Cecil

Down in the dingiest depths of a drab little bar, Dean finds himself looking for some company. The bartender doesn’t seem to be the chatty type, at least not to the new guy who’ll leave by sundown tomorrow, and the women seem lovely, but boring. The town seems nice enough to a guy that isn’t excited by “new” anymore, but just about every town seems nice enough if you’re only visiting. Across the bar, a few chairs down he spots a man, about twenty years older than he is but just as sad. If he were to think about that longer, how he harbors the sadness of a man old enough to be his father, it might just be enough to make him slam down another drink.

But, instead, he sips his drink slowly until it’s gone and scoots over a couple seats until he’s a reasonable but curious distance away from the other man. Said man looks up from his drink as if Dean pissed in his shoes.

“Who the hell are you?” He antagonizes.

“You first.” Dean pretends like he holds something over the conversation, like he’s somehow “winning”.

The man huffs into a smile and looks back down at his scotch, as if the swirl of the drink could make this annoyance go away, or as if it might give him an answer to the question of who he is.
“What are you drinking?”

Dean answers, figuring at this point neither of them would ever find out who the other one is, just as he likes his late night bar talks.
The other man looks at Dean as if he’d kicked his dog. “How do you actually drink that garbage?” He picks up Deans glass and pours it out, much to the dismay of Dean, who’s just a little too drunk to stop him, but certainly sober enough to feel the loss in his pocket.

The man, the one with grey hair and a life heavy enough to weigh on his eye sockets, calls the bartender over and tells him to “give him what I’m havin”, too tipsy to keep the ending letters of his words attached.

As the bartender makes quick work of the request, sliding the drink over to Dean, who tries to pay but gets shot down with the oh-so-sweet offer of the other man’s tab, said man finally coughs out a reply to the question Dean threw back at his face as a first word. “You can call me House.”

Dean laughs. And then he laughs louder, and louder, and throws his head back into a full blown cackle. House looks at him with a curious smile, wondering why his laughter is so contagious. “What kinda dumb name-!?” Dean is quickly shushed into silence by the other patrons, but the remnant of a laugh on his face remains. House, if blackmailed, might admit he thinks it’s cute.

They look at each other; staring into each other’s eyes, they both think that they’ve found something, something that might haunt them. Dean opens his mouth to speak, but House is ever so rudely interrupted by a phone call. One where he mutters big words that go over Deans head, though he can make out the simple words like cancer, disease, infection, and all of the even simpler word like idiot, moron, and braindead. House pockets his phone and turns back to Dean, but suddenly whispers some random word to himself, as if every answer he’d ever need just came to him at once, as if God cut the opening ribbon on a library only House had access to. House storms out of the bar before Dean can give out his name.

Dean does the thing that you do when someone is running away from you, reaching his hand out as if he can catch House. But he can’t, and to catch him would mean bad things for whoever has the cancer or the disease or the infection.

Almost mournfully, Dean takes small sips of whatever House ordered for him.

It’s the best damn thing he’s ever put in his mouth.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Surrounding Dean are the worst four walls he could ever have had the misfortune of being trapped in. A goddamn vegan restaurant in the middle of the city. It was a miracle he wouldn’t have to actually eat there, but just looking over and seeing his brother not hating it was enough to make his stomach churn.

Disguised as health inspectors they shamble around looking for evidence that isn’t there, though they do find enough solidified disgust to warrant calling an actual health inspector. But no ghosts, never ghosts anymore, Dean thought. Hardly had they encountered cold spots and wiring issues anymore, just sulfur, black eyes, and wings. They hadn’t found any of that stuff either.

On their way out, Dean spots House and has a feeling they’re here for the same reason. A case. He doesn’t know why but he feels like the guy knows him pretty well. Living a life dictated by the monster of the week, or for him the patient of the week, based on the phone call Dean kind of remembers overhearing, it’s something Dean almost felt alone in. And he knew he was alone, sure the formula was the same, but beneath Houses formula there laid science, while Dean was stuck with ghosts, mostly demons, and hardly any concrete answers.

