Dean was upset.
Dean was upset pretty often, to be honest, but Cas had learned the differences. Sometimes "upset" was really just annoyance, caused by Sam's hair in the bathroom drain again or Cas leaving the milk on the counter. Sometimes "upset" was for fun, fake huffs and the too-straight-to-be-natural lips Dean got when he wouldn't let himself laugh at Kevin or Charlie's bad jokes again. Cas had learned that "upset" was a scale, tipping one way or another with any small shift in the bunker that Dean couldn't control.
But this wasn't the usual gone-in-an-hour "upset".
Dean was upset. And it was Castiel's fault.
Castiel and his bleeding shoulder, the blood dripping down and tickling his arm all the way. The ghost had caught him by surprise and threw him against a wall, but that wasn't anything new. That had happened to all of them, more often than any of them wanted to admit. But the huge decorative metal sunflower on the wall, well, that wasn't something every house had.
He wasn't sure how exactly it had happened, if one of the large petals had been bent previously or if he had hit it at just the right angle, but whatever it had been, it hadn't gone well for him. Cas had thought he had just hit a mantle or something at first, and he clenched his jaw against the sound trying to escape. It was like feeling a hot punch to his shoulder, shock blunting the sharp pain of sliced flesh. It wasn't until he felt the blood trickling down his arm that he realized he had been stabbed.
Stabbed by a fucking sunflower. Once Dean calmed down, Cas was never going to hear the end of this.
Dean and Sam had dealt with the ghost pretty quickly after that, Dean looking more panicked than usual. They had patched him up enough to drive back to the bunker, not too far away, and Dean told him he'd fix him up better when they got home.
With how upset Dean was, Cas wasn't sure he wanted him to.
He trailed after them as they got out of the Impala, carefully avoiding the right sides of door frames and hallways. Charlie's voice was echoing through the bunker, yelling from what sounded like the war room, probably something at Kevin about a game or show again.
Dean and Sam made eye contact and nodded, looking tired.
"Hey, I'll see you guys in a bit, I'm going to shower and probably nap before braving that," Sam waved his hand tiredly in the direction of the noise.
"Yeah, us too." Dean replied, already splitting off to the right. "See you later." He said shortly, barely raising his voice enough to be heard behind him.
Cas sighed, watching him go for a moment. Hopefully he wasn't angry-upset. "We'll see you later, Sam." He nodded to him and followed Dean down the hall to their bedroom.
Their bedroom.
God that sounded nice. It hadn't been theirs for too long, but Cas was already too in love with the idea to let himself think it was anything but permanent.
Even now, as Dean stomped his way into their room and turned to look at him with Greek fire in his eyes, Cas wanted this to be his forever. Sharing a room, sharing breaths, sharing moments stolen in the day, here and there.
Maybe not this, exactly, he could do without the flaring nostrils and the crossed arms, but he'd take every second he could get.
"Sit down." Dean said, grabbing his first aid kit. "Coat off, shirt off."
Cas sighed and slowly dropped his trenchcoat, the material sticking strangely to his bloody arm. He used his good arm to loosen his tie, pulling it just enough to slip over his head. He reached for his shirt buttons, but his hurt shoulder burned in protest, the makeshift gauze and tape pulling on the skin around it. He made a wounded sound, then grimaced at himself for it. He had been hurt far worse before, he should be able to handle this.
"Hold on," Dean said, soft for the first time since they got to the bunker, stepping forward and slowly lowering Cas' hands. He undid Cas' shirt buttons one at a time, gently, as if he thought going too fast would worsen the injury. "How are you feeling?" He asked, still feather-soft, as he lowered Cas' shirt off his shoulders and let it drop, leaving Cas in only his undershirt.
"I'll live," Cas replied quietly, with some kind of grim humor he only found when he was bleeding on someone's carpet. It just usually wasn't his own carpet. "I'm sorry." He said softly, feeling like a child approaching a street cat. He might be a little afraid, and it might hiss and bite, but, man, did it look soft and tempting.
"What?" Dean seemed genuinely confused as he rested his hands on Cas' hips, gently rubbing his thumbs on his hip bones. "Why are you sorry?"
Cas shrugged the one shoulder it didn't hurt to move. He couldn't look Dean in the face. He felt himself detach from the situation, emotionally withdrawing behind makeshift barricades. For how short of a time he'd been human, he'd figured out a lot about himself. He didn't like cold feet. He loved hot showers. Chocolate was worth fighting over.
And he couldn't stand anger.
He didn't know why, and he hadn't tried too hard to figure out the cause. Fighting sent him out of the room, in search of a calm corner to hide out it. Raised voices made him feel like a child, like the child he had never been, flinching and shrinking away from the anger.
Maybe it was just because it was usually Sam and Dean, people he loved like family.
Maybe he'd seen his own family torn apart too badly to be patchworked back together again and knew how that felt. Knew how it destroyed everyone involved.
Maybe he couldn't have that happen again, just as he found a family after all this time.
He didn't know why. But he couldn't look Dean in the eyes.
"Hey," Dean gently nudged his nose against Cas' cheek. "Hey, Angel. I'm not mad at you."
