than the end of his wavering spoon. Thankfully it was cleaned off by tongue before being gesticulated over their meals.
-You’re the right fit for me and I’m the most blunt you’ll ever get. He says, it comes out casually, before slipping the beeper away. Swooping it under Wilson’s eyes and putting it in the man’s white coat’s pocket. He let both pagers go into the wide entrance. Leaving them unseen other than by the round bulge at the end of the coat. Hanging together with gravity’s pull.
He really didn’t expect to be breaking it down over bland food and an after-taste of worry.
That has to be enough for you to trust my judgment. At the end of the day, he’s just a patient.
- What was that for? Asks the younger one with doubtful hazelnut eyes. Looking back at House with such confusion that it breaks the anxious spell.
- I don’t know. Did it work? He answers back quickly, annoyed.
- I really don’t know to help you when I only know half of it. Do you want help for his.. Abnormalities? Or are you still in the research part of your case where you send anything up to the roof to see what sticks?
- I don’t know. You’re the people pleaser, figured I’d bring you in. Run some lines, see if it sparks anything. The fact we got interrupted by his bursting liver isn’t the focus here. You got him to talk about the present tense under twenty minutes, I’ve been trying to get him to talk about anything but his knight in shining armor for the longest time. He admits in between two sips of his drink.
- Wait..You’ve had time to sympathize with him, you even start to sound alike. It would be bothersome if it he’d been mirroring you, but he seems totally aware of his own words. His partner isn’t awake, maybe he’s shifting onto you. You’re the smartest he can find. It’d be survival at it’s finest. Are you attracted to how much he’s starting to sound like you? There he was, Wilson at it’s finest. Already trying to psycho-analyse him and his patient to bits.
- He’s pining for a straight man, his body is failing him and he’s all alone. Can’t say that’s enough to catch my romantic needs. Nevertheless, he’s probably lost. Out of us, i’d rather he’d end up like you. You’re easier to have around, maybe I should have you wash him instead of Cameron.
-That’s no fair, House. You’re in–
House looks back up from his tray to Wilson’s face. It’s..odd. They’ve laughed off deeper conversations before, and yet it deeply irritates him to hear what James’s saying.
- Have you ever met me? As handsome as I, I’m uncomfortable to be around, challenging to keep in line. I do not seek my own companionship. His daddy issues’s are more than apparent. He’s probably looking for a mentor in me, like the offsprings, he’ll end up getting over it.
-You see, you say that but, I lived with you. And–
- You stopped, and we parted ways . He says, daringly, looking back at the man’s mannerisms, hoping for anything to betray his feelings.
- Because I got into a romantic relationship, she wouldn’t have accepted our roommate situation at this age, you knew and approved. Do I have to remind you of everything that’s relevant?
- Approved is a big word. I can only approve for what i cannot control Wilson. You make your choices, and all I can do is watch them crash and burn as they’re often likely to do. He says, now going back to the yogurt with a need to stab it with the spoon. He’s pretty sure he can get most of what’s left in the same scoop.
- This feels like you’re pulling the conversation towards one way but your voice says otherwise. D-Do you miss us living together? Is this your way of sharing you want me to move in? Tries to push Wilson with a shyness that’s mixed in anger, frustration and perhaps a bit of regrets.
- Gosh darn, I wonder where you’d get that idea. He says, eyes dead on the man’s face. Unmoving and willing.
- You haven’t said no, House, please say no. Pleads Wilson with remorse hiding in his eyebags. >>
House puts down the now empty container, his fingers lingers on the side of the trays. He’s about to get out this fantastic one-liner that always sounds better in his fantasies than in reality, or at least he’d hope he would. But instead he stays weirdly still, silent as a lamb.
Did he actually want Wilson back in? Or was he still feeling lingerings of the cabin fever they’d had for the few days Wilson was sleeping over?
He hadn’t needed to say anything because a hand on his shoulder brings him back to the moment. To Wilson’s doe eyes and the weird excitement yet guilt that seems to wash over his face at the prospect that House might be missing him at his appartement. He barely breaks the lingering stare to look back to the newcomer, but the sight of a cop is as good as any cold showers.
<<Gregory House? We’d like you to follow us, we have to escort you under Lisa Cuddy’s orders.>>
By the time he’s reached his boss, there’s a commotion around House’s office. Plenty of people blocking the way, and House is annoyed not only at that, but also the stare he meets on Cuddy’s face when he finally reaches her. They close off the door behind him, leaving Wilson behind who’d done nothing but follow him with everlasting worry.
House’s relief is immense knowing he’s won time for whatever discussion he had been holding with James. But he knows it won’t take long before he’s going to need to come up with something to stall him off. He’s in need of time to think, in this hell of a day.
It doesn’t take long to gather why they’d needed him there. They found his axe, it’s pretty straightforward actually.
It’s set-in the wall, accompanied with what would like to be blood. “BRING SAM” is there in bold letters, finger painted with uttermost care. It’s enough to make House’s mind spin on it’s head at the new unexpected turnaround.
<< Anything to claim, House? Before we get a look to the cameras? If you dare spin this, when we clearly know it’s– Starts off Cuddy’s hotheaded temper. It’s almost as if she’d been rehearsing whilst they’d gathered him here. Sly her.
- Have you guys never celebrated Halloween before? Blood, axes, candy. Trick or treat, does any of that ring a bell? Gosh, Amish much? He says, as his can wavers towards the wall-art, nonchalant.
- I should have known better than worry for you, after the stunt you pulled last time. I shouldn’t have been surprised, you’d get back at us like this. Well, hear this. This will slower the investigation by a few weeks, don’t see yourself in an OR until next year.
Her voice is surprisingly worse than the first time around, she steps closer to him with her heels. The sound of it crystal clear, hot as ever, like always. It was barely a whisper in between them.
Really, you knew about this? And you still did it after I especially told you not to play around? Does anything I said this morning resonated with you?
She knew better than wait until he answered, but he couldn’t help it.
- It did make me think you’d look fantastic in green. He said, slowly but surely turning to catch her wide eyes, anger resonating in her perhaps too much so. >>
Notes:
The follow-up chapter to this is coming up soon. Just need to polish the dialogue and I'll post it.
Man, time is not standing still. I am aware and I'll get my fingers warm again, hard to kickstart the habit after the holidays.
I think things are slowly but surely aiming at a direction, which we'll get to see a switch soon. I don't need to say that we've seen a lot of the medical side of this, y'all are more than aware. Considering the House's part of the crossover, I have ideas in mind for more Supernatural shenanigans. I used to have trouble thinking of ways to do it without switching pov(s) all the time, also do y'all say prefer Cass or Cas? When Dean says it in text scripts its canon as Cass, but it doesn't sound right in fanfic. Any thoughts? (FYI It's in the next chapter and I keep wondering which one to use.)
Chapter 30: -30-
Notes:
THIS IS ONE OF THREE CHAPTER POSTED IN A ROW, MAKE SURE U GOT THE RIGHT ONE NOT TO SKIP AHEAD.
Also yeah it took me over a month to post it, and I haven't made myself look very reliable. I know it didnt help that last chapter i actually believed i could make them faster. But then I got lost in making each scene feel a certain way and by the time i finished that, i got more ideas, and then I needed to seperate them all into different chapters. This is a mess, but, it's my mess and I take full responsibility for it being annoyingly slow. XD
Thank you for the read if you see this, I won't post consistently but I can assure you this is still in the works. Even when it takes over a month for a new update. I'd like to think three chapters is me making amends for it somewhat?
I'll let u be the judge of that <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
<< Let me guess. The big W’s. Who, what, when and how. Started House as he looked away from the macabre sight of his new decor, towards the two average cops. >>
As the echo of Cuddy’s steps were long gone and residuals of them were chilling to the bone. He’s not quite sure how to fix that one yet.
Unrequired parts of his job left his relationships to be desired. But he’d be willing to bet she’d get over it. Maybe a few pro-bono cases for rare types of lymphomas cancer kids, make the hospital popular again. Something to shrug all of this under a metaphorical rug.
Thankfully, the crowd behind the glass panels were starting to subside. He wouldn’t be surprised if Wilson had the high honors of calling it off, to let the show be over. Or if he had ran behind their boss like a puny little intern, that is. Either way, he wasn’t sure which he preferred. To tell the truth he was still unsure about their conversation and the more time away from the man the sooner his thoughts would clear up.
Talking of sucking it up, House really didn’t like the cane Wilson had provided him earlier, it was creaking every once in a while. It was new and unbroken by use, yes. But with this nasty orthopedic handle that was making his palms moist and clammy. Waterbeds had been discontinued for a reason, he wasn’t seeking for it’s afterglows in his cane grip. The medical sterilized steel of it was annoyingly sick looking and had no sense of style. It was living up to the class and fashion of a embalmed cadaver. No wonder geriatrics couldn’t get off of it. Quite the unenthusiastic joystick.
There is no amount of money he would refuse to bet that’s why the man had chosen that exact one. Considering he had three stashed in the umbrella holder by the man’s office door, which were far more superior in quality. Some deep grain wood, stained and treated, waxed and stamped. Official hand fed wood from the virgin mary’s forbidden tree. Actually hitting the trifecta of class, style and comfort.
As if he needed more proof they’d been eased and used to each other’s in their shared spaces. Wilson being so unbecoming to take revenge on his disability is odd, but deeply endearing.
Going for the ones the hospital offered was petty, and House smirked at the effort it took Wilson, since it was two stages over. Way longer than going back to his own office. He’d have to admire the dedication to be a pain in his ass. Served him right to make him go fetch one, right?
He’d capitalize on the fantasy, if he weren’t so obsessed with the tint of scarlet on his burnt mahogany panels. Of the new Halloween theme to his old office. Goodbye fashion, instead there was this unpredictable spider-web of cracks in it, even chipped in some corners. Which was very unlikely considering the wood hadn’t been that dry processed. They had to make a few hits for it to stick. Or they were incredibly strong, who knew. Maybe the Giant needed a girl that could take him down a peg. Hiker style, climb him up like the mountain he is. Grab his balls and make him keel over.
Even with this in front of his eyes, he couldn’t think of anything else but Wilson. He couldn’t really escape his mind, not even now. It was strikingly hot to imagine the oncologist attacking his office Patrick Bateman style. Considering he was the only one not being a suspect considering he was with him all of that time. And his arms motricity wouldn’t have been nearly enough to stick the weapon in the wall.
He couldn’t hush him away in his thoughts, taking upon every role possible in this investigation.
And it gnawed at him, he darted his eyes away from the crime. Unwilling to lend his mind to it when he’s so distracted.
Did he really want Wilson closer? Now, out of the sudden, after everything, why would he be even reaching for it so obviously under pressure? Why buckle under the roommate agenda after so long on the other side of plausible deniability?
It was easier to think of the man innocent and dumb enough to never think more of the innuendos, than actually see him as actively ignoring them. Wilson hadn’t been under any rush to show how smart he was, he clearly didn’t need to. The man was a prodigy went it came to emotional intelligence. Despite falling for his own bias and feelings, he’d rarely manage to make it only his mistake to bear. The fact House was patronizing him was just part of the fun, but now.. The man wasn’t really playing into it as much, taking them at face value. Wilson could be projecting, if anything he was a ball of feeling, yarn into paint, waiting for a blank canvas.
Maybe Wilson was taking the piss at him, taking him at face value to stir him crazy, and it’s nuts how much it worked.
Why bothering catching on each of them as of now? What had been the instigator? Clearly something had changed, but it wasn’t Wilson. It couldn’t be. People rarely change without a reason, if they even succeed at it out of sheer will. And House clearly hadn’t. It had to be an exterior factor he hadn’t clued-in just yet.
He hadn’t really much time to delve deeper into it, the more his mind was pushing the more he felt himself zoning out. It wasn’t the time, even if he was clearly dizzy by the turn of events. It left an inprint of a hand down his throat, tightening by every new developments. And somehow his balls, too. He wouldn’t be surprised to hear a tea pot whistling anytime now. Christ, it wasn’t even one o’clock yet, this would prove itself to be a long afternoon.
House almost forgot the two grown men in his office, until he looked away from the dripping blood from the wall. His face falling flat like the deep red puddle on the marble floors.
Fancy that as his own Nancy Drew adventure, but he’s pretty sure nothing felt as messy as this. Even in the most tight of situations, he’d never felt so out of depth as of now. Perhaps it’s speaking too soon, but he willing to bet it’s not near over yet.
<< Right. Let out the man in front of him, taking out his notepad with a puzzled stare. His voice was clear and sharp, it left House unable to ignore it. Instead he looked back at the man almost irritated. So, You confess doing this? Ms Cuddy did not press charges, but the hospital probably will, to fix the property damage.
- We’re on a payment plan. They can add that to the bill. He says slowly, vague as he’s watching over the axe’s angle in the wall. The way the broken pieces splits and hollow out around the head of it. Words coming off void and careless.
Intrigued by the handle, he gets so close that it must get under the man’s nerves, he can feel it in his guts. How delightful, crisp taste of tight-arse loomed in the air. He plays with him, putting the tip of his index finger on the wooden knob, making it ever-so slightly wobble. And as the cued-in answer let itself heard, he looks back to them.
-Do not to touch the scene of crime, we still need to take pictures. And your statement with them. The cop’s tone was polite but annoyed, House knew he still had some leeway. Catching the man’s type wasn’t too hard when he was sporting strings on each sides of his glasses. Who else but librarians did that, really? He’d hate to admit it, but Wilson was probably the only man he’d allow wearing threaded string glasses and not look incredibly snob and stupid at the same time.
-My prints are already all over. Won’t make a difference. He deadpans, still concentrating on the strain in the wood handle. Something about it is offset, and there’s too much stress on the grain.
He walks around it, and there it is. The wood cracked near the glued-in wooden bowtie. The maker of it was pretty sure nothing would defeat his work of art, considering this was handmade and not manufactured. Had he decided to take in a cheaper axe for his costume, would had the perpetrator needed something else to make their statement?
The impact in the handle couldn’t have been made by the butchering of his wall. The axe spliting at this exact spot, it’s been used for something else. But what? What else would be found by the wrong hands again? Were they in actual danger, or had it been simply a warning? What was it saying? It hadn’t been gone so long, someone needed to know it’d be there, or at least be watching over him just enough to fuck him over.
He continued ruminating, looking back to the man.
Did she tell you why she was in my office in the first place? He catches the suspicion on the man’s face, as he says it. And finds himself adding. She wasn’t who I was pranking. He omits the truth under a serious stare back to them.
- Actually yeah, why did you prank your own office? That doesn’t check out. Let out the security cop, under the stare of the investigator.
-You see bambi over there? Big white coat, prince charming hair? He waves towards the glass walls, assuming Wilson hadn’t quit yet and was still waiting patiently like a god given and convenient blessing. He gave a tiny whiff back and saw a hint of a coat. Good enough, Chase had to do.
You see how worried he already looks? Betcha you can imagine what he’d look like if he actually tought I was in danger. He’s the kind to hide behind a pillow when watching the exorcist.
-And you’re not? The security guard asks, frowning.
- Not realistic enough. Couldn’t help dozing off. House shrugs, watching the two men with intent. His back to the gore scene behind him.
- Now that’s where I know you’re lying man . Scoffs the guard, shifting his arms to cross them.
- We’d really like to see less of you, you know, if you want to keep your job. Lets out the other man, this time he was almost kind in his delivery. Honest, at last.
- It’s out of my hands by now, call it whatever you want. Either they’re crazy enough to give me a job or I become crazy enough to want to keep it. Fine line. Odds are I’m still here. Make your bets.
Houses feeds his story quite endowed by flair, the dramatic linger of his voice is only half of the fun.
You’d be surprised the shit i get away with just because they see the cane. He waves it off, with one eyebrow raised. Everyone knows nobody can be both crazy and disabled, right?
-It’s always the white, old rich ones, that never gets enough. Never satisfied. Lets out the more relatable of them two, more down to earth, thick arms and a bit of a belly poking through his shirt by the thorax. Probably has the job by the sheer size of his enormous neck. The weight of it seems unproportionate to the shape of his squared jaw. He’s sucking in his teeth in disapproval.
-Ohhh smart. He lets out, side smile showing, sarcasm dripping heavy in the silent room. It’s almost as if there was a cultural advantage for us to get bored. He looked back to the investigator with a shrug. Went from Dark matter studies to fevers and ass rash. Wouldn’t you want to make things more interesting? He ponders out-loud, deepening the stereotypical response to his well established persona so wonderfully laid down by the third man of the room.
- I like my paychecks too much to bother. Get freaky in a bedroom or something, for real. Says the security guard as he nod disapprovingly, passing House to get by the door. House nodded with a soft side-grin. Acknowledging the comment with an amusing scoff.
- I still have to ask your team a few questions, I suppose I already know enough from last interrogation, you can go back to work. I still have your number if anything comes up. Just don’t leave the country until we’ve reached you about both offenses. The man’s stern and serious tone isn’t badgering nor laying it too thick. Which leaves House no other defense than letting it happen.
- Well now you’re pandering to the witness. I just might answer my phone next time they call if you’re the one dialing. He says with a waving index finger towards the man’s face as he’s shuffling to get to his own office. Now if you don’t mind, whilst I still have a job to lose. All enthusiasm going away along with his focus on them.
- Should tought of that before you wanted to play pranks. >> Smirked the detective with a snort.
By the time they left, House’s stare lingered on the crime.
House then eyed the new cane in his hand as he considered taking one of his, behind by the bin.
He’d rather die than let Wilson win, instead he takes a few things in his drawers and then walk out to leave.
He catches sight of a document on his desk as he goes, and it hits him. This wasn’t here last time around. Cuddy came here to re-instate his license, didn’t she? It would explain how mad she had been for this. She’d be the one who’d bring this here, all hopeful, perhaps apologetic since the cops can’t do much to a comatose case and an assaulted doctor. He’s more of a victim of himself in this than the hospital is. Other than property damage that is. Scapegoat then it is.
By the time he gets out, there’s a janitor who looks deeply underpaid eager to get access to his office.
House isn’t all that worried about hints, he’s seen enough to have a suspect by now. Even if he’s got no leeway on how to contact her. Until provided proof of the contrary there’s only two women in this story who would have had access to information of his existence and Sam’s at the same time, who knew his legal name. And Jody had nothing to prove when it came to want only want Sam, she’d been here for Dean first and foremost, even if the other brother probably family as well. She barely mentionned the younger one, she didn’t own motive. And she wasn’t really answering his texts since bobby shared her number past him.
When he looks around away from the phone, Wilson’s long gone. And House can’t help but wonder if the man’s bargaining something they don’t have with Cuddy considering they’ll need the OR soon if Castiel’s case gets any worse. Smart man.
Instead he turns and catches sight of Chase, as far as bambi goes, it isn’t quite unfound. By the time the man reaches him, they don’t really say anything. Or at last, House is too deep into his own mind to talk. He texts Foreman to get a hold of the blood results for the one on his office wall from the investigation. Since he’s already at the phlebotomist bay anyway.
Instead he lets Chase vent about the current case, until they finally reaches the hospital room, only Dean’s huffs of slow breaths is heard. An occasional beeping of the machines reassure them of his state. Castiel’s not here yet, but House knows for a fact he’d probably be done by now, he had finished the rough of the tests. It’s not like he could run out of them, but then again, not all of them were covered as a John Doe. Thankfully the only benefit from the basement mishaps were the man’s fake ID being run and actually working off a random insurance for that fake individual.
House’s team always had a nick for passing in front of the idle waiting lines. Something about urgency and experimental treatments, something Cuddy had let pass if it got down to results. Perhaps enough that she’d stopped lingering onto them enough to notice. Only big procedures would get up to her desk, snitches really didn’t care anymore if you bullied or blackmailed first years attendings into giving up their EKG spots. And there were no actual proof that it was killing anyone, win-win right?
So he knew not to go at the MKG machine nor the usual suspected rooms, instead he’d rather text Cameron. He’s trying to get a hold of Bobby on his phone. Nothing pans, so he lets it ring long enough to leave a message.
<< Call back when you hear this, I’ll keep my line open. If all goes well, Blondie should be the one calling you back later.>> He closes the call with a sigh, but he doesn’t let that defeat him, he shifts tactics to then uses the same movement to text Cameron, which answers back by the time he’s checked out Dean’s vitals and check-up.
If he really doesn’t pan out, they’ll need to get physical therapy put in place. Heck, he’s surprised Wilson didn’t mention it yet. Castiel really managed to get under his skin about all of this.
By the time he’s done, Chase is about to leave. Apparently his short-ended answers aren’t enough for him as of yet. Instead he’d rather nibble back to his potential girlfriend. His quick call had fit in rather well to Chase going to get a new saline drip to switch Dean’s.
<< I need you to run me a personal errand. He says with a deep in-set sense of urgency. And it catches his colleague’s interest right away. Potentially because he’s been deadpan for the last twenty minutes.
- What do I get in return? He answers back with tact, quick and serious. Pot, meet kettle. House genuinely thinks it’s to be expected. He’d be disappointed if Chase hadn’t learned his lesson by now, whilst simultaneously draining his remaining bills in his wallet.
- My unrequired love and patience? House pleads with a grimace, but then he bends slightly to get his wallet out. He takes out a bill and Chase doesn’t lose time to take it from his grasp.
- I call Bullshit, House. All of this is stagnant, it’s getting to an annoying level. It’s not your usual MO. You don’t actually, really care, do you? He asks, rather unsure, perhaps trying to convince himself first and foremost.
-Why do you care, you’re overpaid to stand there and be pretty by the hour. He says too quickly, perhaps he should lessen the leash. There’s too tension there coming from the younger one. The man needs an outlet, if Cameron’s not to give some leeway. He gives it up as he looks away. He’d rather concede on this dumb ideal instead of taking a hit later when he’ll need the surgeons on board. Taking it for the team, is as selfish as he can justify it for the moment being. He huffs.
I better not see any expenses other than from some near liquor store, Scotch. Bring it to my locker. It better not taste like water, or I’m sending you to summer camp. Good christians like you should know the smell from daddy’s breath.
- I’m tagging out for the night after it, I’m your dedicated attending and surgeon, not your errand boy. >> The Aussie says as he’s walking away, House can almost hear him roll his eyes as he’s back to him.
House figures he’s better off, considering Cameron’s the only one allowed near Castiel until they rule out any nasty diseases. He’s almost considering getting the man a rape whistle, and maybe even get Wilson do those rape talk with mittens and puppet shows, better be safe than sorry. Ain’t that a sight, he’d pay to see it happen.
With one text from Cameron not long after, he’s back on track.
House’s blood run cold when he starts going down the stairs of the basement. Last time he walked them, he was in toe with Sam, dragged in. Body aching and anticipating the worst. Sneakers dragging and hovering on the floor through the sheer strength of the younger man, the way he’d been so dizzy, he had barely recognized each bay they passed by. Hovering and in pain. Hazy, wet eyes and feeling like a waste of space. On edge and unsure whether to blame himself or them. Pretty sure things weren’t supposed to go this way initially. Unfortunately, it definitely had. He can remember blood dripping on the floor, a slow rythm, so it wasn’t something important, but now that he thinks about it, it might have been from the hunk.
Compartementalizing how he felt about it all didn’t feel wise, but he really didn’t have time to feel the echo of the memories. He’d have to push through, and swear to himself towards the fact Cameron decided to bring Castiel here with good intentions. As real as those feelings were, they were deeply unpratical. He hadn’t been traumatized in the slightless, but he still had so much unanswered mysteries in these halls that he’d rather spend time upstairs now. Medical term of getting the spook. He wasn’t one for ghosts, but since the invisible force had struck, he’d let himself ponder of the logistic of maintaining them alive just enough not to succumb to them. God he’d have a list of poor souls whom he failed in his med school years. His list is bloody and haunting, but nothing he’s had time to move on from. And with enough luck, these two won’t be two new names in memoriam.
So Cameron had decided to give the man some comfort. Granted, there weren’t that many baths for them to bring the man in, ones that the hospital wouldn't ask of them to wait in line. Thankfully he didn't need to explain that one to Cuddy. No wonder why a bath after a health scare, the man has no home, no family around, he probably needed some type of support and Cameron was the exact kind of doctor to follow the studies about better care. Lessening stress was only a side-effect. It’s not like they could drag the man on the operating table right away when they have no idea what caused this, even if House was itching for a biopsy of the damaged liver. She was more than a conscience, she actually was thinking to do all of those careful and loving acts that came with actually caring about your patients, for all he knew. Bringing Dean in Castiel’s room was a leap of faith, but having one attending caring for the man as much as Cameron did had no price.
She clearly had training with the man and his hygiene, and she had access to the labs downstairs. Which left little untouched. If she had the man sweat himself off in a warm bath, he’d probably sweat off many additives in his bodies, and he’d need to replenish with some, which left them the chance to carefully scrutinize and experiment at will. See his intake, and then maybe prescribe some more steroids.
He wasn’t volatile enough yet to require immediate surgery, he figures she wouldn’t have risked it for a bubble bath, and he didn’t really have anyone to warn about his case. No need for visitors, quite tragic actually. He supposed the results of the scans must have been great, if the liver scare wasn’t as deep as they thought. Considering Cameron’s judgment to bring him down here, away from most medical staff.
Dosages could differ.
He can feel the thick and moist air of it whiff away with the open door. She’s not especially surprised to see him right away. She’s carefully sitting from the side of the metallic bathtub, House carefully makes way on the side not to bruise himself from tripping in the EKG wires and the IV tube. The uncomfortable cane didn’t make it any less hard, but it did match every room he’d walk in. He didnt require any more pressure on his sore knee and shoulder. Wilson hadn’t took everything away, at least the cane’s main function was tolerable.
<< Hey. I’ve been pyramiding some corticosteroids, he’s been reacting well to them. It brought out some of the shortness of breath, acute pain and he’s relatively stable on the EKG. I’ve kept the temperature to 90°F and the results of the CT scans are right there .
She waves towards the metal surgical counter.
We’d need a good look at it, to figure out what kind of tissue it is, but the spot is tricky. He’d need to go under again. I don’t think it’s necrosis. I actually think he’d be a contender for Fascioliasis. He’s shared having fell into a lake, which could rule in parasites and flatworms. But the scans came up negative of them.
House barely holds a side glance to Castiel who lifted his head back up to get a sight of him. House doesn’t waste anytime and goes straight to the scans, ignoring the lingering stare of the half naked man in the bath. He lingers at them for some time, Castiel takes it for a sign to talk.
- That quite the predicament. He says, his raspy undertones melting in the heat of his own sweat. It almost echoes in the tiles, making his way down House’s spine.
- That’s an understatement. Camerons whistles back to him, looking back at their new patient. Well at least one of them has grown familiar with Castiel. House’s almost relieved that it’s the most well-intended of them all. He’s in good hands.
- It is the truth, despite not getting to know the human bodies of my- He sighed. I-I don’t know what my body can do, or what I can do to end this suffering, but I will suffice to say I am quite ready to do what it takes to get rid of the terrible feeling. I’ve been told this is what you do best. Castiel’s cold stare is bitting off a metaphorical bullet. Something about it is honest still, but he’s annoyed to say it. Easy to gather that Cameron probably scolded him into it. Resourceful, that one.
-Well, well. How the turn-tables. Let’s out House with a pensive hum. Cameron scoffs.
-He’s unwell, but he’s willing to talk you know. Maybe you’re just asking the wrong questions. She says, blatantly with him there. Almost endeared enough to be annoyed for him. It’s obvious they’ve talked about this right before he came in here. By the look on Cameron’s face, her slightly departed eyes and hovering stare, her tight stance and she’s an edge away from crossing her arms. He can tell by how much she’s fiddling her grip on the bath.
- Why don’t you go get me a concrete result for the blood found in my office, it’ll be curing for tomorrow morning.
Log off after, go fix whatever Chase is mad at himself and you about. Or don’t. Maybe you’ll get enough time to find a costume for tonight. Go get drunk and in-bed with satan. Betcha, that’d make him squirm. The surprised stare he gets from Castiel’s side is almost comical. If it wasn’t so lost. Still worth it, the man’s guesses were as good as what they said meant to a infant child. Maybe he had the brain power to gather she wasn’t about to have sex with the Devil, but it was still quite the shock of thick headed confusion that flashed for half a second on his face.
Castiel’s going to be fine a few hours without you. Foreman’s still checking over compatibility of a likely donor, if push comes to shove. We’ll take care of it and call you if we need a fresh pair of hands. And if we need surgery soon, you’ll be fresh as a daisy. He lays on as he looks over the scan, putting his hand on them, pursued lips into a thin line.
-Y ou can’t be possibly taking us off the case the second it gets tangy. You’re dismissing me. House, be reasonable. I only get a say if I’m the one helping to get you an OR? How is that fair? She bargains, this aghast look of helplessness on her face. Still somewhat confused by the office statement but not willing to back down.
- I am. He turns to face her. Fact is, he doesn’t have insurance and we can’t keep running tab on his boyfriend’s name. Unless we convince Cuddy for a pro-bono or we pay for it ourselves. They’re not married, at this point I’d even look away if they were related. We’re one colonizer away from Alabama anyway. So unless you’ve got a magical wand to wave away the american’s standard price for all of the costly procedures we’re doing. You better be praying Cuddy’s got a soft spot for you. Today I can barter for scans, meds, but OR is tomorrow’s problem. If he croaks before then, i’ll owe you that drink.
- You’re starting to sound like her, and Wilson. What’s happened to you? She says with frowned eyebrows, she’s searching deep for somesort of humanity, or at last some sense. When has something illegal stopped you before? Are you afraid?
-Frankly? I don’t care. But he does, He wavers towards Castiel’s stern and intense staring from the bathtub. The man couldn’t be more startled by the mention as he looks back up to them. There is this quiet awkward feeling to the man’s face. Crisped hands on the edges of the bath, face tight and silent. Constipated perhaps? That one was constant. Perhaps the laxatives hadn’t helped yet.
Because I’m pretty sure he won’t be able to hold his boyfriend’s hand in jail. Because he’ll be too busy on his knees. The sentence seems to reassure the man, somehow the contrary of House’s intent, Castiel simply looks away to the water running, calmer now that House layed out his intentions. Perhaps the whole thing went over his head, and he’s only focusing on the whole message instead of the delivery. Which makes it painfully clear, Cameron pressed Castiel about reaching out, in some way or another it did reach him. But because they’ve been so cryptic with each other, the man isn’t actually sure House actually wants to help him. Or at least that’s the running theory. He’d hate to be wrong. When everything else is already such a mess.
Which granted in the angel’s eyes, he’s been more of an hindrance if he’s to be active. He’d managed to do fuck all to bring his boyfriend back, just managed to get him back into that bed critically. Both of them actually. Little did he know how much they’d been making it harder for each other to get results with how little they’ve managed to talk about. Was that what Wilson meant when he had that turtle metaphor he used on the kids to get them to open up? Was he that stunted aswell and is finally meeting his twin of another womb? Time would tell.
-Allison. If your Chase is anything like Dean, he’ll enjoy the honesty over the lies. Even if he himself would prefer not to face them head on. The man’s voice is honest, heavy and weary, the sigh that accompanies it is very much real.
- See? Listen to your parasocial eunuch and go fix your actual relationship. Go before he gets to the airport. He looks over his watch theathrically.
You still have time if you go now. Don’t be a glorified nurse any longer, it’ll give you wrinkles.
- You’re an ass. She says with rolling eyes, but she looks back once to Castiel’s confident and almost stoic face. To then scrutinize House’s. Don’t let him get out of the bath alone.
- Good thing I was planning on joining him. Maybe you can get us both out in the morning. He says, as he lower his head towards the right as he looks at her. She defies his stare for a hot minute, trying to decipher her frustration out of him. But then takes off her glasses. She takes her coat which was hanging on the counter, before slowly walking out. Her eyes seems to share dread and hesitancy, darting around enough for House to catch. Almost as if she didn’t trust them both in the same room. Her heels are silently leaving them, which leaves them both alone in the same room again. >>
House clear his throat under Castiel dutiful stare.
Notes:
This clears off some talk, and set up. Next chapter is full on House/Castiel talk. And basically is already posted once you see this message. I posted them all right after each other in the same 5 minutes with three different tabs.
See you soon? Hopefully. I'm still full of ideas, i'm running out of fingers to write them though.
tysm <3
Chapter 31: -31-
Summary:
House couldn’t deny how good it felt to be able to promise something he actually could do for the angel, for once.
Notes:
THIS IS CHAPTER TWO OF THREE CHAPTER POSTED IN A ROW, MAKE SURE U GOT THE RIGHT ONE NOT TO SKIP AHEAD.
Also full on House/Castiel, more like a Castiel analysis at this point. enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Castiel’s stare is lingering. House is quiet, watching him back with this absolute certainty that they could do this for hours.
The younger man’s face is tired, deep in-set eyebags, pain in his wrinkles, a ghostly pale tint under his sticky skin. The sweat isn’t running yet, but it’s setting. His chest is low in the warm water, hands on each side of the bath with a few wild strands of jet-black hair on his forehead.
His stare looks up to him, almost defiant but nonetheless empty.
Awaiting purpose, perhaps. One more thing House couldn’t afford to give him. He could all but pretend, send the man on a mission, but if his heart wasn’t on it. The man’s whole demeanor would show it rather well.
Fact is, Wilson is right. Castiel’s grumpy, and it’s easy to shrug off, or at least most of the time.
House shouldn’t relate to it, almost grow fond of it the way he does. But there is something of it that feels relatable, how it should feel like. How miserable the man seems to be, breaking this innocent bubble with cold and damn harsh reality. Had it been that easy?
But there is no sweeter innocence than the one of Castiel’s eyes. As empty as they may feel, they’re all set on him, focused, all his.
House wishes sometimes they weren’t. It’s harder to be an ass when they watch you straight in the eye and almost dare you to break them apart.
There is a vile evil that is satisfying, but deep down, he wasn’t here to make the other man see reality, wasn’t he? The man was set on a suicide mission, one established way before he got in the hospital. And all House can do is keep him alive now, for he may jump into a wild blade later. His oath lays bare on his chest as he ponders about his options here. Push too much one side and the man will run the other way mindlessly. He’s basically child, and a well-spoken one at that.
There is so much of this that Wilson could complain about, so many rules broken, so many things unannounced, boundaries undisclosed. Maybe that’s why it pleases him so well.
House flick his hand in the water to get a sense of how hot it is. As he deems it not enough, he pushes the faucet. Castiel softly hisses as the warm water hits, moving his feet away from the direct splash zone. Feet creating a makeshift bermudas triangle by hovering tightly in the corners of the bath.
Fact is, they’ve been avoiding it for some time now. And House is aware they can’t go on without this.
< <Dean will be back, we know that he will . Science backs it. Partially. He starts off, optimistic at best but hoping it’ll reach the man’s faith.
But before you scream hallelujah. We need to address somethings.
- Yes, as they said. He will rise, but when. Days, weeks. Unattended wait, restless and deeply unsettling. It grates me . Time has never felt slower. Moans off Castiel, his eyes roll towards the side. His face is slow but attentive, not exactly annoyed enough to want him gone, but irritated to be reminded of something so painful. Good enough.
House pinched his lips, put his cane against the bath, letting it lay, the rounded handle near the surface of the water. The vibration ripples the water softly. Castiel looks at it, but all of the pity House would usually round about in people’s face..It’s not here, defacto, he’d long ago gathered that Castiel doesn’t really care about his crippled self. House often ponders if he’s too self obsessed with being selfless to bother mentioning it, or perhaps too lost in his own world to note it. Perhaps that curiosity was still in those baby blue eyes, even if dimmed by the dread of his existence lately. All things tends to lower when in bad company, when faced with reality’s grey existence. He should know better than to question his intelligence whilst watching those silent baby blues.
He was grateful, because if anything, most of his team was on his ass about it. About the pills, about everything that must be wrong with him. Everything that is, or that should change. Maybe it’s why it’s so peaceful to be around Castiel, he’s unaware of it all. Unexpecting, simply taking it the way it is. He doesn’t badger to him, barter for something that isn’t his. He doesn’t act like he owns House, but he still cares about what he thinks. It’s visible like a sore thumb in the middle of the face.
It’s untouched, gentle, the man’s still himself, but as if so much human culture, stereotypes, words, was wiped clean off the man’s memory. Pure curiosity, like a powerful core part of the man’s bluntness. Really testing the limit of man and the many before him.
Even he, cannot achieve such a sense of self, his misogynistic ways, his deep ingrained beliefs of right and wrong, life’s painful lies. House doesn’t feel the need to pretend, he’s seen enough of himself to know.
Being self aware wasn’t always keeping them at bay. If anything, they were justified, and deeply pushed back down, for the right moment to arise and trouble the waters. Make happiness fade, and come back to earth.
Wilson was right, patient’s quality of life was important, even if House would go on on not claiming responsibility over any of it.
Yet Castiel deserves all the choices, all the pain and happiness, but at what cost?
House sighs.
- Tonight. He says clearly, eyes serious, almost stoic. Wiping his hand on his own denim jeans.
I’ll wake him up with some epinephrine. It’s..like liquid electricity, it’s bolts up. It’s likely to work. He says under the impression the man is unsure, whether it is safe.
The arm twitches, the mumbles. His body wants to wake up, he wants to wake up. He…only needs a little push. One that even an angel can’t give, unless you have a defibrillator in those warm palms. Or at least, That’s the working theory. If it doesn’t work, we’ll be 7 going back to the drawing board. Simplifying it seems to work, Castiel gets it by the way his eyes stay straight on his. And the light in them is alive and beckoning.
- There is a wonder of how celestial angels really are if they cannot help a human the way another human could. Lets out Castiel, somewhat bittersweet, looking down at the water with an ominous stare. As they were in fact, made for humanity.
-If he wakes up, what’s your plan, pretty boy? He says, ignoring the statement with pure unadulterated boredom.
Go back to the way things were? How awfully modest of you. You’ll be back to be the side-character of your own life. All your working with, is out-dated beliefs. If the big man made you for humanity how can you be so willingly blind to it?
The last sentence seems to be a hit, Castiel flinches. It feels satisfying like a bullseye, yet it crumbles him apart all the same.
His hands goes back into the water, fumbling into each other. Over the sight of the man’s cyan boxers.
-Dean..Dean made it painfully clear, even when it didn’t make sense to me then. That his loyalty lied within his brother, his family and alas, to me if i were to be inclined to fight along him. If he were to come back..
The man’s face lit up at the prospect, but he was still frowning under the confrontation.
His problems always were the uttermost priority, because they are fighting to keep the monsters at bay.
As human as one gets, they were always bare, raw. I simply never let myself see entirely how flawed that was, that sometimes that would also apply to angels. Because if it did, I would be working for an entity I did not entirely believe in. And that they could also turn against me, if I didn’t align with them. I never had the time to actually consider it. It didn’t feel practical to think of those what if when I didn’t have time to act on them, nevertheless think about any of them.
-And now? You’ve got time. You’ve said the brother is turning a new leaf. And Dean’s going to be wanting to steer him back. Not quite sure where you are in that picture. He says, taking off his sneakers with one fell swoop, since they’re never tied in completely tight. One finger in the heel’s hoop and he’s off them. He takes off his socks as Castiel’s thinking about answering. He drops the shoes on the floor and they bounce to land irregularly on the tiles.
The air is cold against his naked feet, that’s what a full day of walking will do to it. It’s sore and quite exhausted and it’s barely four o’clock. His ass already starts to sting at the angle he’s pinning it on the top of the metallic wall.
-I’m now utterly..Useless, they’ve always been asking for my powers. For my contribution, my forgiving, my-
House lift’s his bad leg over the edge of the bath with his hands, ass still on the edge of it. And the water makes a light sound when his feet hit the surface. Jeans crumbled up lazily up to his knees. He doesn’t see any reaction from the other man, as he continues his antics to put his other leg in there. This time it’s easier because he’s more flexible with that one.
And as far as he can tell, the warm water does wonders on his muscles. It’s almost a comical sigh, the one he lets out under the relief. It makes listening to the rant more bearable.
Castiel stopped talking, but he’s not exactly reacting more than that. Instead he just looks at House, dazed out.
- Go on. They take the arm when you give a hand, so what? You gave it to them. He says to get a rise out of him maybe, or intending to get any kind of reaction, results. The man has no boundaries, why not capitalize? He’ll learn either way.
-God made me his most favorable weapon, it was only natural I became the Winchester’s new colt. They needed me. And by thet effect, I needed them the most.
It seems there is some anger in him, some pain that reflects both in the man’s eyes and in the way the water trembles under the tension in his body. His breaths are quick and tight, somehow pained by this.
I’ve been dreading this nagging doubt. That I am nothing but a tool to God. I was never concerned with this before. But now, the remainder of being useless without power, without my grace. God has no use of me now. Angels are havoc within any other creatures on earth, Heaven is out of order.
