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Castiel lies flat on his back and stares at the angel blade as it shivers back and forth to stillness; stabbed deep into the dust and gasoline-laced text by his face. He’s stunned -- absolutely astounded to still be alive. Only just, he thinks, as he coughs up blood, painfully, and feels it slide wet and sticky across his cheekbone before dripping to the floor.
He catalogues his injuries. Just the physical ones. He doesn’t think he has the stamina to look at his emotional health. He fears it might overwhelm his vessel to focus on anything more than the physical at this point. He hasn’t felt this broken since the fight at the gas station, before Crowley (of all beings) poured Adina's grace into his mouth.
Again, he cannot believe he’s alive; that the blade is buried in the book instead of deep into his chest. The blade may rest in the book but it still feels like he’s been sliced through on the inside. From what his grace is telling him his chest wall is sliced to ribbons from too many broken ribs. Beyond that his right eye socket and cheekbone are fractured as are several smaller bones in his extremities. There’s a small crack in his pelvis, and torn ligaments in his right knee. But all of that is incidental to the more serious injuries; rather significant internal bleeding coming from a laceration in his spleen and a tear in his femoral artery that stems from a large gash high on his thigh. He won’t die from this, but he needs to focus his grace in those areas and he prays that Dean will give him the necessary time it will take to heal. Because this will take time. Certainly hours. Possibly days.
The angel turns his head to the other side to help free a glob of blood stitching that part of his mouth closed. The blood drops free as his eyes focus on the Styne boy lying wrong limbed, like a fallen string puppet, in a pool of blood Dean caused. Castiel moans at the grief he feels; for the badly fated boy and for Dean’s losing battle with the Mark. He wonders why this boy -- surely more of an innocent than Castiel -- lies dead at Dean’s hands while Castiel himself remains alive. Hadn’t Dean more reason to kill the angel than he did the Styne teenager? Didn’t Dean say that Castiel “screwed over” his friend?
Was he alive simply because of Castiel's breathless “please" as Dean brandished the blade above Castiel's chest? Or did Dean stay his hand because Castiel grasped Dean's wrist in a plea to stop? Is that what stopped the fatal thrust? Because Dean -- Dean with the Mark -- was going to kill him when he took that blade from Castiel's sleeve. Of that, the angel was sure.
The Mark slowly tore away at Dean’s soul, torturing him. Torturing them both, because seeing Dean in such monstrous emotional anguish tore Castiel’s heart from his chest. He has seen Dean in so much pain (much of it Castiel’s own fault) that the angel can barely stand it anymore. Certainly he cannot be the cause of it. That’s why he chose not to use his grace to force Dean to yield. If he had used it then Castiel would not be the one lying here in a heap of broken bones sheathed in sliced up skin and torn clothes. Instead it would be Dean lying in front of Castiel, like he was in the crypt, and he cannot… he just cannot be the cause of that kind of pain again. Not to Dean.
Never again to Dean.
So instead he bore Dean’s wrath. Or rather, the wrath instilled by the Mark. Almost lost his life to it. He would have been okay with that. Maybe it would have been better. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to live centuries watching Dean murder the world. Castiel chokes on a quiet sob wishing he didn’t feel these human emotions that tear into him like so many blades of the kind plunged next to him.
It is too much to think about… too much to feel…
He needs to focus on healing himself. He needs to get out of the bunker before Dean returns. Because he has no doubt that the hunter will stay true to his word and not “miss” next time.
---
Castiel’s head pounds like the beat of a pulse. It pounds behind his eyelids and echoes to the base of his skull. When he opens his eyes the pain increases tenfold. But that is nothing compared to the agony in his lungs and stomach. His lungs feel compressed while his stomach feels bloated. Both feel like they’re being devoured by Hell’s own inferno. Castiel surmises a punctured lung and continued internal bleeding to be the cause.
He know’s he has lost some time. Did he… sleep? Possibly. Still more probable is that he may have fallen unconscious for a time. There is nothing around him to tell him the passage of time, other than his own precise internal clock, somewhat less precise these days, but better than a naked guess. He believes he's been lying here for nearly two hours. He hasn’t moved, nor has anything else. The dead Stynes surround him still, as does the smell of fuel and too much blood. Much of it his own. But he knows it is only a matter of time until Dean returns. And Castiel holds no illusion that Dean will not carry out his promise - to kill him next time. The angel knows he has to get out of the bunker, get somewhere to heal so that he can live… if for no other reason than to save Dean, somehow, from the Mark.
That is his mission now.
His mission is Dean.
But then, he wonders, hasn’t Dean always been his mission? He is a worthy mission. Still.
And Castiel? Castiel... needs him. He needs Dean.
