Chapter Text
+1
Months after the Great Collapsing Witch Warehouse, there is still no sign of Cas’s grace returning to him. It’s an adjustment.
Cas tags along from motel to motel. He dresses in the brother’s hand-me-downs, picks at diner sandwiches, and researches things that go bump in the night with the same unsettling focus that used to set a room alight with crackling energy. It takes a while to find the sea legs of their new trio, but with Dean’s arm out of commission, it’s nice to have an extra set of hands around. The first time Cas digs the remote control from under Sam’s sleeping form and changes the channel to Dr. Sexy, Dean spares a thought for his own bad influence. But then Cas laughs at some dumb line from the show, and he forgets what he was worrying about to begin with.
The guy isn’t exactly human. He doesn’t always need food, though Sam encourages him to eat at least one meal a day to be safe. They learn when he accidentally pulls a door off its hinges that he’s still stronger than an average man his size. He can also go a couple days without sleeping. More than once Dean has woken in the night to find the other side of the bed empty, with Cas sitting by the window of their motel room, watching the neon signs flicker outside. (He and Cas share most of the time, only because Sam sprawls like a felled Sasquatch. Even though they staunchly keep to their own sides, his not-so-little brother is uncharacteristically thrilled about Dean’s strange new bedfellow. He won’t stop teasing them about it.) But regardless of Cas’s nocturnal episodes and freaky metabolism, very few of his party tricks remain. No fluttering around, no healing, no telekinesis, and definitely no angel radio. Once, Sam asks if he can still hear the Host, and Cas responds that his head has never been so silent and yet so loud.
Over time, Dean watches Cas develop human-adjacent habits and opinions. He prefers being barefoot to wearing the thrift store boots they found him, though Dean will only allow it in motel rooms, because "Gross, man, there's bugs and shit out there." He devours the dime store novels Sam hands him, and gets so invested in the love lives of the characters that he recounts entire scenes to the boys from the back of the car. He smitingly glares at a waitress in Alabama when she accidentally brings him decaf, which leaves Dean choking on his eggs. Cas is funny, in that too earnest off-beat way of his, and Dean finds himself laughing a lot more often than he used to.
They don’t really talk about the grace problem, or Cas’s continued presence as a result of it. They just adapt, as Winchesters do. Besides, everyone is a bit distracted with Dean’s papier-mâché arm and the complex regimen of painkillers required to keep him off the bottle. ("It's called fiberglass, Dean, just take the damn vicodin.") Cas takes to caretaking with a lot more, well, grace than Sam does. They settle into a routine - Cas helps Dean shave, Sam picks up the takeout, Dean plays literal backseat driver while they teach Cas how to use the Impala's gearshift. But once the cast comes off two months later, leaving behind abstract swirling scars like a tattoo sleeve, Dean notices he’s surprisingly nervous. Now that he has two functioning hands and can’t reasonably ask the guy to stick around to button his shirt for him anymore, what if Cas decides to up and disappear?
He’s gotten so used to Cas. His grumbled morning protests when Dean shakes him awake at check out time, his rumpled form dressed down in Dean's old AC/DC T-shirt, his warm presence against Dean’s shoulder as they bring his movie knowledge up to speed. He wouldn’t wish the horrors of humanity on him to begin with, but he’s glad Cas can’t go flitting off without warning anymore. Dean wants to keep that scruffy head in his rearview mirror, no matter what comes around the next bend.
They’re hitting the road in Bumfuck, Nowhere, heading west towards Bobby’s. Dean is about to slide into the driver’s seat for the first time in months, both hands aching for the smooth leather of Baby’s steering wheel. But the air has shifted since the doctor sawed off his cast, and he has to make sure one particular passenger still wants to be on board.
He’s got a little speech prepared, but when the time comes all he can muster the chutzpah to say to Cas is, “You’re still, um...are you...coming?”
Smooth, Winchester.
He struggles to keep his face neutral, and prays to someone who can no longer hear him, Please, say yes.
Cas nods wordlessly. The relief that crashes through Dean is nearly strong enough to buckle his knees.
Later that day, he feels embarrassed when he realizes Cas is likely only sticking around because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, but like hell is he gonna say that out loud. If he acknowledges that they’re the guy’s only option, it’ll feel less like he’s choosing to be here. It will mean accepting that Cas is only a temporary addition to the team, and will eventually realize there are better options out there. Dean can’t handle that thought right now, so he doesn’t try.
Cas refuses to hunt with them. Once they ease back into it, he makes it clear that he’s only interested in the research side of things. He dances around the subject for a while before admitting that being out in the field in his "current state" (yes, air quotes included) won’t end well. They don’t push him. Sam is ecstatic to have another nerd on the team, a partner with whom to pore over dusty tomes and obscure lore. Dean mocks them, but feels grateful to be off book duty while his brother and their not-quite-angel dig up all the info they need. Please, give him the answers in advance and set him loose to get his hands dirty any day.