How can I compare to any other? I would like to think Dean and I made a bond that cannot be replaced, that is unable to budge under doubt and the end of the world. Would he make me a fool to believe this? As much as I want him to wake up, to be able to hold him in my arms so long is a treasure he never offered me when fully awake. I could not blame him to require another angel to get his way. It would take me too long to learn their lifelong trade. Would I even be able to? Would they allow me into their legacy? It terrifies me. Am I worthy?
-You like him, there must be a redeeming trait in him that works your way. Right? You wouldn’t have stayed if you didn’t feel anything, if there was nothing to gain from it. He spins it up, looking for the angle.
Head bending towards one side, as he’s stretching his neck.
-My independence, they gave me purpose. As of then I gave him my allegiance, to obey him over God. Because he knew. He knew before me that angels weren’t always good and true to their words. That they were flawed, too. He warned me, and I didn’t listen. I was naive. And now they’ve banished me. I gained independence, but I do not know how to live a life like this, helpless. How do you?
House forgets to breathe, when the man looks back at him. The raw break of the man’s words, the way his throat tightens around the vowels. It’s irritated and raspy. House scratches his beard with a hard swallow, looking at the man’s hands, the veins under his skin. A nurse’s wet dreams, and the prickles of body air on the man’s arms are filled with goosebumps. Perhaps House’s intrusive visit into the bath, actually is making the man vulnerable somehow. Even if he can’t exactly communicate it himself out loud.
He’d better lessen the effort, give in enough for him to hang onto it. Make him believe enough, but not nearly enough to start liking him. People like him respect him best when they disliked him, because they have no reason to agree with you. And still they have to sit on it and agree to something against all odds. Because they need to be rational for things to get done. It truly meant there was something to the material. But the man had no back bone when it came to his needs, if he were to antagonize it, perhaps there was a way. There was nothing like it.
House’s pretty sure the man needs something, anything to go on. But he’s pretty sure he isn’t that thing that he needs. He’ll still try, because they’re alone, because there’s too much in the balance for him to pretend he doesn’t care. That he doesn’t want the man to smile, so that he’d get to see what that looked like at least once.
-I don’t. He says as his shoulders sags, heavy as he crack his knuckles. Everyday is a uphill battle, and unfortunately I’ve been shot in the foot thousands of times over. I’m often the one doing it to myself. You get used to it, and you don’t. Both are simultaenous. But if you’ve got no plan, you’re toast. Even if he likes you, he can’t choose or he’d have done it in the years you’ve known each other. That’s how it always works. Trust me. And if we fix you up and send you off, what else is there. He states blatantly.
-I don’t know. I would follow him anywhere, follow him until my feet no longer drags me. An angel’s faith is unwavering, I am loyal to him. Even if it is of no use. Let’s out the man, painfully aware of the irony. The less I feel of him, the more I question if there was something. Have I been a fool to see what i wanted to see? Can I remain my faith when I feel myself full of doubts? Had I the power I had, I wouldn’t even question it this much.
His bittersweet smile is deafening, because it is soft and loving. House cannot remember seeing someone so enthralled with the idea of being used like this. Not when sex isn’t involved, and when God is. It’s intense, almost reminding him of a Stockholm Syndrome, but then again, he wasn’t entirely sure Castiel had been forced of anything by the Winchester brothers. He simply didn’t knew better, which makes it ten folds worse.
-We can update your happy pills, until you figure this one out. You say it’s the end of the world, if Dean doesn’t wake up. I’m always in for a good apocalypse story, but what can one single guy can do that you can’t do? He shrugs. He’s no angel. An angel’s faith might be unbreakable, but you aren’t anymore, aren’t you? House huffs. Why does he get special treatment as a wee little human?
-He has this unbudging belief that things has to be right. He’s painfully stubborn for his world. He’s lost too much for it. He’s not going to give up, if you truly wake him up. I’m not enough of a fool to be hoping to be human with him and live a human existence. Even if I would not mind the prospect of it. We both would try to find a way for me to find my grace, find anything to make it like it was. Like it used to be. This cannot be, I know it deep in my heart. It aches. What I am to him, is undefined, but I hope I get to be here for him long enough to meet his children, the ones God had initially planned for him. An archangel was to land in the world. I wouldn’t have seen it any other way. I had time to think, and even if I never get to them, I’d like them to know my name.
-How disgustingly romantic, ever tought of shutting the door and say no? He deadpans, grimacing. Annoyed at the self deprecating, sucidal ideals. Waving them off like radioactive dust.
-Countless of times, but I could never bring myself to do it. Even now. Bemoans Castiel as he lays his head against the head of the bath. Slowly letting himself go down in the water to the chin. House can sense a hit of drama in the decision to do this.
House isn’t sure yet if it’s a cordial sin to look down, but he does it anyway. The man’s happy trail is visible, and the slight bend of his skin as he’s hunched makes him look straight down. Might as well call it a runway. There is a thirst that House can’t deny, one that he really shouldn’t overthink when barely a few hours ago he’d been wondering if the man had been raped.
-That’s straight bullshit, Castiel. Human or not, he doesn’t actually own you, not even the capital G-man upstairs does. They’re just men, you can walk up to him, and tell him to buck off. Or get a pretty girl on your arm and have him get jealous over something he always denied you. Eye candy, they say. There’s thousands of things you can do better. Be the change you wanna see, as Wilson would say. I never listen, but maybe I should. I tought I was the sap, but you won by a mile.
-You make it sound so rebellious, simple, youthful. I am old and weary. Drags Castiel, un-motivated.
-If you’re old, I’m an ancient ruins. He snorts.
It can be. Uh-doy. You’re just infatuated with someone who never stopped for a minute and wondered what his life could be like if he wasn’t making it all about pretty cars and guns, trauma. Are you going to waste the last thing you’ve got on it? Human or not, do you want to waste it? Is that what life is about for you? Are you willing to bet big? He says, laying a hand in the air, almost forgetting about Castiel lack of contextual social cues.
-I have nothing left to bet. He drops the words, empty and void.
-What about your explanation for curing the kid, for one. Neat trick. Now don’t leave me hanging. Give me one. He waves around his hand to entice the man to shake it. Somewhat hopeful he has enough cue to get it.
-I dont think my answer would satisfy your mind, Allison mentioned you see science like a religion. My answer is not part of your beliefs. Says Castiel as he gets a hand out of water, it drips down as he gets to House’s. It’s slow and unsure, but steadily coming nearer.
-Try me. If your boyfriend runs away again, to save his long lost brother over this. I’ll give you what you need. He reaches the last half, grasping the man’s wet warm hands into his dry one. Giving him a firm shake, under Castiel’s curious stare. >>
House couldn’t deny how good it felt to be able to promise something he actually could do for the angel, for once. He really shouldn’t break his oath for this, but he can’t forget those beady blue eyes even when he closes his.
Notes:
I liked making this one for specific reason, even if I didn't plan for the bath tub moment, I knew they would talk like this at some point soon. To start off the reason the tag Greg House\Castiel Novak exists. One step further.
Next chapter is already posted, Enjoy!
Chapter 32: -32-
Summary:
All of Castiel seems to walk towards the man, but the last thing maintaining him here is him forgetting he was holding House’s hand. He looks back to it with a doubt and dumbfounded look to his face.
Notes:
THIS IS THE THIRD OF THREE CHAPTER POSTED IN A ROW, MAKE SURE U GOT THE RIGHT ONE NOT TO SKIP AHEAD.
God it was complicated but fun to make sense of this scene. I had it in my brain but it was all blurry and tangled. Good that i made a bit of sense with it even if it's all tangled still. Also this one is the less beta'ed. I genuinely didn't wanna wait some more when I was already so far from when i posted chapter 29. So here, rejoice for some new chapters.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Under Castiel’s ten thousand yard’s stare. House has been reached by phone from Foreman, it’s set.
Dean and Castiel are compatible if the biopsy ends up saying that Castiel needs a cross-stitch transplant, it’s not like he’d be giving away the whole liver out, they’d need a patch as it is. The man would be in the hospital in a few weeks more, but it was still good news. They’re running on a tight clock still, the thin walls of the man’s liver are still actively working overtime. Until then he’ll have to lessen the load on him in anyways he can.
<< I suppose I could ask foreman to get you a shirt and some slacks, you know, to make Dean see what he’s missing out on. >> He huffs, and somehow, it seems to concretize Castiel’s faith once again. As if he hadn’t allowed himself to believe it fully, maybe won’t until he sees the man himself. He also reminds himself he needs Dean’s written consent for the surgery. And also a head attending since his own name won’t do right for now.
Thankfully, Castiel’s focus ends up switching to proceed and do what Cameron has taught him overtime. Greg leaves when the man starts washing his own chest with such intensity and seriousness as one can gather.
House takes it to step out, leaving the warm water enough to get a hold of Foreman who meets him in the basement hall.
<< You’re doing a walk of shame or something? Huffs the attending, as he offers the clothes. House shrugs them off, letting Foreman hold them hovering in the air without any direction.
- Actually it’s for the patient, supervise him. It’d be unfortunate for him to slip on bath water. If you’re there, at least you’re going to break the fall. House looks away to the hall, ignoring the heebie jeebies he gets by looking at the new spot of paint that’s slightly off white, as they hadn’t managed to manufacture aging when replacing the dry wall and painting back to shape.
Seeing someone else than Cameron all day might also give him some spine, I’ll need you later, back at Dorothy’s room in… He looks at his watch dutifully. Thirty minutes tops. Be there or be square. >>
He gives the man a pat with the cane on the side before walking away, leaving the boys together wouldn’t be too bad. They actually resonated well with each other, common interests like being men with no social or romantic life whatsoever by being workaholics.
By the time he reach his locker, the sunset is gone and it’s pitch black outside. Taking time with Castiel had ate up some time in his schedule, but nothing that wouldn’t fit still.
He gets the bottle of scotch, thankfully not a cheap brand, and gets some paper cups on the way to Dean’s room. It’d cheapen the experience, but if he knew enough about alcoholism, is that it’s not picky, they could be drinking it out of bed pans as far as he knew and it’d make no difference.
He’s taking his sweet time in case Wilson reaches him first. But by the sight of the window in Dean’s hospital room, Wilson’s parking spot’s still taken.
House sighs, looking back to the body in the bed. Weight has shed off the man, his scruff makes him look like a lumberjack, his hair are hovering over his eyes. He’s probably due for a haircut by now. Crazy what two months will do to short hairstyles.
The hay colored strands used to be so thin, and now the lion’s mane is darker, a hint of mild auburn from the lack of sun. House shuffles a tray table near the patient’s bed. Puts the cups and the bottle on it, it slightly wobbles when he gets to sit on the end of the bed.
He looks back to the man’s soft features, almost finding himself thinking about the man's expressive eyes. If Castiel and Dean had anything in common visually, he’d have to admit they were both strikingly beautiful. In the most honest and gritty way, then again Dean looked far more american and conventional features. And average build close to ground, heavy hitter, big thighs and even bigger broad shoulders.
Castiel’s trenchcoat was a lie, If House had learned anything from tailors. The man was using boxing shapes that made him look tiny in them, it had to be considered that maybe someone else had chosen the outfit for him, or simply that he took the first thing he saw on an Abercrombie model. He was underrated right away in one fell swoop of an impression. Which is a damn shame, considering what was showing in the bathtub.
But by seeing him earlier, much more intimately able to watch the man’s body without being ostracized for it. He’d noticed the more lanky shape to him, less broad than Dean but also less tall. Tasteful body hair, dark against the olive tint to the man’s skin. Something European about it, he wouldn’t be surprised to see it win off in a DNA hereditary test. Something about his body didn’t scream labor, it actually looked fairly like figure skaters, where Dean’s would be a football player’s wet dream. And he wasn’t even starting about the holder brother who seemed to be an absolute tank despite the goofy way he held himself most of the time.
House was stalling, that much he knew. But his hands findled with the Epi-Pen in his hands. Breaking away the sceal at been easy, but then turning the wheel to make the needle pop was slow and painful. Each ticks made his stomach tighten.
Had he actually started to rely on the fact Dean was a dead weight to get closer to Castiel by proxy? Was Wilson right about all this? Was he playing with them because he was deadly bored? It’s not like he’d notice right away. Even if he’s self aware this is taking most of his interest, even his team can’t shut up about it.
He wasn’t actively worried, but he couldn’t help but know he’d probably be starting chaos all over again by planting it into the man’s thigh. He was signing himself into much deeper issues that he first bargained in when following Castiel out of that damn elevator.
House looked at the locked door, closed blinds of the room, and then back to Dean’s fluttering eyelids.
Dean deserved a chance at this, Castiel wasn’t going to get any better if he weren’t.
As much as he respected Dean’s sacrifice that landed him right back into bed back then, it was reckless and stupid. Who knows if it actually would have gotten them further not to be a selfless idiot. But the situation was here and pretending not to be creating scenarios over it wasn’t viable.
House knew this wasn’t what was making him anxious, but Wilson’s words were not far back in his brain. Echoing, as if it was simple enough to fix it. He could ruin it like usual, go back to a friendship that always worked enough for the both of them. Problem the more he hangs around Castiel, the more he remembers this part of himself that’s been starved out and stranded at sea. Hookers wouldn’t fix this itch. Only one person had control over it and he was somewhere in this hospital worrying about breaking House’s heart overwhether to be moving in or not.
Thing is intimacy isn’t his forte, and Wilson can overthink his mind and heart at leisure, at the end of the day. The friendship would probably survive most, as it always did. But it was lying to think he wasn’t enabled to try. Was it even worth investigating something he gave up so long ago?
It wasn’t the time for lost flings, abandoned hopes, romantic self-sacrifices. Dean could be an ass to Castiel and never actually yearn back to him, but House shouldn’t project his situation on them. And the more he was around his team the more they’d put it together. It was a small price to pay, to avoid them and try to get a few steps ahead, but there was a limit to stunting his team on their emotional intelligence. He was losing his efficiency the second he was backed them into that tight corner.
He stalls again by taking off the respirator on the man’s face, the mask shrugged away on the pillow.
House inhaled thickly and stabbed the man’s leg through the thin blanket. He pressed the pressurized mechanism and waited for the adrenaline to hit the man’s bloodstream.
Knowing he has to wait, He starts to put alcohol in the cups, and by the time he finishes the second one. A groan seems to come from the man under.
House mentally congratulate himself on being an idiot who listened to Wilson instead of doing what his gut asked him to do. Doing this way earlier would have been helpful, if this worked and was stable enough. Wilson couldn’t guess that this exact coma patient couldn’t be woken up by epinephrine. He’d always have the instinct to try it on most patients, but weirdly enough he knows it’s not likely to work on the others. Something about it all screams unusual.
<< Not you again. Groans the husky dry throat of Dean’s. He’s slowly assessing the hospital room with the suspicious and probably light sensitive eyes.
We’ve got to stop meeting like this.
-You tell me. You’re the one who threw himself in, it’s almost as if you’re doing this on purpose to talk to me. Gee.
- You’re creepy as fuck, you know that? Groans the man as he’s trying to level himself up on the bed.
- I bet you’re thirsty. Have a drink. He says, taking his own drink to his lips.
- How long was I out? Where’s.. Starts the younger man groggily.
-Castiel’s changing downstairs, Sam’s still AWOL. Jody came to say hi and then disappeared out of the surface of the earth. Bobby’s waiting for your callback. Apparently there’s an angel called Zachariah in town, looking around. And Oh yeah, some angels fell out of heaven? Am I missing anything? What about you? How the latest chapter in dreamland?
- What the.. Dean’s stare widens and looks back at House . I think I’m going to need that drink. He says, his weak grip in the paper cup makes the liquid wavers.
By the time he’s swallowed it. House looks at him dutifully. Silence is somewhat thick and unsteady. Yet it’s not like any of this is breaking news.
- You missed Castiel’s existential crisis. He’s going to be all over you soon. Can you handle it? He says, rather seriously, nose over his own drink.
- He’s..still here? How long has it been? He asks, somewhat surprised, startled even. But he seems touched under the tight springs and coils of a body he has.
-Weeks. We kept him company. Not to brag, but my attending talked him off the ledge a few times. What have you been up to? He says grimly, hoping to bring some perspective to the man.
- Don’t lay it so thick . He groans, eyes stirring towards the closed door. He’s down bad. What..What happened? I-If he told you all of this. He musn’t had a choice. Then you know that this isn’t medical-Wait how did you wake me up, the Reaper said it was impossible.
-Your Reaper must have never heard of adrenaline before. He says with a deadpan somewhat comical, Dean frowns and his mouth curves into a pout. You’d be surprised at how many problems can be fixed with drugs.
- Is that all it took? Then.. House can see the gears starting to turn and shift in the man’s brain by the look on his face. He’s conscious and thinking, so quickly and well enough to be coherent. That was more than good news, actually it was changing the whole game.
He’d been betting on this paying off, so it was quite the relief.
-It’s not perfect, but it’ll do for now. We’ll take scans of you, but from the last ones, I can tell you hardly loss any function. Do this. House touches his thumb with his index finger on one hand, and somehow Dean listens. The movement is fluid and with no tics.
Perhaps he’s still shaken by the news enough to actually listen to a health authority. But perhaps that was wishful thinking because then the man moves his blanket away.
- No, no. I need to- He stars by putting is bare feet on the floor. The man, goes to rip off his IV, and House flinches as he sees him take it off. As theatrical that choice was, he never wanted to do that to himself again, it felt like ripping out your skin from inside. He saw the dread of the pain hanging in Dean’s features.
- You better put pressure on that if you don’t wanna faint. Your blood pressure will crash soon. He notes calmly. Better to watch the man in action instead of pushing him towards one side. It’s not like Castiel who’s not the contradictarian quite like Dean.
- Shut up. Where’s Cas? I need to know he’s fine. I- Dean presses in the inside of his arm mindlessly looking around for clothes. His naked feet making slack sounds as he moves. His naked legs walking around all-wobbly. The man’s obviously panicking and stressed out. The hospital robe shifts anxiously over him, under the tight movements. House gets more to see than he first anticipated.
- He’s coming, go back into the bed. He warns off the oblivious selfless moron.
-You used my fake ID, you’ve got nothing on me. Let me go. Don’t be an ass. He says, trying to reach the door knob. He touches it from the kneaded part of his palm. He says, putting his cane against the wall, blocking Dean at the chest by pushing against it. I’d be in jail if you didn’t.
House raises one eyebrow at the sentence. Well, who would have tought he wasn’t just a pretty face?
- I’m hardly an ass, you idiot. I just saved your best-friend’s life. He was vomiting in the other bed right there, not many hours ago. Guess who had to change jeans? Blood stains. If you leave you’ll be back in the dumps. And worse off. Don’t be more of a idiot. Houses adds rather seriously.
- He can’t- He’s..He’s human? The surprise on his face can’t be an act, nor the terror in his eyes.
-Bingo. Didn’t think you’d get there on your own, but then again. I don’t know you. House says, rolling his eyes sideways.
- Listen you dick, I don’t have time to waste on this. You tell it to me straight, and you don’t spare details. I need to know what I missed out on. He points at him rudely, waving it to him with passionnated deep in-set rage.
- I hardly think you can hear it straight, you’re already shivering. Sit down before we need to give you a new blood transfusion. The nearest blood bag is coming to see you anyway, I bet he’d be thrilled to give you blood, but he needs his. So who’s gonna win that fight? He lets out in a quip, becoming quite irritated himself.
- He’s really sick? Can you fix it? Dean’s features calms down slowly as he ponders the morals of it, finally.
- Yeah, you know what. As a proof of goodwill, I have these papers, they’re discharge papers, making us not responsable if you run off. Because you’re clearly ruminating a hundred ways to pass me over. Might as well sign them now before you make me legally amenable. He says, walking over to the food tray, to the stapled batch of paper. I’m still paying that stunt you had in the basement. You owe me.
-You’re finally making sense. And I don’t owe you shit. Do you got a pen? He says as his trembling hand overs around for the tray, looking down to the form.
- Yeah, Don’t forget your name, Cooper. I don’t want cops running over here. He takes a pen out of his pocket, and waves it around the areas to sign. Right here. House goes to lift up a corner of many sheets and then hums. Here too. Always at the end. He sees the man’s signature get written off shakily, to be ridden of it. Big broad strokes, but broken lines for lowercase letters.
He huffs after taking back the file.
Don’t let him hear you’re planning on leaving, he’ll be devastated. He mumbles back.
- Why do you care? Barks back Dean, clearly annoyed.
- You kind of left me no choice when you walked back into danger like no tomorrow. You gave up your option to be mad about this when you sacrificed yourself onto something that disappeared minutes after you passed out. House lets out with frowned eyebrows.
- The reaper’s hound was going to get Claire, the choice was easy. You wouldn’t get it, you weren’t there.
-That would have been true if it worked, the kid’s still at sea and so is your brother. As far as I know I just got you back and you went ahead to put yourself into a new hospital gown again.
-Listen, you keep pretending you know about all of this. But let’s get our facts right. You said Castiel’s coming? Then tell me what I’ve missed.
-Only if you tell me what happened. Castiel’s talking to you, he waited for you. He says, somewhat more heartfelt that he meant to.
-He did what? Pipes back Dean, dumbfounded.
-What did you expect? He has no one else, and from what we stand on now, so do you. He backtracks, logically.
-It was a Reaper. An Angel of Death. He barks back. When Castiel got me out of hell, people started talking and some started hunting. People don’t usually make it back without paying a price.
-As you keep saying. But that doesn’t explain, if Castiel was an angel, how come I could see him and not her? She was invisible, angels aren’t ghosts. I saw she flung you over the room like a paper weight. He says, almost making joke of it as he’s frustrated.
-You couldn’t see her? How did you even know- Nevermind. That’s what she meant when she said I was hanging with broken souls. I tought she meant mine. But I forgot, you were with me down there. She couldn’t have meant Sam, he’s the brightest one I know. Ditto for Claire. And Castiel doesn’t have a soul.
-Well gee, way to break the news. He says with a deadpan overlook to him.
-No, literally, no soul. He’s not human. I dont know why he told you he is. But I’m pretty sure that’s impossible. He shrugs but then flinches and put a hand in the air towards his own chest. Probably the scars tingling, that thing did some heavy damage. They both knew better than mention it.
-It apparently is when you fall out of heaven and fall into a lake, apparently his sister broke the fall. Or at least that’s what my attending understood from his cryptic communication skills. He says, suspicious at if he even believed that at all.
-It couldn’t-Sister? Hannah? Dean shakes his head once in confusion,
- Yeah, that one exactly. Tried to pin her into a bible, couldn’t exactly guess which one. He banters back.
- She’s..She died? He asked rather surprised.
- Seems like it. Why do you care?
-I need to stay awake. I can’t fall back asleep, the reaper will try to get me back again. I need to make a plan, find Sam. I->> Dean’s plan seems to falter when they both get interrupted abruptly.
The knock on the window seems to startle them both this time.
Foreman’s sneaky face seems to make way in the creek of the door.
<< I need you for something House- Wait. You’re awake. How did you do that?
- Epi. I got lucky, that and a few magic words. He turns his face backs to Dean. Stay here.
Dean doesn’t seem pleased at the order, but then again, House had showed good faith with the discharge papers and maybe that got him lenient. Maybe that got throught that thick skull more than any words would.
By the time House’s out. He can see Castiel’s face from him sitting on the chair by the door. The door closes behind him as he’s walking towards him.
-It worked. Castiel’s voice sounds empty and terrified.
- It did. But first I need you to look at me. Says House as he’s lowering himself to be in front of Castiel. He puts all his weight on his good knee as he’s taking the man’s hands. Maybe to get more of his attention as Castiel is zoning out.
That’s also when House notices how good he looks in the suit, he looks way more normal, beautifully average.
House didn’t expect to have missed it. But he can’t concentrate on it right away, he has to fix this. Whatever this is.
- I’m not sure I can. What if..What if he doesn’t need me? What if it’s not enough. Castiel’s says as he looks down on House’s hands, the ones who seems to hold his. Stopping the fumbling of fingers with his palms.
- He asked for you at least three times, I’m pretty sure you’re fine on that. Trust me. He says as he looks up to Castiel’s face.
- House, I need to tell you something, it’s urgent. Foreman warns off, ignoring the display of anxiety and affection.
- What? I’m pretty busy right now. Whatever is it, just say it. House says without even looking back at his colleague.
- Security tried to reach you but your phone’s dead. They reviewed the footage and they saw you didn’t prank your office. That it was a woman with dark hair, average height. She was dangerous and knocked out someone to get access to your office. I think she’s after you. She could still be in here. She’s the suspect for the basement hit too. You’re not off the hook with Cuddy because she didn’t get why you took the hit. Explains the man in quite the hurry.
- It’s your girlfriend- He says to Foreman, before realizing his mistake. The drug dealer girlfriend, the hot one. It’s her. She wants the brother.
-For Christ sake House, what did you do? Foreman says, almost panicking, his eyes buldges but he’s still calm enough not to startle Castiel more.
-Ruby is here? But Sam is long gone, what is she doing here? Lets out Dean’s voice from the now half-opened door. His hospital gown flows in the way he’s hunched over the door knob.
- Not sure yet. I-
- Dean. You’re awake. Castiel says so surprised despite the fact that House had confirmed it a few seconds ago. House has to back up when Castiel stands up. But castiel’s hand grips hard on House’s right hand. And Dean caught it, he can tell. Castiel almost makes a move to get to Dean, but his grip on House’s hand becomes longer and longer.
- You knew I would. I always do, Cas. He says, his voice more quiet and serious. Can you..come in? I need to talk to you. Alone.
All of Castiel seems to walk towards the man, but the last thing maintaining him here is him forgetting he was holding House’s hand. He looks back to it with a doubt and dumbfounded look to his face.
- I wouldn’t advise that, we can’t leave patients unattended it’s against the- Foreman starts.
- Let them be, what are they gonna do, make out too hard? He breaks it silly to Foreman, with a casual look back to Castiel. Jump over the window and run away in the snow? Give them a break. Just.. Go. He adds, looking back into Castiel’s bright blue eyes.
-Sure. But you’re responsible if anything breaks. Foreman barks back with an amused tone but wary. >>
Castiel’s grip loosens and House’s hand follows gravity back to his own right side.
He watches the man go in with Dean, unable to truly decipher what he feels. He’s stunted by the fact the man had wanted to hold his hand for comfort, and at himself for actually initiating the contact to reassure him.
Notes:
Hope you liked my 3 chapter spree. I'll be back to making one now, but I wanted to catch up. And I also will try to ask a friend to help kick my own ass. I really enjoy writing but my brain somehow keeps forgetting it. I need to keep those fingers warm, that was the main reason i started this. Who knows, maybe I'll have it figured out by the time we reached the last chapter of this fic.
Anyway, thank you for reading the amount of 13k of words in these three chapters. We now reached over 100k of words! It is a milestone for myself, but knowing how long it took, i'll try to keep at it. :D
I had fun, but going back to one chapter at a time will def make this easier.
Fuck yeah, got it done. FINALLY some Castiel, and the next chapter as a fake thing coming which no, I will give my boi dean a break..soon. Like legit i need him to do two more things and then he can breathe. Process shit, and maybe get some perspective for whatever is happening with Castiel. Because in the main show, my man was rarely making the right choices when he was slowing down in his mundane life, like telling cas to figure it our himself alone when he has never been human before in the Human!castiel arc. I will never forgive him for that, but I won't make him pay too much for it. I think House is my way to make this wrong, right again. even if subconsciously.
Anyhoo, Thank you!
Chapter 33: -33-
Summary:
Dean and Castiel have an honest talk, and it's quite something to watch. House knows better than to interrupt, he lets biology take care of it.
Notes:
I actually liked writing this one. In the hopes you will enjoy it too <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Castiel’s eyes never felt the option to budge away from Dean’s disgruntled appearance. Not when Doctor House comes and shuffles papers away, mutters something under his breath about time. Not in the tense silence that comes between them all, when the taller man made sure his healing wouldn’t be interrupted by the distance from proper physicians. Perhaps he should have given him some sort of affirmation of good behavior, of his intentions towards Dean. He felt both stares, like ghosts of things unsaid.
He had been painfully clear, there was nothing else that mattered more than this. It had to be enough, for the man to leave them be. For all he was craving was Dean’s touch, the one his eyes were promising ever so slightly.
The older human had left the premise, he hadn’t bothered to notice if the door had closed behind. Dean’s staggering stare was already done confirming his safety, their safety to speak freely.
Not that he’d been afraid of sharing himself, it only became this natural urge when with the older winchester. This shameful sin, behind closed doors, tightly shut windows, in the dark spots of the backseat of the Impala.
The dark, in the deep of his eyes was alive, under the grim of his untouched beard, shaggy hair strands, and bushy eyebrows.
It was his Dean, alive and breathing, alas that had been an untold predicament.
Castiel could feel his lungs expand much deeper now that he was in the know. Now that he could watch him intently, for hours to come, to hear every words crafted for him, to be manhandled by his foul language. All of these prospects felt ravishing, like warm heat under his skin.
Hand tightly shut on the metal pole he was obliged to drag around by sheer will to survive, he’d made a few steps towards the man. Dean’s eyes widened, at the prospect of intimacy perhaps. But Castiel’s hesitant touch finally made it past the shame, past the silence of untold words.
Dean’s body is boiling under his touch, he hides his face in the man’s shoulder with utterless abandon. Hoping the man will once again lift his arms higher, and embrace him back. After the whiplash of the aftertoughts, the man finally roars back to life with a tight embrace. The one they know too well, the one they allow for the deepest of emergencies, as this was one. Castiel had no doubt it deserved much credit.
Dean’s body feels strong enough not to break under his tender hold. Castiel isn’t so sure his knees won’t buckle if the man’s breath continues to tickle the shell of his inner ear. The shiver of goosebumps that lays upon his skin is most unpredictable, his reticence to admit even Jimmy’s body longed for safety was understated.
He could feel him no longer, but he was certain the man would have been relieved to see Dean, considering he had more than proved himself capable of protecting the vessel. He would go to such lengths to say that he even trusted him to be protecting his daughter whilst he was gone.
Castiel hangs tighter when he can finally feel Dean letting go. Dean’s body sags as he breathes out, Castiel panics enough to touch the man’s bare skin of his back through the side of his robe with urgency.
<< Woah, hey, Cas. I’m here. It’s fine. The words are rough, muffled against his neck.
It feels lovely to feel lips so near the sensible skin, but the words comes to shore and it’s time.
Castiel sighs, of relief, an endless disappointment that swallows him whole.
- Not yet. Sam is..gone. Claire could be hurt. I-
- Calm down, we’ll..we’ll figure it out. Together. I’m not sure what’s going on still. But we’ve seen worse, right?
- I’ve never felt like this before. There is so much more to tell.
Dean flustered as they unhooked from each other, still so near from him that he can smell his ungodly breath of alcool and something else much more strong. It’s so human and raw that it is endearing to smell in such a situation. It makes his head spin and his nose wrinkled under the odor.
- Felt like what exactly?
-Defenseless, human. Jimmy’s body was always a temporary means to an end. I’m not sure what of it, now that I remain alone in it. He manages to let out under the duress of his own heart.
- You mean that you used to feel him inside? And he wasn’t mad at us like, all the time? Dean’s attempt at a joke breaks in his throat, the voice cracks as his throat is hoarse.
In other circumstances, Castiel could have lounged under it’s glow, basked into the gritty melody and felt his loins stir once again for something he’d not dare hope for.
- He was mostly disconnected..Asking me for briefings ever so often. Mostly about his daughter. He wasn’t actively worried for you like I just was. I believe he had much higher hopes in the celestial than I could conjure when seeing you in this bed, full of life, yet unmoving. Talking about him seems to keep his spirits aflame in Castiel’s mind, enough to feel bittersweet.
- You..House mentionned you lost..It wasn’t a lie to lead him off track? Asks Dean, somewhat unsure.
-I’m afraid not. Deadpans Castiel with the bitter dread pilling up in his stomach. He’d rather be vomiting again than explain this to the one he loves, but he has to. He knows deeply from within it is the moral thing to do.
- What does it mean? You’re what, human now? How’s that even possible? Dean’s voice saying those words, feels like a foretold tale that Castiel’s mind had been anticipating so easily as the days passed.
-I’m not sure. The more time passes the less I remember of how it went down. He says, looking at the pattern on Dean’s robe. The white and the blues harmonising with the empty stare he’s wearing.
- What do you mean it went down? What went down? What did I miss Cas? Dean’s voice sounds actively worried, enough to startle something in Castiel to go on. To finally lay it in pieces for the man to gather.
- Well, Heaven always had multiple angels on earth, they did not see me fit to continue, they started to hunt me down on heaven’s orders. Zachariah’s especially. I disagreed. Hanna contacted me, we tried to speak sense into Metatron. He was overseeing the board during the events. I’m not sure how he acquired such a title, he was merely but a gospel and a cheat. I should have known to take him literally.
Castiel gripped the metal pole harder, enough for his knuckles to turn white. Twice today, they’ve actually had turned so white he’d pondered if there was any blood in them anymore.
He proposed to us an unlikely truce. Something about God being vacant, having to do all the work for someone who’s ungrateful. I was most likely agreeing with Hannah that he made little sense when we were still being chased. We needed a solution, and he provided us a backdoor out of heaven, one that would not go unnoticed, but that would raise enough alarms to confuse the ones after us.
I did not anticipate him to wreak havoc in heaven. Many, thousands of us fell, Hannah was..
- He told me. It’s fine Cas, we’ll..We’ll figure out. So now, we need to go back. Get the rest of our things from the hotel and- Starts Dean, with this same old song Castiel grow to love and hate. One that was so easy to ignore everything else festering within. All he could, all he would do for the man, and yet there he was scheming once again. Never stopping to take a breath. It was dizzying for his mortal body, for the shell of his heart and mind. He had anticipated it, and yet he was none the wiser as he was hit by it like a tidal wave.
- It’s been weeks, Dean. They’ve been reconstructing the damages, I did not attempt to recontact Crowley after his childish stunt. I brought most of what I know you were fond of from the room. Before driving you here, do you not remember? He tries, desperately attempting to grasp at the man’s sentiment.
-Yeah, I-I actually can, now that you’re mentioning it. Baby’s fine, right? He asks, with more worry than he’d let on.
-It is. Doctor House, he has told me it’s under safe keepings. Verbatim. He promises under his breath. Hoping for something different to come from the hunter’s lips.
-I don’t trust him, not with you, not with baby either. Deans mumbles into himself.
-I do. He has brought you back to me. I trust him enough for the things I do not know about human life. Castiel cannot help the urge that goes through him to defend the older man. Even behind closed doors, there is no amount of it that could go unnoticed.
-I can teach you that, you don’t need him for that. Deans unbudging stare is growing tense and afraid.
- He made sure you would stay here. He lied for us. Allison told me he cares more than he lets on. I sometimes can see it too. Just like I see you. Castiel’s voice is softer than he anticipated, yet upon hearing it, he agrees with himself much more than when he’s tought about it previously. It cemented it, the trust he has in the doctor.
-That’s cute Cas, but he’s been nothing short of an ass to me lately. I don’t see what you see. He says, discouraged.
- You don’t need to, all I need now is you. His words couldn’t be more true, yet they feel unwanted by the other party in the room.
- And Sam. We need to make a plan for Sam and Claire. You said Zachariah was after you, last you’ve heard? The change of subject is of no surprise to Castiel, Dean’s voice was wavering enough for him to know he was knocking on the wrong door at the moment.
- Yes, He sighs. It is not something I enjoy to think about. He gives up pretense and follows the stream.
- Obviously, now if we leave, do you need meds? He said you’re sick, we can get things from here before we dip. So that we can get you further ahead and I’ll stay awake until we find somesort of spell or maybe we can contact Crowley again about what he said. I don’t trust him either as far as I can throw him, but he’d have to do since we’re short on leads. The growing hope in Dean’s voice breaks Castiel’s heart enough to stop him before it can go on.
- I can’t. Castiel croaks, looking at him with wide open eyes, saddened ones at that.
- What do you mean you can’t? Dean’s eyes, just as wide, true to himself and expressive. His pupils shaking under the his incredulity and withering in between Castiel’s eyes.
-This..This isn’t what keeps me healthy, Allison says it is likely I need more. I cannot leave, I need them. He gives it up, and he hates every second of it. He’d want to go, follow him wherever he leads, but Allison’s words remain strong in his mind. It is to be of better aid, to become healthy, to then tend to Dean when he will need it. He cannot be dead and helping Dean at once. The doctor had made it painfully clear.
-That’s..But for how long? His voice reeked of disappointment and sadness, wavering uncertainty.
-They’ve mentionned briefly weeks. That with modern medicine I would be running again in a few months, in a human lifespan it is rather short. I cannot leave until they’ve fixed me, Dean. And they can fix you too, if you let them. He says, gripping on the man’s robe, his chest aching.
- No, Cas, you don’t understand. I wasn’t..I wasn’t what they told you I was. I was stuck with a goddamn reaper or something. She was keeping me in this dark room, i was stuck inside my own head and it was a nightmare. I’m not sick, see? It was an angel of Death, like you’ve said before we got attacked by Crowley’s goons. She had it for me, and he gave me to her on a silver plater. You believe me right? You can scan me if you don’t believe me. I’m fine. I just need to stay awake long enough to find a spell.
He passes his hands on his face, then puts then on both of Castiel’s shoulders.
-I believe you, but I can’t see, feel it anymore, that’s not how it works anymore, Dean. You could be bleeding internally and I wouldn’t know. Castiel’s voice becoming but a whisper towards the end, as the statement breaks him in half to mention.
-Maybe..Maybe you can stay then. And I go get Sam, he’ll be probably banged up too, he could use one of those beds when I come back. And then we’ll all be together, we’ll be fine. Dean’s convincing himself, it’s easy to see when Castiel looks up to him and see the shining wetness and the spark in his eyes. He hates this as much as he does. And yet here they are, unbudging, uncompromising.
- And what if you’re wrong and you’re sick? What happens if you fall somewhere, because your body can no longer keep you awake and away from your nightmares? Castiel whispers back, uncertain.
- I- Listen Cas, I’m making it all up as I go. I don’t actually know how it’ll pan out. But I’ve got to make it work out, for you, for Sam, for Claire. You all need me to get through, and for that I need to get going. I can’t waste any more time here. You said it’s been weeks, I know Sam, he’ll work hard to keep them both alive, but he’ll give up at some point. He’s pessimistic like that. Without me by his side, he gives up after a while. He’s always been like that. He needs me. If I know you’re here and safe, I’ll know to come back here for you.
Castiel’s eyes grow wet at the words, knowing his hearts wants to be needed just as much as Sam is currently.
-I..Understand. I longed for you to be awake, but you’re not able to stay. Not when the lingering thoughts of your brother floats above your head. Just like I couldn’t breathe without knowing if you were fine. Rationality wins, Castiel cannot deny it no longer. He’d known before the man would wake up that this was a possibility, he’d be a fool to think otherwise. Yet there he was pining for another outcome and also admiring the man for the same decision that was breaking his spirits.
-Cas..D-Don’t say it like that. Dean’s voice is a growl, it’s exhausted and hurt.
-It’s the truth, Dean. I’m tired of suffering in silence, you should know how I feel before you leave. He says, shaking his head slightly to the side.
-Is that how you feel? Dean asks, almost giving him another chance to leave it alone.
-It is. I’ve been terrified of losing you. The world is a scary place without you by my side. Having to give you up, to go away again? It’s making me feel a lot of things, some that I’d rather not be feeling right now. Castiel’s honesty wins. And Dean’s eyes shatters under the weight of the words.
- Shit Cas, I- Dean starts, but Castiel cannot let it continue.
- I want you to stay, but I know better than expect you to stay. Sam is important, I can recognize that. Claire deserves your help. I wish it wouldn’t be for the price of me in the process. He says, and slowly believing it more as he repeats it within.
-Are you sure you can’t come? Dean dares to ask again, to Castiel dismay.
- Are you sure you can’t stay? Castiel asks, to Dean’s bittersweet smile of understanding.
- Alright, fine, I get it. You don’t need to- Dean’s mind cannot unravel longer in the intimacy, the anger strikes back at his helplessness.
- I’ve only wanted one thing ever since I fell from heaven. Castiel’s honest words laid bare for Dean to see.
-I’ll be honest with you Cas, I can’t even think right now. You’ve had time to think about it, but I didn’t. I really need to get moving, so let’s..table that.I’ll think about it.You know, on the road. I need to start packing. Shit Cas, it feels like I’ve been out of the loop for so long. What do you want me to say, man?
- Nothing that you wouldn’t want to say yourself. I..I understand. If you wish to pursue this when you’re back, I’ll be waiting. He said under pursued lips, biting back the bleeding heart, the aching gums, and the leaking compassion and admiration towards that same man he adores to love and hate. >>
House’s stare lingers in the hallway as Foreman’s tight knuckles catch the window’s blinds. Rattling the chain and tightening his grip onto it to make it bend, to finally make them see the two middle aged men in the hospital room. House swallows and realises he can’t look away from the two men as they hug and greets each other for a long time. It’s an odd sight, to see it all play out. The window panels really help it all feel like a stage play. One that they shouldn’t be privy to, but end up being out of security measures, and ogling curiosity.
