Author Note: First fic for this pairing! I've been taking a super long (nine months, to be exact) hiatus from writing, and I am more than a little rusty, but over the past few months I've just fallen in love with these two and their entire dynamic. So here, have some unapologetically domestic Destiel complete with minor angst, fluff and cuddling :) All reviews and feedback are appreciated xx

Cas wasn't in homeroom on Monday morning. He didn't turn up to third period English either, the seat he usually occupied remaining glaringly empty. When lunch break rolled around and there was still no sign of the guy, Dean fired off two texts in quick succession, receiving nothing but dead silence in response:

Where r u? English was a complete drag by the way.

Dude. At least tell me if ur skipping class.

Across the table, Charlie shot him a knowing look. "Texting your boyfriend, Winchester?"

Dean waved her off with a half-hearted roll of his eyes and proceeded to stare at his phone as if it held all the inner secrets of the universe. It wasn't like Cas to skip school, much less ignore texts. The guy was the definition of punctual, always replying within a matter of seconds. Sighing heavily, Dean slid his phone back into his pocket and returned to picking at his lunch, wondering what he'd done to warrant his best friend giving him the cold shoulder.

When Castiel was absent the following day, Dean knew that something was off. He fidgeted through every class, eyes trained on the clock and fingers tapping his desk incessantly as the minutes ticked forward at an excruciatingly slow pace. The final bell had barely sounded when Dean bolted from his seat. He stepped into the hallway, letting himself be sucked into the crush of students flowing through and spat out into the parking lot. He all but ran to the Impala, sliding into the driver's seat and skidding out of the school grounds in a flurry of exhaust.

The streets of Lawrence blurred past as Dean's foot pressed firmly down on the accelerator, his eyes trained on the road. He pulled up outside the Novaks' colonial-style two-storey, idling for a moment before cutting the engine and stepping out of the car. Cas lived with his mom in the nicer part of town. The houses here were separated by rolling lawns and gargantuan hedges that obscured them from view. Maple trees lined the streets, their leaves just beginning to shake off the chill of winter.

Dean pulled up the collar of his jacket and made his way up the front path. He rapped on the door and waited, the previous day's English notes clutched tightly in his other hand. Nobody answered, and he knocked again, louder this time, attempting to ignore the tight coil of anxiety that was forming in his chest as the silence stretched on. Finally, he dug the spare key that Cas had given him out of his pocket, wondering briefly if he was crossing some sort of friendship line before squashing the thought. He turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, crossing over the threshold.

"Cas?"

His voice bounced off the polished wooden floors. He took a few steps down the hall, thinking as he always did that the place was like a museum, all smooth surfaces and still objects – a framed painting here, a sculpture there. There were no family photos, no sporting trophies or school certificates placed proudly on display. It was a hollow reflection of a home, devoid of any personal touches.

Dean continued down the hall and up the stairs, the heavy silence pressing on him like a weight. He told himself that he was being ridiculous; Cas was probably just holed up in his room working on some assignment that was due. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Dean's feet stilled outside Castiel's bedroom door. He knocked tentatively, listening hard for a response. He thought he heard a muffled sound from inside, and that was all the invitation he needed.

Cas' room was noticeably more lived-in than the rest of the house; clothes were draped over the back of his desk chair, textbooks stacked on the floor. Various newspaper articles lined the walls, and Dean couldn't help the smile that turned up the corners of his mouth. Scouring the paper every Saturday for the weird and wacky news stories was a habit of Castiel's that Dean had always found strangely endearing.

He didn't see his friend at first, then the lump on the bed moved and the smile faded from Dean's face. He dropped the stack of notes and hurried to Cas' side, peeling back the bed covers. Castiel's eyes were squeezed shut, face flushed and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Dean pressed the back of his hand to Cas' cheek, sucking in a breath when their skin made contact. He was burning up.

The boy stirred, coughs wracking his chest as his eyes opened. They were watery and unfocused, washed clean of their usual brilliant blue. His gaze fixed on some distant point behind Dean's head before zeroing in on his face, hovering just inches above his own.

"Dean?" his breathing hitched, his voice raspy.

Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Yeah, Cas, it's me."

"You're here," Castiel said in wonder. He reached out, skating his fingers along Dean's jaw as though to check that he was real.

Dean swallowed, his pulse quickening. "You had us all worried sick, dude. Did you forget how to work a damn phone?" The words came out harsher than he'd intended them, some of the concern of the past two days leaching into his tone.

Cas dropped his hand, burrowing further into his blankets. "I didn't want to bother you."

Dean shook his head in exasperation. He would never understand the weird hang up Cas had about asking people for help. Maybe it came from doing everything on his own for most of his life, but Dean wished his friend would realise that relying on others didn't make him weak. It just made him human.

"How long have you been sick?"

"Since Sunday night." Cas closed his eyes briefly before asking, "What day is it?"

