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It’s only thanks to the dubious wealth of two decades’ experience that he doesn’t panic.
Peridot eyes assiduously survey the angel as he finds his way back into the bunker with an uncharacteristic teeter. The door clanks loudly behind them, safely shutting out the horrors of the day, for now. Their fresh echoes still linger however, reaffirmed with every glance he takes of his crimson-stained companion.
A fine but steadfast trickle of blood trails the angel as he makes his way down the dimmed hall. More concerning still is how the shredded trench coat ends up unceremoniously discarded in his wake like a soiled skin.
“I’m fine,” he assures, the gravel tones grittier than usual.
“Sure, and I’m Mary freakin’ Poppins.”
“I told you Dean, it will just take me longer to heal. I still have Grace, you know.”
A heavy pause hangs between them as the halved seraph drags his leaden feet to a halt. He turns to face him, features haggard with fatigue, but eyes bright. They peer undaunted at the hunter almost in challenge. “It’s just… slower. I’m fine.”
He knows how good a liar the angel is first hand. Dean sighs. Crosses a distance he usually wouldn’t, without much of a thought.
Tonight the years bear down upon him, heavy with endless twisting loops of regret, violence and loss. The near-missed opportunities flash before his eyes in merciless focus, scrubbing his habitual safeties away. He lets himself falter, for once.
It’s only when his forehead touches another that he pauses in his fall, desperately enthralled despite the fresh blood painting his brow.
“That was too close, Cas,” he says. He hates the obvious tremble of his voice, yet makes no attempt to mask it.
Quaking fingers venture to touch seared and searing skin, tracing a careful perimeter of where Cas’ shirt and tie dutifully hung mere hours ago. A singed hole has temporarily taken up residence in their stead, breaching fabric and delicate skin in an almost perfect and gastly circle. Seemingly sensing the aftershocks of this gruesome evidence, the angel sheds the remaining layers in one smooth motion, as though the tattered ensemble had personally offended him. Perhaps it had. Stubborn bastard never did like being proven wrong.
Dean would usually have stopped short at such a spectacle of tanned skin, besmirched as it is, but tonight it brings no sense of awe.
There was so much blood. No blue light he thinks gratefully, but so much blood. He didn’t even know angels could bleed that much.
“It was worth it,” the Cas’ steadfast voice responds, dispelling the sea of red flooding his vision.
Dean swallows hard.
“I don’t-”
“You’re worth it,” Cas reiterates. His hard blue gaze is sharpened to an icy point, daring him the hunter to contradict him. Dean is pinned into silence for a long while. He eventually nods, defeated. He’s so fucking tired.
“Let me at least help, then,” he finally decides, hastily dragging the angel to his room before the implications can catch up to him.
He deposits Castiel and takes stock of what he'll need before disappearing down the hall again. Once he returns from a brief and nerve-wracked jaunt for gauze and an abused plastic pale filled with warm water, the inky expanses of Cas’ wings have filled the space. There is now a veritable galaxy unfurled inside the muted oranges of his lamp-lit bedroom.
He is almost overcome with wonder, the bucket nearly careening to the floor. Cas doesn’t seem to notice.
“They… could use some air,” the angel explains simply. He stands still, taking up a post beside the low couch he has found. Dean knows it isn’t very cozy, but Castiel doesn’t confirm. He waits patiently as he has always done, for a thus far unspoken invitation.
“Sure, man,” Dean agrees. He’s trying to coach his jaw into closing for a few moments; tries not to stare too hard. It is not lost on him that the angel has only rarely ever made himself so vulnerable. There are wounds pockmarking feathers here and there - likely the reason for their current presence- but Dean barely sees them.
“What-uh…. Whatever is more comfortable for you, Cas.”
The words are jumbled, but their intent is clear. He has never meant anything more sincerely in his life. He sits, swallowing down the pulse that drums thickly in his throat. Castiel considers him, blue gaze unyielding and undeniably intrigued.
Wordlessly, he beckons Cas to follow. The angel does -almost instantly- but forgoes sitting altogether. He somehow manages to stuff himself, wings and all, onto the couch and onto Dean, with one of the glorious feathery sails hanging loosely off to the side. Dean would find it almost hilariously blasphemous if his flustered heart weren’t so preoccupied with trying to shatter his ribs.
“This is comfortable. Thank you, Dean,” Cas says in his usual deadpan, from the nook of Dean’s lap. He looks for all the world like he’s always belonged there, and this both awes and frustrates Dean, for the decade’s worth of wasted potential. He watches, mesmerized as Cas sighs deeply; his head stretching back, muscles uncoiling languidly against the rickety frame of couch and legs. The angel has drawn himself into a rather casual picture of exhaustion, which is impressive for a creature so covered in his own gore.
“I wish I hadn’t torn my coat,” he remarks grimly.
And somehow, the mundane comment instantly quells the storm of anxiety raging in the hunter’s chest. This is just the same old Cas.
Cas is alive, and he’s safe for the time being, and Dean suddenly remembers who they are, together. Who they’ve always been. He’s safe here too.
He smirks.
“Good riddance,” he jokes, and Castiel eyes daggers at him.
Though pointless an effort it might be, Dean finally dabs a warm cloth over the wound festooning the angel’s chest. It fortunately already seems to be closing over, but he finds himself marveling at the exercise. At Cas here with him, allowing him his these intimate, long-sought comforts.
Soon, the angel returns them in kind, and gently covers Dean’s hand with his own. Dean finds himself gently stroking through dark locks and darker feathers still, while he undertakes his gentle and delightfully futile work.
Castiel grins lazily.
“It’s a sin to lie, Dean. I know you love the coat as much as I do,” he says between a yawn or two. It’s still disconcerting sometimes to see him do that, but for now, Dean tries to forget how much the Earth has tarnished him - how much Dean himself has - and smiles, instead.
“Sure, Cas. It’s the coat.”