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Dean’s head aches terribly.
He doesn’t bother keeping count of the concussions. It’s a small price to pay after all, for dispatching particularly nasty specters. Even so, as his vision wobbles and his knees scream, he has to admit that he might be getting a bit old for this shit. Took Sam so damnably long to find the last remaining piece of bone to burn- about three counties over in some podunk museum- that Dean had actually started to worry by his sixth or seventh flight into the wall. Fortunately, the angel who still shadows him as he unlocks the heat-warped door, had helped. He always does, with no regard for his dwindling power, as usual. Dean wishes he wouldn’t, but he knows that’s a lost argument, especially given that Castiel’s the only reason he’s still able to heave a discontented sigh from his bloodied nostrils right now.
He feels Cas’ steady hands holding him together as they make their way into the dingy but seemingly clean room. Neither says anything about the breach of personal space. It’s more or less routine at this point, these wordless, wanting touches, and he can’t spare the energy for protest. He welcomes the support actually, because his body is endeavouring a full-on rebellion if the unpleasant tilt of the room is any indication.
“M’just gonna clean up,” he announces, attempting to steer his deplorable weakness towards the safety of the bathroom.
“Dean.”
There’s an insistent grip on Dean’s arm, and that’s all it takes to derail him, tonight.
He turns towards Cas. The angel looks rough, too. The pleasing angles of his face have been splintered by small scrapes and bruises, his dark hair looks like it’s gone two rounds with a jet-engine and he’s (shockingly) shed two layers of his blood-soiled uniform. His exposed forearms barely distract from Cas’ unrelenting gaze though, and Dean can’t help but stare back, enthralled, while his pulse pounds an erratic staccato in his ears. He tries for mildly annoyed but his fractured voice betrays him.
“What ?”
Without a word, Castiel hooks a palm around Dean’s waist, and gently reels him in. Dean’s heart thunders but he goes readily, like this is what they’ve always done; like this isn’t a huge violation of the unspoken contract they’ve always honoured. Dean can’t think of why or when they’d even agreed to it - or of much else for that matter- because Castiel’s lips come to rest against the sensitive skin alongside Dean’s mouth; just shy of contact.
“Let me,” Cas whispers.
It’s supplication, command and invitation all at once, and Dean can only nod, feeling the coarse graze of stubble like live current in his marrow. Or maybe that’s just the cool sizzle of Grace righting his scrambled atoms as Cas pulls him closer, but he doesn’t really care.
The shabby room blurs until there’s only the comforting rhythm of Cas’s breath sliding down his neck, the minty, electric balm of Cas’ scent, and the unyielding press of Cas’ unfathomable limbs protectively folded all around him.
Dean knows he’s shaking, and not just from the reconstruction of his broken pieces. It turns out he’s not alone in that, as Cas finally pulls away enough to glance up at him. There’s desperation clouding his usually guarded expression, and love , so much love that Dean can barely stand to look at him for how undeserving he feels. It’s surreal and familiar at once, and Dean fiercely wants to lose himself to it; to come undone here, finally happy.
“Thanks,” is his meagre offering.
“You’re welcome.”
Dean watches the light dim from Castiel’s eyes, as though the angel has realized that his scant allotment of affection has been filled for the week, or perhaps forever. He begins to pull away like always, a feather caught in a fickle breeze. Maybe it's all the knocks to the head spurring him on, but Dean knows instantly that this growing distance is a final and unbearable outrage.
He takes a breath and allows his head to fall forwards until their foreheads touch. He hovers there for a few moments, breathing in Cas’ soft gasp of surprise and swallowing his own, allowing himself to be anchored by the tender hands that come to greet his face.
“Hey,” Dean breathes into the small space between them, “You missed.”
He leans in and places the most reverent, gentle (and well-aimed, for good measure) kiss he’s ever mustered upon Cas’ lips. He can only hope it’s enough. It’s a soft, short-lived affair, but it fills him with such light he can barely breathe.
“I suppose I was hoping you’d correct me,” Cas returns, a little breathless himself, but smiling wider than Dean has ever seen.
“Anytime,” Dean promises, “from now on.”