Title: Touched

Word Count: ~2500

Warnings: Meg has a small role, and there are slight hint of Destiel, but only if you read into it a bit.

A/N: This is my first Supernatural fic(let) ever! Enjoy, and let me know what you think in the reviews. :)

As soon as Dean saw the name 'Demon Bitch' pop up on his phone accompanied by a scratchy version of 'Smoke on the Water', he was sliding on his coat and searching for his keys.

He had made it blatantly clear to Meg only to contact him if it was an emergency that had to do directly with Cas. Although he hated the demonic bitch, and it pained him to admit it, she was currently one of the few people he could trust.

"What is it?" Dean barked into the phone, shaking his arm through the sleeve of his coat while searching around for a pad of paper and a pen.

"It's Cas," a slow voice drawled from the other end. Dean rolled his eyes.

"No shit. What about him?"

"He's awake."

"Okay? I'm assuming he hasn't slept for the past month."

"And talking."

Dean stopped, the pen cap in his mouth and the pen pressed firmly on a cheap motel 3-paged notepad.

"For how long?" he hissed around the pen cap. There was a short pause on the other end.

"A week ago, he started grumbling. Nothing literate. Little moans here and there. I thought he was just having some weird sexual fantasy. I offered to help him out." Meg's loud laugh made Dean cringe.

"Fuck you."

"Didn't I just say he said no to that?" she retorted and Dean could almost hear the smirk in her voice. "Anyways, it was like that for about a week. But today, he started talking. Out of no where. Actual words and phrases, y'know? He said your name, Sam, Bobby, whole shit-ton of other names I didn't recognize. About fifteen minutes ago, he asked me to call you. Wants to see you, I guess."

"I'm in town. Sam's out interviewing this kid. I'll be there in twenty minutes." Dean snapped his phone closed and shoved it in his back pocket.

Within two minutes, Dean had thrown a note on the nightstand about where his was going, not giving a fuck about whether Sam approved or not (likely the latter), and was on the road.

The entire way to the hospital, he pressed his foot on the gas petal a little too roughly, watching the speed meter edge above 30, 40, 50, 60, and finally 70, before he decided getting pulled over by a cop was the exact opposite of what he needed today.

When he finally arrived, he parked the car in a 'Handicap Only- $2000 Fine' parking place and nearly sprinted into the hospital, which was all too bright and happy despite smelling of cheap cleaning product to mask the scent of death and illness.

Dean never liked hospitals. He avoided them at all cost, even if it meant stitching up his own bullet wounds.

He approached the front desk, where a twenty-something seven-point-five-out-of-ten brunette sat, typing almost violently at a computer. She flicked her eyes up to Dean for a fraction of a second.

"What do you need?" she asked, a hint of irritation in her voice. It was a Saturday evening, near six o'clock, and she was probably almost off her shift, Dean figured.

"Psychiatric ward. I'm here to see a man named Castiel...Novak," Dean said, hopping that Cas had picked that name to sign in under. He could just as easily be Jimmy Novak, or Emmanuel something-or-another. Hell, Meg could have picked some Latin name that probably meant 'Ass Wad'.

The woman typed a few things into the computer, squinted, and looked up at Dean. "Fourth floor, take a right, go halfway down the hall, take a left. Room 432."

Dean let out a sigh of relief, offered a pleasant smile (which was not returned), and all but ran towards the elevator.

He had no problem finding Room 432, but he was surprised at what he found in it. An empty bed, curtains pulled closed, and Meg sitting on a chair, watching Jerry Springer on the old television. She was still wearing a tight fighting old-fashioned nurses outfit, along with a pair of combat boots.

"Where's Cas?" Dean demanding, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling for the pocket knife tucked in the inner pocket of coat. If this was a sick joke Meg was playing at, he was going to slit the bitch's throat.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, lover-boy. He went down to the lounge. He spends a lot of his time there." Meg replied without looking away from the TV. She laughed viciously as some woman pulled another woman's weave out. Dean grunted and flipped her the finger.

"You know," Meg said, just as Dean was about to turn around and leave, "he's doing bad. But in comparison to when you and Sam first left, he's doing fucking fantastic." She finally dragged her eyes away from the TV, meeting Dean's harsh glare.

