Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, nor do I make any money with fanfics.

Rating: T for graphic violence and language

Setting: At any point in the show that has Dean, Cas and Sam together and in whihc Dean and Cas have already established something like friendship.

A/N: Wow, I can't believe this turned out so long! It was meant to be a drabble... Whatever. I kind of love what happened to it, even if I can't promiss it's 100 percent in character. Sorry about the endless sentences that just keep running on and on and on. I hope they don't piss you off too much, but I needed them as a stylistic device to portray the never-ending-ness of Dean's thoughts in this long, long moment. Well, 'nough about that. Enjoy the angsty fluffy thing I wrote!

Clean-up

There's blood to be cleaned up, the kind that can't be cleaned up because it's everywhere.

Still, he has to try, because that girl had a family and they will find her dead and ripped apart and the ceiling sprinkled with red and they won't be able to bear it, her little sister won't be able to bear it and it's bad enough that he failed again, he was too late and she could not be saved.

You can't save everyone, but everyone you can't will haunt your dreams worse than hell. So he lifts her off the floor (and she will never turn sixteen) and folds the dripping carpet and he should get the hell out of here, but he can't, not yet, and he carries the carpet outside (they could see him and scream and call him a murderer again) and wants to burn it but stuffs it down the garbage cans (and how is this better, they'll find it and it will be horrible and what does cleaning up matter if there's still a corpse to be found).

He's tired and his eyes blur, but he's so very focused on the detergent and the scrub of the cloth on the stains on the floor (at least the ones on the floor, at least let her lie on an unsoiled floor) and where she's lying, the blood is still trickling out and about to clot into brown and he will clean her up as good as he can as soon as he's done with the floor.

The floor does not get clean and he takes it as personally as he always tells Sammy he shouldn't (and thank whatever's out there that Sammy wasn't here today, that he demanded to do this job on his own and maybe he shouldn't have insisted and her heart wouldn't be ripped from her body and her lungs would still be in their rightful place and her ribs not cracked apart and standing in all directions and fuck, he should just get out of here, this isn't helping anyone) and he throws the soiled cloth in the trash, too.

(At least her face, you owe her that, clean up her face.) A fresh cloth, water that doesn't reach his skin and he's kneeling beside her and trying to get the blood out of the inner corners of her eyes and her cheeks and the beginnings of hair on her forehead (and what good does it, what fucking good does it, she'll still be dead and life will break apart for that kid sister) and his eyes want to fall shut with exhaustion (been awake too long, glad Sammy didn't know where to find me, got to get cleaned up myself before I can go back there) but he doesn't let them.

He doesn't hear the whoosh of wings behind him, but he knows when Cas is there, because it means he can finally stop the gentle wipes of cotton on skin that won't do her any good. Cas doesn't speak, doesn't move and Dean can't see him and Dean knows he should be saying something rough and a little pissed off ("What took you so long?"), but the words won't come and he's not even breathing properly, now that he focuses on it.

(Just another dead girl, hardly the worst death you've failed to stop from happening. Why is this affecting you so much?)

Then Cas is kneeling opposite of him, those blue eyes focused on the girl and not on Dean (and that's good, because he's still not breathing the way he should, a pained, suffocated wheeze that has nothing to do with the fight he just had and the fact that that thing is still out there and everything to do with the girl's intestine in his hair) and Dean can't stop staring at him, at the way the stupid fucking moonlight hits his mop of unruly hair and his nose and his cheek and his chin and his neck and how it makes him seem so much smaller than he is, that mighty Angel of the Lord with capital letters.

(Say something, Dean, please, just say something smartass and bitter and continue cleaning, there's still blood on her eyelid and her left earlobe and her nostrils, move, just move at all and stop choking on nothing, Dean, you've seen so much worse than this, punch Cas or scream or yell or anything, just anything at all), but he can't move, he can only stare at Cas and how he closes his eyes and lays a hand on her almost-clean forehead (missed a spot there, too, and maybe he should turn on a light, but he can't move) and he wants to close his own eyes so badly that he does, moves that little bit, just the close of those heavy eyes.