As Dean walks by House, he puts his hand on Houses shoulder. A pretty blond man falls in diagonal line behind House.

“You’re a doctor right? Pretty gross back there. Whatever nasty crap you’re looking for, you’re probably gonna find it.”

House stills for a second, looking at Dean, and then takes in a breath, one that seems different than any other breath he’s taken. It’s hard to tell why, they think almost in sync. Something in the air shifts and they both feel it. Sam feels it, the confused blond behind House certainly sees it. House nods and they both go their separate ways, farther into the restaurant and further away from the air of it.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

A few days later, Deans head pounds as he and Sam walk down the city’s streets, looking for something to eat. Sam looks at him, looks down at him, and they both know he drank just a little more than he really should have last night. Dean wears a bit of a weary, zoned-out look on his face as Sam’s words, important words, fall into his ear, stumble around in his brain a little as they knock on doors and ask to be acknowledged, but eventually spill out the other. He’s, of course, trying to pay attention, but it seems that it’s just not working today.

“Hey, man, are you alright? You seem pretty out of it.”

Dean snaps himself back into place, mostly. He starts to realize just how much his head really hurts and grasps onto it as if the touch will heal it. It feels like it almost does, like it could. But it doesn’t.

“Yeah, I-” A sharp bout of pain strikes through his head, like lighting, forcing a pained noise out from his mouth. A duller pain rolls through as if it were thunder in his head, but he’s still focused on the after effects of what felt like a stab. “My head hurts.” It’s all he can spit out, his expression -- quick blinking, wide eyes, a grimace -- doing the heavy lifting of his message where words fail him.

He feels Sam’s hands somewhere on him, though it’s difficult to pinpoint where, maybe an arm or a shoulder. He tries to force out some words about needing to sit down and get some water, but his legs do it for him. Dean falls hits the sidewalk quick, or at least he thinks he does. He can’t see much, and most of his other senses seem to not be working great either.

“My brother…” He manages to make out a few words through the high pitched sound of ringing. “..trouble breathing? I don’t know he said..” Dean feels a hand on his chest. “… beating just fine. We’re near…” The voice, though familiar, doesn’t sound like his brother anymore; it sounds much older. And he’s not quite sure Sam’s hands were that size before.

The ringing turns into sirens.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Brightness floods his senses -- bright sounds, bright lights, bright feelings-- though not good brightness; the prickly kind of brightness that numbs your feet and ruins your eyes and puts a hurt in your ears that mixes dull and sharp. He hears small clippings of a conversation peeking into his ears, but ultimately not entering them fully. His head certainly feels better, and getting used to his surroundings opens up his senses to actually sense things. He sees his brother and another familiar face. He blinks a couple times, doing the standard things you do when you wake up, rubbing his eyes and clutching his head in agony. He falls back into a laid down position almost instantly after sitting up.

“Dean?” It seemed almost instantaneous that Sam appeared next to him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just.” He grunts, whether it’s the pain in his head causing it or just the general soreness about him. “It’s nothing. The hospital? Really? I mean, really Sammy, all I need is a cold beer-” He attempts to sit up again, having his lies instantly revealed to the room by an involuntary groan. ‘Damn you’ he thinks in regards to his own mouth.

Sam gives Dean that smile he smiles when Dean is being frustrating.

“Well, one, you passed out, so… don’t think a ‘cold beer’ will fix that. And second, Dr. House insisted on it when he saw you.” Sam gestures generally in the direction of the man, who does that overexcited wave kids do when they see, well, anyone really. “How do you know this guy anyway?”

Dean waves off the comment with his hand. “Not important.” He finally finds a way to sit up that pleases whoever is hammering nails into the inside of his head. “What is important is getting out of here..” He trails off as he adjusts his sitting position to get off the bed. “… So we can do our job.”

House’s cane pushes him pack into his spot on the bed.

