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Sam’s been in the single convenient bathroom in the entire bunker for a ridiculously long time now, so Dean makes his way down to the locker-room style showers. He’s about halfway to one of the sinks to splash water in his face when he’s met with the sight of Cas, sitting fully clothed on one of the little benches in one of the showers.
“Cas?” Dean bolts across the room, falling hard to his knees on the worn tile. “Hey. You okay?”
His first, most immediate assumption is that healing Ishim had taken more out of Cas than they’d thought. Then he sees the dried blood still on Cas’s palms.
He and Sam had stopped to gas up several times on the way home, but each time, Cas had refused to get out of the car. Trying to get him to move had been utterly pointless. Dean knew, after a straight week of the silent treatment, that trying to get Cas to do anything he didn’t want to wasn’t worth his time.
Cas doesn’t answer. Dean reaches up to take one of the bloodied hands in both of his own. It’s shaking. Gently, Dean moves his thumb in a slow circle around Cas’s knuckles. Some of the tension in Cas’s hands drains away, but his shoulders stay hunched, his eyes locked on something that Dean can’t see.
“Hey, Cas? I’m gonna have you stand up, all right?”
Without waiting for a response—not that he was really expecting one—Dean reaches beneath Cas’s armpits and hauls him into a standing position. Thankfully, Cas’s legs don’t give out beneath him. He accepts the new position without complaint.
“All right. There we go, buddy.”
Dean eases him out of the shower and back into the larger locker room. It’s only a few more painful steps until they reach the sink. The quiet is beginning to freak Dean out. Cas isn’t exactly a guy of many words, but usually he would have shaken Dean off by now, insisting that he was fine.
“Let’s wash your hands.”
It’s the same gentle tone he used on Sammy as a kid whenever he was trying to coax him into doing something he really didn’t want to, whether it was taking a bath or doing the latest exercise Dad had some up with.
Cas doesn’t resist as Dean ferries him over to the sink. He turns on the water himself, checks the temperature against the inside of his wrist to make sure it’s not too hot. Then, he guides Cas’s hands under the spray.
The worst of the blood swirls down the drain with the initial water. Moving slowly so as not to startle him, Dean changes positions to stand behind him. It doesn’t feel nearly as odd as he’d expected to reach his arms around Cas’s waist in a kind of embrace and walk him through the steps of washing his hands.
“See? It’s over.”
He dries Cas’s hands with the same tenderness as he’d washed them. Cas looks down at his palms as if he’s never seen them before.
“C’mon, Cas.”
He’s not quite sure what possesses him to do it, but he makes Cas follow him out of the locker room and own several hallways to his room. The idea of Cas sitting in his own, bare, little room breaks his heart.
“I know you don’t need sleep,” Dean continues, completely undeterred by the fact that he’s not getting any responses, “but you do need rest.”
When they get into the room and Dean turns Cas around to face him, Cas looks at him as if he’s a miracle.
“Can I—” Dean gestures towards his coat.
Cas merely shrugs, which Dean takes as a yes. Gingerly, he pulls the trench coat off of Cas’s shoulders and places it on his nightstand. The tie is next to go. Trying not to read in to what he’s doing, Dean unbuttons the dress shirt and helps Cas with his slacks until he’s down to a t-shirt and his boxers.
“Lay down.”
Apparently, Cas has recovered enough to at least follow that instruction. He lays down on top of the covers, as if he’s not sure he has permission to crawl underneath. Dean yanks off a few layers of his own before pulling back the covers.
“You might as well get comfortable,” he tells Cas.
Cas glances dubiously at him before following the instructions. Dean sucks in a breath before turning to face him. He’s closer than Dean had thought—they’re almost nose to nose.
“Cas. What’s wrong?”
Cas averts his gaze, but he doesn’t flop over on to his other side, which Dean supposes is a good thing. It’s hard to read Cas when he gets like this.
“I swore I wouldn’t do it again.”
His voice is croaky from disuse, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the day. Dean just looks at him for a moment.
“Kill an angel, you mean.”
Cas flinches, like it’s a condemnation. A few years ago, Dean would have marveled at the sight of his—his?—stony angel made human like this. Now, it just tugs at every hearstring he has left.
“Cas. He was a monster. We kill monsters. That’s our job.”
Cas refuses to look at him again. “I’m guilty of everything that Ishim is.”
Dean gets the feeling that he’s not just talking about the death of Lily’s child. He wants to ask—wants to ask what Cas longs for. But he can’t. Not just now. So instead, he slides minutely forward and pulls Cas into his arms.
“None of us are innocent, Cas. You’re good.”
He can’t offer any better condolences than that, but something must have worked, because Cas’s tense shoulders relax under his touch. And sometimes, that’s all Dean can hope for.