So he has to get up, and maybe get to Sam. At the very least he needs to get out of the bunker promptly. He grits his bloodied teeth and feels his parched lips crack. He eases his right arm off his body and strains to position it on the floor to lift himself up. Pain slices through his arm and upper body but he merely grunts and presses on -- he is a soldier after all. He slowly… slowly... lifts himself off the floor… to the point where he’s standing -- if it can be called that when his vessel is hunched over almost in half with hands upon his knees. Nevertheless he is on his feet. He closes his eyes to let the dizziness settle and to try to cope with the pain in his thigh. He spits blood from his mouth, gently so as not to jostle his head. He gets it all over his trenchcoat and shirt. It only joins the rest of the blood already there.
After several moments Castiel straightens slightly and takes a step forward. Immediately the dizziness comes back and now he feels nausea overtake him. Blood gushes from the wound in his thigh, re-soaking his pants and pouring to the floor. He stops and reaches for something to steady himself but there is nothing to grab. The papers, clothes, and the piles of books turn blurry as he feels himself fall. He grasps out blindly but finds nothing. As he hits the floor he screams. He knows it’s him screaming because everyone else in the room is dead.
---
When Castiel again regains consciousness he is immediately aware of two things. First, the pounding in his skull has mellowed somewhat as has the pressure in his chest, less so the throbbing pain in his thigh. It makes him think that his grace is indeed working to repair his mangled vessel. It is a slow thing but it is working.
Second, even though he’s now on his stomach, the position in which he fell, he can see that several things have changed in this room since he was last cognizant of his surroundings. The bodies are gone. So too is a majority of the blood (except for his own). That is the biggest change. Only damp patches and the smell of chemical cleaners remain where the bodies had once been.
Further, it is noticeably dimmer in the library, and broken glass lies all over the room. Thousands of shards from seemingly different fragile objects. He sees the reflecting bits of mirrors mixed in with the fine slivers of what must be light bulb glass (ah, hence the dimness). The curved shapes from a drinking glass lie off in a corner as if thrown in that direction. Large triangles of clear glass lean under the picture frames from which they have fallen; rather, from which they have been smashed. There’s only a meager amount of glass near Castiel’s prone form. The majority lies on and to the sides of the pile of strewn books.
Castiel turns to stare at the damp spot where the youngest Styne died. No… where Dean killed him, the angel corrects himself. He grunts at that reminder, and that in turn causes pain to rampage through his vessel from head to toe. His grace may be healing him but he knows he’s still in no condition to move.
Instead what he does is think. He recognizes that it must have been Dean who came into the room, removed the bodies and cleaned the blood. He wonders if Dean smashed all of the glass surfaces before or after he cleaned up the bodies and blood. Castiel painfully, and with more moans then he would like, turns himself so he lies once again on his back. Wetness slides down his thigh, obviously from jostling the wound there, but he ignores it to instead ponder why Dean broke all of that glass, and more importantly, why Castiel remains alive (still). He hadn’t reached a conclusion to either point when he hears footfalls in the hallway. He knows it’s Dean. Knows his sound… his gait… his breathing.
Castiel tries to pull himself up to lean against the (incongruously) undamaged desk. He makes it only part way, one shoulder leaning against one of the thick spindle legs, when Dean enters the library.
“You just aren’t the listening type, are you, Cas?”
Castiel holds up a placating hand as Dean advances. “Dean,” he says softly.
“I told you I wanted you gone, Cas. How much fucking clearer can I make it, huh?” The hunter stares down at Castiel. Eyes completely unreadable.
Castiel holds his arm up in defense, as if that could stop anything Dean wished to do right now. “Dean…” His voice comes out broken, even more raspy than than he knows it to be normally. He stops and clears his throat, feels flecks of blood loosen, and tries again. “Dean, I… cannot. I have tried. But that... did not end well.”
Dean smirks at the angel. “Is that why you looked like you were kissing the carpet the last time I came in here? What did you do, face plant or something?”
Dean leans towards Castiel, the hunter’s face again a mask as he holds something out towards the angel.
“Dean,” Castiel pleads, looking him in the eyes, “Please.” He hates that the arm he’s holding up begins to shake. It mirrors the shake in his voice and he thinks both are due to the pain, but he’s honest with himself enough to recognize it could very well be from heartache instead.
“Jesus, Cas. Look...” Dean sounds infuriated, his voice rising as he continues, “if I really wanted to kill you I could have done it at least twice by now. This is just some goddamn water.” He continues to hold out what Castiel now sees is a coffee mug towards him.
Castiel lets his arm drop, slowly, while staring at Dean, still not sure what he’s hearing. Not killing him? Water? What?
“Drink this goddammit!” Dean growls.
Castiel is still baffled and his words stumble out, confused and tentative. “I… no… Dean... I cannot.”
