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Title: Harbor Lights 2b/?
Author:  chartruscan
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Balthazar
Warnings: Abuse of reality, WIP
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~2000
Summary: The Winchester brothers are a team to be feared by the criminals of their waterfront city. Or, the one where Castiel is an asexual doctor who attracts insane stalkers amorous suitors and Dean pretends to be his boyfriend to scare them all away.  Also, they fight crime.

The next time Castiel saw Dean, he was covered in blood, looking grim on the stretcher being rushed into Castiel’s emergency room.

 

***



Castiel found himself alone on the roof of the hospital, city blinking below him, reflecting in the black harbor; green, red, and white lights moving are the only sign that there are boats crisscrossing the water.  He turned quickly when he heard gravel crunching underfoot.   He saw no one.  The hairs on his neck prickled.  He knew he was being watched, and knowing that it was Balthazar simply made his skin crawl all the more.

Turning in a circle, he tilted his head in hopes of catching another sound.  When it came, he flung up his hand and suddenly a very visible Balthazar was pinned to the side of one of the giant HVAC units at the far end of the roof.

“Well, that one is certainly not in my repertoire.  I’m impressed.”  Balthazar tried for bravado and nonchalance, but his Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively, voice a little higher and tighter than usual.

Castiel stalked towards him, demanding, “Why are you following me.”

“Just because you got yourself a Collie,” Balthazar leered. “Doesn’t mean the fox doesn’t want to get inside of the coop.  And what a coop it is.  Healing, telekinesis, your eyes, that ass.  Any other tricks in your ba--”  Balthazar’s voice strangled to a whisper.  Castiel stood nose to nose with him, ignoring how his stomach turned queasily at the proximity, and jutted his chin out, looking down through narrowed eyes.  

“I’ll say this once, Balthazar: we are not friends, we are not lovers, we do not have a relationship, or a kinship.  This,” he gestured between them, “does not mean that we have a connection, or that you have some claim on my time or attention.”  He stepped back, his gaze furious.  His voice grew quiet as he warned, “Bear that in mind if we cross paths.”

He released Balthazar, and then he was gone, fled across the city.

***


At eleven p.m. Sam opened the door to his and Dean’s apartment, but only after he tucked the taser back into the drawer in the hall after peering through the peephole.  Castiel slumped into the apartment and Sam stepped back, watching his friend warily.

“Hey Cas.  Um, keep it down, Dean’s sleeping.  How’d you get here?”

“Apparently m’a chicken coop.”

Sam pulled him in and forced him to sit on the couch, asking, “Are you drunk, Cas?”

“Coop, coop-pah.”  He seemed to like the word well enough, wrapping his lips around the shape of it several more times in silence, popping on the ‘P’.

Sam began working on Castiel’s laces.

“Apparently . . .” Castiel took a dramatic pause, his voice growing more deep and gravelly. “Dean is a Border Collie.  I don’t --don’t know who you are.”  He sounded terribly sad about that last part.

“I’m Sam, Cas.”  He loosened Castiel’s tie.

“Maybe you’re the farmer,” was the response muttered into Sam’s chest as Sam worked off his jacket.

“Actually, I think my body is the coop, and my soul is --are? --is? the chickens.  I have chickens.  Chicken soup for the soul.  I don’t like this metaphor.”

“Yeah, it’s kinda dumb.  Go to sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”

***


Dean was gone at the crack of dawn the next morning.  Castiel awoke to the sound of him leaving, but the impala was already down the road by the time Castiel looked out the window to the street below.  He didn’t talk with Sam that morning, choosing instead to step sideways and slip back to his own apartment to sleep for several more hours.

***


It was just after noon when Castiel rushed out to meet the EMTs wheeling in the GSW victim.

He was surprised to see Dean, arterial blood splashed across his chin and soaking up his sleeves and his pants, kneeling astride a middle-aged caucasian male on the stretcher.  His hands were clamped down on an artery that wanted to keep spurting blood, fingers disappearing inside the man’s leg.

