Ficlet: Dean/Cas
Apr. 22nd, 2010 06:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mf_luder_xfThis isn't a full story despite the fact that it's being posted in a journal entry. It was simply too long for comment fic. Thus, no title, no warning other than slash, maybe heavy PG-13. Enjoy.
Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
daria234 for the 5 Acts meme with this prompt: 2. Two people in a shower or bath, one naked, one clothed.
(Also, you know what I want to know? Why can't I just sit down and write an actual fic like this? 2 hours straight and poof, I'm done. Sigh.)
Hey, Cas. It’s me. Pick up.
Cas, it’s Sam. Are you ok? Call me back.
Cas, look. I know you’re probably mad at me. But I didn’t say yes. I mean, I was going to but…well, maybe that’s not the best thing to say. Anyway. I didn’t. Give a guy some credit, k?
Cas. Why aren’t you picking up? I’m worried. So is Dean, man. He won’t admit it but…look, don’t be too hard on him, ok?
Castiel, I swear to God if you don’t fucking answer your goddamn phone, I will punch you and screw my hand.
Hey, it’s Sam again. Look, we’re all worried. It’s been a week, man. Call us.
Cas. Please.
It’s been over a week and still, Cas hasn’t shown up. They’ve both left him enough messages that his phone is telling them the inbox is full. Dean, honestly, doesn’t even know if Cas technically has a phone anymore. He doesn’t know where angels go when banished (and yeah, maybe he’s starting to feel a little guilt about that, but at the time, the angel was stubbornly in the way), and for all he does know, cheap phones from Radio Shack probably don’t survive a fight with four angels.
If Castiel even survived.
Bobby keeps telling him he’s an idiot and giving him extra chores. He seems to think it’s the jobs around the house keeping Dean from just calling up Michael. He seems to think they’re what are keeping Dean sane while Cas is gone and Adam missing and he and Sam have no new information.
Bobby might be right.
Two weeks and three demon raids later—they’re trying to find that son of a bitch Crowley again—Dean’s messing around underneath an old Ford Capri, when he sees from his ground position a lump of something right outside Bobby’s gate, just past the junk yard. He takes in a sharp breath and nearly hits his head on the undercarriage when he realizes the bundle is tan-colored.
He doesn’t allow himself to feel the panic coursing through his veins, just lets it move his body into a run to get down the length of the drive where he slams open the gate.
Once he’s close, Dean drops to his knees. It’s Cas alright, but he looks dead on arrival. His jacket is practically in shreds, he’s covered in dirt and grime and there’s dried blood everywhere. He doesn’t look like he’s breathing, but then he never does, so that’s probably not the best indicator. Dean’s afraid to touch him, but he has to. Has to know for sure.
He lays his fingers gently on the angel’s neck and feels an icy cold stab in his gut because there’s no pulse. He takes a calming breath and tries again, forcing his own heart rate to slow down. This time he feels it. It’s erratic and weak but it exists.
Dean drops his hands to the ground so that he’s gripping the earth in between his fingers. He sends up a brief thank you and pulls out his cell.
“Sam. It’s Cas. He’s back. But I can’t carry him alone. The west gate.”
Within moments, his giant of a brother is there, hair windblown back from running and he comes up short when he reaches them.
“Oh, my God. Is he…?”
Dean shakes his head. “Help me get him up.”
They haul Castiel ungracefully into the house, the angel’s head lolling back onto Dean’s shoulder. It makes him sick to see the slack-jaw and how the blue eyes stay shut.
“Bobby!” Sam yells as they get inside. Dean can hear the wheelchair squeaking from the other room as they set Cas down on the cot set up in his study.
“What are you boys hollerin’ about--?” Bobby’s words are cut off as he makes it into the room. “Is that Cas?” he asks incredulously.
“Yeah. He’s pretty beat up,” Sam responds.
“No shit, Sherlock. I can see that,” is Bobby’s snarky response, but Dean can tell he’s worried all the same.
Dean tunes them out to background noise as he sets about peeling crusty fabric away. Cas is still out cold, but now he’s stretched out, one arm flopping over the edge of the cot, and Dean can take full inventory. The coat is, at least until Castiel wakes up and uses a few of his magic darning abilities, completely useless. So is the no-longer white shirt. His hair is unkempt, even for him, and there’s a darker shade of stubble on his face. If Dean hadn’t known he’d been in a fight with four other angels and somehow survived, he’d have assumed Cas had gone on another drinking binge and slept on the street this time. He notices Cas is also missing his left shoe.
