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Shampoo. Conditioner. Body wash. Lotion.
Body wash is a strange one. Cas picks the tiny bottle up off the lip of the tub and considers it. In his experience, that's what soap was for: washing the body. So why wouldn't it just say soap? Is it different somehow from the soap you use on your hands? There's a different kind for clothes, he knows that—Dean's using some now on Cas's at the laundromat across the street from this motel—but he would have thought all skin was skin, and there was already a liquid soap for that. Skin all felt like skin, at least, although he has learned since that not all soaps are created equal. Hopefully this isn't the kind that leaves a film.
Cas sets the bottle back with its siblings. The bath around him has grown tepid and his bent knees are even colder sticking out of the water, but Cas doesn't mind. He's never taken a bath before. They only had showers at the shelters he stayed at, and at the Bunker, Dean had been so excited to show him the water pressure, so excited to set up his room, and then—
Shampoo. Conditioner. Body wash. Lotion is for after, Dean made clear, but he likes seeing them all together. The shampoo and body wash are almost identical, both clear and runny, and they all smell equally of soap (Cas checked), but there's a subtle difference between the lotion and conditioner: the latter is pearly and thin. When he holds it up to the fluorescents, enough light shines through to see the tiny bubbles inside. Were it not for those bubbles or the pale hint of yellow instead of blue, Cas could almost believe it's his grace: finally returned to him.
The door outside opens. Cas doesn't worry, at first because he's too tired to and then because Dean's absent whistling is unmistakable. It's a pop song Cas has heard four times already today at the Gas'n'Sip. He likes the idea of Dean knowing it too, though as soon as he thinks any longer about it he gets tired. They could've known it together if...
"Hey, buddy." Dean taps lightly on the door, casual and light despite the edge under his tone. "All good in there? Knock twice if you're drowning."
"I'm alive," Cas says. Isn't that a thought? He really is, for what feels like the first time. He would've thought it would feel better than this, for all the songs about it, but still. He's here.
"That's good," Dean replies, sounding equally aware of what it really means. "I moved your stuff over, but I didn't see anybody else in there the whole wash cycle, so I figured it was safe to leave it there and, uh. Come check on. Things."
The door wasn't really closed when Dean tapped on it, so it's now swung open enough that Cas can see the toes of Dean's socks, shuffling with his wide stance in a way Cas knows means he has his hands in his pockets. Cas knows what that means now: one's hands in one's pockets. Unsure. Maybe shy.
He pries the door open enough to let the light through. Even now, knowing in advance, his mind still stutters at the sight of Dean standing in front of him. It's new every time, some other detail to memorize, to hoard for the next few months. His heart is a hibernating animal, sustained by how Dean's hair falls slightly over his forehead, limp from the day's sun. Cas leans forward over his folded legs, suddenly cold.
Dean's eyes open when the door moves, staring straight ahead at the mirror over the sink before remembering the layout of the room. He looks at Cas only briefly, a glance there and back, then there again when he realizes what he saw.
"Have you just been sitting there the whole time?"
It takes Cas a moment. He was pretty sure all baths are had while sitting.
Then Dean nods up at Cas's hair, dry and untouched.
"Oh. I was getting to that."
"It's been like an hour, man, I'm sure it's—" Dean steps into the room carelessly and taps the surface of the water by Cas's feet. "Jesus, alright, next lesson is how not to get pneumonia, yeah?"
Dean leans over to start the water again, face turned away from Cas as he braces himself against the tile. He pulls free the plug so tepid water can leave as the bath refills warm. The back of his neck is sunburn raw, creeping up under his hair, and Cas wonders why, where he was standing in the sun when he lives underground or in his big black car, if it was UV rays through overcast skies or he actually got to feel the sun's warmth on his scalp. If Dean feels it now or not, the way Cas feels—he draws his knees in further—the fresh hot water and the other end of the tub.
"I got soap in my hand."
When Dean looks back over, Cas shows him the cut again, pink and jagged across his palm. Stigmata: that's a human religious thing Cas has learned. It's funny, but only since being fully cast out of Heaven has he begun to understand what Dean said to him years ago about him not knowing every human accoutrement that goes with religion: "Don't look at me, I just work here." Dean later said the same thing about himself believing in exorcisms and rosaries but not God. Though Cas had still believed, it was applicable enough at the time. Only now does he truly understand the feeling of it, beneath the metaphor. It's true. They just worked here.
"Shit, right," Dean says. "I should've thought of that. Do you...? If you want, I could..."
Cas doesn't know what he's saying. That's pretty par for the course—it seems they have only two modes of communication, botched translation and telepathy—but he can tell from the way the words come out that whatever Dean is talking about, he means it with uncomfortable sincerity, and that makes it something Cas wants to understand. (He usually wants to understand, of course, but he's learned that sometimes Dean is just obnoxious.)
"Uh. Here."
