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Dean can’t sleep.
He can feel the pulse of his heart in his cheekbone, the blood rushing through, desperately delivering oxygen to his skin cells as they try to knit a bridge between the scrapes and gashes in his skin. He can feel the warm air of the bunker breathing into the raw nerves of his bruises, antagonising them as they seep further into his skin, the ugly purple of them only growing as the hours pass by.
He can’t stand it anymore.
He throws his blanket off, swings his legs over the bed, and stands with a heavy sigh. Sam should be asleep, and Cas should be in his room (he keeps calling it the guest room, but it’s his), but Dean shrugs on his robe anyway. Sam doesn’t need to see him wandering around in his underwear, and Cas doesn’t need to see the bruises dotted around his body. Poor bastard feels bad enough, Dean knows.
His bones groan in resistance, weary after their beating. Everything hurts. But he forces his legs to carry him further, to the door, and his arm to turn the doorknob despite the crunchy “click!” that escapes when he lifts it past his waist. His body doesn’t get to complain.
The trek to the kitchen feels as though it takes an hour, but Dean knows that’s just in his head, his exhaustion making his perception of time unreliable at best. Seconds of walking feeling like hours, hours of trying and trying and failing to get to sleep feeling like seconds.
He reaches his destination; the large iron fridge, well-stocked with the essentials. A jar of pickles. Some bologna. Half-empty jar of mayo. Some grilled chicken and salad, prepackaged by Sam (“meal planning” he called it), and the reason for Dean’s journey. Ice-cold beer.
He wrangles a bottle from its cardboard prison, and presses the glass against the worst of it – his face. Cas really did a number on him.
The cold smoothness of the bottle is instant relief, so Dean shuts the fridge, and turns to take a seat at the table.
His heart reacts first. Takes a break from its work pumping oxygen-rich blood into his wounds to sink into his gut, before giving itself a shake and returning double-time. His throat reacts second, drying up like he’d swallowed the Mojave desert.
Cas is stood in the doorway, devoid of his overcoat. And tie, and shoes. One sock seems to be falling off slightly, and he’s undone the top few buttons of his shirt. He looks almost comfortable, save for the rigidity of his shoulders and the grim expression on his face.
“Fuck, Cas. You scared the hell out of me – didn’t hear you coming.” Dean breathes, his lungs shaky as they deflate. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard you.”
Not really an answer, but okay.
The lighting is limited, but Dean sees Castiel’s brows scrunch up as he notices the beer in his hand. Dean lowers the bottle from his face, almost sheepishly. Cas didn’t need to see this, either.
“It’s, uh, a bit sore. Just needed something cold on it” Dean explains, setting the beer down on the stainless steel counter with a clink. Cas’ face has smoothed itself out, making him impossible to read as he makes his way over to Dean.
“Dean. I can still fix it.”
“Cas, man, I already said. It’s fine”
“But it’s not fine, Dean.”
He’s right, he really is. It’s not fine at all. It’s not nearly half of what Dean deserves. Of what he did to Cas, poor Cas, just trying to bring him back from the edge. Trying to protect him from the mark on his arm, burning its wickedness into his soul.
Dean wants nothing more than to back away, maintain distance between himself and Castiel – Castiel’s grace, buzzing inside of him and ready to heal every wound it can find. But Dean’s legs are no longer listening to his demands, firmly rooted onto the shiny linoleum. Stupid things.
And now Cas is standing before him, definitely invading his personal space. Dean can see the tiredness in the blue of his eyes, the worry in the muscle of his brow. He almost wants to let him heal him, if only for Cas’ own peace of mind.
“Cas…” Dean clears his throat. It’s still so very dry. “It’s all good. I’ve had worse.”
“You didn’t deserve it then, either.”
The words are like a punch to the gut, antagonising, and Dean bristles. His body feels primed to fight. Except this isn’t a vamp lunging for his neck, a ghost creeping up behind him, or some creepy long-forgotten god throwing him into a wall. It’s just words, and there’s only one way to fight back against those. More words.
“What would you know, Cas?!” he snaps, and Castiel’s eyes widen. He looks like some sort of kicked puppy. The guilt is almost enough to make him backtrack, but Dean’s frustration has always been good at running the show. “You don’t know anything! Even if you did it wouldn’t matter – you think flowers bloom out my ass, and the unicorns and kittens and puppies all,”
Dean isn’t entirely sure where he’s going with this metaphor.
“Frolick, around me. I don’t know.” he growls, his hands gesturing wildly, out of his control. “But I deserve every bad thing I’ve ever got, everything that’s coming, and then some.” His voice is low, threatening, but he can hear the pathetic cracks in it that Cas will most certainly notice. “For what I did. To you. To Sam. Hell, to everyone who’s had the rotten luck to cross paths with me. You only saw a fraction” he hisses. “Of the pain I’ve caused. The damage. The death.”
“So don’t tell me I don’t deserve this. You’re lying to me. To yourself. This- this is exactly what I get, for what I did to you. There’s nothing I can do to make it right. So this, it’s the least I deserve.”
Cas is silent for a moment, and it’s agonising. More than the ache in his jaw, exacerbated by his tensing muscles. Dean wonders if winning this battle was worth the cost as Cas looks away, breaking eye contact for the first time since Dean noticed him in the room.
“I understand, Dean” finally leaves Castiel’s lips, quiet and soft and heartbreaking. Until he drags his gaze back to Dean, a determined glint in his eye. “But that’s exactly why I need to heal you.”