Sam shoves something at him. Oh, right. The first aide kit. He refuses to acknowledge the pity in his brother’s eyes.
The body stirs a little and Dean pauses. He watches as Castiel’s lids flicker, then his mouth smacks a few times, and suddenly, Cas jerks awake and he’s hacking up a lung. Dean clings to Cas’ shoulders, pulling him upright as the angel vomits blood.
Sam jumps in to help, turning another worried glance at Dean. “Do you think--?”
“He’ll be fine,” Dean grits out. “Breathe, dammit!” he says to Cas, whacking him on the back.
Cas’ eyes open at that: wide in shock, a dull blue in his pale face. He coughs for a moment longer, but at least there’s no more blood, and his fingers grip tight at Dean’s shoulder. He settles back down, eyes falling shut. The three of them sit silently in wait, exchanging looks. Bobby starts to open his mouth when Cas groans.
“Ow.”
Dean’s eyebrows rise. “Well, hallelujah, the dead speak.”
Castiel mutters something that might have been a “fuck you” and if so, well, that’s new.
The angel shifts and tries to bat Dean’s hand away when he goes to push the rest of his button up out of the way and actually get a look at his stomach.
“Nnngh,” he articulates. Sam lets out a choked laugh and Dean can practically feel Bobby’s eyes rolling.
“Cas. I have to see how bad it is.”
The angel opens his mouth, closes it, licks his lips, and tries again. “Bad.”
“I’m sure. Let me look.”
This time, Cas stays still. Dean hisses when he unsticks the last pieces of fabric. The cuts look inflamed. They don’t look as deep as they were when Cas drove the box cutter into his gut, but they manage to look worse. However, Dean can’t see the full extent because there’s too much blood and now he notices it’s not all old. There’s a brighter red seeping through the grooves.
“Ok. Ok,” he breathes. He turns to Sam. “I have to clean him up before we can actually do anything. I’d take him to a hospital—“
He’s not prepared for the strength in Castiel’s grip as one of his arms shoot out to grab him. “No. No,” he states as emphatically as a man bleeding out on a bed can.
“—But,” Dean continues as though uninterrupted, “I figure that will invite questions. And even if half this town now knows something fishy is up thanks to good ole Death visiting, I’d rather them not know about our angel friend. I’m going to get him in the shower.”
“Probably a good idea,” Bobby says. “Let Sam help you get him upstairs.”
“No,” Dean says. “I’ll do it. But if you wouldn’t mind grabbing the kit?” he asks Sam. His brother nods.
Dean bends his knees, and scoops Castiel up so that his legs and head are hanging over his arms. Damn, the angel’s heavier than he expected for someone so skinny. Then again, the trench is soaked.
“Dean, are you…?” Castiel mumbles. “Are you…feeling me up?”
“Yeah, Cas. I find you incredibly sexy while you’re bleeding out of your gut,” he returns sarcastically and breathlessly.
“Such a…such a flirt with your winking and…Sam said...”
"Oh, Sam said, did he?" Dean makes a note to have a chat with his brother about educating his angel needlessly. “Careful, someone might think you’re not a virgin anymore.”
Castiel perks his head up, staring at Dean through pain-glazed eyes. Then he looks at himself. “I have lost a shoe.”
Dean laughs at that, a single huff of air as he makes it up the last few steps and into the bathroom. He sets him down on the linoleum floor, up against the tub.
“Hey, Sam. Get me a bottle of aspirin.”
“How many?” his brother asks, putting the first aid kit on the toilet lid and washing his hands, getting the blood off. Dean doesn’t even want to think about himself. These clothes are not going to be salvageable.
“A whole bottle.”
Sam raises his eyebrows, but goes to get at Bobby’s stash of drugs fit for outlasting an apocalypse.
“Ok. Let’s get you cleaned up. Can you strip?”
Castiel valiantly tries to lift his arms before they flop back to the ground and he shakes his head.
Letting out a snort, Dean leans over Cas and turns on the water, letting it heat up. “You’re kind of pathetic.”
“M’m not. I smote those bitches. Smited?” he seems to ponder to himself.
“You’re right. You’re a very scrappy little nerd angel,” Dean laughs and it feels good to have his angel nearly sitting upright and speaking, even if it’s barely a mumble and he can’t undress himself.
Sam comes back as he’s struggling to get the coat out from under Cas. He silently helps remove it and the angel’s one shoe and his socks. When he goes to put a hand on the belt buckle, Dean stills his hand. “I got it.”
