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There are many things about humanity Castiel doesn’t understand, even throughout the times he was temporarily one of their kind.
For example, he may now understand their constant obsession with consuming nutrition, the difference between healthy and unhealthy foods and how such things can affect their bodies, but he doesn’t understand the need to consume something that will be detrimental to said bodies, such as what humans call ‘drugs’.
He understands the routine, mundane tasks of teeth-brushing and standing under jets of warm water and remaining unconscious for hours a day every day, and how all of these things help keep humans sane, but he doesn’t understand how the neglect of such things cause your own kind to shun you, refuse to help, to provide, to care.
He understands how contact with other humans provides comfort, but he doesn’t understand how acceptance of that comfort is seen as a weakness.
He doesn’t understand why, when in obvious emotional pain, does the great Dean Winchester act like his skin burns under the touch Castiel is so used to providing. Such a loss almost causes such a human whimper to erupt from his chest, physical contact just out of reach. The pats on the back, the banter punches, the way his fingers card through his hair when he’s upset. The hugs after a long time separated, the touch of his palm against his cheek. Even the whisper of contact when he heals him causes the fuzzy warmth to pulse through his soul with each beat of his vessel’s heart. It’s become automatic, instinctual, and so painfully loved that it aches to his angelic core when it’s not around.
Humans have such a strange way of getting attached to things.
Cas’ voice caught in his throat as he once again tried to console the tremor flowing like ripples across Dean’s figure. Such a tremor was alien to Castiel. Dean was the anchor in their family, the steady rock of indifference, emotional integrity, mental strength.
At least he pretended to be. Cas always knew differently, since the day he raised him from perdition.
What he means is it was alien for Cas to see such an anchor be so open in his pain. Cas supposed he should be complemented in the thought of Dean trusting him that much, but if anything the creep of anxiety up his spine only spread. It must be worse than usual for Dean to be this openly broken.
“Dean-” He could hear the shake in his own voice, something else alien to him. The thump of his vessel’s heart was overpowering in his ears, almost like loud footsteps coming down the hall. His fingernails dug into the palms of his clammy hands and, despite not needing it, he forced his vessel to take a deep breath, calm down, and reassess the situation. Focus on what is important.
Dean was standing in the middle of his bedroom in the bunker (not important). His jacket was splotched with the dirt of the hunt (not important), the hems of the sleeves of the jacket clutched in his shaking fists (important, why is that important?).
“What’s happened, Dean?” Cas felt his feet move, taking an automatic step forward that was met with a stumbled one back. Cas tried not to be hurt by the action, since it was obvious that Dean hadn’t any malicious intent in mind. His eyes were squeezed shut, lips moving with indecipherable mutters and his hands shook with the effort of clenching them so hard.
Despite not being seen, Cas raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, Dean. Okay. Can you hear me?”
If he nodded, Cas couldn’t tell, but he took the pause in his murmurs as his sign that he was being listened to.
“Okay, good, that’s good Dean.” Cas blanched, unsure of his next step forward. “I’m going to take your hand now, okay? I’m just going to take your hand.”
Flashes of nature documentary programs blinked before his eyes and he moved slowly, taking a step forward and wrapping his hand around one of Dean’s fists. His friend flinched hard under his touch but didn’t pull back, and Cas took that as a win.
“That’s good, Dean. You’re okay.” Castiel found himself muttering, relaxing under the feel of Dean’s forehead as it fell against his chest.
Automatic, instinctual.
Cas’ fingers found their way to Dean’s head, running through his hair slowly, calmly. Dean relaxed against the touch, breathing coming slower, deeper.
Cas felt the rush of warmth flow through him, causing a smile to spread across his face at the feel of comfort, rightness, home. His fingers that weren’t running through Dean’s hair were encompassing Dean’s hand, running over his white knuckles, soothing, relaxing, until the fist came undone and he wove his fingers into the gaps between Dean's. He could feel every atom of him that came into contact with Dean spark with ecstasy, every breath he took filling his lungs with his scent, every beat of his heart sending a new wave of what he could only describe as pure, unconditional love for Dean Winchester through him, right to the tips of his fingers. He could only hope the love was transferring through his touch.
When Dean finally met his gaze, Castiel felt his very being lurch at the sight of those green eyes, vibrant in contrast to the bloodshot red that rimmed them and spread down his cheeks in salty tracks of emotional exhaustion. Castiel never understood what people meant when they talked about ‘puppy-dog eyes’ until that very moment - Dean’s gaze resembled that of a scared pup with intense accuracy he never imagined anyone else had the ability to pull off.
Dean cleared his throat, taking a slight step back but not far enough to pull from Cas’ hand. His gaze dropped to the floor, the walls, the hem of his jacket that suddenly seemed so interesting.
Cas tilted his head. “Are you alright, Dean?”
The familiar half-glance of embarrassment. “Uh, yeah, I’m all...I’m all good now, Cas, uh-” His hand went through his hair, making it stand at messy angles. “You can go now...thanks.”
