Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. I am not making any money out of this.

Warnings: Slash (Castiel/Dean). AU. Some swearing. Eating disorder (Dean). NC-17/Mature.

Summary: Contemporary dancer, Dean Winchester, gets injured during a performance. Without anything else to control, his fear of gaining weight while resting grows. He then meets his soulmate in a pharmacy.

Notes: This is my first Supernatural-fic ever. I'd love to get some constructive critique and opinions, but please be kind ;)

The Dead Walk

Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls

Soft clinking of a piano fills the dance studio, inexperienced fingers moving over the keys in a weak attempt to produce music. The rain smatters against the wall of windows, making the view nothing but a grey blur. The damp, glum weather is reflected in the other, mirror-clad walls. It would be depressing, but it is still bright and the wooden floor shines in its newly-washed glory. There is no one else near, not even in the corridor outside of the studio, and he feels relaxed for the first time today. The piano bench creaks as he stands up.

He slides his hand along the barre that is attached to the wall, stopping in the middle and starting to lift his left leg. It should be easy, especially for someone as experienced like him, but it brings nothing but sharp pain through his entire body. His foot reaches past his hip, but electricity jolts through his muscles before he can feel his knee to his chest. He slumps pathetically to the ground, ungraceful and sloppy in his fall. It doesn't matter anyhow, he reasons.

Dean Winchester sits there, all alone, in the dance studio. It has never happened before – usually he is too eager to even stay in one place when he enters the room. Here, where he is normally free to move as he wishes and indulge in his own strength and flexibility. He sits there, quiet for once, and just wonders. What will happen now, what will I do, why and why and why.

Dean sits there for hours, staring at his own reflection and wondering how he is going to come out of this alive.

"How does that feel?" The question is innocent and kind, just like the strong hands wandering down the back of his thigh.

"What do you think," is spat right back. There is really nothing else to say, so Dean buries his face in the pillow and tries to hide his pain. Everything seems to hurt, even though the cast is off and the bone is healed. Why, he wants to ask, but surely a physical therapist won't give him the right answer. Instead, he only grunts when those skilled fingers massages his aching muscles.

"Have you followed the programme that I gave you?" The physical therapist, a short man with strong arms and grey hair, removes his hands and lets his patient rest a little before rolling over. "Your trainer mentioned that you haven't seen her in a week."

"I've been at another studio," Dean mutters as he shifts to sit on the edge of the hospital bed. His nostrils flare as he bites his lip to keep quiet. He has to be strong. The stronger he is, the faster he can come back. "Like hell I'm gonna show up and watch her train the rest of the company."

"I just think that you should accept the help she is offering. She knows the boundaries and limits better than you do, Mr Winchester." The therapist smiles sadly, as if a hurt dancer is a horrible thing. "You might push yourself too far."

Of course. Dean always pushes too far.

Water. He drinks nothing but water, water, water. He turns down beer and hot chocolate, wishes for a fragment of time that he could just reach out for one of those Styrofoam cups with hot cocoa and cream and cinnamon. Then the urge is gone and Dean takes a gulp of green tea, no calories.

He eats cucumber, cherry tomatoes and lettuce every third hour. He prepares the salads in containers, sometimes sprinkling it with sunflower seeds or lemon juice. Other days, he doesn't deserve it. He drinks water, water, water and sometimes chews on ice. The next day is always better, because he feels empty-light-invincible. Who would have thought that Dean could be so organised?

It's a new kind of strong. Different from the physical strength in his muscles, in his bones, because it is all imaginary and hauntingly real at the same time.

He warms up every day under Ellen's watchful eyes. Hawkeyes. (She's his boss, his trainer, his only hope.) He stretches his arms, his back his right leg and then winces when the hamstring in his left leg whines. It hurts, it burns and Ellen sees it. She is sad, like the physical therapist, and Dean wonders what they see?

What's so sad? Why? He'll be fine.

The first time he steps on the scale in a month, it is at his younger brother's command. Dean doesn't like doing things because he is told to, especially not when it's Sam. Little Sammy, ordering him around more than usual lately. Can he see it? That Dean is weak and pathetic and lost without dancing?

"Take that off," Sam says in a neutral voice and points at Dean's hoodie. It was their father's – navy blue, marine – but John don't use such sloppy clothing anymore. He's Colonel Winchester now, and he barely has time to get out of his uniform, let alone visit his boys.

