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Dean knows something is wrong before his eyes even open.
He grabs the Colt from under his pillow—because old habits die hard, even in the Bunker—and rolls out of bed in one swift, long-practiced movement. His eyes aren’t adjusted to the dark, but he points the weapon in the direction of the shuffling sound with one hand, popping his antique lamp on with the other.
There, near his dresser. A dark mass snarling deep, uneven breaths.
He gingerly pads towards the mid-century oak piece in bare feet, cautious, until a flash of tan catches his eye. He clicks on the safety and sets the gun down on the bed.
“Cas!”
He dives to the crumpled angel’s side.
Cas is folded in on himself, panting heavily against the wall. He’s dropped all the way down to the polished concrete floor, cradled in his enormous and battered onyx wings, and his eyes are squeezed shut. He’s splattered in blood, and his hair sticks to his temple in thick, sweaty curls. A syrupy cord of red weeps down his chin, and even in the gloom, Dean can see a smattering of nasty purple-blue bruises staining Cas’ jaw and neck. He doesn’t seem to notice Dean; just keeps stuttering Enochian between labored breaths and chattering teeth.
Dean kneels, heart pounding.
A lifetime of experience informs him to be careful here, despite seeing his best friend in this deplorable state. The telltale signs of shock are blatantly present, angel or not, and he doesn’t want to startle a guy who can blight out an entire postal code with a sneeze. The fact that he hasn’t seen Cas in weeks only amplifies his concern.
“Cas, you alright? Look at me.”
Excruciatingly careful, he places his hands on Cas’ shoulders, their time-honored anchor points. Cas is shaking, and that’s enough to send a shiver down Dean’s own spine.
“Cas.”
Finally, the angel stops mumbling and turns to Dean. His eyes spark and widen in disbelieving recognition, though only one opens fully, thanks to a bloated contusion disrupting his brow.
“Dean. Made it back,” Cas croaks.
Dean wants to yell at him. To tell him to hurry up and explain what the hell happened so Dean can go find and kill whatever did this to him. He chokes down his rage for Cas’ sake. Barely.
“Yeah you did. Good to see you, buddy.”
Cas coughs up a chunk of something bloody in response, body teetering towards Dean.
“I’m gonna call Sam,” Dean says, pulse racing.
“No,” Cas gasps, “I’m… I’ll be alright. Just. I need to rest.”
There’s a beat of silence while Dean debates with himself, then:
“Cas, where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be back in two days with the lance, I’ve- we’ve been fucking worried sick, man. Been prayin’ to you every day, and nothing.”
He can’t help his acid tone or the violent twist of his stomach. He’s furiously worried.
“Failed,” Cas spits, his mouth oozing blood with every syllable, “They… they found me. Got away, though.”
There’s a brief, venomous smirk that flickers over Cas’ haggard face at that. As demolished as Cas looks, Dean takes comfort in the certainty that the other guy most definitely ended up worse.
“Christ,” Dean sighs as he props Cas against the wall.
He’s not sure how it applies to people of the winged variety, but basic first aid says to keep shock victims warm, so he snatches a blanket from his bed. By the time he turns back, Cas’ wings have dissipated in a flurry of bloodied feathers. Some still linger, slowly drifting to the floor as he wraps the cover snugly around Cas’ frame. The angel withers at the weight, cushioning his head on his own knees. Dean rubs Cas’ back as he hesitates on how to ask his next question.
“Cas, your mojo….”
“Drained,” he confirms, “for now. Trip back was… taxing.”
“We never should have let you go in alone. It was a stupid fucking plan.”
“I’m sorry-”
”Don’t you apologize to me, man. I’m- I’m just glad you’re here, okay? S’what matters.”
At a loss, Dean gives the angel a careful sideways hug; keeps his arm around him.
Cas makes an effort to turn his head towards Dean. He’s foggy at best, but there’s surprise in his gaze, and the same muted affection as always. His eyes look particularly vivid against the oxidized bloodstains spattering his face, and while Dean scolds himself for focusing on aesthetics at a time like this, he can’t much help it. He finds tremendous relief in Cas’ usual stare; maybe the angel’s not as unwound as he looks.
“C’mon,” Dean coaxes, “We gotta get you cleaned up. Can you stand?”
Cas nods, and wobbles to his feet. Dean readjusts the blanket for the long walk down the hall.
