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They get back to the motel and Dean locks himself in the bathroom and stands in front of the mirror for a long time, waiting to see if his eyes will flicker black. They don't. He gets into the shower and turns it on as hot as it goes and stands fully-clothed under the spray as it comes down—ice cold at first, gradually easing to lukewarm and then to scalding. The opposite of him—now that the feverish, red-hot pulse of the Mark has subsided, it's as if his insides are crystallizing, his heart settling back into its calcified chill, the numbness that he can't seem to escape unless he's killing something.
He'd put a witch-killing bullet in her skull, once she told him what he needed to know. By that point, it was more a mercy than anything else. By that point he wasn't worried she was lying, either. By his eighth year in front of the rack, he'd learned to recognize the ring of agonized truth when he heard it.
That's the pinnacle of skill, boy. When you can strip away everything from them, everything except the truth, when they tell the knife everything it wants to know and you can read the sincerity like sheet music.
Dean flinches, the shower suddenly too much like hot razorblades pressed against his skin, and tries to shake away the lilt of Alastair's voice. He steps backwards and holds just his arms under the torrent. The blood doesn't immediately sluice off; it had dried on his skin, of course, during the drive back.
Cas had tried to fix it, once Dean had put himself back together enough to disentangle himself from the angel's arms. Cas had reached out again and Dean had known all it would take was a touch and he'd be clean again, pristine, as if it had never happened.
He doesn't know why he pulled away, why he refused to accept Cas's offer or even meet Cas's eyes after that. Except that he hadn't wanted it to be wiped clean. This is, after all, what he is now. Someone with blood on his hands. Or maybe he'd thought that by forcing himself to let the blood sit on his skin, stretching taut and fading to dull mahogany as it dried, he'd accomplish some sort of penance. In the end, it just meant that he got blood all over Baby's steering wheel. It's a good metaphor for his life, as long as he's indulging in self-pity; he gets blood on everything.
He can't even blame the Mark. Certainly, it had rejoiced when he picked up the first knife—thudded in anticipation as he began to cut, relished the sound of the witch's screams—but then again, it would have been just as sated if he'd slit her throat to begin with. The Mark had turned Cain into a murderer, not a torturer; it wasn't picky about death, didn't need there to be pain—art, boy, we call it art down here, it's your craft and I'm going to turn you into a master—just the thrill of the hunt, of taking lives. No, putting her into agony without killing her—holding himself back, making the first cuts shallow, cutting out only what was nonessential, leaving her teeth and tongue intact so that she'd be able to articulate the words of the counterspell—that had taken restraint, patience, cruelty. That wasn't just the Mark; that was him.
Even so, that wasn't to say the Mark wasn't fucking delighted with the a whole affair—that it hadn't been singing its bloodthirsty song the whole time he was in the basement, turning his pulse into a drumbeat, his blood into a hurricane, so loud in his head that he nearly didn't hear when the witch finally sagged in her restraints and sobbed out the words he needed. It had still been howling its pleasure and satisfaction as he ascended the stairs, sharpening his senses to acrid clarity, highlighting the vital points in the bodies of his brother and his best friend. Jugular, carotid, kidneys, solar plexus. Exposed skin, blood just beneath the surface, gaps in the skeleton by which to reach vital organs. He hadn't wanted to touch Cas. Not with the Mark's insistent drone dragging its barbs against his every thought. Not with his arms dripping blood. Not with his mind still half in the Pit, drowning in Alastair's laughter.
Dean isn't stupid—he knows what he did was necessary. Hell, you could certainly argue that the witch deserved what she got, that she had it coming to her for all the innocent suburbanites she'd done the exact same thing to, before the Winchesters rolled up to her door. He'd do it again—he'd fucking do it again in a heartbeat, because he'd had to do it. The only thing that had cut through the roar of the curse on his arm, as he'd worked and carved in that basement, had been the sound of Cas screaming upstairs. So, yeah—he's not sorry, because you don't go and put a fucking pain curse on Dean Winchester's best friend and expect not to pay for it.
But—
It doesn't make it any less shitty. It doesn't make him any less of a monster.
He muffles the sudden half-sob that bubbles up in his throat and leans forward to press his forehead against the tile. Abruptly he wants Cas—needs him, the solidity of him, the unflinching compassion, the way he'd wrapped his arms around Dean and held on, held Dean up with the unyielding strength of a tree, a mountain, a planet. Dean's name on his lips as if Dean was worthy of being seen, of being named, like Dean wasn't some low crawling thing unearthed from the deep crevices of Hell. Cas had held on until Dean could tell himself that he still existed, that he might belong to Alastair and the Mark and the darkness and the Pit but he was still alive, dammit. Until Dean could face the blood on his arms, the taste of it on his tongue. Until he could bring himself to look up and meet Sam's eyes.
