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Next day, Sam is so tired.
His eyes open, as always, crinkling with that heartfelt way when Dean steps into his bedroom. He twitches those long, lean fingers of his for a touch, as always. He fusses a little when Dean eases his breathing mask away from his face, letting out a long sigh of content as he is free from all the equipment of the night.
But there is something heavy, something off, in all that. And when Dean starts with their usual morning routine of changing and bathing Sam, he sees that Sam's eyes are closed again.
Dean stops, frowning at the sight he has rarely seen. Sam is an early bird, always ready for a new day. If he's not feeling sick — which Dean is quickly sure of after a swift check of Sam's temperature and pulse — he's actually impatient to get up and rolling with the day.
-Sammy? He asks, wiping Sam's hair out of his forehead. -What's going on, man?
Sam could be off in so many different ways. It could be the restlessness of the night so vague that the machine that only charts his breathing doesn't get, even a seizure the machine only hints at. Or, it could be infection setting in.
Sam's answer is a sigh, long and trembling, and a snuggle against Dean's palm. His skin is cool after Dean has wiped all the night sweat and snot away, and he doesn't seem in pain or feverish in any other way either. No rashes, redness, unusual paleness or either flushing. No cold or too warm feet. His body is clearly moving less than usual, but its tension is familiar level - not stiff or flaccid, no exceeded spasms or winces either. He breathes well, and his diaper is damp with light yellow tinge, like always, not smelling particularly different than usual. Dean thinks hard, ticking boxes in his mind checked one by one.
It's only after Sam's emergency check list is done with when Dean remembers the communication device. Actually, he feels a bit stupid when he does that. It's still so strongly ingrained in him to simply use his senses and experience that he has half-done what he intended to before he even recalls the device. He rolls his eyes at himself, takes the device from the shelf its stored for the night and shows it to Sam.
-Would you like to tell me with this? He asks, switching the device on and starting to tap the screen, a symbol at a time. "Me." "My chores." "My friends." "Things I like to do." He takes a long gulp of air. Tessa told him last time that he and Sam could program the device according to Sam's needs, but this far, it's been mainly Castiel doing that, adding Dean the first symbol that shows in the very first tab. Dean himself barely knows how to use a smart phone. His own is still Nokia 3310, the one he got somewhere in the early 2000's. How would he get rid of something that still works like a dream?
After several more tabs, there's "How I'm feeling today?" -Jackpot, Dean murmurs, tapping the symbol.
Sam lays still, his head turned towards Dean but only looking at him, his eyes still flickering closed every now and then. His face is unusually blank, Dean notices, like making the expressions would take too much out of him. Dean takes his hand on Sam's forehead, fondling it with a gentle gesture. -Aww, Sammy, he soothes. -You really are tuckered out, are you?
The answer is, again, a gentle sigh. Dean lets his thumb rub over Sam's arm, laying the device in his lap and whirring the head of Sam's bed up. -What if I go through the symbols and you tell me what's the right one? No joystick this time?
That's what they do, Sam snuggling against Dean's chest while Dean taps the symbols slowly, one by one. "Calm." "Restless." "Happy." "Sad." "Energetic." "Tired." "Hungry." "Full." None of the words get a reaction from Sam. Dean frowns, thinking again. Then he chooses yet another tab, "What I want to do?" From there, "Sleep" makes Sam twitch and coo, a soft, tired but clear sound. Dean smiles at himself, putting the device off and taking Sam into a hug between his arms.
-That's alright, buddy, he says gently into Sam's hair. -Just sleep.
—
Dean has just called to Tessa, explaining the situation and asking a re-schedule for Sam's speech therapy session today, when the door is opened and then closed softly. He ends the call with abundant thanks and walks to the hall to meet Castiel's tired face.
-Castiel? You already here? Dean waves the other man towards the kitchen, starting to make coffee in a hurry. From Castiel's face, he could tell that the situation definitely asks for some black gold.
Castiel sits down at the table, laying his back bag on his feet. -Tea is fine, he says. -Unless you are drinking coffee yourself.
-I am, Dean soothes the coffee machine. For some reason, he's not quite ready to see Castiel’s face, afraid of what he would see. -I took a moment longer with Sam so my morning coffee is here.
Castiel only hums, and then, they fall into a somewhat awkward silence. Dean is glad he has something to do instead of just sitting and desperately trying to figure out where to start. He has notticed ages ago that Castiel has no problems with silence whatsoever. It's like he's even happier whe no words are spoken and only the natural sounds of the house are heard.
When the coffee is ready, he pours it into two mugs and brings them at the table along with oat milk. Castiel likes that one.
-So, how are you doing? Dean asks, taking a sip. It seems easier to have conversation over a coffee cup. That's probably why he prefers that, he smirks at himself, thinking of those hundreds of nights with his few friends he has brewed them coffee and chatted with them about life and all other things. Probably with Castiel too.
Castiel looks at his hands, curled around the coffee mug. Dean notices, with a slight unease, that their usual roles are reversed now.
-Dean, I need to tell you something, Castiel says, his voice gravelly solemn, almost frightening.
—
-So, what does that mean? Dean asks, his hands holding the cup controversially cold. It's not actual physical sensation but it's just as harrowing. He wants to ask so much more. For Sam? For me?
Castiel sits on the edge of his chair, and to Dean’s eyes, he seems like on the verge of tearing up. This is Castiel he has never seen, Castiel he realizes he has to handle gently although his mind screams for answers.