“You sure?” Sam asks, confused.
“Yeah.”
Sam gives him another look, this one full of sympathy and a slight question which Dean also chooses to ignore, before he leaves, shutting the bathroom door quietly behind him.
“Cas. Hey, Cas.” He shakes the lean frame in front of him. “I’m going to take off your pants. No funny business, k?”
Castiel glares balefully, as though he was offended at this suggestion, when clearly Dean was the one pulling the funny business, but doesn’t resist. It’s slow going because the pants are kind of stuck to his legs. Dean indexes the cuts and bruises all along his torso and lower body, respectfully keeping his eyes off Castiel’s flaccid penis as he does so. He bites his lip when he sees a gaping hole in Cas’ left thigh.
“Ok, up we go,” Dean encourages, pulling up the shower plug, as he gets one of Cas’ arms over his shoulder as they stand. Or try to. Castiel can’t seem to put any weight on his legs. Dean sighs. Looks like he’s going to have to do this the hard way; Castiel can’t shower himself right now. Fan-freakin’-tastic.
Dean manhandles him into the tub—and isn’t this dignified for an angel of the Lord—before pulling off his own shoes and socks and climbing in behind the curled up figure. He’s instantly soaked through his clothes, but he really can’t afford them both being naked right now.
For awhile, they both just sit there, Castiel letting out little hisses of pain as the water washes away the worst of the blood. Once Dean rubs out most of the dirt from the dark hair, he lets Castiel’s head drop back onto his shoulder. Long eyelashes flutter and Cas’ eyes open again. They’re bluer now, more their normal hue. His features are still pinched in pain a bit, but his body is relaxed.
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
“What for?” Dean asks, distracted as he reaches for the soap. He starts with the angel’s shoulders.
“For not believing.”
Dean shrugs.
“I mean it, Dean. You didn’t say yes. I should have trusted you. You haven’t led me astray yet.”
Dean thinks back to a certain voicemail he left and decides that before Castiel is up and running again, he’s going to delete all those messages from his phone. Sam knows the truth. But Castiel doesn’t need to. He’s hurt the angel enough. And probably will again before this is all over. It’s what Dean Winchester does; hurt the ones he lo—you know. Likes.
“I can hear you thinking.”
“Nope,” Dean responds. “Don’t have much going on up here.”
Castiel lets out a frustrated noise and shifts, sliding in the tub. His ass ends up closer to Dean’s crotch. His very naked ass.
Fuck.
“Dean.” It’s that commanding tone back. The one that says listens to me or I will send you back to Hell. At least the angel’s feeling better. “When I—“
“Where do you go?” Dean cuts in. The water around them is running clearer but the soap lather is still pink. He slides his hands down Cas’ arms, scrubbing between each finger. “When you use the sigil. Where do you go?”
Cas nods. “Nowhere particular. It’s a sort of limbo. I can’t really describe it. It’s not Hell, but it’s a fight to get back. It takes awhile.”
“And when you got out?” Dean moves to Castiel’s torso, wincing as Cas does but keeping his movements rhythmical and firm. Clinical.
“The others were waiting for me. I didn’t have my sword. One of them stabbed me before I could grab one of theirs.”
He lifts his arm and trails his graceful fingers over the puckering hole in his thigh. Now that he’s clean, Dean can see the bleeding has stopped on the wounds carved into his chest. They seem to finally be healing faster. Too slow for his taste, but there’s a definite improvement from their state twenty minutes ago.
“Here,” Dean says, and hands the soap bar to the angel, who takes it loosely into his fingers and begins slowly scrubbing at his legs. Dean stays, though. No point anymore, he tells himself. His hair is already slicked to his head; his clothes are making little suction noises from where they stick as he moves around. “But you won.”
“I won.” And this time, Dean sees a small smile on Castiel’s lips. Then his breath hitches as he drags the soap over his cock. Dean turns away and tries to back away from the slippery body in front of him.
“What took so long?”
“Hmm?” Cas' teeth are caught on his lower lip and Dean isn’t sure how much more of this he can take.
“You’ve been gone three weeks.”
“Time in limbo is different.”
“Yeah, but you found me within an hour after I banished you.”
Castiel shrugs, but Dean would swear the tips of his ears turn pink and it’s not because of the hot water. “Time varies each trip. I also had more…motivation. Before.”
It’s Dean’s turn to smile a little as he reaches for the shampoo, unceremoniously dumping a blob onto Cas’ head. The angel splutters a bit before wiping away suds from his eyes and turning to stare back at Dean. He kind of looks like a cat caught in the rain, big blues lowered in slits and his hair sticking up every which way. Dean shoves his head back under the spray ignoring the look, opting instead to scrub at Cas’ scalp.