"That first week, he was a disaster. Absolute disaster. I had to restrain him. Cuffs and all. It was pretty kinky," she said with a smirk. Dean felt the anger pool in his stomach, the urge to slit her throat edging back into his mind. "He was hurting himself. I mean, not on purpose. Just, y'know, lashing out. Trying to get rid of things no one else can see."

"Does he still see...him?" Dean whispered, suddenly distracted by his fingernail beds.

"Lucifer? Not so much. He sees other things now. Worse things. Only lashes out a few times a week, though. At the beginning, it was constant. He manages, as well as someone can do with Lucifer in their head."

Dean nodded slowly and turned again to leave the room. He didn't want to deal with Meg and her guilt trips right now.

"Oh, Dean?" Dean looked over his shoulder, lips drawn tight together in annoyance. "Be careful with him. I don't know what sort of hallucinations he has, but...I don't know. You'll just need to be careful."

"Right," Dean replied slowly, not sure what she meant, and left before Meg could throw another bucket of guilt at him.

Dean found the lounge with ease, which looked strangely similar to the lounge he and Sam frequented when they stuck themselves in a psychiatric ward for a case a few years back. Tables set up with board games and cards. Couches arranged in circles. People with too-long greasy hair wearing paper-thin white clothes talking to themselves.

He eased his way around a group of people whispering to each other while sneaking not-so-inconspicuous looks at him and searched the lounge with his eyes. Towards the back corner, sitting at a wooden table by himself, was a man with a tan trench coat and only slightly matted-down brown hair.

Dean made his way across the room and approached the table carefully, vaguely remembering Meg's words. It was undoubtedly Cas, who sat with a look of utmost focus across his face, staring at the Sorry board on the table in front of him.

Dean cleared his throat, but Cas didn't look away. The corner of his mouth twitched as he reached up and moved one of the pawns across the board.

"Sorry, huh?" Dean said, moving to sit across from Cas. "I figured you'd be more of a Monopoly man. Maybe Scene-It. I know how you love those pop culture references." Dean chuckled a little, but Cas didn't respond.

They sat in silence for a minute as Dean studied Cas. He had lost weight, but still looked healthy. His hair was a little longer, and no longer stood up in random directions. His face was a little pale, but overall, he didn't look much different than the normal Cas he was used to. The trench coat helped.

"You're wearin' the trench coat. How, uh, often do you wear it?" Dean said, aimlessly moving a blue pawn across the board. Cas looked up and frowned at him.

"Every day. Don't move that," he replied flatly, moving the blue pawn back before darting his gaze back down to the board.

Dean sighed in frustration. "C'mon, man. You wanted me here. What did you want? A friendly chat? I'm up for that, but conversations, funny thing about 'em, they're two sided."

Cas let out a little huff, and Dean wasn't sure if it was an attempt at a laugh or a sigh. "I'm not in the mood."

Dean frowned, and his jaw dropped slightly. "Not in the mood?" he snapped back, narrowing his eyes.

"Can't you leave me alone? For twenty minutes? I don't want to talk to you."

At that, Dean threw his arm across the table, knocking the Sorry board and most of the pieces and cards off the table. Most of the patients and doctors in the lounge turned around and stared at him, but he couldn't care less. "Dammit, Cas! You wanted me here, so I came! And this is how you act? What the hell?"

Cas looked up from the table, eyes wide with sadness. His voice was weak and slow. "I can't talk to you. They think I'm getting better. Just go. Please. Give me a break."

Then it clicked in Dean's head.

"Oh. Oh. You...you think I'm a hallucination. You think I'm Lucifer. Oh." Dean's voice dropped to a mere whisper. Cas formed a shaky smile, although his eyes were still deep with sorrow.

"Can we do this later?" he whispered back in a melancholy tone, running a hand back through his hair. "I just want to have some peace. Please."

Dean sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Cas, it's me. Dean Winchester. Not Lucifer. Not a hallucination. I'm here. I promise."

"That's what you always say."

Dean paused, opening his eyes and dropping his hand. "How often do you see me?" Cas looked away, eyes focusing on his hands folded in his lap. "Cas, just humor me, how often?".