Dean gives him a Don’t Bullshit Me look. “Oh, really? Why’s that? ‘Cause you’re all mojo’d up again and you don’t need H2O anymore… ‘s that it? Which… heh, could’ve fooled me with how easily I used you as a punching bag earlier.”
A new pain blooms in Castiel’s chest, but this one isn’t physical. The pain manifests as anger which laces through his retort, heedless of his own fragile state as he confronts the hunter with words, “I cannot drink the water,” he grits out, “because one cannot drink water with internal injuries -- which you caused when you ‘used me as a punching bag,’ Dean -- and which I have yet to be able to heal even given my grace.”
Dean stares at Castiel for a long moment and the angel is sure he sees pain flash in Dean’s eyes before the hunter slams the mug down on the desk, crunching the glass under the cup, before he stalks out of the library.
---
It’s nighttime now, specifically the early morning hours, if Castiel’s internal clock is working. The library clock certainly is not. It’s in several dozen plastic pieces along the far wall.
He had waited, with significant anxiety, for Dean to return after the man had stormed out. However the hunter had not returned. Slowly, healing sleep had reclaimed Castiel. Now he takes quick stock of his vessel and notes that he’s progressing fairly well, though his thigh still produces extreme pain. He freezes, realizing now what woke him. Dean is standing there, at the library entrance. Just… standing there with what looks like the brothers' first aid kit in one hand. He stands there and stares. Directly at Castiel.
Dean must have seen him stir because now he advances towards the angel.
“Come on. Get up.” Dean reaches a hand down and Castiel just stares at it.
“What?” Castiel asks, looking up, knowing confusion marks his face. Is Dean forcing him out? “Dean, I just need another 24 h--”
Dean huffs, interrupting the angel, but he stops several feet away and says, “Just… Jesus, Cas. Will you just freakin’ let me help you up? I already told you I’m not going to gank you, and I’m not kicking you out… not yet, anyway. So just… let me help you up.”
Castiel tilts his head, looks at Dean warily. “Why?”
“For the love of… Damn it, Cas!" He runs his free hand through his hair and mutters, "Maybe I will fucking kill you." Louder he adds, "Just let me help you up so I can get you to a bed and bandage your sorry angel ass up, for chrissake."
Castiel stares at the man for another moment before slowly raising a hand towards Dean’s own.
---
Castiel lies back, head on a soft pillow and body on a softer, pliant mattress. His headache is back and he feels… he feels cold. He never feels cold… well, except when he was human, and when his stolen grace dwindled to practically nothing. The walk to Dean’s room, to this bed, was… arduous. Dean did what he could to prop Castiel up and help him along. Nevertheless, the movement drained him. He wants to sleep. And, he thinks, he wouldn’t mind a blanket.
Castiel tracks Dean with his eyes as the man moves purposefully around and in and out of the room -- moving a tray closer to the bed, retrieving medical supplies, opening his closet and retrieving what looks like a half of bottle of whiskey -- before fixing his eyes on Castiel.
"Come on, let’s get this wrecked coat and shit off you." Dean leans over Castiel and places his hand on the lapel of Castiel’s coat.
“No, Dean. I will be fi--”
“Shut up, Cas.” Dean interrupts Castiel mid-sentence. “You’re still bleeding like a stuck pig and it’s been hours since I…” Dean grunts, pauses, but then continues on. “Just… will you stop fighting with me like it’s your fucking job? Let me help you get out of this shit so we can see what the hell is going on for crying out loud.”
Castiel acquiesces and several minutes and a couple of painful maneuvers later the trench coat and his suit jacket are thrown to the side. Dean loosens Castiel’s tie and unbuttons the topmost button of his shirt. Castiel stares at Dean the whole time, wondering at the gentleness of Dean’s care when only hours before Dean was about to kill him.
Dean leans back up and gestures to Castiel’s shirt. “You, uh… you think you can undo your buttons there?” He sounds awkward, off-balance.
It takes a moment for Castiel to recognize that Dean has asked him a question. He focuses on that now and, yes… he can work open the shirt. He gives a small nod to Dean.
Castiel’s fingers feel like they are double in size, clumsy and stiff as they slowly work open the fasteners. He lets the shirt fall to either side. Dean draws in a loud breath and Castiel knows it’s because he sees the state of Castiel’s chest. Castiel knows without looking down that his chest is covered in bruises and blood. Much of it is superficial but since Castiel focused his grace on the more serious injuries these less serious, but visually disturbing injuries, remain.
"What the ever loving fuck, man?" Dean's eyes shine like wet slices of emerald as he stares at Castiel’s chest. "Why'd you go and have to play the martyr, huh?" Dean starts to pace the room but stops and gestures towards Castiel. “Look at you!”
“Dean--” Castiel tries.