Castiel sighs, not lifting his eyes from his mug he has barely taken a sip out of. -Remember how I suggested that thing you had a while ago could be a panic attack?
-Yeah, I do. Dean waits, a slight unease creeping up his spine. -Why?
Castiel sighs again, closing his eyes and turning to look out of the window. Dean feels a surge of empathy. He knows that feeling so well himself. And all those times Castiel has waited, patiently, until he was ready to speak again.
-Take your time, he says softly. He really hopes it sounds gentle, like he intends it to. He kind of wants to reach out, to touch Castiel, but he has no idea if he should or not. With Sam, the cuddly and snuggly one, things like that are always so easy.
Castiel finally takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the bitterness. Dean hides the smirk politely.
-Bacause I have those, Castiel says, now murmuring straight into his cup so that Dean needs to strain his hearing.
-I have panic attacks, Castiel says, louder, almost sniffs. -I have a panic disorder, Dean. I was diagnosed when I was ten.
-Okay, Dean says, tentatively, stiffling a frown and then a relieved smile. If this is it, both he and Sam will be fine.
-That's not all, Castiel keeps on, making Dean's hope shatter like a house of cards. -I... I had burn out some years ago.
To that, Dean blinks. -Alright, he says, gingerly. -But...you are recovered? Are you?
Castiel gnaws his lip, following a squirrel jumping from tree to tree outside the window. -I am, for now, he says softly.
-But?
Now, Castiel turns his eyes straight towards Dean, making him flinch at the raw desperation, fear, in them. -It was an autistic burn out, Castiel says, his eyes wide, like he's looking at his executioner instead of his employer. -It means... it's not something you can recover from per se. It doesn't go the same way as with regular burn out. It... kind of comes and goes.
Castiel says the words like they are lead, falling one by one to a ground that shatters between their feet, one crack at a time. At least Castiel seems to think so. Dean frowns, not sure how should he proceed.
-Alright, he says gingerly. -That sounds rough. Are you sure you can return to job this soon?
Castiel's reaction is something Dean would have never waited. Castiel's already shiny and brimming eyes overflow, instantly drawing the thin streams along his cheeks, and then there is an ugly sob that pulls Castiel onto a tiny ball over the table, his shoulders shaking in a sudden burst of emotion.
-Woah, man, Dean blurts out, almost knocking over his chair in his haste to get to the other side of the table. He's already beside Castiel when he realizes he hasn't the slightest idea what to do. So, he pats the shaking shoulder awkwardly.
-Hey, it's not that bad, is it? He tries after a while, when Castiel is still curled into his ball. -I mean, if it comes and goes. You have bad days, but also good, don't you? This far, with Sam and me, you've had mostly good. At least I haven't seen any bad days.
He realizes that he's babbling, but at the same time, he notices Castiel's harsh sobs starting to even out, so maybe he's doing something right. He pats at Castiel's shoulder again and keeps on his stream of consciousness.
-Sam likes you so much, he says. -And you are so good with him. He waits for you every single morning. I can tell. And —, he takes a tiny gulp of air. -I like you too, Castiel. You are reliable. And really good in what you do.
The shoulders are now stopped shaking, and Dean swallows a sigh of relief. He has to wait though before Castiel, now seemingly petrified on his place, lets out a first sign of life.
It's a voice. Tiny and crackling. -You... you're not angry that I didn't tell you?
Dean takes a chair for himself, this time right beside Castiel. Castiel still sits slumped, but not anymore all crumbled. -About your burn out? Dean asks gently. -Or your autism?
Castiel seems to shrink by the word. -Both, he whispers. -All of it.
-Castiel, Dean says gently, laying his arm beside Castiel on the table. Castiel looks at it, then slowly at his face. -I saw it from the start. Not the very first day, but very early on.
He smiles at Castiel's openly astonished expression. -There has been some questions of autism with Sam too, he says. -Of course it's hard with people like Sam, who don't speak and stuff, but some traits they found. I guess you have noticed some too. In my opinion, it's what makes you so good with him.
This time, Castiel returns his smile, tiny and tentative, but he does. The sight makes Dean actually skip a beat.
-You mean, Castiel sniffs once more, his voice still tentative, - I'm not fired?
-Why would you be? Now Dean is actually, genuinely, confused. -You have no idea how long I looked for a suitable carer for Sam. I did it for months, Castiel. Then you came, and you owned the job from the first day.
Castiel's smile turns dazzling. -I had no idea, he says, actually shyly. -I only did what I knew.
-Then you know exceptionally well, Dean says. -Sam and me have so much to thank you for.
-Thanks. Castiel lowers his head again, intertwining his hands in his lap. -How about... my panic attack?
Dean thinks for a moment. -Does it mean you are not fit to work?
-Well, it can be a sign I should take it easy a bit, Castiel admits. -But it isn't a hundred percent sign that I'm spiraling.
-Then we are doing the things so that you can take it easy, Dean decides. -It't not like Sam needs to have a whole-time circus around. We'll ease up the schedule of activities, and you take it easier without any bad conscience those days you need that. Right?
Castiel has again tears in his eyes, but this time not accompanied by a grimace but a carefully enthusiastic smile. -You'd really do that for me?
Dean nods, determined. -Hundred percent, he assures. -Sam loves the sprawling days as much as activity days.
It's Dean's final words that make the world shift back to its axis though. -You are part of this family, Castiel, Dean says. -Don't you think we're going to let you get away this easily.