Chapter Text
Cas doesn't make a sound on the way to the bathroom, but his expression is rigid with pain and his grip on Dean's arm tightens with each step. It's disconcerting, seeing his injuries still open to the air like that—they might not actively be bleeding, but it's still distressingly like leading a walking corpse, and Dean wishes Cas had let himself be patched up, at least a little.
He finally manages to get Cas into the small bathroom and helps him sit down on the lid of the toilet. "Sit tight," he says with forced cheer, but it's pretty clear the angel isn't going anywhere. Cas sits hunched in on himself, swaying slightly, only his eyes moving as he tracks Dean's movements. He looks fucking exhausted. Resigned, almost, as if even after everything he still half-expects Dean to try to drown him in the sink.
Dean sighs inwardly and goes to turn on the water in the tub, testing it with his hand as it warms up.
"What are you doing?" says Cas wearily.
"Helping you wash all the holy oil gunk off," says Dean. He feels himself flushing a little. "Um. If that's okay with you." Cas is looking at him with perplexed eyes and slightly parted lips, and although the blood is drying dark on his skin and in the exposed raw tracts on his chest, he still looks—beautiful, Dean's brain supplies unhelpfully. Awe-inspiring. Wholly and utterly Castiel. He's something ancient and weary and battle-scarred and fucking breathtaking, not someone Dean should presume to assist.
"That's not...that isn't necessary. You don't need to help." Cas sits up straighter, though the movement only brings his injuries into sharper relief. Half-unclothed on the toilet, his hair mussed and a faint guardedness in the set of his shoulders, he seems vulnerable, a wild and wary thing."I can manage on my own."
"Cas." Dean summons all his courage, looks Cas in the eye, makes himself presume, makes himself bite the bullet he's so used to dodging. "Please. Let me help you."
Cas just stares at him for a moment, and then he slowly starts fumbling with his belt. Dean averts his eyes and busies himself with the water, aware by the growing sensation of warmth that the flush is creeping down the back of his neck.
He's forgotten angelic sensibilities, or the lack thereof, so he expects Cas to keep his underwear on, and he almost falls into the tub when he turns around and sees a completely nude angel standing in front of the toilet, looking solemnly at him.
"Uh—Cas—" he stutters, and fuck, all his defenses are so automatic, so ingrained in him that he almost says just down to your boxers, dude, almost says put your junk away, come on. But he doesn't. He swallows, hard, folds the instincts away, looks up from Cas's decidedly uninjured legs and groin. "You—um, you gonna get in, or what?"
Cas studies him for a long moment. It's a searching, piercing look, but there's nothing charged about it, no hint of the unvoiced tension that's hung between them for—years, really, if Dean is honest with himself.
For a moment, Dean wonders if Cas feels any different, standing naked before him, or if, for all that he's changed in the past years, clothes and nudity still mean as little to him as they would to any cold-eyed angel fresh out of Heaven. But then he sees Cas's gaze flicker slightly, the barest hint of challenge, or perhaps it's fear. Sees Cas's Adam's apple shift as he swallows. Sees what, underneath the dark bruising marring Cas's face, is unmistakably a faint flush to match Dean's own. Cas isn't unaffected, then—he's been human before, he isn't a stranger to human attraction and physicality. But that doesn't matter, not right now. This isn't about trying to figure out what (or who) Cas might be interested in, or what Cas might think about his own body or—or—anyone else's. This, Dean tells himself, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Cas's face, this right now, right here, isn't about attraction, or desire, or the various interested thoughts his dick is having right now. This is about Cas, this is about taking care of the bloodied, shivering angel who's standing in front of Dean now, who's made the deliberate decision to trust him.
These thoughts run through Dean's head like lightning, and it almost catches him by surprise when Cas abruptly turns and steps into the tub, water sloshing around his ankles as he leans against the wall for support.
"It'll be easier if you sit down," says Dean, hesitantly. He half-turns, trying to preserve a modicum of privacy for Cas, and busies himself by scrubbing the complimentary bar of soap against a washcloth. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Cas slowly slides down to the bottom of the tub, drawing his knees up to his chest. He lets out a low hiss of pain when the water touches his injured back.