Lip-reading is a hobby, at least he’s had enough to get a general outlook on what’s happening.
The wavering and accusatory finger waving of Dean Winchester towards them outside of the room, is far more clear than he’d like. That and the echo of his last name.
This was the best time to assess more, considering the relationship was a big mystery still. From what he saw, as nervous as Castiel had been outside, it hadn’t took long for him to stand up straight and fight for his convictions. Just as the glass figure was, now there was this soldier’s stance. He was right back in ranks. Playing his role, in what he saw as needed, obviously it was a mirror of smoke.
Dean’s body language was as close as Castiel's; they seemed to never look away from each other’s face, no matter the words that were said. And for half a moment, House was glad not to be stuck in there. Glad that he had no chance to pipe in this distorted painting. The tension was real, and House could see it from the other room. Dean’s legs bowed as he sat at the edge of the bed, taking his face in his hands to conceptualize the words of his would-be angel.
That felt like the first blow of many, because his shoulder sagged not long after.
There was a clear longing, there was no denying it. And Dean was mad, probably lost and confused, which distressed Castiel further. If that didn’t clear up soon they’d have to break it off. Would they actually fight over it?
But then after a few lingering seconds of contempt. The younger one put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, supporting it and offering a truce.
Castiel was already weak as it is, just standing up this long with his IV line on the titanium support was a stretch. But there was no price to pay, to see the man build himself up simply because his would-be lover was in distress. Taking on a leadership and strong role for the blond, who was missing one important pieces of his identity; the brother.
Greg waves his hand towards Foreman, clearing his throat to get his attention.
<< Pass me your phone. Mine’s not kaput, it’s on silent because I’m recording that. He croaks, waving his head towards the lovebirds in the other room.
-Why mine? Cuddy already knows I contacted you and they’re sending security to patrol, if they can confirm she’s still in we’re going to go in a code silver lockdown. He explains somewhat annoyed.
- Might as well make the best of it then, if I lost two good surgeons to it, I’ll use the ones already in here.
- Wait, what are you saying? Catches up Foremen with a dumbfounded stare. Taking his phone out of his pocket for House to take out of his hand.
House slides the man’s phone on the side to access the blackberry’s keyboard. Texting Wilson, and simultaneously convincing him to book an OR. Under one fell swoop, adding hugs and kisses as provocation without explaining it’s him under Foreman’s number is simply a bonus.
- Adrenaline’s gonna wear off soon. As much as the reunion of the lovebirds is good, you better get in there to break his fall. He warns very seriously despite the smirk ghosting over his thin lips.
- Twice today you make allusions to having me used as a safety net. If I was Cameron I’d think you actually subconsciously need me to catch up when you’re falling.This is straightforward. You’re usually much more diluted and eccentric.
- You’re right, let me fix that. He says before opening his pills to take two of them. Not exactly looking at the hour and only going by the feel of it. His body was tight and sore, there goes working on his recovery days.
Then again Dean would still be in the bed and Castiel might be dead if he hadn’t decided to continue working instead of staying longer in bed himself. Way to go to actually want to listen to Wilson and stay home on a healing injury when others needed his expertise.
He really had no intentions on putting back an arm sling, not even for fashion, but he really hated how heavy his shoulder felt. He definitely should put it back on, or at least get his own broken-in canes who would feel deeply more comfortable mentally and physically.
He is dissapointed and proud of his own self-destructive tendencies to prove a point to Wilson, mentally deciding to keep it on even further despite that it was blocking blood flow and deeply unconfortable under the shape of his hand. As if they made it to accommodate a gnome or a child. His hand was over the whole handle for most of his palm and it was deeply uncomfortable. Had Wilson took a detour by his cancer kids and paid them a lolipop in exchange for the worse cane he could get in the whole hospital?
- That’s..It’s not even the end of your shift, it’s not time, you’re overcompensating with meds. Foreman sighs at that one, deeply at that to emphasise his disappointed parental stare.
-Thank you for noticing, now go make sure I have a patient to bring in the OR. His BP was through the roof, it’s a miracle he’s up for so long. He says, almost grumbling it off. He should be going down anytime now.
Instead of going straight to the room, Foreman goes sideways to the locked rooms fridges at the end of the hallway, he comes back with a IV drip bag, full and shiny new. He plops it into House’s open hand as he takes back his own phone.
- You better be kidding. You’ll need my hands scott free if we go on for surgery. It’s not like you’re allowed to operate whilst being on probation. He says with a arched eyebrow, walking up to the hospital room. His coat laying a few inches behind him under the air flow.
- I love it when you’re smarter than you look. He says, sarcasm dripping as House is making a move to shuffle towards them. He looks at them barely talking now, through the glass panels it’s pretty clear there’s something awkward or wrong. And by the look of Dean’s hand on Castiel’s shoulders, it’s starting to have effect.
- You really care about him don’t you? Can’t say I’ve seen you do this to any of us. I tought you only showed you liked yourself..or Wilson and that was it.
-I show my love through facism Foreman, you wouldn’t get it. You know..with you being so woke and deeply liberal. He says with a hand wave in the air to emphasis the statement.
He snorts, almost annoyed but somewhat amused.
- Say, why will he crash right away? Adrenaline would at least need an hour to properly wash away enough for him to yawn. He asks the older man with a ounce of curiosity.
- I gave him nature’s best depressant, booze. He’ll be yawning and making Zzz’s by the time you reach them. Best time to bet on it, Time’s a tickin’.
- Christ. That has to count as bioterrorism House. >> He says, one hand on the door knob, but before House answered anything back, Castiel’s alarmed voice and Dean’s sagged body over the end of the bed makes it painfully clear that Foreman is needed elsewhere than chit-chatting.
Notes:
The switch of POV was quite fun despite the fact I was winging it. I need to rewatch some parts of the show, I really am mixing a lot of canon, it's like an alternative take by now. Jesus, if any of y'all remember the timeline better than I do, hmu. I guess the what-if scenario allows me some leeway, but I'm bordering on improvisation. XD Nevertheless, I like this chapter, its neat.
Have a nice day, see you later <3
Chapter 34: -34-
Summary:
Some Castiel and House angst, and bittersweetness, coming right up! Emotional intimacy is quite complex, to both of their dismay.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
House hisses when his leg pulls a nerve, the fact he had Dean’s legs in his hands and he was shuffling around the bed to meet Foreman’s pull on Dean’s torso and arms was probably it. His leg was meager to continue considering the grunt work was putting pressure on his injury. He’d have to drop the man pretty soon before swaying himself. There was a list of things he was limited by, as a disabled doctor, and this one was it. He’d better leave the heavylifting to the ER.
Castiel’s eyes looked back at him, practically whipped them eyes towards him like thunder. It’s not like he was busy holding weight that could topple him over, if anything.
<< You said you could fix his ill. Why is he unconscious? Asks the rather demanding and almost irritating voice of the man from the side. Castiel’s voice was mad, almost this deadpan that was cold and dry.
- He’s fine he’s just napping. I shot adrenaline in him, it had to crash eventually. House says right under Foreman’s suspicious stare, and thankfully, silent mouth. He didn’t have it in him to justify his actions right away.
- Don’t mock me. He had a hard time to trust you, and I’m inclined to agree. Don’t make me change my mind. Let’s out the irritated scowl of the ill patient number two.
-Yeah well, I wanted to believe in Santa too when I craved new toys. He huffs, as they manage to make Dean be on the bed, now on his back. Foreman pulls the bed down with the electrical mattress and House pulls up the guards so that their hard work doesn’t just slip through to the floor in a loud thud.
The man wouldn’t survive one more bruise to his inflating ego and pretty nogging.
- I’ll prep Castiel for the OR. Go dust off the tools and find me an anesthesiologist. I expect to see you and Wilson in there in thirty minutes tops. He barks off to his colleague, who nods.
Castiel shuffles in closer to Dean, and he goes to put his paws on the man’s arm. Which House considered was for confort until he saw him close his eyes. Castiel’s eyelids fluttered, wildly enough to throw off his balance.
His strong stance and anger seemed to mellow out, and instead he opened his eyes with a pained expression. One hand reaching his stomach.
Foreman’s been taking care of unplugging Dean’s bed and putting back the IV to notice. House stare lingers on Castiel’s ghostly stance.
- Do you even remember how? Scoffs Foreman with surprise, If I didn’t know you better I’d think you’re avoiding Wilson.
- What will happen to Dean? Cuts off Castiel, his voice weaker and raw. Somewhat desperate.
- He’s going to be fine. I’ll tell you all about it, but first. I can’t have you both go all romeo and romeo. He says as he walks around the bed to reach the other man. He bends on the side to take the solute bag on the visitor chairs and shuffles once again to switch it on Castiel’s IV pole. So at least now both patients are back on meds.
He throws the almost empty bag, used and closed in the waste bin by the desk. There you go. Buying time by the minute. Consider yourself lucky your issue seems to be far less dangerous at it seemed. You almost became interesting. He says with a grunt, but his mind spins at what he’d just noticed. Trying to make sense of it.
- I need papers House, even I can’t get the lights on if the board doesn’t get his consent forms . Says Foreman in a tone of reprimand. His hand is hovering in the air waiting for the form. The other was laying on the side of the bed, waiting to roll him out quickly and efficiently.
House shuffles in the inside pocket for the papers in it. He takes out the folded stack, takes out the first five pages and then gives the last three to the man who notes the exchange with mixed feelings deep in his furrowed brow.
- You know what. I don’t even wanna know. He said as he took them, made sure it was the right ones and signed and then he started wheeling Dean out on his hospital bed. His blanket sagging lower than the mattress.
Like clockwork, Castiel walked over to follow but House started to quip like an alarm. He put a hand on the man’s chest to stop him further, and then slid in the entry of the doorframe to stop him fully. Thankfully, as weak as Castiel had become in the span of his visit, managed to make the feat very easy. Even for a limped-arse like him.
- You stay here, I need you naked and ready to be swallowing some contrast for imagery. He said, trying to put on a show of it with a sultry voice. His head lowered and his gaze thickened on the man who had no idea of proper decorum to back off. So they stood there still until one of them broke off the tension. We’ll take some of your spinal fluid. It’s important enough for me to mention it. Now hush.
- Answer me now. You wanted to be alone to do it. We are. He bit off the words painfully as he looked at House’s eyes. The baby blues were mostly confused and annoyed, in pain more like. Which House knew exactly how to deal with. But somehow there was something else in those eyes, a hint of something House really wouldn’t expect out of a man so devoted to Blondie McGee rolling away.
- You’ve got five questions that I’ll answer truthfully. Remember our little game? He says, lenient and hoping it’ll bear results.
- This isn’t a game! The man roared back, his free fist swaying in the air one heavy aimless swing. Tell me about Dean. Where are you taking him? You just gave him to me, We didn’t agree to this. The second hit was slow and predictable, but he still didn’t avoid it when it landed on his chest.
- Well first. I didn’t agree to be keeping him awake. I said I could make him awake. And second, I said I would take care of it. So are you going to let me take care of it or are you going to pretend to understand what he needs and make it harder for me to do my job? He quips back, seriously hinting at taking it straight, with wickledly thin lips.
Castiel’s eyelids thinned under the anger. His jaw tensed and he got closer to House, so close that House figured he’d be back against the door if there was any. He swallowed dryly, and he hoped his face wouldn’t act up. Break under the discomfort of intimacy.
- Fine. Explain to me how to help. He gave up, and at this point it probably because his blood pressure was high rocketing in dangerous territory under all the pain, anger and exhaustion he’d been lugging around under the pretense Dean Winchester’s first words were worth it. Castiel’s eyes were blinking and aimless. But he was still hanging in, alternating focus on features on his face.
House looked at Castiel slowly, taking in his features, and oddly enough his smell. Which was a mix of that shampoo that hung in the basement for way too long, the exact one that claimed to be scentless on the bottle. That and the sweat, which was mostly a brim undertaste rather than an obvious smell.
And that’s when he realised.
-It went exactly how you feared didn’t it? He didn’t pick you and now you’re mad you didn’t get to say goodbye. I’m not stealing your goodbyes. Your body is shutting down, you couldn’t heal him and you’re helpless. Let me do my job. He said, his voice low and honest, almost pitying the man.
-It did. I’m still not exactly thrilled by it. He barked back, his stare loosening in intensity but his hand brushed away from House’s chest. The sass is almost refreshing, House snorted. But then he felt the need to continue, to get under his skin. At least this time he assumed the man couldn’t lift him up entirely by the sight of pale skin and surface level sweat.
- He was dying to leave, even before you came here. He’s– House started, spitfire and intent on getting to the bottom of it now that he’d been pushed for it.
- I know. Croaked Castiel, his voice breaking. I’m aware. The man’s tone was defeated, backing down.
- You’ve still got three questions left. He said slowly, letting the man calm down. His chest was sagging slower than it was mere seconds ago.
- You didn’t answer the first two, why would I ask any other. He quipped back.
House felt the ghost of a smile linger on his lips, almost proud at the attitude, at least he was willing to live when he was angry at them all. That was something, if any.
- I’m taking him to a place that’s clean enough that he won’t get sicker if we open him up. He responds truthfully, letting some lee-way as to how.
- Why does he have to be opened up? His body is not meant to be opened. Castiel says roughly in a mumble under his lips.
- Because he needs to give you a part of liver, a few inches. And that’s where we’ll bring you both to do the transfer. That’s as simple as it gets, for the man to understand. Any less and he’d be forcing them both to undergo a dangerous surgery. One was a good odd at understanding, if both were meant to be stubborn and stupidly reckless. The surgery would ultimately save them in favor of them both, as blind as they were to the prospect.
- I don’t need a-
- Yes, trust me, you’ve been walking off some nasty symptoms just to see your prince charming but I know for a fact you must feel rotten inside like a bad apple. Probably doesn’t help the mood, prissy just like a cat. He says, voice calm and low, stare unbudging.
- You’ve been just as detrimental to my mood. Despite trusting you, I find myself hating you more often than I'd like. Castiel lets out rather honestly, almost stuttering away the confession.
- I’ve heard that one before. House lets out casually, waiting for the man’s words to be heard, the one he’s dying to say.
- I only want to believe you are here to help because your results have got me further than mine alone. He further confesses, almost pain-drunk.
- That’s reasonably found, I wasn’t sure if you were too far gone yet. He wits back, letting the ball go back in his yard.
- The pain has lingered for long. I am forgetting what it feels like to be free of it. Castiel whispers to himself. House’s heart soar at the sentence, recognizing it too well.
- You still got one question left. He tries to give him one last chance to get what he wants, or at least get in the way of it.
- How can I want Dean to own me and still feel this magnetic pull towards you and your irritating face? He whispered once again, House’s throat tightened, when the words fit his own mind.
- Because you’re desperate. The older man whispered back, unsure wheter he is talking of himself or the man in front of him.
-I can’t let Dean do this for me. He was ready to leave. Resigned Castiel looking away, breaking the tension between them. And House huffs with relief, he did not intend on opening this can of worm right now. But it has been cracked, dented enough for it to become a unpending concern.
-You’re not letting him do anything. He signed for it. I’ve got proof, my team wouldn’t do anything if he didn’t agree to it. You said he’d do anything for you and his brother if you wanted the same as him. You did, you told him to go.
- I did. But I don’t. He groaned, shaking his head towards the left, almost lingering close to House’s shoulder.
- You want to stay. He’s dying to leave. You allowed him to leave. You want the same as him, for him. He repeats, it almost sounds like a croak.
- Yes…No. It’s complicated. Sighs Castiel with not ridden of any doubts.
- I said I would do what you need, I never said anything about want. I’m willing to take the blame. Let me. He says, voice slower and almost silent. Dying in his throat enough to make him wonder if he’d really said it.
- At what cost? Castiel pondered, looking back up to him.
- That’s not my job to tell. Now go to the bathroom and I’ll bring you a gown. He said before clearing his throat, taking ownership of the situation once again.
- Will he able to do what he wants after the transfer? Castiel worriedly asked, perhaps to alleviate his heavy conscience.
-He’ll wake up, need a few meds and proof that he won’t be discharged alone and we’ll let him off in the wild. If that’s still what he wants then. He says, certain and bold, hoping his confidence inspire the younger man.
- It will be, he will not stop before he gets to Sam. There is no stopping him until then. You are delaying the inevitable. He adds, annoyed at it all.
- I’m making an attempt at giving you what you need before he runs away with your only chance to heal. He cocked back, jaw slack.
Don’t chicken out because you think he’s more worth a shot than you. Didn’t you tell Cameron you fell for Dean because he genuinely didn’t believe himself to be worthy despite being your chosen one? I’m choosing to believe in you. Don’t make me regret it.
- How long will it take? Castiel said, disregarding the rest. Perhaps bothered too much by it to even attempt at answering it.
- Tonight. One day. Give or take. He’ll sleep off the worse of it. Just close your eyes. Just once. He said, almost pleading. Which felt so unreal to realize.
How had he gone so far to be pleading to a man he’d met not too long ago?
How did he find himself caring for such a selfless sack of being?
House huffed when Castiel literally closed his eyes under the demand, breathing in and out. He watched those soft features pained, the tension in his shoulders and jaw, temple to the quivering lip ever-so slightly.
Such an odd moment for his mind to remind him how beautiful Castiel’s features are in the dim lightning.
He’d better not pursue this urge to grow closer, or he’d do the wrong thing again. The one that would jeopardize the trust Castiel has decided to allow him.
We’ll take these clothes off you, I’ll use a needle in your back, you’ll be numbed to it. No more pain for now. You can even do it in his bed. And with the needle, I’ll be able to get the others going for the surgery. By the blink of an eye, you’ll be bed by bed again, both awake. And you’ll make decisions then. Now I’ll make the decision for you to get there. >>
Castiel’s shoulder sagged, he backed up, his hand wavered towards the IV station and he took it lazily.
House walked into the room, closed the doors, and made way to unbutton Castiel’s shirt under his intense and cloudy stare.
Despite feeling the gloom, it was a win. House had to remind himself.
Notes:
Gosh, it's hard to remain somewhat centered on the character's spirit and not make them do something they wouldn't do. Castiel unbudging belief for Dean got used and manipulated, he died for it by the end. It maybe sounds poetic to a lot of people, it sometimes does to me. But I'd rather imagine a world where things ended differently. For the sake of the character and his endless love and care, he was willing to lie and bend rules for Dean. His compass was broken as the season went on, and he did it all for Dean. I want to respect that, and I also want him to get a better chance here. Which contradict each other a bit. Nevertheless, it's a start <3
Chapter 35: -35-
Summary:
In-between Wilson's frustration, Castiel's pain, and Dean's anger. They all seek meaning in the states they are in. All but one, the one who pretends not to care.
Notes:
It's kind of an update on what's up. All month I wrote down the jumble of ideas of things to add to a note and now I'm deciphering it back. Interesting results, some I planned, some I did not.
I think I'm making it more painfully aware that there's something going on with Castiel and House for a few chapters, but having to decipher it through the view of other bystanders is very weird. I wonder how much of it is truth and how much of it is speculation. Wilson's biased as heck, more than he'd admit it before coaxing.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wilson’s eyes darted over the hall, fidgeting with the end of his sleeve. Feeling the texture against the tip of his fingers, hoping it wasn’t as raw as it felt.
Whilst talking to Cuddy had been a dead end, considering the woman was as busy as it gets. He still wasn’t sure if he actually wanted to run back to House. There was this uncomfortable feeling that the man was probably with the patient. And as it occurs to him, he does not feel comfortable around the patient. Neither of them patients inspired confidence in him, as a matter of fact.
House hasn’t changed, he’s still old and cranky, has his ways. That isn’t new. Yet he feels antsy about this whatever happened last in front of him. He’s not really minding the miracle itself, but he minds Greg’s relationship or parasocial bond they seem to create by osmosis.
Wilson couldn’t ignore the look he saw in the man’s face when they argued. The mere mention of the patient’s interest and it’s all it took for him to be defensive. He hates how hard it is to get down to what’s important to him when communicating with House.
One moment he’s with the smartest man in the room and the other he is with a dense fifty years old man who has no idea how to say what he wants the most. House’s cranky appearance felt like it was concealing something else, but if he was interested in the patient, wouldn’t he be more unashamed?
It was never his style to hide, unless there was a reason for him to hide it from him.
It’s not like House has been the straightest of them both. He’s had his fair share of exploration in college. There wasn’t this understanding that he’d be judged for the gay aspect, if anything Wilson was willing to encourage it if that’s what House truly wanted. Almost envying such clarity for himself. It’s not like he always knew how to call it. But he really thinks this is something that’s going on under his nose and he’s being kept off it for whatever reason. It was enough to worry about his intentions. He really wishes it’s that simple and it isnt something far worse. House always had that off-set aspect to him, it wouldn’t shock him. But with a patient just as that? What was going on?
There wasn’t a breast to ogle at, no sensual lips, no physical detriment to attract the man like usually. Nor Castiel seemed to par with him on a mental level. He seemed to be everything house wasn’t. The anti-thesis of it all had him confused on if it was raw attraction or repulsion.
He couldn’t really decipher what it meant to himself, but he’s unsure how to ask. He’d really want it to be only jealousy, he’s had to deal his fair share of those. With the common prostitute or the women fixer-uppers that House had gotten overtime, he’d had his fair share of practice. His best friend was more than a decade of work, he’d not dare to lose that over simple things that could be discussed, boundaries established. It had to be enough, right? It could be worked over, accepted, move on from. New normal, new lifestyle.
It got him thinking about how House never sacrificed relationships over theirs together. How long this train had been going and how he’d never truly asked for less. His action were always so confusing, and so was his inner monologues, the amounts of hearing his justifications of his actions, the why as to how it’s relevant. There was a crazy tint to it, but enough to date a patient that was so clearly dumbfounded?
There was new kinds of wrongs, and Wilson knew it wasn’t because Castiel is a man. It really isn’t. He can’t help but repeat himself. But his mind thinks about the patient’s attractiveness. There was this purity, the one House lost so far along the road, maybe that’s what he was interested into without realising it. Maybe House was just having fun with a old past version of his conscious self. It had to be.
There was something there, he could feel it. He also wished it wouldn’t feel so debilitating to think about.
Out of the sudden, the sensation of a push on his shoulder grows strong and heavy, one that he hadn’t anticipated. It startles him back to the heavily lit hospital hallway, the marble under his feet and the harsh neons over his face.
The thing, it happens so fast that he can’t dodge. It then bumps into him fully and he takes a step back with confusion under his brown strands of hair.
He looks up to a taller man, wearing a vest and a coat. The light grey necktie really compliment his eyebags and the tight smile of retail work. He’s on the thick side, sturdy like a tree, or a building by the feel of it. Wilson went to rub his shoulder with a disheartened stare, it really hurt, more than enough not to be funny. And it added insult to injury that the man didn’t seem as hurt or deranged as he’d felt himself.
<< Can I help you? Wilson asks, somewhat confused and recovering from the harsh body slam. He dares to be kind, when in fact he’s nothing but stressed and annoyed at whatever House might be doing. It comes out much dryer than the man deserves, but he settles for lowering the aggressivity down a notch. Afterall, the real problem is meters away and he can’t shout to fix it. No, he’d have to go smarter for it, make them both get to it without confronting him about it. Or else he’d run off, confrontation hadn’t taken them far enough for it to be considered here. He’ll wait, perhaps House will mention it again, he thrives to monologue or prove a point. He’s almost lost himself in thoughts again, that is until the man’s mouth opens.
-Actually maybe, would you know where is the surgery that has been rescheduled? I’m supposed to be there. Lets out the other man, his smile of perfect teeth is not as reassuring as intended.
Wilson sighs, he has no reason to doubt it, not when it’s at House he’s annoyed. Not whoever this is. He shrugs it off and tries to put more light into his own face to match the energy of two strangers in a hall, hoping to be actually helpful to at least one person today.
- You must be the anesthesiologist? Cuddy’s already cleared off most of the staff. She said had someone on call, but they must have left since you haven’t scrubbed in yet. Did you get in with a special clearing? I tought the hospital was about to be on lockdown, it must have closed right behind you. Apparently there’s a dangerous woman looking for a patient. It’s not safe to be alone.
-Yes! Yes. You’ve got me. His smile grows bigger and his shoulders lift higher than his jaw. I just arrived and my device died. I was about to ask a secretary but as you see, most of them are gone. Should we walk to the bay together? I still get lost in this place after all these years. It’s probably safer this way too, right?
-Right.. I will page House, let him know we’re going to scrub in.>> Wilson’s suspicion dies down when he notices the man’s dead pager in his hands. He ends up snorting as this is a a story as old as tales. These things really never fully charge, do they?
With the occasional squeaky wheel, the muffled voices of the man beside him are a farewell long gone from consciousness. There’s this thudding pressure in the back of his head and on his shins. His failed attempt at groaning reach their ears, it doesn’t remotely sound certain, in fact it is of a whimper and a moan. He identifies it as his own and it rings true. He’s definitely not feeling right.
He tries to lift his eyelids, which is a strain that he regrets initiating once he realizes there’s this blinding light blasting deep within his retinas. It stings enough for him to groan again. He flinches under the assault of the light source. Unable to lift his hands to shelter himself from it, he recedes to the darkness of behind his eyelids.They feel much better, less heavy when deeply set on closed.
Dean is not out of the field with this one, he can feel it within his guts and deep down discouraged by the mixed signals he’s getting. It’s going to be a mess to get out of this one, he can feel it deep within, it claws at his stomach as if it’s out in daylight for anyone to see. And worst off, they just might be only human. Which reasonably would sound fine, considering they take down worse on the daily. But then again there goes underestimating the people who actually destroy planet earth in any way possible already. He’d scoff if he could even move an inch without feeling a tight vertigo attack his senses.
He cannot help to pray, for Sam, Cas even. Refusing to accept that this is it. Insteads he waits when the noises around him grow, when he starts to understand the words one by one. He truly finds some security in hearing them, tying them to reality. He’s definitely not back with whatever the thing was. And it’s better that way.
<< Are you not even remotely worried about this? ’’ This high pitched voice sounds oddly stressed, and somehow worried. It’s coming from his right, high, hovering over him and it’s not pleasant to the hear. He’d rather open his eyes than continue listening to it. It’s a woman’s voice, he hopes.
- That’s House we’re talking about, you know better than to wonder at this point. If he wants us to question him, we shouldn’t. And when he doesn’t want us to question him, we really should. Responds a much more casual voice, calmer, somewhat professional.
- Until his body healed his last hijack. His limping’s worse and he’s making rash decisions. He’s being obtuse, forcefully going along things he doesn’t need to. He’s actually trying to make me squirm and I hate it. He didn’t feel like he could tell me the truth. Sure I’m his boss, but I’m actually trying to help him keep his job. Shouldn’t he know that by now?
The woman’s rant quite boring, but Dean doesn’t bother complaining, instead he tries to feel his feet, wiggle his toes. Thing is he doesn’t have them in sight to confirm if it works. They’re numb enough that it’s fifty-fifty chance they’re not moving at all.
- What else is new? He probably tought that you'd be going to indulge again if he didn’t said anything and let you figure it out yourself. And because you feels awful about accusing him of property damage, twice.He’ll be incorrigible. There’s some good in it. By the time you figured it out, we actually got a lead for Jimmy Novak’s ill. House’s currently getting some spinal fluid to confirm necrosis in the cells. And this one signed off his rights the second he got House all over his files. It’s all dangerous, yeah. But it’s legal, and it’s House. You’re actually not in any danger for liability when it comes to the paperwork. He’s doing it by the book, somehow. Lets out the deep man’s voice, perplexed.
- He doesn’t even wanna know what’s wrong with him, that’s exploration surgery, he’s just waiting for a chance to open both of them up. He really can’t deal with not knowing and it must drive him nuts. Or else he would have put it in the file. Foreman, do you really not feel any ounce of worry or suspicion about all this? She asks with such a thick sarcasm that Dean feels the urge to turn his head towards her.
It only goes so forward that he feels the deep of the pillow dig into his cheek.
Great now he’s drooling. Truly fantastic, as if he needed anymore of this vulnerability bullshit.
Will they also put their fingers up his ass whilst he’s at it? His hate for House grows deeper as longs as the wheels roll away. If he ever gets out of this, he doesn’t exactly know what he’ll do, but it’ll be satisfying. Call it revenge, it seems like heaven when this out of body. He hates how he doesn’t know if he can lift his hand to the side of the bed’s bars. His body feels full of sand, each movement makes the grain slow him down, slowly drowning in the mud.
- Actually, I do. But that’s the job, I’m always left wondering if it’s right. If we’re enabling. He’s had his chance to lead us astray. And you know that, what i actually don’t get is why you’re acting so surprised. He’s been your employe for what, years? You know this. I shouldn’t be the one telling you how to deal with House. You’ve got seniority on that.
- That’s not fair. I’m trying to look out for him, make sure he’ll keep doing his job. You’re his team, least I can do is update myself every once in a while. You know that. You better not be hiding anything away from me, Foreman. As much as it would help the hospital greatly, I can’t keep eyes on him at all time. You guys are my subsidiary. Wheter you like it or not, his job trumps having the department taken over. Without House there’s no funds for the diagnostic department. Trailblazing can only go so far without a lead. If we can sell it that it works here, maybe other hospitals will pick up on it and start integrating it in their systems, until then it’s all about the price and the rates of success.
- Fine. There’s a sigh within and it’s layed thick.
I’ve talked with him. He’s..He’s got a lead. But he can’t share it with the class yet. That’s how he always does it. I know that. He’s dying to expose it to us at the worst possible moment. Lets out the one nicknamed Foreman with quite the unsure tone.
- How far are you willing to bet on that lead? She says under a copying sigh.
I can’t stop this one. But I’m going to have to vet whoever got him that far again. It would be easier on you if you spit it out now. She warns back, and this time it sounds more lenient, giving up for the next best thing.
-Actually Wilson is on it, he’s the main surgeon. And House’s conscience, as ever. House just sent us fast because we think it’s progressive. We’ll update you when we got a clear diagnosis. You know how it goes. He shrugs as he talks and it moves his voice backwards. Dean’s attention span is fading. He tries to wiggle his fingers, hinting at punching House if he were to have that occasion. They’ve said he’d be there, so he must gather the strength and sheer will to be. If House’s the one doing this to him, he’d hear plenty about it.
Dean can’t help but wonder how Castiel is okay with any of this. Has he fallen that bad? Did Dean fail him whatsoever by not being there so long? He had never been so sure that his lack of presence made a dent than now. He hopes he isn’t also screwing up Sam by being stuck here. It almost reminded him of his father, of him missing out on the important shit. If his body didn’t already feel terrible, it still would at the tought of it all.
- We shouldn’t stay in the open like this too long. Lockdown’s in motion. Go right to the bay, no stops. I’ll keep an eye on you all. Keep your pager close by. And your phone, I don’t care if you have to put it in a bin of sanitizer, if I have to contact you, you answer. I’m already putting myself on a limb by letting this be whilst this crisis. She lets out with a sharp intone, the breathe of an exhale follows it.
-Thanks. I’ll let House know. Answer the man’s grunt.
- Yeah, you do that. Says the voice as it’s leaving, fading in the hall with a dull echo.>>
Dean’s hearts beats faster as he can feel the warm hands moving something over him now that Foreman’s quiet. Not having control over this all, what a terrifying thought. He really wishes he could be bored on them talking again, at least that was enough to know what’s going on.
Now all there is empty, void. Some strange but familiar sounds here and there, and the deep in-set fear of having screwed up big time.
House’s hands linger’s on Castiel’s waist, pushing off the robe slowly to make way before cleaning the area. His eyes locks on the man’s skin, the surface of it going down to his bare ass. There’s a professionnal after-taste to see it now, even if the curiosity within is satiated.
The moles, the skin’s imperfection, and there they are, the patches. The gauzes are tightly shut against the man’s back. Right when Cameron left them last, where Foreman cut the dead tissues and cleaned the wounds. Exactly where Wilson’s eyes had seen a miracle and a fascination enough to drive them sideways. That exact cosmetic surgery that he’s heard both Wilson and Foreman talk about with such high esteem. He’d find himself tempted to touch them. Even if has no reason to do it now, they’re clean, and he trusts Foreman’s last look at them after the man’s bath. And Cameron’s care before it as well. There was nothing wrong with the man’s back. No foul smell, no problem that was enough to grant opening them to grant access to the curiosity, he found himself disappointedly accepting the unsatisfactory situation.
House’s right hand hovers in the air when he lets go of the robe, it now lays awkwardly bended over the man’s hip. Time seems to last ages as he waits for a reaction, he decides to lay his intentions clear. Maybe that will do.
<< Hold that. I need it cleared off. He says, somewhat coldly, concentrated.
He doesn’t have time to make sure Castiel knows the full procedure, not when whatever he has could get worse and he’s lacking hands to take the layoff. Half the machines he needs to keep track are not run-in. Better hope for the best and actually get him the care he needs. Whatever they need in surgery can be improvised, all hooked up and carefully watched over by a few pairs of intelligent eyes.
After what feels an eternity, an hesitant hand make way to hold the tissue under his fingers, the robe creases under the pressure. The rounded and long fingers holds it carefully.
House let’s himself slowly hover a second longer, waiting for somesort of sign to continue. Despite knowing he’s the active doctor for this, he doesn’t have the luxury of a cute nurse to bring him the tools he needs or someone in his team to collect the data. Instead he’s here with an attractive patient that he has no idea how to feel about. What a scarce but strange feeling to sustain.
He almost regrets not having chaperones. There goes sending your best drivers to sleep when he’s going to need assistance the most. Then again it was no better to keep them away if they’re being so excruciating to each other. House had really no use for them, if all were to work, he’d find them tomorrow with news. Maybe a new case next week. Maybe that Cameron and Chase will fuck it out, like he anticipates them to do. All of this was being sickly optimistic, Wilson would be proud.
If he wasn’t rushing a surgery to dig in the man to temporarily fix symptoms to a iliness that is still pending, that is. Wilson will and probably already frowns deeply at that. There goes the warm sensation in chest leaving from the thought of Wilson’s disappointment.
-Do they hurt? He finds himself asking, under the pretense that he’s still reasonable. He’s his doctor for the moment, it made perfect sense to ask. It will clearly justify why he’s been looking at the wounds for what seems to be too long.
-Do yours? Asks back Castiel as he seems to be looking at the door, his entire body facing the rest of the room. Unavailable and cold, almost numb from the war within himself.
- Touché. He says, before taking a bottle of red liquid. His other gloved hand goes in to spread it. He opens the tip to then lay it over the man’s skin. It’s cold but it’ll warm up quick. I’ll be putting a needle in you soon, might sting like you’ve never felt before. Brace for impact.
-I’m averse to much different situations than these. If this will help, I can do it. Do not coddle me. His voice is low and probably hoping to sound much cleaner than it is.
House’s sanitizing make way of the area, he then proceeds to take the syringe, testing the movement of it, pushing it automatically. Make due of his old training, and ponder about his team’s usual social cues and techniques to ease in their patients. Not that he’d consider doing them, but it keeps him mentally busy and away from the medical mystery in the man’s back.
-Don’t say I didn’t warn you. He softly says as he edges it into the man’s skin. Slowly but surely penetrating the skin by the sharp end. Castiel’s breath hitches and his chest stops moving. There something so deeply intimate to it that House tries to concentrate on the needle instead of the intake of air that could have been heard for another type of activity that he’s definitely not crossing many laws in other countries to think about.
- It is uncomfortable, I understand now your fair warning. He says, his voice tight of hurt, but soft words make ways to him.
- Coddling you would have been numbing you fully, the numbing agent would have deepened your liver’s scarce lack of resources. I had to make do with surface level numbing, usually people don’t get to feel it move inside. You’re lucky like that. His sarcasm might fall out of Castiel’s ears, but it does feel neat to lay it all out.
- It’s terrible. Castiel breathes out with a tight hitch. Do not let it linger longer than it needs to. I cannot hear the radio when it is in. I must hear it. He’s near.
- Dean’s near, and fine. He taken care of. You’ll be back to tuning in to the frequencies. Anything good playing? Dismisses House as he’s looking the vial’s bars to make sure he has the right amount pulled in.
- Dean is not my c-concern. Not this time. His voice hisses out by the end whilst House takes out the liquid, sucking it in. But House doesn’t have time to ponder longer, instead he clears the area and stands up with a racing thoughts.>>
Notes:
I always post very late at night in my timezones, and then reread it as the posted files to catch things I couldn't see in the google doc. Mistakes and typos.
I got caught when some of y'all came in the second the email comes in. It somehow made me smile to realise some of y'all care about it enough to come back by the mere sight of the fic's name on an email. I felt this way for many fics in the past, so if even just one person feel that way? That's kind and special as fuck to me. Heck yeah.I won't lie, the fic wouldn't be the same without some of y'alls words too. <3
Chapter 36: -36-
Summary:
Dean finally gets a chance to make due. Foreman wishes that House doing these shenanigans would surprise him more.
Notes:
Wouldn't be Dean if he didn't also sacrifice like a dork, they're a loop of martyrs, all of them. But heck, we still love them.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dean’s patience was running out and he was itching to start moving and get rid of this endless situation. It truly felt like shit was adding up by the second and it was deeply unsettling to be unable to change it until the right opportunity.
He’d had enough at the first sign that he was once again rough-handled, a hand started to undress him from the bed. He’d managed to grab the wrist of said hand and hang so tight he forgot to breathe. The stranger’s fingers hovered one inch away from his stomach. He really had to fight the drowsy feeling of moving so quick, which took an alluring pose to his face, eyes darted towards the stranger with such intensity, if it shot fire, there would be molten flesh everywhere in the operating room. Then again, that was wishful thinking at it’s best.
With the way he opened his eyes with a grunt of rage, he met a black man’s surprised ones. It was not House, but he didn’t care. He’d make sure House would get his share of the action, that much was for sure. His fists already were starting to feel more alive than most of his body, and that was enough to drive further on his spree. Ants were running under his skin like a flame reacting to widely spread gasoline.
<< Back off. Now. He managed to gather up, his voice hoarse and dry as the lights around him pierced the comfort of his eyes. Leaving him with this intense stabbing pinch in them. He grunted off the words with a utterless abandon, not caring on if he looked any amount of hostile, they’d lost that right when they started to handle him around like a puppet.
- Don’t do anything rash. We’re here to help. The words comes out like a joke to Dean’s ears, as if they could even ring any truth to them after all of this.
The man’s tone is dead serious, it manages to at least make sure he was taken like a menace and not an absolute joke. His skin was warming up to be even found in this position without knowing what got him there. The blush crept through whilst the rage took control of his flushing skin. Making it deep red at the chest and neck, effort showing through the lines and wrinkles of effort in his face.
The man’s eyes darted to the hold on his wrist and Dean lowered his hold, letting him go.
-I disagree. Now, Start talking. I ain’t kidding. Why do I feel like i’ve been drowned in a mudpit. He croaked, fighting off the nausea bubbling up within.
- That’s your body fighting off the alcool and the adrenaline at the same time, it’s like being on withdrawals. You’ll need a few hours to wear off. Thankfully the numbing agent we were about to use doesn’t interact with the alcohol you drank. It’s pretty lucky. The glorified nurse narrates it all with a quiet scoff, almost relieved.
- Pretty lucky my ass. He started to unravel himself from the bed, but his feets feels like they’re melting in the tiles of the floor. Dean looks down to them with wide eyes and confusion darting over his eyebrows, making them dip further down that they’re supposed to.
- I don’t recommend going anywhere under all of thi- Starts off the professional, whom he refuses to listen to.
- I don’t care. I’m leaving, you’re worst than demons I swear. He muttered to himself, trying to make one step forward, but not truly feeling the sole of his foot hit anything hard when encountering the floor.
Visually, it would make sense that his feets are on the floor, but it’s pretty daunting to have no sensation of it happening in real time. It makes him shake, his hands hang onto the bed’s bars with desperation.
- Wait, wait. Don’t do that. You’ll break your-
Dean feels himself dropping to the floor quite rapidly, his hand coordination doesn’t meet the requirement to hold on tight and he falls on the same tiles with a loud thud.
It doesn’t take long before the man tries to lift him up, or at least help him up to use the bed as leverage. Dean lose no time to take the man’s shirt in his fist, and gets real close to his face. Hoping for it to look threatening considering he couldn’t feel most of the muscles in his face. It would do.
- You’re going to tell me what’s going on. And you’re going to stop whatever is making me feel like this, or else the second I get the chance, my next bullet will have your name on it.
- Woah, hey, hey, We’re trying to help the man you were talking with earlier. Castiel right? House says you don’t want to be his boyfriend, but you still care about him right? Dean feels the urge to roll his eyes at the statement, but the mention of Castiel manages to keep him on track. He can feel the edge of his numb ass hit the side of the bed frame. To which he sighs of relief within, he really didn’t wanna rely on a stranger that was working for the person that drugged him last. That would be calling for trouble.