Castiel forced his heart to stop hammering and asked, “What happened?”

“I shot him,” was Dean’s terse reply.

Security grabbed Dean around his chest and hauled him off the stretcher.  There were shouts of confusion, outrage from a paramedic when Dean’s fingers were suddenly no longer keeping the wound stable and blood fountained for a few horrific seconds until Cas got his own fingers inside the man’s leg, climbing atop him like Dean had been only a few short seconds ago; security tried to cuff Dean, a nurse shouting that Dean was a police officer, security arguing that he’d just admitted to shooting the victim.  But the stretcher was being wheeled away to surgery right now and Dean could take his lumps until Castiel could return and straighten things out, if they hadn’t been already by the time he got back.  

Castiel spared a glance at Dean as he was wheeled away; he was sagging on shaky legs and his hands cuffed behind his back.  He winked at Castiel.

Castiel emerged ten minutes later, once he had made sure that the man wouldn’t bleed out into his femoral cavity, anxious to be sure that Dean was all right.  

Dean was sitting in the waiting room, leaning forward to make room for his bound arms, security standing off to the side.

But first thing was first.  Castiel faced the security guard, nametag reading Sal O’Riley “Where the fuck do you get off endangering one of my patients like that?”  Castiel was beyond furious.  Sal was well over 6’6”, and an easy three hundred and fifty pounds, and apparently better suited to bouncing nightclubs.  “Uncuff him,” Castiel demanded, and, expecting the well-meaning and overly paranoid employee to continue to object, reached into Dean’s jacket and retrieved his identification.  Quietly he said, “And report to HR tomorrow to see if you still have a job.”  He turned away and spared a glance down at Dean’s inevitable smirk over the intimate invasion of personal space, frowning at the spray of blood that flecked up Dean’s white shirt and up his neck.

Dean stood so the cuffs could come off, ending up standing too close to Castiel --who didn’t see the need to step back as he continued to frown at Dean’s clothing.  Dean accepted back his service weapon with only faint annoyance and stepped back so that he didn’t get Castiel’s fresh scrubs bloodied.  

“Has anyone checked you ou-- checked you for injuries?”  Castiel was beginning to learn not to leave openings for Dean’s innuendo.  

“I’d say you just were, and yes,” Dean managed a tired quirk of his mouth, but gave it up for just tired.  He waved his hand dismissively.  “I’m fine, none of this is mine.  How’s our guy?”

“In surgery, but he’ll make it because you were smart enough to clamp the artery.”

Dean grimaced, looking at his hands, caked in drying blood, the right more so, and his fingernails were absolutely nasty; he tried not to think about how that might be bits of flesh under them.

“Come with me,” Castiel said, leading Dean down the hall and into an empty room.  Dean followed slowly, the adrenaline of the shoot-out, the ambulance ride, and his brief tussle with hospital security wearing off.  

Castiel grabbed clean scrubs out of a cabinet and tossed them on the hospital bed, then turned on the faucet in the handicap accessible bathroom.  “Here, wash up and get changed.”

“Thanks, man.”  Dean shrugged off his ruined sports coat and rolled up the sleeves of his once-white dress shirt, shoulder-holster cutting a fine line along the length of his back.  

Castiel leaned back against the waist-high railing as Dean washed.  “Why did you shoot him?”

“Mostly,” Dean watched the water swirl down the sink, red-tie-dyed whorls, beads of pink splashed up the basin. “Because he was shooting at me.”  He tried to scrape under his nail, closing his eyes on the ichor he was dislodging.  He’d never been so nauseous at the sight of blood.  Just thinking of where he’d had his fingers jammed for almost thirty minutes made him feel faint.

“But he didn’t.”  This was important to Castiel.  The back of Dean’s shirt was bloody and rumpled from where his arms had been handcuffed.  