Another few minutes pass in friendly silence. Cas threads his fingers through his toes getting the dirt off that had somehow ground through his shoes apparently. Castiel has nice feet. Well, Jimmy had nice feet. Dean runs his hands over the pale skin of Castiel’s back, trying vainly not to count the vertebrae. He finds ignoring his erection kind of easy when he thinks about how the sigil still looks raw even if it is healing. Also, the chafing he’s already starting to feel helps. He turns his head into the spray of now lukewarm water and takes a gulp. He slicks his hair out of his face with a hand, turning off the shower. He reaches for the antibiotic ointment from the kit and pat dries Castiel’s stomach with a towel that was in reach so he can apply it to the sigil lines. They’ll figure out bandaging when Cas is completely dry.
“Ok. I think you’re good. I’m gonna get out, ok? Give you some privacy. Think you can stand, now?”
Cas nods. “I can. I feel much of my strength coming back. I hope we don’t have to fight any more of my brothers in the next few days, but I’ll…I will make it.”
Dean finds it funny that Cas can sound like a normal human being when he’s drunk or delirious with pain, but the instant he’s sober, he’s back to being this socially awkward nerd who has to try to sound like he even vaguely speaks the English language.
“Alright, then.” Dean makes to get up, but Cas’ hand stops him. From this angle, Dean has a full view of Castiel’s very erect dick. He tamps down a moan and closes his eyes, listens to the sound of Cas moving in the tub.
“Dean.”
Opening his eyes, Dean almost instantly regrets it. Castiel is on his knees in front of Dean and his erection hasn’t shrunk, but apparently, like this, Castiel feels no embarrassment. Take him to a whorehouse and he’s practically pissing his pants. Face to face in a tub with another man and there’s no cause for concern. Dean deliberately lifts an arm to block the view.
Cas, however, pushes the arm down and leans forward, lips barely brushing against Dean’s, who hitches in an almost painful breath. He has no idea what’s going on here, what’s going through Cas’ head. The angel tilts in again and this time, he doesn’t back off. He keeps his lips relaxed, waiting, against Dean’s mouth until Dean opens up his and then they’re really kissing.
It’s a little clumsy and a little too much tongue for the low level of urgency, but it’s hot and wet and good. Cas’ mouth is slick and doesn’t taste at all like blood or static electricity or Heaven. He tastes like a man. Their lips slide against one another and Dean curls his tongue around Cas’, pulling him close with one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his hip, until he can feel the angel’s—his friend’s—erection rubbing up against his abs. He keeps his eyes open so he can take it all in. The way Cas’ lashes flutter closed; the pink tinge across his cheeks. The wet hair bristles against Dean’s fingers and he pulls away slowly, giving a last nip at Castiel’s bottom lip, and then another quick peck because he doesn’t want to stop but knows he has to.
“Dean. I meant it. I don’t…I was mad. But the truth is, I’d do it all again.”
“Don’t.” Dean closes his eyes and leans their foreheads together. “Don’t tell me that, Cas.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t handle it, Cas. Every day, I live knowing I got my father killed. He traded his soul for mine. My mom made a demon deal for me and it got her killed. I have lived and breathed Sammy every day for twenty-six years and look what I’ve done for him. He’s addicted to demon blood.”
He lets out a frustrated noise and opens his eyes, pushing back from Cas. Cas tries to interrupt, but Dean keeps talking.
“I can’t…I can’t deal. I told you once I’m not strong enough. I’m still not. I just do what I’m told, what feels right. Anything else is too much.” Dean steels himself then and stands, tub squealing the whole time. “Anyway. Dry yourself off. Towels are in the cupboard. Although, you might want to take care of that first.” He gestures blindly towards Castiel’s dick, ignoring the fact that he can probably tell Dean is hard as a rock himself.
He steps out, nearly loosing his balance as his foot slips. But Cas catches him. “Oh, God,” he mutters to himself. This is not working out the way he wanted it to. What happened to objectivity, he asks himself. Being impersonal.
“Dean.”
Dean shrugs his shoulders straight and is about to walk out, when the sound of wings fills his ears and he finds Castiel standing in front of him. He’s dry, fully dressed--sans the tie still in the Impala's glove compartment--clothes clean, stroking the fabric of a towel with his long fingers. Even his hair is back to its normal standard of messy. He holds the towel out to Dean.