- Talk, now. He barked again, this time looking deep in the man’s brown eyes, hoping to find any empathy to bargain with.
- He needs your liver, well not all of your liver, just enough for us to use the cells to start his own healing. Kickstart the healing process to counter the quick damage he’s had. Did House not tell you? It’s an experimental treatment, it worked in DC it’s-
-No, none of it’s clear. He actually was about to let me leave. But then he drugged me. Give me one good reason to believe you,since you work for the man. That ain’t leaving much to believe. He says, rather bland. Annoyed at himself for even considering it. He looks away to the room, hoping to find anything convincing him of the contrary.
-I-I, Yeah, he’s shady like that. I’ll admit. That sounds like him, but he actually does it to help. He has nothing to gain from making you both die. He really just can't get over the fact you both have weird cases. Wouldn’t you? You stayed in a vegetative state for almost two months. Don’t you wanna know what happened to you? Lets out the man, quite in disbelief, he’s almost believable.
- You said Cas’s liver is nuked. But he hasn’t drunk near enough alcohol or did anything to harm it. The guy’s practically an angel, even if human. Why would that even be? That doesn’t check out. He says, hoping the man gets the hint, and hopefully doesn’t give him more reasons to give in. He genuinely would hate to sit any longer in the bed, being stuck on his back like that was enough to give him nightmares. Losing control of it all, being helpless for anyone to stab, attack or use him. It was too much at once, he was already trying to push it away, to move past it. Distracting himself with Castiel’s info was just much more easier than to focus on the hurt at hand. If he had any chance in it, he’d be long gone away from this, back with his family and not even mentioning half of this to them. Actually, that was the plan, if he were to make it out of this madhouse full of clowns.
-House’s previous theory was that he was raped. But he came back negative for the testing, he’s just is getting worse for a reason we don’t know. House texted me he’s even worse now, something about burning himself out. His liver just, does what would a smoker’s lung doing, but exponentially in the span of hours instead of decades. We’re left at grasping straws, you’re actually our best bet to win some time. For once, Dean can actually believe that, even if it’s crazy to hear. Cas’s hurt doesnt go to a deaf ear, he’d only wished Cas made it sound like that earlier, but then again that was probably asking too much. The man really had no idea how to make sense. And the drugs currently weren’t helping the fog of confusion.
- He’s burning his own liver out? He repeated, somewhat dazed. Getting most of it in one fell swoop.
- Simply put, yeah. That’s why we coordinated you as his donor, you guys match for some reason even if you’re not related and not even the same blood type. You’re as likely as a miracle for him right now, and he’s been obsessed about helping you over him. Trust me, I had to draw blood from you to show him it’s fine. He really doesn’t trust anyone but you. It’s really dumb because now you’re his only donor in the nearest five states, and that’s not even counting the waitlist. The man’s calm voice was back, and it was credible, even if annoyingly accurate.
- Would he actually agree with all of this? He says, somewhat hoping for a specific outcome, despite not wanting to choose any.
- Pardon my french, but Fuck no, he likes you way too much for his own self. He’d literally die before letting you do this for him. He told us as much, plenty of times already. Even if you’d be doing him a favor. The man’s honesty finally rings truth to what Dean feels is right, it’s like his heart finally decided to sink down within. It hurts like a bitch, but it still makes sense now. And it’s clear what needs to be done, all hell broke loose if he didn’t actually chose to do this, Sam’s the thing that makes him doubt. But Sam’s so far away right now that Dean feels himself weaken. If the man’s gone, what he would have wanted was clear. Sam would have wanted Dean to do this first, but Dean couldn’t help but feel betrayal at even the tought of abandoning his brother for a minute longer. It stings within, in a place drugs can’t reach.
He sighs.
- Well too bad, because no one’s going to die. What do you need me to do? And please tell me House ain’t the one opening me up. He says, under his breath, looking back up to the man’s surprised face.
-No, no, he’s a diagnostician, he's able to. But he’s way better at everything else, the man who opens you up is me, and an oncologist for Castiel’s case because it’s as progressive as an aggressive cancerous cell. Between you and me, he’s the best you’ll get in here. He says with a hand on the tag on his chest. Dean looks at it and notices the name.
- Foreman huh? Like George Foreman? 84’ Heavy hitter, good swing. He scoffed to himself, looking down. I hate to say this, but you better drug me again before I change my mind.
- Ah..Yeah. Big George’s great. But I can’t drug you yet, we need the anesthesiologist for that, but they’re coming. But if you need something to calm down, that I can do. He says, one hand on his shoulder, helping him up the bed more comfortably.
- Whatever, just..Will I be able to discharge after? You know, to-
- Yeah, even if we’d advise not to, you technically could. House would also be fine making those papers if you knew what you were walking into. Just don’t ask them out of the oncologist and you’ll be fine. Foreman says, and he starts moving around the bed to get something out of a tiny glass canister.
- Since we’re going to be here for some time. Walk me back to everything you know, since the beginning. I got some catching up to do . >> Let out Dean, feeling his inside liquify at the idea of doing this. As the second grew, he was setting his mind straight, but his body had no other desire than to dart away and not look back, in the neverending quest to get a hold of his brother and keep him on the right path.
Notes:
Trying to make things move a bit faster, bc I am excited about plot points in the future that I'm aiming at, but also because it feels like a few of these chapters have been building up to an event now and it needs to deliver, presto. XD Anyway, thank you for reading! <3
Chapter 37: -37-
Summary:
Castiel and House get some fun (debatable) as they humor each other toward the finish line.
Notes:
I enjoy the fact I've been able to post more. Heck yeah!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
<< I’ve begun to seriously question your methods. My pain isn’t fading.’ ’ Retorts Castiel’s voice, it lingers in with a thick annoyance and everlasting sass. The microphone’s retelling of it wasn’t true to tone. House could tell it was much more frustrating if he’d been by the MRI scan.
-Don’t move and tell me about it. He says through the intercom, looking back to the computer to verify the man’s results coming in, pixel by the minute. His voice seems far and concentrated, pen near the entrance of his own mouth idly.
- It requires me to move, to tell you about it. Are you setting me up for failure purposefully? Croaks the man from the tight and cavernous hole of the machine.
House thanked the gods the other members of his team had introduced Castiel to the MRI before because he’d have lost a considerable amount of time pushing him into it and strapping him down.
- You’re right. Let’s play a game, the first one to talk next is a loser. >> He says with a snort, he closes the intercom whilst looking for his phone in his pocket still. He really wishes he’d kept Foreman’s because he was low, something about recording the two lovebirds for over twenty minutes ought to do it.
He started it, listening to the two men actively for clues. Something about it was oddly amusing and frustrating at the same time, like a soap opera for queers. They really should get on that.
By the time the results started to show vaguely, House palmed the syringe of fluid on the desk. It’s not like putting it to the test overnight would change anything, it was more of a keepsake, a yellow-tinted trinket.
It was actually proof if House truly wanted to believe it. Proof of the man’s humanity, would come back clear, showing that all of this is one elaborate scheme. He’d clear it off himself, in the comfort of a cold lab, hoping to see nothing else than elevated CSF proteins for the better lack of his current state of health. Jaundice getting back on track much further than he’d expected.
Listening to this audio was getting him nowhere, he needed something to bounce out of. He stopped it abruptly when Castiel last mentioned suffering in silence, both literally and emotionally. House had enough, instead, he rung up a familiar number.
<< House? I thought you wanted to run this one lone wolf. House can hear a groan in the background and some quick shuffling. He smirks as he looks back at Castiel’s blank stare at the roof through the one-sided mirror.
- Figured I’d ask the last person who ran scans on him. How acute were his results on the angiogram? I’m running a basic scan and he’s full-on reaching atresia. His albumin’s a blank shooter and he’s progressively complaining about abdominal pains. His jaundice is showing up in new areas and nothing was hinting for it to get worse. It’s been a few hours at last. He enumerated somewhat annoyed, he started sketching on the side of the paper spastically with a pen. Soon I’ll have to put him in diapers.
- Has he complained of any symptoms whilst I was gone? I wouldn’t have bathed him if he was that low, how did it progress? Did it reach the central area of is it still creeping up the lower left side? She asked, worry dripping like honey out of a soft voice, which seem somewhat hoarser than usual.
- It reached half the ballpark. Soon we won’t be able to do shit for the transfer. The patient didn’t sign for a full liver transplant, I’ll be back to base one and one client less. Dangerously close to overgrown Cirrhosis and likely to pop like a piñata. He said as he smacked his lips together to mimic the impact.
- You sure I can’t come back? Cuddy sent a message to stay off..We could deal with the backlash later. She proposed with eagerness, and perhaps a hint of guilt. Enough to confirm she was indeed having a good time before he’d called her. The guilt of the survivor in the most trivial sense.
-If any of you is sober enough for a breathalyzer by midnight I'd consider having you in the observatory. May the odds be in your favor. All doors in and out are locked. Good luck! >> He said as he hung up.
He could hear the beginning of a sentence break off by the time his phone’s screen went black again.
He had the current scan printed, but by then Castiel’s patience was running out by the amount of blurry lines on the monitor. Thankfully he’d already taken the pictures whilst talking to Cameron.
<< Fine, I lose. I’m coming. He closed the program of the machine and started to open the door to the test room, Castiel’s eyes darted down and he hunched his neck to meet his eyeline.
-I did not enjoy the game. He painfully assessed whilst the machine brought him back slowly out of the silo.
- You’re right, It’s boring. Keep me entertained then, tell me what you were scared about earlier. He said as he brought the man’s IV closer to ease up the transfer to the chair.
-I am preparing for the inevitable visit of my brother, I can feel him within this county. Castiel’s ominous voice said when House watched him sit in the chair by himself.
-That’s still a few hours away, enough for it all to go according to plan. What got your panties twisted about him? He said, humoring the man’s speech.
-I’m not sure. Maybe he is here to finish what the fall didn’t. To grant me a meaningful end. I do not look forward to meeting him to find out. Since I am bare under this robe, nor did I ever own woman underwear to wear backwards. I would imagine he is not visiting me to twist them in any meaningful ways.
House looked back up at Castiel as he was bending over to reach the locks on the wheelchair. His stare was somewhat lost in the man’s words, yet simply amused at how literal even when in pain the man seemed to be. He decides to humor him, and yet grant him innocence by continuing to talk as he looked back to the locks.
- Two people at large, you’re a wanted man. What do you grant it all back to? Your Colgate smile or your charming personality? He bit back as he unlocked the chair’s wheels one by one. He thenstarted to open the door for Castiel to slide in.
-I was granted passage on earth to do what I did best, and they proceeded into blaming me for my mission. My personality had nothing to do with it. Perhaps it was of my heart, my compassion for human existence has doomed me to care. Look where it has gotten me, I would fail to be proud if I were to meet him anywhere close to now. He would feel glee at the idea of me defenseless and needing uttermost help. He is one of few who did not get to fall, Metatron’s finest. Castiel said as he manhandled the wheels towards the way forward.
- You blabber more now than you used to. Scared of death or did Dean give you permission? He snarked as they passed over a few rooms. Thankfully Castiel’s strength on the wheels was low enough that House hadn’t needed to change his pace.
-Neither, I’ve found your efforts to be benevolent to my cause. He hasn’t. But I’ve trusted many who betrayed me, I do not have the luxury to experience it once again. He warned off, but somewhat still open to talk about it some more.
House looked back to the empty all, an idea struck out of boredom. If all everything was well, his makeshift team was already prepping, if not already ready to start downstairs.
There would be very little staff in this area, considering most test rooms are closed by precaution. Would be way easy to just throw metal in a MRI and blow up the bay. Thankfully, he’d only thrown a homeless man with a lack of sarcasm, deeply concerning, yet it was far less destructive.
When he stopped, Castiel found himself doing the same. Like a sweet little lap dog, House profited from the confusion to push on his good leg, grab the handles behind the man’s back and then release them forward. Putting his own feet on the metal rod under the man’s chair.
Castiel acted quickly with his IV, which rolled by idly under the man’s tight palm.
House cackled as the man’s tight gasp carried over the empty hallway.
House felt it slow down as their weights started to register into the curve. It was enough to feel the wind in their faces, yet not enough to lose control of the direction. It was much easier to reach the elevator’s presence.
- That is exponentially more fun, right? He said as they arrived, pressing the right buttons to open up the elevator.
-This is a not practical mode of transport. Perhaps I would have enjoyed it much more if I did not feel the need to vomit again. The smaller man confessed.
-Lame. He snorted. There’s a bag on the side for it. Here. He took it out of the leather pouch on the chair’s back. He brought it up for Castiel to reach as they lowered stages in the hospital by the second.
- Your familiarity with all of these procedures is intimate. Castiel pondered out loud whilst his hand grabbed the bag that was pinned against his chest. House let go and started to push the button to close the doors behind them once they were in the clear.
- Yep, you got me all figured out. Spent too long for comfort in one of my own . He said with a careless sigh. Filled a quota of those with whatever I had in my intestinal tracks. They make the perfect prank gifts in a bag. >>
Notes:
This is a short one, but hey, I like it.
Chapter 38: -38-
Notes:
Rock bottom is at an all-time low. Castiel is about to reach it in order to go back up.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Castiel’s eyes looked at the snow, the way seeing the edge of light fade, it makes snowflakes disappear once they are back in the shade. The window was cold to the touch, he knew right away when his breath would fog. It looks just as cold as his naked feet on the tiled floors. He nonetheless left his palm against the condensed glass.
The older man had been gone through one door, saying he would come back from another one. And Castiel had found himself wandering through the hall, soggy eyelids, tight hamstrings as he walked through the pain he was experiencing for the first time.
The prospect of being left alone like this was strange, even if he was too dull inside to investigate. Instead, he watched the phenomenon of nature make its way to the earth’s core. It was peaceful, as he felt himself wither away from within.
Castiel let his eyes dart over the tube over his hand, the one he was deeply uncomfortable with seeing go through his skin. He felt like it was so silent, nonexistent, yet there it was following him for the road. Taking care of him, in ways he didn’t even know how to explain himself. Once upon a time, he’d observe it on a molecular level, he’d get to know the forces of gravity pulling forward and backward at the same time to help keep him alive. Now? He was damned to observe it with the limiting tools that were his eyes, touch it with his hands, it wasn’t enough.
The more he was seeing the empty snowfall, the more he felt the urge to let go. To fly away from such experiences, disconnect. Teleport away to the new bunker. The Winchester’s home, and alas, his by interim. Had he really belonged anywhere other than a battlefield?
How futile it was, that his life was in someone else’s hand to no stranger danger than such an innocent hue of yellow in the white of his eyes. Those same eyes he’d seen a glimpse of in the window’s reflection, casting in the shadows the hint of his forehead and brows.
How much he would give to be as useful as this tube, genuinely aching to be useful. Had he been made to be used, bent, crooked in the name of something bigger than himself? Couldn’t he make way through all of it and shine his own path? Any of the others had shamed Lucifer, for those same sins Castiel was tempted to taste. Lucifer’s path wasn’t his own, his violence had been meaningless, and if one last thing Castiel would be sure about, it was that he killed out of necessity, out of protection. It was never his choice to play in the scheme of others, he had fallen into them with the uttermost surprise. Before it was too late, he’d wished, dared to hope for a better outcome. Lucifer had given up, and got used to his slurs, and the way others have treated him for so long. Castiel was only beginning to see what he meant.
How to tell what was right anymore? Dean had said that what made them different, was that they cared, that they were willing to sacrifice for the better of the world, it made them the good guys. He wasn’t exactly sure how to believe in anything else, perhaps that is what makes the difference, not wanting to skirt the lines of such important things. With his need for order and benevolent aid, he sought to be in the middle of a fight if it was in order to save others, he had the ability to do so accordingly, but what is he without?
One careless mistake and he’d end up hurting Dean with his regrets, with his own life.
Was he making another mistake?
Hardened fingers went to his throat, he saw them in the reflection of the window. They were born out of the unseen shadows. Appearing in a heartbeat.
No soul near to save him in this empty hallway. His stare darted towards the face, the lips whispering into the shell of his ears.
<<She told me you’d be here. Defenseless. The man’s face was empty, it struck nothing but void. He was not recognizable apart from the blue clothing he was wearing. The same one he’d last seen House wear before leaving him.
-What do you want. He said, feeling the last of his adrenaline giving in. If this was his fate, away from hope, alone. His mind urged to fight, but his body was tired, unable to cooperate. Instead, he tightened his gaze towards the man, catching his dark eyes in the fogged glass. He wasn’t able to make out any details, none other than seeing they were uncharacteristically black, empty.
He’d once wondered if they were trying to assert dominance by baring their eyes like this. Letting the world know how desperate these children of god had fallen away from the way forward. How much pain had they endured to become tormented souls? How much of it had been justified to make a deal with the darker outcomes?
-Nothing. I’m here to stall them. Aren’t you going to run? You’ve given up so easily. He whispered, his tongue splitting open to lick his cheek. Provoking him in the way it knew how.
Castiel found himself saddened, the anger was slowly drowned under the sorrow. Enough for a flame to go out, and his body to stay both incredibly tight of pain that wasn’t administrated to him on purpose. And lax from the disconnecting feeling he’d been fighting ever since entering this building.
-There is nothing, nothing you can do, that hasn’t been taken away already. It has dawned on me, that one day I’m going to die. I am just delaying the inevitable. He said softly, his voice away from his body. His tone was delivering those lines with uttermost calm. Perhaps there was peace in saying it to someone, even if they didn’t care. What would a demon want to do with any of this? All he knew, is if this demon was here, it was one less for the Winchesters to kill.
-Oh great, you’re depressed. Well gee, let me take care of that for good then. >> The man’s harsh hand gripped Castiel’s shoulder.
But before he could ignore his instincts, one last fight seemed to fuel his body. Fear finally catches up to the painful dread in his veins.
He can’t win, not like this. Not against one of them. No angel blade, no hunting knife. All but him. But his human body tries, and he goes to undo the incredibly strong hand on his shoulder. It feels in vain, but he cannot give up, not when the fear of death seems to set his spirits in panic and fire. His fingers hurt under all the pressure he’s gathering to break the hold. It isn’t enough, he can feel it, he can see it. The stick medically keeping him alive falls to the floor when the demon goes to his side. The plastic bag on it bursts in thick sprays of liquid on the tiles and walls.
The demon isn’t amused at all this time, it takes the scruff of his robe and pushes him against the glass. Tension hits an all-time high when he realizes the weight of the other man’s power, words, and intents.
There is no way out of this, but one. And he’s deeply terrified of it, of experiencing it alone. To be forgotten, he can feel himself praying for a miracle. Even if he knows no one will listen, only he had been flawed to care.
A few things seem to be happening all at once as he found himself understanding the depth of the situation, something in his body cracks, splits apart, and zaps pain in his back. The sound of breaking glass marries one of his broken ribs. Ice-cold air gathers in, but by the time he blinks, he’s not in the hallway anymore.
He can feel the ghostly wind against his whole body. Time seems to slow down as he realizes he’s one second away from being expelled from the building.
It feels like flying, for a few seconds, until gravity kicks in. It is so peaceful to see the dark sky, to be witnessing the hundreds of snowflakes shining in the sky with the stars.
He closes his eyes. He hasn’t had the chance to think before the impact of his body hits the snow. The loud thud is enough to rush blood to his ears, his breath has been cut off by the abuse.
Something warm and thick radiates under his head, on his head, under his back. All he finds himself able to do is to look towards the side.
His head follows the screech of a woman, and the view of it all blurs, enough that Castiel can’t see her when she runs toward him. Some other shadow behind her follows tightly, the man’s voice is so far. Castiel’s pupils go up as he faints, the void of the sky swallows him whole.
Cameron reaches the man with endless worry, she cannot look away from the patient. Assessing his level of injury. Chase sobers up rather quickly when he sees the man by the window disappear away.
Seconds grow into a minute, and Cameron starts administrating help, Chase runs away to search for help and a cart to get Castiel into.
House comes back to the hall, and the first thing he notices is the dampened air, it's thick and wet. Just like the broken down IV on the floor, blasted open and half emptied on any surface near.
He looks to the left, the broken glass and shards meeting the fluid. To then see the window hole, it is only when he unfocuses his vision that he sees Castiel’s limp body, Cameron’s panicked voice talking to him even unconscious.
House feels his stomach seize him up when he realizes he might have lost more than he’d anticipated. He couldn’t deny that one, not anymore. His stare is endlessly stuck on the man’s soft features, open arms in the snow. Legs appart and his robe tainted by blood.
The sight alone was enough to imprint into his mind, grasp at everything he had been thinking before.
It had taken for his medicine Ph.D. to kick in, for him to remind himself he’s, in fact, a doctor, and their boss. It took him too damn long to kick back into himself after the sight. He was already realizing how much time he’d lost to shock.
On each stair he’d walked down, he felt the ghostly memory of Sam Winchester’s arm around him. And pairing it was Cameron’s words, empty words, hollowed-out pained promises. The one she was still making as he was walking towards them under the winter night. The lamppost makes an awful light of the grim scene.
Chase’s cart was coming along, he could hear its wheels on the broken-down asphalt. They’d put a chair to keep the locked door open.
House’s voice was hoarse, dry, and tight, all at once when he’d finally said anything. He was stuck watching her doing the procedural for an attempt of suicide. Yet he was speechless for most of it.
<<Let’s get him to the OR. No one is dying tonight.>> He promised, his voice sounding so hollow in the cold winter wind.
Notes:
All I can say to this one is, Castiel has said in Canon, that he had lost everything when he became human. He told so very boldly to Dean when the man was back to change his life all over again. And he once said that he'd had to ponder about his own mortality. He had to pick himself back up without any of the Winchesters, I'm using this here, to portray it, when Dean's not too far gone yet to do something about it. Because I'd love to see what it would have been if Dean actually had been here for him somewhat during those times. Without compromising either of their values, but instead building onto them to make something real together. And I can't wait to explore more, thank you for allowing me the pleasure to do it.
Chapter 39: -39-
Summary:
Tensions build up like a violin, strings break like a cello's, and Dean's voice is too raw to continue screaming Cas's name. House catches in where Dean fails. Hadn't it been enough already? Please let them hope, they need it.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They came in blasting the doors open, his vision blurred and was hardly keeping up with the words and actions right away. There was a quiet delay until the truth set in.
It was too quick, to see Castiel’s dark raven hair roll in.
Dean felt whiplash from the sound of the doors hitting the wall. What he identified as a rolling bed, with a woman sitting on Castiel’s thighs to administer some chest compressions. They’re so loud, he can hear them thud, and feel them like waves. It’s overwhelming because if he’s actually human like they’ve said, she’s probably past breaking his ribs to keep him alive. His heart seems to hold this sting, thus a dull ache that cannot be soothed by breathing heavily.
Dean felt the urge to lift himself up on his elbows and hands. But Foreman’s hands held his shoulder down. It’s enough for his body to give in, too weak to gather up. He groans deeply, annoyed at his predicament. He can’t let go, Cas needs him, right there. He needs to get up, he needs to fix this. He feels it scream inside his sternum, the exhausting pressure giving him the most ricochet of a migraine. His mind cannot look away from the disaster in the making. He’s watching his best friend die, he can feel it, in his bones, its cold and empty.
He’s not ready to let go, not now, not ever.
All of them look so alarmed that even though he was on relaxants he could feel his heart jump up in anxiety. Sweat pooled on his back and hands. He cannot bring himself to look away from them approaching in the bed on the right of his. Not when half of his life lays there so still other than the vibrations of the compressions.
The chivalrous woman on him is truly the heart of the moment. He doesn’t believe in much bigger than himself, but she’s doing everything he wishes he could do for him.
She’s handling herself as the black man started to tie tubes and technology on Castiel. Dean blinked slowly, fighting his own body to stay laser-focused on Cas. He could feel himself getting terrified for his conversation with Cas to be the last one. He can feel his body fighting to be awake, to stay. He doesn’t want to leave Castiel alone in here, with people they barely know. He wants to be there if he wakes up.
<< What happened? Foreman said to the group coming in. I thought you were drunk with-
-I sobered up. She said, her voice strangled into her own throat. Serious as ever but her eyes were big and wide-eyed. He can’t tell who is the most shocked, just that they’re all fucking on edge, its in the air, its like electricity.
I won’t be doing any surgery. Just hook him up and we’ll need to intubate him quickly. His heart is so slow he stopped breathing on his own. He has multiple fractures and lacerations. His liver probably got internal bleeding and we’re going to need to fix this and stabilize him before anything else.
- Cas.. you look like shit. Almost whispered out Dean as he finally got to see the man’s face. The blood on his lips and the darker strands of hair behind his head. The creepiest was that his eyes weren’t fully closed, they were watching off-set the void. His pupils are darkened and dilated, he looks the way they did when they almost kissed last. And the hunter’s heart sinks into the deep of the ground, too low to be able to swallow the fear and terror in his body.
It froze all blood within Dean’s body. His stomach churned at the sight of him like this, unable to help. Even if he could move accordingly, there was nothing he could do best than actual doctors. So he found himself to be praying, to Cas, to Him, to anyone listening. To anyone willing to be taking his soul, anything to give in order to keep Cas, just a little longer. Human or not.
So that he can do as he pleases, can live on, even if that means giving him his own life, anything for the one who keeps getting dragged in their bullshit. The guilt slashed his Achille’s heel quite deep, his lung expanded when he remembered how to breathe, ready to vomit.
He hoped and desperately hung unto the idea of a fix. He needed one, he couldn’t see a world where both his brother and Cas are gone, not now. Not ever. If anyone was to leave, he’d rather be the one to go. But he knows the cards are laid now, and he’s short on anything to pull to help in. He turns his head so fast towards House with a growl for a voice. Can you fix this bullshit? He says and his voice is utterly broken and hoarse. He’s not even sure he said it right, he can’t hear himself under the thoughts swaying in his mind like a tornado.
House looks back to Dean with utter annoyance. House’s face is serious and tight, it makes him look much older by the grey in his hair and beard.
They cross eyes and he can’t help but project all of this mess onto the older man in only one deadly eye-fight. And for barely half a second, Dean can see the worry in the man’s wrinkles, the tight neutral deadpan expression on his face. And yet his eyes seem to be thinking so loud that Dean can see the gears running in his endless stare. That’s unfair. Cas hasn't done anything to deserve any of this. Human Cas even less, he’s frequently kind, never cruel. He always has been here, and Dean is afraid of going back to a world where he isn't there anymore. How cruel it is to realize that he needs him the most, now that everything is going to hell? If he could promise to do better, if that could fix it, he would. It would be in a heartbeat, anything.
The older man grunts off and throws his hand to the side.
- Wasn’t there supposed to be an anesthesiologist? He should be out by now. He lets out rather coldly, annoyed back at him. Someone bring me Wilson, I don’t give a damn if he’s not fully scrubbed in.
- Chase’s scrubbing in, he passed the test. He’s clean. Foreman, get Castiel some noradrenaline. He’ll crash soon- Starts the woman before being cut by Dean’s desperation.
- Cas! I’m going to get you out! You hear me you dick? You better not die, I just got here. Starts grunting the Winchester as he’s trying to reach a hand to find Castiel’s. He says it so loud it makes his throat vibrate. I just got here. I’m here. Don’t go. The words come out so low, in a rumble, the shame is there but it’s not as loud as the desperate feeling of losing grip.
But by the time Foreman interrupts him, House gasps at the sight of people coming in from another door on the left.
- Gee. Finally some service in here. Wilson, heel, there’s been some developments. He says as if it’s all a game, even if his jaw is tighter than a bow.
Dean barely missed the faces of both men, the first one with brown hair and hazel eyes, long slim nose under the face mask. He holds his gloved hands in the air not to dirty them with a startled look on his face at the mess he’s fully witnessing.
- You call those developments? I call that a disaster! Get me in there, before we lose him. The one called Wilson, that foreman had warned him about, shuffles around his bed to get to Castiel who is now hooked to multiple machines, his empty stare looking off-set of Dean, a few strands of hair slowly going down under the gravity.
The second one seems to lock eyes on Dean directly, he can feel it on his skin, he looks long enough that there’s this weird familiar feeling to him. He’s way taller than the surgeon, who’s now hiding Castiel’s face from Dean. He gets that it’s to help, but it crushes his spirit and makes him even more anxious not to see him. Like he’ll forget about him if he goes away.
Wilson is briefed on what seems to be the symptoms and Dean’s heart sinks to hear them once again with much more details. How much had he screwed this up? He must have if things had gotten this far. He’d hadnt been tasked to take care of Castiel as he had been with Sam, but the man had slowly become enough, and became extended family. How did he let go of his family that easily? It’s easier to seek blame, as he’s trying to cope with the fear, the existential dread of a world without both of his closest family members.
Dean’s about to look back to them, but the second man’s hand on his shoulder traces down the IV on his hand. It shakes it enough to create discomfort and Dean wished he’d noticed actually how off that was.
Everyone is on Castiel’s inner circle, either making moves on him to help him come back, or talking about a game plan. He’s happy that Castiel has a chance, with them here. If there’d been a hunt, a dirty alley, who’s to know if he had any chance then? What had gotten to Castiel that bad? Was it Ruby? She didn’t care about those politics, why would she bother with Castiel?
Foreman breaks from the group and comes back to him to help him lie down.
- You better not kill him. Or I’ll kill any of you. He says, drowsy, but foreman’s face is saddened. He barely can get the words out without his eyes becoming blurry and wet.
- We are trained for this, we will take care of him. And you. Now we’re going to bring you under because we need you available if Castiel stabilizes enough for the procedure. He says softly, a hand on his bicep. That’s what you need to do if you want to help him.
The other masked man manages to bring a corded mask around his head, and that's where Dean takes a gander at him again. The grey hairs are almost white, and the wrinkles of his eyes when he smiles at him is disorienting. He cannot place where he’s seen those eyes before, but he’s somehow certain he’s seen this man before. As he’s breathing in, he feels floozy. But he tries to remain concentrated on finding out who this man is. After everything went in and out of his brain, the heavy wind of thoughts swooped any sense away from him. He can feel so far yet so close to the answer.
- Count to ten, Dean. It’ll be over soon. The man says, and that’s it. He knows that voice, he’s met it only a handful of times. If one were to ask, it was terrible encounters, what was he, out of everyone, why here? Had he done this? No, no he was with the other surgeon. But why pretend to be part of the professional? Was he here to confirm Castiel’s death? Was he about to sabotage him? He felt himself panic at the idea. He brought his hand up to take the mask away from his face, fighting hard as he could. But he already had breathed in a lot of it, enough to feel slow and impotent.
- That’s..That’s- Fuck, he’ll black out before he can’t get it out, he can feel it gnawing at him.
Son of a bitch, let me g.. He starts to find himself fading into a familiar void within. Castiel’s heart rate beeped back in right as he felt unable to realize it was the last thing he’s heard.>>
House’s eyes dart toward Dean’s lifeless body as the mask is taken off. There is something odd about the way Dean’s still grasping at the man’s arm when he’s fainting. Mask away, he looks terrified, until the wrinkles of discomfort slowly give in and is free of strain.
House frowns, somewhat wishing he was back there. There was nothing like that gas, it knocks them out cold. There he would be heavily sedated, away from feeling these..compromising feelings towards a man he’d only seen as less than. Perhaps he shouldn’t have spent so long with him, now he’s a mess. Now he’s compromised enough that he can’t trust his own decisions. He can’t dwell on the last mistake of leaving Castiel alone to go change and scrub in the hospital gear.
He looks up to the anesthesiologist who seems irritated, there’s that vein on his face like he doesn’t want to be there either. But it seems far more personal than this. He has to investigate, now that they have a secure beat for his heart, they’ll start backing up and doing the procedure to keep him stabilized. Get him some stabilizing agents. He knows to trust Wilson and Foreman for it, Cameron as well, if she didn’t look so hammered. Her eye bags and her loose hair getting in the way of things. She’d gotten off the man by the time he looked back to them.
They’ve got him, and he has no legal agency over the whole thing. But he knows it won’t stop him when that time comes, he feels it so deeply it disturbs him. Why would he lose his job over Castiel? He’d do it in a heartbeat for a patient, but he would never admit it to himself before doing it. It would be this spur of action, but he finds himself yearning to be needed. Yearning to be the fix to this strange case, a puzzle that would not even graze the surface.
He looks back to Dean who’s out cold, the care he’d shown was enough to tell he loved the man. Whatever that may mean for them. He knew Castiel would be satisfied to see it, deep down, even if he’d hate to see the man he loves in pain. What a strange concept, his benevolent ways really dig deeper than House was willing to admit. He was now biased if he wasn’t already before today. He looks back to the vitals on Dean’s screens. It’s stable and calm, the man’s clearly doing something right with foreman in the back.
Or at least, that's what he thought, until he saw the reversed gloves on the anesthesiologist’s hands. The way his wrist’s sleeves aren't tucked in the gloves. He quickly tied off the hat and hair catcher.
That’s not a professional, that’s not right.
<< What did you say was your name again? I asked for Mochi. You’re clearly not. He deadpans, taking a step in closer to the man who’s clearly not where he belongs. He’s close to Dean’s torso by the bed, instead of behind his head, staying there awaiting orders like a dog. House feels himself tighten, he can’t really bring a cane in the tight spaces but he’s trying. He shuffles in, he hopes it looks more intimidating than the limp currently is.
-I didn’t say. The man’s voice is old, high, and self-assured. Entitled and proud, something about it doesn’t scream grunt, minion for someone else. Is he here on his own agency?
- House, leave him alone, we have our hands full here. Go sanitize yourself and come back, I’ll need you. Wilson peeps out by lifting his head away from Castiel’s bed. Cameron looks back to him too, she’s gnawing at her sleeves. That’s when he notices the drawn-in whiskers on her face, drawn with a pen. She’s standing there, awaiting orders, eyes watching every action done to Castiel like a hawk. It’s almost endearing even if she’s breaking the law by being here.
House finds himself flinching softly. Awfully still, deep in thought, he looks back forward him. Deeply watching the anesthesiologist with curiosity. Hoping for something to prove him wrong, that this is a fluke, and that he can concentrate on Castiel as well. That he can let go of the responsibilities for half a second and feel the waves of grief attacking his senses. But instead the dull roar of instincts, of wrongness claws in. Something isn’t right and he has to find what.
- What’s his name then. Just answer that and I’ll leave it alone. He says as he shrugs towards Dean, occupying the space on the other side of his bed.
- And why would I do such a thing? Why don’t you listen to your friend? That voice is so easily swayed between casual and threatening, it wavers, but House can see his eyes, the grey of it like steel. It’s unbudging, raw, and angry.
-I just told you. You’re not a bright one, aren’t you? He says, slow and serious. Deadly set on keeping eyes on him at all times. He doesn’t have to let go, not yet. He’s needed here, presto.
- House ! Screams Wilson with both hands holding Castiel’s side over, to assess the damage made under him visually. He says the word with utterless abandon, hoping to make him let go, to make him go back to what's more important to them. But there’s more to it, he can tell. He may have won over Wilson, but he always wanted to see the best in people. It was too damn easy to fool the man.
- Cameron, is he stable? House asks her, without moving an inch. Not giving Wilson an ounce of his attention, in the fears that the man will use it to strike. He’s clearly in the right room to be armed with sharp blades easily.
- Yes, but I don’t know if that will be enough. She huffs, bringing a sleeved fist on her own lips, worrying like ever, he can hear it in her voice.
-I need you to go to the lab, go analyze this. He says taking the vial out of his pocket, lifting his palm up for her to come to grab it. He holds still, hoping she gets the hint that something is wrong.
- No, I can’t leave, I- S he starts, self-righteous but also as affected as he is, if not more. She clearly spent more time with the man and was softer than any of them, she had fallen deep too, hadn’t she? Castiel had no idea how easy it was, did he? Christ.
- You’re still drunk enough to lose your license, nobody will ask if you have to review your own work at the labs twice. Go. I’ll update you any chance we get. He says, somewhat humiliating her in front of the others, but it had to do. She had to understand why he was an ass, she knew him. She had to know.
- House, please let me stay. He needs all of us. I need to be here. She pleads as she walks in between the two beds to get to him.
House gets slowly close to her, mouth to her ear. Watching carefully over the shape of the other man as he whispers.
- I’m almost certain he just used Dorothy’s real name. Go find out who he is. Bring Cuddy if you have to. Castiel isn’t safe if you stay. He says, his voice is dry and low.
She looks at him for a few seconds trying to figure him out. Her face is slanted, tears drying off on the whiskers.
- Chase will come in soon. Please don’t do anything rash. >> She says, her soft voice is afraid, he can tell by the way it takes her longer than usual to walk away. She even starts backward before turning.
House feels time running out as he slides his hands near Dean's surgery plate. The scalpel slides in under his fingers ever-so-carefully.
Notes:
At first, I was telling myself when posting the chapter before this one. They'd be right if they told me, ''Again? Do you enjoy breaking them apart or hurting them for plot devices?''
I would have answered. Yes and no, I didn't plan for it to happen so often, but thankfully this one was for a deeper reason than just plot convenience. I needed them to notice what it meant for him to be gone. For things to kickstart back up when he'll be back, in whatever shape there is.
But instead, I got two lovely comments that made me smile and my heart swell. Thank you to you both, it helped me be more confident with my choice and as I wrote the last touch in this chapter today, I really couldn't wait longer to post because of that god-awful cliffhanger. XD
Even I who writes it, needed to know what happens next, but I needed to write it to know. So here it is. It's coming in. And I'm so happy I've been keeping up with updates lately. Have a nice time wherever you are. I'm really grateful you're reading this. And as a fan myself of what i'm writing, I can't wait for the kisses, for the silent sighs, and the unsaid things i'll get to gash at in the POVs. Trust me, I am eager as well. Why Is House MD so goddamn dramatic and bold with the scenes huh? xD Cheers y'all.
Chapter 40: -40-
Summary:
A confusing mess ensues. Everyone bites the dust.
Notes:
If you see some typos, I’ll fix em soon. I just had 8k of words and even rereading can only do so much. I was just too excited to share this chunky chapter with y’all! See you at the end of it!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Eventually, Chase had been as understanding as Cameron.
All it took was for him to feel the sharp and cold blade slide into his palm as they crossed paths in the ER. Unsurprisingly aching to do something for a change, the blonde had simply matched his serious stare and unbudging pupils. It had to be enough. A few words were exchanged about the man who wasn’t supposed to be here, who seemed two seconds away from spawning a bomb right out of his ass.
He now had multiple pawns, following the steps of a plan that was still in the making.
He’d had put the weapon in his surgeon’s palm with the hope he’d understand what he was tasked to do. It was a lot, to be willing to sacrifice for a case that wasn’t even theirs. He wasn’t even sure they knew they were doing it in this place and time. It wasn’t fair, but it had to do.
There was this granular feeling that Castiel’s warnings weren’t empty and that man could be dangerous. Maybe Ruby, the one on the loose, the one the lockdown was in for, was only a grunt.
House was suffocating under the sound of his spirits depleting, it’s as if someone left a boiling teapot right behind the nape of his neck. As the stress gathered in, and the worries seeped through the immovable facade he was holding during his appearance in the surgery room.
He could feel it in the dead-end of his periphery, not even bothering to try and hush it away. He had the fire under his ass to overperform without being actually part of the encounter, and the heat was starting to burn the wax off his cheeks. There was nothing pleasant about it, despite feeling more alive than he had been in weeks.
When they’d crossed paths, Robert and him, he’d noticed how Chase’s dirty blonde hair strands smelled like bad hairspray and the uncharacteristic weak tint of green on his forehead. It hadn’t washed off no matter how hard he tried to rub it off during his changing. That shit was rubbish, and it made House snort. It showed by how raw the skin was around it, the redness was almost in theme. There was an irony for it all to be on Halloween. If he could even bother to think about this right now.
House couldn’t help feeling hyper-aware of everything, hence noticing the man had used cheap Halloween stocks to dye his hair. The adrenaline was quicking in so hard it made his leg ache so badly his cane felt like a hindrance. If Chase noticed, he didn’t peep a word of it. He could probably run once nto save his own life, and that’s it. Not that it wouldn’t hurt like a bitch to try, but he’d still be somewhat able to, as wobbly as it would look. He just hoped it wouldn’t go that far as needing to go this far.
House looked at everyone once before leaving, Wilson’s hazel eyes saying much more than his mouth would ever do.
Curiously enough, things were shaped slowly by something short of a miracle. He has everyone on cue, but himself. Unable to make the actual choice of doing something meaningful, to choose a stance. Was all of this even worth it? Castiel as good a man as he seems to be, was in big trouble. Much more than any of his team was worth losing for. And by the time passing, House felt himself part of a much bigger scheme than himself. Unable to see the end goal, the end of the line. Even if he was willing to go forward, at what cost? Every decision he had been making until now felt like quicksand. What’s to say these won’t bring much worse?
