Work Text:
Dean spends the evening trying to remember the feel of Cas’ skin under his fingertips.
It happens so rarely, the two of them touching in a way that isn’t hurting one another. Every time it does, every time the universe grants him that privilege, Dean tells himself, This time I’m gonna focus on it, gonna keep myself in the moment so the feeling sticks with me past the few seconds it’s actually happening.
He never quite seems to manage it, though. It’s only the stuff he would really rather forget that remains in his memory for weeks after.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the look Cas had given him sticks with him, too: that awful, heartbroken look Cas had aimed at Dean when he turned down Cas’ offer to heal his face. Dean’s mind hones in on that moment, replays it for him over and over as the night drags on.
It’s pretty damn hypocritical of him, but he hopes, rather desperately, that Cas will just let it go. He knows better, of course, because he knows Cas.
He lies in bed, ice pack long since melted and abandoned on his nightstand, and stares at the ceiling, not really nursing his wounds so much as relishing them. After all, he remembers the feel of his knuckles connecting with Cas’ face, but not the feel of his fingers resting against the side of Cas’ neck.
He’s still awake in the early hours of the morning when there’s a knock at his door.
“Come in,” he says, tiredly, and Cas does. He pushes open the door, steps inside, closes it behind himself quietly. He stands awkwardly at the entrance, as though he needs additional permission to step further into the room. “If you were hoping to sneakily heal me in my sleep, sorry to disappoint,” Dean jokes, but it falls flat. Neither of them is in the mood for laughing, he supposes.
Cas frowns at Dean from his place by the doorway. “I wouldn’t do that,” he says, “but I was hoping maybe I could convince you to change your mind.”
It’s a little late for that, Dean thinks. It’s not like flipping a switch. There’s nothing Cas is going to say that’s going to make him stop feeling like shit about what he did. Not just the shit he did recently, and not just the shit he’s done to Cas, but a whole lifetime of awful actions and inactions. If Cas wanted to change Dean’s mind, he’d basically have to make Dean into a different person, and yeah, that’s not happening. He doesn’t say all that, though. He shortens it for the sake of simplicity. “Convincing me I didn’t have this coming?” Dean says, gesturing to his face as he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
He was hoping his eye was swollen enough that he wouldn’t be able to see Cas in his peripheral vision, but no, he’s not that lucky. He can see the way Cas gives him that same pained look from before as he says, “Dean…”
Something about it makes him angry, something about the way Cas keeps looking at him like he’s sorry. Dean snaps, “Just leave it, all right? Just let me have this.”
Cas seems to contemplate this for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other. He’s silent as he walks to the bed, sits down on the edge next to Dean, eyes still on his injured face. When he speaks, it’s simply to say, “No.”
“No?” Dean scoffs. “Look, Cas, I appreciate the thought, all right? But this isn’t your call.”
“It isn’t just about you,” Cas says, and there’s an edge of bitterness there that surprises Dean, right up until the moment he remembers he deserves a lot more than just a little annoyance on Cas’ part. Before he can say anything, though, Cas continues, “This isn’t…” He looks down at his hands, turns them over as if examining his palms, his knuckles. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had your blood on my hands,” Cas says. “Please. Let me do this.”
The second he realizes Cas’ bitterness wasn’t directed at Dean but rather at himself, Dean laughs incredulously. He scrubs a hand over the uninjured side of his face, trying to work out how to respond to this revelation. “Cas,” he says, “c’mon. We both know that wasn’t you. You were--”
“Under the influence of the spell, yes,” Cas interrupts. He looks back up at Dean, even though Dean still has his eyes fixed on a point on the floor. Cas’ mouth is twisted into a grimace, but his expression softens as he continues. “Just as you were under the influence of the Mark. Why do you so readily make excuses for me, yet refuse to forgive yourself?”
Dean simply shakes his head. He knows, with absolute certainty, that their situations aren’t the same. The times Cas wasn’t himself, was completely under the control of other forces, whether external or internal, he still was able to stop when Dean asked him to, like that was all it took. But when their situations were reversed, nothing Cas said could stop Dean. He hadn’t even been under some kind of mind control. He had simply been trying to fight the good fight and failing. How could he possibly forgive himself for that? Barring that, how could he even manage to forget? After all, his mind refuses to do little else besides play those moments on repeat in stunning clarity. Dean gestures helplessly. “You know how it goes.”