Besides, Cas is scary good at research. Something about a celestial brain is well suited to this work. He picks up on microscopic details and draws obscure connections lightning fast. His people skills are rusty, to say the least, so he’s no longer welcome on witness interviews until he can make it through one of Dean’s practice interrogations without saying something seriously off-color. But with his extensive knowledge on their side, the boys end up sweeping through cases in nearly half the time it would’ve taken them before. On multiple occasions, Sam and Dean walk into their motel room smelling like sulfur and covered in blood, longing for hot showers and cold beers to celebrate a job well done, only to find Cas buried in Sam’s laptop planning their next three hunts. Dean’s bad arm aches with the increased workload, but frankly he’s grateful to be busy. He digs out the crumpled packet detailing his physical therapy exercises. Seems like he’s gonna need it.
Things are honestly going...okay. Dean wonders if he’s jinxed them for even considering it, but they’ve settled into a pattern that works. The Devil is strangely quiet for now, Sam is back to being his regular bitchy self, they’re working normal cases like the old days. And having Cas around is, if he’s being honest, actually really awesome.
So of course shit hits the fan as soon as Dean dares to think the word “happy.”
This blip of a town in Indiana has seen an increase in disappearances over the last four months. Hikers and wilderness officials began to go missing from a largely uncharted section of the local forest, and no one could pin down why. It takes them less than a day to figure out who the vengeful spirit is. Then, a week of researching town records at the municipal library, scouting the land, and talking to a local cartography nut for them to figure out that the haunted ranger station must be marked wrong on the map.
Well, by them figuring it out, Dean means Cas.
With Sam away tracking down an ancient book that might help them get a leg up on Lucifer, Dean finally convinces Cas to join him on this hunt. It’s been six months since their stint in the hospital, and it's clear he's getting antsy. It’s a straightforward ghost situation, practically a milk run, and it should be simple enough to ease him into fighting without his powers.
After all, Cas is the one who discovered the missing piece of the puzzle earlier that afternoon - that the cabin they need to burn must actually be two some odd miles east of where it’s marked. This means he should get a piece of the action, and remind himself why they do what they do.
It also means they wind up fighting the vengeful spirit in a section of forest with which they’re deeply unfamiliar.
So in Dean’s defense, he never would have sent Cas to cover the ghost’s flank if he’d known the ravine was right there. If he’d known the ghost would shove Cas like a rag doll, tumbling into the dark of a thirty foot drop to a stone outcropping.
Frankly, it’s not his fault. That’s the lie he’ll tell himself later, anyway.
“Cas, dammit, stay awake!”
Dean steps over another root and jostles the body in his arms as hard as he dares. He’s rewarded with a low moan.
“I know, man, I know, but stay awake anyway. We’re not far now.”
Cas had remained unconscious for most of the treacherous climb out of the ravine, draped over Dean’s shoulder. They should both be grateful for that, since his multiple bruised ribs had violently opposed the position as soon as he awoke. Once Dean had reached level ground, he’d shifted him into a bridal carry, but that’s not much better. It only means the wide gash on Cas’s hairline is gushing blood onto Dean’s shoulder, and his dislocated ankle is dangling tremulously with every step. The head injury has left him wobbly and confused in a way he’s never been before, which ratchets Dean’s worry up a few thousand notches.
Dean strides through the wooded path as quickly as he dares, trying to triage Cas’s comfort level against how fast he needs to get him patched up. The Impala is parked on the edge of the local trail, and their motel is a fifteen minute drive past that. He hates to make the pain any worse by rushing, but he is really not handling injured Cas very well. Something about that marble face gasping in agony and drenched in blood shocks Dean to his core, and he just needs to fix it, like, yesterday.
He feels Cas’s labored breathing against his collarbone and wonders if this accident could be the thing that breaks him. If this is the last straw that sends him fleeing from their batshit crazy life. If he’ll run screaming without saying goodbye, or if he'll bother to shake Dean's hand with a Sayonara, I won’t miss you! Good luck with the Apocalypse!
Dean wouldn’t even blame him. Sometimes he doesn’t want to stick around in his own life either.
Another careless step has Cas gripping Dean’s jacket with a gasp. “I told you...th-this wouldn’t go well.” His words slur together.
“Yeah?” Dean asks. “Tell me again. Keep talking.”
Cas squeezes his eyes shut and mumbles, “I don’t like decaf, Dean. It...shouldn’ be ‘llowed.”
The non-sequitur bumps worry directly into first place. Dean walks faster.
When they do finally reach the Impala, Dean has to pop open the passenger door with his foot. He lays Cas down with his head nearly under the steering wheel. Then he strips off his own jacket and flannel, the shirt underneath darkened with sweat. He pillows Cas’s injured ankle on the rolled up jacket to keep it from moving on the drive. Once he’s settled in the driver’s seat, he props Cas’s head on his right thigh and folds the flannel against the gash above his eyebrow. The sheet of red down his cheekbone makes him look positively ghoulish.
