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“Okay okay, stop bitching, almost got it.”
Dean’s heart beats erratically, but his practiced fingers remain steady as he sutures up the laceration on Cas’ side. It’s far more barbaric than a simple touch to the forehead, but they’re having to make due. The light’s terrible in here, a dingy old newspaper yellow, but Dean would bet Baby he could out-stitch most surgeons in the dark at this point in his career. Cas is in good hands, if he says so himself.
For a long while, there isn’t a word said beyond the occasional hiss of Enochian expletives through Cas’ clenched teeth. He sits deathly still despite the obvious discomfort, dutifully holding his blood-stained shirt open to one side for Dean to work. He’s doing well, Dean thinks, for a guy who just drained all his cosmic ju-ju to spare a dozen emaciated strangers from becoming wendigo chow. In true idiotic martyr style though, he’d conveniently forgone healing himself, and angelic badass or not, Cas’ skin is paler and clammier than Dean would prefer.
“Done,” Dean announces with relief, as he cuts the surgical floss free.
Cas crumples at the soft click of the scissor, like he’d been using all his unearthly strength just to sit upright on that grimy toilet.
“Whoa buddy,” Dean puffs, wrapping an arm around Cas as the angel slumps forward onto his chest.
“Sorry,” Cas grits. Despite his pitiable state, there’s so much indignant irritation in his voice that Dean can’t help but grin. He’s stubborn to the last.
“Gravity’s a bitch.”
“So are wendigos.”
“Got that right,” Dean confirms, “C’mon, Grumpy. Take these and then I’ll do the bandage in there.”
Donning a stormy expression, Cas acquiesces and downs a few painkillers along with nearly a full bottle of water, with a thirst so human that it’s concerning. Speaking of, Dean dutifully ignores the trail of overspill dribbling down Cas’ corded neck, in favour of hauling the disgruntled angel to his feet as best he can - Cas is built like a tank after all - and directs him to the shabby motel bed. Cas winces and grunts his displeasure like the most convincing of humans, and falls onto the bed like a holy sack of potatoes.
“This is intolerable,” the angel whines, pressing his wide palms into his eyes once he’s horizontal.
Left to suffer Cas’s devastatingly open shirt, Dean sheepishly averts his eyes and sits beside him. He fiddles with the first aid kit, desperate for a diversion.
“I’m sorry man, I’m sure your mojo’ll recharge soon. I told you you shouldn’t have poofed all those people back there.”
“They could have died. They didn’t deserve that.”
Dean nods and gently pats Cas’s arm. Or at least, he means to, but he lands somewhere on a -god, just dazzlingly firm- thigh and freezes. A keen blue eye peers out from beneath the tangle of hands, instantly cutting Dean’s excuses to shreds. Caught with nowhere else to go, he commits and squeezes. Once. Just once.
“Yeah well, neither did you.”
Cas huffs defeatedly into the ensuing pause, and Dean retracts his hand. It still buzzes from the warmth.
“I deserve far worse. But at least we got them out.”
“Yeah.”
Dean never knows what to say when Cas gets like this, because he knows there’s no help to be given. No comforting words or redemption. They’ve both done terrible things, and they’re both trying to make amends through battle, knowing damn well their spilled blood will never be enough to tip the scales back. He tears open the gauze package, the innocuous sound splitting the leaden room like lightning.
Cas says nothing, but grimaces as he tries to wiggle out of his right sleeve with all the elegance of a spastic inchworm.
“C’mon Cas, whole thing. D’you wanna get infected?” he insists, absolutely not questioning his motives.
Cas glares mildly in response, but allows Dean to help him pull off the shabby tie and yank him free of the soiled shirt. Dean tosses both on the night table.
“I’m actually cold,” Cas mutters to himself with disdain. He never does like admitting when his human vessel is getting the better of him. Dean doesn’t tease, even though frankly it’s kind of hilarious. It’s only temporary, after all.