Cas stares at him for a long moment before he says, “Yes, I do.”
The certainty in Cas’ tone has Dean sitting in stunned silence. It’s mindboggling, Dean thinks, the idea that Cas could feel about himself the way Dean feels about himself. It hurts in the same tense, lingering way seeing Cas in pain makes him hurt.
They sit in silence, Dean’s thoughts churning, and all he can think about is the look Cas is giving him, like he’s in pain. Like Dean’s pain is hurting him as much as Cas’ pain hurts Dean. It’s stupid of him, he thinks, just another stupid decision in a lifelong string of stupid decisions, to let himself keep hurting Cas. He can’t quite bring himself to acquiesce for his own sake, but he thinks maybe he can manage it if it’ll make Cas feel better. God knows Cas deserves as much kindness as Dean can muster, after all the other shit Dean has piled on him.
He means to say that. He means to say, Fine, I’ll do it if it’ll make you feel better. He means to be rude enough about it that it won’t fuck him up for the rest of the night thinking about it. Instead, when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “If I let you heal me, will you promise to be here when I wake up?”
He can’t believe himself, but it’s too late. The words are out there, and he can’t even bring himself to believe he wishes he could take them back. He had lifted Cas’ head, earlier, when he was still unconscious. He hadn’t wanted him to wake up with his face on the floor. And it’s selfish, Dean knows, but he kind of doesn’t want to wake up feeling like he got the shit kicked out of him, either. He kind of wants to wake up with someone there to tell him things are gonna be okay.
Cas frowns at Dean in that way he has, the one that’s almost comical, like Cas isn’t used to having human emotions or making human faces, so he cranks everything up to eleven. Cas says, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
As if you haven’t disappeared every other fucking time, Dean thinks, and immediately feels ridiculous for even being mad about it. It’s not true, at least not entirely. And even if it were, it’s not like he has a great track record in terms of his own reactions to Cas expressing his desire to stick around, if the last two times were any indication.
Even so, he can’t stop himself from being kind of bitter. The guilt only serves to amplify it, make it that much easier to focus on. Dean scoffs and says, “Figured now that you’re all fixed up, you’d have somewhere else to hurry off to. You know, fixing heaven, leading the angels, the usual.”
“...You are aware i’m no longer under the effects of the spell and am back to thinking rationally, correct?” Cas says.
“What?” Dean says, finally turning to look at Cas. Sure enough, he has one eyebrow raised, mouth quirked in the barest hint of a smile. He realizes, belatedly, that Cas is joking. Cas is trying so hard to make this easier on Dean and here he is, being an asshole, just like always.
Cas’ smile falters a little, and this time, he’s the one who looks away. “When I asked the angels for help, they tortured me. Even hannah…” Cas closes his eyes, takes a deep breath before reopening them. “Even Hannah’s kindness was no more than a ruse. But when I asked you and Sam for help, you looked for a cure. It was the first thing you did.” He plucks absently at the fabric of his slacks. “And I’d like to believe your kindness wasn’t-- wasn’t just--”
“God, Cas,” Dean interrupts, so he doesn’t have to hear Cas say it, doesn’t have to hear him admit that even now, he still thinks maybe he’s no more than a tool to them. “Of course not.”
Cas looks back up at Dean then, meeting his eyes, and smiles at Dean like he’s doing him some kinda favor, just by proving he can just barely rise above the extraordinarily low bar set by Cas’ actual family. Which is pretty rich, considering Dean was bashing Cas’ face in just a few days ago. He’s really not in any place to be feeling superior. He wants to, though. He wants to be better than the family Cas got stuck with. He wants to be the family Cas chooses.
Dean manages to smile back, tentatively, for a few seconds before he has to look away, clear his throat. “Uh,” he says, lamely. “Yeah.”
“Thank you,” Cas says, though for what, Dean can’t, for the life of him, imagine. Cas is back to looking at the side of Dean’s face as he says, “I promise, Dean. I’ll still be here, come morning.”