“Alright, buddy, hang in there.” Dean pulls onto the dirt road, one hand on the wheel and the other pressing down on the makeshift bandage. Cas keeps shifting his neck as if to move away from the painful pressure, but Dean doesn’t let him. “Hey, eyes open. If you fall asleep right now, you might not wake up.”
Cas weakly bats a hand at Dean. “Ge’ off me.”
“I can't, you’re losing blood.”
“That hurss.”
“Yeah, tough shit.”
“Angels shouldn’t hurt.”
Dean sighs. They’ve all been avoiding the A-word for months. Of course, a gushing head wound functions a bit like alcohol - a drunken mind speaks a sober truth. “No, Cas, they shouldn’t.”
A beat passes, and Dean glances down to see wide eyes peering up at him. “Why...am I in the front seat? I never. Ride in the fron’.”
Dean almost laughs at the petulance in his voice. “I needed to keep an eye on you. Besides, man, you rode in the front on the way to this hunt, like three hours ago.”
“Sam wasn’t here, that doesn’t count. I’m always regulated...reg-relegated to the...the back when iss th’ three of us.”
He does snort at that one. “Well, Sam kinda called shotgun for life. God, leave it to you to attempt words like ‘relegated’ when you’re concussed.”
Cas lets out a soft noise, more intrigue than pain. “Oh. I have a…’ncussion?"
"Chances are. You hit your head pretty damn hard."
“So thass why my mouth...is not cooperatinn’.”
“Yup.”
"I don’ like the way this feels.”
Dean shifts his hand, keeping the fabric pressed to Cas’s head but letting his thumb trail through the dark hair underneath. “Yeah, it’s no fun. But I’m gonna fix you up, okay?"
Cas squeezes his eyelids shut one after the other, like he's testing his vision. “The hist’ry of human head drama is actually...quite fascinatin’.” Dean assumes he means trauma, but since all his words are blending together anyway, he doesn’t bother correcting him. It’s like being lectured by a stoned professor. “Didyoo know, the first medical burr holes were drilled into those who were behaving abnorm’lly in order to let out what people believed to be evil sp’rits?”
The corner of Dean's mouth turns up. “I did not.”
“It’s true. Even when demons aren’t present in a situation, their shadow finds a way to, um...wreck? No. Wreak. Wreak havoc on human life. Or perhaps in the bigger picture of this case, accident’ly inspire med’cal breakthroughs.”
“Y’know, you’re cute when you babble.” Dean doesn’t mean to say it out loud, and yet out loud it is said.
Cas pulls a face, squinting upwards like he can’t quite find Dean’s face. “Forgive my...current lack of reasoning skills, but I assume you're bein’ facetious?"
Dean pauses thoughtfully. “I'm actually not, no.” He boops a finger on Cas’s nose, and gets the strange pleasure of watching him go briefly crossed-eyed trying to watch. “Let’s avoid drilling holes in your skull though, okay? Just stay awake ‘til we get back.”
“...I don’ think I can.”
Dean looks down again at the hushed voice, and Cas’s eyes are fluttering dangerously.
“Cas, look at me, right now.” Dean demands, glancing back and forth from his bloody face to the road before them. “Cas!” After too long, Cas does grunt and peer back up. His eyes are glassy. Dean considers his options. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna do something I haven’t done in years, alright? I used to, uh...well, I used to sing to Sammy, when he was sick or hurt. So he could focus on my voice instead of the pain.”
Cas’s already fuzzy expression grows impossibly softer with a smile. It gives Dean the courage to say what comes next.
“Our favorite was Hey, Jude. Just like Mom used to sing.”
Cas shifts a bit, wincing at the pull of his ribs, and tilts his head against Dean’s stomach so he can look up at him more fully. “I’d like to hear that.”
“Alright. But if you tell Sam about this, I will make you sit in the trunk on our next twelve hour drive.”
A strange sound bubbles up and it takes Dean a second to realize it’s a delirious laugh. “I won’t tell ‘nother soul.”
Dean looks at the disoriented angel in his lap, and doesn’t have to reach for the lyrics at all. They come easy.
“Hey Jude, don't make it bad,
take a sad song and make it better.
Remember to let her into your heart,
then you can start to make it better.”
Dean’s voice is rough. It wobbles on the high notes, and his pitch swerves sideways on the low ones. A quick glance down to Cas’s warm gaze tells him that it doesn’t matter. He leaves the flannel pressed to Cas’s head and slides his hand down to rest lightly on his chest.
“Hey Jude, don't be afraid,
you were made to go out and get her.
The minute you let her under your skin,
then you begin to make it better.”
Cas places his own hand on top of Dean’s, and his lips quirk in an honest-to-god giggle. Dean’s hackles rise defensively.
“Excuse me, mister, who are you laughin' at?”