Unlike Chase, who has previously punched for his sense of values, a father and abuser who fancied to be Wilson’s client. Barely days ago, it felt like a distant memory as he palmed the doorknob, Wilson’s heavy-lidded stare on his back.
Chase knew what he wanted, and quickly, he had the stamina to hold his own against the tall building of grey hairs that was pretending to be one of them. Heck maybe Foreman would get out his hood energy and get a free swing as well, it would even the odds.
Not that it would be ideal if it came down to that. But he was preparing for any possibilities.
He hadn’t run off, he hadn’t been running off from being terrified. He had..the resemblance of a plan and no epiphany in sight. He had to make due in the time he had to gather the clues. He needed to tell himself that because leaving his team in danger felt reckless. Necessary, but reckless nonetheless. Like leaving a bunch of kids with a vault with a gun, unlocked.
He wasn’t exactly sure why this was making him feel like this, usually, he’d be headfirst into the danger, he’d get it to work, anyway how. Maybe leaving the danger is much more terrifying than staying and enduring the present for the time being.
If he wasn’t so hyperaware, he’d forget to breathe altogether. But he cannot allow himself to let shock attack him once again. He’d seen far worse, hadn’t he? This wasn’t war, this wasn’t the trenches, but it sure felt that way. His legs were akin to drowning in the mud of the beaches of Normandy.
House felt his breath come back to him the second he walked out of the room. As if the room behind him was vacuum sealed and a house of horror all at once.
The click of the door was enough to bring back the silence, and it was so loud his eyes blur.
It was tempting to shut it all away, walk away and never look back. But it wasn’t him, it wasn’t what the innocent deserved. He was no hero, but it was his job to do something, anything. His oath was bringing him in much trouble again, but House knew better to believe it was only that. He had this taste for chaos, this was just within his Rolodex. There was no way he hadn’t attracted what he sought on that fateful night in the elevator. If he only knew, that it would be much more than he’d bargained for. The usual control, the waves of chaos rising back, he’d had a resemblance of what role to portray in each of his cases. But this was..new.
Maybe he was lying to himself, Wilson would say. Maybe he’s just terrified of losing someone again.
So many omissions of truths, and yet there he was alone again. It was better to tell himself that controlling the outcomes actually gave them a chance to even the playing field. But he was lacking the moves in advance, he was becoming a pawn himself in this. And it left him powerless.
He knew enough, he didn’t need a reminder of how limited his cards are outside of his specialty, and giving Chase the fuse to make this all go boom was taking his breath away. He was too old to act like a hero, but it didn’t mean he didn’t feel like shit for passing the flame to such a wild card.
It isn’t him, he’s no hero, no sacrificial martyr, not for people he barely met. But then again, was this if not a way to reinvent himself, to win back integrity and himself? It was proving Wilson wrong, isn't it? If he didn’t know the magic trick, but still remotely cared, if he was still invested in his client, and found himself doing all he could to maintain the boat up-float without blowing away the flame of the mystery. Wasn’t it what Wilson had said? Had he actively been avoiding the truth in order to maintain his pretty little adventure story? The guns in the Impala that could blow up the whole hospital in a blink were much more serious than his self-image, but then again, it was a means to an end.
In the end, he didn’t really wanna know.
It’s not exactly fair, he can’t lead the blind into a war already bigger than any of them. Without doing something himself to remedy this. Semblances of confidence, in a scorching hot cauldron, would be a bigger death sentence than he’d bargain, he cannot get any of them in further danger. But it already feels like the train to consent has left a long time ago, and they’re at the gates of too far to go back. He hates to put any of them in this situation, but he had go forward.
There had been enough of a mystery when it came to Castiel that it was easy to ignore it, to misqualify the quantity of proof that was gathering. It was easy to pretend. It was easy to blind himself voluntarily for the mystery to go longer, cruel, but still human.
But House’s eyes wouldn't deceive him on this, Castiel had mentioned someone was coming, for him. And there was no way this was a coincidence, but what could he genuinely do to fix this?
His thoughts swirled in, and as he noticed where he was, he grabbed the sink in the sanitizing room. His eyes darted to the team, who he could see in the one-way mirror. Team who was counting on him to deliver, and was in no way shy about any of it. Wilson's stare was dead-focused on Castiel’s body, on making an incision inside his stomach area. Something about it all was fond if it wasn’t so dangerous. Foreman was injecting something in Dean’s IV and Chase was staying close to the man with caution.
Something about Dean’s screams had been enough to shake something in them both. House could tell was affected by it too. He could still hear them when he closed his eyes.
House looked away and clawed off his mask, finally breathing in the fresh air. He wasn’t stupid, he can see he was gathering side effects of a panic attack, running out of oxygen when there was plenty around, it isn’t that hard a diagnosis. But he’s sure the adrenaline isn’t helping.
He opens the sink’s water, water starts pissing wildly and he basically throws his hands in it without bearing no thoughts as to how bad of an idea it was. Anything to evade panic, to gain back agency over his body. It was desperate and rushed, he stutters in the movement when he finally felt the scorn of it. The hisses he spits off and the swears he mouths off are clearly bringing him back to now. His hand hits the counter when he takes it out, another idiotic reaction to his rash decisions.
His leg’s spasm had been nagging at his nervous system open with an aching akin to the way a violin’s strings are violated when they’re slashed and cut right off. His sciatica nerve was the first culprit, followed by his neighbors in the region. The pain in his body seems to concentrate on the initial shock of his hands, he can tell he’ll sport some light blisters but he clearly has better to be worried about. It worked enough to win back control over his rushing thoughts. It feels way less like his brain is bleeding internally with words and more like he’ll need to bandage his hands whenever the lovers are out of the fields.
Waves of discomfort and the raw nerve endings of pain make themselves quiet under the raw inflammation bubbling on his hands, fingers, and skin. He sighs, his elbows against the counter as he sags his shoulder down. Gathering strength to think, to improvise under the stress and the fear of knowing the man could own a gun, could have hidden anything under his scrubs. Even his mere size was a bother, he looked more like House’s age, but his build was enough to need at least two pair of hands. And if that meant that Wilson needed to stop what he was doing on Castiel, then they’d lose precious time. Wilson was no fighter, House knew he only knew how to throw a punch, nothing more. And even that had gotten him a broken thumb.
It made no fucking sense, why did he feel so much in danger for such a trivial situation? He’s had way worse before. He was not scared by a gun or any looming threats towards himself. And yet his body was on fire.
House really was considering getting a gun, those were familiar, and he’d have the advantage of surprise over the other man. But the idea of bringing it to a place so close to the air supply was calling for a detonation that would take them all out. Outcomes were being cross-hatched out of his mind one by one. Definitely scratching that one off as a maybe. He scoffs.
Clarity’s coming back, his breathing slows down enough that his heart follows. The water’s still open and passing right through the air, going directly into the drain. House’s side eye catches sight of it and he cannot help but relate. As if this is meaningless, and only a quick fix to such a bigger problem. The sound of it is somewhat soothing, he focuses on it. Knowing how hot it is, he doesn't dare to touch it some more. Not when the dopamine hits and he can barely feel his leg for a bit, it’s short for the price to pay, but the bridges in his mind seemed to welcome the peace.
Then again, he closes the faucet off feeling somewhat more coherent than before. Taking his cane back he’d slid off by the wall.
His left hand is still hot and wet, fighting off the contrast of the temperatures of his cane. He limps heavily, knowing there is no one to watch, and he makes way to the hall. The night lights are already on, and there is such an idle silence that House find himself aching to go back to the action. The imperfection of silence drowns him whole as he walks towards his personal items by the locker room. It is terrifying to realize how much he craves to go back, to be right in the middle of the attention. To command the room around, to calculate the risks as they were going on. Walking away was so unlike himself, it was a wonder how he even managed. His body was clearly aching to go back, adrenaline’s first rush was dampening like a wet cloth. It would take hours until it went away fully, but he was already seeing the sign he was addicted to way more than he’d like to admit. Leaving one battlefield for another.
By the time he’s gotten to the lockers, the skin on his hand has become beige again, and white spots on them are starting to show. He feels the raw warmth of it as he’s taking his phone. Ants run around under his fingers and skin. Every move of his fingers is with purpose because they linger in heat and bite.
He takes Dean’s knife and he slacks the locker’s door right on as he realizes the keys are gone. The door slaps against the rest of the unit, but doesn’t lock itself out of the strength of the impact. His frustration bubbles up.
Why does he care so much? It leaves him aimless, unable to make the right choice. If Castiel was really in danger, and Dean’s life was catching up to him somehow. He couldn’t stand by the sidelines whilst it was happening here, in his turf.
He walks away feeling lost and he knows for sure there are only a handful of things he can do. It wouldn’t serve to go see the camera room to find Ruby, or to bring a gun from the Impala’s back end. Something tells him it would be of no use, even less when he would take a gamble on if it’s locked out. And by the time he’s left the lot to get to it, so much could go down already, even more, if he’d need to leave and come back. And using the axe from the secretary doesn’t give him nearly an advantage as coming in with any other brute force weapon.
He starts dialing Bobby's number as he takes the stairs. His body strains under the effort, he blinks lazily as he’s waiting for the ring to continue. He can feel his discomfort at being on stairs again, feeling helpless. Perhaps Wilson is right and he still has residuals of the last attack.
He really had no time to waste with PTSD. If he was smart enough, he’d prevent it in his colleagues as well.
By the time he gets to the observatory, he sees that nothing changed much. The ER is somewhat the same, Foreman and Wilson are already opening up Castiel with uttermost carefulness. And Chase’s taking care of Dean’s state under the impostor’s eyes.
It feels like watching a lion in a cage with civilians, with nothing but his hope to grasp at.
If only he had proof that nothing would happen and Castiel is crazy.
He lets himself fall into those uncomfortable chairs, knowing he’s caught metaphorically with his dick in his hands, trying to come up with ways to fix this. Thankfully no one’s gonna look up to see him for a few minutes, he’s barely winning seconds off the skin of his back. No one’s expected to inspect when they’re in lockdown, he’s not sure if that’s remotely as reassuring as it’s supposed to be.
He looks down to see a text from Cameron, labs back as clean. Baby smooth and painfully human. Cuddy has been warned, and anyone could come back at any time.
Is the test of Castiel's spinal fluids enough to prove he’s cray-cray and that House has nothing to lose by letting things happen as they should?
He palms at his vest, trying to find his pills, which he opens when he finds them. He realizes they’re emptied way too fast. He could swear there’d been four left when he’d last opened it in Castiel’s bath time. But then he remembered taking some whilst talking with Foreman and then added up most of his day to the logical conclusion he’d taken what he had left today. He threw the plastic container at the end of the room, it hit the floor and rolled away without a care. He swore under his breath, feeling at a dead end. What point it is to wish for a mystery if he’s clearly left with his pants at his ankles without being able to do anything for it?
He cannot even trust his mind, it could be in hypotension, unreliable. He’d be such a dick to call himself unbiased for being drugged and not Cameron for being on alcohol. But there he was, managing every so slightly his pain problem, his frustration problem.
Cuddy would be in further danger if she came here. House looked back to the man in the green scrubs, mint ones. He looks at his frame and he tries to remember the name Castiel had mentioned.
Zachary? Zach, something Z. He was already witnessing Castiel’s surgery when he’d been spending time with the man, half aloft. Why hadn’t he focused? What had him underperforming so much? Maybe his mind was off the rockers, he usually remembers every stupid detail annoyingly accurately.
Castiel had mentioned danger, had mentioned his death being what that man would want or need. Having him in that room could turn sour quickly if he didn’t trust Castiel’s words. There was this raw instinct that something was starting to go bad, that it was about to go down. As it already had started when seeing Castiel as a snow angel in the parking lot.
Had Castiel tried to kill himself or had it been another mystery to add to the pile?
Was it really the danger that was getting to him? Or was it the idea of Wilson being the one caught in the middle of it all? Did he want to be standing for hours on end opening Castiel up himself? Probably way too much. It would get his hand busy, and keep his mind sharp. Instead, he felt stuck in this observatory like he was the one being watched by all of them, with clocks and watches ticking time off until a bomb would detonate.
It feels like they’re all going to look up all at once and pity him, like an animal at the zoo.
Either way, something was wrong, off. Both from himself and from the situation. He could feel it in the air, and it wasn’t just because he was craving drugs for his pain problem. It was necessary for this to be bigger, than his pain problem.
When he heard the sound of the voicemail, he remembered he was calling Bobby. It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be if the old fart wasn’t answering either.
He hung up the phone when it rang empty, redirected to a fake government messaging tone. He went ahead to squeeze his leg through his scrubs. Feeling the thick of the knot in his muscle, clawing at it in his palm in an attempt to squeeze the tension out.
<<You’re looking for these? Calls out a female voice, by the time House looks at the row of chairs behind him, he sees her. She hadn’t been here when he first got here, he could swear it. But seeing her almost made his heart stutter. A new path was being made by having her here. He started to feel much more in control as he looked back at her.
Had she been here and he didn’t see her? Was he going as crazy as he felt? There was nothing logical to any of this.
Her auburn hair cascaded off her shoulders, dark brown eyes, and a devilish smile. Her features were soft and much more naive than her mouth had been. Her shoulders were tight and her fingers white under the hold of the keys. He’d recognize them from anywhere after all the work he had to do to get them, it’s the Impala’s.
You know, I’m tired of following you. Who does a girl gotta kill to get some satisfying answers here?
-I know who. He said, his voice steady and with a curious and ogling stare at her. Skipping to the main event, hoping she will appreciate the honesty.
If the man did so much as move wrongly towards Castiel, House felt surprised at how easily he’d find himself pressing the barrel of a gun into the man. What had that man done to him? He allowed himself to concentrate on her not to fall into a fit of thoughts all over again.
Her ample tiny breasts in a tight tank top, her legs going over the chairs at his right and the boots on her make sense, all in black attire, she’s the dealer. She looks innocent and dangerous all at once, something in House’s reptilian brain screams to get away, but the rest wants to see this through. He’s attracted to her, he realizes it is way too easy to do. She probably counts on it, if she’s anything smart. She’s his type, and somehow knowing she’s possibly Sam’s drug dealer makes her even hotter. She could get him drugs faster than he could ask for them. Maybe she even had any on her. Anything to take the edge off.
He mentally tries to push it away as he goes forward mentally to his next best thing. Taking care of his team and not leaving them in the mess he’s made. Funny thing, those moral compasses.
-Good old Zachariah there? She says the names and House finally feel the rush of dopamine to finally hear the word he was searching for for the past thirty minutes. He’s harmless to demons. But I would be creating a war to meddle in his tiny little missions. It will cost you big time. She pouts the information off, and he can’t help but squeeze his thigh as he sighs. It was becoming far more of a fidgeting than an actual tool to release the pressure in his leg. He wasn’t holding enough to cut blood flow or apply pressure to then release the muscle.
It was all a tic, he could feel the cravings. This was just another sign effect he wanted to avoid.
-How much? You wouldn’t be saying anything if you hadn’t already had a price in mind. He mouths off, annoyed but still amused by how much she has a hand over his balls, metaphorically of course.
-Sheesh, you sure drive a hard bargain. But I’m sure we can make a deal. She said and she stopped blinking for a few seconds, watching him intently. House heard a faint click emitting from her, but he was slightly concerned if she was actually here for a hot minute.
I have nothing to fear anymore from Dean Winchester and Castiel, they’re cursed to repeat the same behaviors that have always gotten them in trouble. Sam has achieved all he needed for my plans. I want Sam. And something else from you. That’s my price.
-You said you’ve been following me, is that related? What can you want more that you haven’t already seen? He scoffs back, eyelids heavy and staring obsessed by the beauty spot by her left shoulder, the one near her breast. It wasn’t glaucoma, but it was easy to watch.
-At first, I thought I'd get to Sam by following them, but they were useless. She says, her back sagging against the chairs, her feet waddling in her leather boots.
You, on the other hand, had no idea I was there, it was practical to get to inform superiors about the state of the Winchesters. In a way, you’ve already provided me with plenty. She smiles and House frowns at the statement. I’ve never met one of you before. Humans like you make no sense, why haven’t you killed yourself already?
-A Skeptic? Well gee, I can always do that tomorrow. And here I thought he was the sheltered one. Demons, angels, I don’t care. All I want is for you to take care of my 6ft2 problem hanging around there. He shrugged to the man in the operating room. Hoping she’d take the hint of time being of the essence.
-And I want you to find my 6ft4 one. She said as she lifted her shoulders and smiled, she nodded, dainty. She threw him the keys softly with a laugh. I’ll give you the standard deal with what’s left of you.
-You’re using him to strong-arm me into a senseless deal. He states out loud, hoping to get a rise out of her. But it falls like a penny in a lake, she doesn’t flinch nor give him anything to work with.
-Smart for someone like you. She says with a shrug. Do you want my help or not?
-I was about to say the same. He says looking back to the scene in front of them. That’s when he realizes she had him distracted. He can only see Wilson and the man by Castiel’s body. Where are the others? Dean’s untouched and still unconscious, which means his team should be near.
-Hang onto these, I'll come back for my end of the bargain. She says as he turns his eyes back to her, but she isn’t there anymore. Her seat is empty and the door is still. He waved a hand softly near where her feet had been with disbelief.
-Well Crap.>> He says, before looking back towards the operating room. And there she was.
Wilson’s eyes dart away from the scene, he breathes out and stutters back to Foreman.
He’s been losing feeling in his fingers, he admits, knowing it’s from how hard he’d been holding them, keeping them from trembling under pressure.
There’s something wrong in it all, he can feel it, by the way House’s stare had last looked at him before he left. It was doomed. Castiel had been tanking and by the time they got in, he’d been showing signs of improvement, that is until they reached the amount of damages. This was further ahead, it went way back to his own knowledge of anatomy. House had given up on his pet project and he was left piecing it back together. House had left them to fend for themselves, and Wilson couldn’t even blame him.
There was this scare that if the man was able to grow proper wings, maybe he’d be missing a spleen or had two livers hiding somewhere under enough tissue not to show in X-rays. But then again, he was the one doing it. House had probably lost most interest, giving him the lead as he finds something that revolutionized modern science. He was enough of a dick to pull one on him like that. Without telling him.
This was the discovery mission House had been dying to do himself, so why was Wilson doing it for him? Because he’d asked, gently. In the rudest way he knew, which was House’s way to show he cared a lot more about this than he’d let anyone know.
Wilson was tired of trying to guess, if he’d get out of this soon he’d confront House about this once and for all. He’d tried to avoid it, to let him come in due time, but this was too much. He was walking in literally blind, there couldn’t be more to it that was too much was it?
By the time he’d had enough of watching Foreman continue his job for him. Chase was arguing with the anesthesiologist, exactly the way House had been before he left.
Wilson hadn’t had any warning, all of it happened so quickly he barely blinked. The mood of the room had been stressful, but only about losing the lives of the patients. But by the time Chase had gone into action, once again, the frustration in Wilson grew. He was taken aback by the new fear of losing far more than the patients.
Chase bore arms to attack, and the man’s hand went to Chase’s forehead, barely the hint of an index finger. That’s all it took to put the Australian limp and unconscious. He fell on Dorothy’s body, and fainted enough for Foreman to pick it up by sound. It was so fast and brutal, albeit being so anticlimactic and heavy.
Wilson took his hand away from Castiel’s open body cavity, and Foreman followed the same. Because the man was behind Foreman, only he saw the terrible way he’d knocked out Chase with as much as lifting a singular finger.
Foreman’s sweat was visible on his forehead, and with no nurse to dab it off, it fell on his scrubs in a moist silence. He knew better than to ask what had happened behind him, he knew it was bad by the sound. And by the paralyzed on Wilson’s face.
<<I think you’ve tried long enough, don’t you? The voice was authoritarian, somewhat polite, and kind despite the bite of the words. As casual as if he hadn’t just put Chase under.
-We’re barely starting. If we want him to stay alive we really need to keep going. He blabbered off, and the man took his eyes off Foreman to then look at him.
-That’s the thing. I don’t actually want you to save him. And I’ll do what’s necessary to keep it that way. He says, his hand went in the air with a theatrical wave.
-You have to be kidding, you’re holding us, hostage, in here? What do you want us to do? The machines will keep him like this if we don’t do anything. You’ll wait for ages. That’s if you ever get lucky and he bleeds out. He says to Foreman, getting closer to his face with his own.
-You’d be surprised at how long I am willing to wait to witness Castiel’s demise. He was promised a better end, I am almost saddened by the choices he’s found himself making. If you ask me, he has dug his own grave. He’s only to blame for what he could not control, growing inside of him. He explains, as if it makes the most absolute sense, even knowing there were two other men disagreeing.
-What-what did he do to you? Wilson didn’t have to bite off the question, the genuine curiosity of being left in the dark by House had led him here. He’d deserved to know why he was being threatened for.
-Nothing to me personally, but I will not leave dead-ends running in and wreaking havoc in between humans. That’s not what I was ordered to do. His white smile feels like he’s as fake as he feels.
-Someone has ordered you to do this? What is this, a sick joke of some kind? Asked Foreman with eagerness to get it over with. Wilson catches sight of House in the observatorium’s glass. He sees it whilst looking towards the man who had made of Chase a joke. House is talking to a woman, she’s too far, two rows after his. But wasn’t she the one they’d warned him about? Wilson felt sick to be left in the dark. Caught off helpless whilst House needs his help.
-Listen here, don’t you think I know you’re trying to appeal to my humanity? It is what got my brother below, I will not be mocked. And I will not fall for your schemes. What do you think I am? He says as he puts a hand on his own chest, the amount of self-serving narcissism makes Wilson sick.
-Can’t you blame us? That’s– Wilson said, with a stressful laugh, choking up.
-Believe me, I’d rather not be here. I had no intention of popping in these smelly old things,
He said waving at his own body. Somewhat comically.
It is a wonder why you bother fixing them for a living.
-Then don’t be, you lunatic. Bit off Foreman with anger. Walk off, see if we care.
-It’s not that simple, I am Castiel’s superior, and I was tasked to do this by a much bigger fish than you and I. It is a rather unfortunate situation, for you are meddling in the affairs of celestials. Naomi will free of you of this moment in short notice, until then, you are only a minuscule necessary pain in my visit to my dear old brother. The older man pretends to be saddened, but his eyes have a highlight of sadism, he’s enjoying this and hating to be having to fight for it.
-You’re sick. If that’s how you treat your family. Let's out Foreman with an attitude of a thousand suns.
-No, he is. And I cannot let you cure him, so you will take your sweet time. And you will deliver the news of his death to whom he holds dear. You will then go on in your pitiful lives, the ones you so desperately grip on. And you will forget this. It is sometimes, that simple. He adds with a pout, his eyebrows perking up as he draws the corner of his lips down.
-And what will you do? You don’t have a gun. Lets out the black man with a look towards the taller man.
It’s all it takes for Foreman to try to deck him with his elbow in the man’s guts, but the older man doesn’t even flinch, instead the assault seems to hurt the perpetrator. Foreman grunts in pain as he goes to soothe his aching arm. The man puts his hand on the back of Foreman’s bald head quickly and the man falls down just as easily as Chase’s, his body thuds against the tiles of the flooring. Wilson cannot help but hope Foreman had a not-too-harsh fall. In the hopes, he isn’t hurt in any major organs or bleeding internally. Chase has had Dean to fall onto, breaking his fall, but the floor is a much harsher surface to be hit in the head with.
Considering the black man hadn’t seen what happened to Chase, it was no wonder he had been tempted to break this off. But Wilson had enough of a warning not to. And Castiel’s bed was still in between them both. Which gave him cover enough to stay at a safe distance from his mysterious hands of doom.
Wilson gasps and cannot shake the fear gnawing at him. It fills him up, despite his curiosity.
-You’re an angel too, aren’t you? He asks, his voice low and eyes unable to look away.
-Almost. But you seem to know too much, what keeps me from fixing you as well? Are you remotely worth saving? As far as I can tell, you’re the most reasonable one. It would benefit us both if I simply wiped your memory of this instance. The older man lifts his hand to slowly reach towards Wilson, but the man takes a step behind quickly in panic.
-Wait! Wait, I have a question to ask you. Since..Since we’re here and I will not kill my patient, and you aren’t actively trying to kill him either. You’re waiting for him to die, is it because you actually do not want to be stuck as the middleman? Are you trying to see how it will play out still?
The man stops, his hand hovering in the air as he tries to understand why would Wilson care about any of it.
-I was ordered to confirm his death, not to cause it. You wouldn’t understand. There is an important distinction. He says nodding to his own statement.
-Castiel, he’s done miracles. He’s done way more than I know, I can feel it. Why would you want to stop miracles from being made? He asked, looking down at Castiel’s face, the tube down his lips and the few raven strands of hair curling on the pillow.
-Then you would be wrong, he has done far more than that. He’s fallen for your kind, and it had doomed him to be cast away. It was never going to end well, I knew it the second I heard of how he’s taken Dean Winchester out of hell. He said, waving towards Dorothy, who was still viable under Chase’s body.
-He’s in love. He said under his lips, like a whisper. But it seems loud enough for the stranger to respond.
-He’s a fool. And he has to pay for defying orders. He said sternly, unbudging. As if he was reasoning with a child.
-Can’t he be both? Wouldn’t you love the world of the person you love most in the world? He said, looking up to House’s shadow in the observatory. His eyelids fluttered as he sighed, before looking back to the angel. Hasn’t he paid enough penance by losing his wings? Losing his family, and job?
-I’ve never had to ask myself. Today will not be the day I do. Don’t you think I cannot see your attempts, they should stop. You could join your friends on the floor, and I could watch the man die in peace. The taller man says, muttering to himself.
-How can you be at peace with death? Are you not afraid to die? Wilson asks, his voice somewhat raw.
-I am incapable of it, nothing any of your kind has had the hands-on long enough, to make it sharp enough to penetrate my skin. He says almost proudly, amused at Wilson’s expense.
-And yet you’re capable to judge your brother to have done what you couldn’t do. What you’re too much of a coward to do. He said, swallowing his fear down his throat, blinking way too much as he alternates his stare towards the observatory. Hoping House would finally notice the danger.
-I think he has made his choices, and I have made mine. And he shall pay the price of his greed. Warns off the irritated voice of the angel.
-Who are you, who are they to cast the first stone? Wilson recited under his breath.
-Do not recite this old book, it bears no meaning to the words of God. He is too busy to care about your qualms. He says without any hint of hesitation, as pure true fact. And Wilson is too worried to think of the ramification of such a statement.
-You remind me of a friend, but he’s pretending not to care. You wouldn’t know what that's like, do you? He bites back somewhat terrified of getting blowback from it.
-You’re starting to understand. Perhaps you should stop. The angel warns coldly.
That’s when Wilson sees her, the woman. She’s far tinier than he expected, but he’s somehow relieved that she’s not with House anymore. Even if she’s been so fast he didn’t even see her come, had she teleported? He was losing his mind as the seconds grew.
-No, No I think I won’t. You think you know better, because..Because you feel like you’ve been far away enough from the problem to be able to not be reflected onto it. But..But you’re here, and your actions will stop something from happening. And knowing that, what makes you any different from him? He felt emboldened by her presence, seeing the knife in her hands. The way she looks at the angel like a predator, waiting to pounce. He hasn’t done anything to stop her yet like he hasn’t even picked up her presence.
Wilson looks down at Castiel in the hopes he wins some time, not giving away her presence. But then he realizes something.
The angel seems to take an awful time to answer back, so Wilson looks back up.
It all goes so silently that he barely understands what happens as it’s currently happening.
By the time he looked back up to the man, the woman’s hand was holding a bowie knife to the angel’s throat. And Wilson couldn’t do shit before blood sprayed onto his face. It splattered on his forehead and cheekbone.
Wilson heard the angel’s throat make this liquid-like noise, the guttural sound of trying to speak with a throat drowned in blood. It was terrifying, enough so that Wilson hit the lower of his back against the wall, leaving Castiel’s bed and body away from him. He felt the urge to vomit, but he couldn’t do anything, paralyzed.
And then this glowing white light slowly went up from the man’s throat, it slowly made its way to Castiel's mouth in an ethereal smoke show. The woman seemed to guide it, as she let the Angel’s body fall on the floor with a loud thud. Wilson could not believe his eyes, it felt unreal, like bending reality. Like heatwaves off a car after it revved its engine. That’s until he saw her dark eyes, full without any white within. She looked beautiful and dangerous, he felt unable to move a single inch, it would be too much to ask.
Unsure if she would be a danger to him too, he looked at Castiel’s features.
He watched Castiel’s wound stop bleeding, the soft movement of particles molding off the rest of his liver. And then the muscle slowly melts on the man, fading back into existence. It was like watching the reverse action of a wound, watching it heal, he realized. It reminded him of reversing camera footage, but much faster and in way better definition than the camcorders currently in stores.
The computers were calming down behind the scenes, the incessant beeping had calmed down to a moderate amount. Until it stopped altogether to alert him.
He could not look away, even when the woman spoke.
<<Roast in hell.>> She said towards the man who had been standing not even a second ago. She was looking down at him with disdain. Making no note of Wilson before disappearing. It was barely a blink away that she had vanished.
Now the only one conscious in the room, he found himself slowly walking up to Castiel. Wilson’s hands were shaking and he softly brought his fingers to the man’s stomach, exactly where there had been a gaping hole of problems previously. The man’s stomach was tender and hot to the touch, but healthy. He started to palm at the man’s skin, to get a sense of his vital organs functioning accordingly. Until he felt the huge inhale the man had gathered in his lungs.
He felt himself breathe again, knowing Castiel looked okay, and he was not failing House’s plan. He was not taking Castiel away from House. He could finally breathe better, he could finally remember what had been said.
But he couldn’t stay on Castiel any longer, he started to assess the damage on his colleagues who seemed simply knocked out. He knew they would wake up eventually, as they seemed relatively well off.
As he took off his fingers from Chase’s neck, he looked up to the observatory where House had last been.
There she was, the woman was there and she was touching House’s chest with one single hand. It seemed like she was slowly growing closer, about to kiss him. Wilson tried to scream House’s name in vain. Nothing seemed to work, but once she was done. House put an open palm on the glass right beside him.
That’s when they crossed each other eye-line. Guilt flashed in House’s eyes, but Wilson wasn’t sure why.
Wilson had no idea what to think, both of seeing the criminal everyone had been searching for disappear and reappear at different spaces and times. And to see her kiss his best friend as if she was sucking something out of him. The way House had bent to meet her halfway at her tinier height had been enough to know he was enthralled or consenting, and Wilson wasn’t sure how to feel about that either. But before he could do anything about it, the door blasted open.
Cuddy was mighty, with her charcoal dress and red glistening red heels. Two officers behind her came in to swoop the area visually.
<< She’s gone. Wilson says, softly, his voice more broken than he’d expected it to come out.
He looks up at the sound of House’s voice in the speakers. Cuddy watches them both with wide eyes, the sight of it all must be terrible.
-She jumped out of the post-op hall window and broke it off with an IV pole. You could probably get there in time if you’re quick enough.>> He lies through the intercom speakers. His voice is lower, perhaps the shock makes it sounds lifeless.
But Wilson wouldn’t bet on it.
Notes:
I have no idea if this chapter came through the way I want it to, but I tried to make it fit all in one. I didn't wanna cut it right in the middle, not when we've spent many chapters establishing some of this.
It was a weird ride, but I left some hints where I could.
The fact that both Ruby and Zachariah are in this chapter hints that this chapter would be some kind of first-boss fight, but in House MD's nature, it never goes according to plan. And if we're honest, even in SPN too.
I do hope I get to show how it's not a cheap fix, like in the show, Angel grace stolen is rarely a fix for everything. We'll hope House doesn't have to diagnose that.
We get some Castiel/Dean in the next chapters to remedy the fact they barely were there in this chapter. And some badassery from Castiel will ensue.
Chapter 41: -41-
Notes:
I'll be back from my trip to Maine around the 28th, but until then, have some fluff.
Cheers pals and nonbinary gals!
Also, blink over the typos for this one, I legit wanted to get it posted before I left, so it's a hurried rereading.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
His heart was pounding in his throat when he finally woke up.
There was barely a hint of air tickling the birth of his jaw, he blinked a few times to reconcile the feeling of it. The room was oddly still, even if he felt himself like he was dizzy by the sensation of a warm body next to his.
He barely moved his chin before he knew who it was, and why. It flooded all back in and his hands tightened and quivered under the sudden urge to fist his fingers in helplessness.
<<Cas.. ’’ He starts, his voice low and somewhat annoyed. Even if it feels like a mountain of lies, he’s relieved, he can tell by how his lungs expands and finally breathes. He’s more than aware his body is more than reactive by the idea of having Castiel right by his side in the hospital bed. Even more so when he’d almost lost him when he saw him last. It was all too much at once, he would tell himself.
- I know. Bemoaned Castiel in a groan, the mouth on that man. Dean almost snorted at how familiar it was to hear some humanity in the man. To recognize the tone of a bratty child, the moan of annoyance and allowance.
Castiel knows more what he’s doing than he’s telling. He has to know the hold he has on Dean.
There’s no way Castiel can’t tell his heart’s beating out of his chest, his lips parted. He might be uncomfortable at the idea of being found, seen or even breathed in this way. But he’s not as averse to the idea of Castiel being so close, so soft and compliant against of him. If he hadn’t been so scared of losing him, he’d melt at the domestic feeling of Castiel’s hand on his chest. Of the blankets covering them both, and the way Castiel’s breath smells like Jello. It hits close to home, and it makes them both homesick.
Dean’s mind is slurry at the realization of Castiel’s face being so near his. And he can’t really throw him off, it’s not like he actually wanted him to go away. Not when he’d felt so alone and powerless. Dean could feel he was wanted, but even more needed. They both needed the company, he knew by the way Castiel wasn’t saying much. No questions, no words to have him pushed away or rejected. Parts of Dean’s heart broke at the idea of rejecting him now, after all of this. Shame was thick and guilt was near, but he wouldn’t dare kick him out unless there was a good reason. And for now, there were none good enough.
He’s not exactly sure how he’d explain that one to Sam, but he knew his little brother would understand the desperation. That he’s trying to survive without him, one more second, one more day away. Whatever it takes, right?
It hurts, all of it. His body is sore and his throat dry, Castiel’s warmth matches his own, like lava under his skin. Each of Castiel’s breaths slowly melts Dean’s words away. Almost allowing him to fall asleep once again. It almost makes up for his body feeling like it spawned on the shore with no recall as to how it got there.
Castiel’s index finger is slowly moving against the hospital gown on his chest, simple circles and infinity symbols, maybe the arch of god even. Wouldn’t that be ironic? It’s soothing, intimate. Dean can recall the number of women who did the same thing on his tattoo, half naked after sex.
Yet this felt far more intimate, even though the gown, the different setting. It all felt different because it was Cas, and he actually wanted to touch him like that.
Dean was quite speechless still, but he wasn’t going to blow that candle out. He knew better than pretending and lie, it was making himself hate what he stands for. Instead of being here with Cas, doing all of this. it Felt more like him than ever before, he’d just hate to admit it out loud, he’s quite sure he was unable.
Despite wanting to hate all of this, he doesn’t. Instead he doesn’t give Castiel access to his eyes just yet, he looks at the end of the wall. Castiel’s stare burns his scalp, it’s deeply ingrained. Perhaps words would fix all of this, but he’s not even sure where to start.
- Are you…You were pretty torn up. Dean starts with hesitancy, unappalled at the idea to look at the man’s face and see lacerations or bruises. His gut fell into the void at the inevitable imagination of such a thing. It was easy to feel and see it in his mind, it had just happened, didn’t it?
Castiel’s voice hadn’t changed, and that had been enough for him to feel steadier. There is this anchor, waiting to fall on him if things end up worst than he expected them to be. He knows he’ll survive it because he has to. But the strength it takes to continue, to walk in mud and make his way through the fog is going to exhaust the shit out of him if things end up looking for the worst. Being without Sam was already significant on his mood, he’s not sure what he’d do if this is the last thing Castiel was about to do.
He realizes he doesn’t want him gone, gone. He’s gotten used to the man leaving and coming back on whim, to even have temper tantrums or powertrips. But he’s not sure he’ll be the same again if he never saw Castiel ever again. He hates it, but also is deeply grateful in one breath. Ain’t that something?
- We’re fine, physically to say the least. Castiel pipes out as his finger flattens out on Dean’s chest.
-H-How? You looked pretty dead to me. He says, his voice haunted by the image, the sight of them all alarmed at Castiel’s state. He tries to breathe out, shrugs out the feeling. Waiting for the but, for the other shoe to drop. There’s always one, and he’s terrified of what it might be this time if this are the stakes.
-I was, for a few seconds. I saw..I saw Hannah, she told me to hold on. That heaven may not need me anymore, but many on earth do. That you need me as much as I need you. Castiel said, and his nose slowly slid against Dean’s cheekbone. They said it was a hallucination, but I don’t believe them.
Dean felt his skin gather goosebumps from his legs to the nape of his neck. The man’s voice had much more power than he’d let on. It was low and honest, pure and it was hell to not take it in another way.
It was clearly important for the kid to feel meaningful, Dean knew better to be distracted by sex. The odds were stacked, and honestly he was getting whiplash from how the man’s voice had enough power to steer his mind away from his brother and his own misery and went straight to his groin just like that.
He knew the warmth in his groin was inappropriate, not only because the man was confiding in him. But also because Castiel’s trust was undying. There was more to it than Dean didn’t feel like dismissing right away. But he really didn’t care about it when he felt the slight prickle in his neck hairs, the slight hover and pause. It was an awkward few seconds as he’s gathered Castiel hasn’t figured out what he’s doing to him. Or at least will not address it because he hasn’t figured out the pattern of it and what makes Dean so antsy all of a sudden.
- I-I can’t think, not when you do that. He said in a whisper, as honest as they come. It’s a huff and it’s so tight, he feels like he’ll blow up if Castiel doesn’t give him an inch. Which is the strangest thing to feel when he’s been dead on convinced he’s like a brother to him. It would feel wrong to even think of Sammy like that, and ultimately it should be wrong to think of Castiel that way too. But it doesn’t.
And Dean’s smart enough to understand why, even if it’s hard to even think about it without feeling this wave of disdain and disappointment from his father, from his own expectations. Castiel’s shaking a bigger can of worms than he’s able to understand, and Dean isn’t sure how to even make him comprehend that much. Even more so when he feels like the man’s words have a straight line to his cock. It’s one thing to be distracted, another to shame any of it. He’s not willing to shame the behavior because it feels so damn good, but then again if he lets the man know, he’ll own his ass quicker than Dean can explain why the word faggot even exists. Gosh, this so not the kind of thing to do in a hospital, he feels like he’s Dr. Sexy’s show. It does wonders for his roleplay fantasies if he didn’t feel so stuck.
- Do what? Asked Castiel, his voice slow and complacent.
Dean might have died right here, the slight hover, pause at the tease. He had to know, weren’t angels virgins? That would check out with the man having no spatial awareness of his own sexuality or anyone else’s. But then again, maybe cherubs rubs cheeks in Heaven. Right now he has no way to know, and he’d die before asking in this specific setting. Because Castiel could take it as a hint to go forward.
Dean felt a flush blossom at the start of his neck, chest, and shoulders. Some pink made it to his hands whose he’d been watching not to die in further embarrassment.
- This, Cas. You’re in my space. You’re making it hard to think in here. He said, his voice almost dying down his throat, he cleared it with a grunt. One of which Castiel took as a sign to shrug a little further away with his head. It sounds harsher than he means it, but what can one man do under all of this load but crumble?
- Oh, is this better? He asked very innocently. A few inches more than the last time he’d talked.
Kind of, he thought to himself. Castiel had left his neck alone but had to shrug his knees higher to win some wiggle room in the back, and now Castiel’s leg was over one of his. Dean had a toxic relationship with the idea of breathing air ever again.
Why was he blushing like a teenager? He had way more game than that, he knew it. Castiel had the advantage of taking him by surprise, but in the end, in this game, Dean knew he could win.
It was usually easier to fluster girls, women that were unused to the idea of being conventionally attractive, shy even. Dean really hadn’t given thoughts of how Castiel would react to such flirting, to the pick-up lines, to the corny aftermaths. He hadn’t expected to become the one to fluster to it all, and even less to so little flirting. Unintentional one at that.
And if Castiel being so near hadn’t made him somewhat hard already, the idea of him reacting to Dean’s old tricks was doing the job just fine.
- It will do. He said, turning his back slowly to the side himself, wiggling a little to the rail against his back.
It managed in making some room in between them. Dean finally looked at Castiel’s features. They were better than last time. And Dean hates how he hadn’t noticed as much, simply because he didn’t know what he was missing. The man’s eyes were awake and wet, like he’d recently cried. And Dean couldn’t even focus that long on those facts, not when the man’s mouth was slightly parted open.
