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You don't hear him when he comes in – then, you suppose, you never do. He walks like he’s on air, like he just flaps into whatever room he wishes like he’s supposed to exist there indefinitely. Well, used to. Now, he wanders from room to room, and you swear one day you’re going to strap a collar around his neck or put LoJack in his coat. At least then, you’ll be able to tell where he is.
But you’re not paying attention to him right now, or anyone. There’s a half-century old punching bag in front of you, begging to have its front busted in. You’ve been at it for an hour in the gym beating your wrapped knuckles into the poor thing, trying to ignore the Mark and its incessant trick to try and turn the bag into something it’s not. Sam’s face, Castiel’s head, Crowley’s stupid everything, your fist collides with all of them, and you only receive a firm thud in response. It’s not enough to keep your demons at bay, but maybe it’ll quell the constant roar in your ears or quiet your dreams.
Probably not, but it’s wishful thinking.
It’s not until your bare chest is drenched and sweat drips from your hair into your eyes that you finally hear him, the click of his loafers on the concrete beneath your feet, the conspicuous absence of the swishing of his coat. Any other day, you would have ignored him, kept punching the stupid bag in the middle of the gym you had no clue was there until you found it listed on one of the numerous blueprints that fell on your head in the library. At least Sam wasn't in the room to never let you live it down.
You’ve always had a hair trigger with him showing up out of nowhere – now is no exception. This time, he catches your fist when you spin around to land a blow to his nose, blue eyes narrowed at you, lips curled into a frown. He’s still dressed in his suit, tie now gone, probably left in the kitchen or library or wherever else it ended up. Charlie and Sam went to bed hours ago, when you claimed you were about ready to pass out yourself. You gave them thirty minutes before you came here, planning to relieve pent up anger.
Now, an Angel is clutching your hand with his head cocked at an angle, studying you, the way your chest heaves as you struggle for breath, the twitch of your free hand, wrappings coming loose around the edges. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, apparently content to watch you squirm there, hand still gripping your own. Holding crosses your mind just before you pull away, unwrapping your hands and flexing your bruised fingers. You’ll feel that in the morning.
“You should be asleep,” he says, like he’s observing you. Same ol’ Cas.
“Too wound up,” you shrug. You toss the cloth in the trashcan by the door, reaching for the towel you left on the bench. “Don’t really sleep nowadays.”
Castiel stands there with his hands at his sides, scrutinizing you as you wipe yourself dry. The Mark still throbs an ugly pulse in your veins, practically chanting for you to go over there, actually hit him this time. Beat him into a puddle on the floor and leave him to wallow in his Grace – his own now, not some poor sap he decided to swallow like it would do him any good. At least he’s not dying – there’s only enough room in the bunker for one cripple and right now, it’s you.
His fingers travel over the blood-warmed scar before you have a chance to pull back, a curl of disgust running across your skin as you attempt to yank yourself away; he holds you in place, resilient as ever. “…So that’s really you in there, ain’t it?”
Castiel nods, something about him upbeat. You haven’t seen him like this in years; your heart pangs at the thought. There was once a time where everything came up roses, but that was a long, long while ago. Now, you’re half a demon with a curse tainting you from the inside out, and he’s back to being his old self. Sans the whole flapping away thing. At least now, he’ll keep still for more than two seconds.
You just wish keeping still didn't mean gripping onto your arm hard enough to leave a bruise. Maybe that’s what he’s trying to do, brand you again, mark you in his name and his alone. “You should sleep,” he says again, this time with more insistence. “Sam and Charlie are already in bed, and you’re not far off.”
“Shows what you know,” you sigh. This is a losing battle – you won’t get anywhere as long as he has a hold of you. His Grace is probably all that’s keeping you in place, now that you think about it. You could have easily overpowered him in the past, knocked him out and left him for someone to find him in the morning, if he didn't pick himself up, anyway. “Don’t you have some Angel buddies you need to track down?”
You don't think you’ve regretted saying something so much in a long time – he looks utterly betrayed, the original lightheartedness of his features now grown cold, eyes narrowed into slits. “I can leave, if you want,” he says, voice a near scowl. He lets go of your arm, the Mark ecstatic. “I only came to see how you were. There’s nothing keeping me occupied at the moment, but I can easily find something if you want me gone.”
“No—that’s—.” You scrub a hand down your face, staring at your socked feet – this was a bad idea. You should have kept your fat mouth shut and let him be happy for once. Let yourself be happy. You’re surrounded by the people you love the most and you’ve found a way to destroy it, all with one sentence. “That’s—you know I don’t want you gone, man,” you mutter in apology, hoping he accepts. He doesn't deserve to put up with your shit, any of it.
He stares for a long second before heaving a sigh, taking one of your hands in both of his and rubbing his thumbs across your knuckles. He doesn't heal you like you expect, just stands there, content to trace over the fragile bones, across the scars you've accumulated in years gone by. “I want to stay,” he concedes, enthusiasm lost. “Even if it’s for a night, I just…”
He practically jumps when you reach up to touch his shoulder, hand hovering before you lay your hand there, feeling the fabric beneath your fingers, the warmth of his skin bleeding into yours. “You’re… You don’t even gotta ask.” You drop your hands to your sides, and damn it if your face doesn't feel like it’s on fire. “Your room’s still down the hall if you want it. Never really got to move in last time.”
He smiles at you, just enough to be noticeable. “I’d… I’d like that,” he says, grateful. The pause he gives you shouldn't put you on edge like it does – there’s longing there, tainting the foot or so of space between you. In the past, personal space would have been an issue. You would have shaken off every touch he gave you, begged him not to stare. But you’ve gotten used to it. Used to the way his fingers skate over the raised lines on the top of your hand, up your forearm and over the scar there, angry at his presence yet dulling at his touch.
He tilts your chin down with his thumb, pulling you to his level and placing a kiss in your hair like you’ve wanted him to do for years. You’re alone now, a sweat-soaked towel around your neck and an Angel holding on to you for dear life, begging you to reconsider your choices. Let him save you, let you want to be saved. Maybe you deserve to. You’ll believe it when you see it.
“Unfortunately,” he breaks the silence, palm now splayed over your cheek, thumb drawing circles into your cheekbone, teasing the corner of your eye, “my room is in no condition for occupancy at the moment.” And you swear he smirks at you, a glint in his stupidly blue eyes. “I may not need to sleep, but… I’d like to stay with you. For the time being.”
You swear, you’re about to catch fire and die from the way he’s looking at you, his suggestion not sinking in until his hand has slipped into yours, your fingers twining together. You grip him back just as tight, hoping the dimmed lights of the gym take away the brightness of your cheeks. “That’s—S’Okay,” you finally manage to stammer. “That’s—You can—We can do that, yeah.”
He kisses your forehead this time and pulls you close, wrapping an arm over your shoulders, uncaring that you need a shower like mad or that you’re half dressed in only a pair of sweatpants. You fall into it without question and tuck him in just as tight.
You stand there under fluorescent bulbs, hands joined at your sides and faces buried in each other’s necks, content to stand there until someone finds you or you finally pass out. You’ll make your way to the showers later, fall asleep in the comfort of your bed with an Angel at your side. For now, you sway along with him in a synchronized rhythm and you don't speak a word when he kisses you, gently, completely. Like it means something.
Like with him, you’re whole.