Cas shakes his head with flinch. “Not you. Jude. Saint Jude, I only just recalled. He was...the patr’n saint of lost causes.” Dean's jaw drops at the irony. "Ah, so you didn't know. I wasn't sure if you were trying to tell me something in that horribly covno...convoluted way of yours."
“Lost causes? No way, you’re joking.”
“No, I’ve been reliably informed I’m bad at that.” Cas blinks owlishly.
Dean rolls his eyes to hide a grin. “Yeah, well. You’re getting better. Now stop ruining my favorite song with Bible study.” Cas gestures weakly for him to continue. Dean’s voice gets stronger with each line.
“And anytime you feel the pain, Hey Jude, refrain.
Don't carry the world upon your shoulder.
For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool
by making his world a little colder.”
Cas squeezes their tangled fingers lying across his chest. “Wise words.”
Dean feels a little giddy. “Here, you can learn the next part. It goes like this. Na, na, na, na-na-na-na...na-na-na-na...Hey, Jude. C’mon, it's simple. Repeat it with me.”
Cas's glare is heightened by the mask of blood. “Dean, no.”
“Yes!” He retorts. “Man, you gotta learn this song, it’s a classic. If you’re sticking around, then I gotta teach you all the hits, just like we’re working through the John Wayne movies. Can’t have you shaming the Winchester name, can I?”
“You misunnerstan’, I'm not opposed.” Cas mumbles. “Just, perhaps another time...when I...can actually breathe?”
“Oh. Fuck.” Dean snatches his hand away from Cas’s ribs. He lifts the fabric from his forehead to check the gash. The blood is beginning to get tacky.
Cas goes quiet, and Dean worries he’s drifting again. That is until he breathes out, “Would you keep singing?”
Dean inhales against the swell of affection in his chest. He feels the urge to touch Cas again, to run more fingers through his hair. Instead, he forces both hands back onto the steering wheel.
But if it keeps Cas awake, and more importantly makes him smile, then the one man show must go on.
“Na, na, na, na-na-na-na...na-na-na-na...Hey, Jude!”
Any semblance of comfort earned vanishes once Dean has to pick Cas up again to get him inside their motel room. He’s shaking in pain by the time Dean sets him down in the chair beside the dinette table. His hands float shakily over his ribs, wanting to press into where it hurts but knowing it would only make it worse. Dean takes one of those hands briefly to give him something to ground himself to, and Cas squeezes so hard Dean winces.
“How d’you humans cope with-ah!-living’n these...tissue paper bodies? Iss beyon’ overwhelming.”
“Practice.” Dean gives him a wry smile. “And booze.”
He extricates his hand, checking for fingernail marks, and unpacks their well-loved first aid kit from his duffel. “But you’re new to the human pain thing, so we’re gonna take it easy with some Tylenol. Not ibuprofen! That can act as a blood thinner, so you never take it with a head wound, okay?”
Cas gives him a look that says, You really think I'm retaining information right now? Which, fair.
Dean pulls out the pill bottle and goes to fill a disposable paper cup with water from the bathroom. When he gets back, Cas has his head dropping backwards over the chair. “No, no, eyes open. C’mon, up you get.” Dean slides a hand behind Cas’s neck, and lifts him into a more upright position. “You gotta elevate that head. And keep your breathing even and shallow if you can, it’ll help with the rib pain.”
He talks Cas through swallowing the pills. He only chokes briefly, which Dean takes as a win. Shining a flashlight into Cas's eyes earns him a growl, but does confirm that the pupils are dilated to wildly different sizes. Definitely concussed. Then he tapes a temporary gauze patch over Cas’s forehead, which is bleeding more sluggishly now but will need stitches later.
Next he kneels at Cas’s feet. “Okay, I won’t lie to you. This is gonna suck.” Dean rolls up Cas’s jeans to mid calf and unties the boot as much as possible. Cas keens when Dean lifts the foot out and extends his knee. His knuckles are turning white over the edge of his seat.
“Have you...done th’ss before?” Cas bites out between his teeth.
“Of course I have, man,” Dean reassures him. It’s a lie - he’s reduced dislocated shoulders plenty. Ankles, not so much, but he figures the technique is similar enough. No need to worry Cas any more than necessary.
He peels off the sock, and Dean is not squeamish by any means but he does have to take a deep breath at how wrong it looks. The foot is bent at an unnatural angle, and the shin bones are jutting out way further than usual. A light sweep of his fingers confirms that nothing is broken, just that it's been violently wrenched out of place. The skin around the joint is beginning to flush an ugly purple, but despite the swelling Dean can see how he’ll have to pull to get it back where it belongs.
He grips Cas’s heel, the other hand bracing higher on his achilles. Cas sucks in a huge breath and holds it.
Dean looks up at him sadly. “Man, you gotta breathe. First rule of human medical shit: it’ll hurt worse if you’re all tensed up.”