Dean dries his hand on his jeans, a dark blue blot against his thigh Cas tries to interpret as Dean twists to grab a towel from the rack. It could be a tree, or a splayed bird. Mostly, it looks like a hand.
When Cas checks back in, Dean has folded the towel over itself a few times and laid it on the floor next to the tub. He kneels, turning first to the faucet before finally facing Cas.
"Can I...?" He reaches for the tiny bottles.
"Oh." Cas looks back down at them. Shampoo. Conditioner. Body wash. Lotion. Though he can't feel it anymore, he knows the blood vessels in his face are expanding. New steam rises off the water. "Okay."
Dean falters, just for a second, some internal process writ across his face that Cas doesn't know how to interpret. Somehow Dean is less inscrutable now that Cas is human, but there are still moments where he's as frustratingly opaque as he was when his words would say one thing and his feelings as directed at Cas would say the opposite.
Cas is too tired to be frustrated right now, though, so he waits for Dean to resolve whatever it is he's conflicted over and make whatever decision he's bound to make, Cas's input or not. Besides, the hot water is nice enough.
Looking at the bath as he is, Cas is half startled when Dean says in a low voice, "Alright. Hey, c'mere. Close your eyes."
The sound of a plastic cup held under the faucet fills the room, unmistakable even with his eyes thus closed. It thunders over even the halfhearted exhaust fan attached to the lights, finally enough to drown out the needling whine of the fluorescents. Cas has no idea when or where or why Dean got a cup, but the last question, at least, answers itself when the side of Dean's hand lays gently across Cas's brow.
"Hold on," Dean mumbles, not louder than the water but all the clearer for it. "Tilt your head back a little?"
He does, Dean's hand moving with him. Warmth trickles down through his scalp as Dean pours the water over him, careful to stay away from Cas's closed eyes. He goes back for a refill, muttering something vague before repeating the action, this time running his fingers through the hair at the top of Cas's head, making sure every strand is wet. It's nice: the water isn't scalding, but on his scalp it feels just hot enough to stay pleasant. Goosebumps raise along Cas's arms but he doesn't mind, knowing they'll be soothed by the warming bath around him soon enough.
Dean's hand runs smooth over the top of Cas's head one last time, sending that much more water down Cas's back. Like the squeegee Cas watches people use on their windshields at work. Face somewhat hidden, Cas smiles a bit as Dean turns the tap with practiced ease, almost exactly hitting the right balance of warm water refilling and cold draining. If he has to compare himself to any car, Dean's is a good pick. He'd be honored.
The click of a bottle and Cas's eyes snap open. He doesn't remember closing them, but now he looks over to see Dean pouring some—that is, half the bottle—shampoo into his palm.
He doesn't say anything this time, just gestures for Cas to tilt his head back to where it was while rubbing his palms together. The plasticky crinkle of bubbles is far from the soft, clean smell of the shampoo he borrowed from Dean at the bunker that one and only time, but the result is largely the same, if not stronger: a quiet feeling of intimacy, the chance to think about Dean uncomplicatedly and without all the hurt baggage between them that should be there. Dean's fingers, calloused in their particular ways, move gingerly through Cas's hair, almost too careful; Cas wants to push up until he can feel the pressure, the latent housecat urge to be scratched lovingly, but he stays still. With the day they've had... It's all too fragile.
Yet, that doesn't stop what comes next. As Cas's eyes are starting to slip closed again, he hears, "My mom used to do this."
When Dean looks down, Cas is already there. Far too casual to be anything less than a grave admission, he continues, "But they don't have tear-free shampoo in motels. Not that it ever made much of a difference."
Cas looks away first, not out of chivalry but cowardice. He thinks about Dean holding Tanya before Nora returned and making faces to calm her down, Dean hovering over a feverish Sam in the bunker with snacks and poorly-disguised concern.
"It's nice."
"Uh. Thanks."
Dean's hand reaches through his line of sight with the plastic cup again, which Cas now recognizes from the flimsy ice bucket it had been sitting with next to the television. The even-thinner plastic bag it came individually wrapped in is nowhere to be found; once upon a time, if Cas concentrated hard enough, he could touch it and reach forward to see which marine creature it would inevitably end up killing. He tilts his head back again for Dean to rinse, trying not to read into how Dean's hands seem to linger, how soft his touch is when it grazes Cas's ears.
When the water running off Cas is clear again, Dean stoppers the tub, turning off the water and plunging them into embarrassing silence before he pops open the next bottle. Cas doesn't look at him, eyes on the water as Dean works, now, the conditioner into Cas's hair. It smells exactly the same, but the feeling is better. Less afraid. This is harder to not read into.
Time was Cas would be able to feel Dean no matter what, the minute differences in pressure that leave atomic prints of the hills and valleys of Dean's fingerprints. Now, he finds it's not that different overall—that he's still paying as close attention and drinking in every moment of Dean he can, but the nature of the detail has changed. He doesn't feel the history of every bit of microscopic dust in Dean's fingerprints but he does feel how Dean's heart is working as fast as his own, in opposite directions, one contracting as the other expands.
