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Castiel has found himself fighting for the fabric of the universe itself. As much as it pains him to think about now, because everything that led him to be here – his entire body exposed, shivering, desperately mortal and too helpless as a result, and worse, responsible for almost everyone else who was feeling this way – he led a war in Heaven for millennia because he knew it was right. Before that, he was the one who sewed the Righteous Man back together again, reshaping his toes and sketching his protective tattoo over his broad chest; Castiel breathed life back into him.
He is not going to find himself conquered by two spigots and a faucet.
The halls of the bunker are quiet. Castiel cannot remember much from arriving, the last time he was here, as his vision was swooping in and out violently and refusing to fix itself until he could find a place to rest. Now that he can see it, it’s no surprise that place was here, after all. The house could use a dusting – there are lamps on the wall, and their light plays over every little bit of dust floating in the air – but it seems like the loveliest place on earth, at the moment.
“What the hell did you get up to, man,” Dean asks. He’s not turning around to face Castiel, and that’s the thing that keeps churning Castiel's gut. Dean had helped him in an emergency; of course he had, when he thought it would slam and bolt the gates of Heaven forever. But he must still be furious, maybe even more now.
“I took another bus.” Castiel considers telling Dean about all the unsent texts, too, and the way that the weight of the phone in his hand made his wrist ache and palms sweat, but he doesn’t.
“I meant –” Dean starts, and Castiel can hear the way his eyes are rolling from his tone alone, and he finds himself fighting the urge to cringe at it. “You made it here. That’s what matters right now, okay.”
He’s still not turning around, but his steps have slowed, so that Castiel’s at his side now. Dean looks much the same, stress twitching at the otherwise strong line of his jaw in a way he will never acknowledge. At least his eyes have softened from when he greeted Castiel with alarm at the door. Dean continues to be a froth of contradictions, infuriating and inspiring of so much all at once.
(I need you, Dean had gasped, crushed into a corner and bleeding out in a dark crypt, and Castiel still couldn’t tell anyone why much less himself, but the blade clattered to the floor and he was gone from Naomi’s office in the next instant.)
“You reek,” Dean adds, leaving Castiel’s thoughts to fizz away like so much about this existence that has very suddenly become too transient. “Guessing there wasn’t anywhere with a shower out on the road.”
“No.”
At that, Dean actually smiles. Castiel’s so grateful for the curve of his mouth it makes him a little ill in response to his own feelings, that he’s that dependent on someone’s approval. “Well, you came to the right place then. Best showers ever. C’mon.”
The corridors in the hallway are slim, with low ceilings, made for people shorter than the Winchesters, and those without their broad backs and shoulders. Still, they both fit, until they find themselves in a gray, tiled room, a large porcelain bathtub pushed against the wall and two shower stalls, the curtains drawn in front of them, toward the back. There are two sinks as well, white and smooth like they’ve been upkept the whole time the bunker existed, and Castiel makes a point of not looking at himself in the mirror. Chlorine makes Castiel’s nose burn, but it’s a welcome change from the stink of his own body and clothes.
“You know how all this works, right?” Dean asks. “Alright, well, you – you can leave your clothes over my sink, over there. Take Sam’s robe, though,” he tells Castiel, jerking his head toward the left. “He never uses it.”
“You use yours?” Castiel had noticed the difference in the robes, hung up on pegs next to the sinks; the one on the left looked stiff and straight, whereas the one on the right was crumpled with use.
That’s a grin on Dean’s face. Castiel really should have made his first visit to the bunker long before – he did. “Yeah. They’re awesome. Careful with the floors, they get slippery.” With a laugh, he adds, “Already went that way, once.”
Back then, Castiel didn’t know him yet, which seems an impossibility, but he’s heard about Sam’s endless Tuesday. Dean chuckled about it, when he told the story; Sam never could.
“I’ll find some clothes that’ll fit you and put them by my sink, too. Okay?”
He holds back a heavy eyeroll at the question. When he had his powers, Dean rarely felt the need to tiptoe around him like this. “Yes, of course it’s fine,” he huffs, striding away from Dean, fumbling with the buttons that remain on his shirt. He turns around to see if Dean’s reacted to his words, but he’s already gone.
Fine. Castiel has to hold back his gasp of unexpected pleasure when he removes the shirt from his shoulders. He has to peel it, as it’s stiff with dried sweat, and it sticks to him in places. The shirt falls to the ground with an ugly empty noise; at this point, it must be ruined, anyway. It’s easier to rid himself of his shoes and pants and underwear. The former are falling apart, and he’s lost weight and the latter have already grown too loose.
Castiel hasn’t been without clothing in his vessel for a very long time. He’s tempted to look at himself in the mirror, but all he would see was matted hair atop his head and across his cheeks, and maybe too much collarbone.
He enters the shower on the right, and finds himself staring down the shower’s functions.
It’s silly, of course. For as long as he can remember, his role was watching humanity in all its forms. He’s seen countless people taking showers. But that’s not the same as two unmarked handles staring right back at him, offering no help.
He can handle this. He’s sure of it.
For no reason, Castiel twists the faucet to the right first. A burst of cold water hits him on the head, and after he gasps and pulls back, he realizes it actually feels rather pleasant. If there wasn’t a film of sweat all over his body and it wasn’t as hot out as it is, he suspects this wouldn’t be the case. Still, he’s careful to turn up the faucet to the left, just a bit. The gush of warmth is welcome.