Dean takes the hoodie off and throws it at his brother's face, stalling as much as he can. He's going to be heavy. Heavy, heavy, heavy with fat. It feels different now: he can tell that his body is changing muscle to fat and there is nothing he can do about it right now. All he can do to not gain weight is–

"Oh, Dean…"

Sam embraces him, squishing Dean's rolls of fat, burying his nose in Dean's too-short hair and sniffling. Neither cry, but the tension and sadness makes him jittery. Why are they so sad?

"I'm going to help you, Dean," and Sam's voice is light. Promising. Hopeful. "It's going to be all right."

Dean punches him in the shoulder and leaves the bathroom before his stupid kid brother can talk him into doing something else. Like ordering take-out.

Water tastes good. It's clean, fresh. Sometimes warm, a tingle of foul green, dipping the tea bag once or twice before throwing it away. He's getting sick, and he can feel it all too well in his weary body.

Days go by, and Dean avoids his brother. Sam with his fine education and gorgeous girlfriend. Jessica. She calls his cellphone almost once a day, trying to get a hold of him, and Dean knows that she's only worried about Sam. Why would she care about a high school drop-out like him, when she's got a fine man by her side already?

Days go by, and Dean stays in the dance studio during the bright hours. Hiding. Sometimes Ellen stops by, almost once a day, talking him through a gentle warm-up and careful stretching. It feels like years go by when he stretches, but she's there with an encouraging smile and sad eyes. He grunts in pain and closes his eyes, can't stand the pity he sees.

They all know. That's why they're sad, he thinks. They all know that he is nothing but a pathetic mess if he can't go back to dancing.

Dean meets Castiel in the pharmacy, and he must confess that this is not the way he expected to meet his soulmate.

Castiel is rather quiet, and he listens eagerly to anything Dean has to say. He nods at the appropriate times, raises his eyebrows in disbelief when Dean gets carried away. They sit together, always so close, and Dean thinks that Castiel don't care. Don't care if Dean is pathetic, but the dancer (ex-dancer, right) keeps his sob-story to himself.

"Why do you take those pills?" Cas asks one day, and they are in a nearly empty coffee shop a few streets down from the pharmacy. It all leads back to there, the pharmacy, because that's the only time Castiel could see Dean's injury.

The tea is scalding hot, still, but Dean forces himself to take a gulp. Avoid, avoid, he thinks, but it's impossible when those ice blue eyes stare at him so honestly. How could he lie to that? "I broke my leg some time ago, and my hamstring won't heal properly."

"Might be because you're not eating, or because you're over-trained." It is said with such casualty, as if Dean had not already considered this. Castiel stares down at his black coffee, and Dean feels hurt-angry-betrayed.

Who does Cas think he is, drinking his coffee without calories when he could have cream and whiskey in it? Who does this little tax accountant think he is, acting as if he is an expert on injuries and dancers?

"Fuck you," Dean says and leaves without looking back.

"I apologise for making you uncomfortable with my assumption." Castiel doesn't apologise for the assumption in itself, nor does he apologise for indirectly calling Dean stupid-dumb-ignorant. Instead, he tilts his head somewhat and attempts to understand.

Dean snorts, because this is stupid. Cas is stupid. They can be stupid together, just for a little while.

Castiel looks out of place in Dean's messy apartment. His sincere eyes, so clear, keeps wandering over everything. The corners of his mouth tugs a little, and Dean wonder what he sees. A pile of dirty clothes on the sofa, a stack of unread books on the coffee table and DVDs scattered over the floor.

They sit together in the small kitchen, staring out through the window and watching the white powder snow. The smell of coffee fills the apartment as Dean pours the black liquid into two big mugs. He gives the yellow one to Cas, about to ask if his guest wants something to eat, when Castiel smiles and opens his mouth.

"I want a winter wedding when I get married."

Dean stares for a second too long, wondering what it means. "You're… you're engaged?"

"No," Castiel says and sips on the coffee. He looks over at Dean, and it feels so normal. "But when I do get married, I want to do it in the winter."

Dean nods, suddenly occupied by the idea of a winter wedding.

When Sam first meets Castiel, Dean forgets to introduce them to each other properly. Castiel, of course, knows all about Sam. Dean is so proud of his kid brother, the lawyer. Sam, on the other hand, has never heard a word about the dark-haired, fair-skinned man that is cleaning the dishes in Dean's kitchen.

"Who're you?" Sam asks, almost hitting his head in the doorframe as he forgets to duck. He is one big fellow, and Castiel understands immediately that this is Dean's Sasquatch. There is a moment of silence as blue eyes searches of Dean's green, oh-so-green, but the dancer is busy eating lettuce and raisins.

"My name is Castiel. Your brother's boyfriend."

Dean chokes on the bite, shocked to hear the label Cas had decided to give himself. The title as Dean's boyfriend.