Cas blows it out through clenched teeth, a soft shhhh sound escaping him. He lifts one hand to run it down his face, and leaves it there to cover his eyes. It’s childish and sweet, and also hits Dean like a brick to the gut. Like Cas can make the pain go away by refusing to see it.
If only.
“Dean, will you do something f’r me?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Don’t count.”
Dean bites his lip, and considers explaining his and Sam’s fake counting trick for this kind of thing, the one he was planning on using right now. Instead he just flexes his hands, hard, and snaps the ankle back into place.
Cas screams, his good foot kicking out weakly despite his best efforts to stay still. He's loud enough that Dean begins to worry someone might call the cops on them, but a few moments later Cas stuffs his fist into his mouth and bites it down into a whimper. His whole body twitches, and he nearly pulls out of Dean’ grip.
“Steady, steady, don’t move. Just hang in there, Cas. You’re doing great.” Dean strokes a thumb over the quivering muscles of the leg in his hands.
“Oh, am I?” Cas asks in a strangled voice, like he’s choking on his tongue. “It...cert’nly doesn’ feel like it.” Dean wraps the ankle in a tensor bandage, careful not to cut off the circulation, and pops one of the instant ice packs to rest on it.
“Yeah, you really are.” It’s not a lie, but it probably sounds like one. Dean can’t imagine what all this must be like for Cas, his only frame of reference being the cold, distant way angels perceive human sensations. “What does pain even feel like to you?”
Cas pants shallowly, struggling to catch his breath. “Dean…I speak ev’ry language known to man. And I simply do not have the words.”
Dean and Sam have been patching each other up for decades, and there’s an unspoken understanding about it between them. Pain is inevitable; apologies and platitudes won’t make it go away. They do what needs to be done and leave it at that. It’s been a while since Dean has bothered trying to comfort someone he actually knows, and it’s harder than he remembers. So many of the consoling phrases he could resort to, you’re alright, I’ve got you, it’s gonna be okay, just ring false right now. This feels delicate, whatever is happening between them. Like Cas might topple over the edge of something much more dangerous than that ravine if Dean missteps.
Next he reaches for the hem of Cas’s shirt, and helps him remove it slowly so they can get at his ribs. Dean expects the swath of bruising, the shallow breathing, the way Cas is holding his torso stiffly for fear of aggravating the injuries.
What Dean doesn’t expect is how the expanse of smooth, tanned skin overwhelms him. He’s definitely seen Cas shirtless before, since they’ve been cohabitating for about six months now, but something is different. Maybe it’s the spill of red down his face, or the quiet panting. Dean’s hands itch to reach out and comfort and touch, and god, that keeps happening tonight.
He feels along each rib, noting which spots make Cas wince. Nothing is cracked, so he kneels closer and presses the KT tape on hard while Cas hides his face in Dean’s shoulder. Dean fights the urge to find and shoot whoever invented Tylenol for deciding it should take this long to kick in.
When the ribs are sufficiently bound, Cas sags as much as he dares into the chair. His eyes have gone glassy again and his pulse is thready. Dean looks up at the motel’s grimy ceiling, his own eyes beginning to burn. This is so beyond wrong, he can’t even wrap his head around it. A fucking ghost did this to the creature once powerful enough to rescue him from Hell. There cannot possibly be a God running things around here if He lets this kind of bullshit fly.
But maybe Cas still has some mind-reading powers, because he takes the words right out of Dean's mouth. “I hate this. Iss...not fair. My entire existence, I b’lieved that God was just. But...was my sin so unforgivable that this is the punishment I deserve?"
The rough saw of his voice is lacking the bass that shakes through Dean’s skull most days. It’s breathier, higher pitched, like someone flipped off his subwoofer. Dean closes his eyes for a moment and remembers the stoic gravel-gargling SOB who walked into that barn, and considers how little he resembles the man before him now. This Cas gave up everything he had ever known just because he believed in Dean, and Dean said this was worth dying for. True humanity, in all its glorious raw edges and beautiful imperfections. But also in its horror and pain. Cas is hurt and scared and rejected by his family, all because Dean asked him to rebel. And doesn’t it just make sense? Grim, twisted sense? That the man Cas seeks comfort from now may as well have dealt the blow that nearly killed him? It all began with Dean. He broke the first seal. Everything that follows will always be his fault, somehow.
He did this to Cas.
When he focuses back in, Cas is staring at him. His lip is quivering, his mask of calm about to break and take a piece of Dean’s heart with it.
“No, Cas,” Dean breathes, and suddenly he’s kneeling between Cas’s feet, chest to chest, gently wrapping his arms around shoulders wracked with sobs. He tucks his nose into Cas’s neck and feels two hands twist into the fabric over his shoulder blades. Tears dampen his shirt where Cas presses his face. “You deserve better than this. I’m sorry.”