"Tuesday." Dean moved off the bed and to the windows, easing them open so that fresh air could filter into the room. "Did you call your mom?" Naomi Novak was away on business more often than not. Dean had known Castiel since they were twelve years old, but he'd only met his mother a handful of times. She had always seemed distant and unforgiving.

"Yes," Cas said, his voice small, "She said it was reckless of me to allow myself to fall ill. She'll be home on Saturday."

"Jesus," Dean muttered. Her own son was practically dying in his bed and she couldn't lift a finger to help?

"She's busy, Dean. Besides, I'm not a child anymore. I'll be fine on my own."

Dean could think of a few adjectives for her other than 'busy', but didn't utter any of them aloud for Cas' sake. Instead, he moved towards the door.

"The hell you will." He glanced over his shoulder at Cas, who was watching him listlessly. "I'm going to make you something to eat, alright? Just…stay here."

As if he was going anywhere.

Cas only nodded, and Dean closed the door behind him.

In the kitchen, he scoured the pantry until he found something that would be easy enough for Cas to ingest in his state. He tipped the contents of the packet into a pan and turned on the stove. While it was heating up, Dean pulled out his phone and dialled home, the line ringing once, twice, before being picked up.

"Singer residence," came Sam's cheerful greeting.

Damn. He'd been hoping his brother wouldn't pick up.

"Hey, Sam. Is, uh, is Bobby home?"

"Nope, he's still at the garage." Sam's voice was muffled, as if he were speaking around a mouthful of food. "What's up? Where are you, anyway?"

"Yeah, about that," Dean said, "Could you tell Bobby that I'm staying at Cas' for a few days?"

Sam let out a low whistle, and Dean groaned.

"Not like that, you idiot."

"Yeah, right."

"He's really sick, okay?" he snapped defensively. "His mom's out of town and he's got no-one looking after him, so I'm taking a couple days off school to–"

"Woah, wait, you're skipping school to take care of him?" Dean could almost hear Sam smiling. "Man, you sure act like his boyfriend for someone who's never actually made a move on the guy."

"Shut up," Dean growled, his threat met only with loud laughter from Sam's end. "Just…cover for me, okay?"

He snapped the phone shut, turning his attention back to the soup simmering over the stove. So maybe he harboured some decidedly un-platonic feelings for his best friend. So what? All that mattered right now was that Cas needed him. Everything else could wait.

Cas was sitting up in bed when Dean returned. He seemed marginally better than he had been before, if his tired smile was any indication.

"What is that?" he inquired as Dean set the tray he'd been holding on the bedside table. He frowned at the bowl of pulpy orange liquid.

"Pumpkin soup," Dean said, and plastered on the brightest smile he could muster.

Castiel wrinkled his nose. "I'm not very hungry."

"You've got to eat something to keep your energy levels up."

Cas closed his eyes, and Dean sighed.

"Come on, Cas, just try it." He sat on the edge of the bed, scooping up a spoonful and holding it out. "I promise it isn't as bad as it looks."

Finally, Castiel nodded, opening his mouth and taking a sip. It took him twenty minutes to finish the bowl, with Dean spoon-feeding him the entire time as if he were a baby, but he did finish it. And he even drank the glass of water that Dean insisted he needed to keep hydrated.

Afterwards, Dean took Cas' temperature then rummaged through his friend's closet for fresh clothes to give him, turning away politely as he changed out of his sweat-soaked ones.

"You're good at this," Castiel observed while Dean pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, the material cool against his feverish skin.

Dean shrugged. "I had to take care of Sam a lot when we were younger. Before my dad left."

He swallowed hard as he remembered the years following their mother's death, all those weekends spent home alone while their father was out doing god-knows-what. Dean had never received any instructions on how to care for a six-year-old. All his father had left him with were the three words that he had drilled into Dean incessantly. Look after Sam. And he had. He had tucked his little brother into bed each night, read him his favourite stories, always made sure to lock all the doors and windows before falling asleep himself. He remembered the first time Sammy ran a fever, his skin burning so hot that Dean had thought he was frying from the inside out. He'd called John in tears, begging him to come home.

"Deal with it, Dean."

Those four words had shocked him into silence. He hadn't been able to do anything but gape at the phone until the line went dead.

So he had learned by trial and error. Learned which foods to feed Sam when he was sick, learned to tell the lies that his brother wanted to hear; that everything was alright, that their dad would always look out for them.

Then, when Dean was twelve, John had left for good, and Dean couldn't lie anymore. They'd moved in with Bobby, and things had changed for the better, because it wasn't just him watching out for Sam now. Dean liked Bobby, saw him as more of a father than his own had ever been. Still, he couldn't help wondering if he could have done more. If he'd been a better brother, a better son, then maybe–

"It's not your fault that your father walked out on you."