"What?" Sam doesn't sound too surprised. It bothers Dean.

Another day in paradise, and Dean wonders why Castiel decided to follow him to the dance studio. Ellen is already there, low music coming from the stereo that she always brings, and it appears that she has already heard rumours about Dean's boyfriend. She smiles and introduces herself, but the stern trainer in her comes out the second that Dean is ready.

It hurts and sweat drips from his forehead. Castiel watches in silent admiration.

"You're very dedicated," Cas says when they are preparing dinner.

They are at Castiel's apartment. A big loft with view over the city, spacious and modern. There is literature of all kinds in the bookcases, but mostly indie movies in the DVD-rack and classical music streaming from the kitchen radio. It's pleasant, and Castiel doesn't push when Dean says he isn't hungry.

Lettuce, tomato, cucumber and some mango in the salad. Dean removes the avocado, well-aware how fat and oily it is, not only in texture. He likes having dinner with Cas anyway, in the safe warmth of the apartment and the classical music and the obvious effort that Cas went through to produce this.

"I think we should do something about that," Cas says when they're eating. Castiel, eating the same salad, but with chicken and dressing as well. His eyes are sad. Pitying. "I know that you will refuse professional help, and that eating disorders are very common among dancers–"

"Shut the fuck up."

Always 'we'.

It's no longer Dean Winchester. It's Dean and Castiel, Dean and Cas. Us, we, them. Never alone, always a couple. Even when Dean is stretching-training-hurting in the studio, Ellen asks "Oh, what are you doing this weekend, then?" and it's 'you' as in Dean and Cas. And she invites them to her husband's birthday party.

Bobby welcomes them both, not at all surprised when Dean brings his blue-eyed, fair-skinned, dark-haired tax accountant. Sam brings Jessica, but they are not the cutest couple anymore. Jo, Ellen's daughter, tells Dean over-and-over how good they look with each other.

Dean doesn't touch Castiel, but he doesn't mind when his boyfriend (oh, God, his boyfriend) puts a hand on his shoulder or entwines their fingers. Dean feels like a girl, a stupid girl, but it's rather nice anyway. Especially when people ask how's the dancing, oh I'm sorry to hear, now that you mention it, you look a little… different.

Dean goes home to his own place, alone, and eats everything in the cupboards. He eats like the chubby ex-dancer he knows he is, and wonders how Castiel managed to sneak all this food in here during the time span of their relationship. Dean forgets that other people eat meat and fat and carbs, but he can understand why they do it as he shoves bread down his throat. There is barely time for butter or ham, and he chews poorly.

Sam and Jessica visits Castiel's apartment for the first time in late December, and they are in awe of how clean-stylish-expensive everything looks. Dean knows that they are surprised, because Castiel never flaunts his riches. There is only one thing that Castiel brags about, and that is his boyfriend, the ex-dancer.

They exchange Christmas gifts as if this is a tradition. Dean has wrapped his sloppily, all in the same kind of paper, but his gifts are appreciated nonetheless. It makes him calm, to see his brother go on and on about how great the concert tickets are; to see Jessica's shock when she sees that her future brother-in-law has given her tickets to a ride with a hot-air balloon. He gives them all experiences, not things, because he can't pick out good books or tasteful (appropriate) items.

Sam and Jessica have too much to drink to drive, so they accept to offer of staying the night. Castiel seems pleased.

It isn't awkward, not even close, and Dean eats nothing but cabbage soup.

"O-oh fuck…"

Dean buries his face in the pillow, inhaling the scent of night-sweat and Castiel's shampoo. He moans and bites his lip, his knuckles turning white from his tight grip on the sheets. It's all so intense, especially when he knows that he has to be quiet. Quiet, or Sam and Jessica will hear them. The walls are thick but the guest room is just on the other side.

"Ssh," Castiel hushes.

His hands caress Dean's strong back, his thumb trailing over the bumpy spine. He places kisses on the all-too visible shoulder blades, leans in and breathes in Dean's ear. He pushes in and pulls out, a wet sound that mixes with the familiar pants and moans. The bed creaks once or twice, and Dean can barely breathe.

"I got you," Cas whispers. His voice is low and full of gravel, as always, but Dean loves the strain he hears. He wants more, more and more, until he forgets everything else. Castiel groans in his ear, "I got you."

I love you.

One day, late January, Dean manages to do the splits. It hurts less and less, and he can tell that his mood improves after each training session. He can tell that Castiel enjoys the change, even if he never complained in the first place. So understanding, so forgiving, and Dean can't comprehend why someone like Cas would want to be with someone like him.