“I will meet you downstairs.”
There’s a smile on his lips before he disappears and Dean knows everything will be fine. For another day, at least.
Written for
daria234 for the 5 Acts meme with this prompt: 2. Two people in a shower or bath, one naked, one clothed.(Also, you know what I want to know? Why can't I just sit down and write an actual fic like this? 2 hours straight and poof, I'm done. Sigh.)
Hey, Cas. It’s me. Pick up.
Cas, it’s Sam. Are you ok? Call me back.
Cas, look. I know you’re probably mad at me. But I didn’t say yes. I mean, I was going to but…well, maybe that’s not the best thing to say. Anyway. I didn’t. Give a guy some credit, k?
Cas. Why aren’t you picking up? I’m worried. So is Dean, man. He won’t admit it but…look, don’t be too hard on him, ok?
Castiel, I swear to God if you don’t fucking answer your goddamn phone, I will punch you and screw my hand.
Hey, it’s Sam again. Look, we’re all worried. It’s been a week, man. Call us.
Cas. Please.
It’s been over a week and still, Cas hasn’t shown up. They’ve both left him enough messages that his phone is telling them the inbox is full. Dean, honestly, doesn’t even know if Cas technically has a phone anymore. He doesn’t know where angels go when banished (and yeah, maybe he’s starting to feel a little guilt about that, but at the time, the angel was stubbornly in the way), and for all he does know, cheap phones from Radio Shack probably don’t survive a fight with four angels.
If Castiel even survived.
Bobby keeps telling him he’s an idiot and giving him extra chores. He seems to think it’s the jobs around the house keeping Dean from just calling up Michael. He seems to think they’re what are keeping Dean sane while Cas is gone and Adam missing and he and Sam have no new information.
Bobby might be right.
Two weeks and three demon raids later—they’re trying to find that son of a bitch Crowley again—Dean’s messing around underneath an old Ford Capri, when he sees from his ground position a lump of something right outside Bobby’s gate, just past the junk yard. He takes in a sharp breath and nearly hits his head on the undercarriage when he realizes the bundle is tan-colored.
He doesn’t allow himself to feel the panic coursing through his veins, just lets it move his body into a run to get down the length of the drive where he slams open the gate.
Once he’s close, Dean drops to his knees. It’s Cas alright, but he looks dead on arrival. His jacket is practically in shreds, he’s covered in dirt and grime and there’s dried blood everywhere. He doesn’t look like he’s breathing, but then he never does, so that’s probably not the best indicator. Dean’s afraid to touch him, but he has to. Has to know for sure.
He lays his fingers gently on the angel’s neck and feels an icy cold stab in his gut because there’s no pulse. He takes a calming breath and tries again, forcing his own heart rate to slow down. This time he feels it. It’s erratic and weak but it exists.
Dean drops his hands to the ground so that he’s gripping the earth in between his fingers. He sends up a brief thank you and pulls out his cell.
“Sam. It’s Cas. He’s back. But I can’t carry him alone. The west gate.”
Within moments, his giant of a brother is there, hair windblown back from running and he comes up short when he reaches them.
“Oh, my God. Is he…?”
Dean shakes his head. “Help me get him up.”
They haul Castiel ungracefully into the house, the angel’s head lolling back onto Dean’s shoulder. It makes him sick to see the slack-jaw and how the blue eyes stay shut.
“Bobby!” Sam yells as they get inside. Dean can hear the wheelchair squeaking from the other room as they set Cas down on the cot set up in his study.
“What are you boys hollerin’ about--?” Bobby’s words are cut off as he makes it into the room. “Is that Cas?” he asks incredulously.
“Yeah. He’s pretty beat up,” Sam responds.
“No shit, Sherlock. I can see that,” is Bobby’s snarky response, but Dean can tell he’s worried all the same.
Dean tunes them out to background noise as he sets about peeling crusty fabric away. Cas is still out cold, but now he’s stretched out, one arm flopping over the edge of the cot, and Dean can take full inventory. The coat is, at least until Castiel wakes up and uses a few of his magic darning abilities, completely useless. So is the no-longer white shirt. His hair is unkempt, even for him, and there’s a darker shade of stubble on his face. If Dean hadn’t known he’d been in a fight with four other angels and somehow survived, he’d have assumed Cas had gone on another drinking binge and slept on the street this time. He notices Cas is also missing his left shoe.
Sam shoves something at him. Oh, right. The first aide kit. He refuses to acknowledge the pity in his brother’s eyes.