—---------------------------------------------
It’s been too long.
Dean knows, but he can’t just—okay fine, he will just barge in there. There’s no choice; Cas has been in that stall long enough to threaten even the Bunker‘s considerable hot water supply.
“Cas. You okay?”
No response.
Dean bites the inside of his cheek, swallowing his nerves as he leans on the damp tiled wall.
“Cas, y’gotta answer me here, man.”
Still nothing.
He’s not sure what’s going on in there, but somehow he’s certain he’s going to have to intervene. Taking a deep breath, he hastily shucks his flannel, jeans, and socks. He debates his black undershirt, but keeps it on. It’ll just have to get wet.
“Okay. I’m coming in. Don’t smite me.”
Dean isn’t sure what he expected to find when he warily pokes his head around the corner, but the sight that greets him isn’t altogether surprising. It is heartbreaking, though. Cas is hunched in the corner of the large shower stall, veiled in heavy steam, arms wrapped around his knees with his head ducked forward. The spray is hitting harshly on the side of his frame, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His shoulders are shuddering faintly, his feet turned inward like he wants to collapse into a ball and disappear. Residual rivulets of blood seep down from the wounds pockmarking his body, pooling in a ghoulish scarlet puddle by the drain. His bared skin, though flushed by the searing water, is discolored by injuries almost everywhere Dean looks. His heart plummets.
“Aw, Jesus, Cas,” Dean sighs.
His prior reservations evaporate, and he steps in. He angles the showerhead away and turns the flow down so the pressure doesn’t peel both their skins. He sinks to his knees beside the angel.
“Hey.”
Dean tentatively lays a careful hand on his head in question.
The water seems to have washed away his words, but Cas turns his stance a little to lean into the touch. Dean takes it as a good sign, and gingerly strokes his soaked hair.
He sits beside Cas, leaning against the wall behind them, and very gently rubs down his bare, blemished back. There’s a loud hiccuping sound from the angel that rattles his entire body, and Dean tilts forward to catch it, finally wrapping his arms around Cas’ wide shoulders.
“Okay. Okay. C’mon,” Dean coaxes gently, ignoring the agitated swell of his own heart, and pulls him close.
He painstakingly repositions them until Cas is leaning against his side with his head nestled under Dean’s jaw. It’s uncomfortable and awkward against the old tiles because Cas is a big dude, but Dean couldn’t care less now that he can get a good handle on him.
“You’re alright,” he hums as Cas eventually sags into him.
Dean glances down at Cas’ battered shoulders, the forbidding mauve ring around his neck, the patchwork of cuts, burns and contusions peppered all along his limbs. There’s scarcely an untouched inch of skin. Dean’s stomach churns violently, because he knows all too well that these are the workings of a true artist; the hallmarks of intricate, extended and cherished torture. There’ll be an opportunity to debrief these horrors in due time, but for now, Dean just leans his chin on Cas’ head, and keeps quiet.
He holds him there for long, humid minutes, maybe hours. It doesn’t matter. At some point, Cas exhales lengthily. Dean’s long past pruning, but he keeps stroking Cas’ back, keeps pressing what he hopes is comfort into his tense frame. He’ll sit there for days, if that’s what it takes. Fortunately, Cas eventually stirs a little; rolls his head against Dean’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks.
“Don’t be. Y’dont think I’ve had shower breakdowns? Part of the job, buddy.”
His confession leaves him a bit raw, but if the attempt at levity might comfort Cas, it’s worth it.
“Not for me,” Cas grits.
”Yeah, yeah; you’re a big, tough guy. I won’t tell anyone.”
Cas huffs, and Dean’s not sure if it’s dismissive or amused, but he takes comfort in the fact that he seems to be coming around. It feels right to nudge closer and give him a comforting squeeze, and Dean doesn’t question it.
Cas just sighs, his hand squeezing back at Dean’s bicep. Dean curses himself for feeling the touch like lightning through his bones, but it’s not the time. He’s been dutifully ignoring the miles of firm, warm skin pressed into him too, because as a disappointingly basic, mortal man, it’s been occasionally distracting. It’s not like he requires any reminding that Cas needs him right now, but every slip of the eye at how staggeringly beautiful the angel is still bursts brilliant and acrid with shame in Dean’s chest. Castiel isn’t the only one privy to exquisite tortures, after all.