He holds him for a few minutes, lets the shaking subside before he pulls away. Cas stares at him for a beat, that old charged look from his angel days, but his expression turns cold and distant when he swipes a finger across Dean’s cheek. He presents the smear of red.
“That's mine. I ‘pologize.” Cas looks down to where Dean's arms hang by his sides. "You've got my blood on your hands."
Yeah, no kidding, Dean thinks.
“I'm washable. Don't worry about it. Besides, I owe you one, or a hundred.” He waves a hand in front of Cas’s eyes and they barely track his movement. “We gotta stitch up your noggin.” The expression Cas pulls is pure middle schooler being handed a chore list, and Dean wonders if he picked it up from Sam.
He removes the gauze patch, pushes back some strands of hair, and begins wiping at the blood. Head wounds gush a disproportionate amount, so Dean is relieved to find that once it’s mostly wiped away, the cut isn’t quite as wide as he feared. It is long though, stretching about six inches, starting at the top of Cas’s hairline, slicing diagonally through one eyebrow, and ending at the soft point below his temple. One inch over and the blow might've cracked his eye socket. As it stands, he'll develop some nasty bruising. He’s definitely lost a metric fuckton ton of blood, if his slight swaying and the pile of red-drenched rags are anything to go by.
“Man, you don’t do shit by halves, do you?”
“I was trained not to,” Cas responds, his eyes off in the middle distance.
Dean parks his ass on the edge of the dinette table to get Cas's head level with his hands. "Here goes." He starts stitching along the hairline. Cas bites his lip and stays still, a pinched expression on his face. Dean was in surgery the last time Cas got stitches, and this time he has too few arms to hold his hand or something. He wishes he could offer that small comfort. He remembers his first time, five knots for a cut on his elbow when he was seven. Sammy had clung to his pant leg the whole time, whispering encouragements, and it had made the endless pain a bit more bearable. There's nothing like a kid telling you he believes in you to make you feel like a superhero.
By the time he reaches the eyebrow, Cas is shaking profusely and beaded with sweat. There are two inches left, but something tells Dean to pause. He ties off the knot and sets the needle driver on the table, reaching back up to push a hand through Cas’s hair. It’s still saturated with blood and will need a good wash, but that can wait until tomorrow. “We're not quite done, but I think you need a break.”
Cas’s eyes go wild. “Fuck, Dean!” It short circuits Dean’s brain to hear the curse from Cas’s mouth, and his fingers freeze. “Jus’...just stop, I don’t want the stitches, leave it alone.”
“Cas, I know stitches suck, but when you’ve lost this much blood, they aren’t exactly optional.”
“Well, I don't want them! Stoppit, please, stop helping me.”
That brings Dean up short. “Stop helping you?”
Cas looks like he’s revealed more than he intended, and averts his eyes.
Dean feels wrong-footed suddenly. “Why wouldn’t I help you, Cas?”
Cas pushes off Dean’s hands. “I don’wannit, I don’...Oh, Father, my brain feelsso muddled, it’s infuriating. And the emotions, the pain, they’re all too much, it's like I'm...drowning.” Cas goes to bury his face in his hands, but Dean grabs his wrists to stop him from pulling at the stitches. Cas rips away. “I don’t want to be some tragic obligation of yours. I don't want your pity, or your help, I don’ want it! I don’t want any of it!”
Dean knows they’ve pivoted towards the elephant in the room. “What don’t you want?”
Cas looks so miserable when he finally admits, “My humanity. Dean, I feel so lost. I cannot stand to be this weak, this...pathetic without my grace. My purpose has been forced outta me and now I’m an empty shell, a useless human. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Hey,” Dean says, a little sharper than he intends. He feels like they're sliding back towards the 'mud monkey' metaphor and it's making him bristle. He crouches down before Cas again so they're face to face. “I’m human. You don’t think I’m useless, do you?”
Cas glares at him with those big concussed eyes, and still manages to look offended. “Of course not, Dean. You’re special, and you always have been.” He groans. “You are so annoying when you miscoms-nn...misconstrue my words.”
Dean blushes at the combined praise and insult.
"Humans are miraculous. I know that firsthand now because of you. But you were born with a soul, and were raised into your humanity. Iss who you are at your core.” Cas gestures at his bloody form. “I’m as soulless as I was as an angel. Just some celesel...cel...fuck. Celestial wavelength of intent, stuck in a body that doesn’t even belong to me.”
Cas, inhibitions drained out with half his blood volume, places a hand over Dean’s heart. “I used to be able to heal you with a touch. I had the power of Heaven at my fingertips. Now I can’t hunt a measly ghost without-” Cas spits out a little blood into his cupped palm.
“Aw, man, I just cleaned you up, c’mon...” Dean grabs another towel and wipes at the hand.
A note of fear enters Cas’s tone, his thin breaths going shakier. “If I can’t protect myself, how am I supposed to protect you? W...what am I even doing here?”