"You had to know the Mark was chewing me up whole.” Dean speaks over Castiel’s entreaty. “You had to know that after..." his voice cracks and he takes a deep breath before continuing, "after Charlie... after you and Sam fucked that shit up royally!... that I'd be... that the Mark would just take the fuck over! You fucking had to know! God damn it, Cas! Look at you!"
Castiel did know that. He knew that the Mark would be close to the surface after such a devastating loss as Charlie’s death. He knew that, but that had no bearing on what Castiel needed to do. Rather than saying as much to Dean he just keeps quiet; not his normal mode of operations, but then, this was far from a normal situation.
Dean topples over a chair that must have been in the way of his pacing. "Stupid ass-backwards angel.” He looks back at Castiel. “What did you hope to prove with that no grace shit, huh? Like I didn't know you held that shit back. I'm fucking batshit crazy, Cas, not goddamn stupid.” Castiel narrows his eyes at that but Dean continues on unfazed. “Just what the fuck were you doing? Didn't you know it? You had to have known it... that I could kill you. That I was just far gone enough to actually do it."
“Dean, yes, I knew that but--”
"You've got a fucking guilty conscious or something?” Castiel huffs because he was getting tired of not being able to join this obviously one-sided conversation. “Seriously,” Dean continues on, oblivious to Castiel’s frustration, “you think you haven't been forgiven for everything that went down in the past... everything, by Sam? By me? Really, is that it? You tryin' to make amends or something? You take the beating out of some whacked out sense of angel self-fucking justice? Is that it?"
He didn’t feel guilty. Not much, anyway. Not anymore. He didn’t keep his grace sheathed out of a sense of justice. If only Dean would let him explain. “Dean, if you’d let--”
"No, you listen to me you sonofabitch... I don't want it... I don't want any of it. We're even, okay? I'm gonna bandage your re-feathered ass up, I’m gonna make sure you don't fucking bleed out -- and dude, what self respecting angel almost bleeds out, for chrissake? -- and I'm gonna send you on your way. Away from me. Away from the Mark. Got it?"
“Dean, for the last time--”
"Castiel! I said. Do. You. Have. It?"
Castiel is angry. ‘Seeing red,’ he believes is the appropriate term. Dean has walked on every attempt Castiel has made to say his peace and now Dean expects Castiel to simply give in? He glares at Dean but Dean simply levels a final hard stare at Castiel and begins to unpack and unwrap the medical supplies.
Castiel lies in the bed and realizes it is difficult to glare at someone who determinedly avoids eye contact. He also notices that his anger fades from red to something less… volatile. He watches as Dean expertly organizes the supplies on the tray. There’s gauze, tape, needles, thread, scissors, and other things he’s not sure he can define. Dean’s hands move deftly, now in healing instead of harming mode. He is an expert at both. Castiel sighs unconsciously. Dean is his mission he tells himself again. He will do what he has to do to save him. Even if it’s to make a soldier’s tactical retreat to fight (for him) again tomorrow.
“Yes, Dean,” he says.
Dean looks up from his inventory, a confused look on his face.
“Yes, I have it. I understand.” Castiel speaks the words softly, but unbroken.
Dean stares at Castiel for a moment then nods. “Well, okay then. Let’s do this.”
Dean reaches for Castiel’s belt buckle and begins to work it open and Castiel startles. “Dean! What are you doing?”
Dean chuckles, "Chill out Virgin Mary -- Heh. But you’re not anymore, are you? -- I'm just helping you lose the pants so I can get a look at this bleeder. I'm not gonna fucking make a move on you, Cas, for the love of... He who is fucking obviously not there! Get a grip will you?"
Castiel knows Dean isn’t going to make a move on him! That is not the concern. He also knows that something is not right with the wound on his thigh. Even a deep laceration, one involving major arteries, usually heals much more quickly than this. But… this is Dean. Dean is about to take down Castiel’s trousers and that is the concern. That is something he did not ever think would happen -- no matter the circumstance. He cannot lie to himself and believe he never thought of it. Fantasized about it. He has… thought about it… often. Now it is happening and apprehension crawls over Castiel’s skin. However, he fights it because, as Dean said, he needs to ‘get a grip.’ This situation is not sexual in nature. Far from it.
Castiel sighs, closes his eyes and tries to relax.
“There you go man.” Dean is quick, precise, and professional as he unfastens Castiel’s belt and unlatches and unzips Castiel’s trousers. He methodically keeps his fingers away from the surface of the fabric before he moves to Castiel’s hips to work the pants down. Castiel releases the breath he didn’t know he held. It feels like all of his vessel’s nerve endings are tingling and he doesn’t think that the pain accounts for all of it.
Dean works the pants down Castiel’s legs as Castiel tries to help shimmy out of them. A blast of pain slices down his leg after a small sideways movement and he cannot suppress the accompanying groan.