Time is fleeting, and it grows the ache in his stomach. How can he even think about Castiel, or anyone for that matter, like this. Not when Sammy is out there, in danger, maybe even alone. The wave of guilt hits him on the way back and he blinks a few times, grunts and shuffles on the bed uncomfortably.
He looks at Castiel’s dilated eyes, the ever-so-slightly drugged stare of obedience and calm. Dean can’t get enough of how that man is obsessed about watching him so intently. Dean can’t tell the last time someone dedicated themselves so much to him. Even oral sex with strangers on the road has nothing on the way Castiel looks back at him right now. It makes Dean’s throat thick and his voice hoarse.
- Are you uncomfortable? He asks, just like that. Dean tightens his jaw, confronted by having to explain himself.
Thankfully, laying on his side does great for half-chubs. So he doesn’t have to explain, well, that. Thinking of Sammy clearly doesn’t even work because of the proximity. But switching to Bobby seems to get the job done well enough.
- We know what we said about personal space. He whispers, slightly exasperated.
- No one has seen us, I made sure of it. The man says with the fervor of a thousand suns, and it’s enough to make Dean backtrack. The whisper of it feels so childish and adorable that he can’t really keep a straight face at it. The words follow through and he realizes what the man implies.
- It’s not..- He starts, unsure where he’d be going with the sentence until Castiel cuts him off.
-I needed to be close to you. They’ve told me you needed to wake up on your own. That I couldn’t visit your dreams, and if I were to accept their plea. I wanted to be as near as possible to not feel you fade away from my hands again. The whisper makes his way to Dean’s heart again, blow by blow he feels the defense he was trying to build back up, go down.
Dean’s eyes blink a few times to avoid them being wet, he looks towards the neon bulb in the hall by the door. It’s easier than looking back at the man’s who’s basically tearing his heart apart by being so loyal. Dean almost feels undeserving of such a thing. And here he is, worried about Sam to death.
-Listen, I-I get that. I’m not going to let it happen again. He promises under his breath, unsure himself if he’s making false promises. But he knows Castiel needs to hear this like he would have needed it when he was younger. Inexperienced and lonely. He knows as much, and he knows how to give that to him, if anything else.
-Yet you will leave. Castiel says with a bitter aftertaste. I am aware.
- And you’re not? Are you still sick? He can hear the hope in his own words, the idea of him and Cas back in Baby, making way to get Sammy back. That’s all he could ever hope for. Not being alone on the road again. Doing right by the both of them.
- I won some time. If you ask me to come, I will. Castiel says with helpless abandon, and it rubs Dean’s the wrong way out of the sudden.
Dean felt the air becomes this fog of dense matter, the tension in the room was palpable. Who was he to tell Cas what to do? If the man wanted to come, he should. But if he did otherwise, he would not be pushing him all the way through. He has to make the choice for himself, which makes it much harder for Dean to answer right away. He wants him along, he wants him near. He wants to do this again, somewhere safe.
But that's the thing, isn’t it? They’ll never be safe on the road either. Castiel’s best bet is here if he’s sick and on bargained time. He can’t ask him what he’s always done to himself.
If he ever wanted kids, he’d wanted them to do better, to know better than what he’s done to himself. And somehow, right now, that’s exactly what his brain wants for Castiel. He’s too young, he’s reckless just like them, and the only education he’s getting is theirs. Which is not the worst, but still ain’t the best either.
The silence seems like a dead giveaway that he’s thinking about options.
And perhaps Castiel had expected less hesitation.
The problem is, he’s not sure Castiel even knows he doesn’t have to come.
But how to even tell him such a thing? When he looks up to them both, and the things they’ve done.
Dean’s terrified of having Castiel around if it means having to sacrifice who he’s become over time. He isn't quite sure what it means to give in to the feeling in his chest, but he knows it’s not like this. It’s not because Castiel doesn’t know differently. He won’t let that become the precedent. Instead, he sighs, and Castiel’s features look broken. He knows the right thing to do, and that’s usually what he’ll do, even if it hurts like a bitch.
-You wanted to stay, what happened? He asks, hating himself for every word. Eyes wide and watching Castiel’s face like it’s the first thing he’s seen in years.
- Zachariah’s grace fueled me, it will not last forever. I can feel its sand passing through my fingers. I felt it sink when I healed you from your blood toxicity. Castiel explained, some of his hurt showing in the tense stare and the tight jaw. His stare is still loving, but it’s like they’ve lost understanding once again. Like they don’t actually know how to talk together even if they’re two grown men with the ability to say words. It’s like no words will fix it, it feels terrible.
-Good, you’ll do better with it than that dick ever did. No matter how small. He says, shifting the mood towards something he can grasp better, something he can understand easily.
Silver linings were enough as it is, to keep the conversation going. Even if other words, much deeper ones, were dying on his lips.
-I’m not sure of it anymore, all I knew is that I wanted you to be alive and well. Castiel added, with a hint of uncertainty, grasping onto Dean’s blanket with his fist.
-Part of not being sure means you actually have been thinking about it. That’s already more than they do. That’s gotta count in your book too. C’mon, you’re better than him. The choice’s easy. I’ll take you over him, any day. He says with the hint of a smile, it seems to brighten up the angel, his eyes glow when a small smile is born on his lips.
- I missed your whimsical wisdom. It always surprises me on how easily you simplify such matters for me to understand. Humanity is a bigger bite than I can currently chew, as you would say. He explains, looking down at his own fist, and the way the blanket folded around his fingers.
- Yeah, I don’t think that ever leaves. It stays with you, and you get used to it. He huffs, not much for whispering anymore. Instead, he talks louder to bring back some sort of normalcy.
-That’s what the doctor said, too. Castiel said with a frown.
Deans snorts, and then stretches his sore neck with some disdain well hidden under the hope to make Castiel feel normal. This is worth everything to him, that’s his world for now. He can’t take that away from him, not again. Heaven had been something he’d never realized Castiel had to give up, until very recently. But now he felt unsure which step to follow, if he’d be telling Cas what to do, he’d be no better than Heaven. And that’s something he relates to much deeper than he’d like to admit. He’d never outgrown his own shackles with dread, with his misery. If Castiel had a chance to get better, to have a life outside of this one. He definitely should. Him being human had been the proof it could exist, somewhere.
Dean really wasn’t sure what was best, but the more the seconds grew, the more he knew what to do.
- Then he’s not as dumb as he looks. You really been learning from him too, aren’t you? He sighs, almost punching the pillow to flatten better under his own head. Castiel’s stare is intimidating, but he’s done worse. He can handle this, right?
- I do. Castiel said, and the guilt in his face was so easy to see, Dean felt himself blinded by it.
-Maybe you should stay. And figure out what that means for you. Dean can finally acknowledge it hurts to even breathe at the same time as saying this.
- I don’t want to lose you. This. Castiel said as he looked at Dean’s mouth.
-You won’t. He said quickly, maybe with too much haste.
-I’m not sure what I’m looking for. He adds, trying to weasel out, and Dean feels like it’s testing him.
-Like most of us, Cas. He sighs again, this time much more certain of what needs to be done.
-Yes, it is very contradicting. Castiel adds in, perplexed by their interaction. He slightly looks less tense, much more accepting of the shitty situation.
-Sounds like humans to me. He adds with an encouraging huff.
-Painfully so. The angel says, his voice dying in his throat towards the end.
- You know me, I wouldn’t do this if we didn’t need it. Dean says, lifting a hand to put on Castiel’s shoulder. I won’t stop until I have a lead. And once I have it, I can come back here and ask again. Or I can leave Bobby a sign, for him to tell you coordinates. By then you’ll have sorted some things out, we’ll try again.
- You could pray. I can hear them now. He says somewhat hopeful, his voice is light and unsure.
- Then I’ll do both. He said in a rasp. I’ll leave a note to Bobby, and I’ll pray. >>
Notes:
Legit wasn't sure if my first iteration was best so I ended up fixing it a lil. I think it worked out best for now.
Gosh darn, I forgot how I liked some of their dynamics together. I can't wait to explore it more, I know Dean said he's leaving, and he is. But the thing is, it's my author's duty to not keep them apart much longer. I owe it to myself and y'all to not skip too much when doing chapters, and this is something i want to bask in the sun with, I want to feeeeel the vibe and share it. Gotta get started somewhere though. <3Had pure and unadulterated fun with this one, it still broke my heart a lil, but its worthwhile.
Take care :D
Chapter 42: -42-
Summary:
After the angel and hunter's heart-to-heart, there is nothing like revisiting the different side of that same coin.
Wilson and House make do with the mess that has accumulated over time. They finally get down to business with that pesky communication thing people keep mentioning.
Wilson can't give up, and House can't let go.
They compromise.
Notes:
AHA, I managed to get this done as well before leaving this weekend.
There's nothing like a new chapter in the middle of the night to feel productive.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The oddity of seeing Castiel rise from the amount of drugs in which he had been administrated and carefully kept under for the past hour, to then see him step off the table. It made Wilson’s ear ring with a dull ache. There is no other way to approach it without feeling like a madman. He still can’t wrap his head around it fully. It’s one thing to suspect, another to be proven true.
That wasn’t something he’d seen before, even less see ever again. He knew deep within, he really had to believe it, even if everything felt so wrong.
Castiel had been performing a miracle, being awake, being strong enough to walk to Dean’s body. And by being intact. All of that because of some white smoke-like aura. All the questions he was meaning to ask buzzed in his brain. Endless and unknowing. What this his soul? What else was real?
Not a single weakness in sight, no trembling muscles, Castiel had made way to his beloved partner in crime and slowly came closer to him. His hand slowly hovered the body of the man on the metal bed. It seemed innate to him, unable to question his path, nothing would stop him, not even his body itself. Wilson was speechless.
Even now, he could still picture the purity of his eyes, the hover of his lips in the air. Slightly parted and unassuming. It haunted Wilson’s mind to no end.
Seconds grew into minutes as he watched the man’s face, upon deep slumber. Peaceful breathing, pulsating life and hope. Wilson slowly came back to the ruffled chaos, people taking in the other surgeons into their own consultations. Cuddy’s off to…He actually still has no idea where she is. Soon they’ll be hushed out, to be sent home. He can feel this is one of those times where he’s out of his depth. Once things shifts into motion, he can’t really make much decisions for himself. He sticks by House’s back like glue, unable to keep him apart from his purview.
All he can think about as he’s walking off House, is that he’s not sure what’s more important. To finally get to the bottom of whatever is wrong with House, again. Or to share an incredibly ridiculous discussion about the existential crisis in the making to actually know angels exists. Perhaps both, even if he’s unsure if it’ll be either of them.
One thing for sure, he can’t interact with the patients and nor does House, until Cuddy has investigated. And that means they’re off for the day. He makes sure to text Cameron to check on them though. Castiel’s self was still hovering in his mind every couple of minutes as Wilson’s mind was trying to get used to what he had witnessed.
He looks around again and House is on his left. They’re both oddly haunting the hall with their mind mind-boggingly still. Hoping for answers perhaps, or simply still in shock. House’s eyes are wide and dead-set on his phone, but Wilson knows he’s not actually doing anything on it. He’s just thinking too, he can feel it. It’s loud, and it takes half the hall. One can feel little in it’s shadow, unable to decipher behind the baby blues.
His heart is unsteady in his chest. Wilson isn’t sure when he’s been cleared off, but the nurse checking his vitals is long gone. And he’s unsure on how to proceed next. Should he accompany House? It would be the right thing to do, the decent thing to do after all of this. He’s clearly suffering by the lenght of his limp who nothing but looks aggravated the second no one is watching.
<< You’ve got to believe in that. He says softly, his voice hoarse and almost shy. Looking at the man’s harsh features of fatigue and fascinating underbags. The man’s hanging on the other side of the wall, back against the rail. Slightly hunched over himself as he’s lost in thoughts.
- Nope. House says, his voice is exhausted and rash, but there’s an ounce of playfulness that Wilson grips onto for comfort. House hushes away his phone in his pocket. Something about it cements Wilson’s feeling that House isn’t stable. Not anywhere near his usual self. He’s not blind, even if he isn’t sure if it’s pain or drugs, maybe even both.
- You don’t want to, or you can’t? He asks softly, unsure wheter he’s walking into an argument or a heart to heart.
House looks away from the elevator in front of them, and looks back to him. His eyes wavers down the scrubs of Wilson’s chest. Unable to meet him in the eye.
- Shouldn’t. >> House huffs back, his voice is slow and his shrug is small, the look towards his eyes as he does it, Wilson’s heart pinches a little.
Heart to heart it is.
House suddenly walks in the elevator and Wilson cannot help but follow him in a hurry. They don’t really share anything else during the ride, considering the rest of unknowing users with them. The air is warm and sticky. By the time they leave the elevator, they walk past authorities and staff who’s clearing the emergency.
House doesn’t touch anyone, or even give Wilson time of day, he walks off to the locker room with no regards to whom is following him. Obviously it is an attempt to get Wilson to do it. But it isnt before they get in the locker room that he gets it. House sit on the benches. The grunt of pain and annoyance, the slow rise of his hands to take off his scrubs.
It’s rude to stare, but he can’t help but notice the man’s hands. They’re far too flushed and raw pink. The man’s breathing is heavy as he changes his scrubs, Wilson tries to hush out of his own faster to maybe accomplish in helping House with his. He’s struggling and he’s not hiding it anymore. Wilson wished it meant something good, but he knew better than to ask.
<< You see it now, don’t you? Wilson says, softly and looking back to House’s puzzled face.
- It doesn’t mean anything. Meets House’s dry throat with little repartee.
Time seems to stop when he closes his eyes. Instead of the anticipated banter, or even bitter words, House rather stays quiet.
Wilson approaches under Greg’s heavy lidded stare.
And it takes only a second for him to know what to do. House watches him with a emotionless face, mostly still stuck in his inner-monologue.
- Let’s get this fixed. He says as he hints to the man’s injury.
- Fine. >> He hears House says, as Wilson is taking his hands, and gathering the damage. It sounds like a plead, almost begging in a whisper. Wilson can’t say he’s heard this tone of voice in his best friend many times before. It squeezes the heart in his chest, to even hear it, yet blind to realize the meaning of it.
It’s fairly silent. House is sitting still on the bench whilst Wilson puts a gauze on the area and profits from the sanitizing wet wipes to wash off the blood off his face. The older man looks far worse in the darker lighting, he realizes. It’s like life is drained out of his skin, its ashen and his eyes reddened. It looks far too likely to something they’ve been avoiding for a long time. Wilson lets the words he’d like to say die down in his throat, knowing the man’s pain won’t be fixed with words, or pills, or even himself. It’s always been much deeper than this, broken beyond repair. All he can do, is spend the time House allows on his hands, carefully taking time to share his concern and care into it. All he could ever do, really. If only he was allowed more.
When he turns the man’s hand for the palm to go towards the sky, that’s when he notices the blisters, thankfully cream does get a sigh of relief out of House’s mouth. He’s thankful even locker rooms have aid packs. It’s been quite useful to do it here, in the quiet hollowness of the room, perhaps the only place where they’d be found actually being vulnerable at such an hour of the night.
House’s face is quite devastating. Empty or stuck in a loop, he isnt sure. He doesn’t dare to ask, since it looks annoyed all the same. It could be a resting bitch face for all he knew.
Wilson lets his care bubble up into his chest, warm and anxious, but brings the man’s back hand to his mouth softly. Kissing softly his knuckle for barely a second, before looking up to him. It goes without saying that this is one of those things they’ll never mention again, one of those things will rationalize with his pain and that will go unnotice in a few day’s time.
House simply looks at him, not a single word is exchanged. He isnt sure if House is able to say much again. But he does not need him to, he lets the hand slowly hover down once he’s done. Perhaps that will get through his thick skull, reach his heart or anywhere near. He dearly hopes so.
House doesn’t speak most of the way back home, Wilson hoped he would once they’re both in his car and they’re two stops away from the difference between them. Forward and he goes to House’s flat, and left he goes to his own.
He could do both, getting the man home. But something is far off at the idea of leaving him there. But House’s bandaged hand goes on Wilson’s, that same one that was touching the gear stick, the same one he kissed earlier.
It’s all it takes for Wilson’s heart to flutter and his mind to go haywire. He goes forward without any hesitation.
Words fail them when they fall into the usual routine of him taking House’s key that is on his own set, to open the door. House leaves towards his bedroom, and to the adjacent bathroom within. And Wilson doesn’t need to guess to know what he’s looking for.
He walks towards the end of the living room, and right when House is out of sight, he pulls the desk by the wall slightly offset. He slides in a hand towards the wall, aiming for the vent, which in fact is still unscrewed. He takes the dusty pill container behind them and closes back the hiding spot.
By the time he reaches the bathroom door, he knocks sharply twice with his own knuckles.
<< Unless you’re drugs, I don’t wanna hear it. Lets out House’s voice through the sound of his piss hitting the shallow end of the toilet.
Wilson shakes the container with an annoyed sigh. In which House skips to wash his hand altogether to open the door.
- Gosh, is it Christmas already? You should have told me, I didn’t get you anything. House says when encountering him in the nook of the door.
Wilson shouldnt be reassured by how the man is more talkative once drugs are offered, but he is deeply. He tries to hush away the self doubt when he looks at House’s face under the bathroom lights. He looks tired and weary.
- Just..Shut up and do it. We both know you’d get them off the streets instead. He lies, unable to do otherwise under the man’s satisfaction.
- Taking all the fun out of acquiring illegal drugs are you? House’s grimace says as much as his words about the topic.
-Eh, It might discourage you from getting them then. Says the enabler, unable to remain unaffected by his effect towards the man.
- Says the one who’s pimping me opiates. Sure, knock yourself out. House knocks softly his shoulder on the way out, and Wilson tries to remain grateful. It is what he expected it to be, so why is he so goddamn worried?
- You need to eat something. Wilson says under his breath, following the man to the living room of his appartement.
- What, despair isn’t enough? Deadpans House as he falls onto the couch.
- House. I’m meeting you halfway, be a decent human being and walk yourself to your kitchen. I’ll cook us something. He bargains.
-I don’t think grilled cheese with habanero counts as fine cuisine.
House is being difficult, and honestly the banter isnt all that complex, but it gets to Wilson as he’s bringing himself to the kitchen.
- Well, thankfully your stomach doesn’t care, as long as it’s lined with any type of food. Wilson adds with a huff.
-I don’t care. Pills haven’t kicked in. If it’s done by the time I walked out of this couch I’ll give it a try. Just don’t get pissy if I throw up by midnight. My stomach’s busy processing the receding trauma.
House’s voice is rough, but his words are still mellow, some warning of the sort. Wilson gives in to the animosity within.
- You wanna talk about it or just mention it to win pity points? He asks with some passive aggressive under-tones.
- You know what? I’ll eat your damn grilled cheese if you leave it alone. Bargains House, and it feels like the scales are shifting. Wilson breathes in the air he’d forgotten to inhale.
-Is that what this is? He asks, slightly irritated. He asks with a knife full of butter waving in the air, the other hand on his hip. He caught himself mid-act and sighed. Don’t bother with the point you’re making. It’s not cute.
- Cute? I was more aiming for hot, because I’d get laid then. Now all I get is pity pills and a teary eyed grilled cheese. Pouts House before taking a swig out of a cigar who’d spawned in between the time it took for Wilson to go open the fridge and re-assess the mess in there.
There was no surprising him anymore, the man had managed to be on three types of drugs today alone. Wilson really wasn’t sure if he had enough to handle it tonight, somehow his faith was wavering himself. He’d seen things..That he needed to think about on his own. And taking care of House usually made that much harder.
-You’d be in no mood to get laid even if that was an issue. Nice bait. He snarks back, leaning into the energy being shared in the room, it’s a cold bite, but there is somesort of a challenge in it.
-Keep talking like that and I’m good to go. You’d be surprised what a good shag can do to dull the mind. House says as the smoke goes out of his nostrils and lips, Wilson tries to concentrate on the main task but fails.
-I’m impressed at your ability to quantify sex as another illicit substance to abuse, no wonder I’m the only one cooking in here. He can hear himself get worked up, but he doesn’t want to lose. Thing is, House’s real good at pissing him off. But he’s too emotionally all over the place to deal with it properly.
-I’ve had plenty of prostitutes cook for me before, I’ll have you know. Many things were dishwasher safe that day. House jokes before shrugging off the ashes off his stick by the nearest soda can.
- And you’re worried about grilled cheese? I’m sure they don’t meet a michelin’s star standards either. He can tell his voice is weak, but it seems to be enough for House because he doesn’t press it.
No, instead he taunted him, and Wilson couldn’t help but snort.
-There was this chick who made the best brownies you ever had. Maybe I should call her .
The idea of using drugs was alluring, not only to connect to the man, but also to lay off and feel all of this weight shed off his own shoulders. But then again, he knew better than get high with House on the wrong day. He couldn’t trust it, House could wait for him to fall asleep and get himself in further trouble.
- And we’d both be on the couch wallowing? No thanks. I don’t want your weed brownies. He spits off with two high brows, his lips thin and concentrating on cutting off the crust off the bread.
- Gosh you’re a downer. Spare me the spiel. It’s not like I’ll off myself whilst you’re asleep right here, you can relax. House huffs out.
This time, the man’s voice doesn’t feel the same, it’s off by enough that WIlson looks away from the cheese slices in the plate in front of him.
If he were to be fair, House would have said this before, unapologetic sure, but this cold and distant? Wilson frowned and walked away after turning the stove off.
- Beg your pardon? He says, in the hopes House will see it as an attempt to repeat in a better manner.
-What, isn’t it what it’s like for addicts? You can’t tell when’s groundhog day. I can’t blame you for caring, just like you can’t blame me for my weaknesses. So we’re stuck here, why not just accept it? He says with his whole body dug into the couch, his eyes looking at the closed tv.
- You would have killed yourself if I hadn’t stayed? He asks, his internal alarm blasting off. He tries to keep his cool with his words even if the panic rises.
What was going on?
-Do you actually want me to answer that, or is that one of those times where you want me to say what you wanna hear? He humours him, but its of incredible bad taste, Wilson feels himself wither away within.
-House, are you having a stroke? He says, walking in the living room with no goal or plan on how to attack this, but too worried to continue cooking.
-You wanted honesty right? House says, his stare now narrows down on Wilson, his eyes looks so grey and painfully large.
-Not that much! That’s an awful lot of pressure to put on someone. He says, waving his hands in the air as an outcry for help.
- Fine, but you’re the one who wanted to talk. Suit yourself. House said with a careless shrug.
-I don’t care about who started it. What’s going on? You’re being obtuse, rude and-and, Wilson’s heart started to beat faster, and his voice got higher and he’d felt like the room was now tilting back to House’s hands. Like he’d have no say and what’s next and how it’ll go down. It’s terrifying.
-Suicidal? That ain’t new. House really didnt spare him tonight, Wilson felt his gut sink.
- House! What is going on? You usually still have a glimpse of decency, are you mad at me for staying? He says, loosing the control over his volume. It felt like the more he was getting hurt, the more House was shutting down. It hurt, it stung so bad Wilson had a hard time looking away from the mess that was House on the couch.
- Not this again. House, honest to god, sighed.
-It’s like you’re saying what you think, and you don’t care wheter or not that hurts me in the process. The browned haired man attempts to say, to bridge the gap of his understanding.
-Ain’t it always been like this?
This time House looks annoyed, his hand waves in the air towards the rest of the room to emphasis his point.
- You know what I mean! You’re either trying to get a rise out of me, or you have no idea you’re doing it. Which is it. He says, now mad, his voice hitting the wall. The words were slow and annoyed.
-Wilson, relax. I’m in pain. I’m an ass. House gives in, giving enough of an inch for Wilson to breathe.
So that’s it then? He’s in pain and lashing out like a damn cat, is it really that simple? The brunette couldn’t handle the unstable ground, not after today. He felt himself wither.
- That’s not reassuring! He says, his voice vibrating in frustration.
He walks over to the man, walking in front of him. Looking down at his form on the couch, and he doesn’t budge. House grimaces again, using his cane to push his leg without much effort.
He sits on the table and looks at the man in the eyes. The can stays the bridge from the couch to the table.
- What do you want? House asks, annoyed at the lack of personnel space. They can feel each other’s heat through their thighs being so close. House’s slouched thighs are on each side of Wilson’s tight knees and straight posture.
- Is it because..Because I didn’t move in with you? Because we’re old, its normal to need space. I-
- You know better than to talk to me right now. At least wait until the pills kicked in. Warns House’s low voice, clearly trying to shut down further.
-But even then, that’s not you! He blasts off and he can feel his own spit make it’s way on the man’s arm. He can help but feel sorry for the both of them despite wanting to get to the bottom of this.
-I don’t care! Screamed House back with pain lashing out in his features. He got even closer by lowering his torso. I’m in pain! If you wanna tag along that’s fine, but you better not expect anything from me!
-It’s different. You’re different, I dont know what it is. Whispers Wilson under his heavy breath.
- How would you know? You’re only here to fix me lately. House grunts off, looking away.
- I was giving you space! I tought that’s what you wanted. You’ve been so distant since you took up the case. Wilson’s body tightened at the accusation.
-You usually try harder. You gave up. Instead you wait for me to come to you, and we both know my work’s gonna get in the way of that. I tried to involve you in the case, it didn’t worked! House says with a low and distant voice, it’s genuine but it still hurts to hear.
Wilson feels his lungs deflate like a balloon, he giggles nervously. Putting his own face in his hands, trying to push away the frustration and the lack of communication. So that’s what this is about? He can’t believe it.
- You could have told me, that you missed me. I could have fixed that. He says, voice soft and slowly coming down, it sounded more normal. Clearly better if they didn’t want someone calling the cops on them, again.
-See ? Fixing. Listen, I didn’t need you to guess it. I just hate that you stopped. The man admitted, scratching at his own beard with a look down towards Wilson’s fiddling hands.
-That’s not fair, you can’t blame me for something I wasn’t aware of. Deep down you know that, House. He says with a sigh bigger than the both of them.
- Well if you still cared you wouldn’t have stopped. House said, as if it made up for all of the shitty thing he’d been feeling since they’ve entered the appartement. Wilson really tried to reel in the feeling of irritation, he tried to harness it further.
-I stopped because I care! I thought you wanted me off your back. He admitted back, hoping House would understand.
- Well look at us now. I’m in pain and you’re acting like a worried midwife. House remarks.
- Quite the image. He stopped, slowly breathing in. Do you want me to live with you? It doesn’t have to be permanent, just until we figure what this is.
- I don’t know what I want, I’ve made that pretty clear. I’m. In. Pain. House hushed out under his breath,
- That’s the clearest you’ve been all night. So I’m bound to believe that. Wilson found himself to joke, to which House pupils slightly dilates.
- What do you want? He spits back, unsatisfied.
-To see you smile more. And I guess, sometimes to be the reason you smile more. Wilson said without breaking eye contact.
- We don’t need to live together for that. We don’t even need you to take care of all my wounds for that. There’s more to it. I don’t need you to be my dealer, to make me food. Don’t do it if that’s not what you want. If you do that, you’ll resent me and there’s no way any of us will smile after that. He says, stretching his neck towards the left, as if the pain’s gotten less. As if his tongue’s softer and heavier all at once.
- I know, but we could. I can. I-I want to. Wilson says whilst putting a hand on the man’s thigh.
-I hate how you spend too long in the mornings to take care of your hair. But I want you to do it because that’s who you are. And this is who I am. If you can’t stand your ground, the door’s that way. Greg said with a hint of light in his eyes. Wilson’s smart enough to know that’s a test he’s willing to pass.
He knows this is just House’s way not to blame himself for screwing up. And there is nothing more rewarding to hear than it, because it means House is willing to try something.
-It’s just because you’re jealous I’m not balding like you. He says with a shy smile, teeth out and his brow much more relaxed.
-I’ll have you know a widow’s peak is in fashion right now. House adds with a upside down pout.
-If that helps you sleep at night. He snorts, bewildered by the panic subsiding into a more calm state.
- Speak for yourself. The prostitutes says it adds to my charm, or was it my mom? House asks himself retheorically in front of Wilson, one hand on the couch’s arm, the other on his leg, so close to his own.
-The same one who cooks and washes you? There’s an oedipe joke in there somewhere. Wilson gives in to the banter once again, feeling slightly lighter. And perhaps even hopeful.
-Mentionning the reference doesn’t make it a joke. House rolls his eyes. You think you’re sleek huh.
- Well I’m short on supply right now. It has to do. He says with a softer stare towards the man, his lips slowly parted open.
House looks towards the pills on the living room’s table, his stare linger as he answers back.
-So am I. >>
Notes:
Hope you're ready to see that Greg/Castiel, because it's coming.
Chapter 43: -43-
Summary:
Ruby took something far bigger than Zachariah's grace. The lack of proof is Wilson's grief.
House ponders if suffering is worth the journey. Wilson saves the day, not without losing something in the process.
Notes:
AHHHHHHHHHHsjhadhdksajdsakhldh
Okay I got it out of my system. We can go on.
Did I say, Hilson? Because Hilson.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
House doesn’t know when the light snoring started on his right side, and no less when it stopped.
The weight of his body on the mattress is old and weary, in this specific instance, he feels every ounce of his age within these feeble bones. Perhaps it is not too bad after all, to have Wilson’s imprint on his left side. It grounds him to no bounds. The soft moist breaths within the dreadful silence of the bedroom, the occasional cars passing through the road that he can faintly hear from the living room’s open window.
The vague shapes and hues of the light pass through the room and paint the roof with stray lines by the nook of the door.
He’d have closed it ages ago, if it weren’t for the fact he’s drowning in the mundane comfort of having company. The drugs must have been weaned off for longer than he’d found them to be, for the morphine to hit so hard now. He ponders about how much-expired medicine is the utter contrary of alcohol, dulling with age. Quickly becoming empty calories once past prime age. Whereas alcohol poisons further ahead over time, to become rather strong and potent, spoiled. How their humanity is the boring mix of both.
It’s hard to not think about it all, how it went down. He can still feel the woman’s lips on his own, her doe-eyed stare with a knowing smirk. Such a memory stirs the more primal of his desires, something he has grown to understand much more easily than whatever this is now. The urges of sin, of past experiences, haunting hands on any part of his overgrown body. Any drugs, snorted, inhaled, swallowed, injected. Any of it he was much more willing to participate, over the raw fear of turning his head to see Wilson’s peaceful and familiar face. The one that screams of home, when he has never truly felt at home anywhere.
The lack of snoring and the burning under his skin, like molten lava passing through his epidermis, was telling him Wilson had passed from deeply asleep to watching him intently in the dark, the freak.
House did not find his fascination to look at him like this remotely reasonable. He was the older one, he was wearing a mug that wasn’t in the any least pleasing to his own delicacies. He was the hag, Wilson’s fluttering lids, naked face, sparkling skin of few wrinkles of worry was enough to take his breath away in the worst of lightnings. If anyone he’d be the one caught staring in the odd halls, the one caught staring in the most promiscuous of ways. Wilson, in short, had always been the more conventionally pretty one.
Instead, he was here, waiting for sleep to take him away, unable to move out of the deep belief he’s been wronged. The entitlement of belief is passing with a bitter taste on his tongue, it is much easier to swallow pills that he knows the properties of, rather than believing the bitter one that he let go. Hell, he’ll swallow anything in order to skip this. The morphine seems to be dulling the edge but does not take him out. Since Wilson provided his daily regiment, the night’s shade was not nearly enough to do the job.
And there he was dreading, rather charming actually. It’s his most poised behavior as of late.
<< You can’t keep going like this, something has to change .’’ Wilson’s voice leaned in, a soft whisper despite the words feeling like a cold wind blew past him.
- I’ve changed enough as it is. He says, almost believing the words as they come out, despite not sounding entirely sure himself. His voice is hoarse and slow, his lips heavy and his breaths huffed out by necessity.
- What made you stop trusting your team? It made all the difference, you know? Wilson added as he rounded his pillow, growing closer by interim. House watches the show of lights on the roof with the most blatant empty stare. His steel blue eyes were shallow, dug right through by his best friend’s observations.
- ’’ So perceptive, of everyone but yourself.’’ He quoted, words felt razor thin, and the accent he was conveying was much more feminine.
- Cuddy? Wilson asks, with a hint of amusement in his tone.
- Mum , He says popping his lips to mimic his boredom.
-She isn’t wrong you know. Bias can only get us so far. I used to be much more involved and now that I’ve leaned off, I wonder if you’ve gone off the rails. You usually don’t cut it this close with your meds. You stopped counting, you stopped caring. You don’t want me to be overbearing but you’ve been hardly keeping up with yourself. He said with a sigh.
- Wouldn’t you? He weakly said, not really feeling any banter come up. Mind thousands of years away from now. He just knows he’d really like to follow his weaker instinct, the one who still hasn’t forgotten the man’s kiss on his knuckles. The one that wants to turn on his side too, and meet him halfway. It is terrible to know he couldn’t properly kiss the man, since he cannot feel his own tongue, or lips. He moves them of memory, but he’s not sure he could trace the man’s last taste. His mind would run to the last of his actions, to recall the mint toothpaste or the pizza they had delivered a few hours prior. Nothing truly noteworthy, but enough to miss out. He cannot help much his body has been aching for recognition, perhaps Castiel’s blowjob lips or Cameron’s collarbones haven't helped.
- But really, what happened there? Wilson says, his voice is genuine and his body facing him.
- I don’t know. I think I need to go to Kansas. He says, eyes wavering slowly towards the man’s body, the shape of his hip within his vision.
-To meet Dorothy? Wilson’s voice says more than he does. It seems to say that he’s bewildered that House dares to play games in such an intimate setting. It sounds slightly off, due to the frustration of not knowing if House will be straightforward this time.
House knows he desires to be straightforward, but he does not find the courage to do so.
-Dorothy’s brother actually. He seemed to have most of the answers. I just had no time to ask.
- Wait- You mean Dean’s brother? Wilson said in disbelief. The one that vanished?
House perked up at the name usage, so the cat was out of the box it seemed. Wilson finally used the patient’s name instead of using the fake one. Perhaps it was an attempt to share, to trust each other.
- Castiel mentioned a bunker somewhere in Kansas. When you did your cute little psych eval. I figured if there’s answers about them, it’ll be there. Where they all live. The address was in the book i found in the Impala’s glove compartment. It feels like the only way forward. He pushes and pushes to find himself honest. Despite feeling the dread bubble up his throat.
- Before..You set your mind to this idea. I’ll have you know you didn’t give me a fair shot, even during my evaluation you were sabotaging the stage. Did you want me to fail? So that he would only trust you? Wilson asked, his voice feeling much sharper in a whisper.
House opens his mouth but the words don’t come out. Instead, Wilson continues.
And then after, you say you’re going to be there for the surgery, and then you leave me. We were under duress, but what more could I have done? You’ve not given a chance to your team to do their job, and you haven’t given me a chance to do mine. I think you just wanted to maintain your hold on the situation long enough for it to solve itself like it always does. But it’s not your usual type of cases isn’t it? There’s no epiphany, there’s nothing you can continue lying about.
-Wilson, I- - House starts.
-No wait, just..listen to me. I think you don’t want me to believe in him, because if I do, it makes your suffering useless, it makes all of those words we shared every since we met about how meaningless some of it is. Not as meaningless anymore. I think you don’t want to face the fact we’ve seen a miracle today. And that’s just because it exists, it won’t make you feel special anymore. But I want you to know you’re my friend, I-I don’t care if we’re both going to hell because of what we want, what we do. All I want is to know that we’re on the same side. You’re special to me. I don’t care if you practice magic tricks or medicine, I want you alive. I want you not relapsing, and I want you around. Is it that selfish of me?
House swallows in the night. He tries to slowly shift his weight towards the side, it does not go unnoticed.
- I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve got something, with this case. It’s big and illegal. I was keeping them away so they kept their jobs. I kept you..Away because I didn’t know what to do for it to finally make sense. I can’t make sense of it. I need to know where it leads. I can’t sleep.
- I think it makes sense already to you, you just hate it, because it’s not as vaguely philosophical as you used to . Wilson says with a hint of impatience. Perhaps House not looking back at him seems to convey a much different message.
-I don’t care about God. Real or not, it wouldn’t change anything. I just want..
-You want your suffering to matter, and if he exists, why do you suffer? Wilson spat.
-I’m afraid. He says, his head slowly turning towards Wilson’s. The man’s eyes are slightly sparkly and wet.
House sighs.
-I’m afraid for you. Wilson says as he puts his hand on House’s shoulder. It’s soft and warm, House looks down at it.
-I need to go to Kansas. He urges with some annoyance. Having to convince oneself and Wilson at once.
-How can I trust you? What tells me you won’t overdose somewhere in a hotel room? I don’t want to pack your lunch with a prescription and hear that it was the one that got you at the morgue. Coldly states the brunette.
-I want to know, if it means..
- At what cost, House? We already paid, you already almost died twice! Hasn’t it been enough? Wilson’s voice spikes through the whispered pained breaths.
-It’s not about..us. The kid is confused, he’s- He starts, unable to continue further.
-An angel, in the body of a forty-year-old man. Who seems to look at no one but you the second his boyfriend leaves. What am I to think of it? Wilson’s voice painfully echoes through House as the myriads of girlfriends he’d had once before say similar statements. He let himself feel the envy in Wilson’s eyes.
- Wilson..Why are you jealous? He says, it’s almost harsh but it's simply out of confusion.
- We..We spent a long time, House. We always been together in a way or another. But in rooms where he’s in, I don’t feel together anymore. And I can’t tell if it’s a fling. If he reminds you of yourself, or worse, of me. Because I’ve been standing here for so long..We been used to this for so long.
Wilson squeezes his shoulder softly, the fabric on House’s body crinkles under his fingers.
I just tought, What if? What if it’s another of your phases, now that you’re older. Women aren’t enough anymore, I’m not enough anymore. How could I even compare to an Angel? I wish it was only because he’s an attractive man your age.
Wilson’s tear slowly rolled onto the side of his cheek. House barely catches sight of it through the alarm’s red light.
You keep getting in danger, and all I can think about is when’s the time when I won’t be able to find you in the hall, or in the ER. I can’t tell what’s going to take you away from me, Castiel, Meds, your own special brand of recklessness. I’m tired, House.
House feels his throat dry at the truth, the words he hadn’t dared yet to put in Wilson’s mouth out of fear for them to be true. House finds himself slowly unable to stop the chain of action that starts picking up.
He catches the man’s hand on his shoulder, looking up the length of his arm to his face. Of his broken features despite the high eyebrows and shy smile. Of the wet spot on the cover where Wilson leaked through.
House slowly feels his fingers go through the soft hairs of the man’s arm, it slowly goes down to the soft meat of his elbow. Wilson’s doe eyes slowly catch sight of it, but he doesn’t budge. House explores the man’s shoulder, meeting the beginning of his nightshirt.
Any other day but today, House really feels like this wouldn’t have been entertained. Not only because he couldn’t justify being a bigger source of problems in Wilson’s life than he already was. How to entertain such danger and pain to a man who is nothing but good to him through thick and thin?
House ponders what it is about tonight that leads him to kiss him.
House’s face hovers still, so close to the man, his lips feel dry and empty. Eyes closed, heart on his sleeves. His breath is far worse, he gathers. But Wilson’s thin set of lips met his enough for House’s mind to break apart at how soft of an attempt this was.
They catch each other’s breath on the softness of their faces, and it’s of a thick and quick silence. One that really couldn’t be interrupted by anything in the whole wild world.
House stops deadpan before Wilson’s mouth catches his. He feels as if he’s too slow, too clumsy. His kiss is only a reflection of how lost he feels. And Wilson’s hand catches his face enough to reel him back in.
The kiss is barely of any tongue, merely moist lips and hot breaths. Slow and tantalizing play at hand, it’s hard not to swoon. He’d be hard if it weren’t for the current dosage in his bloodstream. He bets Wilson can feel under his fingers the swelling heartbeats, the fight of the morphine, and House’s want and need. The way he’s going to get heart murmurs just to kiss the man a second longer.
They part away to breathe, lips to lips. House’s face straight towards Wilson’s crooked one, meeting him halfway to avoid bumping their noses further.
House feels empty, unable to process the immediate feedback that is Wilson’s reciprocated attempt at kissing him. At how soft and loving it is. He might have investigated it, but he wasn’t ready to admit to himself it was real. He realizes he’s been waiting for so long, holding his breath forever for this to happen. It can’t be. Not like this. Why can’t he finally say it? Why doesn’t he feel like it was the right thing to do?
- You could have just told me you wanted to get laid. House says, and regrets it instantly as he says it. It comes and goes like a sharp sting, unable to stop himself from breaking this, too. His voice betrays him with a huff and the side of a smile. Unable to fight the dark urge to take back control over the situation.
It shouldn’t have been. He knows it’s enough to make him recoil.
His lips feel raw against the man’s he can tell without seeing him that it wasn’t the right thing to say. The body against his tenses.