“Won’t be long,” he promises.
“That’s what you said last time,” Cas snipes.
Dean can’t withhold the smirk spreading on his lips as he pulls a small bottle from the first aid pack.
“What?”
“Just hold still, you big baby,” Dean grins.
Cas complies over a sigh, and Dean soaks a few gauze pads in antiseptic to dab them gently around the stitches he’s just laid. They zigzag cleanly up from near Cas’ appendix to just under his rib cage, and for a moment, Dean allows himself to be proud of his work. He’s never been accused of having a healing touch, but he’ll settle for the angel not bleeding out.
“Should heal alright,” he comments, meticulously disinfecting as he goes, “until your Grace gets topped up, I mean.”
He’s assiduously ignoring how he’s touching Cas’s firm, lightly bronzed skin freely, how he feels the angel’s warm and human rib-cage expand and fall with every breath. His chest is wide, peppered here and there with a few dark hairs, while a rather fetching mole sits just above his right nipple. Dean definitely hasn’t noticed it though, nor how Cas’ build is more athletic than he’d expected under all that boring tan fabric, now that he gets to see it up close and personal. He definitely doesn’t see the subtle flex of Cas’ obliques, absolutely does not picture cataloging them with his lips, rib by rib.
Thankfully, Cas’ absent nod distracts Dean from his raunchy - and ill-timed- imaginings.
“‘Least it ain’t on your left side,” Dean babbles, clearing his throat.
Before he can think to stop it, his palm grazes the warding tattoo residing on the left side of Cas’ torso, just south of his heart. The touch lingers, and he finds he can’t pull away, so he fills the loaded space between his fingers as best he can.
“You uh… woulda nicked this, you know?”
A tense chuckle later, Cas is squinting up at him curiously.
“I suppose, though it’s hardly useful anymore,” he says.
“Looks good though.”
Christ but what is with this damn mouth today? Dean tries to return to his task before he does anything else that’s unforgivably stupid. However, given that his gaze has been intercepted and locked with Cas’, he’s entirely unable to move aside from a loud click of his throat as he swallows. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the way Cas is looking at him has an appetite; loaded with a question that’s long gone unanswered.
“Uh. Bandage,” Dean utters after an age.
“Bandage,” Cas agrees. There’s the tiniest speck of entertainment fracturing his stoic features, and Dean kind of resents it, thank you very much.
He tosses the dirty gauze pads in the nearby bin with trembling fingers and unwraps new ones, setting them around the wound with surgical tape. He knows very well that within a few days, maybe even a few hours, his hard work will be futile, to be washed away on a fresh tide of Grace. Still, he wants to do this right; wants to show care in all the ways he can’t speak it. Inch by inch he makes sure everything is as sealed and clean as humanly possible, if the angelic possibilities are currently off the table. When he leans in close to give everything a final check, he stops dead at the fingers which come up to frame his jaw.
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
Cas’ voice is hushed, but so full of sudden grief that it stops Dean short.
He swallows.
“What’re you talking about, man?”
“I couldn’t heal you.”
There’s only one warm hand gently cradling his face, but it may as well have been made of glass for how still Dean keeps, disbelieving the moment. He blinks heavily, trying to dispel the illusion, but it steadfastly remains. He remembers to speak.
“It’s okay, Cas.”
The angel doesn’t answer, but Dean realizes that Cas’ eyes are open again, and are boring sky-coloured holes into his flushed face. Cas’ thumb slowly inventories Dean’s bruised jaw, his split lip, and even his blood-crusted nose as Dean hovers there, entranced and statue-still.
Shudders quake through Dean at his passage, his entire being set ablaze by the simple contact. Cas gets like this sometimes, he diligently reminds himself again. Forgets human boundaries. Gets too close. It doesn’t mean anything beyond the angel being socially awkward when he’s beat to shit, and perhaps seeking comfort. He knows Cas sees protecting him as his job, and when Dean gets hurt, Cas’ ego always takes a hit. Dean knows the feeling.