Dean’s certain he’s got a checkerboard pattern printed into his numb ass at this point, so he clears his throat and stirs slightly.
“Hey. Do you think you can stand up?”
Cas nods, detangles himself and accepts Dean’s help to get to his feet, but doesn’t otherwise move. He watches the rust-flecked water circle the drain like he’s observing Creation in the making.
Dean reaches for whatever shampoo is closest (turns out to be Dean’s orangey All-In-One and not Sam’s organic Lilac Unicorn Sparkle Dust or whatever, thank fuck) and squeezes some into his palm. He lathers it up in his hands before showing them to Cas in explanation. Cas doesn’t argue, so Dean massages it gently into his hair until he’s got some good suds going. He spots more bruises and cuts as the scalp is exposed and winces, but Cas just groans softly here and there, because apparently celestial wavelengths enjoy head rubs. Dean has to grin at that.
Next, he carefully ferries Cas towards the wall, for him to lean on, and detaches the shower head. The water is miraculously still lukewarm and he turns it down to a soft trickle.
“Don’t move,” he instructs mildly, “but hold on to me if you need to.”
Despite the grave context that he’s all too painfully aware of, it’s only thanks to decades of practice with dissociation that Dean doesn’t combust at his next task. This involves anchoring his hand beneath Cas’ jaw, and tilting his head back as he rinses off the shampoo.
“Alright,” Dean says, mostly to buoy himself. “Gonna wash you up, okay? You, uh- you missed a few spots.”
Understatement. Cas nods wordlessly.
Dean lathers the rest of him up with one of Sam’s frilly loofahs (serves him right for leaving them in there.) His approach is necessarily methodical, like cleaning a gun or washing down the Impala. His mental health can’t afford to look at this too hard, so as the self-appointed King of Compartmentalizing, he’s strictly in work mode. He ignores the part of his brain whispering that he treasures his gun and loves Baby, which is why he cleans them so meticulously.
He wipes off Cas’ shoulders and his neck, scraping by his sharp jaw, thumbing away a grisly piece of god-knows-what stuck by his chin. He’s exquisitely careful not to get soap in any open wounds, but Cas doesn’t flinch much, either way. Dean wraps the loofah’s cord around his wrist momentarily and rubs at Cas’ blood-caked cheeks with his hands for better control, and even scrubs behind his ears. Cas has been watching him intensely as always, but closes his eyes here, canting his head back some when Dean runs his fingers over his temples to scrub away the red at his hairline. Dean’s sort of proud not to be a smoking pile of embers at Cas’ feet right now, so he just leans in.
“That good?”
Cas hums softly and nods. Dean’s breath loosens some.
He gives the rest of Cas a cursory wash, ignoring the shameful hitch of his pulse and focusing on the marred skin and subtle winces as he goes. Cas suddenly teeters back, snapping Dean from his ruminations.
“You alright?
”Fine,” he lies.
Dean waits. Cas licks his lips.
“...A bit dizzy.”
”Okay. Hang tight.”
With that, Dean quickly rinses him off, figuring he’s probably clean enough at this point. Dean’s feeling pretty lightheaded himself.
Dean hastily grabs a towel and wraps it around Cas’ waist, careful to avoid the bruises garnishing his abdomen. His anger flares again, but he swallows it down. He won’t ask Cas about it now. Dean can’t remember ever seeing Cas come so far undone, letting himself be so carelessly vulnerable, and he’s not going to waste his trust. He’s going to put Cas together piece by piece if he has to, just like Cas has done for him time and again. Another towel goes over Cas’ head, and Dean dries off his hair. He ignores the honeyed throb of his foolish heart at being allowed and takes his time with it, infusing every sweep with care. The dark curls hang limp over Cas’ forehead when he’s done, hopelessly disheveled. It would be endearing if Cas weren’t so pale and listless—save for the brilliant red scratches disturbing his features—like his light had been snuffed from the inside out. Dean pushes a few unruly strands away from his eyebrows, giving him a small smile.
“There you go. Lookin’ better already, angelface.”
Cas glances up at him, but that’s all the answer he gets.
“Have a seat,” Dean instructs, guiding him by the elbow to a wooden bench near the sinks.