Wilson backs off and the cold air rushes back in. House opens his eyes to see Wilson’s pillow hitting him straight on the face and chest. The man’s body language is off and cold, wiping away another tear as he’s walking around the bed.
- Fuck you, House. >> Is all he hears before the door closes with a loud thud.
House doesn’t allow himself to move away from the bed.
Not when he hears shuffling in the living room, keys, and the sound of the safety locks of the door being opened.
He only feels alive again when he can hear the door close behind Wilson, and only a hint of the stairs he’s stammering away from. He remembers to breathe once the man is long gone.
House meets again the dread in his stomach, this time his lips and heart are on fire to accompany the agony. All he can think about is Wilson’s eyes, wet and sparkly, the numb feeling of his lips against his.
He falls asleep wondering what was so special about tonight, what made him finally do it after two decades. What’s the use in caring if he’s unable to get what he wants?
He finally falls asleep when the city wakes up. Heart and mind away from each other in polar opposites.
Notes:
Ya boi secured a surgeon and also went to Maine in the same month. But hey I almost posted on the same date one month apart. ALSO AHHHHHH KISSES? IN A SLOW BURN? WHAT DO YOU MEAN KISSES?
Chapter 44: -44-
Summary:
Cas and Dean finally reach some sort of emotional conversation, despite Dean's shortcomings.
It's sappy, bring tissues. <3
Notes:
Did I say Hilson? AHEM I meant Destiel.
Yes, Destiel.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dean can feel the hovering, the slight distance in which Castiel holds himself near to the bathroom’s door. Despite it being closed from each other, they both wait in careful silence. The one that is infinite, so long it aches to hear every breath and shuffle from outside of it. He must imagine even the sound of his piss hitting the shell of the toilet must be bittersweet to the angel. He snorts, bitter.
Considering they’ve been gone, they will go back to being as far away from each other as can be. For as long as it takes.
Dean finds himself unable to meet his eyeline in the mirror during the endless fidgeting that is washing his hands. He follows by watering his own face out cold. He meets his own incredulous stare, processing the day he’s had, and perhaps all the time he’s left Castiel and Sam fend for themselves. He hates making this kind of choice, and the line of all the other choices following this one.
The only reason Castiel isn’t here, convincing him to stay with his soft features and unsaid words, is because Dean has basically barricaded himself into the bathroom in the hopes of making more sense of all of it.
There’s no answer that ends up satisfying him, so instead he lets Castiel come in. They are much tighter in the space now that the door closes behind them.
Dean looks at Castiel’s reflection as the shuffling of limbs stops.
<< I know I haven’t been fair. And I don’t have much time to make it up to you. Dean says with a sigh, shoulders heavy.
-I will take anything you are willing to give me. Anything to keep with me whilst you’re gone. Castiel’s husky voice breaks the silence.
-I know, I- I actually don’t know what someone like me can give someone like you. Never quite knew why you stuck with us for so long. I’m not going to get a happy ending, I can’t waste yours too.
-Meaning. I can’t create meaning out of thin air, Dean. All I can do is hope all of it means something. Being with you both means the world to me. Fighting along you.
- I guess you’ve been busy, I don’t think you’d have said that when we met. Snorts the hunter with a nod.
-All of it I’ve done for you. If you allow me to continue. Castiel’s words are every last bit of serious.
- Cas, You can’t say things like that. It’s..too much. He shyly adds, somewhat taken aback.
- Why not? They’re true, the most true I could find. It makes sense to me. He can hear the words, they feel so human, so much more attached to living. Less like this robotic version, they’d first met.
-Because it’s not right. I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t be everything you have. I’m barely anything I am. All I’ve-
Castiel’s hand reached for Dean’s leather jacket, weaving his hands under the nook of the neckline. His hands were warm and heavy on the man’s chest.
- You have been the worst, and best part of my long and laborious life. I am in debt to you. I always admired your kind but never understood how they felt. Ever since I fell, I feel much deeper than I thought possible. I know now why you walk through fire and blood to keep your brother. He is yours as much as I.
-Cas, please don’t. You’re making it sound like a goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I don’t get why you’re making us do this. I’ll be back.
- I’ve grown to despise them too . He chuckled softly, almost raw. His eyes grew wet and Dean’s followed by interim. They’re quite despicable. I sometimes wish I could hold you forever.
-When did you start feeling like this? I don’t think I ever saw you like this. What did they do to you? Dean said, sniffing out the thickness in his sinuses and the quiet vibrations in his throat.
- They explained to me what I was seeing, and they dared to called it one-sided. Perhaps God’s love was, but yours has been right here since we met. He says, squeezing the creaky leather on the man’s chest. I can feel it now that you’re here. He whispered.
- You know I can’t- Cas, why are you doing this? I can’t do this. He says, looking towards the door, craving to flee, and simultaneously avoiding this conversation altogether. Perhaps never mention it ever again.
-If you must leave, I want you to leave knowing fire burns in the both of us. And that no matter what you hide, what you fear if you were to kiss me. What will hurt, I will heal.
Dean finds himself deadly still. Feeling trapped in the man’s words, almost feeling ashamed and guilty of it. Sam had hinted at it for a while, and he himself knows it’s not nothing. But Castiel’s obliviousness has always been the peace he’d rather keep. But with Castiel actually acknowledging this, he realizes he’s kept the man illiterate for far too long. And now he’s being punished, it hurts. Knowing Castiel always had to settle for less than brotherly love because he’s a coward. Because it hurts too much to even think about kissing Castiel.
Castiel found the strength to talk again, Dean knew there was no way he could say anything to this, anything worthwhile that would be as fancy or as meaningful. So instead he watched the man with the uttermost confusion, paralyzed by the words. This time all of the torment that makes him unable to do anything but cry, the tears are singled out every once in a while by falling off his cheekbones and chin. He does not give them the attention they deserve, because it would be to acknowledge that Castiel is right and that he’s too hurt to give him what he wants. He wasn’t one for therapy, despite feeling broken ever since his mother died. But not being able to reach Castiel back and say words makes him see how important all of this is for them, and it hurts to deliver. It hurts how much he’s failing at this one specific thing that he’s done hundreds of times to a woman.
It’s one thing to play around with a guy on a case, to crush on a character of a show, and another to be met with someone loving you in a way you never tought possible. A way that he has never found alive enough to believe it’s real. So instead he backs one foot away, as if burned by the words and the raw love that’s still fighting him to the core. He really finds himself unable to reciprocate without the heartburn and the shame that runs deep within his skin.
-You can’t do that, say that. What if you just don’t know-What if you’re wrong and that’s just what you always known. You don’t know that. You can’t say that. You can’t promise me that. He stammers out, wind knocked out of his lungs.
Dean’s anger rose through, as it often is the only one he knows how to let be. He takes his hands and he fists Castiel’s shirt roughly. Meeting him hallways to them push him. Castiel’s leg cracks the bath’s wall when he’s being pushed against the nearest surface behind him.
Dean’s rage is withering away when the man doesn’t fight back. When the groans of annoyance and pain die in Dean’s throat.
- Don’t do that. You can’t do that. You’re dumping me all of this. And what I am supposed to do, I’m supposed to say, ‘’Yeah. Thanks, Cas. I love you too, man.’’ That’s not how any of it works! That’s not how-
-I can. I haven’t known anything more true to me than this. Castiel softly says, tears meeting his at the sight of Dean’s turmoil.
He hates every second of knowing what the angel looks like when crying. What it feels like to cry with him along, knowing he feels unable to do much of it. Feeling like a waste of space, feeling like he has lost too much time here. Feeling every breath and words he wastes here are going to break whatever relationship they once had. He’s terrified at the idea of remaining this helpless, and he knows where to go to fix it. Castiel’s delaying the inevitable because he cares. But he might as well set both of their hearts on fire by bringing all of this out now. When he’s dying to save Sam, dying to run away from this situation and conversation.
The longer he stays, the more he feels it.
Like he’s losing at his duty, at his promise to take care of his little brother. And realizing that even gets in the way of real love. Knowing that his fears get in the way of kissing Castiel. Knowing that he should and doing so feels so far away from each other.
He feels so much rage in himself, so much so that punching the man, knowing he wouldn’t feel it, would satisfy his darkening urges for release. But he makes his knuckles crack by pressure around the man’s clothes instead. There’s no way for him to smooth his way out, avoid it or even not acknowledge what grew whilst he was gone. He’s trapped.
He finally releases Castiel’s shirt with disappointment. Tight jaw and blood rushing back to his fingers, he moves his shoulder towards the door to leave.
Castiel’s steel grip holds him much tighter than before.
- No one is here. Only you and I. Castiel’s plea makes it into the shell of his ear, one last time.
- That’s the problem . Spits of Dean with frustration. I can’t.
-I know. Whispers Castiel with a sigh. His voice releases a breath of air that deflates his chest, and perhaps all the hopes he’s gathered at the fact he was finally confronting a problem pending.
Dean’s face slowly comes closer, its tight and his whole body is tense. Castiel's eyes look at his lips, and Dean’s eyes remain on the man’s stare. The hope, he can almost taste the tension of it, it pulls him forward with great rush.
Before he regrets it.
He lets himself go down, forehead to the man’s shoulder. The wet shudder he lets go of ends up in Castiel’s skin. Tension flows through his body, and leaks through the most shameless of places.
How can he be any role model when he’s crying on the man he’s supposed to be able to love?
How is any of it a real man, and how come he can’t lift his chin up to do what he’s supposed to do?
Castiel’s hand slowly comes to Dean’s neck gripping the bare skin of it with his hand. Slowly covering him with himself. Warmth spreads between them. Castiel’s breath tickles Dean’s neck, and that's when he realizes he’s never felt it before today.
Dean feels unable to look up and do the only thing he’s not allowed himself to do.
Castiel does not press him further, instead, he waits.
Once he feels able to lift himself away from the embrace for good, he mutters.
-I’m fine. I- Lies spill easier when his eyes avoid Castiel’s.
-No you’re not. Castiel lets go with a warm and loving tone, Dean’s inside is melting into acid by the sound of it. Why must he make it so difficult?
- Listen Cas, I- He says, breathing in to stall, to find his words. Whatever the heck can bring him away from all of these raw and fucked up parts of him that don’t work right.
- Are you ready to wake up, Dean? Castiel said, sounding much older than his usual self. The words resonate within Dean’s mind in such an open and hollow aftertaste.
-I don’t know if I can. He says with the most honesty he can gather. This kind of honesty he can deal with much better. Like preparing for a war, finding the weapons, and fixing them for the fight to come.
-Someone wise once told me, that one gets used to those things. If you are strong enough to believe in it. Castiel added as he patted the man’s hair, which was much longer than he’d ever allowed them to when on the road. Lots of things had changed, hadn’t they?
- I don’t want you in line of fire if you aren’t bulletproof. I can’t teach you all of it in a week. And I can’t stay. I need you to wait. I need to catch up, to..To crack my brain up and fix this.
-I don’t want you to die for your brother, come back to me. Stay awake with me. Castiel plead once again, hoping it would resonate deeper than surface. Dean wasn’t sure if it did, anyone else’s plea for his brother’s life weren’t usually part of the equation. Could he even allow Castiel’s choice to choose him? He wasn’t really sure if it was the right decision for the angel to make. He’d choose Sammy over him anyday, the kid was bright and could always get further ahead than himself. It’s terrifying to know Castiel’s not asking him not to care about his baby brother, but to also care about himself in the interim.
He hadn’t done that in so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to care.
-I can’t promise that, I can’t- He tried to convey, hands falling short in the air.
-If you can’t promise me this. I will bring you back even if its the last thing I do. Castiel whispered, his voice raw and shy. His eyes shining and he looked at him still.
-What did they do to you? Dean said, unraveling. Words falling short.
-Nothing you haven’t done to me first. >>
By the time they catch their breaths, the door knocks. Dean’s eyes harden and Castiel’s heart grow that much warmer.
Notes:
If any of you spotted the parallels with Chapter 22's scene with House helping Castiel after he fell. Ur a legend. I had him say the same sentence in a difference context because I love the idea of people all meaning the same thing under different words.
But yeah, Things are worst before they get better. And I want to be true to that.
Now Both Castiel and House aren't gonna be cheaters or skipping lanes to get further. And It'll propel them to be better partners to their actual boos. That's it, that's the tweet.
Chapter 45: -45-
Summary:
House's denial is thick through the silence. Cuddy's cuts slice deeper than expected.
Notes:
I keep 'em coming! Hot Hot Hot, coming right in.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
House didn’t really care how, but knew he needed to bounce back. And because a few players were out of field, he knew exactly who to annoy. Going to the source of his confusion, the one thing not allowing him to go further. She’s not to be trusted, unless last resort. But isn’t it what this is?
Without a full on badge that works, the lovebirds are out of field, unless dire necessity.
The team was walking off the soreness of the day before, and Wilson was the twilight zone.
So it wasn’t long before he found himself thinking about her.
It took a trip in an overpriced taxi, to get by the suburbs. One house out of many, but all the more familiar.
Sunrise wasn’t too far behind him. He could almost feel his lips still tied to Wilson’s, a haunting revelation. Perhaps a little too much sabotage was worse than cock-blocking himself. One thing he knew, he wouldn’t be the one calling back first. He knew that was petty, but what else was new under the rising sun?
His visit to her was abrupt, enough to notice that the car is parked, but when he comes in with his copy-key, she’s nowhere close. Her half hybrid car making somewhat of a statement with the green letters on the license plate. That and the bright blue wrappings covering most of the model. He gets into a somewhat daydreaming state at the idea of the Impala and Cuddy combined, maybe with some sort of lacey, see-through matching set of underwear. It’s only when he gets to hear water spray in the bathroom that he realizes he caught her before her shower. He considers creeping in and going, but he votes against when he feels his leg nag him. Lack of sleep and the diluted meds making a mess out of his ambition and stalker side. He decides against and lets himself roam free away from the bathroom.
He finds himself sitting in her sofa, smelling her decorative pillows, playing with the tv on mute. Nothing to alert her of his presence just yet. The echo of silence is dreadful after all. He cannot bring himself to enjoy what happened. The decoration is painfully mundane, almost unable to make jokes of it, it is dreadfully boring. All of it.
He lets himself think about anything else but the night he’s had. Which is very little when he hears the birds from the kitchen window, see the News reporters speak about how cold of a winter is coming.
It’s like the world itself is begging of him to analyse last night, but he holds on for dear life to the busty news reporter with a yellow blazer.
The clock on the wall let him know neither of them was late to work yet. Not that he needed to go.
When she walked in, her wet dark strands of hair was making darker shadows on her long-sleeved shirt. Her big bright eyes startled up at the sight of him, a slight shiver and startled yelp got out of her throat unwillingly. She put a careful hand on her own chest to settle down the heavy rhythm it must have gathered up by the mere sight of House on the couch. If she’d walked in any sooner she would have seen him nose picking, a real bummer. Her chest heaved up and down as she put both hands down on the island counter in the kitchen.
<< House! What is your problem?’ ’ Cuddy said, her voice annoyed and still surprised.
- You clearly made cash out of the big financial crash to get one of these. He whistles. Unable to look away from the wet droplets on her neck and forehead.
He slowly hushers up from the endless pit that is this overpriced couch, through the sea of comically small pillows.
House barely makes it by the kitchen by the time she answers, Cuddy sway on one hip, as an indicator of her negotiation stride. It’s kind of a dance, a trance, House doesn’t budge, merely limps closer to her like a busted puppy on the way to the slaughter house. They’ve done this too many times for him to be wrong about this. He knows her as much as he knows himself. Or at least, that’s what he tell himself when he catches sight of her worry-lines. She’s beautiful as ever, he notices.
- I’m sure you didnt crash in, to talk stocks. What do you want? Because of you I can’t be late, too many mouths to shut. Her eyes remained open and intent, pretending to be cold, but her shine was betraying how concerned she was.
He huffed, skipping through the chase of the flattering sexual tension and the endless dialogue of denial they’d been able to gather up. It almost makes him smile to feel this stimulated, Castiel has kept him dulled out. One tends to forget expectations when spending most of his grey cells with a timeless piece of ass.
- I don’t know, will you re-instate my license or should we both wait for the time where you’ll need me to have it? He says adding a hand on the counter closer to hers, barely giving a glance to it before looking down to her.
-If i didnt knew you better i'd think you’re threatening me, House. Careful there. She smiles, but the slit of her eyes ends up more or less serious. House nods his head towards the left with a slight hunch.
-How good do you really know me? I mean, you preferred to ask my team about my wellbeing instead of me. I’m starting to get jealous you know. House realized he was not below passive aggressive today, good to know. Perhaps the lack of sleep and Wilson ends up gnawing at his nerves more than he’d like to admit out loud. His fingers was gnawing at the dent already in the marble counter, he emphasized his action with a perked our bottom lip.
- That’s my job, whatever you’re trying to imply is going to sink before reaching any standing. If you came just to barter for your license, go at the courtroom, there’s a plea on it. They’ll probably give you some volunteer work for the fees, and we’ll both be back to normal within a year. She sends back, unbudging. I already had enough of Wilson’s advocacy for you, I can’t have you starting too.
She looks away and opens the fridge to put some space between them. Pulling some orange juice and a glass is seamless as she keeps somewhat of a watch on him, maybe even keeping him away from the utensils drawer. As if silverware cut deeper than words, they both knew better than to speak of it outloud.
-Gee, makes one want to get away with murder. He sighs, looking at the way the juice flows into the glass. It tickles his mind for the few seconds it hold on.
-I don’t got all day, is that all? She says, putting back the container in the fridge, House takes the glass by the time she comes back. He goes to drink but softly stops, smiles.
-You look beautiful in the shower. He then drinks a sip, and the taste is great. Not that he’d expected someone so greatly paid to acquire the cheap stuff. But it does wonder for his scratchy throat.
-You basically trained me not to believe whatever you’re saying on the daily. She crosses her arms with a slight tut of disappointment when he actually drinks from it some more. My door was locked, don’t try me.
- And so was the window, thankfully that one is translucent. You wouldn’t believe the things I see from up here. He looks down at her with a smile, putting down the glass half empty for her to enjoy.
-Is this where I laugh and pretend to believe you? You look like shit, if you actually want to get forward, you’ll have to tell me what happened. And optionally before I walk out the door. I bet that’s the most nutrition you got all week, you better finish it up. She hits bullseye and House barely flinches his fingers away from the crack, nowhere near satisfied.
- I need an extended leave, paid. I’ll be out of your hairs for at least a week. Maybe more, we’ll see. He bargains, playing with the glass, making the liquid pearl up the rim without spilling. Or almost.
-Finally found a reason to live outside the hospital? What’s her name? She snarks, taking a wipe to clean his mess, in which she finds herself snorting at the irony.
-Dorothy. What’s his? He says pointing towards the two glasses of wine by the sink, barely a day old.
- Not your business, what shall I tell the detective when you leave the country? She retorts back with a side eye.
-Kansas is hardly out of bounds. I can switch states under investigation for the damage I’ve done, under amendments of good US of A. Now if I leave the country? You can then snitch on me whenever the mood strikes you. He pops the letters with his lips, making a crisp and rather moist sound with the hollow of his mouth.
- Don’t think I didnt notice you pulling in strings in my name. You could have lost the whole ‘’I’ll be eternaly grateful’’ to the prime minister. It’s not really my style. I can’t catch you again going through my emails. You see how a detective wouldn’t exactly see it like the teenager rebellious act it is. Her glares sends warning down his spine, but he simply waves it away with carelessness.
- I was already way gone before you even caught glimpses, hardly caught if you ask me. You now know who’s your real friends then, if he didnt realise he was speaking to a fourty year old man, everybody wins! It’s not like you expected a genuine relationship with such a pompous asshole. He’s nowhere near his prime, unlike you. He huffs.
- Because of your shenanigans, Dr Jaime Conway’s coming to inspect the hospital next month. I better have you be back and ready at my beck and call if I let you leave now. You’re up to the police’s hands if you’re not there when he walks in. She leads in with an hopeful stance, her eyes looking him up and down.
-We both know you have more to gain by not having me around until dust settle. Good luck dealing with a flustered Wilson, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be real peachy. Make sure to feed Foreman once a week, and to pet Cameron once a day, or did I have it backwards?
- I know how to handle your team without you, House. I employed them . She holds his stare for a few seconds longer before blinking away.
-I just can’t stop thinking about someone forgetting the door open and them walking out and getting lost. He pouts, unable to look away from the crease of her laugh lines.
He starts to walk away, his leg getting in the way of the theatrics. His hand slowly hovers close to the wall as he turns towards the entryway.
-Hey House? She says with a slight more of a serious undertone, he looks back behind his shoulder to catch her face much less playful, perhaps even scary.
- Yes, Dear Wicked Witch? He puts on an accent to please the mistress. It comes out grimly and pompous.
-Don’t hide a criminal under your hand again, or you’ll go with them when the cops come knocking. I can do with emails, but there’s no way I can save your ass if you hold one out to murderers.
House almost stumbles at the words, unable to avoid the inevitable feeling sinking down his guts. He cannot help but test her knowledge, one last time.
-I can be hardly to blame Adler for coming in for surgery, no one died. It’s a premedited attempt of murder at best. He bargains, swagger rolling off his shoulder.
-I’m talking about the Winchesters, House. You’re lucky you’re here now or you’d be held in contempt. >> House froze at the words, unable to process nothing but the words.
She says them with kindness, as if she’s done him a service, saved him by the nook of his pants.
House cannot help but feel panic fill his lungs, he barely maintains a straight face during their face-off.
As much as he loves her, he feels the hate sink into his bones. He maintains his cool as he leaves, unable to answer anything that would further put him in trouble. His hands shakes through his pocket to get a grip on his flip phone.
By the time his sneakers hit the frozen asphalt outside, Chase’s number is on speed dial.
It feels like an endless amount of snowflakes before the call finally connects. He doesn’t let him any words in edgewise. His voice is rauchy and hoarse, he doesn’t even recognize himself.
<< The patients-, get them out the hospital, bring them somewhere, anywhere, I don’t care. Text me the address, I’m on my way .>> He says with a sharp inhale before hanging up.
Notes:
I initially thought that this chapter was too short on its own, but doing chapter 47 ended up proving me it's better to cut it here.
I feel like I'm going through the anime thing of everyone being attracted to House, but thankfully there are Dean, Chase, and Foreman to disprove that theory. Bisexual House is too dangerous to keep single when it comes to writing him, because I'll have to sexualise the shit out of most people around him he's attracted to. Which let's be frank, the list is rather short of whom House isn't attracted to. He's sapiosexual for most of the show and everlasting on the innuendos.
So if you wondered why Cameron and Cuddy are sexualized through House's lense even though they arent the main ships being explored here? Well House would still be interested visually and sexually in them even if he won't make any attemps to follow those urges seriously. Also helps showing he's not only men-centered despite this being a Men/Men fanfic.
I'm dying to have one encounter between House and Castiel real soon. Just know I'll be excited as fuck 'til then.
Cheers!
Chapter 46: -46-
Summary:
Chase gets an important call and practices caring.
Dean's choices were already done before they walked past the door, it took too long for Castiel to realize what it meant for the both of them. Perhaps he'd been the fool, to believe there was such a thing as Dean's equal.
Notes:
*Insert butterfly meme* Is this angst?
When push comes to shove..what will be of them both?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When your boss calls you with the uttermost betrayal in his voice, panic settles in.
Chase hadn’t questioned it when cops came earlier, he figured they could be there for any settlements, a case leftover from the ER. Any reason but the one he’d gathered by the tone of House on the phone.
It was dumb, how he’d have not given it further of his time if it weren’t for the call.
He’d had been waiting for House to actively give him purpose, hands-free from the charges that were on half the team. Besides being there at the scene of the crime, the fact he had passed the sober test to even get in the ER had been a lucky guess last night. The fact he hadn’t contributed to anything and had been knocked out cold had been humiliating, but he still had a job. So he considered himself lucky.
But it was short of a miracle that his paws not being in the case ended up giving him a free pass to be working today. He hadn’t even given thought to passing in his work card into the machine before scrubbing in that night. The fact he’d been there, had been forgotten, slipped away in between the cracks of much bigger problems than he was.
Was it that immunity House kept referring of? Cuddy’s soft hand on his shoulder telling him to go home and come back tomorrow? He could get used to that.
The sight of the leap of faith of one’s angels had him grim and perhaps more than unsettled because of that too. The hovering and hopeful stare of Cameron’s wet eyes has not left his mind ever since he’d last seen them. The warmth of her face in the nook of his elbow, head slowly moving up an down to the rhythm of his chest. The first night they’d spent in the bed with each other, not shagging or sleeping.
To this day, Chase was persuaded House was keeping him on the sideline for screwing House’s other attendee. Which he had no way to prove it because he hadn’t told the man yet, but there was enough side-eye action to understand it was all in between the lines. There goes being chivalrous. He wasn’t sure which foot to stand, House’s usually all in for getting laid. Quite the misogynist and the blowback of the double standard doesn’t catch up to him. Chase can’t quite pinpoint what House thinks of himself and Cameron being an item, not that they officiated it anyway.
With no way to make offense, he lay in shadows, finding ways to contribute without full merit.
Getting the call this early in the morning had startled the urge in him to do the best of his single task. Which ended up being much more difficult than anticipated. For one, he’d already drawn up what now seemed to be Dean Winchesters and Jimmy Novak’s papers to be discharged against medical advice. No fake name anymore, perhaps that should have been a warning on its own of the danger to come.
Both of which signed very eagerly with grunts and a few words. It was procedural, clinical even. Chase couldn’t help looking at the blonde, he’d been stuck in bed for so long, weeks. And there he was walking it off, he wasn’t enough intrigued to let everything else go, but his interest was piqued. No atrophy? For what little Cameron had done of physical therapy, she wasn’t this good at it. No way.
Castiel, or rather Jimmy, was hanging by the side. Observing them both interacting as if it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. Lips slightly open, cheeks flushed, eyes staring through them thickly.
Chase could still see the blood hanging off the man’s lips, the bruise blossoming on his neck near the birth of the jaw, he could not really believe what had been told to him. What Wilson said last night, but seeing the man intact was really driving the point home. There was something supernatural about them both, and he really couldn’t fathom it with his own belief in religion, so instead he remained suspicious with a hint of hope. Looking away from the man’s eyes as if they were burning him.
He’d barely gotten Dean the rest of his personnel effects, that of keys from Wilson’s ghastly office, some type of machete or bowie knife, and a few he didn’t bother noting down. The two men had been hanging in the room’s bathroom for some particular reason he was not privy to. If they were picking up any of the tension they’d been dragging for the whole interaction, they were probably getting it on.
As far as privacy could be in such thin walls and glass panels, Chase graciously flinched within when hearing the loud thud in the bathroom. It fell on deaf ears as he scoffed to himself. Scratching off the last of the paperwork. Angels can get laid too, right? What fun there would be in heaven without sex?
His smile faded in half a second.
From the chair by the bed, he noticed the passing of cops. And something innate to him screamed ’WRONG!’ at the sight of them being so uncasual and brute-like. They were eyeing around, suspiciously enough for Chase to feel somewhat threatened. The mere idea of them in the bathroom near up with Cops felt somewhat like oil to a well-lit fire. One of them had heavy hands on his belt, and something didn’t fit quite right.
He noted two and two and realized perhaps that’s what the call was for, and why House had sounded so rash. It had been only a dozen minutes since the call, nothing shy of long. Then again, perhaps that had been overestimated.
He slowly slid out of the chair and left the papers by the bedstand. Slithering in the quiet silence of the hospital room. Making his way to the door and knocking sharply.
The past-comatose guy, Dean, ended up being the one palming the door to open it wide. Chase catches the red under his skin, around his neck and ears as it fades. And the dilated pupils, and heavy breaths as they both pass him by.
They definitely were doing something punishable in many states. Thankfully, this one wasn’t part of them, so Chase nods towards the room, insisting they leave the comfort of the bathroom.
Surprisingly, Dean seems eager to catch on, he comes into the room in a rush. Not long before he’s followed by his angelic shadow.
Chase finds a way to the glass panels to lower the blinds, as softly as one can without raising suspicion.
<< I got some bad news, but no way to deliver them. Oh, and I got your prescription for the dizzy spells, remember to keep yourself hydrated because if you take them dry you’ll get bloated and headaches like there’s no tomorrow.
He delivers casually as he palms the bottle of pills in his coat to give send them off toward the blonde one. Dean catches the bottle with an arched brow, sensing the erratic behavior of improvisation. He looks back to Castiel with a puzzled look on his face.
-For your stomach aches, if they ever reach over a six on the pain scale Cameron showed you. You come back right here, or better you call us the second it shows back. Understood?
- Clear as the sky. Castiel muttered before looking back to Dean’s side. Looking back at him with the same suspicion.
- Why do you even care? We’re getting out anyway. Dean asked, frowning. And what’s with the bad news, nothing truly is simple in this hospital, is it?
- Well for one, I have an oath that tells me to help even the ones who don’t care enough to be helped. He waved off the two men with a shrug, walking past the chairs to them to talk lower. And for two, when we take House’s cases, we treat them like our lives depend on it. There’s no buying loyalty, even if we question his method by the second. Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else right now, but he asked me to get you guys out of here. So that’s what I’ll do. He huffs out a deep breath under their stares.
Bad news are, Coppers seems to be searching for someone and I think it might be you both. So I’m going to walk us out of this room, you follow me by the hall. And I’ll have you enter a older elevator we stopped using two years ago to deliver the food to every stage. The both of you should fit just fine. But the second you get to the main stage, you better get out fast and quickly. The rest is out of my jurisdiction. They saw my face last night and I’m afraid I’ll just attract attention if I get both of you out. We’re not in the habit of following discharge patients to the door you see?
-Paycheck must be hella wide. If you’re willing to get busted for House’s shit. I don’t get it, but I’ll take it. Cas, fuck the plan, we need to bail. If you stay you might get busted too. His voice sounds both uplifted and annoyed, Chase finds it to be rivaling Cameron’s aptitude for optimism even with dark humor within. He snorts. Castiel takes a step into the conversation, literally, holding his hand out to Chase with utter seriousness.
- Robert, yes? Your sacrifice is appreciated, pay Allison my respects. I hoped to bid farewell to her myself, but it seems things are taking a turn for the worse.
Chase finally takes a look towards Castiel, after avoiding his stern eyes for so long and it’s like he finally sees him for what he is. Undeniably gay and perhaps a bit too much into old speak. Something within Chase settles in the wind and he smiles, secured. It doesn’t take a lot to see that the man will miss her, with the way he speaks, each word feels like an apology. Perhaps he’d been wrong to be anxious about this earlier.
- I will. She..Kept talking about you, she liked you too, I can tell. We should go before they realize you might be still in here. He says leading the way to the door.
-Yeah, let’s go. Time’s ticking. Dean says under his heavy sigh. >>
The crisp sound of stress echoes within as they all walk seemingly fine towards the end of a hall, turning on a right before reaching an older cage-like door.
<< Oh crap. This better not close on us, or else you’d be the first I’ll dig back up to settle scores. Dean says as Dr. Robert presses the button to unlock it. The man waves a finger in the doctor’s face to warn him. Castiel observes but faintly smiles from the corner of his mouth at the childish behavior.
Castiel passes by Chase’s side to enter the now-opening doors, which ding to announce full capacity. He is not fully certain this is a good idea, but this will do. The improvisation of it all feels empty and new, unlike anything before. Perhaps this is of a new path to take, must he burden Dean of his presence, whilst the man fights to find his brother?
Castiel finds himself wishing he’d always chosen to do this, the exhilaration of the choice made for him makes him giddy.
Dean shrugs Chase’s shoulder as he passes through for effect, the doctor rolls his eyes and closes the caging behind them with a snort. Castiel finds them to be ridiculous but does not let the thought reach them aloud.
- Good luck, fellas. Leave a good word to House for me. It is the last of him they hear before the door closes behind the cage of rust and steel.
-So, we have to find Baby and get the hell out of here. We can’t raise suspicion or they’ll know. So whatever you decide to do..Don’t be..you. You know? Don’t touch things, don’t talk to anyone, we’ll walk straight out. Understand? I’m sick of this place and I don’t want to see it ever again if we can help it.
Castiel feels all the air that had built up in his lungs deflate at the words. Dean’s stare is forward, not looking at him, again. The words sting deeper than he can explain, it sinks into his guts.
- Yes, Dean. I shall not interfere with your plan. He politely humors the man. Trying to remain unbothered.
-Good, I think he said we’re ages away from the bar. So we should go south, once baby is full. We’ll hit the high road. No time to lose going back to it if it’s too far back of a turnaround. Dean explains, almost talking to himself. Making it up as he went.
- North, the bunker is pure north . He says softly, the doubt creeping into his mind. His voice remains calculated and almost shy.
-We’re not going to the bunker, we’re going to see Crowley, last I’ve heard of his grunts he’s near New Haven. It’s just a four-hour drive, going to Kansas would take us over two days. Dean orders, this time there’s irritation under his voice, perhaps from being challenged that early on.
- But Dean, you’ve been gone for weeks, he could have moved location twice over since you’ve gone under. It’s not wise to go put time in a city he could no longer be in. And demons will not show us much if they think of us against Sam’s cause. They will see you as nothing but a challenge. Castiel pleas.
- Well good, I am. I’m going to be the last challenge they’ll encounter. How’s that for losing time? One’s bound to talk. They always do. He says, fisting his leather jacket with anger.
- I don’t understand, why must Crowley know what Sam has been up to. Ruby hasn’t kept up with Hell since she’s been enthralled with Sam, she is walking on her own set of rules. He asks.
- Cas, what went up your ass? Crowley has intel, I know because I made a deal with him at the bar. He didn’t pay up and I’m going to take it up to him directly. Dean says with uttermost seriousness and purpose. It is frustrating to realize that was his plan all along. To visit Crowley, with or without him.
Castiel tries to deny the idea that if Dean has done it before, what was to say he had any shame in doing it again?
- You did? Before or after you prayed for me to save you? Castiel’s voice turned sour, his throat burned of all of the things he’d die before saying. But instead, he meets back Dean’s stare from his shoulder.
- What is your problem? My brother was going to sacrifice himself for some type of demon succubus, what else did you expect me to do? I had no choice man, time was running out. You know what happens, decisions have to be made, even when we don’t get time to think it through.
Castiel’s throat is dry as he bites down the words that fight to go up, he remembers the feeling of blood making its way up the canal. And he swears the feeling is this much familiar, but this time it’s towards Dean. Dean who always knew, who wanted to do what’s best. Dean who listened to reason.
Dean who would have asked him for help first. Dean who’d wanted to do the right thing before getting down and dirty.
-You-You struck a deal with a demon over asking me for help? I was-I, Dean. I almost lost you. He said, feeling like he’d already said too much. Said how he felt too much, perhaps at the expense of Dean’s conscience.
- We didn’t know that! I didn’t know it would go this bad. I took a chance, and it failed, and now I’m having to deal with the aftermath. If you have a problem with that, I don’t know what to say, Cas.
Crowley has been our last resort for some time now, and you were up there doing whatever you do when you’re not with us. What else do you want?
Castiel feels blood rush in his ears, but the ding of the elevator seems to bring in a whole other ordeal of issues he doesn’t want to deal with.
Dean starts walking fast, unashamed, and with a casual swagger of his. Castiel follows suit, tense and square, fist tight. Overstimulated, and deeply betrayed.
He sees it now, the jealousy in the deep of his stomach. Dean’s mask is back on, nothing seems to bother him as he walks through the humans, he is without fail going forward. Castiel feels himself slow down, the tug on his heart cannot be hidden, he fails to focus on anyone around. Instead, his eye sight gets gradually worse, his vision blurry and his mouth opens agape. He must need air to live now, doesn’t he? Will the stolen grace full his lungs with air once he forgets to inhale? He waves his hand in the air near the desk of the secretary, he can see the door in the periphery and Dean near it. Unaware that Castiel’s slowed down to a crawl, his head agape to all of the noise, the voices. He seeks peace, but what is peace if Dean Winchester isn’t praying?
What is he, but a broken radio, unable to go forward? He stutters a sound, and it startles the secretary out of her machine. She asks him something rather worried and polite, Castiel cannot lie. He dearly wishes words would compel themselves to go out. But instead, Dean turns his head to catch sight of him.
<< Cas? He says, from so far Castiel can barely hear the word, all he can see is the shape of his name on the man’s lips.
It doesn’t take long before one of the security cops catches sight of Dean backing up to Cas’s struggling state. Dean swears so loud within, Castiel feels it like a prayer.
Dean’s eyes grow anxious at the sight of the cop making a call on his handheld transceiver radio. It rings into Castiel’s brain with a dull echo, ringing makes him grimace under the resonance.
Dean hesitates, he barely moves a foot that other cops are coming in from the hallway.
Castiel takes two steps toward them both. He heavily swoops one hand in the air towards the three men, his palm in the air in a motion of a standstill.
- Run! Castiel’s voice is rough and hoarse, it breaks off in the air, through the voices. An invisible wave of sound pushes the three men in uniform on their asses, one hits the wall in a gnarly angle towards the side.
Castiel barely catches the end of the punch Dean gives out to the first cop who had been the beginning of their trouble. And before they can say anything, Castiel’s eyesight is blurry once again, this time from tears forming.
- Leave! He says, and the word resonates so hard Dean’s face doesn’t budge. The man seems to hold on to the hope that there’s time now that every cop is on the floor. But the glass behind him falls under the resonance of Castiel’s voice. >>
That’s when Castiel ignores the cops to watch Dean run away. It hurts, but way less than the deep pit in his stomach he encountered in the elevator. And it bothers him to no end.
Castiel doesn’t really recall when Dr Robert appeared behind him, a hand on his back and another on the desk by him. Castiel had been using it as a crutch to stay upright as the tight sharp pains of his stomach sizzled.
It burns, and tears flow down his face without any sobs.
<< Hey, Hey, Jimmy. It’s fine. We can get you a wheelchair, we can-
Castiel feels air come back to his lungs, which must feel like fire simply for existing. It takes him everything to start a sentence, after the use of the grace, exhaustion wipes him out.
- No. I need- I need-.
- Dean, I know. But he’s gone. And you’re in no shape to run too. C’mon. Chase says with disappointment.
-House. I need Gregory. Please tell him I need him. His voice cracks under the realization, that he’d rather want to see the man he’d just met over the man he saved from hell. >>
He couldn’t help but think. Humanity’s price seemed much steeper than he’d bargained for.
Notes:
Well fuck, that one ended up packing more of a punch than I prepared for. Don't mind me, ducking from the gutter of Castiel's existentialism.
Toodle-loo! See you in the next one!! :D
Chapter 47: -47-
Summary:
House and Chase meet up, and Castiel tries House's new brand of medicine.
Castiel's banter is slowly picking up.
Notes:
Your boy has been on recovery leave since his surgery on the 21 of December. Shit has been hard through Christmas, but I've daydreamed about posting a new chapter ever since November. I'm now cleared to lift heavier things and stay seated way longer than previously. Which means more writing time ahead! This one is on the shorter side, but I figured it was a good way to signal I'm still here and still care.
Enjoy! I binged watched three season of House to update my little brain during recov. Maybe that's why the snark is crisp on this one.
Castiel can def take it though, so we're in the clear ladies and gents.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
<< Want one too? Bubblegum is the only one left though, it’s on me. House’s mouth pouts around the straw before pulling in the liquid. Watching over Chase’s overtly expressive eyes, who didn’t hide his disgust at the flavor aforementioned. The product hit the basket with a dull thud. House shrugged and limped forward with Chase following with the hand cart. Your loss.
There wasn’t much to it, the man was hovering like a mother hen because he’s discovered enough interest to care. But now that they were leaving soon to the fantasy land of Kansas. Way too late to be of use. House shrugged it out like water off the ridiculously attractive bumps on the camel’s back.
-Back to business, I set him up for an IV by hanging it on the safety belt holder. Just remember to take it out before going outside or else it’s bound to get messy. And he’s already had some paracetamol. There’s the rest in the glovebox. Continues the blond with utter seriousness.
The man waits at the end of the aisle with weight shifting to each leg in intervals. Nervous but hoping to hide it. House frowns when the man finally pipes up again. Unprompted. It’s like this invisible wire waiting to be pulled before the man gives up and spills his opinion all over aisle five.
You know that basically makes you an accomplice right? Letting him leave with Winchester was your best bet to get rid of the whole problem altogether. Go back to normal. How is any of that helpful? Now you’ve got an alleged criminal on the backseat of a SUV.
- You’re right. I asked but the Rental didn’t have faggot-mobiles anymore. He deadpans before looking at the pharmacy aisle with due interest. Guilt doesn’t look appetizing on your face, crocodile dundee. You guys call me obsessive only when you find it adorable don’t you? I’m not going to drop it just because I’m benched. House sucked on his front teeth with disapproval.
-How’s continuing to play with fire because you’re bored any better? You’re deflecting. What have you got to hide that’s bigger than them being criminals? You’ve been shady since the start. Are you covering up for the attempted killer in OR? Throws the Australian man, a pure shot in the dark to get a rise of him, which fails rather quickly when met with humor.