Dean may know how to calm a civilian experiencing their first supernatural encounter, or how to talk someone through shock, but he suddenly feels beyond out of his depth. Cas’s words have rattled the aphorisms right out of him. What the hell kind of pithy self help nonsense could Dean possibly offer him at this moment?
Because he’s not wrong. It was his job to protect Dean, his literal God-given purpose, and the role reversal must be a trip. Dean has definitely felt a degree of self-consciousness whenever Sam is the one sponging off the blood, like him taking care of Dean somehow violates the laws of physics. Dean traces the line of knots down Cas’s forehead, and eyes the injured ankle tucked between his own knees. Cas isn’t prepared to cope with the struggles of humanity like the Winchesters are. For millennia, he relied on his power and strength, and now this crucial piece of his identity has been taken from him. Dean thinks of the ironic scars running down his back, the ones Cas tries to keep hidden whenever he changes. They seem like nothing more than a cruel reminder of Heaven’s wrath, of how severely Cas has been punished for choosing free will. He must feel so powerless to stop any of this, and Dean knows just how much that can set you back on your heels.
But he also thinks of the ways Cas has helped him since they met. Angel transit, healing, rebelling, sure. But even more so, Dean thinks about the ways Cas has offered them his intuition, generosity, and compassion as an almost-human. How he wakes Dean when the nightmares leave him screaming, with a gentle hand on his shoulder instead of a rush of grace. How he navigates their old maps from the back seat, finding vegetarian restaurants for Sam and pointing out burger joints for Dean. How his steady presence as a member of their little unit these last six months might be the most solid thing Dean’s felt in his life since Hell.
Dean could tell him all that. He could explain how good it makes him feel to have Cas here with him, how those small moments of joy have made up for so much other bullshit the world has put on their plate. But what kind of a purpose is that for someone who watched the birth of the universe? How could a human life beside him possibly be enough for Cas, who has known so much more?
They really are coming to the end of this ride, Dean thinks. Once he's all healed, Cas will set off to find some other path far away from Dean, who lives at the eye of a storm of apocalyptic fuckery, and will only ever always get his people hurt.
Dean steels himself. Cas needs you. Put away your feelings and do your fuckin’ job.
“Hey.” He tips Cas’s chin up. “Just let me help. You’ve taken care of me plenty, alright? Now it’s my turn.” Dean tries for a smile.
Cas doesn’t say anything. His glazed look makes Dean think he isn’t really listening anymore.
Dean tapes another gauze patch over the last of the open wound. The blood has mostly stopped flowing, and he can finish stitching in the morning. Cas has had enough pain for one day. They’ve both earned some rest.
He scoops an arm under Cas’s knees and another behind his back. The lift and move to the bed only takes a few seconds, but Cas's head is rolling on his neck by the time Dean is propping him against the headboard. A blue-eyed bobblehead, dizzy with the altitude change. His wide eyes aren’t focusing, and Dean wonders what would actually pop up if he Googled treatment options for concussed former angels. Probably some sports medicine blog about that L.A. football team.
He isn’t expecting Cas to grab his wrist when he goes to step away.
“Dean. Everywhere I turn, I feel like I’m bracing for impact. Heaven struck me down and I’m still falling more and more, every day. Now I’m constantly bombed...b-bombarded by human needs, feelings, desires. And monsters keep hitting me.” He sounds insulted, the holier-than-thou tone making a brief appearance. Like, how dare these abominations have the audacity to lay a hand on a former servant of God?
Dean extricates his wrist. “Well, that last one is kind of an occupational hazard, man.” He reaches for the blanket folded at the end of the bed and sits facing Cas to spread it over his bare chest.
Cas barrels on anyway. Definitely not listening. “A vicious blow is always coming my way, that's all I know. I've learned to anticipate it by now. Every time I round a corner, there could be someone waitin’ to ambush me. So I walk around flinching, expecting a strike. And the next one will be the most painful, because now, without purpose or use, you can jus' get rid of me like Heav’n did.”
Dean feels like he’s taken a crowbar to the back of the head.
“...What?” He manages to whisper.
Cas closes his eyes and shifts his shoulders, trying in vain to soften the slab of wood behind his back. His voice is cavalier, completely unaware that his words are cutting through Dean like knives. “I keep wond’ring why you haven’t turned me out yet. I can’t stop falling. I serve no benefit anymore, and I'm a liab...bility. Without my powers, my presence endangers you and your brother, and besides that must be burdensome. I don’ understand why you’re bothering to keep me around.”
Holy shit.
Dean has had this whole thing backwards.
He gives in to the itch that’s lived under his skin all night, hell, all year, and lays a hand on Cas’s jaw. Blue eyes meet his own, finally lighting up in awareness at the tender touch.
“Cas...have you been waiting for me to kick you out?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
Dean wants to punch him and hug him at the same time. “Jesus, Cas. I thought you were gonna leave!”
He tilts his head in confusion, angling it right into Dean's palm. “You what?”