“I did this to you. I have hurt you, Dean, so many times. Physically and emotionally. So please, understand,” he pleads, and Dean sees the driving force behind that determination. It’s pain, it’s sorrow – it’s guilt, is what it is. “I have no other penance for my actions. I can only try to make this right, to fix what I’ve broken. It’s the least I can do.”
And Dean does understand. The guilt is just like his, raw and messy and so sore to the touch, and Cas is desperate to soothe it. Maybe he should let him. Maybe – maybe alleviating some of Castiel’s guilt could do the same for his? Show him some grace by accepting his own.
Dean feels his throat bob as he swallows. He glances down at his bare feet, the short distance between them and Castiel’s socks, before his eyes return to Castiel’s. He nods.
Castiel reaches for Dean’s cheek, two fingers primed and ready, the rest casually curled into his palm. Dean can almost see the grace tingling in his fingertips, bright white and beautiful blue, swirling around, eager to seep into his skin, to make it all better. Kiss away his boo-boos.
His fingers are but an inch from his cheek, looming in the corner of his eye. The thought of them touching down, the grace diving into his skin, of Castiel stitching him back together comes with them. It’s terrifying.
Dean grabs Castiel’s wrist, gentle but firm. He can’t do it. He’s a selfish, selfish man.
Dean can see Castiel’s fingers relax, curling inwards with the rest of them, his arm ready to fall back as the tension drains from his muscles beneath Dean’s callused fingertips. A wave of relief rushes through him. Cas has given it up as a bad job, accepted defeat in this particular battle.
Suddenly, there’s warmth, against the less-damaged side of his face. Human warmth, of skin, pressing against his own. Then a tickle, as a thumb rubs against the fold of his cheek, in soft, comforting circles.
“Dean.” Castiel sighs, and Dean’s hand drops to his side, dangling awkwardly. Castiel’s hand continues its journey, but he doesn’t let his grace flow into Dean’s bruises. He cradles them, and Dean feels as though the wind has been knocked right out of his sails. He’s so, so selfish, and Cas isn’t. He’s perfect. Everything he does – good or bad – it’s all in effort to do right by humanity. By Dean. He’s selfless, willing to carry an undeserved burden of Dean’s making, because Dean’s not man enough to take it from him. It’s pathetic.
And as Cas leans down, his forehead gently resting against Dean’s in a silent surrender, he can’t help himself. He moves ever so slightly away, enough to adjust his head. His eyes close on their own. He doesn’t get to look at Castiel right now. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth. He’s shaved, but there’s still a prickle against Dean’s lips, like electricity zapping into them and bouncing off as Dean pulls back.
When Dean opens his eyes, Castiel’s own are boring into him. Unreadable. Dean’s eyes dart around the rest of his face, to his eyebrows, his mouth, the corner of which he just kissed (he can’t believe he did that), searching for something, anything, that helps him to get a read on Castiel. There’s nothing. No wrinkles etching themselves into his skin, no facial features twisting in disgust, absolutely fuck-all. Other than the fact Cas is still holding him, just as gently, like he’s some precious gem he daren’t drop lest it shatter into a billion teeny tiny pieces.
And then it’s not so gentle, and Dean can see a dam breaking within Castiel, one he wasn’t even aware of a second ago, as he pulls him closer, into another kiss. Their lips crash together, and it’s desperate, frantic, in a way that would make it bad if it were someone else, but it isn’t someone else, it’s Cas. Cas is kissing him, and Dean is elated.
He kisses back, and the desperation transforms from awkward to hot, and Dean’s hand finds purchase balled up into Cas’ button-down. The cotton is almost rough against his calluses, but it lets Dean pull him closer, and Cas goes willingly. His hands drop from Dean’s face, and he chases the contact, until they rematerialise on his hips over the robe, and Dean decides that’s even better, especially when Cas is somehow closer, pressed taut against him. The only way they could get closer is if Dean found a way to crawl into Cas’ skin, which actually sounds like a damn good idea right now.
A white-hot pain flares through Dean’s ribs, forcing him to tear away, double over and clutch the area. Suddenly he’s back on planet Earth, in his own broken-down body, and realisation dawns on him.
He doesn’t deserve this, deserve Cas. This is meant to be about getting what’s coming to him, and Cas certainly isn’t that. Dean could give, and give, and give, for the rest of his life, until there’s nothing left, and he still wouldn’t deserve the pure goodness that is Castiel.
Dean stumbles backwards, and the cold air of the kitchen rushes into the vacuum of space he leaves between himself and Cas. It’s startling, after the heat of Castiel’s body. He lets go of his torso with a wince, to pull his robes tighter around himself, like they could possibly shield him from that icy air, trap the warmth of Castiel within him for just a few more seconds, please. He has got to get a hold of himself.
He speaks, but Dean’s voice doesn’t even feel like it’s his. He can’t feel the usual vibrations in his throat, and his mouth is numb against the shapes it's making as his words form. “Cas… Fuck. I’m- I shouldn’t have done that.” He mumbles, but he can’t bring himself to apologise, not when he wanted it so badly. He gingerly stands taller, testing to see if his ribs will allow him to walk, and they will. The pain has dulled back into an ache. Dean steps around Cas, who is frozen, and the slap of his feet against the chilly floor feels awkward, undignified.
“I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe.” He mutters, and he retreats, back to the safety of his room, leaving Cas alone in the kitchen, the condensation of the beer bottle dripping onto the counter.