- Yes. All balding men over forty made a special club, you should be concerned. Foreman’s next but your luscious locks won’t hold in forever. He pipes down with oogling eyes towards the younger man. Grasping at the air with his clawed hand, the emphasis on the old and decay.
-Genetics has me covered. Chase shrugs with the confidence of a young man in his prime.
I know you tried to keep us away not to incriminate us, Thanks. Contrary to belief, I do want to keep my job. He huffs with a slight smile, a flash of those perfect white teeth. But I didn’t sign for this.
- I should probably get back to the bum in the backseat before they break my window because of his sad puppy dog eyes. Did you leave a slit in the window or I’ll come back to glazed glass? Not really the way I intended to hotbox it later.
-Fine, avoid it all you want. I hope you know what you’re doing. With the police involved, it could be literally anything illegal with you. Chase’s last attempt at getting him to talk falls somewhat flat after the initial surprise at his observation skills.
- Sodomy isn’t anywhere near illegal here, the fact I have to remind you is blasphemy. Good to know your faith is unwavering. House puts back a bottle from the aisle and looks up to Chase with a pout that could not care any less. Relax. I got it covered.
They’re both two different brands of idiots. Now I need you to scram. I don’t need Cuddy’s fist further up my ass or I’ll gag.
-If you tried any harder I’d actually think you care about my job. And also, if anyone asks, in between the both of you, I’ll be saying he’s the one giving it to ya. He scoffed.
-Right-on. True power comes from letting your girlfriend finger your bum on your birthday. The last time I asked her, she said none of them can say kangaroo quite like you. He says putting one fist hovering on his own chest in solidarity. Finishing it off with a peace sign in the air towards the younger one.
Chase rolls his eyes. House limps up to the cashier with an unabashed smile. With a mild annoyed blonde on his heel, it cemented the hint he was the one paying for the man’s cart. Proven right in a matter of seconds when the older man turned and lent an empty hand towards him. The blonde bent to get his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans without a fight, rolling his eyes irritated.
- You wouldn’t say no to a cripple old man, would you? >> House says with a knowing smile, unapologetic.
By the time House reaches Castiel’s spot in the car, the man is half asleep on the backseat. House knocks sharply on the window, which grants a groggily stare of death as he sits on the driver’s seat. Someone’s in a good mood it seems.
He pulls the headlight mirror down to see Castiel’s gorgeous stubbled chin, watching him wince as he slowly lifts himself up. House ponders on the ability to be attractive whilst showing signs of pain when unaware of oneself. There goes one hand on the shoulder of the seat as Castiel finishes the maneuver. House catches himself staring when the man’s eyes meet his.
After putting the grocery bag on the passenger seat, House throws a green capri sun his way with vigor. It lands with a sharp slap of a sound.
<< Wakey-Wakey. I’m bringing you something for your delicacies, M’lord. All the toddlers in the 50-meter radius are going to be red with jealousy at the way your blood sugar will rise. Might not be the only thing that’ll rise.
-I am not looking to attract toddlers. Groaned Castiel with a dull stare.
-Phew. The trenchcoat in the trunk was hinting otherwise. House started the car with little effort, keeping his stare on the front window, at the boring parking lot. I’ll stand corrected.
An Australian canary told me you rehearsed a remake of Carrie back at the hospital. I need you to finish this within the next ten minutes, if you need to pee, then I’m wrong. And you haven’t been using yourself like a rather dumb battery. Which if I haven’t said it yet, is a terrible idea for lengthening your longevity.
- No need for tests. I did not hesitate to use grace to give Dean enough time to flee. It’s not a secret. But, I will still drink the beverage. I am quite thirsty from the sun's extended exposure.
- The juice is going to debunk my diagnosis by inflating your bladder like a balloon. It’ll confirm to me if you’re depleting your resources every time you do this if you don’t need to pee it out right away. House looked towards the side window with mild annoyance.
Having to share the steps to the patients was rarely his favorite part of the day. Not when Castiel couldn’t rebuke with any medical knowledge, it wasn’t his scene. It’d like be arguing with a husky. It might amuse him once or twice to make him sing, but might prove challenging for a road trip.
-Are you? Wouldn’t that be more efficient back at the hospital? How do I- Castiel’s innocent tone rather dulls out at the prospect of obtaining said liquid from the pouch it’s in. He looks as dumb as they come, it's rather charming in a peculiar way.
- So that Dean knows where to come get you when he decides he wants you back? In your dreams baby blues. Just take the stick and stab it, and then wrap those juicy lips around the stick, I’m sure you can figure out the rest.
-I will not stand here and stay to be a victim of your mockery. Castiel grunted, annoyed.
House gasps and looks back alarmed to Castiel in the backseat.
-You must be really sick, who are you and what have you done with Dean’s idiot servant? You must be running with a fever. Quick, you’re going to die!
- Are you using Sarcasm to highlight how obnoxious you think I am? Castiel says with a frown, unaware.
-Pretty much. I’m surprised you caught onto that. What changed? House says as he turns himself back towards the wheel. Puzzled by the new hint.
-You told me, and I didn’t listen. I am trying to listen now. You warned me he wasn’t himself, that he was sick. Castiel says with a harsh undertone, guilt rises towards the end and House wants to vomit from it’s self-righteousness.
- I didn’t. I told you to make choices for yourself. You let go of all of that at the first sight of danger. Him being sick has no bearing on if you choose to put yourself in the line of fire again the second things turned sour. If you keep being an idiot, don’t say it was in my name.
- Do you think his sickness could be affecting his judgment? He seems so unlike what I remember.. He says ignoring the superfluous.
-Maybe you spent long enough time away from him awake to forget the difference. Maybe the spell wore off and now you’re facing a cold harsh reality. House pops his lips before drinking from his caprisun.
-What spell do you think it could be? Castiel asks rather genuinely.
-I’m putting my bets on Alcoholism. Quite a potent spell that one, it makes you bigger of an ass than prior ingestion. Have you ever heard of it? House said rather daft.
-He said he was fine, and that in life, alcohol consumption is normal. Encouraged even. Sam somewhat disagreed but never enough to stop him. I assumed it was human behavior I wasn’t privy to.
- And did he tell you you were a pretty woman when he fucked you from behind too? Bought you flower laced panties and called that thing in between your legs an enormous clitoris? House said with a oomph, rather annoyed at the display of stupidity. He slowly rolled down the window as the words came out, watching the old woman passing with her rolling cart towards her pearl Cadillac. She looked back towards them with a worried stance, gripping the handlebar tighter. House grimaced.
-He didn’-. Castiel answers quickly, flinches, and then re-directs his stare towards the rear mirror in the middle of the windshield. Yes, he lies. But he’s done none of those things before. These are new. Like.. Abhorrent Symptoms.
- Symptoms is pus, fever, green pee. He’s a self-righteous asshole, it’ll discard you because you’re currently not the highest sacrifice in the list. Ever think the white lies, to someone as gullible as you prove my point further? If he’s able to lie for these, what says he hasn’t lied on bigger things? That snowball gets pretty darn big once it’s at the end of the hill. How’s the bladder?
- It’s nonexistent . Castiel said, almost pouting. Perhaps thinking about his next smart repartee.
- A real medical marvel, then. Perhaps that was the problem all along. Missing bladder. You just solved the case. House parodied with a snort.
- You will antagonize every step I take, won’t you? What fun is there in making our social interaction this much harder? Sighs the angel on the backseat.
-Old men like me get bored, ever heard of Brokeback Mountain? House asks, popping his lips as he puts his transmission on backward. He starts putting his right arm on the passenger seat’s back as he pulls out the parking slot.
-Is that near Kansas? The Winchester never mentioned of its existence before. Castiel asks, voice timid but intrigued.
-Checks out. Leave it to straight men to fail to mention the classics. House shakes his head disapproving before slowing down and switching his gearshift forward .
We’ll rent it at the motel, you’ll love it. >>
House says before revving the engine. Castiel doesn’t peep a word again, lips tightly shut around that juice bag. House finds himself slightly less lost once he’s added Castiel’s self-awareness to the list of things he’s going to explore.
They get on the highway not long after, and Castiel’s tiredness shows once again when his forehead starts rattling against the vibration of the window. Sugar not affecting the man narrows his search for an answer.
Maybe it won’t be entirely dull, House tells himself.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! <3
I bet you didn't expect an update anywhere soon. I wonder how long is too long when it comes to posting chapters. But I'm flirting with those lines too often to count. Thanks for coming back! Someone I enjoy said we'd def need some constitution saves for 2024. And I can't stop thinking about that joke. It felt way too real. Hope you guys are safe and that you're doing okay.
Chapter 48: -48-
Summary:
House and Castiel play the question game again, this time with information pertaining to their self-interested paths.
Castiel learns and House gets spooked.
The road trip has barely begun.
Notes:
I'm getting in another one whilst it's relatively pain-free. Have a nice one!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
House bites into a fry with dull boredom. He watches Castiel’s face as he drinks from a black coffee.
<< Really? No pee after four of those? What are you made of? He dares to ask as he looks away to the dinner’s unusual emptiness.
- Let’s play the game again. Castiel pipes up, definitely affected by caffeine and meds. House figures. Why else it would matter to him?
- We’re one wheelchair off, Speed McGee. The older ones flows back with newlyfound interest.
House arch an eyebrow at the energy Castiel bring into the discussion but doesn’t fight it with the same fervour, instead he challenges it with facts. Perhaps hoping to remind them both of how old he is. Facts are he doesn’t really find himself guilty enough of shutting Wilson down and he could make Castiel hate him even further to make two wrongs one right. But the man seems already such on a shit streak that he can’t help but pity him.
House faces the fact they are doomed to play a game. Because of his own boredness, as unappealing as ever, and Castiel need to put his new energy into something not to burst from inside. He feels slightly unhinged under the blue stare.
- No, the other one. I have questions and I want answers. I am suspecting you will make it hard for me to receive them without entertainment. He explains as he opens bags of salt, trying to imitate House who much earlier took the sugar ones for his own coffee. That is three cups ago when there was still any sugar pouches left. House lets the scene play out with slight disbelief.
He doesn’t need to set the man for failure, he does it himself with no help.
- You know, some questions are actually dumb. You’d better not take that huge a risk. He says with an overtly discouraging tone. Hoping to push the man into doubling down. The mind games are strong on this one, at least one of his hemisphere is enjoying itself at Castiel’s demise.
The other one is dreadfully reminded of how soft Wilson’s lips could have felt if he hadn’t been high on an overzealous amount of oxy in order to counterattack the stale expiration date of said pills.
- I am amenable with those terms, my need for those answers are further than your need to ridicule me.
Castiel proudly answers as the salts actually get into the coffee, House forcefully keep a straight face through it all in order to see the man realize his own mistake by taste. Which might end up giving him far too much credit, he now realizes what kind of man he’s actually conversing with.
It was one thing to lay him off to Cameron or Wilson, perhaps visit him every once in a while. Another to actually do mundane tasks with him and realize how daft socially and culturally he is in normal settings. It’s quite a marvelous gem, he has every right to abuse it, and yet he just looks. What is wrong with him? Anyday he'd jump on this like there's no tomorrow. Now he has to be coerced into it? And out of everyone, even the cherub noticed? This is clearly backwards day.
- Bets are on. For what it’s worth I’ve been dying to get a straight answer from you since we met. I’m almost certain twiddle dum and twiddle dee would say we’re pretty much even. He says, watching Castiel stir the salt in the liquid. It has now fused enough for it to be noticeable in taste, even more so considering the man had put two pouches in. But Castiel barely blinks through the sip he briefly takes.
House blinks with the impression it isn’t as deep as he would like this to be. It’s all surface value, which Chase was right when reminding him he could have let it all go the moment Dean woke up.
He isnt sure if he regrets it or not. There’s too much at stake he kept putting off, he better deliver before coming back home to papi. Papi being a new endearing term for Cuddy’s coochie, he’d just came up with during Castiel’s self-immolating prank. Trying to re-ignite the fire within himself to care.
- Are you referencing to the Winchesters? Castiel asks, suddenly interested. Eyes high.
- If the hat fits..then they can wear it. My turn. He says, rather quickly not to be fought on about any llonger. The shrug is enough.
- Wait that’s not my- Castiel barges in before House continues longer.
- Too late. So, did you or did you not find yourself wildly attracted to my glorified nurse? Popped any boners during those hand towel washes? He asks, moving his head towards his own palm. Lifting it by having his elbow near the napkins.
- Cameron is too much alike Hannah, I do n- Castiel starts.
- The game is pretty much kaput if you lie, you know that right? House interjects.
- I did grow affection towards her, we are very alike . The angel sighed, preparing himself mentally to continue his answer under House’s interested stare.
My vessel..was reacting to her hands on my body much more than I wanted it to show. Sam told me, that women on earth are not interested in unwanted erections. But Dean added that sometimes it’s hard not to react to attractive women and that getting a physical reaction to their appearance can be quite the compliment. I am unsure which I felt for her. Is that enough?
- Thanks to you, Foreman owes me twenty bucks. Go on. He says as he brings his phone in to deliver the news to aforementioned staff. Twenty bucks is more than nothing, he’ll gladly take it. With how the rental was pricier than he’d wanted.
- Do you really think Dean’s behavior isn’t a symptom of something underlying? Castiel asks as he stirrs his own coffee again, this time it’s enough to entail his worry about the man. House fights the urge to roll his eyes.
- I think if it was, it would narrow his condition to a few. And none of them fits the criteria yet. Find better questions before I get incredibly bored to death. This game is made for scandals, don’t ask medical ones to me unless you’ve found a way to actually matter in a differential. He says, it seems easier for the man to understand because he somehow nods. House almost counts it as progress.
- So you think it could be, but that because he hasn’t shown more sickness you cannot make a choice? I deduce you are still seeking then. Castiel’s mouth then ruined the moment by continuing on the topic, seemingly forgetting the nod in which it was agreed to move on to better gossip. House’s shoulder’s sag and he melts off his face with a groan.
-Have you ever had anything up your ass or is it just your personnality?
- Is that rhetorical? Dean does those. Castiel asks rather genuine.
- It was, but now I want to hear what you’ve got to say for yourself. House adds as he slouches into his chair.
- Fingers. But it does not affect my day to day ability to remain pragmatic. He admits.
Castiel says it which such a straight face that House’s brains stutters at the lack of machismo filter the man had shown. He kept knowing there was no boundaries, and yet he was taken by surprise every once in a while by the amount of shameless behavior.
This man was really walking among earth unbothered by the idea of having a man fuck him in the ass, or finger him. Even less if he’s under or on top, Wilson would find it admirable. Truly the new Harvey Milk.
-Unwanted fingers? House asks with a eyebrow perked. Twisted pinky or shallow thumb?
- Wait your turn. Castiel mouths off House’s ulterior words with a slight satisfaction. Why are you against the supernatural? What if it is against your own survival?
-If it’ll get me killed, then I was pretty dumb to begin with. I adapt on reasonable terms. House makes a ball out of the napkin near him. Hoping to hit the man with it without being reprimanded.
-You answered the second question but not the first . Castiel notices with interest. His eyes gleam with a malicious sugar rush.
-You tried to ask two, I picked. He dumbs it down in order to go forward, which seems to work because Castiel blinks it away.
-Specificity isn’t attractive on you. House lifts his from the newfound paper ball, crinkled in between in fingers to look at Castiel’s face.
That was definitely a lie, House didn’t need to note the man’s slight caffeine sweat and dilated pupils. One could attribute them to his wounds or the caffeine intake, or the car ride.
But the logic didn’t fit. If it wasn’t that attractive, Castiel wouldn’t have begged Chase to go get him. That’s his whole schtick, people pay for precision, to find what peculiar way the world has to screw them over that no one else sees after seeking for ages. He’s certain that parts of him appeal to the little confused boy in Castiel that wants to be told what to do. They wouldnt be sitting here if it had never been attractive to him.
-You asked to play, I’m looking to win. He doubles down with a more hoarse voice. Eyes fixated on him until the man looks away. Spoiler alert, he doesn’t.
Why haven’t you just kissed or shagged the man? Why wait for him to do the first step?
-That would implicate I have human knowledge on the right etiquette. I’ve been doing what I was supposed to do, until I wasn’t. I am figuring this part of the process, it has been rather difficult. What is appropriate and what will anger him. Castiel lays down the words with hesitancy.
- You’re omitting the answer, should I do that too for the next? House says, narrowing his grasp on the game.
- He wasn’t ready. I didn’t know what to do next. I was afraid to ask. Or try. He didn’t seem to enjoy proximity, the contrary, he was rather pained each time i initiated intimacy. I did not feel attraction towards his incomfort. Castiel says, technically not lying.
His face told otherwise, House added the dry swallowing and the fidgeting with the stirring stick as indication Castiel had been waiting for Dean to do the first move. He wants to be woo’ed by robin wood.
- The fingers, plurial, what’s the story there. He says, not digging further in hopes to keep the information for later.
-Your employees asked to put a tube to look inside of me, one of them offered to put a finger inside of the cavity to show me what it felt like when I asked for a scale to compare the insertion to. I had no familiarity in the matter, they offered to help me. I was concerned it would hurt the vessel further to push something inorganic through the area. A finger was a viable organic option to provide. Castiel seems to justify his own story much more than asked, House snorts.
- Now I’m dying to hear which one. It has to be Cameron isn’t it? It would collaborate with the boner. He says before throwing the ball in the man’s part of the table.
- No. Now that I answered you twice, I get to ask you twice. He says with an emboldened stance.
-You know what, that’s almost fun. You’re learning. House huffs with a side smile.
- What is wrong with you? Castiel asks with quite the positive outlook, his voice empty of any negative connotations, it was almost strange to hear this specific sentence with so little passion. After hearing it so often in colleagues, clients and anyone he was an ass to, basically.
- You’ve got to be more precise, and yes that counts as your first question. He brings a finger up to expand on his point.
-Why do you seem so unhappy about everything you do? Even when you make human jokes I feel deeply uncomfortable. Are you performing acts of masculinity to prove your superiority?
House can definitely hear Cameron’s influence in the last sentence. It really started to make him think Castiel had an underlying munchkin disease by how easily he was swayed and repeated behaviors and beliefs, then again so did children when they had no opinions yet on important matters.
-That’s..You know what, figure that one out yourself and tell me when you know. He says when Castiel picks up the ball and looks at it.
-Then I get another one. I like this game better. He adds with a smile. House’s lungs deflate a little at the sight of the man’s smile. The last one was on drugs after he’d came back from getting hurt. The man really didn’t smile all that often did he.
-So, what it’s going to be? He says, agreeable for the sake of keeping the game light.
- How would you kiss a man? Castiel asks, rather concerned.
- As opposed to a woman? One little bird implied you didn’t have a social etiquette. He says, testing the ground of his instincts.
- As opposed as to not kissing a man, I need to know what is to be expected. I would have preferred to discover it otherwise. But I am left wondering. The annoyance is dripping in the man’s words, House nods to the right with a slight pout.
He stops talking enough for Castiel to look back at him. It’s almost as if Castiel’s question was dead-on, bullseye on what House had been reliving since kissing Wilson. There’s no way he knew, nor cared. He was just living his first homo on homo love. House couldn’t get himself to piss on his parade. Castiel wasn’t trying to get him to talk about Wilson, because he had no interest in those affairs, nothing to gain. And he also didn’t know what would make House’s gears turn, he’s simply hit a homerun by sheer luck. House puts both of his elbows on the table during Castiel’s inspection of the ball.
His staff would have died to hold that much power onto him, and there it was in the doofus’s hands.
House really found it all to be whimsical, unreal.
- When daddy and daddy really likes each other, they get real close, and their lips meet. And if they get horny and hard, they make millions of future babies inside of the anal cav- You know what, this will confuse you further. Let’s say it’s something you learn when you do it, like fighting. You did that many times with cheap Clint Eastwood right? House catches himself when Castiel started to frown, seeking simplicity.
- I fail to see why fighting. It’s necessary to fight when you are about to die. You cannot save yourself with kissing men. Castiel states so seriously than House does the exact contrary. Just to fuck with him a little longer.
-Have you ever tried? House smirks. You know, it sometimes comes in real clutch. You should try it.
- Perhaps I should kiss this man, Castiel says as he points towards behind House.
House’s taken aback by the question until he sees behind him. Then it becomes much clearer.
- He’s just choking on a porc chop, it’ll pass. Kissing him won’t save his airway, it’ll actually restrain it further. Don’t be an idiot. Give him a minute. He complains.
- In the time it took for you to make this, he has been choking. His daughter has tried to provide water to suffice, it hasn’t been working. Are you not a healer? Castiel asks as he shows off the ball now flat into his palm.
- Not when another fat man in a chicken shop gets some fat stuck in his other misaligned tailored fat. He says as he pushes on his chair lightly to look back better. The man’s lips started to change color.
- Does bias usually get in the way of your healing? Castiel says, starting to look concerned for the man. They can now hear him cough by their table.
House can almost hear a decent medical point being made by Castiel’s mouth.
Was he actually going to leave the man to fend for himself on the sheer belief he was right?
House waited a few seconds to maintain eye contact with Castiel.
- Does no one knows how to do a hemlich, relying on brown sauce much? House loudly states to get someone going. Dinner seems empty enough that the only one who notices is the waitress who’s going towards the nearest fixed phone on the wall of the bar. Castiel observes him with fascination and perhaps a little confusion.
House gets up when he realizes no one is actually going to help the man if he doesn’t do something. He begrudgingly walks up to the table and limps towards the man who chokes under his daughter’s horrified breathing and panic.
Two instances makes him question his prior assumptions. The woman is not near young enough to be his daughter. And he wears a bracelet which is very cuban by the chain, and very telling by the snake around a rod on the thickest part of the band.
- He’s allergic to peanuts isn’t he? He ask towards the panicked woman whilst looking at the fried chicken on her plate and a steak on his. She nods up and down in urgency. The man falls off the chair under both of their stares.
Give me your knife. And you, He gestures towards Castiel who’d followed behind. Go find a straw.
The blueing on his lips tells me he doesn’t have epinephrine near. Then emergency surgery will do, you better not be hiding a DNR tattoo under that hawaiian shirt. He says as he lets his cane drop down while kneeling to the man.
He opens the man’s shirt and passes a hand on the man’s throat, starting to feel for his adam apple under all the fat. He starts to feel the indentation under the pulp of his fingers but it’s faint. It’ll have to do. At least he’s sure he isn’t hitting the adam’s apple but somewhere under.
- Are you sure you know ho- She starts, worried sick.
- I’ve seen this on TV. Trust me. He says as he slices for half an inch on the man’s hairy beardneck area.
Castiel comes back with a comically long and round at the end milkshake straw. House looks at it’s pink hue for half a second before perforing the man’s skin, fat and lung with it. It only takes a few seconds before the man takes a sharp inhale through the straw, it sounds slightly bubbly, perhaps the milky airway wasn’t ideal, but he was breathing.
He still couldn’t believe Castiel had actually listened to him and found a medical differential to oppose him on. Munchkin was out of the race. House found more interest in Castiel’s evolution than the man’s gargling words on the floor.
-An Ambulance is coming! Screams the waitress from the wired telephone. The swirls fighting to bring her back to the post.
-You..You saved him. The woman whom he had been eating with says.
-You both will be safe. Castiel says as he slowly puts a hand on the woman’s shoulder.
-I-I don’t know what to say. We don’t got enough money to buy a new epi-pen since ours expired. She adds ashamed.
- Keep the old one, the expiration date is way off by four years. It’s a gimmick so people like him need people like them. House says as he brings his can up, using it to lift himself up, he waves towards the sound of the police nearing the parking lot.
-I-, Are you sure? We let it down the drain, it was-
-A very expensive, and useless drain cleaner. But what do I know, I just saved your husband’s life. Tell him to keep wearing that fake bracelet. It just saved his life, I would have assumed he was just a wealthy pig that you tried to kill because you want a good retirement fund. He coldly states as he takes napkins on the table and brings them to the man’s straw to help sponge the blood. He then takes the man’s hand to have him hold the straw, in stupor the man doesn’t dare moving when House lets go of the straw. Making the stranger responsable of his own state.
She looked conflicted as she both took in the words and the insult.
-It isn’t fake. She faintly said, her face slowly draining all colors beside red. Her husband slowly lifted his stare towards her in utter confusion and pain.
- Keep telling yourself that. There’s no magical peanut sauce in his rib-eye. But you’re right, I’m a doctor, not a cook. He said, before limping away leaving Castiel with them both.
Castiel said something unintelligible from the now created distance, but then he catched up quickly to House. No stomach ache it seems, adrenaline must have hit him the second he’d seen blood.
- How did you know what happenned? Castiel asked when House reached their own table.
- She wanted me to know the jewlery was not fake over thanking me for her husband’s life. Being poor was more relevant to her. Draw up your own conclusion, class is over.
He leaves change on the table, rightfully annoyed at the way medics starts entering the dinner with urgency. He grabs a handful of cold fries in the plate before disregarding the current scene.
House desire to walk away much faster, but then a medic comes closer, sees they’re physically fine and takes a step back.
- Hey you,
The medic’s interest wins, he comes closer and starts faking interest in invisible wounds on House.
No not that, House waves a hundred bill to the man with no reluctance.
Send that man to Princeton general, Dr. Wilson will take him free of charge. And tell the fatty to stop eating off his wife’s plate. Fried batter has peanuts.
Castiel follows rather quickly once he hears House’s statement.
- You lied. Castiel said naively.
- Yes, I’m actively lying so you can cross reference it to when previously Dean lied to you. House says as he walks in the parking lot.
- That..is also a lie . Castiel says with a hint of confusion through the fog of adrenaline. Is there anything you can tell me that isn’t a lie?
- You haven’t peed in an hour, it isn’t an infection you’re inflicting on yourself. It has to be inflammatory. You should sleep in the back again for when the adrenaline wears off. And pee in the jug, not on the seat when all of those liquids start running out the good old urinary track .>> House states blatantly before opening the back door.
Both halves of the world are crossing, he’d rather not continue whilst he’s ahead. So when he starts driving again, he puts the music as loud as it gets. Hoping for some sense of peace with Wilson’s lips in his head.
Notes:
I can add another medical cliché to the list, yes yes. But then again, it's not often done with a doctor who doesn't care about being kind to someone who just almost died. Which makes it quite a fun thing to write.
Also I just love the idea of Wilson receiving that random redneck looking wife and her husband with a hole in his throat and having no idea why other than House just being House.
Will def mention it again bc it has too many snorts out of me.
Chapter 49: -49-
Summary:
Amuse bouche a la Wilson, by a fidgety House.
Notes:
There's a cliffy in this one. And next chapter will be abt what is happening to Castiel during that call. I'm usually a fan of letting the chapter tell you. Show don't tell, but I feel like I'm avoiding confusion if I warn y'all.
Bear with me for the next part, it should be out within a reasonable timeframe, whatever that means to any of us.
Cheers!
Chapter Text
<< This is my gesture of obedience. Said Castiel as he lend out a 2 Liters containing halfway of his urine towards House with a unmistaken feeling of pride.
It’s met with a quiet disbelief, and perhaps slight amusement. House looks away to avert his emotions to be broadcast to the man so easily. Spending hours in a car with him had him reeling from inside. It reeked of longing and homoerotic subtext.
- Gee, thanks. Now get out and walk. It would be useless to come all the way here if you got a blood clot and we have to go back. He threathens to husher him out quicker.
- How does a blood clot naturally occur? Naively asked Castiel with a glint in his eyes. He looks up to House who’s casually taking the pee container and waving towards the rest of the parking lot eagerly. He throws it in the trash the second the man’s back is seen.
House huffs, the mood of the ride has slowly transcended cocky and unreliable, perhaps Castiel got tired of running his own fumes and he’s basically a copycat of what he thinks of House. Or maybe House just wants to see some of himself in Castiel so that he’s not dreadfully bored anymore.
It would be easy to overthink it, instead he lets his imaginary Wilson loose.
- Nice try, House spoke under his breath.
Castiel stopped moving in front of the automatic doors, House already knew what he was about to say before he said it, it was right on his face when the man looked back. Like a incredibly intense third eye popping out of his forehead.
The man had no prior knowledge of what he was expected to do in a gas station, he probably just stay in the car, House supposed. Or at least, it looked painfully awkward. House didn’t bend and simply talked louder.
- Go in the store, put a few things you think you’d like on the counter. And if I like what you picked, we’ll take it. Go wild. >> House says with hope the younger man will take the hint that he needs to be alone.
House’s skin feels icky and downright exhausted, his limp is downright not accommodating considering the fact it’s been sitting on five years old seats for a few hours.
Castiel’s body relaxed as he walked off, House huffed as he started to take the gas pump. He pressed the button once the pump is balls deep in the car.
Letting his mind go wild, he started to pull out his phone. Figuring this was a good time as any. It rings.
<< Are you awake and if so, what are you wearing? He asks with a sultry voice towards the phone.
- House? Wilson sighed, Please don’t tell me you’re out of the country. We’re miles away, it should be the same time for you.
- And it’s late at night. Your point? House said, feeling the growing annoyance under his nails, eyelids and tight lips. Perhaps calling Wilson had been a bad idea. He could still hang up, taunt him whilst doing so.
- You make too much sense for the hour it is. What do you want? The brunette asked with the yawn half caught in his voice. The man had been sleeping instead of overworking, House didn’t know if he should add it to the list of things that doesn’t seem to miss him.
-You called me first. Usually you don’t answer that late unless you think it’s.. About me. Awkward, that it actually is me. I can hang up now and save us both the embarrassment. House banters, even if a huge chunk of himself actually believes the words as he says them. It shows when he puts a silence in between each sentences, filling up the emptiness within.
The silence is dreadfully thick until it registers as a joke to James and it’s probably best that way. House doesn’t have the heart to explain that one. Not yet.
- But you called now, so you must want something from me. I can’t recall you making sense any longer, so it can’t be an act of benevolence. Wilson said, suddenly more awake than ever.
It seems they’ve hit a nerve, the man is already overthinking outloud. House looks at the tires, and even more down at the humid asphalt despite the fact it hasn’t rained. He looks at his pump again and it’s fine. Car isn’t leaking, pump isn’t full. So what is it? He frowns knowing the jug hasn’t leaked and is in the trashcan in between the pumps. Not that either.
-I can’t possibly be just as curious on why you called the first time? I thought i was delegated to the metaphorical couch, and FYI it metaphorically gave me a crotch rash. He said, lowering himself down to touch the wetness and smell it. It smells bitter, like sulfur. House frowns considering it’s far from the gasoline smell and quite awakening. His mind starts running on the idea that Castiel might have smelt like sulfur, It was good as any for a new symptom, necrosis? But by the time he thinks it through, the idea falls off the planet earth. Wilson takes his attention in half the time it took for House to admit wanting to hear about this.
- Listen, before we fight again about your metaphorical blue balls. I was..I called you back to let you know your patient arrived. And we scanned him because I was tempted to think you didn’t send me a man just to spite me after everything that happened. But maybe that was your way to make me think nothing changed. When in fact everything changed. But then again, I had nothing more to lose than to ask, r-right? I’m going mad. Just be honest. Wilson blabbered to himself. I can take it, House.
-Wilson, you devious badger, you’re making me want to light up a cigarette. He said, looking back to the numbers on the bigger screen, looking at how much the expense of gas will be. And he then looks at the phone’s and at the mere minutes since the call started, it felt like ages. Which would be quite memorable from where I’m standing, trust me. Next time, wait until we actually slept together before having a mid-life crisis. Now it’s just downright cute.
- So which one is it? You’re calling because you miss me, or to talk about the patient? Let out an annoyed Wilson. Or maybe you’re just toying with me again.
- Both is good, right? House asks, softly with quite a naive look towards the backseat. If that’s what got you to call me first.
At least Castiel seemed not to spill everywhere, or if he did, it already dried off.
- You know what, fine. We scanned him and found no problem, chest to feet, I had to fight Cuddy about it. She said I was deflecting my marital problems. And she’s right. I hate to be in this situation again. Wilson said, slightly frustrated by House’s unwillingness to admit defeat.
-It didn’t show because it hasn’t metastasized yet. Under all of that fat, you all probably thought it was part of his lifestyle. House said, feeling relieved this was going on another topic than them.
He has a tumor on his neck, near the birth of his jaw, under the tub of butter that is his neck fat, that is. I felt it when I sized him up for the tracheostomy.
Have the goons run the biopsy, and when it pops like a juicer.
Bring it to a home run with a good old Pharyngectomy. Bring Chase in, he’s got a knack for surgery. Cameron makes a great assist. Have Foreman do the biopsy, he’s looking to feel useful ever since he called me racist.
House finds himself monologuing as he lifts himself up back off the pump machine, and he start taking off the pump by putting his hand on the handle.
- I-..Thanks. You just might have saved a life twice. Wait, what was that about racism?
- Sure . House added, quietly. So is it a courting gift or a parting gift? Should we start preening our necks to each other to assert dominance?
House fingered the handle as he fidgeted, awaiting an answer.
-Y ou will never let me die down the bird thing, will you? The groan Wilson lets out is almost amused despite the irritation.
- Nope. With your Jew of a mother, I can imagine the sight of your bird loving father making quite the thanksgiving dinner.
The turkey wasn’t the only one getting fisted that night. Real Kosher. I bet she clucked all night long. House huffed again, this time it felt unforced, genuine. Tiredness was leaking out of his pores. Maybe being in the vicinity of Castiel’s sweet angel piss and the gas smell had him lightheaded. Probably the latter.
- Shut up House. Stop talking about my mother’s sexual practices. Wilson said unbashful, House could almost tell there could be a faint flush of red on his skin.
House looked up to the sound of steps, the two people who seemed to have walked in the gas station from nowhere. The sound of the door and the wind catcher as his only cue to look. He sees the black outfits, and he looks around for any motorcycle near. Strange. He can see Castiel near the milk aisle, looking at the frozen ingredients with due diligence.
- Never, so what did Cuddy say about what happened. He improvises as he takes the guzzle out of the car and in the machine again. This time in two fell swoop, hesitation gone.
Hearing the way they had been able to make jokes slightly took out the heavy rock he was feeling on his neck. Or maybe that had been for looking at the road all day and now standing up and stretching those tight muscles.
-What tells you I told her? Ask Wilson with a bluff smelt from all the way from where he stood.
-You don’t really have to fight Cuddy to get a full CT. I do. She usually trusts your judgment unless it’s about me. So you must be only lying about what you guys fought about. So what was her suggestion. Enlighten me Wilson, I’m bored. He adds, closing the car’s tank. It clicked as it locked. House slowly limped to the inside of the open window to take his cane.
- Frankly? That we’re too old to do this, and that we should either fuck or move on. I told her I was too hurt to even think about either. She said that one will happen either way and that she is only glad she doesn’t have to warn the new girl about HR. Since I know who you are, it definitely makes things easier for her if we did date. She thinks I could calm down your fits of madness. I told her she has too much fate in my abilities to keep you leashed.
- Hm, It checks out. But I don’t think you’re ready to date . House adds, adamant.
House looks up to the gas station’s store, he doesn’t see Castiel despite knowing they’re both taller than the aisles separators. He can’t see much of the rest of the room because of the ice machine maker and the many brands on the glass. He frowns. The cashier isn’t there either.
- Are you saying that because you’re my friend and you know I’m recently out of a nasty divorce, or are you saying that because you want that and you’re projecting. Wilson worry leaks through the speaker and melts into House’s ear. He’s glad Wilson can’t take in his body language, it’s somewhat closed and guarded. Like he’s two seconds away from hanging up. And perhaps he is, but he doesn’t want the man to know that.
- I don’t know, which one works? He says, to throw off the scent.
- We both know you’re being dramatic. Avoiding the fact we might both be gay for each other isn’t healthy. I know it must come as a shock, but I think we should seriously talk about this. When you’re back, maybe? Wilson tries to be pragmatic through the fog of feelings, he must really mean it, House almost respects the guts it takes for someone to say that, at least. If it weren’t Wilson, whom he knows loves to talk about feelings. Mr. Serial feeling masturbator.
-Aren’t we already, talking? And talk for yourself, you had no fun in college. So who’s projecting on who there. House grunts off whilst lifting his chin up.
- So you really are gay? You’ve slept with a man before? Wilson asks. Like he can’t actually believe it, like it can’t be real. His voice wavers and goes high, in the octaves House can’t actually reach. Typical Wilson.
- That’s the surprising part that I broke sanctimony for sodomy? Not the one where I want to shag you? You’d really think it’s the drug abuse and the limp that would slow a man down. House adds as he walks around the car, looking around it to follow the pearls of liquid. Not the exhaust, not Castiel’s prints, not even snowfall. What was going on?
House starts to get desperate to understand, he looks around at the empty parking lot, the everlasting neons under the dark night. Nothing.
-Well, to be honest, you wouldn’t be so hellbent on making my life miserable if you didn’t like me. Little boys do that to little girls, I just brought this lesson into adulthood. It makes sense that your courting techniques never left kindergarten. I considered it, you just never confirmed it. You know, using words would have gotten you much further than this.
Wilson’s voice on speaker from the roof of the car feels far away, House breathes out and the cold air shows. The fog felt slow and thick when he breathed out again. He’s somewhat perplexed, but he focuses on Wilson’s special brand of alive. Getting odd sensations about what’s going on. He passes his cane in the air, slightly paranoid it might be something he can’t see again. Is he in danger again? How would he even start to check for invisible enemies? The pee was too translucid to make someone visible. And the car is on park, so he can’t run it into whatever might be near.
He might be paranoid, Wilson was right, he has PTSD from it, the symptoms don’t lie. He feels his body tight, hair has risen on his neck and arms, legs and head. He’s stressed and he can’t really get himself to talk about it to the only person who matters. Because Wilson would come here, he would. But by then, would he found House just as broken as when he last found him?
He should really try to find Castiel, even if he feels inclined to get into the car and drive off into the night.
- Where’s the fun in that? He added, sarcasm leaking onto his hoarse voice. The sound and sight of cars passing on the highway into the dark night keeps his eyes focused. He tries to focus on the lights, his hand tight on the cane. One thing at the time, he spots a few red items. The car, the diesel pump, the ad on the roof of the gas station panel of advertisements.
-So, are we or are we not going to indulge in this? Wilson asked, his voice too damn earnest for House to deny.
-I don’t know. You said it, you’re recently divorced and I’m an ass. That does not sound nearly as compatible as Cuddy makes it to be. He gives himself points for actually being honest, even if he’s making it all about the negatives. It’s somewhat easier to find them lately. Self sacrificing practices seems to stick. Even now, Wilson’s voice feels like the only reliable item in the room.
- Why not? We’re already around each other every other day. I might have never been with a man before, but you might as well be the only candidate because you’re pretty much up my ass already. Wilson’s voice resonates and House huffs.
-Is that a promise? House smiled, arching an eyebrow. That definitely got his attention, enough that the hair on him has by now gone down.
-You’re right, this is a terrible idea, Goodnight House. Wilson said with a sigh, bluffing.
House limps closer to the car, to reach the phone before Wilson’s actually follows through with his blackmail.
- Aw, Don’t be like that, how would you know if you like it, if you haven’t tried it? He adds, smile on as he looks at the dainty numbers on the keyboard. He doesn’t look away, not anymore.
-I haven’t really been warm to women do it to me, and I actually pursued women for most my life. What makes you think I want your dick anywhere near my- Wilson’s honest seems far too raw to entertain further, House cuts him off faster than the speed of light at the second he realizes what the other man is about to say.
-You know, for someone who wants to date, you’re really pragmatic about switching sides. Make up your damn mind. He adds to get a rise out of him, hinting at hope, but not entirely accepting.
-House, we both know I still enjoy women, and so do you. If anything this is compatibility, more than gender. There is something about your brain and your face that makes me wanna bear listening to your antics and belingering. And you must like something about mine too if you’re willing to trade sexual privileges. Wilson seems to have thought about this, a lot more than House anticipated, but then again he should have guessed. If he was willing to talk to his own boss about this, then it must be real enough to keep him awake.
It actually warmed him up to hear this, even if he’d die before admiting it.
Wilson had been waiting for him to call, and when House hadn’t, he’d called. It was this clear to see, from where he stood in the middle of nowhere.
-Woa-woa, who said anything about trading. Ask the team who’s the catcher and the leader, you’ll see what I mean. I’m willing to bet big. He said, hoping to catch a break and an understanding. Maybe even get a smile on the man’s face by interim.
- Goodnight House, for real this time. Wilson’s voice sounded soft tired and relieved, slightly snarky but actually calm since the beginning of the call.
- Keep me updated on peanut guy. He said before hanging up. The strident scream of the machine alerts him he has finished and needs to go inside to pay.>>
An alarming crack of glass behind him resonates in the cold, as he pockets his phone and he barely turns around that he bear sighting of an unholy mess.