Either way, Dean finds he is happy to offer comfort.
“Hey, I’m okay,” he assures him. “I’ve been in worse shape than this way before I had an angel to watch my back. I’ll be fine.”
“But if I could just…”
“I swear to fuck, if you use whatever Grace you have on me, I’ll punch your damn lights out, got it? And you know I could, right now.”
There’s a quiet chuckle, a gentle pat to Dean’s stubble, and Cas lets both his head and hand fall back on an exhale.
“Charming,” Cas surmises from his pillow.
“Better believe it, Princess. Now pipe down and rest or you'll bust your stitches.”
Dean grins into the silence that follows. He zips up the kit and places it on the nightstand and hesitantly rises from the gentle warmth at his hip. He’s done all he’s allowed to do, here. He knows the drill.
He’s about to head to the bathroom to cool his head when Cas tugs at his hand.
The hunter turns on his heels, heart clenching with misguided anticipation.
“Dean.”
Cas’ frown is deep and his sweat-sheened brow furrowed, but his watery eyes are pointedly averted.
“What’s up Cas? Are you hurting, still?”
There’s a frustrated sigh and a pause long enough to cause Dean concern.
“No. But I’m afraid I’m… too tired for any pretense, tonight.”
Dean patiently waits him out, pulse rocketing.
“Would you… stay with me for a while?”
Cas squeezes his hand and Dean feels himself flush from the inside out.
“‘Yeah, okay,” he chokes out, “Lemme just…”
He’s not sure what the angel means exactly, but he’ll be damned if he misses out on the opportunity to find out.
He practically rips off his bloody shirt and puts on a respectably clean one (hey, they haven’t been to a laundromat in a few days) and banishes his bloodstained jeans. Cas’ unrelenting eyes on him make him blunder (he’d forgotten to take his boots off before the damn pants) but eventually he circles the bed. His vision is almost blurred for how loudly his pulse is thudding behind his temples, but after a half-second’s hesitation, he climbs in. He’s stiff as a board when he settles next to Cas, even if he’s above the covers, begrudging himself this loaded virginal bashfulness. Fortunately, the fight seems to have cost Cas a fatal wound to his patience.
“I said I’m tired, Dean,” Cas grumbles wearily, lifting the blanket in invitation. He’s still strong enough that it almost makes Dean tumble sideways as it’s pulled out from under him.
“Yeah yeah okay,” Dean relents, “Jeez…”
Cas was right of course. It’s much warmer under here, and Dean sinks in gratefully as he grabs the remote on the nightstand to start flipping through the grainy channels. Dean thinks back to the first time they met; how nut-shrinkingly terrifying he thought the angel was when he exploded into that ramshackle barn in a shower of sparks and thunder. The Cas who freely snuggles into his side now, draping an arm over his midsection with a satisfied sigh, is just as capable of making his insides quiver, but for entirely different reasons. Dean likes the change, even if it’s taken them a long time to achieve it. It takes him about a minute of lip-chewing before deciding that yeah, okay, an arm around Cas is in order, and if he plays with his hair some while he flips through the channels, no one can prove it.
“Nice, Eastwood’s on, you mind?”
“Yeehaw,” yawns Cas.
----------------------------
Some hours later, as dictated by the blare of an infomercial featuring that meth-head looking guy who sells magic sponges, Dean stirs. He blinks groggily and glances at the pitch darkness through the slats of the blinds and guesses it’s somewhere around 3 AM.