The conditioning goes on a lot longer than the shampooing, Dean working over the same strands again and again, more of a massage than anything. Cas keeps most of his reflexive, pleased hums inside, though a few break free once and a while. Alright. Neither of them says anything.
Eventually, though, Dean's elbow slips and knocks the rest of the tiny bottles off the ledge of the tub and onto the apparently quite echoey tile floor. One falls into the water, which Cas gets as Dean collects the others. It's the conditioner. It's empty now.
"So, uh," Dean says as he finally gets the bottles lined up again. He shuffles back until he's leaning against the toilet, cheeks pink and eyes avoiding Cas's again. "You're supposed to leave that one in for a bit. I never remember to, but if you're learning the ropes..."
Apology fills his eyes when Cas catches them. Thankfully the bathroom is tiny and he's still in reach, despite having scooted away, so Cas can trick himself into being brave long enough to reach across his own body and the air between them and touch the back of Dean's hand.
His fingers are wrinkled. Dean squeezes back.
They sit there for a while like that, Dean's eyes on their hands and Cas's on Dean. This, perhaps more than anything, is what Cas really missed: the quiet understanding. The not needing to talk: the being understood better without words. That silence continues when Dean comes back to rinse his hair yet again, this time raking his nails across the top of Cas's head to get all the soap out, now unafraid. This is part of the understanding.
Still, when Dean sets down the cup again, removes his hand one last time from their visor shield over Cas's eyes, Cas is expecting Dean to leave—to slap his thighs and stand and say something like, Well, leave you to it then. It's been a nice moment, but Cas knows how such moments go and that is always more quickly than he'd like.
At least, he thought he knew. Instead, Dean picks up the third bottle—Body Wash. The click of the cap resounds now that the water is off.
"Here."
He gestures for Cas to hold out his uninjured hand, into which Dean then pours some soap. Before Cas can say anything, he's squirting more into one of the square washcloths.
"You've got, uh—" Dean gestures at the back of his own neck, the air between them suddenly too thick to penetrate. Cas has no idea what he's talking about, but he nods anyway. "So I'll get that."
"Okay."
Cas sloshes forward in the bath as Dean shuffles over with the washcloth. It occurs to Cas then that this can't be a comfortable position for Dean, straining over the edge of the tub, twisting between Cas and the wall. It probably wasn't comfortable before either.
When the washcloth touches his skin, Cas takes that back: it definitely can't have been comfortable before. If the towel Dean is kneeling on is anywhere near as thin as this, it can't be that cushioning. Cas can feel the heat of Dean's hand through the cotton, different from the warmth of the water. He has, by now, completely given up on the goal of not reading into anything, accepting the complicated, emotionally fraught truth of how the hurt they've caused each other coincides with this pervasive, in-spite-of tenderness.
The previously white washcloth comes away muddy red. Cas watches, pondering, as Dean half-heartedly tries to rinse it under the tap. He isn't quite sure why that is: could be some grime he's perpetually missed in the Gas'n'Sip bathroom mirror, could be from this evening. Did he rub the back of his neck after cutting his palm in an unconscious habit? Dean does that—it's entirely possible Cas does too, now that his body needs no conscious commands to do all the little things of living. That makes sense. Even when he's not thinking about Dean, he's thinking about Dean.
Out comes the cup again. Cas savors it, knowing this is the last time. It seems like Dean does too, as the water is relatively clear again by the time he stops and plugs the tub again. Now, without excuse, they have to look at each other.
"Thanks," Cas says.
He watches some impulse—to cringe, to demure, to argue, to self-deprecate—flinch across Dean's face. In the end, though, Dean says, "No problem."
"I guess I'll..."
Cas gestures at the towel folded on the toilet and Dean jumps up. His knees crack, but he doesn't react. Somewhere between rinses he's gone from guilt-stricken to contrite.
"Yeah," Dean backs towards the door, "I'll leave you to it. And, uh— If you want."
"Yes?"
Thinking, thinking, Dean comes to some decision and grabs one of the hand towels from the rack, holding it close to his chest with apparent nonchalance. "Leave your hair, yeah? I'll... You'll look like you stuck your finger in a socket."
Cas honestly had no idea where that sentence was going, but the end surprises him nevertheless. "Oh. Okay."
"And I've got stuff for your hand, so we'll do that too. I guess—I sorta forgot, but your clothes are still at the laundromat. Which is fine. You can borrow something to sleep in. I'll just—" Dean is backing out the door, endearingly awkward. "Leave that outside the door, yeah?"
"Okay."
Dean starts to disappear from sigh before his head pokes back in. "Maybe don't try the lotion, though. Open wound, y'know?"
"I do know."
Cas wants to smile. He really does. For a moment, he gets halfway there, and is rewarded with a matching attempt on Dean's face. That, for tonight, is enough.