Destiel One Shots

New Years

"Should we wake him up?"

Cas looked up as the ball dropped onscreen, heralding the beginning of 2016. Beside him on the bed, Dean was wrapped in a quilt, a burrito of a man, still shivering a bit despite the heavy blanket.

"He's running a 102.1 fever. It took quite some time for him to fall asleep in the first place."

"I know," Sam said, pulling a face as he sipped his glass of champagne. "And he usually doesn't care about New Year's to begin with. He just said this year was important and he didn't want to miss it. I dunno."

"I'm going to let him sleep. I'll wake him in an hour for his antibiotics."

"Alright, I guess. You want to take first shift?"

"Fine by me. Can you get that copy of A Dance with Dragons off the library table?"

"No problem."

-

Cas sat in a chair by Dean's bed for an hour, reading his book and sipping the hot tea Sam had kindly made him. When the hour was up, he fetched a glass of water and two amoxicillin, along with a couple of tylenol III and the cough syrup Dean loathed.

Dean had a severe case of bronchitis, likely the result of a miserable salt and burn in thirty degree pouring rain. He'd gone down pretty quick - so quick that they were still in the town where they'd done the job, and Doc Morris, the man who'd called them in the first place, was able to diagnose and prescribe meds.

"Dean, I need you to wake up. Time for medicine."

Dean grumbled and didn't really open his eyes, but was pleasantly cooperative as Cas assisted him with the pills. He pulled a horrible face at the taste of the cough syrup, but he did force it down.

"S'mmy. New Year's yet?" he asked sleepily, burrowing back into his blanket cave.

"Not Sam. You slept through New Year's, Dean." Cas gently rubbed his back, helping to settle the blankets over him.

"Oh no," Dean said mournfully, sounding as if he were about to cry. "I missed it."

"It's ok -"

"No, S'mmy. Was gonna - I was gonna -" He coughed. "Was gonna tell 'im."

"Tell who what?"

"Was gonna tell Cas. Tell 'im I love 'im," Dean said groggily. "Was gonna make it special. Even though he prob'ly doesn't love me."

Cas's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sure he does. I'm sure of it, Dean."

"Nah. Not good 'nough. Poison. Better I missed it."

"No, Dean -"

Dean snored loudly, and Cas frowned, tears still dripping down his cheeks.

-

Four days later, Dean was well enough to wobble into the bunker's kitchen, hair mussed and his grey dead guy's robe wrapped tightly around him.

"I've made soup," Cas told him. "It's almost done."

"Thanks," Dean rasped. "Throat still hurts from coughin'."

"I guess so."

Cas fixed Dean a bowl of the hot chicken soup and added some crackers to a plate. He poured a tall glass of orange juice for Dean and a mug of tea for himself. "Eat up," he told Dean, as he sat beside him at the table.
A companionable silence filled the kitchen as Dean worked steadily through his food.

"So I slept through New Year's," Dean said abruptly.

"Uh, yes. You did."

Dean looked like he was going to say something, but shut his mouth tight and stared down at the table.

"I feel the same way."

"What?" Dean looked up, his eyes wide.

"You told me. On New Year's? You were out of your mind with fever and you thought I was Sam. You told "Sam" that you were going to tell me you loved me, but you were convinced I didn't feel the same. You're wrong; I do. I've loved you for a very long time, Dean."

Dean's chin trembled. "But uh, I'm - I'm not good, I'm not -"

Cas leaned across the table and took that trembling chin in his hand. "You're perfect," he whispered, before closing the distance and kissing Dean.

When they broke apart, Dean was flushed and had stars sparkling in his eyes. "I think 2016′s gonna be a great year," he smiled.

Cas squeezed his hand. "I think you're right."