He looks down to find with less surprise than he’d imagined, that he and Cas are thoroughly tangled together. Dean has somehow sunken down into the bed, and Cas has swung his entire leg over Dean’s -if the uncomfortable scratch of polyester against his ankles means anything- while his right arm has hooked itself over Dean’s left shoulder. Dean’s fairly certain Cas is drooling into his collar, but he doesn’t mind, because the tickle of his thick hair under Dean’s chin is something he never dreamed he’d get to have. A faint blue glow draws his eyes down to where the stitches he’d laid on the angel’s flank are shimmering faintly; a sure sign that Cas is on the mend. He finds his own arms curled around Cas’ bare torso, and even though his right hand is completely numb under the angel’s weight, Dean would rather watch ten of Sam’s sustainable farming documentaries than move. He can admit to himself, in this deep, dark corner of night in the world’s crappiest motel, that this is the happiest he’s been in ages despite both of them having been pummeled to mulch. It’s only fair. The only thing that matters right now is Cas’ delicious, solid heat pressed into him like a lost puzzle piece. Dean wants to lie here forever.
…His bladder has other ideas.
Sullenly, he stretches out some and grabs a gentle hold of Cas’ bare shoulders, giving him a slight shake. God, his skin is so warm, it’s a crime that he has to leave.
“Mphfff…”
“C’mon Cas, gotta pee, man…”
The only response he gets is the angel squeezing Dean tighter. For a guy who doesn’t usually sleep, he sure is damn good at it. Dean nudges him again, and he eventually capitulates with an irritated groan.
Dean gets it.
What he doesn’t get or appreciate though, is the massive boner he’s sporting. A habitual inundation of shame almost culls him before he shuffles to the bathroom.
Business done, he avoids the scrutiny of his grimy reflection. Without the comforting microcosm of Cas’ proffered blanket fort to shield him from his own insecurities, the self-loathing he’d been so lucky to circumvent thus far comes ruthlessly pouring back in. He wants to go back to bed with Cas just as much as he wants to flee, and his knees abruptly turn to jello. He leans heavily against the sink and sighs bone deep. He can’t look at himself, so he splashes frigid water all over his weak features. It offers no clarity, just leaves him cold.
“Dean.”
The angel is standing behind him in the mirror now, watching him steadily. He looks better, Dean notes, before feeling his stomach plummet to his toes again.
“Kinda busy here, Cas.” he grits.
“Clearly. I could hear your contempt from the room.”
Dean doesn’t bother questioning that, squeezing his eyes shut tightly against the tears that threaten far too easily. Without missing a beat, there’s a warm touch on Dean’s lower back, beneath his shirt. The pressure and heat briefly distract from the hateful maelstrom churning up his insides.
"It’s not about you," Dean mutters.
“I know. Come back to bed,” Cas commands.
Dean bucks with all his might, his dad’s voice hollering things no son should ever hear in his brain.
“I ain’t any good at this Cas,” he sighs defeatedly.
Cas’ forehead comes to rest at Dean’s nape, and the gentle touch causes all the fight to suddenly drain out of him. Echos of John abruptly dissolve into the gloom, because they belong here, haunting this dingy motel, not Dean's head. It’ll take a while, but Dean pledges to leave these bitter remnants behind, little by little. Cas is worth it, even if Dean doesn’t think his own sorry ass is, yet. It’s 3 am, besides; he’s fucking tired of pretense too.
He leans back and Cas’ arms encircle him automatically, like they’ve been doing it for years. It’s scary but also nice, this whole letting it happen thing. Exhilarating and peaceful.
“Maybe not,” Cas agrees solemnly, his voice rumbling into Dean’s shoulders, “But neither am I.”
“I guess that works out then,” Dean figures, turning to face him.
The angel’s sleep-soft features seem to banish all the spectres at once.
…His hair looks ridiculous.
Cas allows himself a small, fond smile; leans in as Dean does. The kiss is earth-shattering in its normalcy, like this was always so. Dean feels the world exhale around him. He can’t exactly think it too loud- not yet- but he knows as well as breathing that he’s home here, between Cas’s wide, gentle palms which frame his face.
“Come back to bed,” Cas asks again, and it’s both a request and a promise.
Dean goes.