Castiel knows Dean heard it, even though Dean continues to look away from Castiel’s eyes -- Dean froze, only for a moment, but it was there. Castiel resolves to try even harder to suppress his auditory manifestations of pain, for Dean’s sake.
Dean carefully climbs onto the bed, presumably to get a better view of the thigh wound. "Crap. Okay... so, you've got fucking fabric all up inside this shit. And... Jesus. It looks like some wood splinters go pretty deep."
Castiel closes his eyes and performs some deep breathing exercises he's seen Sam execute when under stress.
"Look man," Dean says, "I gotta dig in here to get this shit outa you or you might never leave.” Dean stops cold and says, “Shit, I didn't mean it like--"
It's Castiel's turn to interrupt Dean. "It's fine, Dean. I know that was a figure of speech. Do what you have to do." He opens his eyes and levels them on the hunter, holding them to make sure the man can read the trust Castiel feels. Still.
Dean breaks eye contact and reaches towards the tray. He picks up the whiskey and takes a healthy swallow. "Here," he says, handing the bottle to Castiel. "One swig for me and -- look at me being all generous and shit -- two for you. Knock it back, Cas." He helps the angel lift his head and Castiel takes two less healthy swallows, thinking he probably shouldn't have done so given the internal bleeding. He mentally shrugs it off; it's not as if he hasn't been living dangerously for the last decade with the Winchesters, let alone the last several millennia before them.
Dean replaces the whiskey and picks up a set of tweezers. "Alright, time to play Doctor." He stops, lifts his eyebrows in surprise, as if he didn't mean to say such a thing.
Castiel does understand that reference and he lifts a corner of his mouth in his version of a smile.
Dean turns slightly red, looks at what he needs to do and turns even more red. All of a sudden it seems as if Dean recognizes he is positioned between Castiel’s legs. For a man who was just posturing about ‘Virgin Mary’ only seconds ago Castiel thinks this is quite a change in attitude. He likes it. Likes that thinking about it takes his mind away from the pain. "Um... Cas... I gotta... I'm just...," Dean clears his throat and looks away. "I need to spread your legs a bit here... to get to your, um, to your wound better, 'k?"
The wound is rather high on Castiel's thigh, and it is towards the inside -- quite near what the Winchester boys would call "the family jewels." Castiel slowly spreads his legs, angling his knees out to give Dean as much visibility as possible. It's painful, this stretch, and he can't help the hiss that forces itself from his vessel's throat. He feels the pain deep within his leg and it wipes out any other thoughts from his mind.
"Shit," Dean whispers as he looks back at Castiel. "Okay. Just like that. Um. Perfect."
He adjusts a light closer and leans in towards the wound.
"Alright, here we go," he says. "I'm gonna fish out the fabric first so I can see what the hell else is in there."
Castiel tenses and says firmly, "Dean, please, just... begin."
Dean huffs and Castiel can feel him gingerly plucking out the first small pieces of fabric. It sounds like Dean is also gritting his teeth as he says, "I'm serious man, if I wasn't here patching your ass up I'd be kicking it all over again for you letting me do this to you. Jesus!"
Castiel watches the pile of bloody fabric slowly grow on the tray. He's not sure how long it's been but he can see Dean's tee shirt is now full of perspiration and his own thigh now feels like a mix of numbness and electrified nerve endings.
Eventually Dean leans up, stretches his back and says, "Doin' good, Cas. I think I got all of the bits of your pants or whatever that was in here." He tilts his head, looking at the wound critically. "There isn't too much wood but it looks frickin' deep. If there's some piercing your artery I bet that's what’s causing the slow-mo healing."
Dean pauses and places a tentative hand on Castiel's non-injured leg and asks softly, "Are you okay to continue or do you want a break?"
Castiel blinks sweat out of his eyes. He just wants this to be over. "Please," cracks out of his mouth. He clears his throat and tries again. "Please, Dean. If you are able to continue I would like this to be completed... soon." His voice cracks again on the final word and he can see guilt pooled in Dean's eyes but he just doesn't have the strength to comment on it at this moment. He closes his eyes again and hears a softly spoken, "Yeah, Cas. Of course."
Castiel grunts as he feels the tweezers reach in deep. After a few moments Dean says, "Look Cas, there's definitely a piece stuck in your femoral artery but I'm pretty sure it's the last one." Castiel feels Dean's breath against his thigh as he speaks. His breath come fast, but steady. "I'm gonna have to pull it out then quickly put pressure on it. Hopefully once it's out your mojo will take over from there. You with me, Cas? Focus on gettin' your grace to do it's amazing shit right here in this spot, got it?"
It takes a moment for Castiel to process everything Dean said. Once he does he nods and says, "Yes, Dean. I have it." He gives a slight smile. "My grace will be duly focused."
"Okay then. Here we go."