Castiel's voice startled Dean back to the present, and he realised that he had been silent for too long. He started to apologise, but Cas cut him off, his hand moving to Dean's and lacing their fingers together.

"It's not your fault," he repeated fiercely, eyes intense even in his fever-addled state.

Dean nodded, bowing his head. He would never understand how Cas could be so adamant about something like this, yet still defend his mother so vehemently. When it came down to it, maybe that was what irked Dean about Naomi. She reminded him too much of his own father.

They sat quietly for a while, hands still interlocked. Dean took in a breath and forced himself to meet his best friend's eyes. I love you, Cas. The words were heavy on his tongue. All he had to do was say them. Then Cas pulled his hand away with a sigh, and the moment was gone.

"You should go."

"What? No. I'm not–"

"Dean," he said, a warning in his voice, "If you stay, you'll get sick. I don't want you to catch whatever it is that I have."

Dean shrugged. "I'll be fine. I've got a strong immune system."

Cas shot him a look.

"Cas," he said, in the same serious tone that his friend had used, "I'm not leaving you alone, okay?"

They locked eyes for a long moment before Cas nodded in assent, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Castiel slept for most of it. He moved restlessly in his sleep, and Dean alternated between bundling him in blankets and stripping them off as Cas burned cold, then hot, then cold again, like a distant star flaring in the dark.

He stirred as dusk was beginning to fall, mumbling a 'good morning' and letting out a croaky laugh that turned into a coughing fit when Dean corrected him. Dean made both of them dinner – more soup – and the remainder of the evening was spent in quiet conversation, whispered words exchanged in the muted light of Castiel's bedside lamp. It was barely nine o'clock when their eyelids began to grow heavy, pressed down by the weight of the day.

Dean found a spare pillow and some blankets in the hall closet and laid them out on the floor beside Cas' bed before crawling onto them, nostalgia washing over him as he remembered the countless times he had done this before, back when they'd still had sleepovers. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, swept by a sudden sense of loss, of longing for their days of youthful innocence. Then he glanced over at Cas to find him already staring and the sentiment was gone, replaced by a swooping in his chest and the feeling of something gained.

"Good night." He reached over to flick off the lamp.

"Good night, Dean."

And they were enveloped in darkness and wistful silence.

Dean shifted into a more comfortable position and ended up on his side, facing Cas. He could just make out his friend's profile, the bridge of his nose and the curve of his jaw.

"Dean?" Castiel said presently.

He paused, letting out a quick breath before saying, "yeah, Cas?"

"I'm glad you're here."

Dean smiled. "Me, too."

He shut his eyes, and the darkness morphed into dancing shapes and patterns behind his closed lids. Distantly, he could hear Cas' breathing slow to match his own, but Dean was already being carried away on the shores of sleep. He dreamed of flying, of falling, of being lowered gently down into the depths of a blue abyss.

Dean awoke to the cobalt of Castiel's eyes. Their gazes met and held for a moment before Cas glanced away, his eyes sliding to a point on the wall, and Dean felt warmth flood to his cheeks.

"You should go to school."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Cas huffed and turned his head into his pillow, too tired to argue.

Dean sat up with a yawn, stretching his arms over his head. "Actually," he said slowly, "I might duck home while Bobby's out and grab a few things. I'll be back in half an hour with breakfast, okay?"

There was no response. Impulsively, Dean leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Cas' flushed cheek, trying not to read too much into the way his friend sighed contentedly, his eyelids fluttering closed. He was half-delirious, after all.

"Be back soon," he whispered, one last reassurance before he left.

Twenty-nine minutes later, Dean returned with his portable radio, a stack of board games he'd found in the basement, and two pots of raspberry yoghurt he had picked up on the way over.

Castiel stared at him with narrowed eyes, as if Dean were a riddle he couldn't quite decipher. "Why are you doing all of this?"

There it was again. The chance to reveal those feelings he'd kept so carefully hidden; an open window of opportunity. Dean chose to slam it firmly shut.

"Because I'm your best friend," he said instead, "And I'm going to take care of you."

And he did.

Over the next two days, Dean brought Cas glasses of water and made him lemon tea and spoon-fed him soup until he was sick of it. When Cas was awake, they would play board games (Dean cheated shamelessly, and Cas always called him out on it) or listen to the classic rock station on the radio, with Dean singing along in all his embarrassingly off-key glory. And when Cas was asleep, which was a lot of the time, Dean would read one of the countless books stacked on his shelves.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed with increasingly aggravated texts from Charlie:

Where the hell are you?!

You better not be ditching me, Winchester!

Just know that you suck and I hate you.

Finally, Dean texted back:

Sorry! Taking care of Cas. He's down w the flu.

Charlie's response was instantaneous:

You dork! Just ask him out already!

Dean couldn't help a smile at that.