Cas narrowed his eyes at the gun on the wall behind Dean's left ear.
Dean sighed quietly and nudged him again. "I'm really not. I mean, yeah, be more careful next time, you asshole, but it's not your fault you're hurt."
"Okay," Cas felt himself slowly coming back into the conversation, cautiously looking somewhere near Dean's eyes. "But you are mad." He flinched a little at himself for saying it, but he knew it was true. He'd rather get it out there than have it simmering underneath them until it boiled over and burned them both.
"Yeah," Dean admitted. He stepped back and started peeling Cas' undershirt up, prodding him to raise his arms. "I'm mad at myself." He turned away, dropping the bloody shirt on the pile with the rest of the clothes. "Get on the bed."
Cas slowly walked over and sat on the bed, feet flat on the floor and back straight and he sank into the memory foam. "Why are you mad at yourself?"
"Mmm," Dean seemed to be searching for words, or actively running from them, as he walked around the bed. Castiel felt the mattress dip ever so slightly as Dean kneeled behind him, peeling off the tape from the temporary bandage. He hissed through his teeth, but said, "It's not too bad. You're gonna feel it for a while, that's for sure, but you don't need surgery or anything."
"Dean," Cas closed his eyes at the prodding, clenching his fists. "Why are you mad at yourself?"
Dean sighed again, and Cas felt the ice cube sting of disinfectant. "I'm a piece of shit, Cas."
"What?" Cas screwed up his face, both at the sensation and the words. "No, you're not. You're a good man."
"Nah," Dean's tone was almost casual, but too light, like a helium balloon waiting for his string to be cut. "I'm not."
"You're…" Cas felt himself grasp for words. Kind. Brave. Loving. Strong. Thoughtful. "You're great." Damn it. He would punch himself in the face if he thought it wouldn't undo all the work Dean was putting into his shoulder right now.
"Well, I don't feel very great." Cas felt a pressure on the back of his good shoulder and Dean's hair brushing against his skin. "You're hurt, Cas." He could feel Dean's breath against his back, and suppressed a shiver. "I couldn't stop it. I couldn't protect you."
"You can't protect me all the time, Dean."
"I can damn sure try, Angel."
Cas sighed and closed his eyes, trying to think of how to convince Dean he shouldn't be mad at himself. Any route would just lead back here, it seemed, like the innumerable dead ends of a labyrinth. So what should he say? What could he say?
He felt Dean lean back and start fiddling with the first aid kit again, probably getting ready to stitch him up. He hated stitches, they hurt for days. He never wanted to do anything except sit and let himself heal, trying to avoid the pulling pinch of moving them. It was like when Charlie got a cold, ordering them all around and complaining she couldn't do anything because…
"You can't argue with me." Cas said, opening his eyes and looking at the TV in front of him.
"Uh, pretty sure I can, Cas?" Dean sounded confused.
"No you can't. I'm sick."
"You're not sick, Cas, you're injured." Dean rustled around behind him again.
"Same thing, Dean." Cas insisted stubbornly. "You have to let me win. Because I'm sick. Or injured, I suppose."
Dean snorted, "Oh, is that how it works? Someone's been spending too much time with Charlie." Cas felt a hand on his arm, a support and a warning. "Gonna start stitching you up now." Dean said quietly.
"Yes, that is how it works," Cas gritted his teeth against the pain, still unwilling to lose the argument. "You can't argue with me."
"Okay, Angel." Dean laughed, still carefully pulling thread. "I won't argue."
"Good." Cas sighed as he felt the thread being cut, slumping slightly in relief. "You're great. No arguments."
Dean laughed again, standing and carrying all the supplies to the desk. "Fine. But only because you're 'sick'." He leaned his hip against the desk, crossing his arms with a smile. "What now?"
Cas squinted at him.
Dean rolled his eyes a little, but he was still smiling. "You're sick, Cas. You get to decide what we do now. That's how it works."
"Oh," Cas stared at Dean for a second, momentarily thrown off track by how great his arms looked in this lighting. He blinked at his own thoughts, shaking his head. "I think I need sleep." He looked up again, making eye contact. "Can you stay here with me?"
Dean laughed softly. He walked over to the bed, leaned down and cupped Castiel's jaw, gently lifting it up, and placed a soft kiss on his lips. "That's not how you ask, Feathers." He said. Cas found himself unable to respond, too engrossed in watching the crinkles around Dean's eyes and feeling Dean's breath on his lips. "If you're sick, you insist. You demand." Dean kissed him again, thumb rubbing gently on Cas' cheekbone. "You don't ask nicely."
"Then," Cas mumbled, eyes falling closed. "Stay with me. Let's nap together." He drew away a little bit, wrinkling his nose. "But wash your hands first, they smell like alcohol and blood."
Dean laughed again, stealing a final kiss before standing straight. "Alright, Cas, I'll go wash my hands and then I'll be back. Do you want anything while I'm at it, Mr. Patient?" He raised his eyebrows in joking question.
"No," Cas started pulling back the covers as best he could with one hand, ready to sleep as soon as he could. "Just hurry back."
Dean winked as he reached the door. "Always, Angel."