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“Dean, will you please stop struggling.” Castiel tightened his grip on the man leaning heavily against his side, adjusting the arm that hung around his shoulders. Once again, Dean attempted to right himself, to push away from the fact that he needed help, only to slump back against the man who was supporting him. “We’re almost there.”
Dean’s grunt of barely-concealed pain was answer enough.
Castiel managed to get one hand free to turn the door handle and used their combined weight to shrug it open. He dragged Dean into the mostly-empty bedroom they’d provided him for his stay at the bunker, however brief it may be this time around. Dean had tried to play-down his injuries when they’d first gotten back from their most recent job, assuring Cas that it was Sam (or rather, Ezekiel, but he couldn’t say that) who needed recharging, and all he needed to patch himself up was a needle, some dental floss, some whiskey, and the greasiest burger they could find. But when he’d attempted to stride confidently towards his room he’d nearly passed out, falling against the table, and this was when Castiel had taken it upon himself to properly look after him. He lead Dean toward the bed and helped him sit, back leaning against the headboard, legs awkwardly splayed and half hanging off the bed. Efficiently and with no nonsense he unbuttoned the signature-Winchester flannel Dean was wearing, exposing the worst of the damage.
“Don’t move,” the former-angel instructed.
Dean’s head was swimming as he attempted to right himself. He tried to focus on Cas, his presence, his movements, to use him as an anchor to get back to the world. He blinked a few times before finally finding his voice. “What are you doing?”
Cas was rummaging through a cupboard that had been built into the wall. He extracted a small red box. “Locating this,” Cas replied in his usual matter-of-fact tone, moving with purpose back towards the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed, set the box on his lap, opened it, and began looking through it, removing the things he needed. A sterilized needle and sutures, alcohol swabs, bandages, medical tape…
“No,” Dean’s voice was hoarse, but stubborn, “I mean what are you doing. I can do it myself. Whe-- where did you even get that?”
“I’ve noticed,” Castiel said dryly, “that as a human I do not heal nearly as fast. I need to be able to take care of myself.”
“Right…” Dean watched watched as the now-mortal carefully and patiently started to thread the needle. He found himself exhaling sharply and trying to sit up and grab the supplies, “Would you just let me--?” only to inhale just as sharply, moving a battle-worn hand to cover the wound in his side that began bleeding again at the movement. Castiel’s hands flew automatically to Dean’s shoulders, trying to coax him back into sitting against the headboard.
“I thought I told you not to move,” Cas’ voice was hard but not unkind. Dean rolled his eyes.
Cas took a large, square pack of gauze and tried to stem the bleeding so that he could begin stitching Dean back together. Dean watched his movements with guarded eyes, trying to discern his motives. After all, he’d been the one who kicked Cas out of the bunker at Ezekiel’s command, without a moment’s hesitation, to keep his brother safe. Cas, who had just been rescued from cold and hunger and homelessness, only to be thrown back to the wolves by the man he trusted most. And yet he’d come the minute Dean had called for backup (or at least, as quickly as he could in his current mortal condition), fought just as hard as any of them, and was, even now, trying to help. And Dean simply couldn’t figure out why.
“Without my grace, I no longer have the powers to heal you,” Castiel seemed to be musing out loud as he worked, now pulling skin back together with all the finesse of an experienced surgeon. But his words answered the unasked question which hung in the air. “I can at least do this to help you heal. It is all I can do, but it’s something.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.” Castiel looked up briefly to meet Dean’s eyes. “But that’s what we do, isn’t it? Try to heal each other?”
Dean was caught off-guard by the intensity of both Cas’ eye-contact and what he’d said. The words left his mouth in that way of his, without him thinking, his smirk faltering at a joke that came out far too serious. “Seems to me we take turns breaking each other.”
Castiel smiled that signature half-smile of his, the one that couldn’t meet his eyes however hard it tried to. And you could tell that it was trying. He was trying so hard. “Yes,” he dropped his eyes back to his work, tying off the sutures, placing a thinner square of gauze over the stitches and taping it in place. “It seems that way.”
Dean’s mouth fell into a thin line, his eyes tight as they roamed over the defeated figure before him. Still an angel at heart, trying to do what little he still could to help. Those kind eyes that so carefully sought the next-worst thing that needed his attention. They settled on a tear in the shoulder of Dean’s shirt. He pushed the material back to reveal a deep gash. Not as deep as the last one, no stitches needed, just cleaning and dressing. He set to work, efficient, but unbelievably gentle. Dean should have been able to guess from how delicate Castiel was when healing people as an angel that he would be equally as careful dealing with injuries as a human. Dean was used to being ripped apart. He’d been torn, slashed, stabbed, maimed, and broken in every possible variation, and in most cases he’d been left to his own devices when it came to putting himself back together. He was rough with himself, of course, but he’d gotten the job done. Cas was the complete opposite. He dabbed lightly at the wound with the alcohol swab as though knowing it would sting and wanting to make it hurt as little as possible. He wrapped the bandage around it slowly, tenderly. Dean didn’t know how to react to such tenderness. No one had been so careful with him in his life.