“Everybody leaves me, eventually. Especially when I don’t want ‘em to. I assumed it was only a matter of time before you did, too.”
Dean realizes with a start that their faces are incredibly close. Cas lays a shaky hand over Dean’s, pressing it harder against his own cheek.
“Dean Winchester. If it’re up to me, I would n-never choose t’be anywhere but by your side.”
His words may slur, but Dean feels them warm his skin like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
The charge in the air breaks.
Dean closes the distance and then they’re kissing, sweet and chaste. He moves his lips against Cas’s and tastes blood at the corner of his mouth. Dean presses in deeper, like he can say what he needs to say without any talking at all. He’s always been better at gesture than conversation.
But no, he has to use his words. If Cas thinks Dean wants him gone, then he had better get his shit together and spell it out.
Dean pulls back enough just to whisper against Cas’s lips, their foreheads touching and their breaths mingling. “Let me make this crystal clear. I want you here, Cas. All the time. And if Heaven doesn’t, then that’s their loss, but I want you. Not because of your powers, and not because you’re useful. Just because you’re you.” He presses a kiss to Cas’s temple, and the breathy sigh Cas releases against his neck hits Dean like a high. “We’re family now. Over my dead body am I ever letting you walk away from me again thinkin’ that I don’t care. Understand?” Cas’s eyes have never been bigger. In lieu of responding, he tugs on Dean’s shirt and slots their mouths together once more. It’s desperate this time, hungrier, and god it’s good.
Castiel remembers, underneath the intense burst of dopamine, that he has never been kissed. He’s also never before understood the human obsession with the action, as a sign of affection or as a physical representation of love.
He gets it, now.
He slides his hands into Dean’s hair and kisses him again, and again, and again. He spares one corner of his brain to imagine a world in which they never have to come up for air.
Through the fog of his rattled skull, Castiel is aware this is not the solution to all their problems. A blow is coming. Whether it’ll be a swing from an adversary or the crash of his body against the earth when he fully falls from grace, he does not know. But what he does know is this: Dean is as close as he’ll ever get to a soft place to land.
God or no God, he has faith enough in that.
Eventually, they pull away long enough for Dean to strip out of his jeans and set a concussion-check alarm for two hours. Then he slides under the covers behind Cas, sets a pillow under the injured ankle, and rolls Cas onto his side so the gash on his forehead isn’t rubbing against the sheets.
Gently, like he's handling something precious, Dean presses his chest against Cas’s back. The heat of the contact between them simmers, and Cas melts into it.
After a few moments, he feels Dean run a curious finger along one of his wing shaped scars.
No one has touched Cas there since the stitches six months ago. There's no pain, but he jerks away in surprise, and finds himself twisting over the edge of the bed. With a gasp, he pulls his arms in to protect his body from the fall, and shuts his eyes.
"Oh, no you don't."
The impact he’s expecting comes from the wrong direction. Dean snags him around the waist and pulls him back securely against his chest. A hiss escapes Cas's teeth at the pressure on his aching ribs, but there is a deep security in this touch, surety in the firmness of the hands around him. After millenia of existence, Castiel has never felt more safe than in the arms of Dean Winchester.
Dean smooths a tentative hand over his hip. “Sorry, did that hurt? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
An inexplicable laugh bursts from Castiel’s chest. "You caught me." He whispers to the quiet space between them.
Dean brings his lips to Cas’s pulse point, breath puffing against the shell of his ear.
“You might be falling, Angel, but like hell if I’m gonna let you hit the ground.”
Tomorrow morning, Sam will arrive with the rare book he has been tracking down. He’ll walk in and see Dean cradling Cas’s bruised body, spooning him with an arm around his waist and lips pressed to the top of his spine. Sam will tease his brother mercilessly, whisper-chanting I knew it, I knew it! over and over. Dean will roll his eyes, brush it off, and deflect away from the hot rush of blood in his cheeks with some crack at Sam’s outfit.
Dean will then self-consciously pull his hand away from the warmth of Cas's bruised ribs. When Cas stirs and rolls over to see why, their eyes will meet, and an avalanche of questions will spill between them. What exactly are we doing? What do you want? What are we? Is this wise, or even possible? Is that a stupid question since whatever we are already seems inevitable? I don't know. Neither do I.
That said, we’ve had relatively good luck in the past with simply...making it up as we go.
But those are conversations for Dean and Cas to worry about tomorrow.
For tonight, Dean holds a former angel in his arms and listens to him breathe. He presses a hand over Cas’s heart, feels its steady drumbeat. Cas shudders at Dean's warm exhale on the back of his neck, and revels in the way the curves of their bodies seem to align so perfectly.
They’re both human now. They want this. And maybe, despite the mistakes they've made, despite the cosmic bullshit and the fated battles and everything else that promises to destroy them somewhere down the line…
Just this once, they can have what they want.
Maybe they even deserve it.