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Cas isn’t stupid, not by a long shot. Even through a haze of growing pain, he could watch. He could listen. And he didn’t miss how Mary’s eyes dropped for a fraction of a second when Ramiel demanded a stolen object returned.
He’d filed it away for later. Well. That is, if there was a later, which at the moment, hadn’t seemed that likely.
Now that later is a reality, he can’t bring himself to impart the knowledge to Dean. It’s been too stressful of an hour to add that. So Cas quietly allows Dean to lead him, slowly, to the car Mary had taken to get them here.
He’s also not unobservant. He doesn’t miss the way Dean’s hand is trembling, however minutely, on his arm.
“Only a few more steps,” Dean says in his ear. Gentle. Soothing. Like Cas imagines a hospice nurse would speak. Dean’s still afraid he’s going to shatter into a million pieces, dissolve into oozing black goo. (Again. Which recalls a few memories that Cas would rather forget.). “Take it easy, Cas. This isn’t a race.”
“We’re crawling,” Cas points out, but he doesn’t argue.
Technically, he shouldn’t be tired at all, but there’s a certain lethargy to his bones that he can’t quite shake. He suspects that there will be some time before he feels normal again.
“Shut up.” It’s said teasingly, but Cas can feel Dean’s eyes lingering on the back of his head a few beats longer than they normally would.
They part ways then. Sam and Mary begin the trek back to the Impala. Dean ushers Cas into what had been Wally’s car.
“We’ll see you back home,” Dean says, and they pull away.
There’s still something about the phrase that makes Cas’s chest constrict.
He’s not expecting Dean to pull back into the town--the highway is in the other direction. Instead, Dean turns into the nearest motel and parks.
“You’ll be okay waiting?” he asks.
Cas nods. Dean gets out of the car and jogs across the parking lot. Cas watches him go. Intellectually, he understands why he’s been left in the car; he’s got blood all down his shirt. That doesn’t stop the lurch of abandonment that settles in his chest. Dean’s back in a minute, carrying what appears to be a hoodie.
“Got us a ground floor room,” Dean says, reverting back to the hospice voice. “It’s not that far. Come on.”
He still reaches around Cas’s back to hold him up, like he would if there was still a gaping hole in his side. Cas lets him. He hadn’t thought he’d ever get this touch again.
“You good?”
As soon as he gets the confirming nod, Dean lets him go long enough to wrestle the key out of his pocket and jam it in the lock. It’s one of those old fashioned motels, then. Oddly, the simple act of opening the door seems to have calmed Dean’s nerves somewhat. Maybe it’s the familiarity.
Dean still grabs him again to lead him into the room. For his part, Cas just lets it happen. Right now, it feels better to have someone else in the drivers’ seat. He does raise his eyebrows when he realizes there’s only one bed, though. He turns around enough in Dean’s grip to catch a glance of his face.
A flush rises in Dean’s cheeks. “I—I wasn’t planning on sleeping.”
He maneuvers Cas until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Cas can’t help the tiny smile that tugs on the edges of his lips.
“You were planning to watch over me.”
“I guess—yeah. That. In case you ended up getting worse again. I wanted to know.” He jerks a thumb at the hoodie, laid down beside Cas on the bed. “I got that from the front desk’s lost and found. Looks clean, though. You don’t have the energy to clean your shirt, do you?”
Cas doesn’t even bother giving his powers a go. They hadn’t done him much good in the last few hours, anyway.
“No. I don’t think so.”
Dean nods. “Right. Try to, uh—try to get your shirt off. I’ll be right back.”
With a pat to Cas’s knee, he disappears into the bathroom.
Cas peers down at the buttons on his shirt. To his rather sluggish brain, each one might as well be a difficult puzzle. He’s on the third one down by the time Dean reemerges, carrying a damp washcloth.
“I can never sleep when I’ve got blood on me,” Dean tells him, dropping to his knees beside Cas like cleaning him up after a hunt is an everyday occurrence. “Figured you’d be the same way. It’s a whole ‘nother level of grimy.”
He sets the washcloth down on the bedspread, careful not to get it near the hoodie, and then begins helping Cas with the rest of the buttons. Cas moves his arms enough for Dean to pull off first the trench coat, then the button-down.
“If you can’t mojo away the stains, we might need to start thinking about getting you a new shirt,” Dean tells him, checking it over with a practiced eye. “I’ve gotten a lot of bloodstains out in my time, but that goo stuff looks like a challenge. I’ll give it a shot when we get home, though. I didn’t want to move you too much. Not tonight.”
He picks up the washcloth and begins dabbing away at Cas’s skin, cleaning the blood off his torso. Cas has mojoed away blood after a fight before, but this is cathartic in a way he couldn’t have imagined.
“There we go,” Dean says after a while. “The hoodie should be a little big, but it’ll do.”
Cas pulls it over his head with minimal assistance. Dean’s right. The sleeves extend a little past his arms, but the inside is fluffy. Cas briefly considers forgoing the trench coat for one of these in the future.
“Before you turn in, I just—” Dean clears his throat, and starts over. “What you said in there. About us being family."
Cas braces himself for a correction. Maybe he’s not allowed to say that. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“You meant that?”
Cas pauses, before deciding that the truth is the best way to go. “Of course.”
Dean lets out a breath. “Good. After the whole thing with Isham, I worried that you thought that Sam and me thought—well. I guess it isn’t really important, then.”
He again opts for the truth. “I did think that. For a while. But you’ve proven otherwise.”
Again, Dean looks relieved. Cas feels his gut twist. If he’d known how much pain it was causing him, he would have told him to forget about it a long time ago. Clearing his throat again, Dean moves to the head of the bed and folds down the bedspread and the sheets.
“I don’t need sleep.”
“The hell you don’t,” Dean replies. “Get your ass over here.”
Cas complies, even allowing Dean to pull the blankets up over him once he’s settled in place. It’s odd. The places he’s slept before—the back of the Impala, the Gas ‘n Sip storeroom, the few men’s shelters—none of them had been comfortable like this.
“And the other thing. After the family thing.”
Something in his chest freezes. He hadn’t meant to say that. In what he’d thought were his last few moments, it had slipped out.
“You said you,” Dean recalls, not quite looking at him. “You said you, and then you said all of you.”
Cas nods. “I meant it.”
Dean looks up towards the ceiling. If he hadn’t known better, Cas would have said he was tearing up slightly.
“Right. Okay. Just—just checking.” Dean settles himself on the foot of the bed, perched near enough that if Cas were to need anything, he’d be ready in a moment. “Cas?”
Cas’s eyes feel suddenly heavy, but he manages to keep them over a few more moments. “Yes?”
“I mean it, too.”
They haven’t said anything at all, not really. But the words are enough to lull Cas to sleep.