He closes his eyes and thinks about the smell of Cas, the feel of his hands against Dean's back, how it had been enough to tamp down the Mark's yammering rage. Enough to soothe it. Only temporarily, though, because thinking about the basement now, the grip of the tools in his hands, the keening of the witch—it's enough to rouse the Mark again. He tries to shake it off, tries to pull his mind free, but he can't unsee any of it, can't pretend not to remember what he did. And it's too much, it's all too much—the buzz that swells into a bloodthirsty chorus, the way his heart hammers against his ribs. He sinks down, crouching under the now-tepid spray of the shower. Wraps his fingers around the Mark, which seems to pulse with joy under his palm as it revels in his day's work.
Things knocking against his skull, Alastair crooning a slow lovesong, the witch screaming namelessly. There's a sharp rapping noise, there's voices raised in question under the roar of the thing on his arm—they might be real, he can't tell what's real, it's only him and the blade and the rack and the Mark and—
The bathroom door swings open. Cas stands framed in the doorway, Sam's lockpicks dangling loosely from his fingers.
"Cas—" Dean scrambles to his feet, fully aware of how ridiculous he must look, crouched in the tub like an animal, his sodden clothes hanging off him. "What the fuck, man—"
Cas drops the lockpicks and crosses the space in three strides. Takes two handfuls of Dean's soaked flannel and pulls him in and kisses him. It happens so fast Dean doesn't have time to react—one second Cas is looming in his vision, getting close-close-closer as if personal space were a concept never invented, and the next instant Cas's hands are fisted in the fabric of his shirt and Cas's mouth is locked over his. And so help him, Dean melts into it—he forgets everything, leans forward and into the kiss for a split second and it's ten kinds of amazing and Cas's mouth is soft and warm and purposeful and it's like the whole world goes up in lights. The tepid water rains down unheeded and Cas is kissing him so hard that Dean's seeing stars and how the fuck did Cas learn to kiss like that anyway? And for all the times he'd not-quite-let-himself-fantasize about this, for all the times he'd hidden it away, ashamed and confused, because it's not like that we're not like that we can't—once it actually happens it feels, for a moment, like the most natural and perfect and incredible thing in the world.
For a moment.
Then Dean's brain catches up to what his mouth is doing and he jerks away, gasping for breath like he's just escaped death by drowning. Which it sort of feels like he has—his heart is pounding, he's dizzy, he can—fuck, he can still taste Cas, the sharp, piney sweetness of him. Cas tastes holy, so holy that Dean's surprised his own lips didn't burst into flames from the brief contact. Because by rights, someone—something—like him shouldn't be able to touch someone like Cas and survive it, and shouldn't try, either, shouldn't dare. No, I can't, no no no no.
He backs up, makes it all of six inches before his shoulders hit the wet tile behind him. Nearly shoves at Cas, too, except that he remembers at the last second how his hands are still fucking covered in witch blood and he ends up just holding them up, palms out, as if they're for display, sins and all. Look what a good job I did. Look how good I am.
Cas stands there, patient. "Dean."
Dean registers vaguely that he's shaking his head, that words are tumbling out of his mouth. "Cas, you can't—you don't know—"
"Don't know?" says Cas. He presses closer, insistent. "Of course I know."
"You don't know what I did—"
"You saved me. You went to a place you would rather not have gone, did what you have never wanted to do, and you did it without hesitating, to save me."
Dean almost laughs. For starters, he might have saved Cas, but Cas would never have been in danger in the first place if it weren't for him, so that barely counts. And as far as wanting—"Cas, that's not true, I did want to go there, I always do, it's not this—this—this separate thing, it's me, you didn't see me down there, what I did."
Cas reaches forward, cups Dean's jaw in his hand. "I saw you in Hell," he murmurs. "You were the brightest thing in that place. I see you now. And you are still the brightest thing."
"Cas—" Dean isn't sure whether the cracked, brittle sound he makes is a laugh or not. "Don't say that. Don't."
Cas looks down at Dean's outstretched hands. He takes them in his own. And then he very calmly and very unhurriedly steps into the tub with Dean.
"Cas, what the hell—"
"Hush." Cas stands there, completely unperturbed by the water sheeting down over his clothes and hair. He takes a step back, pulling one of Dean's arms under the spray, and begins methodically working both his hands over it, scrubbing the dried blood off with his thumbs.