Cas’ heart skipped, as the sharp ache that snapped in his chest when Dean pulled his hand away led back to automatic instinct, and he grabbed Dean’s retreating wrist, his thumb stroking over his forearm under his sleeve.
...hang on.
Many times before has Castiel done that same action, and every time he was met with smooth skin, left with little indents and rises from hunts he had long since memorised. He knew every imperfection in Dean’s physical form as well as he knew every imperfection in his soul.
But it was different that day. The pad of his thumb that dragged over Dean’s skin was interrupted with bumps and rivets he had never noticed before. He recognized instantly the rough texture of scabbed-over cuts, had patched Dean up enough to know, but his confusion came from what he judged, in the mere second he had contact, to be multiple of these injuries in the same direction, close together and neat, almost calculated.
Cas frowned as Dean quickly drew his hand back. “Dean, you’re hurt-”
“-no, I’m fine, I-”
“-let me-”
“-no-”
“-Dean-”
“-no, Cas!” Cas could see Dean’s soul pulse rapidly with every pound of his heart, and his frown only deepened. Why wasn’t Dean letting Cas heal him? How had he gotten hurt without him realising? Cas had been at Dean’s side the entirety of their last hunt and knew that Dean hadn’t had these injuries then...where did they come from?
And why did Dean seem so upset?
“Dean, please.” Dean didn’t flinch when he touched his shoulder this time, so Cas took that as progress. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine-”
“No, Dean.” Cas sighed in mild frustration at Dean’s obscene stubbornness. “Will you at least let me take a look?”
“No-”
“I don’t have to heal you.” Cas ducked his head, meeting Dean’s floored gaze and bringing it back up. “I just want to help, Dean.”
Dean swallowed audibly, more tears already forming. “You can’t.”
Cas’s hand slid down Dean’s sleeve, grasping Dean’s hand in his own. “Let me try?”
The hesitation in Dean’s eyes was painfully evident, and Cas’ heart wrenched at the loss of automatic, instinctual trust, but Dean finally let up and walked, stiffly exhausted, to sit at the foot of his bed. Cas took a slow seat next to him, and reached for his friend’s arm.
Dean flinched back slightly and Cas’ hand froze midair, along with his breath, waiting for permission that Dean eventually gave with a reluctant grab of Cas’ hand. Cas gave his hand a slight squeeze, pushing all his affection into one pulse and lifted Dean’s sleeve. He narrowed his eyes.
Dean’s entire arm was covered in cuts, about a day or so old, judging by the scabbing. They littered his skin in messily systematic rows. Cas ran his thumb over them and felt the grip Dean had on his hand tighten as he lowered his head. As an angel, he wasn’t the best with human emotions and social cues, but was this...shame?
“I don’t understand.” Castiel frowned at the cuts, trying to determine what could have attacked Dean in such a manner. “What hurt you?”
Dean just shook his head, and Cas could see his teeth worrying his lower lip. Maybe he didn’t know what did this?
“Well, it couldn’t have been a werewolf.” Cas muttered, inspecting to see that his entire forearm was covered in these cuts. “Too small, too close together. The neatness excludes a wendigo. In fact, I’d say these were made by a blade, like a knife. Which means only a human, or a possessed vessel, could have done this.” He tried to meet Dean’s gaze, which was fixed in his lap, and his stomach dropped. “Dean, were you tortured? Who did this?”
Dean took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried to meet Cas’ gaze, failed and dropped it back to where his hand had an iron grasp on Castiel’s. “I, uh-” He swallowed, took another breath, tightened his grip, tried again. “I did.”
It took a second, or five, for Castiel’s mind to catch up to what Dean had said. In that time, Dean finally managed to bring his damp gaze up to his own. Cas searched those eyes for any hint of an explanation, of a practical joke, anything other than the terrified seriousness that only made Cas more confused. “I still don’t understand.”
A shaky sigh escaped from Dean, and he lifted his other sleeve to reveal the same cuts. “I did. I did it. To myself.” He cleared his throat.
Castiel’s mind was reeling. Why did Dean do this to himself? Was this a regular human thing that he missed out on? And if so, why was Dean so...ashamed of himself for it? Was it like sex, a regular and normal thing to do that was, for some unknown reason, completely socially unacceptable to speak of? But Dean wasn’t ashamed to talk about his rather graphic sex life, why was he ashamed of this? “Why?”
Dean swallowed, one of his fingers assuming a patterned beat on the back of Castiel’s hand. “I dunno, man, I mean-” His voice choked, and he sniffed, blinking back tears. “I was doing so well, but...but it all just came back and now-”
At the sound of the broken sob that Dean let out, Cas fell back into automatic, instinctual, and pulled him into a tight hug. There was a saying that Castiel once heard, during his time in exile, that he always held on to - “Hug someone like it’s the last time you’re ever going to hug them.”
He thought of this as he wrapped his arms around Dean and allowed the human to crumble into his chest, to stain his shirt with emotion as he held onto him. His hand drifted to his hair, grasping it, breathing in its scent.
