Random Dean/Cas

[tiptoe39]

Castiel is still sitting on Bobby's chair in the den after Dean returns from a long-awaited shower to wash off the dust of the Wild West. In Bobby's absence, Castiel takes up the mantle of grumpy old man and wears it damn well, presiding over the room with labored attempts to sit up straight, groans, and reproachful glances at Dean, like it's Dean's fault Castiel's not feeling well. Dean would be insulted if it weren't for the rush of concern he gets when he sees the blood still oozing from beneath the bandage across Castiel's side.

"How's it feel?" Dean crosses the room to take a closer look.

Castiel opens his coat gingerly. His shirt's unbuttoned, hanging loosely around him, a brown-red blotch adorning the left side like an oversized rose. "It will heal," Castiel reminds him testily.

"That's not what I asked," Dean says. "I asked you how it feels."

Castiel glares at him. "Painful."

Dean sits down in beside him on the couch. "Let me see," he says, and the protest is on the tip of Castiel's tongue, very nearly bitten off into the air, when Dean's fingers slide along the contours of the bandage, pulling on the bare curve of Castiel's waist to twist him closer.

Instead, Castiel's eyelashes flutter, and his gaze catches Dean's. "Thank you," he says.

Weirdly embarrassed, Dean lowers his eyes to examine the wound. "Yeah, of course," he mumbles, and his fingers spread across the corners of the bandage so he can see how the skin flexes there, how deep and wide the bleeding might go. It looks to be fairly contained. If this were Sam he'd do with a few stitches; Castiel doesn't even need that. He nods, as though agreeing with himself in a silent conversation, and folds in his lips to press them together.

"Dean." Castiel's voice wobbles at the edge of his perception. "I--"

The word catches, and the sentence dies there. False starts are so unlike Cas, Dean looks up again in surprise. "What?"

Castiel looks as stunned as Dean is at the sudden uncooperativeness of his voice. He squints, almost crosses his eyes, and chews on his lip briefly. He finally settles on words -- Dean can see his eyes glint with the decision -- and says, gingerly, as though stepping on sharp stones, "I do not wish to appear selfish."

Dean thinks about pointing out that he and Sam are the selfish ones, at least according to Castiel's late cohort, but Castiel's a breath away, Dean's hand still splayed against his torso, and there isn't room for his bravado in so small a space. "OK," he says, just as carefully. "But..?"

Castiel is still calculating his next words. "But," he echoes, and then swallows, stiffening in sudden pain as his chest rises, "I am having a difficult time." A soft, surprised chuckle follows the words. "That is an understatement."

His eyes crinkle at the outside edges, Dean realizes. Has he ever noticed that before? Or is Castiel starting to show fatigue and age in his vessel's face now? Dean's chest hurts, and he fights back an isolated urge to run his fingers along the telltale lines. Instead, he presses his hand along Castiel's side a mite harder, fingers slipping around to hold instead of just feel. A moment later, Castiel's weight leans into the grip, and Dean can feel him exhale, feel his ribs relax as air whooshes out of him. It's a good feeling, to be witness to the release of tension. Dean feels himself relaxing in sympathy.

"I know you are," he says. "And Cas, if there's anything we can do--"

"This," Castiel says. "Do this." A warm insistence to his voice, an urgency Dean's never heard from him before, at least, not for his own sake alone. Before, it was always matters of heavenly war or earthly apocalypse that brought out the growl in his tone, but--

And Dean's thoughts skid off a cliff into nothing as Castiel's head bobs, then nods against Dean's chest.

Dean's first response is to panic. "Cas? Did you pass out?" But Castiel's breath is now rising and falling against his skin, and he's wormed his way closer. Another breath and Castiel's hand has found Dean's hip, pulling his body in with a sharp tug on bone and a shift of weight.

They're flush now, Castiel's chest pressed into Dean's, and his head bobs briefly against Dean's shoulder before burrowing in. Dean's fingers are still captive at Castiel's waist, tugging harder despite the voice in Dean's head that says this is dangerous, this is uncharted territory. His mind is racing, fear and nerves and embarrassment cooking up a million questions in his head - what's wrong with him? Am I doing something wrong? Should I break away?

But for all the scampering of unruly thoughts in his head, his body feels warm, languid, accepting. His arm has slid back now, nestling in the small of Castiel's back, and the expanse of skin against his forearm isn't scary, isn't wrong, doesn't feel dangerous. It's just there, constant, radiating heat at him, and the heat's seeping into Dean's bones too, pulling him closer. Making him want more.

"Cas?" he manages to whisper, his lips dangerously close to Castiel's ear now, and the dark hair shakes in response. Castiel doesn't want to answer. Of course he doesn't, Dean thinks. He's even more out of his depth right now than Dean is. His arm tightens on Castiel's back at the thought. As lost as he is, Castiel has it worse. At least Dean knows the language of bodies touching. He can guide Cas through this new experience. He can be useful to him like that.

His hand hovers on Castiel's shoulder, then slides down across his back, tugging, bringing Castiel's weight down against him. A gasp sounds sharp against his shoulder, and Dean smiles, settling back into the couch cushions and gazing up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. "It's OK, Cas," he says, feeling like he's gone back in time, feeling like the big brother cradling a crying Sam in his arms again. "I'm here. You're OK."

A whimper sounds, soft, near his ear. Dean's eyes close. This much he can do.


(Sequel is here.)