He vaguely considered the fact that these were the hands of a man who had lived for millennia, who had murdered countless people: angels, demons, humans… They were the hands of a man who had fought valiantly against any and everything that came his way. They were the hands of a man who had been battered and defeated on numerous occasions, who had killed and been killed, but who was still sitting, so calm, on the edge of a bed, doing his best to care for someone he loved. And Dean was a little in awe of him.
Castiel noticed his companion’s silence and glanced up to make sure that he was still conscious. He was met by Dean’s scrutinizing gaze, the one that sent out the mixed signals that had always so confused him.
“What is it?” he asked, eyebrows pulling together in a guarded expression.
“Nothing,” Dean said, snapping out of it, shaking his head slightly, “Just--” he scrambled for something to say, something that would express what he was still trying to sort through. He cleared his throat. “Uh… thanks.”
Cas’ eyebrows lifted, his expression lightened, and his smile seemed a little more genuine. “You’re welcome, Dean.”
He watched Cas for a little longer, a strange affection welling in his chest. There were always brief moments like this where a small crack would appear in the dam he’d built inside himself. Bad experiences and hard-learned lessons had overseen its construction, and repeated mistakes had enforced it. But it never took very much to chip away at the walls, to spring a leak and let out a stream of the endless love that Dean Winchester kept locked inside of himself. He found the words escaping before he really thought about them. It had only taken years for them to find their way across the threshold of his lips.
“I love you, man.”
Castiel looked up, startled, eyes wide at the sudden confession. The tone had been casual, but the gravity of the words was not lost upon him. He smiled again, and it was in his usual gruff tone that he responded, “I love you too, Dean.” Then he leaned in and kissed him.
It took Dean a shocked moment to process what was happening, but then he drew back almost immediately. “Woah, Cas, let’s not move too fast here...” his joking tone fell flat upon the confused ex-angel.
“I’m sorry, Dean, did I do something wrong?”
“Well, I mean, shit, man, take a girl out to dinner first…”
“I’m… sorry,” Cas repeated, drawing back, “I thought this was how humans showed affection…” his voice trailed off as he attempted to mentally re-trace his steps, to see where he went wrong. “But clearly it was not consensual, and I apologize for that. In the future I will try to discern your intentions more carefully.”
Dean watched helplessly as Castiel began to close himself off, his guard up once more as he started putting the medical supplies back into his first aid kit.
“Cas, I didn’t mean…” Dean once again attempted to sit up. He could feel the stitches in his side straining and winced, but continued reaching for the other man. His hand found Castiel’s arm and he gripped it tightly, willing Cas to look at him. “You caught me off guard.”
The slightly pleading tone was genuine and uncharacteristic of Dean, but Castiel attempted to shrug him off regardless. He couldn’t understand this feeling of shame and foolishness that was enveloping him in the wake of rejection.
“It’s alright…”
“Dammit, Cas, look at me.”
Cas turned his head slightly towards him, eyes still downcast. Dean felt himself overcome with an unnamable frustration-- one that gritted his teeth and clenched his heart-- and an overwhelming need to prove to Cas that he’d meant what he’d said. He released his grip on Castiel’s arm and used that same hand to cup the side of the man’s face, gently. Cas finally met his eyes. Before Dean could over-think what he was doing his lips were on Castiel’s, answering an unasked question. They seemed made to fit together. The kiss was slow at first, tentative, a bit unsure, but soon emotion overcame logic and all the feelings they’d kept pent up for years were let loose. It was Castiel who deepened the kiss, his hand finding Dean’s hip and resting there, the other making it’s way to the back of Dean’s neck and grabbing a fistful of hair. Dean smirked into the kiss, caught his breath in a laugh, and left a trail of kisses along the stubble of Castiel’s jawline before finding his way back to the man’s mouth. He kissed him profoundly, passionately, wondering what in the fuck had taken him so long to just nut up and acknowledge what had been so obvious, but what he’d tried so defiantly to deny.
They finally broke apart to catch their breath but remained close together, Castiel leaning forward just slightly to rest his forehead against Dean’s. Dean was slowly becoming aware of his injuries again, each breath a sharp pain in his side, but he couldn’t find it in himself to move away. Cas’ eyes roamed Dean’s face, taking in everything: the striking green of his eyes, the confident smirk, the light ghosts of freckles that scattered his cheeks. He took careful note of each tiny feature that defined Dean, that made him, and loved each of them. He wanted to know Dean down to the fragments of stardust that he originated from, wanted to personally thank every atom that made his being possible. This wonderfully improbable creature before him. The human that had been both his downfall, and his triumph.
After what felt like an eternity (but could have gone on longer, for all they cared) Castiel drew away, placing light but persuading hands on Dean’s shoulders to guide him back down to rest. With resignation, Dean laid back against the pillows Cas arranged to prop him up, but that mischievous glint never left his eyes.
“As soon as my ass is healed expect more of that.”
Cas rolled his eyes, a habit he was starting to pick up from Dean, but he smiled. His gruff voice was playful and lightly sarcastic, “I look forward to it.”