Sam has accused him of being selfish, self-centred and narcissistic since he started middle school, but Castiel never mentions those words in Dean's company. Instead, Dean enters Castiel's apartment and hears his boyfriend humming in the sitting room. He feels silly, but he wants to show Cas how everything is going to be all right and everything is going better than planned.

"Hello," Castiel mutters. He puts away the glossy magazine he'd been reading, standing up and walking across the room. Dean smirks when Cas leans in, presses their lips together for a brief second. "How did it go?" he asks, because it is obvious that Dean is in a good mood. So good, in fact, that he wraps his arms around Cas in a friendly hug and doesn't let go.

"Eat this."

"I already ate."

A month later, Ellen welcomes him back into the company by throwing a small party. The entire assemble is there, dunking his back and kissing him sweetly as if they didn't dislike him at all. Dean knows what they say behind his back.

"Womanizer," the girls whispers. As if they had never engaged in sexual activities with him. "Man-whore, really. He's slept with every girl and boy here."

"Asshole," the males scoffs. As if they had never been on their knees for him. "Fucking bastard, really. Rude and arrogant."

Dean is arrogant. It's a part of him, it will never leave. He leers at the girls, who frown when they're in groups but smiles back when no one else is nearby. He winks at the boys, who flirts back when they're in groups but gets nervous when they're alone. They know that he is good – they know that he is a rival now that he is back. Back to claim the lead that he temporarily gave away to a pompous bastard named Gordon.

Gordon isn't there at the party, and his absence speaks more than the usual mockery and insults. Dean sees it as a small victory.

"Dean, come here!"

Dean rolls his eyes at the distress in his brother's voice, knowing that he only wants Dean to stir something. Sam points at one of the pots, hands the spoon to his brother and disappears to the bathroom. Jess is in the kitchen, looking up from her place behind the laptop. She sits quietly by the kitchen table, her fingers moving skilfully over the keys but her eyes never leaving Dean.

"Have you lost weight?" she asks carefully. The answer is obvious, that yes, Dean isn't as heavy as he used to be. And he hates it. He hates it so much that he almost wants to throw the wooden spoon through the window. It's all muscle that has disappeared. He's nothing but a bunch of fat-covered bones and weak muscles.

Gordon Walker loses his position as lead dancer when he shows up drunk, half an hour after rehearsal, claiming that Dean is a cock-sucking bitch and a wimp. Dean manages to get in a hit in the bastard's drunk face before Ellen calls security.

Today is one of those days that Dean can't help staying in bed. His limbs feels heavy and clumsy, aching from yesterday's strenuous training. Ellen goes lighter on him, tells him that the lead won't be his just yet, because his leg won't make do. Useless and worthless, her eyes says. Those hawk eyes, always watching. Pitying him.

He stays in bed from the moment he wakes at eight o'clock, sleeping one hour then staring at the ceiling the next. He rolls around and tries to find a comfortable position, but everything hurts against his hips and shoulders. He doesn't leave the bed until ten o'clock in the evening. He goes to the bathroom, takes a shower to get rid of sweat and dirt and failure. It doesn't work, because he still feels dirty when he steps out in front of the mirror.

He stares at useless limbs. Biceps that used to be strong and reliable, now nothing but lean fat and pale skin. Weak bones, even, because he hasn't been eating any calcium. He pops vitamins and minerals from the pharmacy, trying not to think of it as a betrayal. This is where they met, Cas and Dean, after all, and it feels wrong to take these supplements when Cas makes him good, healthy food.

He goes back to bed, wondering how many calories his body has burned today. Around a thousand, perhaps, just lying there. With a mental note to figure out his BMR, he goes back to sleep.

Castiel is the one who wakes him up. Long fingers massaging his scalp in a comforting way.

"There's no snow left," Cas says. His voice is so rough and low and perfect. Dean wants to ask his boyfriend to tell him a story, but he can't find it in him to ask for anything. He doesn't deserve it. "The rain took it away." From us.

"Mm," Dean hums and hopes that Castiel doesn't see him as weak and pathetic and lost. He wonders why he hasn't returned to his strong, cocky, capable self yet. He has been dancing for weeks now – surely the period without dance didn't cripple him like this forever? He must come back, not only for himself but for Castiel and Sammy and John and Jessica.

He wants to show is father and brother that he, too, can do something with his life. He wants to show Jessica that he used to be the best big brother for her fiancé. He wants to show Castiel how much he wants them to stay together, but he can't do that now. He's too weak-vague-feeble. Useless for nothing but dance, to count rhythms and tact in his head as he moves with music and performs on stages.