The body stirs a little and Dean pauses. He watches as Castiel’s lids flicker, then his mouth smacks a few times, and suddenly, Cas jerks awake and he’s hacking up a lung. Dean clings to Cas’ shoulders, pulling him upright as the angel vomits blood.
Sam jumps in to help, turning another worried glance at Dean. “Do you think--?”
“He’ll be fine,” Dean grits out. “Breathe, dammit!” he says to Cas, whacking him on the back.
Cas’ eyes open at that: wide in shock, a dull blue in his pale face. He coughs for a moment longer, but at least there’s no more blood, and his fingers grip tight at Dean’s shoulder. He settles back down, eyes falling shut. The three of them sit silently in wait, exchanging looks. Bobby starts to open his mouth when Cas groans.
“Ow.”
Dean’s eyebrows rise. “Well, hallelujah, the dead speak.”
Castiel mutters something that might have been a “fuck you” and if so, well, that’s new.
The angel shifts and tries to bat Dean’s hand away when he goes to push the rest of his button up out of the way and actually get a look at his stomach.
“Nnngh,” he articulates. Sam lets out a choked laugh and Dean can practically feel Bobby’s eyes rolling.
“Cas. I have to see how bad it is.”
The angel opens his mouth, closes it, licks his lips, and tries again. “Bad.”
“I’m sure. Let me look.”
This time, Cas stays still. Dean hisses when he unsticks the last pieces of fabric. The cuts look inflamed. They don’t look as deep as they were when Cas drove the box cutter into his gut, but they manage to look worse. However, Dean can’t see the full extent because there’s too much blood and now he notices it’s not all old. There’s a brighter red seeping through the grooves.
“Ok. Ok,” he breathes. He turns to Sam. “I have to clean him up before we can actually do anything. I’d take him to a hospital—“
He’s not prepared for the strength in Castiel’s grip as one of his arms shoot out to grab him. “No. No,” he states as emphatically as a man bleeding out on a bed can.
“—But,” Dean continues as though uninterrupted, “I figure that will invite questions. And even if half this town now knows something fishy is up thanks to good ole Death visiting, I’d rather them not know about our angel friend. I’m going to get him in the shower.”
“Probably a good idea,” Bobby says. “Let Sam help you get him upstairs.”
“No,” Dean says. “I’ll do it. But if you wouldn’t mind grabbing the kit?” he asks Sam. His brother nods.
Dean bends his knees, and scoops Castiel up so that his legs and head are hanging over his arms. Damn, the angel’s heavier than he expected for someone so skinny. Then again, the trench is soaked.
“Dean, are you…?” Castiel mumbles. “Are you…feeling me up?”
“Yeah, Cas. I find you incredibly sexy while you’re bleeding out of your gut,” he returns sarcastically and breathlessly.
“Such a…such a flirt with your winking and…Sam said...”
"Oh, Sam said, did he?" Dean makes a note to have a chat with his brother about educating his angel needlessly. “Careful, someone might think you’re not a virgin anymore.”
Castiel perks his head up, staring at Dean through pain-glazed eyes. Then he looks at himself. “I have lost a shoe.”
Dean laughs at that, a single huff of air as he makes it up the last few steps and into the bathroom. He sets him down on the linoleum floor, up against the tub.
“Hey, Sam. Get me a bottle of aspirin.”
“How many?” his brother asks, putting the first aid kit on the toilet lid and washing his hands, getting the blood off. Dean doesn’t even want to think about himself. These clothes are not going to be salvageable.
“A whole bottle.”
Sam raises his eyebrows, but goes to get at Bobby’s stash of drugs fit for outlasting an apocalypse.
“Ok. Let’s get you cleaned up. Can you strip?”
Castiel valiantly tries to lift his arms before they flop back to the ground and he shakes his head.
Letting out a snort, Dean leans over Cas and turns on the water, letting it heat up. “You’re kind of pathetic.”
“M’m not. I smote those bitches. Smited?” he seems to ponder to himself.
“You’re right. You’re a very scrappy little nerd angel,” Dean laughs and it feels good to have his angel nearly sitting upright and speaking, even if it’s barely a mumble and he can’t undress himself.
Sam comes back as he’s struggling to get the coat out from under Cas. He silently helps remove it and the angel’s one shoe and his socks. When he goes to put a hand on the belt buckle, Dean stills his hand. “I got it.”
“You sure?” Sam asks, confused.
“Yeah.”
Sam gives him another look, this one full of sympathy and a slight question which Dean also chooses to ignore, before he leaves, shutting the bathroom door quietly behind him.