"Do you think," he says, so quietly that Dean has to strain to hear him over the sounds of the water, "that you are the only one with blood on your hands?"
Dean doesn't say anything. What is he supposed to say to that? Tiny flakes of dried blood fall to the bottom of the tub and are whisked away. Cas looks up, his eyes blue and impenetrable. Water drips from his hair, runs in clear rivulets down his face.
"Do you really think you can forgive the rest of us and not have the same kindness extended to yourself? Do you think that this—" his fingertips skim gently over the Mark— "lessens my admiration and respect for you by any measure?"
Dean flinches. "You don't have to—you don't mean all that," he mutters, but it's half-hearted. That's the thing about Cas—his declarations are so unshakeable, his faith so open and sincere and visible, it's impossible to accuse him of not meaning anything.
Cas lifts Dean's hand, turns it over, presses a kiss against his now-clean palm. Dean holds his breath. On his arm, the Mark is quiet.
"I raised you from perdition," Cas whispers into Dean's palm. His eyes are closed now; it's as if he's talking to himself, as if he's reciting a creed. "I rebuilt your body from scraps, from dust. I fought by your side. I rebelled with you. I have loved you for what feels like centuries." He opens his eyes, glares at Dean, his gaze fierce and furious and impossibly tender all at once. Water droplets glitter on his eyelashes. "Cain may have put his mark on your arm, but you were mine first."
Dean hears himself make a low sound in the back of his throat. If he's honest with himself, it's a little like the half-sob that worked its way out earlier. But for a different reason, this time.
He wrenches his hand away and surges forward, shoving Cas against the tile. Cas lets him. Cas lets Dean push him back into the shower fixtures, lets Dean take hold of his chin and the back of his head and bring their mouths together, clumsily, frantically, as hard as he can. Cas lets him do all of that, and then the angel brings his own hands up and wraps them around the back of Dean's neck and expertly deepens the kiss and—Dean loses track of it after that, there's only the feel of their mouths, moving against each other, the clink of teeth, the heat of Cas's tongue, the angles of Cas's face beneath his hands, and this is it, this is everything, he should have done this years ago—
The water, sluicing down over his back and shoulders, is well and truly cold now, but Dean doesn't care.
"Cas," he says, as they break apart just enough to admit air into their lungs. His powers of speech are somewhat hampered by the fact that all the involved parts of his mouth are still heavily invested in the act of kissing. "Cas," he says, right into Cas's mouth because he isn't thinking straight enough right now to worry about it actually being audible. "Cas—Cas—" He has no idea what he's trying to say, only that he's trying desperately to say it.
Cas hums against him, a noise of understanding, acceptance, unfathomable trust. Then he fucking nips at Dean's lower lip.
An indeterminate amount of time passes, a blur of cold water and warm hands and soft uneven breathing.
"Where do you get off, huh?" Dean murmurs, when his brain finally comes back online. He tangles his fingers in Cas's wet hair. Kisses the angel around every other word. "Barging in here—saying all those things—who invited you, anyway?"
"You were in need of solace," Cas points out, which Dean supposes he can't deny.
"Yeah, alright, but how'd you know?"
"I heard you."
"What?" says Dean, confused. "I didn't call you."
Cas kisses down his jawline. "Yes, you did."
Oh, Dean realizes. He hadn't really thought about it, but Cas must be able to hear prayers again, now that he's an angel, even with his borrowed grace. And yet—Dean hadn't prayed. Not in so many words, anyway. Not out loud. But he thinks about being in the shower, alone, about the black mass of despair that had surged up inside him. The choking torrent of it, the hatred of it, the Mark's primal howl. He supposes it's still there, still inside him—but buried now, not vanquished but subdued for at least today. Because Cas had heard him. Because Dean had needed Cas, not with words but with every desperate instinct for survival that was in him, and Cas had heard him.
"Fuckin' angel," he mutters.
Cas's eyes go a little crinkly at the corners, which makes Dean want to kiss him again. Cas stops him, though, one hand on Dean's face, the other flat against the center of his chest.
"I don't pretend to know what you're going through, with the Mark," he says, his voice rough and soft at once. "But I'm not leaving you. I'm not giving up. Whatever I can do, whatever you want from me—or whatever you don't want—" Cas hesitates for the first time, glancing away. He reaches behind him and turns off the water. "Whatever you need, Dean, I'm here."
"I need you," says Dean. It echoes in the small bathroom space, no rattling of the shower to muffle the statement. The words wobble on their own feet, unsteady, alone. He ducks his head, embarrassed. Looks at Cas sideways, out of the corner of his eye.
Cas smiles.