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Beta'd by WithinHerHeart

A/N: I wrote this for the Multi-fandom Christmas Exchange on LJ. This is written for deHavilland, who wanted a Supernatural story with Destiel and someone getting sick. This is what I came up with

AU. Castiel is a doctor who was in a car accident, and now suffers with amnesia. Dean is his husband and mythology professor, who doesn't know what to do when Castiel shows no signs of recovering his lost memories - until he does.

It had been nearly five months since the accident. Dean found it so hard to believe it had happened so long ago, when it seemed so recent. He could still remember the fear that had consumed him when he'd had the call from the hospital. The professionally calm voice that alerted him of the car accident - a head on collision, they said, with a 4 by 4 on a particular slippery patch of ice - and how panicked he'd been when he raced his way from the University to the hospital; how angry he'd been when he'd been refused access to his husband's room; how heartbroken he was when Castiel looked up at him, weak and fragile and confused, and asked him who he was.

Dean had been able to take Cas home three weeks after that, after a long drawn out conversation on which the doctors insisted that if he didn't want to return with Dean, they would find a nice home that specializes in such delicate cases. Dean had been ready to blow his top - because, really, he could take care of his husband - but thankfully, Castiel had insisted he'd be alright with his husband.

"After all, I married him didn't I?" Castiel had tried to joke, "He can't be all bad."

It was nice to know that Castiel was still as unfunny as he was before the accident.

Dean had offered Castiel their shared bedroom, stating he'd stay in their spare bedroom. The man had been concerned about it, uncertainly arguing back, but Dean insisted, although not for any selfish means. He just wasn't sure he could lie in that bed every night - the bed he had Castiel had spent their first night as married men; the bed where he woke up every morning to the man sleeping soundly against his chest; the bed they'd discussed their future, the possibility of children, while lounging in - and not want to cry at the unfairness of everything that has happened.

So they developed a routine. A new routine, like they had when they had first met as prospective roommates, but this one was so much different, so much more cautious. Dean didn't want to push Cas and accidentally screw up, push him out of his life completely because he wasn't sure whether he could handle that, whilst Castiel had to learn everything about his life from scratch and, though Dean tried to help as much as he could, sometimes even against the advisement of the doctors, Castiel could see how much the memory loss was affecting him. The last thing he wanted to do was to make anything harder for the other man.

Dean hated the new routine, especially when he was used to a relationship of constant intimacy and closeness. Now, everything was so far away and it only reminded him of what he didn't have.

But what he hated more was the fact that Castiel had shown no sign of recovering any of his memories. Five months, and nothing. He still looked and asked for confirmation during the exercises and, god; everything was beginning to look hopeless. Dean wasn't sure whether he could do this anymore. He needed Cas back - his Cas, and if that wasn't possible he wanted whatever self assured version he could get. He couldn't lose him, but sometimes he felt as if he already had.

It was one of those days when it happened. One of those mornings where you wake up and the whole world seems to have focused its existence on solely making you feel like crap. He'd been having a few of those days recently, increasingly so, and though his head was spinning, and he couldn't seem to stop sneezing, he forced himself out of the bed and onto his feet. He tiredly got himself dressed, vaguely noticing that his socks didn't match, and made his way down the stairs to the kitchen, having to grasp tightly onto the banisters to keep his balance.

Castiel had been in awake for hours, his habits as a doctor still affecting his day to day life, and he glanced up from the morning paper when Dean entered. His tentative smile dropped into a concerned frown, eyes following him over to the coffee machine, where Dean poured himself a cup and drank greedily.

"Are you feeling okay?" Castiel wondered, "You look...well, you look terrible Dean."

Dean smiled wirily. "You always say such wonderful things to me Cas," he commented dryly, "It's nothing. Just a cold, I guess."

"Dean, you can barely stand."

"I can stand just fine thank you," Dean argued, "And anyways, I spend my entire day in a classroom, sitting behind a desk - which I'm late for, again, so, uh, I'll be back later I guess."

He wanted to lean over a press a kiss to his forehead, as he normally would before, but he resisted, although that may have something to do with the fact his vision began swimming. He blinked for a moment, in a desperate attempt to clear it, and he hadn't noticed he was on the verge of keeling over until hands grasped his shoulders and he swayed towards them.

"You're not going to work today," Castiel stated firmly, his eyebrows furrowed, "You're going right upstairs to bed. Now."

Dean thought he may have been arguing against this consensus but his mind felt light and his feet moved of their own accord, so he guessed, even if he was, his own body was battling against it. There was nothing for a moment, only dizziness that made him want to vomit, before he was horizontal against a soft mattress. He sighed back into it, welcoming the comfort it offered. The familiar scent, something heady and nature, swept over him and he didn't want to admit that suddenly he felt a lot better.

A cold palm cupped his forehead and Castiel, with a look of deep concentration, appeared in his blurred line of vision. God, what was it with doctor's and cold hands? Dean grumbled mentally. He heard a whimper, and it took a second for him to realise the pathetic noise had come from his mouth.

"You've got a fever," he heard Castiel say; "You'll have to be on bed rest until it breaks."

"But..."

"I'll call in work for you, don't worry," he assured soothingly, brushing sweaty strands of hair from his forehead, "Now, let's get you out of those clothes."

Dean allowed himself to be manhandled out of his sweater vest and button up, and just about managed to lift his hips to help his trousers down his legs. He thought maybe he had heard Castiel chuckle, something low and cheerful, at the sight of his mismatched socks, but he couldn't be sure. It didn't matter though. Dean was quite happy to hold onto the noise, a figment of his imagination or not.

"I can make you spicy lentil soup - we should have some fresh lentils in the kitchen," Castiel added as an afterthought, more to himself than his new patient. His hands flittered around the bed sheets, tucking the duvet around his body.

And that's when Dean heard it. He thought, like before, that he was imagining things again. Because Castiel couldn't be singing. Not this song.

When he'd first met Castiel, the man had been an avid Beatles fan. When he was studying for his end of year exams, he would listen to their music on his iPod. When he was cooking, he would hum lyrics to himself. They'd even danced to 'I Want to Hold Your Hand' at their wedding. When he was sick, Castiel took to singing 'Getting Better'.

Dean could hear the words now, clear as anything, yet he strained to hear them, desperate for them.

"I've got to admit, it's getting better,

a little better all the time.

I have to admit, it's getting better,

it's getting better since you've been mine."

Castiel didn't exactly have a wonderful voice. He could hold a tune, just barely anyways, but now, after so long without it, he sounded like a songbird, beautiful and magnificent and god, Dean didn't want him to stop. The words trailed off into a contented hum, and warm hands cupped around his jaw.

"I'm going to make that soup now," Castiel announced, "You try to sleep. I'll wake you up when it's ready."

Dean heard the man leave the room, his footsteps light and quiet against the old floorboards, and the door creak slightly when it was left ajar. Despite the fact he was shivering, even though he was sweating through the sheets, and his head was spinning, and he was sure that if he rolled over too fast, he would throw up, but god, he couldn't keep that smile off his face.

Because Castiel was singing the Beatles again.

He was remembering.

His Cas was back.