“Cas. Hey, Cas.” He shakes the lean frame in front of him. “I’m going to take off your pants. No funny business, k?”
Castiel glares balefully, as though he was offended at this suggestion, when clearly Dean was the one pulling the funny business, but doesn’t resist. It’s slow going because the pants are kind of stuck to his legs. Dean indexes the cuts and bruises all along his torso and lower body, respectfully keeping his eyes off Castiel’s flaccid penis as he does so. He bites his lip when he sees a gaping hole in Cas’ left thigh.
“Ok, up we go,” Dean encourages, pulling up the shower plug, as he gets one of Cas’ arms over his shoulder as they stand. Or try to. Castiel can’t seem to put any weight on his legs. Dean sighs. Looks like he’s going to have to do this the hard way; Castiel can’t shower himself right now. Fan-freakin’-tastic.
Dean manhandles him into the tub—and isn’t this dignified for an angel of the Lord—before pulling off his own shoes and socks and climbing in behind the curled up figure. He’s instantly soaked through his clothes, but he really can’t afford them both being naked right now.
For awhile, they both just sit there, Castiel letting out little hisses of pain as the water washes away the worst of the blood. Once Dean rubs out most of the dirt from the dark hair, he lets Castiel’s head drop back onto his shoulder. Long eyelashes flutter and Cas’ eyes open again. They’re bluer now, more their normal hue. His features are still pinched in pain a bit, but his body is relaxed.
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
“What for?” Dean asks, distracted as he reaches for the soap. He starts with the angel’s shoulders.
“For not believing.”
Dean shrugs.
“I mean it, Dean. You didn’t say yes. I should have trusted you. You haven’t led me astray yet.”
Dean thinks back to a certain voicemail he left and decides that before Castiel is up and running again, he’s going to delete all those messages from his phone. Sam knows the truth. But Castiel doesn’t need to. He’s hurt the angel enough. And probably will again before this is all over. It’s what Dean Winchester does; hurt the ones he lo—you know. Likes.
“I can hear you thinking.”
“Nope,” Dean responds. “Don’t have much going on up here.”
Castiel lets out a frustrated noise and shifts, sliding in the tub. His ass ends up closer to Dean’s crotch. His very naked ass.
Fuck.
“Dean.” It’s that commanding tone back. The one that says listens to me or I will send you back to Hell. At least the angel’s feeling better. “When I—“
“Where do you go?” Dean cuts in. The water around them is running clearer but the soap lather is still pink. He slides his hands down Cas’ arms, scrubbing between each finger. “When you use the sigil. Where do you go?”
Cas nods. “Nowhere particular. It’s a sort of limbo. I can’t really describe it. It’s not Hell, but it’s a fight to get back. It takes awhile.”
“And when you got out?” Dean moves to Castiel’s torso, wincing as Cas does but keeping his movements rhythmical and firm. Clinical.
“The others were waiting for me. I didn’t have my sword. One of them stabbed me before I could grab one of theirs.”
He lifts his arm and trails his graceful fingers over the puckering hole in his thigh. Now that he’s clean, Dean can see the bleeding has stopped on the wounds carved into his chest. They seem to finally be healing faster. Too slow for his taste, but there’s a definite improvement from their state twenty minutes ago.
“Here,” Dean says, and hands the soap bar to the angel, who takes it loosely into his fingers and begins slowly scrubbing at his legs. Dean stays, though. No point anymore, he tells himself. His hair is already slicked to his head; his clothes are making little suction noises from where they stick as he moves around. “But you won.”
“I won.” And this time, Dean sees a small smile on Castiel’s lips. Then his breath hitches as he drags the soap over his cock. Dean turns away and tries to back away from the slippery body in front of him.
“What took so long?”
“Hmm?” Cas' teeth are caught on his lower lip and Dean isn’t sure how much more of this he can take.
“You’ve been gone three weeks.”
“Time in limbo is different.”
“Yeah, but you found me within an hour after I banished you.”
Castiel shrugs, but Dean would swear the tips of his ears turn pink and it’s not because of the hot water. “Time varies each trip. I also had more…motivation. Before.”
It’s Dean’s turn to smile a little as he reaches for the shampoo, unceremoniously dumping a blob onto Cas’ head. The angel splutters a bit before wiping away suds from his eyes and turning to stare back at Dean. He kind of looks like a cat caught in the rain, big blues lowered in slits and his hair sticking up every which way. Dean shoves his head back under the spray ignoring the look, opting instead to scrub at Cas’ scalp.
