Chapter Text
1.
Every inch of Dean’s body is caked in blood.
He watches bits of it flake away from the creases in his knuckles on the steering wheel. Their attempt to return to normal hunting feels a little pointless now that the Apocalypse has been kickstarted, but they both need the distraction. He and Sam are silent on the drive back to the motel. It’s been a long time since they fought a whole nest of vamps, and bad intel had left them significantly outnumbered. They eventually managed to snag the upper hand, with minimal bruising underneath their layers of grime and flannel. A glance at his little brother dozing in the passenger seat confirms Dean’s theory: they’re both okay, or some approximation of it. Just too tired to talk.
Dean scans the parking lot before moving inside, since they both look like extras in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and he'd prefer not to draw attention to it. Their motel room is painted an ugly lime green that had nearly triggered Dean’s gag reflex upon first glance, but it has decent enough water pressure and is relatively clean. Or it will be until he and Sam inevitably stain it with the gruesome vampire blood dripping from their bodies.
“I get the first shower.” Sam announces forcefully, and Dean raises his hands in surrender. Sam had been the one to take down the head honcho and had been closer to the bloody explosion, so he’d earned it. Dean watches him grab clean clothes from his duffel and stride into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Dean waits. He stands in the middle of the room for a long time, listening to the hiss of water. He can’t exactly sit down, unless he wants to leave a crisp twenty tomorrow morning to apologize for the suspicious bloodstain in the shape of his ass.
He pulls out his phone on instinct and scrolls through the contacts, then stops himself.
He’s busy, leave him alone.
Dean hasn’t heard from Cas in a few weeks. It’s understandable, given the fact that he’s been running from his douchey angel brethren since he rebelled and Lucifer walked free. He’s also new to the whole “cell phone” thing. When Dean had gifted it to him and programmed in his number, Cas had done that birdlike head tilt as if he didn’t understand its purpose, so it is possible he just doesn’t know how to send a text message.
“Just...call me if you get into trouble on this God hunt, okay?” Dean had said that day.
Castiel had disappeared without an answer.
Dean can’t shake the churning anxiety in his gut that maybe he hasn’t heard from him because something happened. A hint of shame rises at the thought, like he shouldn't be worried about an angel when they're the ones who orchestrated this whole fiasco.
But Cas is different. He rebelled, and faced down an archangel for them. Dean still isn't sure exactly what kind of torture Cas went through to make it back from that one. Besides, there is a literal apocalypse going on. It’s normal to be concerned for your allies.
Or, y'know. Your weird maybe-friends.
Fuck it.
Dean types and retypes his message three times, and pretends his thumbs aren't shaking. He settles on keeping it simple.
Motel 6, Indianapolis, Room 309. Come check in if you can.
He pockets the phone and picks at the dirt beneath his fingernails. Minutes later, a flutter of wings sounds behind him.
“Hey, man.” Dean says, turning to face the angel.
Cas looks much the same as the last time they saw each other. Dark hair sticking up in all directions, trench coat wrinkled, blue tie facing the wrong direction. The purple circles under his eyes are a little more pronounced, but otherwise, he looks comfortingly familiar.
Except for the fact that he’s staring at Dean with an expression of mild distress, which on his typically blank face, probably equates abject horror.
Dean glances down at himself, having forgotten about his post explosion appearance. “Oh, yeah.”
“Dean,” Castiel breathes, moving into his space. Hands skate over Dean’s biceps, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.
“Cas, hey, hey, buddy, it’s not mine.” Dean reassures him, pressing a palm against his chest to try and stop the advance. A terrier holding back a mastiff. Castiel looks at him, disbelieving, and does not drop his hands. “Sam and I fought some vamps tonight, I just haven’t washed up yet.” He can feel how close the angel’s thumb is to touching that handprint on his shoulder, and he gulps. “I’m not hurt, I promise.”
“That’s not true,” Cas rumbles, irritation in his voice, and presses long fingers to a spot on Dean’s torso.
“Ow!” Dean glances down, and realizes for the first time that he does have a shallow slice between his ribs, about four inches long. It’s still spilling tacky blood down his shirt, but has blended into the mess of his clothes so that he didn’t see. Cas must have been able to sense the rend in his skin with his grace. “Fuck. I hadn’t noticed.” He peaks under Cas’s fingers. “Aw, man, that’ll need stitches.”
Cas looks conflicted for a moment, but before Dean can ask him what’s wrong, he moves.
“Just, let me.” Cas presses his palm against the cut. Dean sucks air in through his teeth, fisting the lapel of Cas’s coat to steady himself.
Cas closes his eyes, and light passes from his hand into the injury. Dean winces at the heat of it. Sometimes angel healing mojo wraps around him like a blanket, warm and comforting. Right now, it feels more like a static shock.
When Cas tentatively lifts his hand, Dean can see the wound is gone.
“Thanks,” he mumbles softly, not meeting the eyes he can feel boring into his own. He chuckles lightly to relieve some of the tension building between them, and gestures to his red clothing. “You couldn’t have wiped away the blood too?”
He doesn’t expect Cas to move even closer, and he definitely doesn’t expect him to bring one of his large hands to Dean’s jaw, sliding back to cradle the nape of his neck. Dean inhales in surprise, and gets a whiff of Cas’s scent. He smells the way his voice sounds - dark, earthy, and ancient. A little bit electric.
Cas keeps his eyes open this time, and the grace shines out of them like sunlight on Dean’s face. The blood vanishes in an instant, leaving behind the sensation of his skin scrubbed clean. His nerves tingle, raw.
He goes to thank Cas again, and notices how close their faces are. Cas’s expression is carefully flat. Dean opens his mouth-
A cough comes from across the room. “Am I interrupting something?”
Dean jumps backward, and he turns to see Sam leaning against the bathroom door jamb with wet hair dripping on his forehead. His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s smirking at the intimate scene before him.
Dean looks back at Cas, expecting to see the same embarrassment he’s feeling reflected on that stubbled face, but he seems to have barely noticed Sam’s presence. Blue eyes remain trained on Dean. His palms are still extended too, both now coated in blood.
Something dark flutters in Dean’s chest at the sight. In offering to clean his ass up, the angel literally got his hands dirty. That feels damningly poetic, and deeply sad.
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean mutters before meeting Cas’s eyes one final time and turning away. He shoves past his brother into the bathroom, barely stopping himself from slamming the door behind him. In the dusty mirror, he can see how brightly his cheeks are burning, and turns towards the shower to escape the sight. It feels a little unnecessary now that he’s been mojo’d clean, but he could use the warmth anyway.
That, and he doesn’t want to talk about whatever just happened.
By the time Dean comes out, Sam is snoring and Cas is gone.