Cas sits wordlessly while Dean peels off his drenched t-shirt. He can feel Cas’ eyes on him and he’s certain there’s a blush climbing his speckled shoulders all the way to his ears, but he manages to ignore it and quickly dons a dead-guy robe. He grabs one for Cas, as well, once he’s stripped off his freezing wet boxers from underneath. They land in the corner with a splat. There are first-aid kits in the storage beneath the sinks, so Dean takes one of those before returning to Cas.
“Not much I can do about the bruises,” he says to fill the space, “but I can fix up the worst cuts until your Grace recharges.”
He realizes he’s more nervous now than in the shower, because Cas is just… sitting there gazing into him, like Dean’s his only tether to reality. It’s a sharp contrast from how dauntless Cas usually is, and Dean feels a considerable amount of pressure to get him back to normal. Cas is the valiant ace in his back pocket, and to see him put so far asunder is unsettling. He can only guess what’s happened to him over the past few weeks and though he’s frantic to help, he’s left feeling like a toddler in a surgeon’s OR. He hopes his calloused hands can be tender enough to help.
He uses them to gently hold Cas’ face as he examines him for injuries. Fortunately, it seems like his Grace is slowly regenerating, because a lot of the worst lacerations have closed over.
“I think you’re healing up already. I’ll just get the one over your eye, and maybe the bigger gash on your stomach, okay? Don’t think you’ll need stitches.”
“Okay.”
With that, Dean uncaps an antibacterial ointment and applies it with frustratingly unsteady hands to Cas’ brow. It would be easier if the angel’s gaze wasn’t so piercing. Even years later, Dean’s not exactly used to it, but he grins at the familiarity of it.
“D’you ever blink?”
Cas does then, as though startled back to the present.
“Not when I appreciate the view.”
Dean’s stomach wrings itself warm at the comment, before Cas elaborates.
“I didn’t think I’d get to see you again.”
The statement’s made as stoically as ever, but Dean pauses. Screeching knees be damned, he stoops until he’s eye-level with Cas, framing the conversation with a hand on each of his shoulders.
“I’m here now, Cas. Ain’t going anywhere.”
”You don’t know that.”
”You’re right,” he relents, “but in the ways I can control it, I’m staying right here. Okay?”
He releases Cas’ shoulders and cocks an eyebrow.
“So look all you want. Free show, tip your waitress.”
Cas actually huffs a small chuckle when Dean throws in some half-hearted jazz hands.
“Don’t you have an injury to mend?” Cas prompts dryly. He’s apparently recovered enough to launch an impressive eye roll.
“Jeeeez. Alright, Soldier.”
Dean finds solace in the light banter. He pats Cas’s cheek and resumes smearing the smelly ointment onto his brow ridge.
“You’ll probably need these for ten seconds before your Grace gets to it, but better safe than septicemia, I always say.”
Cas frowns, which interrupts Dean’s application of the butterfly bandages.
“I’ve never heard you say that.”
”Guess you weren’t listening.”
”I’m always listening to you. Even during your incessant movie commentary.”
”Shut up, you love my movie commentary. Gotta get you cultured somehow.”
”Are thieving, colonizing archeologist-cowboys considered culture these days?”
”Don’t start with me. I told you, Indy is off the table. You can roast Solo, but not Indy.”
Cas relents to the first small smile Dean’s seen in hours. Weeks.
He wipes his hands on the robe—whatever, he’ll do laundry later—and peers down at the vertical gash in Cas’ side. It comes dangerously close to disrupting his warding tattoo.
“Alright Siskel and Ebert, gonna take a look at that,” he announces, kneeling.
Bad idea.
It becomes abundantly clear just how little Cas is wearing at this close angle, and how pleasingly toned his wide torso is. Dean swallows down yet another eruption of guilt-fuelled longing, coaching himself to focus on the task. He grasps at the tube of ointment a bit too roughly and narrowly avoids dropping it. It explodes onto his fingers as he tries to steady himself.
“This, uh- this one’s kinda deep,” he blurts. “Tell your mojo to get to it first when it gets back from vacation.”
There’s only a subtle flex in Cas’ obliques when Dean finally touches him.
“I’ll be sure to give it the message.”
Cas’ tone is bone dry, so Dean’s really not expecting the touch. His brain blanks out like 90’s PBS at midnight, static fuzz and all, because Cas’ hand is on his head, sifting through his hair, and Dean freezes from the inside out.
