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Dean really does look horrible, you tell yourself in retrospect. He tried to play it off, but the two of you know the truth – he looks like Hell warmed over, personified. Which, he might as well be. He just spent however many hours strapped to a chair with both you and Sam pumping him full of an unnamed man’s blood, hoping to whoever was listening that he would survive, that his soul wouldn't die with him. It worked, miraculously – by some miracle, he was alive. Holed up in his bedroom, but alive.
You left him seeing the disappointment on his face, the sadness of watching you leave again. He could have stopped you, could have grabbed your arm and told you to stay. ‘Forget her,’ he could have spoken. ‘You’re welcome here.’
The situation in Heaven and Hell were remarkably stable – you could have. But the Angel’s are still out for your head, the ones that hadn’t packed up and left the moments the gates reopened. Even in the safest place for you in the world, you still wouldn't feel safe, even with him at your side. Somehow, they would find out where you were and drive your own blade through your chest. Somehow, they would take your – whoevers – Grace from you and kill you on the spot. It’s not yours to begin with. It’s a means to an end, until you retrieve yours, or whatever’s left of it.
If anything is. That’s the question – what’s left to find? Metatron lied to you, but in the deepest part of your heart, you hope that he might have been hinting at the truth.
It’s a stupid thing to wish for. What good would it do for you, anyway?
That’s not what you’re concerned about, though. No, it’s the man you left behind the wooden door, your hand still on the knob. You could go in and talk to him. Tell him what you’ve wanted to say for so long. Hannah could wait, couldn't she? Unless her curiosity got the best of her and she wandered inside. Sam would probably find her, if he wasn’t already drinking his weight in whatever whiskey they had. Sam has been through enough – he doesn’t need to have to worry about Angel’s wandering the halls.
You can choose. Leave with Hannah and continue your fruitless hunt, or comfort the man you left at his weakest. His words reverberate in your skull – I’m glad you’re here, man – and you want to actually be there for him. You can’t. You have to leave. You have to—.
You’re halfway to the front staircase before you stop. And think. And listen. No sounds emanate from within the bunker. You think Sam is in the library or in the sanctity of his own bedroom. Dean is probably staring at the ceiling. You wouldn't doubt it. No matter the deepness of his ache, he won’t be able to relax. You know this all too well – you’ve felt this every day since his passing. Alleged passing, you reconsider. He’s alive, just feet away. You could go talk to him. Who’s there to stop you?
You listen to your proverbial voice of reason and turn, treading lightly on the stone tiling of the bunker floor. Behind Dean’s door, you hear nothing except the faint sounds of breathing, the occasional hitching of breath. Perhaps he’s crying. Perhaps he’s dreaming. You don’t know. You turn the knob, quiet, and enter the room. He’s lying on his side with his back to you, the lights off. The shelf above his head is a mess, his belongings thrown into a haphazard pile. At some point, he’ll have time to redecorate. His need for organization will kick in again. He’ll enjoy it, you think, cleaning. Nesting.
Every few seconds in the darkness of the room, you see him twitch, hear his breath catch on the exhale. It sounds too vulnerable for him, for a man so strong, so brave as the Dean you know. So headstrong, determined. He’s in pain now. You want to touch him, to tell him to rest again. To heal the fissures in his flayed soul, to calm it in a manner you haven’t done since before your fall. Not that he would have recognized it; too subtle for humans to comprehend, but it was there. The touch of feathers against his skin when he slept, nightmares lulling to quiet nights. Frayed nerves after hunts dissipating at the touch of a hand, the brush of shoulders.
You like to touch him. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He never has.
Maybe that's what possesses you to toe off your shoes and leave them by the closed door, creeping onto the bed with him. He stirs minutely, never fully turning over to face you. He doesn’t have to. You slot in behind him in a manner you’ve never done before, bringing an arm around his waist, pulling him tight. He doesn't protest so much as grunts, wiping his eyes with one hand, the other touching your wrist, a gentle caress that turns more desperate in an instant. He tugs your hand to his heart, letting you feel the jittering rhythm, the hiccup of his breathing ever so often.
He’s been crying. He can’t hold back the pain he feels so deep in his bones, in his soul. You tangle your legs with his and press your lips to the nape of his neck above sweat-warmed fabric, his skin unbearably hot. He’s probably running a fever – he needs to rest. Drink, eat, shower. Maybe in that order. He doesn’t speak a word as you hold him, your forehead pressed to the back of his neck, your fingers toying with his shirt, his twined between your own. He wiggles a bit, gets comfortable. Settles atop the sheets, your name on his lips.
“You gon’a stay?” he mumbles to you, words slurred from exhaustion, barely making it off his tongue. “Stay, please. With me, for a lil’ while. Don’ go t’ her.”
You blink once, slow, soaking in the sentiment of his words. He’s gone rigid. He thinks you’ll leave him, like you’ve done so many times before. When you had duties in Heaven, when you didn’t know what to do, when you needed to be anywhere but there. He’s scared—you know this. You’ve felt this before.
“I’ll stay,” you tell him, pulling him closer, breathing him in, the lingering scent of blood and sin, of earth and redemption. He grips your hand, crushing, desperate for your touch. He shakes through another sob; you hold him, unwilling to let go. Hannah can wait. The world can wait. Dean can’t. “I’ll stay. I’ll stay.”
He thanks you, quiet, nearly wordless. He sinks into your embrace, into the sheets. Goes limp at your kiss to his hair, to his neck. You feel his heart slow, limbs softening against yours. The firmness of his hold, though, that never falters. You smile into his skin. This is where I belong, you think. This is what I need.
You don’t know how long you stay by his side, nodding off somewhere in the night. He’s watching you when you wake later, his eyes half lidded, blinking slow, ever so slowly. You palm his face, stroke his cheek, watching his eyes flutter closed.
“Relax,” you tell him. “Rest,” you whisper, against his lips. “Sleep,” you kiss him, and he quiets.
He’s asleep before he can return the gesture. You pull him close and rest with him until the morning light threatens to rise above the Kansas plains and you’re forced to leave him alone, with a price on your head and an expiration date on his arm. You’re not there when he wakes. You can’t bear to imagine his face when he sees you’re gone.
You drive until you can’t, until you pull over and sob with your head turned to the sky, tears streaking your cheeks, unbidden, Hannah watching you all the while.