"More than Lucifer. I see you more than Lucifer. I barely even see him anymore. I see you when I wake up. I see you when I go to bed. I see you everywhere."

Dean felt a pang of guilt stab him repeatedly in the stomach, along with a knot in his throat that was much too difficult to swallow down.

"Cas, look at me. Look at me." Dean waited until Cas's head titled up a fraction of an inch and their eyes met.

"It's me. I swear. How can I prove it to you, man? I'll do anything," Dean hissed through his teeth, internally smacking himself. Dean Winchester did not plead. He did not beg.

Cas smirked. "I've tried everything, 'Dean'. You're part of my subconscious. You know all the answers to the questions I ask. You can trick my mind into thinking other people see you. You've convinced me far too many times. I'm not playing into that game."

Dean groaned, leaning across the table and grabbing Cas's head with his hands, shaking gently. "You idiot, you fucking idiot, it's me. I don't know how else to get that across. Look, you want me to bleed? I can bleed."

Dean pulled his hands away, reaching into his inner coat pocket to pull out a pocket knife. Before he could flick it open, Cas had closed his slightly trembling hand around it. Dean looked up curiously to meet wide, surprised eyes.

"Touch me again."

Dean frowned, but obliged. His reached across the table once again and cupped the side of Cas's face, running the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone lightly.

"I'm 100% Dean Winchester. 0% Lucifer. 0% Hallucination," he said, offering a weak smile and a shrug. Cas pressed his own hand over the hand cupping his face, and a short gasp left his lips. Dean slowly set the pocket knife down and put his other hand on Cas's face.

"You've never touched me before. You've never let me touch you. Every time I go to, you just..." his voice trailed off as another pang of guilt stabbed Dean deep in the stomach. He didn't even want to begin to imagine what his hallucination did to Cas. He knew how Lucifer played people. He'd seen the permanent damage he had on Sam, who still woke up at two am screaming from nightmares and slept holding a gun.

"Well, here I am. Touching you. But—you know, not in that way..." Dean muttered, darting his eyes away from Cas, who laughed silently. Cas's thumb traced a lazy circle on the back of Dean's hand as he spoke.

"I didn't think you'd actually show up, Dean. I'm not sure I wanted you to. The only reason I asked Meg to call you is because Lucifer told me you were dead," Cas stopped tracing circle's and gripped Dean's hand roughly, raising it from his face and down onto the table. "Dean, he told me you were dead so many times. I believed it. I completely believed it."

Dean squeezed his eyes closed, anger accompanying the guilt consuming him. "We'll get you better, Cas. Sammy'll find something. We'll do research. We'll get him out of your head, I promise."

Cas smiled, still a weak smile that didn't quite reach his eyes like normal. "Thank you, Dean, but I don't think that's possible. I'm okay here," he looked around the lounge slowly, shrugging. "I've managed it. It's terrible, yes, but under control. And I'm content staying here."

Dean studied Cas's face, which was an absolute opposite of his words. His normally bright blue eyes that reminded him much of chrysocolla, some rock he remembered Sammy telling him about back in grade school, and were drooping and blood shot, like he hadn't slept in weeks. There was no color in his cheeks. His entire face looked drained. He looked drained.

"Well," Dean said, drawing in a shaky breath, "I'm not. We're getting you out of here."

Dean stood from the table, his hand dropping Cas's. Cas immediately scrambled up and grabbed Dean's hand, dragging it against his side firmly. Dean rose an eyebrow at him.

"If I let you go, this could all be a hallucination. I need a way to confirm you're here, and you're real." Dean felt Cas squeeze his hand, and the lazy circles being traced on his hand started again. Dean noted the circles were becoming increasingly more sloppy, like Cas was tracing words on his hand.

"What are you writing?" he asked, looking down at their joined hands and intertwined fingers.

"Enochian protection sigils. It's not really that helpful, or helpful at all, I haven't used ink or blood, but, um, it just...," Cas looked away, but didn't stop tracing the sigils.

Dean bit his lip to keep from smiling like an idiot, and squeezed his hand firmly. "Whatever it takes."

The hand holding didn't really bother Dean that much.

Or at all.

-fin-