“Oh no you don’t, ya little bugger.” House ignores the little cry of “Hey” that Dean pretends he thinks will work to subdue the doctor before him. “See, we other people have jobs too, and mine is curing you. Seeing as you passed out from the strenuous activity known as... Oh, what was it, walking? You might need me to do that job. And I’m assuming that whatever job you two have that your little brother over here won’t tell me about isn’t very easy to do when you’re passed out on the floor.”

Dean can’t find anything to argue with, but he does anyway. “I’ll be fine, it was a one-time thing.”

House doesn’t even let him think about getting off the bed again before pushing him back onto it.

“Tests say it wasn’t” House picks up Dean’s file and holds it next to his head, bringing it farther away so he can tap on it with his cane. He says a bunch of jargon that Dean, again, can’t quite process, but it’s certainly sensible to the average non-doctor enough to make him want to sit right there in his hospital bed and not move much for a while.

“Now!” House takes a bit of a deep breath, not a genuine one, but one to make emphasis. He seems to do that a lot. Dean thinks it’s a little cute. Dean thinks he should rip that thought from his brain and throw it straight into the nearest trash bin. “I have a few questions to ask.”

“What ki-“

“Are you on any drugs?”

Dean takes a moment to gape. “Uh, No-“

“Have you ever taken drugs?”

“No-“

“Really? Cause’ I don’t know if you realize it but you were talking a whole lot about ghosts on the way over here. And demons. And all sorts of other things, but I think you got the point from ghosts and demons.”

Dean looks over at Sam, who grimaces and looks away. “I thought I was asleep the whole time.”

“You were! You just also happened to be talking about the thrilling career you’ve made out of hunting monsters, while you were sleeping. Crazy, right?”

Dean saves the rolling his eyes as something he does inside of his head and instead puts on a charming smile. “I watch a lot of movies, doctor. And I don’t take drugs.”

House looks at him for a moment and slides into a smile Dean would consider almost as charming as his own. If he were crazy. Which he might be.

“You’re quite an interesting one.” House writes something down in Dean’s chart.

Dean’s chest feels funny.

It must just be the medical problems.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

A couple days later, Dean’s head only hurts the normal amount and any risk of fainting has been eliminated. Unless, of course, a ghost spooks him. House really gripped onto that tight, not letting it go for even a second. Dean didn’t really mind, even though it seemed to stress Sam out a little.

The brothers pack Dean’s things together and Dean decides that it’s time for some thinking about that strange, hot old man who cured him. More particularly the things his team had said about him. Dr. Cameron was the first to comment on how Dean seemed special to House, how House never really talked to patients, how it made her wonder why he was different. House has had plenty crazy patients, why care so much about the guy who’s not even claiming to actually believe in ghosts. It made Sam hold back a bit of a laugh and it made Dean wonder why, indeed, House seemed to be so interested in him.

Following Dr. Cameron’s comment, Dr. Chase and Dr. Foreman commented the same thing again at different times. Dean figured this House must really be a weird guy. It only made Dean want to talk with him again more. If he were the type, he’d almost say he’d missed him. But that’s ridiculous.

On his way out the door, Dean has his with granted. House plants himself firmly in the way and immediately realizes he doesn’t have anything to speak of besides the desire to speak. “Hi.” He spits out.

“Hi.” Dean replies, with a bigger smile than might be considered appropriate. And Dean wouldn’t consider himself a hugging man, but today he does and he gives House a firm, one-armed hug around the shoulders. He has to get onto his tiptoes a little bit, which makes blood flush to his face a little. Maybe he’s sick again. When Sam walks past House, they shake hands, Dean hears a thanks being said behind him. He knows he’s going to miss something about this place. He wonders what.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Dean ends up in the same bar he started in. He tried to think of anywhere else to go, anywhere else he wanted to go, but his heart pulled strings in the decision process so heavily that he found himself hoping to see his doctor again. And he’d never really liked going to the doctor. He almost walks out when he sees the bar empty, but before he can sit down and resign himself to drinking alone he hears the ‘tap-tap-Tap-TAP’ of wood on wood. Looking to the source of the sound Dean sees an occupied table with a greying, though handsome, doctor.

