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The room smells like cheap soap and blood.
Castiel’s blood, mostly. It’s still drying beneath his shirt, a jagged tear running from rib to hip where the hellhound caught him. He hasn’t healed it yet. Not fully. Not even close.
Dean hasn’t stopped pacing since they got back from the hunt.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Dean mutters for the third time.
Castiel doesn’t respond. He sits on the edge of the motel bed, stiff and silent, shoulders drawn in like he’s trying to make himself smaller. He hasn’t taken off his coat. There’s a smear of dirt on his cheekbone and dried blood crusting at his temple.
Dean runs a hand through his hair and turns on him. “You shouldn’t have thrown yourself in front of me like that, Cas.”
“I had to,” Castiel replies quietly. “It would’ve killed you.”
Dean’s eyes flash. “So what? That makes it okay for it to kill you instead?”
Castiel tilts his head slightly, brows furrowing in that familiar way. “Yes.”
The word is so simple. So final. Like there’s no argument to be had.
Dean makes a noise like he’s been punched.
“You ever think maybe I don’t want you dying for me?” he says, voice sharp. “That maybe—maybe I’m sick of you thinking you’re the only one who gets to do the saving?”
Castiel’s eyes drop to the floor. “It isn’t about that.”
“Then what is it about?” Dean demands. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you don’t care what happens to you.”
Castiel’s hands clench in his lap. He doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want Dean to hear it, not like this. Not with anger in his voice and blood still drying on the walls.
But he’s tired. Tired of holding it in. Tired of pretending he isn’t breaking every time Dean smiles at someone else like that smile doesn’t belong to Castiel.
“I do care,” he says, and his voice is barely a whisper. “Just not about myself.”
Dean freezes.
The silence stretches until it hurts.
“Cas…” he says, softer now. “Where the hell is this coming from?”
Castiel looks up. Finally. His eyes are wide and tired, too blue in the harsh motel light.
“I know I’m not...” He swallows. “I know I’m difficult to be around. I don’t understand things the way you and Sam do. I say things wrong. I don’t always know what you need. But when it comes to keeping you safe, I know how to do that. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.”
Dean moves closer, slowly, like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
“You think that’s all you are to me?” he asks. “A bodyguard?”
“No,” Castiel murmurs. “I think I’m an obligation. A burden. Something you tolerate.”
Dean stares at him, stunned. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t know was there. Something fragile and breaking at the edges.
“You really believe that?”
“I’ve been alive a long time, Dean,” Castiel says, voice trembling. “And I’ve loved many things. But no one’s ever… loved me back. Not really. I don’t expect it anymore.”
Dean crouches in front of him, eyes blazing.
“You think I don’t care? That I don’t—” His breath hitches. “You’re wrong.”
Castiel laughs softly. It’s a bitter sound. “You say that because you’re kind. Because you want to fix me.”
“No,” Dean growls. “I say it because it’s true.”
He reaches up, hand trembling, and cups Castiel’s face. The touch is reverent, grounding. Castiel leans into it before he can stop himself.
Dean’s voice drops to a whisper. “You walk around like you don’t matter. Like you're something people have to put up with. But you’re not. You’re—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You’re everything, Cas.”
Castiel’s breath catches. He blinks, and a tear slips free before he can hide it.
“You don’t mean that,” he says.
Dean leans closer. Forehead to forehead. Hands holding him like something precious.
“I’ve meant it for years,” Dean says, raw and quiet. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”
They sit there, still and close, with the night pressing in around them and the hum of a flickering motel light overhead.
Castiel closes his eyes and whispers, “I’m so tired of not being wanted.”
Dean’s hand tightens around his. “Then let me show you how wrong you are.”