“I still don’t understand, Dean.” He muttered. “I gather this is something...to put it lightly, bad-” Dean scoffed underneath him. “-and that it is something you used to do, but managed to stop because it was a bad thing...but other than that...why did you start purposely injuring yourself in the first place if you knew it was a bad thing?”
Dean’s voice was muffled against his shirt. “I, uh...I dunno, man, I just-”
Cas sighed, pulling Dean back and holding his shoulders at arms length. Dean’s gaze immediately avoided him. “Dean, you do know. Please, you can’t be helped if you won’t tell me what’s causing you this pain. Dean.” He lifted Dean’s chin, gently forced his gaze into his own. “Please let me help you.”
“Okay, okay.” Dean grumbled, pushing Cas’ hand away and rubbing his nose against the back of his hand. “Jeez, Cas, no chick-flick moments.”
Cas didn’t meet the smirk that Dean threw his way, and instead stared intently into his eyes, showing he was listening, that he cared, that Dean wasn't alone.
Dean cleared his throat, readjusted his position on the bed. He tried to speak, but his voice got caught, and he closed his mouth again with a frown, cleared his throat again. “Okay, uh...well, my...ah, jeez.” He swallowed and pulled a small switchblade from his back pocket, pressing the button that opened it and pushing it closed, open, closed, with a satisfying click each time, before trying again.
“My, uh...my dad was, as you know, a dick.” The signature Dean Winchester ‘I laugh to hide my pain’ laugh escaped him. “He used to, uh...he used to hit me, a lot. As punishment, you know, for failing. For falling, for missing, just, you know-” He let out a shaky breath, opened the blade, closed the blade, opened the blade, spoke, “He would use pain to teach me that failure was never an option, and I learned not to fail. If I forgot my blade, or missed my shot, or Sammy got hurt because I left him defenceless, he would hit me or cut me or...something, he would cause me pain, basically.”
His gaze flickered up and Cas smiled to show that he was still being listened to. Dean weakly returned the smile, flicked the blade open, and continued. “When he became too lazy, or too drunk, to do it himself, he would make me. He would give me an order to...I dunno, punch myself in the face or-” He glanced down at his arm as an indication. “-or cut myself, something like that. And, of course, I did it.” His smile was bitter, aimed towards himself. “Like a good little fucking soldier.”
His finger ran over the edge of the blade, and Cas grabbed his hand, gently prying the knife away. “Okay. I’m sorry you had to go through that, Dean, but...I still don’t understand why you would do it now. Your father is dead.”
Dean sighed, seemingly subconsciously weaving his fingers into Castiel’s. “Well, I started to do it myself without being asked. I felt like I needed to be punished, you know, for failing, for Sammy getting hurt.” He ran his finger over Cas’ knuckles, inspecting them intently. “And eventually, it...uh, well…” He frowned, seeming confused as to how to say what he wanted to.
Cas squeezed his hand. “It what, Dean?”
Dean lifted his head and looked at Cas, chewing his lip. “It, uh...it started to feel kind of...good, I guess?” He swallowed. “It gave a sense of…I dunno, something like relief. Like, it kind of gave a high.” He sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, which he now stared at. “And I got, uh...I got myself fucking addicted.”
Something seemed to finally snap in Cas’ mind. “And now you can’t stop.”
Dean nodded, then shook his head. “Look, man, I-” He met Cas’ eyes. “I’m alright, okay? You don’t need to go running to Sam and tell him about this.”
Cas frowned. “Sam doesn’t know?”
“No, he doesn’t know.” Dean glanced out into the hallway. “And he doesn’t need to, okay?”
“But-”
“Okay?” Dean’s gaze was strong, intent.
Cas sighed, but relented, figuring it was what was best for Dean. “Okay.”
Dean’s shoulders slumped with a heavy sigh. “Okay, cool, now-”
Automatic, instinctual.
Gently, Cas grabbed Dean’s arm before it could be hidden with his sleeve and, ignoring Dean’s protests, placed a soft kiss against the damaged skin, allowing his grace to flow from his lips and heal the cuts over. Dean stilled, and Cas took this as consent to continue placing these kisses across his arm, each one leaving his lips buzzing. Once one was fully healed, he moved to the other, until any and all evidence that Dean was hurting was erased from the physical plane of reality.
He looked back into Dean’s widened eyes with a smile. “Better?”
“Uh-” Dean cleared his throat. “Dude, what did I say about chick-flick moments?”
Cas scoffed and rolled his eyes, but didn’t let go of Dean’s hand. “Dean.”
“Yeah, babe?” Dean joked with a smirk.
Cas was serious. “Please let me know if it ever gets this bad again. We don’t have to tell Sam, we don’t have to tell anyone, but I want to help.” He squeezed Dean’s hand. “I’m only one prayer away, you know that.”
Dean seemed to pause, searching Cas’ eyes. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He swallowed. “I promise.”
Cas smiled, then pulled Dean back in, wrapping his arms around his back and relaxing at the feeling of him doing the same.
Automatic, instinctual.