"Too hot?"
"No...it's alright." Cas's head droops a little. He's clearly still in pain, but Dean notes with some relief that no telltale curls of red are spreading through the water. Dean hands him the washcloth, watches Cas splash water first over his face, then over his bloody chest. It might be just Dean's imagination, but on closer inspection does seem like more skin is visible now, and perhaps the cuts are little shallower. It's a hopeful thought, and he refrains from commenting on it just in case he's mistaken.
Cas reaches over to scrub at his shoulder, but stops with a wince. His eyes slide half-closed, his jaw suddenly rigid, and he withdraws his arm to its former position, fingers clenching around the washcloth.
"Moving still hurts?"
"A little. Reaching, mostly." Cas looks up apologetically, knotting the washcloth in his hand.
"I'll do your back, then." Dean takes the cloth before Cas can protest. He kneels beside the tub, wincing as a small bolt of pain shoots through his injured leg. Cas hesitates only for a moment before he slowly extends one arm. Dean takes hold of Cas's wrist in his free hand, holding it lightly in place so that he can run the washcloth carefully along Cas's arm and up to his shoulder, soaping away the coating of oil, cleaning dried blood off the intact skin. He's careful, but he can't completely avoid the open cuts and scrapes, and Cas draws in a breath that sounds like a gasp, fingers closing around Dean's wrist in return.
"Sorry," Dean mutters, trying to work quickly and gently at the same time, "sorry, sorry."
"No, it's—" Cas blinks and takes another trembling breath, his head still lowered, his eyes darting to Dean's and then away again. His thumb is moving almost unconsciously, tracing a small circle against the pulse point of Dean's wrist. "It's good."
Dean doubts that good is what Cas is actually feeling right now, but he leans over to reach Cas shoulders and upper back, then his other arm. He tries not to look more than is strictly necessary, but he can't help being acutely aware of how Cas is shaped—the contours of him, the lines and planes and angles that are intact even beneath the ruined skin. His ear is inches from Cas's face and he can hear the soft, ragged rhythm of Cas's breath as the angel turns sideways to bring his shoulder closer to the edge of the tub.
"There you go." Dean hands the washcloth back to Cas, looks away again while the angel silently cleans oil off his chest and stomach. His fingers itch to keep helping—he wants to trail them over the ruin Set left of his friend's body, reassure himself that Cas is still present underneath the torn skin and shredded muscle. He wants to lay Cas out horizontal in the water, anoint him with dabs of cheap motel soap, pore over every inch of him and hold it together by whatever means necessary. He wants the chance to make Cas whole, for once, instead of breaking him.
The tub is beginning to brim, so Dean reaches over to turn off the faucet. "Okay." He coughs a little. "Um. If you turn around, I can get to your hair easier."
Cas nods and slowly repositions himself so that he's sitting with his back to Dean, his legs drawn up towards his chest so that he fits cross-wise in the tub. His movements are slow and jerky, and the irregular catches in his breathing are even more noticeable now that the water's no longer running.
Dean takes a breath. "Is this okay?" he says. He curls his fingers against the edge of the tub, waiting. He doesn't want to push, he doesn't want to take—right now he wants, more than anything, to give to Cas, instead of demanding. "Cas."
"Dean," Cas murmurs in reply, absently as if he hasn't really heard the question. Then he shakes himself and says, a little louder, "Yes—it's okay."
Good enough, Dean thinks, hoping that believing it will make it true. He squeezes the whole bottle of crappy motel shampoo into Cas's hair and runs his fingers through it, again and again until the slickness of the oil is replaced by the thinner slipperiness of the lathered shampoo. And he keeps going, working his hands through Cas's hair, massaging the scalp lightly the way he used to do when running a bath for Sam, when they were both little kids.
Cas lets out a tiny sigh and relaxes a fraction of an inch against the side of the tub. "That feels nice," he says quietly.