“Thank you, Dean,” Cas rumbles, “for all of this.”
Cas’ hand descends to caress the side of his face, scaldingly gentle. There’s something distant in his cobalt stare, like he’s looking past Dean’s body, into his core. Dean feels the floor fall away beneath him.
“Anytime, Cas,” he eventually manages.
He pauses, pressing his lips into a line, debating with himself. Reason loses.
“I, uh… y’know, I like taking care of you.” He briefly squeezes Cas’ thigh to emphasize the point, perched as he is over his lap. Another terrible idea, but what’s done is done.
He says nothing more to bridge Cas’ ensuing silence, and goes about bandaging the wound. Cas’ hand retreats. He’s securing the edges with surgical tape when Cas’s belly inflates with a deep breath, right under his fingers.
“You’re good at it.”
”At what?” Dean asks, patting Cas’ side gently to indicate he’s done.
“At taking care of people.”
Dean thinks about that as he gets up and settles down beside Cas.
“Guess so,” he concedes. “Kinda have to be.”
That’s not really what he means to say, but he’s not sure how to amend the conversation. As usual, the miscommunication will remain buried. He realizes he doesn’t want it to, which is something new. He clicks the kit shut and sets it beside him, wordless for a long while.
“C’mon,” he says eventually, helping Cas to his feet.
Cas already seems steadier, but his face is still ashen with exhaustion. Dean drapes him in the robe and secures the belt around his waist, adjusting the hood snugly over his head. He stands there a moment, transfixed, remembering the countless times he’s adjusted Cas’ tie, or flattened an unruly lapel. This feels different, worth mentioning.
“Y’know, you’re not just ‘people’, Cas. Not to me.”
A sharp, perplexed brow rises at that, and Dean would probably grin if his veins didn’t currently contain frantic hoards of bees.
“I think we’ve long established that I’m an angel. What’s your point?”
God, Dean loves this smartass so much it hurts.
He can’t stop the rush of his hands as they clasp at one of Cas’ between them. He cradles Cas’ bruised fist for a few moments and places a careful kiss to the split knuckles. He’s hoping for roguishly casual with the delivery but probably lands somewhere in the area of jittering rookie court jester. Still, Cas smells like tangerines and thunder and Dean can’t help that his lips linger. He doesn’t push further. Cas has been through enough. There’s hope, though, in the way Cas’ eyes light up at the simple gesture.
“That’s my point,” Dean entirely fails to explain.
His fingers brush back and forth across the ridged expanse of Cas’ clenched grasp. He can feel the angel’s gaze on him like sunrise, but he can’t meet it. Mercifully, Cas’ free hand joins the tangle of fingers and squeezes. His hands are warm again.
“Oh. Good point.”
”Okay, then.”
Dean chuckles nervously as they loll in each other’s orbits. Dean presses his forehead to Cas’, cushioned by the downy-soft cover of his bathrobe’s hood. He exhales for the first time in weeks. Cas, in turn, releases his hands but doesn’t stray too far, grabbing onto his waist instead. His wide palms feel like hot irons against his flanks, pulsing with gentle electricity.
It’s a stunning step in an unknown direction, but Dean finds himself relishing it. The lifelong fear he’s carried caged behind his sternum seems comparatively paltry against the sublime gift of Cas’ mussed head pressed against his. It seems fitting to close the gap after a few moments, although Dean can’t help the sting of his eyes, nor his trembling smile as he fully wraps his arms around Cas. The angel does the same, and they sway gently in the foggy bathroom, entangled in each other, for a long while.
Dean wants to squeeze harder, until the warm press of Cas’ body becomes indelible from his bones, but he forces some caution at his wounds. Eventually, he raises his head a bit, pressing a brief—and somewhat silly—kiss to the fuzz-covered expanse of Cas’ crown. It’s all he’ll allow himself, for now. Cas doesn’t seem to mind and afterwards lets his head sink down to rest in the crook of Dean’s shoulder.
“You gonna be okay?”
He feels Cas’ face turning into his neck, inhaling deeply.
“Eventually.”
There’s a brief pause where Cas drags him even closer, locking his hands in the curve of Dean’s spine.
“This helps.”
”Good,” Dean decides.