"There'll be snow again," Castiel promises. "In a few months, you'll see. It'll be winter again."

Spring is unbearable. Sam gets sick from the pollen and pesters anyone who comes close with demands and whines. Castiel chuckles when Jessica complains to them, because suddenly she invites herself into Cas' loft for double dates without Sam. She eats Castiel's cooking gratefully and hungrily, but she never mentions Dean's salads or soups.

Castiel fucks him harder than usual after her visits, perhaps because he wants Dean to be like her. Is it what Cas wants: a cute girl or boy with a fine education and strong opinions about politics, climate and animal rights? Dean doesn't know how to be cute. He doesn't know anything about politics, the global warming or animals. Dean only coos and acts silly when children are near, but he doesn't like dogs or cats or any other animal really. He isn't as social as Jess, either, because she can talk to anyone and make them feel welcome in the conversations. Dean swears and laughs loudly; scares people, sometimes.

Castiel fucks him gently when they're in Dean's apartment, as if suddenly he decides that Dean is fragile and delicate. Like a ballerina, all skin and bones and lean muscle. However, Dean is far from a ballerina. He is not a real ballet dancer, even. He used to be a part of a neoclassical ballet company before Ellen found him. He fell in love with contemporary dancing immediately.

Now, he's too weak to love anything.

"C'mon, Dean. I'm your brother."

"Jesus, Sam. I know."

"Trust me. It'll feel better if you eat this."

"No. No, it really won't."

Dean faints like a girl one day in May. Literally faints, with a whimpering sound and the thump of his body against wooden floor.

He wakes up with blue knuckles from hitting his hand in the barre, but otherwise, he feels no aches. No, he feels a little delirious and giddy. He asks the doctor what he's on, but the answer is a confused nothing.

He comes home with pamphlets about rehabilitation clinics and phone numbers to various therapists. Dean throws them in the garbage and wonders why everything looks so clean.

Castiel is asleep on the couch, his eyebrows set in a frown. Dean lies down next to his lover, inhales the scent of shampoo and cleanliness. So organised, neat and controlled: Castiel is everything Dean is not. Controlling every emotion, not once appearing sad, angry or weak except for that one time that Dean had heard Cas argue with his brother Gabriel over the phone. Cas has everything checked and booked before there is anything to plan or actually do.

All Dean can do (could do, he really can't anymore) is control his body. Move his body this way and that way – hold it this way and stay there for two more seconds – lift a feather-light girl up in the air and jump miles high. Now, all strength seems to be elsewhere, and Ellen makes sure that he focuses more on agility rather than lifting and jumping. It's worthless, but out of his grasp.

"Dean," Castiel murmurs sleepily. He wraps his arms securely around Dean's waist, stronger than he looks. "Ellen called me. She said that you passed out."

"Hurt my leg, 's all."

"Liar."

It's a goodbye of sorts.

Castiel's mouth is open against his, but it's not a kiss. It's simply breathing, inhaling each others' hot exhales and mixing their breaths fiercely. Naked and close. Dean grunts and groans, in both frustration and pleasure, as Cas moves his hips slowly. The deep, sluggish thrusts that whispers of the fact that neither wants this to end.

Blue eyes are closed shut tightly, and Dean knows why. Castiel doesn't want to look at him – Dean can't blame him either. He's not the same as he was when they met all those months ago, in the pharmacy. Not the same, strong man with a nice posture and cocky smile. Now he's all fat and round in the wrong places. All his body has left is incredible flexibility. He doesn't even have the stamina to stand up for long periods of time anymore.

All his strength is mental.

"Cas," he sighs. Their lips move close together in an open-mouthed kiss. Only a month ago, when snow was thick on the ground, they would have laughed and smiled into the kiss. Now it's all about scowls and grimaces. "I– I– Jesus."

"Ssh," Castiel hushes. Always hushing, as if this is a secret. Perhaps it interferes with Cas' fantasies, Dean guesses. He feels a hot stream of jealousy, wondering for a millisecond, whom Cas is imagining under him.

The goodbye isn't permanent. Nothing ever is, so Dean doesn't know why he is fleeing from the inevitable. It is bound to come, crashing down upon him like a wet blanket. Uncomfortable and nervous, he makes his way inside to meet the death of his career. Castiel smiles encouragingly, ice blue eyes sad and determined.

Stubborn jackass, Dean wants to call out. Tease a little to lighten up the mood before they part. To forget his own worries (what if Cas finds someone else, what if Cas gets tired of waiting), but he says nothing as he enters the rehabilitation clinic. There is nothing to say.

The End