Another few minutes pass in friendly silence. Cas threads his fingers through his toes getting the dirt off that had somehow ground through his shoes apparently. Castiel has nice feet. Well, Jimmy had nice feet. Dean runs his hands over the pale skin of Castiel’s back, trying vainly not to count the vertebrae. He finds ignoring his erection kind of easy when he thinks about how the sigil still looks raw even if it is healing. Also, the chafing he’s already starting to feel helps. He turns his head into the spray of now lukewarm water and takes a gulp. He slicks his hair out of his face with a hand, turning off the shower. He reaches for the antibiotic ointment from the kit and pat dries Castiel’s stomach with a towel that was in reach so he can apply it to the sigil lines. They’ll figure out bandaging when Cas is completely dry.
“Ok. I think you’re good. I’m gonna get out, ok? Give you some privacy. Think you can stand, now?”
Cas nods. “I can. I feel much of my strength coming back. I hope we don’t have to fight any more of my brothers in the next few days, but I’ll…I will make it.”
Dean finds it funny that Cas can sound like a normal human being when he’s drunk or delirious with pain, but the instant he’s sober, he’s back to being this socially awkward nerd who has to try to sound like he even vaguely speaks the English language.
“Alright, then.” Dean makes to get up, but Cas’ hand stops him. From this angle, Dean has a full view of Castiel’s very erect dick. He tamps down a moan and closes his eyes, listens to the sound of Cas moving in the tub.
“Dean.”
Opening his eyes, Dean almost instantly regrets it. Castiel is on his knees in front of Dean and his erection hasn’t shrunk, but apparently, like this, Castiel feels no embarrassment. Take him to a whorehouse and he’s practically pissing his pants. Face to face in a tub with another man and there’s no cause for concern. Dean deliberately lifts an arm to block the view.
Cas, however, pushes the arm down and leans forward, lips barely brushing against Dean’s, who hitches in an almost painful breath. He has no idea what’s going on here, what’s going through Cas’ head. The angel tilts in again and this time, he doesn’t back off. He keeps his lips relaxed, waiting, against Dean’s mouth until Dean opens up his and then they’re really kissing.
It’s a little clumsy and a little too much tongue for the low level of urgency, but it’s hot and wet and good. Cas’ mouth is slick and doesn’t taste at all like blood or static electricity or Heaven. He tastes like a man. Their lips slide against one another and Dean curls his tongue around Cas’, pulling him close with one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his hip, until he can feel the angel’s—his friend’s—erection rubbing up against his abs. He keeps his eyes open so he can take it all in. The way Cas’ lashes flutter closed; the pink tinge across his cheeks. The wet hair bristles against Dean’s fingers and he pulls away slowly, giving a last nip at Castiel’s bottom lip, and then another quick peck because he doesn’t want to stop but knows he has to.
“Dean. I meant it. I don’t…I was mad. But the truth is, I’d do it all again.”
“Don’t.” Dean closes his eyes and leans their foreheads together. “Don’t tell me that, Cas.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t handle it, Cas. Every day, I live knowing I got my father killed. He traded his soul for mine. My mom made a demon deal for me and it got her killed. I have lived and breathed Sammy every day for twenty-six years and look what I’ve done for him. He’s addicted to demon blood.”
He lets out a frustrated noise and opens his eyes, pushing back from Cas. Cas tries to interrupt, but Dean keeps talking.
“I can’t…I can’t deal. I told you once I’m not strong enough. I’m still not. I just do what I’m told, what feels right. Anything else is too much.” Dean steels himself then and stands, tub squealing the whole time. “Anyway. Dry yourself off. Towels are in the cupboard. Although, you might want to take care of that first.” He gestures blindly towards Castiel’s dick, ignoring the fact that he can probably tell Dean is hard as a rock himself.
He steps out, nearly loosing his balance as his foot slips. But Cas catches him. “Oh, God,” he mutters to himself. This is not working out the way he wanted it to. What happened to objectivity, he asks himself. Being impersonal.
“Dean.”
Dean shrugs his shoulders straight and is about to walk out, when the sound of wings fills his ears and he finds Castiel standing in front of him. He’s dry, fully dressed--sans the tie still in the Impala's glove compartment--clothes clean, stroking the fabric of a towel with his long fingers. Even his hair is back to its normal standard of messy. He holds the towel out to Dean.
“I will meet you downstairs.”
There’s a smile on his lips before he disappears and Dean knows everything will be fine. For another day, at least.