"Good." Dean shifts a little, trying to take some of the pressure off his injured leg. He smoothes Cas's hair back, musses it up again. Lets his hands stray briefly down towards the base of Cas's neck, kneading at the muscle there.
"I meant it, you know." Cas has sunk into the water up to his chin. "When I was fighting Set. I would have counted it as a victory, if I'd saved you. Even if it cost my life."
And okay, what the fuck is Dean supposed to say to that?
"But I felt regret," Cas's voice is a bare, rough whisper. It tugs at Dean, pulling at his insides. "At the thought of...of leaving."
"So don't." The words are out before Dean can stop himself. "Don't leave."
"I don't intend to abandon you and Sam and Mary. You're still in danger—"
"No," Dean interrupts. Might as well leave it all on the line, he figures. "That's not what I mean. I mean...stay. With me. Danger or not."
Cas goes completely still, but he doesn't respond, and Dean bites his lip. "I mean. If you want to." He's nervous, his hands twining through Cas's hair as if they have a mind of their own. He can't see Cas's face, doesn't know what expression covers it in the pause that follows.
"I'll stay as long as you need me to," Cas says, and he sounds uncertain, as if he isn't sure what the correct response is.
Always, Dean thinks, I always need you.
It has to be about what you want, Dean.
He knows what he wants. He's always known, even if he's never been able to admit it to himself.
"And what if I want you to stay?" He can barely get the words out; they catch in his chest, tearing things free as they go, small secret things that he's never allowed himself to think, never allowed himself to desire. "Will you...will you stay if I just want you to?"
"With you?" Cas shifts; the water makes soft splashing noises as it laps against his chest.
"Yeah," Dean chokes out. "Yeah, I want you to—stay with me." The confession floats in the warm air, a delicate thing, fragile and irrevocable. His hands are trembling. He droops forward, presses his nose against the back of Cas's head. He can smell the soap and shampoo, the cheap fragrance mingling with the sharp scent of Cas's blood. "You and me, Cas."
"You and me," Cas echoes distantly, sounding almost puzzled, as if the words make no sense to him. "Like you pra...like you said, after—"
"—after Amara, I know. I didn't follow through. I was a dumbass, okay?" Water from Cas's hair trickles down Dean's face. "I was afraid. But I—you're—" He closes his eyes. He's dug himself in too deep to turn back now, but it's still so hard to get the words out, so hard to lay bare what he's spent years hiding. You almost lost him. So say it now. "—it's what I want."
"I didn't know." Cas still sounds hesitant, but it's a different kind of uncertainty now, wonder instead of caution. "I didn't know you felt that way."
Always. "I—I do, yeah."
"Then I'll stay." There's a warmth there now, an earnestness. "Of course I'll stay."
Funny how so few words can send light rushing through him, spilling out inside him like the sun. Dean sits up a little straighter, looks at the back of Cas's head. "Yeah?"
"I always...I always want to stay," Cas says softly. "But—how can you want—after everything I've—"
"That shit doesn't matter, Cas." Dean puts all the vehemence he has into that statement, and Cas takes another shuddering breath. "You think I could hold anything against you, after all the crap I've—" He breaks off, shakes his head for emphasis, though he knows Cas can't see. "It doesn't—none of it matters. Just you. You're—everything, and—I want—" He breaks off, trying to fit words to all the feelings that suddenly crowd up inside him. He's overcome by all of this, all of what's happening, the enormousness of it, the suddenness. "Anything," he promises, for lack of a better conclusion. "Anything, Cas, with you."
At some point his hands have dropped to rest on Cas's shoulders, and he's suddenly aware, in a way he hadn't completely been before, that Cas is sitting in front of him, naked beneath the sudsy water. The thought makes something heavy and warm coil in the pit of his stomach, though he knows that this isn't the time, that he needs to get a fucking grip, that right now Cas's wellbeing is the priority. He doesn't want to push—he doesn't want to take. But unbidden, his mind proffers the image of Cas standing unclothed by the tub: the slender, muscular lines of his legs, the curving points of his hip bones just visible beneath the pale skin, and his—
"Alright, well." Cas gives a tiny start as Dean hastily breaks the silence, his mouth dry with mingled desire and worry, don't push echoing like a mantra inside his head. "Time to rinse off, looks like the Gulf of Mexico in here." The surface of the water glimmers with oil as Dean reaches his hand into the water and opens the drain.