At night, Dean would lie awake, tracking the movement of shadows across the ceiling. Scattered thoughts clunked around in his mind like sharp-edged stones, and he couldn't help but turn them over and over. He thought about how he and Cas had established their own little routine, and the world was turning without them, and how he was glad to be left behind. In these moments, Dean was seized with a sudden fear that whatever in-between they had fallen into wouldn't last once Cas recovered. The noise of day-to-day life would interfere, and the narrow tightrope they were navigating between friendship and relationship would snap. Eventually, the thoughts would quiet themselves, shifting back into the recesses of his mind, and the stones became smoothed over by sleep.

Then, in the early hours of Friday morning, Dean was jolted awake by Cas' shout. He was up and at his friend's side in an instant.

"Cas? Cas!"

He was tangled up in his blankets, muttering unintelligibly as he thrashed from side to side. His eyes moved rapidly behind closed lids. Dean shook his shoulders, repeated his name, but Castiel was lost, caught in the depths of some fever dream.

So Dean crawled into the bed beside him, folding Castiel into the circle of his arms. He smoothed a hand over Cas' hair, whispering reassurances into his ear until the tension in his body slackened and he relaxed into Dean's embrace.

It was only once his friend's breathing had slowed that Dean allowed himself to rest his head on the curve of Cas' shoulder. He closed his eyes, the words he had whispered running on a loop through his mind. They had been dredged up from long ago, from fragments of memories of his mother comforting him after the particularly terrifying nightmares, running a hand through his hair as she murmured the same thing.

It's okay. It's all okay.

And somehow, lying there in the dark with Castiel beside him, it was.

Dean emerged from sleep like driftwood from the depths of the sea, rising up and up through stillness and silence before breaking the surface. In the waking world, he felt warm sunlight on his face and Cas' skin against his, cooler than it had been in days. His eyes opened, the room shifting into focus. The first thing he noticed was that Cas had moved at some point during the night so that he now faced Dean, one hand bunched in his tee-shirt. Dean let out a slow breath, taking a moment to drink in their proximity before moving to extricate himself from his friend. The hand on his shirt tightened.

"Don't go yet." Cas' voice was slurred with sleep, but when he lifted his head his eyes were bright and clear, not fogged by fever.

Dean nodded wordlessly, moving his hand to rest on Cas' waist. Castiel nuzzled his nose into the crook of Dean's neck, and Dean drew in a sharp breath at how right it felt, how snugly their bodies fit together.

"Did you sleep okay?" Dean asked, "It looked like you were having nightmares."

"Not nightmares, exactly," Cas murmured, his breath warm against Dean's skin, "Just…strange dreams."

"What were they about?"

"You."

Dean's chest constricted, the air leaving his lungs in a breathless, "oh."

"I was in a hallway that seemed to stretch for miles, and I knew you were behind one of the doors; I could hear you calling my name. So I opened them all, one by one, but I could never find you."

Dean listened quietly as Cas continued, the words spilling from his mouth in a jumbled rush.

"Then I was in a field and you were a shooting star, and you were falling so fast; I tried to catch you, but you slipped right through my fingers. And then we were trapped underground…" he trailed off. "So many different dreams, and I lost you in every single one."

"It's okay, Cas." Dean's voice caught in his throat. He tightened his arms around Castiel, pulling him even closer. "I'm right here. I'll always be right here."

Cas stilled, and Dean wondered belatedly if he had given too much of himself away. But then he leaned forward, slowly and deliberately placing a kiss on Dean's collarbone, and Dean forgot how to breathe.

Castiel's lips were warm against his skin, lingering there for a moment before he pulled away. "Thank you, Dean. For everything."

Dean felt weightless and giddy, buoyed by sheer exuberance. He pressed a quick, clumsy kiss into Cas' hair, smiling to himself. The rope was fast unravelling under their feet. All that was left to do now was jump.

"Cas?" Dean asked.

"Hmm?"

"Would you maybe, uh…" Dean cleared his throat, wondering why he was still so nervous when they were literally already in bed together. "Would you want to go grab a burger sometime? After you're better, I mean."

"Are you proposing that we go on a date?" Cas' eyes latched onto his, a sparkle in their blue depths.

"Yeah, I guess I am," Dean said, suddenly shy, "Will you…will you go on a date with me, Castiel Novak?"

Cas' answering smile was as radiant as the sun. "Dean Winchester, I thought you'd never ask."

"So that's a yes?"

"Of course it's a yes, Dean." Castiel traced his fingers over Dean's jawline, as he had done on that Tuesday afternoon. Except this time, he seemed completely aware of the affect it had on Dean. "You know, I think catching the flu might be the best thing I've ever done."

"Oh, I agree. Wholeheartedly."

They reached for each other at the same time, limbs tangling and lips meeting lips as they clung tightly together, their eyelids fluttering closed.

It was a long time before either of them let go.

Fin.