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Dean’s life has become a tightrope walk. He has become very good at teetering on the edge. In a way, it’s turning into a game, waiting for the floodgates to open again.
Player one, choose your weapon. Wield your blade. Hold off the darkness as long as you can.
He tries to count how many hours have passed since he took Cain out. Too many. Not nearly enough. He’s pretty certain he’s losing track of time.
He thinks about sinking the blade into the top of Cain's spine and he has to fight back the urge to vomit, his stomach sour and empty of much else but coffee at this point.
He presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids until there are stars bursting in his vision. He wants to cry, he feels like crying, but he suspects the tears are cowering somewhere behind the darkness.
He feels like he is dying but he knows that isn't true. He isn’t dying at all, not in the traditional sense. He’s changing, transforming, becoming the thing he was before. The thing he’s always known himself to be.
His soul is cocooned and awaiting metamorphosis.
The drive back to the bunker was tense, quiet, with Sam behind the wheel and Cas staring at him from the backseat the whole nine hours, give or take. He wanted to jump out onto the shoulder speeding down the highway and feel his bones crack against the pavement. He wanted to scream until his voice gave out.
He wanted to kill the only people in his life who have ever truly loved him. He could have snapped Sam's neck like a twig. He could have sunk his angel blade between Cas' eyes. He could have found some poor sap to transfer the mark to and then beg them to end him quick.
Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool glass beside him. He steadied his breathing, clenched his fists until there were deep crescent moon shapes imprinted in his palms. He bit his tongue and swallowed down the urge to destroy.
The mark has become a living thing, something other than himself. It’s almost like possession, or what he imagines possession to be, only he’s still just strong enough to claw his way back to the surface. It was angry and threatening to drown him after he snuffed out Abaddon. After Cain, it is enraged. It is a tidal wave. A tsunami.
Dean is running for his life, the waves licking at his ankles as he goes. He needs a life preserver, something to hold onto. Someone to hold onto him. He lies down on his side in bed and clutches at himself because there is no one else to cling to.
There's a gentle knocking on his door, but he’s too exhausted to move, let alone invite them in. After a moment, Cas is turning the handle and stepping over the threshold.
“Dean?” Cas’ voice is barely above a whisper.
Dean doesn’t answer, just lies there with his back to him. He feels the bed dip as Cas perches on the other side, then warmth on his shoulder, Cas’ hand resting there.
“Are you awake?” Cas shakes him gently.
“Yeah,” Dean manages to choke out.
“How are you?”
“I’m tired as hell, Cas.” Dean says more tersely than he intends. “Can we do this later?”
“I’m sorry.” Cas moves his hand away. “I thought I felt you praying. I must have been mistaken.”
Dean wasn’t praying, hasn’t done that in a very long time, not since before the mark, but he certainly was aching, yearning, longing. Thoughts of wanting someone to hold onto quickly jumped to wanting someone specific to hold onto. Cas. Those thoughts always seem to drift to Cas.
He feels Cas’ weight shift, feels him pulling away, but he rolls over and catches his wrist before he can rise to his feet.
“Cas, wait.” Their eyes meet. “Could you, uh… Stay. Just stay with me for a while.”
“I’ll watch over you,” Cas assures him after several long, silent moments.
“No.” Dean sighs. “I…”
Dean may be courageous, but he is terrified to ask for this.
Cas pulls away from Dean’s grasp, but instead of standing he reaches down and removes his shoes. His jacket is next to go.
He lies down on his back next to Dean. They stay like that for several minutes, maybe more. All Dean knows is that Cas is warm against his side, a solid presence, and he wants to feel every part of him.
“Roll over,” Cas says after a while.
Dean can feel his programmed response to deny his desire for this threatening to ruin his chance at getting exactly what he wants, but he won’t let that happen tonight.
He doesn’t protest. He’s too tired to posture or pretend. He rolls over and closes his eyes.
He feels Cas’ body mold to his from behind, then a strong arm wrapping around his chest, pulling his body closer. Cas’ warmth envelopes him and it feels like exhaling. Like breathing for the very first time. Like a safety net beneath his tightrope so he doesn’t have to be so afraid of falling.
The mark is still itching on his arm, but the rage has suddenly calmed. He's more tired than he's ever been, and with the voices inside his head urging him to sate the bloodlust silenced for now, Dean drifts off into a dreamless sleep, Cas’ body against his a steady reminder that, for now, he is safe. For now he is okay.