Ready for the Fall // Destiel

Ready for the Colours to Burn to Gold

I apologize for any typos, the last two parts were written on my iPod on crappy hotel wifi.

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He barely feels the wind on his face as he rushes to his car, doesn't feel or hear the familiar rumble of the old girl's engine starting up. All he can feel is his heart pounding through his chest as he exceeds the speed limit all the way to the hospital.

Cas isn't his friend, but it's as close to one as he has.

Or maybe he is.

But nothing more.

As the car's tires slip and slide across the loose gravel in the hospital parking lot, he grabs the drink and his phone, barely managing to find a parking space within walking distance of the front doors.

In an instant, he's rushing across the asphalt, dodging between cars and breathing heavily out of his nose. People stare questioningly at him, some even going as far as calling him ballistic or insane.

The automatic doors take a whole three seconds to open, and once they are, he darts toward the front desk, demanding one thing. "Novak? Castiel Novak?"

The woman looks up in surprise at the fact that a man had seemingly materialized out of nowhere, before shrugging and pulling up the requested name on the computer.

"Room three-fourteen." She reads off the screen, turning back to Dean. "What's your relation to Mr. Novak?"

"I don't know yet!" Dean yells as he rushes to the thankfully open elevator, slamming his finger down on the button labelled three.

The ride up to floor three is agony, with the cheesy and all too cheery elevator music quietly playing, not to mention the overpowering stench of antiseptic. Slowly, the doors open and Dean practically throws himself out of the elevator, narrowly missing a young woman with her leg in a cast.

"Sorry!" he breathlessly shouts, already half way down the hall, noting the numbers start at fifty and are increasing. "Dammit." He growls, taking off the other direction. The night nurse and some poor smuck hitting on her both throw Dean a dirty look, which are ignored.

By the time he's at three-fourteen, he's gasping for breath, but thankful that it's the only sound in the room, aside from the quiet breathing of the man on the bed. No screaming heart monitors or crying relatives. All good signs.

Dean expects Cas to be asleep as he creeps into the room, but instead almost craps himself at the brilliant blue eyes staring at him.

"Cas." Dean simply says, mouth curling into a frown at the sight of his (maybe) friend, with dried and flaking blood in his hair and sickly yellow bruises forming around both of his eyes.

"Dean." Castiel responds, voice even deeper than usual, to the point of borderline croaky.

"What did you do?" Dean quietly asks, sitting down in one of the blue plastic chairs provided.

"Nothing." He wheezes, "Ask the person who turned during the red light."

Dean laughs a bit, before holding out the completely melted frapuccino with a crooked grin. "I didn't forget."

Cas just smiles, before his face contorts into a grimace. "I'm gonna have to pass, Dean, but thank you."

"Like I said, I wouldn't ever forget...you."

"You never said that."

"Shut up." Dean jokingly commands, "I was being poetic."

"Oh." Cas says, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "So I broke my ankle and cracked two ribs."