Castiel feels the tweezers grab onto something; something that feels wedged in place and he cannot help the cry that bursts from his lungs. His lungs begin to burn and in the back of his mind he knows it because he's screaming Dean's name over and over. Distantly he hears Dean answer, "Damn it! DAMN IT! I'm sorry, Cas. I am so... fucking... sorry!"
---
Castiel opens his eyes and sees Dean standing over him.
“Heya, Cas. Welcome back man. How do you feel?”
“Good... I feel... good. There is a twinge in my thigh but nothing more substantial than that.”
“You’ve been out for a while. After you… after I removed the last piece I bandaged you up." Castiel wonders what Dean was about to say. After you... passed out? Screamed? Dean approaches the side of the bed. "I didn’t give you any stitches 'cause I figured your grace would heal you up quicker than any stitches could. I changed the dressings a couple 'a hours ago and it looked like it was doing good. Just gonna check again to make sure everything’s still good.”
Dean pulls back the covers and Castiel sees the bright white bandage circling his thigh, the top of it disappearing under his boxers.
“Can you, um…” Dean makes a motion with both of his hands indicating Castiel should spread his legs further.
“Dean,” Castiel starts, “I can do this. You don’t ha--”
“Cas… please. Just… let me do this. I want to. I need to see you completely healed, alright?”
Castiel nods, never removing his eyes from Dean as he slowly parts his legs. He positions them the same way he did for Dean to care for his wound earlier and thankfully, this time he barely feels any pain at all.
Dean climbs onto the bed and situates himself between the angel’s knees and Castiel's breath hitches involuntarily. Dean leans slightly over the angel’s bad thigh and gingerly begins to unravel the tape and gauze. Castiel leans his head back on the pillow and clenches his eyes closed. As irrational as it sounds he wishes he still experienced some pain in his thigh. Maybe that would take his mind off of Dean’s hands... Dean’s gentle hands methodically unraveling the bandage. So close. So…
He takes a deep breath and clenches his hands in the sheets. He feels his... cock -- the word still foreign to his brain -- stir, and that cannot happen. Dean is right there and Castiel’s boxers will hide nothing. Dean will… he will hate Castiel. An anguished half sob escapes Castiel’s mouth and Dean immediately stops what he’s doing.
“Cas? Did I hurt you?”
Castiel keeps his eyes closed and breathes through his mouth. It’s worse now because Dean has momentarily placed his hand on top of the bandage, his fingers lightly skimming it, as if… as if he’s soothing the angel.
“Cas?” Dean asks again.
“It’s fine Dean. I am… I’m fine.”
“But… am I hurting you?” Dean’s fingers still travel lightly over the bandage.
“Dean, you are not hurting me.” He feels himself grow harder, knows his erection is going to be visible soon if it’s not currently. He can’t let Dean see that he… that he… he can’t! He bends his good leg up, angled to try and block Dean’s view. As he does so he knocks Dean slightly away and Dean protests.
“Hey, Cas! What the Hell? If I’m not hurting you then hold your damn horses. I’m almost done." He pushes back on Castiel's raised leg to move in to finish the job and he stops, sudden, and with a small hitch to his breath. Castiel groans low because he knows Dean sees... knows Dean must feel disgust... outrage. Dean will surely kick him out now... maybe with another beating. The angel groans again in misery.
“Dean… I apologize profusely. I… please… let me just get up and I will leave immediately.”
Dean finally looks Castiel in the eyes instead of staring at the hard bulge in front of him. Castiel braces for the anger but doesn't see any in the hunter's eyes, or hear any in his voice. “Cas… Cas… shhh… it’s okay. Shhh. It’s okay man.”
Castiel leans up on his elbows to look the hunter in his eyes. “Dean, I didn’t mean for this to ever happen in your presence… but you are right there…and... and I have such little control over… it. The angel flails his arm in the general direction of his crotch.
“Hey, hey…,” Dean whispers. “I said it’s okay. Hush.” Castiel is thoroughly confused. He cannot believe Dean hasn't shouted obscenities, at the very least, at Castiel. But Dean does nothing even remotely approaching what the angel would expect from the brash man lodged between his legs. Dean simply unravels the rest of the bandage, slowly, and unlike before, his hands make a point to touch and glide over Castiel's newly exposed skin, interspersing his touches with kisses.
Castiel hangs his head back and groans. “Dean… what… what are you doing?” But the man doesn't answer.
The bandage is finally removed and Castiel hears it whisp to the floor just as Dean trails his fingers over the sensitive white line that still remains on Castiel’s thigh. “What am I doing?” he asks, his voice gone low and rough. “I’m doing what I should have done years ago.”