Dean accepted the towel Castiel gave to him and blotted at his neck and chin.  He turned off the sink when he was done and began shucking off his shirt as he walked back to the main room.  He tossed the shirt to the floor as Castiel came behind him, bloody sports coat in hand.  Dean shrugged on the scrubs as Castiel checked the pockets for anything Dean needed to keep before he chucked it into the hazardous waste bin.  He pulled out Dean’s badge from inside the breast pocket and tossed it on the bed.  The left pocket was next; cell phone and lint.  He turned the jacket to reach the right pocket and saw something that shook him to the core.

“Dean?”  His voice was steady, trying not to cause alarm.

“Yeah, Cas?”  Dean shouldn’t sound that tired.

Castiel took a casual step forward, gently asked, “Please, sit down.”

“Why?” Dean sounded wary, like maybe Castiel had found his porn stash in his work clothes, or, more probably, a planted baggy of cocaine.

Dean.

“What, Cas?  Just spit it out.”

He was having a hard time keeping cool, keeping from wanting to throttle Dean for being stubborn, keeping from panicking.  “Dean, I’ll tell you if you sit first.”

But then Dean saw what Castiel had seen.  “Ah, shit.”  His eyes widened as he stared at the jacket swinging in Castiel’s grip, the quarter inch hole halfway down.  Dean twisted around, lifting up the shirt; he could barely see it, but when he twisted his arm groped with his fingers, he could feel the hole in his own flesh, and suddenly, like a wall collapsing, he could feel the pain.  

Stupid, stupid.  Shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have touched.  Knew somehow that if he’d let Castiel keep him ignorant, his body wouldn’t have recognized the pain until after he had some seriously good drugs in him.

He grimaced.  

“Dean, sit before you fall down.”

So, yeah, this was his day, fuck.  Sammy was going to be so mad.  He glanced at Castiel, who had his head tilted in an I told you so manner, if that could be achieved while also looking like he was begging Dean not to break his heart by dying.    

“Cas, I don’t feel so good.”  

The pain and implications of him being in serious trouble hit him in that moment, and he found it hard to breathe.  The room swayed, his legs beginning to buckle, and he grabbed at the railing to the bed as he began to sink to the floor.  Castiel was slamming the panic button and had his arms under Dean’s before he’d sunk more than halfway to the floor and settled them into a crouch. Dean flopped limply forward into Castiel’s chest, skin clammy and cold against Castiel’s neck.  He slipped a hand under the back of Dean’s shirt.  No blood.  Damnit, how long had he been bleeding internally?  Castiel’s mind raced as he lowered Dean to the floor; he couldn’t heal blind, wasting energy fumbling in the dark and hoping he hit his target.  He had to get Dean into surgery, get a scope into him to know what the damage was.  He palpated Dean’s abdomen and swore.  He kept his hand pressed skin to skin and did the only thing he could do, slowing Dean’s heart to stop the rate of blood pumping where it shouldn’t be going, relaxing his blood vessels and dropping his blood pressure dangerously low.  

Feet pounded down the hall; Dean groaned, grasping weakly at Castiel’s arm, his breath coming in shorter and shorter bursts.  

Sammy,” he whispered weakly, eyes open but unfocused.

Castiel felt his pulse slowing, and then Anna was there with several other nurses.  He fired off the situation and the symptoms as they lifted Dean up, and then they were rushing into surgery.

***


TBC


Date: 2011-07-26 04:39 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] scyllaya.livejournal.com
Dude, there's no chapter here... why is that? strange...

Date: 2011-07-26 05:32 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] chartruscan.livejournal.com
Meep! I guess when I highlighted the text for an LJ cut, I just *cut*. I'll remedy that soonish! (It's crossposted over at DeanCastiel if you don't want to wait while I flail on my blackberry).

Date: 2011-07-26 09:39 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] chartruscan.livejournal.com
fixed! Thanks for the heads up.

Don't drink and post, kids

::headdesk::

Date: 2011-07-26 10:37 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] scyllaya.livejournal.com
okay, now I know what happened with Dean before he ended up in surgery... :)

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