Cas catches his hand by the wrist before he can withdraw it. The angel cranes his head back to look at Dean. His face is clean of blood, though the bruises still scrawl a dark pattern beneath the skin. His eyes are blindingly blue. "You need to shower, too."
Dean really does; the fumes from his own gasoline-drenched clothes and body are making him nauseous. Sam's probably out by now. But he shakes his head; he wants to take care of Cas first. "I'll go after you're out."
Cas doesn't let go of his wrist. "If you want," and he sounds shy, almost afraid, "if you don't want to wait, you could..." He trails off, a fragile catch in his voice, the words stuttering to a halt. But his eyes make the message clear.
"Yeah," Dean says. His heart is suddenly pounding. "Yeah, okay."
***
Castiel doesn't watch as Dean stands and strips off his clothing. He sits against one end of the tub and lowers his chin to his chest, and doesn't look as Dean steps wordlessly into the tub. He can hear Dean's breathing, how it's sped up, but fainter too, as if Dean's afraid to make too much noise, afraid to exhale too strongly.
The sudden start of the shower, the ringing noise the water makes as it strikes the tile, shouldn't take Castiel by surprise. But it does; he twitches at the sound and wraps his arms more closely around his bent legs, ignoring the stabs of pain that flash over his torso. He keeps his eyes fixed on the bottom of the tub. He can see Dean's bare feet, side by side as Dean stands under the heated spray. It's strange to think of Dean standing unclothed before him, mere inches away. He knows Dean's body, of course; he rebuilt it from scratch, reconstructed it down to the molecule and sealed it shut around Dean's soul. But that was years ago, and this is different, in ways that angels have no words for, ways that make small coils of desire curl and shift inside him.
So he keeps his head down—uncertain, still, of where he stands with Dean, or into what new shape they have come to rest. Of what is between them now, of what might yet be. But he can't stop the images his mind supplies of Dean standing naked under the torrent of water, can't stop the steady swell of heat in his face and chest and groin, physical reactions that he's come to recognize and learn the meaning of in the years since that first fateful meeting.
Dean doesn't say anything as he scrubs himself silently with the same soapy washcloth he'd used to clean the oil from Castiel's arms and shoulders. He moves briskly now, though when he'd touched Castiel his hands had been deft and gentle. The memory makes Castiel's skin prickle with a warmth that has nothing to do with the shower. You and me, Dean had said, the words like surrender and triumph at once.
Castiel lifts his chin a little, starts to shift his gaze upward, but he pauses as he catches sight of Dean's injured leg, the clean white wrapping of the bandage, soaked through now with water. The sight poisons the fragile peace he'd been feeling, makes him want to coil deeper into himself. It's a minor injury, really, but somehow this makes it all the worse that he can't even heal it. He closes his eyes to block out the evidence of his shortcomings. He thinks, with a sudden surge of bitterness, that at least when his vessel was home to Lucifer it wielded the grace of an archangel. And now it holds only Castiel, and so only his own dwindled power. It's a set of undesirable outcomes that that he can't seem to stop flipping between—he's evil or he's weak, he's villain or liability. And yet—I want you to stay, Dean had said, his voice warm and brimming with truth, trust, certainty.
Castiel believes in that voice; he's always believed Dean. And even in the light of his present weakness, he can't deny the warmth rising within him now. The soft glow that has flared to life in the wake of Dean's words feels a great deal like—like—he doesn't know, exactly, but he thinks it must be a bit like happiness. And yet Dean can't know what he's asking, what he's offering, what Castiel is now, what little there's left of him, scraped out in Lucifer's wake, tainted and hollow and toxic. He's going to hurt people again—his choices, his actions, his foolishness. He's going to hurt Dean again. Dean must realize that. There's no reason Dean should want him to—to—
He screws his eyes more tightly shut. From above, he hears Dean let out a soft, unsteady sigh, and water splashes against the walls of the still-draining tub as Dean moves forward.
