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Dean touches your face with reverence, like he’s never tended to someone so bruised and battered before, like you’ll break apart in his hands if he stops. You can’t help but let him, too—for the last few minutes, he’s been sitting on your bed, your face in his hands, thumbs sweeping over the steadily mending gashes and the split in your lip, feeling every divot left by fists and blades. You haven’t looked at Dean once, either; sitting there seems easier than having to look at the despair haunting his eyes, terror left over from a close call and a choice he shouldn't have to make. No one should ever have to be so selfish to sacrifice their own life, especially for someone like you. Someone so strained and on the edge, willing to do the exact same with any given situation.
If only you’d stop throwing yourself onto the pyre.
“Cas,” Dean says after a long second, wiping away the last trace of blood from your lip, ultimately smearing it across his thumb. You only close your eyes tighter, brow furrowed in your attempt to hide yourself; it won’t work, regardless of what you do. He’s just going to keep sitting there, touching you, holding you, waiting for you to look at him, to see what your life means in his eyes. Despite his promises, despite the assurance that you’re not weak, that you’ve changed for the better, that he’s worried for your life, you still can’t bear to witness him like this, broken down into this base need to comfort you, to cement those words into you like it’s the only thing he knows.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to stop, even when he leans in, pressing his lips to the corner of your own; there, he trembles, his shivering hands cupping your nape, clinging to your jacket collar. There’s fear here, but also desire, a longing you can feel thick in the air around you, honeyed and golden. You could get lost in it if you let yourself, if you had more time on this earth to think about just what he means to you, what everything means. “Dean,” you whisper as he kisses the gash on your forehead, the wound almost healed save for the raised edge.
Another few minutes, and he’ll have nothing left to touch. Another few minutes, and he’ll leave you to tend to his own wounds: the cut to his hand and no doubt a few bruises on his back. Yet, you can’t bear to watch him go. If he leaves, then what are you to him? What is this, the gentleness of his calloused hands, the admiration in his touch, the love in his kiss, if he doesn't stay? Not that you’re any better off.
This is your chance, you tell yourself. You can change it here and now. Take the fear, the anxiety, the heartache, the sorrow and turn over the hourglass, let the time pass in new. A world where you can be free, where you can live as you are now without boundaries, two bodies with one heart beating as one. It’s absurd, but it’s all you have. “Stay,” you offer, finally looking at him, at Dean’s closed eyes, the freckles spanning across his nose, the light hue to his cheeks in the dim light of your bedroom. He’s just as scared as you are, unwilling to express his own desire, too trapped in his own worry and self-doubt to think he’s even worthy of you, of even holding you in his arms.
He’s worthy of more. And, you think, your hands to his hips and sliding up, up, until you’re holding him close, that maybe, just maybe, you are too.
Slowly, with his nose pressed firmly to your neck, Dean nods, eyelashes fluttering against warm skin. “Didn’t plan on leavin’,” he mumbles. He wraps his arms around you, desperately clutching your jacket until he feels safe enough to slacken his grip. Residual, probably, from a lifetime of wishing he could have what he can’t and stealing touches long enough to keep himself sane. He can have this—and you can have him as you please.
“You should rest,” you say, barely a breath from between your lips.
Sighing, Dean slumps against you, his body growing heavier as he relaxes, eventually drawing you down onto the mattress, the pillows whooshing beneath your head. “Pot, kettle,” he snorts. Somehow, you manage to arrange yourself against one another, still clothed in jeans and slacks, yet unwilling to leave each other for even a moment. “Meant what I said,” he yawns, pulling you close.
With an unsteady breath, you rest your hands on the small of his back, fisting the fabric tight. “I know,” you say into his hair, ghosting a kiss to his forehead. It’s an impossible concept, to believe in yourself despite your past, despite the blood you've spilled, despite the lives you've taken. Still, this man, this human, believes in you, cherishes you, thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him despite your flaws.
You’re barely worth the ground you tread—Dean thinks different. Dean thinks you’re the world.
And if you try hard enough, maybe you can start to trust yourself, as well.