Dean slides into the chair across House’s; He’s met with food that certainly looks exactly like it came from this bar. Two possibly overcooked burgers and fries that claimed to have cheese on them, but instead were just soggy. Dean picks up the burger because food is food and you need it when you’re drinking.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” Dean speaks through a mouthful. He feels comfortable with House, for some reason. Or maybe he just realizes politeness isn’t necessary when speaking to someone like the man across from him.

House shrugs. “I just knew.” He daringly puts a fry in his mouth and his face wrenches up in disgust as he spits it out. He bothers the poor, lone worker manning the tables about how crap the food is, but Dean isn’t paying much attention to the words coming out of his mouth -- more so just his mouth. It’s annoying how much it distracts him, it’s annoying how annoying it is, it’s annoying that House is annoying, and it’s quite annoying how many things are annoying him.

House seems resigned to his soggy fries after being told something along the lines of ‘well, that’s just the way they’re s’posed to be, now eat ‘em ‘fore I have to make ya.’ Picking up his burger he takes a bite and decides it’s not intolerable and reaches into the aid kit that is the condiment box on their table to rescue his burger with ketchup.

“Where’s your brother?”

“Studying.” Dean replies. It is true. Technically.

“He a student?”

“It’s uhh… for our job.”

House nods.

“Why aren’t you with him?”

Dean stills. His thoughts still. Why isn’t he helping Sam? Why isn’t he taking a nice big nap in their hotel room instead of helping Sam? Why isn’t he drinking alone in one of the numerous other bars in the city?
He blinks some motion back into himself.

“I… You. I wanted to find you.”

Dean rubs his head, like his headache was back, like maybe it was this bar that caused all of it. This bar, it’s occupants, the grey stubble, the pretty lips, the blue eyes, the free drink, the pretty lips.

House doesn’t seem very affected. Well, he does, but he’s obviously been expecting that answer since before either of them even sat at this table. He rests his head on the handle of his cane. He seems almost dejected, like he knows the answer to the next question as well, but he knows it won’t make anybody happy.

“Will I ever know what you do for work?”

Dean huffs a pretend laugh, a dry one that doesn’t mean a thing.

“For your sake I pray you never do, and I don’t pray.”

House nods again.

Another question. Dean can see it through his face; he’s conjuring up words to ask something, another something. Something Dean wants, something House wants. It’s hard not to know it even without words being spoken. House almost asks but then, looks at Dean. And he realizes something.

He doesn’t need to ask any more questions.

Dean has the answers stored in his eyes.

And so there is no question. House drops his hold on his cane and grabs the back of Dean’s head instead, as if it could hold him up, as if it could make him walk again. Their mouths crash together like a plane to open water; they get entirely enveloped in each other. It almost, just for a moment, feels as if there had never been another person on earth. And why would they want there to be?

They pull apart from each other, leaving drool as a track between their mouths. Maybe in a different situation, one of them might have muttered something like “I’m sorry”, or possibly a criticism of the others lack of asking. But not tonight.

House’s hand fell off the back of Dean’s head and he relaxed back into his seat, Dean does the same. They didn’t feel any need to break eye contact. Not when all the answers sat across from them, when the answers were splayed out inside of the others eyes like pretty stars.

Dean gathers himself, breaks the connection in their gaze, and takes the final bite of his burger. He looks down at House as he stands next to him, picking up his cane that he’d dropped and handing it to him. House looked at Dean like he were a puzzle.

“For your sake and mine,” Dean casts his heart aside; he thinks of the past. He thinks of what has happened and applies it to what might. It hurts. “I hope we never have to see each other again.”

Before dragging himself away, he lets his heart win one more time and gives House another kiss. Less like a crash, more like flowers rubbing up against each other after being planted close together.