"Cas," says Dean.
Castiel opens his eyes, blinking at Dean through the spray. Dean crouches down so that they're at eye level. "Cas, I see you."
It's not true, Castiel thinks, shrinking back from Dean's intent eyes. He might appear as Castiel but he will always look like Lucifer as well, always carry Lucifer's imprint alongside his own. He will always be the angel who said yes to Lucifer, he will always be the angel who for months was the Devil. The Devil walked and talked yet again on this earth and the Devil was him.
"Cas, I see you," Dean repeats insistently. Castiel isn't even aware that he's shaking his head until Dean reaches out and puts his hands on either side of it, cradles Castiel's face between wet palms. "I always saw you."
Castiel hears himself make a soft, uncertain noise. He shouldn't let himself accept what he doesn't deserve. He shouldn't accept the touch of Dean's hands, the gentleness of Dean's voice, the forgiveness inherent in Dean's words. But he wants these things, he wants them desperately.
Dean leans forward, presses their foreheads together. "I see you," he whispers into the gap between their faces. I see you. The prayer floats up behind Dean's voice, strong and sure and deliberate. Dean is praying, purposefully, unhesitatingly, and layered beneath the words are memories. Castiel catches flickering images of Lucifer wearing his vessel, feels the echo of Dean's impotent rage and longing. And more; Dean is pushing them out toward him, holding nothing back. Castiel sees himself shudder awake on the ground, freed of the Devil's grip, tastes the sudden sweetness of the relief that blooms in Dean, the dissipation of months of worry. I will always see you.
Castiel watches himself collapse in the warehouse, watches flames whirl outward from Set, feels Dean's maelstrom of terror, anguish, loss, rage. In the lamplit motel room Castiel hears himself ask do you see me, hears in Dean's startled response the full torrent of surprise, confusion, sadness, guilt, compassion, longing, frustration, certainty, love, that tumbles, unsaid, behind what was spoken.
"I see you," Dean repeats, moving even closer. His eyes are a sharp and unrepentant green. "I see you," he murmurs into the curve of Castiel's mouth, moving his hands, tangling his fingers in Castiel's wet hair. I see you. I see you, Cas. Dean's nose bumps against Castiel's; Dean's lips are soapy and warm. There's not a hint of the scent of holy oil left in the air. Do you understand? Do you believe me?
Castiel shivers.
"Yes," he says.
***
They wrap themselves in thin white motel towels and lie side by side on the bed.
"I didn't bring any spare clothes," says Dean ruefully.
"Your room is right across the hall."
"Yeah," Dean admits. But he makes no move to get up. Castiel turns his head to look at him. The yellow lamplight is far steadier than the light of flames had been, and it throws a warm glow over Dean's features. This close, Castiel can count the freckles dotting Dean's nose, trace the curved fringe of his eyelashes.
He wants to lean in, to close the distance between them. It's a desire he's pushed down before. But—anything, with you, Dean had said. So he does.
Dean kisses back, open-mouthed, quiet, careful.
They break apart after a long moment, though it still feels too short to Castiel.
"You're healing." Dean smiles and lifts one hand to brush fingers against Castiel's shoulder, over the cuts that are beginning to close up.
"Yes," Castiel says, and thinks to himself, not for the first time, that Dean's smile is the most beautiful and radiant thing.
Dean moves his hand up, lets it rest against Castiel's cheekbone, the touch feather-light. "You and me, Cas." It's half a question, and Castiel smiles too, an expression that pulls at the bruises on his face but feels good nevertheless.
"Yes."
They roll back to lie face-up, relaxing into the lumpy mattress, water seeping from their hair and dampening the beige comforter beneath them.
"Hey Cas," Dean says after another long minute. "What's your favorite color?"