Chapter Text
"Don’t rush, you’ll fall." Dean’s hands stayed firmly on Cas as he helped him hobble toward the bed.
“I’m fine,” Cas grumbled, his tone clipped. Once seated, he shifted awkwardly, struggling to get comfortable with the newly applied bandage. A frustrated grunt escaped him as he rolled onto his side, wincing as he tried to avoid putting pressure on the bruises scattered across the rest of his body from their fall through the ceiling. “Besides,” he added, his words low but determined, “don’t we have more pressing matters to deal with? We need to focus on finding Metatron.”
Dean stopped short, eyebrows shooting up. “Seriously? After everything we just went through, that’s where your head’s at?”
Cas turned his gaze to Dean, unyielding despite the lines of pain etched into his face. “We can’t stop working. The Darkness is still out there.”
Dean sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “I know,” he conceded. “But it’s late, and it’s been a long day. Plus, Sam’s on it. He’s digging into Metatron, the Darkness, and hell, even fixes for your grace. He’ll shout if he needs us.”
“I want to help.”
“You can help,” Dean said, his voice firm. “By resting. The last thing we need is for this to start all over again.”
Cas sat up slightly, his frustration palpable. “I need to be useful, Dean.”
Dean stiffened, his jaw clenching as he took in Cas’s stubborn expression. Any hope he’d had that their recent confessions would fix everything evaporated. They’d barely made it back to the bunker, with a pit stop at one of their dad’s old contacts to patch Cas' fractured ankle up on the fly, before falling right back into the same argument.
Dean couldn’t entirely blame Cas. After all, he’d spent his own life under the shadow of John Winchester’s teachings, his worth defined by how well he protected his brother, kept the family together. His life, his wants, and his needs didn’t matter. They never had. Cas, in his own way, had been moulded just the same—raised wasn’t quite the right word, conditioned was closer to the mark. From the moment he’d gained sentience, Cas had been ordered to obey without question or suffer the consequences. He wasn’t a person. He wasn’t even an individual. He was a tool, a soldier in God’s grand plan.
Undoing that millennia of damage was going to take more than a few heartfelt words and a hug.
“You are useful,” Dean said, his voice dropping an octave. “But like it or not, for right now you’re human, and you’re not gonna do us any good if you push yourself until you drop. Your foot needs time to heel.”
Cas opened his mouth, but Dean held up a hand to stop him. “Look, I get it. You wanna do more. You hate sitting on the sidelines. But sometimes, Cas… sometimes you gotta let people take care of you for a change.”
“I could say the same to you,” he countered, and for a moment, the tension between them hung thick and heavy, neither of them willing to fully acknowledge they were both right.
Cas glanced away first, his shoulders relaxing just slightly as he muttered, “Fine. I’ll rest. For now.”
Dean let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “Good,” he said gruffly, turning toward the doorway. “I’ll grab us something to eat. And don’t think about Metatron, or the Darkness, or any of that crap while I’m gone.”
Cas watched him go, his expression unreadable. Even though he agreed to rest, Dean knew this wasn’t over. Not the argument, not the feelings simmering just beneath the surface. But for now, he’d take the small victories.
Unfortunately, Dean had barely made it halfway down the hall before a crash echoed behind him, followed by a familiar, pained grunt.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean grumbled as he hurried back.
Rounding the door, he stopped short, staring down at the sorry excuse for an angel sprawled in a crumpled heap on the floor.
"I thought you were supposed to be good at following instructions?"
Crouching down to haul Cas off the floor, taking full advantage of his weakened state, Dean picked him up effortlessly, in the same way Sam had done back at that warehouse. With Cas’s weight sagging heavily against him, Dean sat down first, shifting him onto his lap with practiced ease, his grip firm and unwavering. He held Cas securely, almost instinctively, as if shielding him from the world or perhaps from himself, preventing any more mishaps.
“This is incredibly embarrassing,” Cas craned his neck to glare at him, righteous indignation flickering in his tired blue eyes.
“And whose fault is that?” Dean shifted them until they were both lying side by side.
Going with the movement, sliding down the bed careful not to nudge the offending ankle, Cas glowered, “You don’t have to baby me.”
Dean snorted, clearly amused. “Yeah, well, maybe if you stopped acting like a baby, I wouldn’t have to. Just—come on, man. Try and sleep, okay? It’ll make me feel better.”
Cas didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, he muttered a low, disgruntled “Fine,” and settled down, his head against Dean’s chest with visible reluctance. His body was tense at first, like he was bracing for more scolding, but the steady cadence of Dean’s breathing and the rough pad of his thumb smoothing over Cas’s furrowed brow gradually coaxed him into relaxing.
It didn’t take long. Within minutes, Cas’s breathing evened out, the tension in his limbs easing as sleep overtook him. Soft, snuffling sounds escaped him—quiet, barely-there noises that Dean had heard before, on long drives in the Impala from when Cas had lost his powers the first time.