Dean kisses his way up Castiel, detouring first to each of the angel’s hips and sucking marks on each side. The marks won't last, to Castiel's dismay. Dean murmurs as he goes, some things Castiel can pick out, others he can’t. He hears, “wanted this,” and “so long, Cas,” and “taste so fucking good” before Dean is hovering in Castiel’s face, just staring at the angel. Their eyes bore into each other, as they always have, piercing green locked with oceanic blue, blurring as they both move together to touch lips for the first time, so sweetly, as if each kiss is a touch to a butterfly's wing. The gentleness quickly gives way to a burning desire for more and Castiel opens for Dean’s seeking tongue and consuming lips. It’s all hard and deep and so very, very good.
Then Dean pulls back and Castiel groans, wanting those lips against his forever. For millennia. Dean takes Castiel’s hair firmly in one hand and angles his head up so the man can run his mouth along the angel’s exposed neck. Castiel shudders as he feels Dean's words against his throat. “Want this, Cas?” Dean slides his mouth to Castiel’s collarbone and nips along its length. “I want you so bad… fucking always wanted you, you bastard… always wanted to plunge my mouth onto yours, my cock into you… God, I want you, Cas. Do you? Do you want it?”
“Dean!” Castiel is awash in sensation. “Yes, yes! Very much so! I’ve wanted you too… wanted those things… and more. Please…”
Dean groans and devours Castiel’s mouth for long minutes before he pulls back to remove his tee shirt. He discards it off to the side and straddles Castiel’s hips. The angel reaches up and touches that beautiful body… the body he rebuilt, atom by atom to become once again a man of the most unimaginable beauty -- inside and out. He cannot believe that he can touch him again, here, like this. It is almost enough to believe God still grants miracles. “Gorgeous,” he says. “Dean... you are absolutely gorgeous.”
Dean huffs -- brushing off Castiel's words because they make him embarrassed. Castiel wishes the man had even a modicum of self-worth -- and takes Castiel’s hands and guides them over the angel’s head. The hunter then leans down and takes Castiel’s left nipple in his mouth causing the angel to moan loud and long. He had no idea that his nipples could feel like that. Dean bites, hard enough to sting (and yes, Castiel can feel that, even given his grace) and then moves to the other nipple to torture it as well. Castiel breaks free from Dean’s hold to run his fingers through the man’s short soft hair, to pull his mouth closer still to the reddening nub on his chest. “Dean… it feels so good… I never knew…”
"Didn't that reaper... didn't that bitch touch you like this?" Dean sounds breathless, harsh sounds underlying harsh words.
"No one, Dean... nothing has ever felt like this." He knows he sounds broken, wrecked.
"Jesus, Cas." The man groans, pushing hot breath across the angel's nipple. "You're gonna make me come just from your words."
Dean laps a last taste of Castiel’s nipple and looks into the angel’s eyes as he slowly drags his fingers down to the waistband of Castiel’s boxers. Castiel nods, knowing Dean is looking for consent. He has never wanted something so much in the entirety of his existence.
Castiel lifts up to allow Dean to remove the angel's last article of clothing. Dean sits up then and removes his belt before unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. He looks at Castiel with what the angel knows are lust-blown eyes; the beautiful green almost completely gone, taken over by black. Castiel shivers slightly and thinks to himself, not that kind of black. He is not a demon. The Mark has not taken over!
Castiel moves his focus to the bulge behind Dean's boxer briefs. It is framed by the V of Dean's open zipper and there is a small wet spot where the head of Dean's erection almost breeches the waistband.
"Dean. I want..." Castiel stops because he doesn't know what he wants. He wants everything, all at once. It's almost overwhelming.
Dean leaves himself confined in his briefs and leans down over the angel, a mischievous smile on the man's face.
Castiel yells when he feels Dean... the tip of Dean’s tongue delve into the opening crowning the angel’s erection. “Dean!” he cries.
Castiel flails his arms, fingers clenching against air. He doesn’t know what to do, where to put his hands... doesn’t know how to never let this go. "Dean," he rasps again, eventually letting his hands fall to Dean's hair, restless but not directive.
Dean licks up the copious pre-come that spills from Castiel's length. "God, Cas... you taste so fucking good!" Castiel feels Dean taking the head into his mouth -- so warm! so wet! -- and moving his tongue in circles before taking in more of Castiel... in and out... in and out... and Castiel fights with himself to keep his eyes open, keep them on Dean. Watching those glorious lips stretch to take him in, watching the outline of his... of his cock against Dean's cheek, watching the man's eyes close in pleasure.
Then Dean moans around Castiel's length. The pleasure is almost too much to bear. “Dean… your mouth… your mouth… so hot… so wet… please… I need... I need to…” Castiel knows he’s rambling but he cannot help himself. His fingers clench and unclench in Dean's hair... needing... just needing....
Castiel opens eyes he didn't know had fallen closed when he feels Dean pull off. Please, no, he thinks.