Dean swallows hard, choking down the urge to laugh or cry or both. He turns, angling his body toward Cas, and says, “Get on with it, then.” He says it as gruffly as he can manage, just like he had wrapped the blanket around Cas, earlier. If he’s rough about it, he can pretend it isn’t what he wants.
Cas has this determined, vaguely pleased look as he reaches up like he had before, as if to press his fingers to Dean’s forehead. Before he does it, though, he hesitates. In that moment, his expression shifts, and Dean sees a lot of familiar emotions there, hope and fear and doubt. It only lasts for a heartbeat before Cas seems to come to some kind of decision, because he steels himself, uncurls the rest of his fingers, and lays his hand against Dean’s cheek instead.
Dean draws in a breath and holds it.
He thinks, immediately, of how he had held Cas’ face again earlier that day, how he had done so the last time he thought maybe he had lost him forever, too. He thinks of the way Cas had touched him just like this in the crypt. It always seems to be like this, these moments of tenderness scattered along a timeline of violence, discrete events that never quite line up like they should, never match up precisely in the way they need to.
Dean must have some kind of agonized look on his face, he realizes, because Cas says, softly, “Do you want me to stop?”
The next thing Dean realizes is that while he’s been thinking all this crap, Cas has had his hand on Dean’s face well after healing him. It’s only now that he’s realizing the pain is gone, because that’s how it is, that’s how his whole life is: he’s more acclimated to the presence of pain than to the absence of it.
He’s so thrown off by the whole thing that he can’t even manage the simplest of lies. He releases the shuddering breath he had been holding. “No, I--” he starts.
This is why he hadn’t looked at Cas, earlier, as he had helped him up off the floor. This is why he had looked up and away, staring at the ceiling, rather than meeting Cas’ eyes, rather than focusing on that look Cas had given him, like he was surprised Dean was still there. It fucks him up, looking at Cas like this. He has to take a break, every few seconds, just to pull himself together. He squeezes his eyes shut as he barks out a half-hysterical laugh.
The curse may be gone, but Cas’ hand still trembles slightly where it rests against Dean’s skin. He asks, very quietly, “Would you. Would you touch me again? Like you did earlier?”
Cas’ voice trembles slightly, too, and it comes as such a shock that Dean opens his eyes to see the look on Cas’ face, try and get a read on him, confirm that he hadn’t just been imagining it while he had his eyes closed. Sure enough, Cas is giving him that same sad hopeful look, but this time he’s waiting for Dean to reach a decision.
And the thing is, Dean is pretty sure there isn’t going to be a better time. There’s still a big part of Dean that’s sure Cas is going to disappear in the night, and he’s shaking with the effort of so many years spent keeping Cas at arm’s length.
So he does it. He actually manages it, for once. He reaches out with trembling hands and puts one on Cas’ neck, fingertips brushing against the hair at his nape, and the other on his face, fingers curling against his ear, thumb smoothing over his cheekbone.
He manages all of about three seconds like that before he can’t do it, he can’t sit there with Cas looking at him like this is the best damn day of his life. Still, he doesn’t want to let go, so instead he leans forward and presses their foreheads together.
He can feel Cas’ pulse under his fingertips, feel his breath ghosting across his lips. He supposes Cas doesn’t need to breathe, doesn’t need to force his heart to beat, and wonders if it’s intentional, if these human things are what Cas wants. If this is what Cas wants.
The thought is exhilarating and terrifying. It’s stupid how much he wants this to be what Cas wants.
Dean shifts to wrap his arms around Cas, sliding one around his shoulders and another under his arm and across his back, and pulls him close. He presses their cheeks together to keep himself from doing something really stupid like kissing him, focusing instead on memorizing this moment, how it feels to have Cas warm and solid against him, how goddamn good it feels to touch him without hurting or being hurt.
Dean’s lips brush against Cas’ ear as he speaks. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he says, as a stand in for I love you.
Cas curls his fingers into the fabric of Dean’s shirt. He’s silent for a long moment before he tugs Dean back a little, just far enough to search his face.
Cas must find what he’s looking for, because he leans in and brushes their lips together, just the barest touch, and says, “Me, too.”