The rest of the shower frightens him with its ease; it’s nearly automatic, like Castiel was always too connected to mortality and the things associated with it underneath everything after all. There’s a worn-down bar of soap, and he drags it over his own skin, thinking about how Dean must have done the same for as long as he’s been here. That fact gives him a little thrill to draw the soap over his legs and under his arms. He scrubs his hipbones, and drags fingers over his ribcage, which is more prominent now. Maybe Dean will cook for him, as well.
Castiel isn’t an idiot. He knows about what’s between his legs. But he puts it out of his mind when he scrubs there, pretending it’s just like any other bit of flesh. Thinking of Dean at the same time his hands are there has too much mixed up, and all of it is nearly as dangerous as his newfound humanity.
Washing his hair is much more enjoyable, for the time being. The thickness of it – there’s so much, now – smoothing out is pleasant against his fingers. Falling has made his senses limited and explosive all at once, and the constant battle to find equilibrium between the two extremes makes him dizzy.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he leaves the shower. Hours may have passed, and the skin on his fingers now resembles wrinkles on an old person’s face, and he finds he can’t look at them for too long. Walking across the floor of the bathroom and leaving gawky wet footprints is far more enjoyable, anyway, and when he wraps Sam’s robe around his body, it’s warm, and the most comfortable he’s been as a human.
Of course, Castiel remembers that Dean had asked him if he’d minded putting some clothes in the bathroom, but it’s only when he finds the t-shirt, boxers, and shorts – the fact that at least one of the Winchesters owns shorts now, even if he suspects it’s Sam and still not Dean, is both funny and hopeful in a way he can’t parse out – that he realizes exactly what that meant. There had only been a sheet of flimsy plastic, so close to nothing at all really, between Dean and all of Castiel’s skin exposed to his gaze.
(Dean must have also taken up Castiel’s old clothes and put them – somewhere. They weren’t left on the sink as asked, just in a filthy pile on the floor, and Castiel finds his heart rate ticking up at the idea of Dean picking up the clothes and walking through the hallways of the bunker carrying them. Oddly enough, he hopes Dean grumbled along the way.)
Truthfully, these clothes won’t be much, either. Only a few layers of woven threads stand between his body – truly his now – and the eyes of the world, and they come off so easy with just a motion pushing them up over his head or down past his knees. His skin alone will wear these clothes out, given enough time. Buttons pop; his limited time as a human has taught him that much. Zippers snag and won’t pull up again. So much in humanity is fleeting.
Trying not to dwell too much on this, Castiel slips the boxers on and pulls the shorts up over them. These indeed must be Sam’s, because they fit well enough at his waist but the fabric made for the legs all but drowns his own. It would be tight, but he suspects he could fit two of his thighs inside each leg of these shorts.
He can recognize the shirt as Dean’s, a navy one already starting to wear in places and a little stiff under the arms. It droops over Castiel’s shoulders, and he’s sure that if he went out in public he would get stares between the oddly-sized clothing and the still-thick beard, but at least he no longer stinks. Washed with Dean’s soap, his body cradled in Dean’s shirt, it’s exhilarating and calming at once. No wonder Dean is so contradictory when humanity itself is starting to feel that way.
Wandering through the bunker puts a coiled feeling in his gut. A few weeks ago, he could have moved from the bathroom – not that he would have had any need to be there – to wherever Dean was as soon as his thought processes could conceive of the idea. Now, he moves slow through the hallways, hands on the wall even, going only as far as his still-slick feet will take him.
Still, the kitchen’s easy enough to find, a cozy place like the rest of the bunker and tiled in red and tan. As much as he’d hoped Dean would be making food, Castiel lets himself breathe out in relief to find his form examining the top of the stove, flipping something.
Castiel’s greeted with a surprise when Dean turns around. An apron is tied around his neck and waist, but it’s green and white plaid gingham, lace edging it. There are a couple of brown marks on it, likely grease; it’s already well-worn, curving snugly around Dean’s hips and tight across his chest.
“What? Oh, that,” Dean says, to Castiel’s expression. “Sammy got it for me as a gag gift. Said he couldn’t wait to see my face.”
“And?”
“I smiled and said thank you. You should’ve seen his face. Uh, hope you like meatballs.”
Castiel doesn’t know what he likes. How can he, when he barely has any idea of who he is.
Red meat brings back unpleasant memories, but the lumpy meatballs Dean dumps on a plate and places in front of Castiel and himself look fine. He didn’t realize how famished he was until the scent of it hits his nostrils, and then he’s all but shoveling the food into his mouth. It’s delicious, but he suspects Dean could have made these meatballs out of his old shirt and he’d find them delicious too.
“Cas,” Dean says. “I’m – still pretty pissed, and that’s without knowing anything about the light show.”
“Alright.” Castiel had been expecting an upbraiding eventually; he’s too tired to even droop in his seat.
“No, I’m just – I’m glad you’re not dead.” He’s still guarded; the tension hasn’t left his shoulders and jawline, but it’s a different kind of tension than when Dean met him at the door of the bunker brandishing a knife. But there’s a warmth to his eyes, and that alone makes Castiel feel washed over in honey green and the little quirk at the corner of Dean’s lips.
Smiling has always felt odd, in any of his vessels, but Dean’s words make Castiel grin, unbidden. His thighs feel heavy against the wood of the chair, and he’s fairly certain he could put his cheek on the table and fall asleep within a few minutes, but even now with all that and the world itself tilted in front of him, he’s content.