The hunter's eyes blaze up at Castiel, his lips puffed and shiny. “Do it, Cas." His voice sounds punctured, but Castiel can see the smile in his eyes as he continues. "Do it. It’s been years… but I can take it… do it…."
Castiel isn’t completely sure he knows what Dean means and he just stares at the man for a moment as he craves for that hot wetness to return.
Dean positions his mouth at the tip of Castiel's cock, locking his eyes on the angel. "Do it, Cas," he says again, "fuck my mouth," as he wraps his lips loosely back onto Castiel.
Castiel grunts and his hips push up almost involuntarily. Yes... that... fuck his mouth... fuck Dean's mouth... ohhhh....
He stabs up once, unable to help himself. Dean backs away slightly but keeps himself locked to Castiel's length. Castiel pushes up again, not as deep, before pulling almost completely out. He rocks himself back up and in, finding a rhythm that quickly increases in pace. A litany of praises, in English, in Enochian, in... he has no idea what other languages... fall from his mouth, “Oh, Dean… ah… ah… so good… so… good! Your mouth... it's... oh, Dean, just like... oh, Dean..."
Distantly he feels Dean rock below him and he knows that the man has himself in hand. It’s just too much. "Dean… I’m… I’m going to... Dean...” The angel pushes in, touching the back of the man's throat and stills, overcome with pleasure as it shoots through him pulsing out his length and into Dean's mouth. Castiel pushes up a couple more times but then Dean's mouth is gone.
“Not gonna last to get… to get in you Cas. Want that so bad... but not... gonna last... turn, Cas... turn over." Dean's words are breathy, staccato.
Castiel turns over onto his stomach and Dean immediately moves his hips between the angel's legs.
"Oh God, Cas... let me just… oh, God… yes… let me...” Castiel feels wet, solid slickness behind his balls and he instinctively pushes back.
“Close your... your legs, Cas... yes… just... just like that. Oh… Cas… feels so... want that hole so bad, Cas… want to slide in…."
Castiel moans along with Dean as he feel the man's cock catch at his entrance -- catch and hold for too short of a time -- as he pushes in and out between the angel's legs. It feels so good... so much like a promise. So much so that the angel has to say, over his shoulder to a straining Dean, “Next time Dean… next time you will be inside me when you come.”
Dean screams Castiel's full name as he plunges hard between the angel's legs and comes hot and sticky against the angel's hole.
---
It is awkward once Dean regains his composure. Castiel knows that he, as an angel with little social awareness, is awkward anyway, and he knows Dean is not... eloquent in the best of times, let alone directly after having sex with his best friend... shortly after trying to kill him.
It is awkward, but possibly not as bad as it could have been. Castiel cleans them both with a touch of his restored grace and Dean mumbles a thanks. Dean rolls off of Castiel and sits at the side of the bed running his hands through his hair. Bed Head, the boys would call it. Castiel knows he's been accused of having it in the past, and now Dean makes his own look even worse as he worries his hands through it. Castiel cannot help but think it is a good look on him.
The angel pulls himself up to lean against the headboard and he covers himself with the rumpled sheet. He's not sure why he does so... given the intimacy of the preceding moments. He wonders when Dean will kick him out. He wonders if this... changes anything for Dean.
"So, Cas." Dean cuts into Castiel's thoughts. He stands up, tucks himself in, re-zips and buttons his jeans. He doesn't look at the angel. "Look... when you're up to it--"
"I meant it, Dean," Castiel cuts in.
Dean turns to stare at the angel. "Meant what?" Castiel can tell Dean's walls are slamming shut again, if indeed they opened at all during their… during whatever this just was.
"All of it." Castiel holds Dean's gaze. "That I'm your friend. That I won't just leave you to this fate. That... next time you will be inside--"
"Cas! Are you fucking crazy? Don’t you freakin’ get it? It’s not going to get any better. I’m not going to get better. And I… you’re too good of a friend for me to let you stay around… for me to… for me to hurt you, Cas. I’d never forgive myself. I almost… I…”
“Dean, I do not blame you. It’s the Mark that takes control, that distorts your will.”
“I thought I lost you, Cas. I thought I lost you, to me.” Dean's voice breaks on the last word. "I can't Cas. I just can't."
“I meant what I said, Dean. I am your friend. I cannot… I will not take that back.”
Dean stares at the angel like he simply cannot understand Castiel's words. The man shakes his head slowly before reaching for the door. "Cas... Castiel... please... when you can... just please... go. I need you man. I need you alive." Dean opens the door and walks out, his boots echoing along the hallway. He doesn’t look back.
Castiel, however, is not disturbed by Dean’s exit because the angel knows two things. First, he knows he will not rest until that Mark is removed. Second, he knows he will always stay with Dean, no matter what the man says. Because that's what love is. And Castiel loves Dean.