Dean stayed still, one hand idly trailing against Cas’s temple, the other resting against his back. He told himself he wasn’t doing this for his own sake—that it wasn’t about the weird sense of calm that washed over him whenever Cas was this close. It was just… practical. Keeping Cas from falling again. That was it. That’s what he told himself, anyway.
But as he glanced down at the angel nestled against him, his chest rising and falling in time with Dean’s, he couldn’t stop the edges of his mouth from twitching into the faintest of smiles.
“Don’t need to baby him, my ass.”
“Oh, you’ve got it bad.”
Dean’s head snapped up, startled. Sam stood in the doorway, his silhouette haloed by the warm light from the bunker's corridor.
“Bitch,” Dean muttered without heat, scrambling for something to say that might distract from the angel cradled in his arms.
“Jerk,” Sam shot back, his grin softening the exchange. His smile carried a message Dean didn’t need spoken.
They fell into a contemplative silence. Sam strolled over and took the seat that had been Dean’s from the first time they brought Cas home, weak and unresponsive, while Dean remained where he was, stretched out on his bed with Castiel—former soldier of Heaven and Dean's constant in an ever-changing world—sound asleep against him.
Dean shifted under Cas’s weight, his grip firm and steady, refusing to let his angel slump further. Minutes passed in heavy silence, the kind that seemed to stretch endlessly, until a thought resurfaced in Dean’s mind—something that had been gnawing at the edges ever since that haunted hellhole had let them go.
“Hey,” he broke the quiet, his tone rough yet curious. “Why didn’t you have to face your fear or whatever?”
Sam blinked, clearly caught off guard but oddly pleased by the question. “Oh,” he began, tugging his shirt down to reveal a marking etched just above his anti-possession tattoo. “I had this.”
Dean squinted at the mark, then frowned. “Wait. You’re telling me you managed to find time to research and get yourself a new tattoo?”
Sam snorted, shaking his head. “No, of course not. It’s marker.” His tone carried that familiar edge of exasperation mixed with brotherly humour. “Once I saw the symbols outside the building, I figured I needed something to protect myself, so I gave it a shot. Didn’t know if it’d work, but...” He shrugged, as if the outcome had been inevitable.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up, his disbelief palpable. “Wow. You carry felt pens in your pockets? You’re such a nerd.”
Their laughter bubbled up, light and cathartic, breaking through the lingering tension like a breath of fresh air. But as the laughter faded, silence settled again, quieter, heavier.
“I know what it’s like to have to face who you really are,” Sam began, his tone deep and thoughtful.
“Sam—” Dean breathed, nervous. He wasn’t ready to go there. Not yet.
“I’m just saying, you don’t have to hide who you are or how you feel. Not from me.” Sam held his gaze. Then he nodded toward Cas, his gaze lingering on the sleeping angel. “And certainly not from him.”
Dean looked down at Cas, still and silent in his arms. Demons, angels, and countless others had called him Dean’s, but he’d never dare to believe it. Cas was always too unpredictable, there one minute, gone the next. He was the brightest star in the sky, while Dean felt like the faint glimmer of a candle struggling to stay alight. How could he ever live up to be what Cas deserved? Cas was everything to him—his safe place in the dark. Wherever Cas went, Dean wanted to follow. There had been a time when Dean didn’t care much about his own life—as long as Sam was by his side, he had a reason to keep fighting—but now, it was different. Now, he wanted to live for Cas, too—wanted to live with Cas.
“Sammy, I don’t know. I—” he started, but when his eyes lifted again, the chair was empty. Sam had slipped out, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts.
Swallowing what he’d intended to say, Dean closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. As long as Castiel was in the world, Dean had someone who truly understood him. Someone who could challenge him but also accept him completely. He’d never had that before, and he was certain he wouldn’t again. He couldn’t say with conviction that he believed in soul mates, but he also couldn’t deny that some people were just meant to be together. It was just his dumb luck that the person meant for him wasn’t even a person—they were a goddamn angel with a self-deprecating personality and authority complex.
“You want to split Cas’ share?”
Dean’s eyes snapped open, disoriented. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Sam stood before him, holding three glasses of amber liquid.
Taking one, Dean offered a crooked smile and pointed to the bedside table. “He can have it when he wakes up.”
Sam nodded, a grin spreading as he pulled his chair closer to the bed, hiking his clown feet up to rest on the mattress. "Yeah, Bobby used to give us whiskey when we were sick as kids, and it never did us any harm. I’m sure the same logic applies to newly de-angeled humans, right?"
He held his glass out, and Dean clinked his own against it.
No more words were spoken, just a shared look of understanding. Dean turned his attention back to Cas and made a silent promise: no matter how far apart they might travel, no matter who or what tried to come between them, Dean would always find a way to tell Cas he loves him.
End.