His knees give out until he's more or less sitting on the floor, feeling boneless and cold and still not breathing the way he should (and Cas should have come here sooner, that sonofabitch, had he been there sooner, the girl would be terrified and scarred forever and alive, but Dean had to go do this on his own and it was no job for an angel anyways and what was Castiel even doing here now, he hadn't called him, hadn't prayed, except maybe he had and his mind had been screaming and maybe it had been screaming his name over and over and do names even matter to angels and does Cas think he's weak because he's acting weak and he lost the girl and she's dead and she's turning cold and there's blood on the ceiling still that he can never scrub out.)

He vaguely feels something strong behind his crouched back and they're in a different room now and he knows that very clearly, because the scent has changed even if the light behind those eyelids hasn't much, and maybe he blacked out there for a second. Cas took him back to the motel, to the motel bathroom judging by the slight damp air and the hints of Sammy's stupid fucking product and when he opens his eyes, he's standing in the shower and Cas is behind him, holding him up.

"Did you finish cleaning it all up?" he should ask, but his tongue feels numb and his soul does, too, and he wants that little girl to find her sister in a dignified matter and he couldn't clean it all up. He leans back into the warm body supporting his weight as if it were nothing. He'll ask later.

When the shower is turned on, the spray seems less aggressive, the way he remembers it from who knows how many days ago (and Sammy's hopefully still here and won't wake up, because he can't see Dean like this) and maybe that was some angel mojo or maybe it was just different than he thought it would be, but he might also just be tired and the water isn't cold at all, it's warm, but not scalding and it feels like rain, the comfortable kind and his breathing gets a little less wheezy.

He tilts his head up into the water, eyes closed again, because he knows it's blood and intestines he's feeling trickle down along with the clean, fresh rain-water and he doesn't need to see that. Cas must have reached for a bottle of shampoo, because his hands are in Dean's hair suddenly and those gentle fingertips feel so good on his scalp (and why is he cleaning me up, I'm not even hurt, it's not my blood) and he can almost feel the bubbles washing out the bad things on his head. He can feel digits trail behind Dean's ears, making certain to rub the grime and the pain away and Cas feels so good, so good behind him, a solid wall of borrowed flesh and angelic calm.

Cas spends a long time on his hair and his scalp and his ears and he applies new shampoo four times before gently turning him around, rinsing out some of the soap in the process. It's okay, because Dean feels he can stand on his own now, even if he doesn't want to and the shirt has to come off. He opens his eyes again when he feel like they're free of suds enough for that to be a good idea and his head is currently out of the steady fall of water.

The back of Cas' hands brush Dean's sides as he slowly lifts the hem of his shirt (ruined now, can't wear that again) and drags it upwards at the exactly right pace (how does he know this is okay, this shouldn't be okay, I can't be in a fucking shower with another guy and have him take my shirt of, and what does it even matter, that's not what this is about and maybe he's reading my mind right now and I don't care, Cas, I don't care, because it's so good to not be alone right now) and before Dean lifts his arms to slip out of the wet, uncomfortable cloth, their eyes meet and Dean knows without a doubt that Cas cleaned up, everything, even the stains on the ceiling and the way the girl's body was disfigured and all the blood in every pore of her skin.

The shirt is off and Dean should feel naked, but for once, it's nice to be vulnerable, because what's actually naked right now is his soul and Cas' eyes feel good on his like his hands do and he almost wishes Cas was out of his damn trench coat and then he notices Cas is out of his damn trench coat and the jacket is gone too and he's just in his shirt, so very white and that silly tie and his pants and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up and this must be the most naked he's ever seen Cas and he's glad, he's so glad, because Cas is soaked as well and his dark hair is falling into his eyes.

He doesn't smile, but that's okay, because Dean doesn't smile either or cover it up with saying any of his usual bullshit and he knows, he just knows he's going to regret opening up like that to anyone, let alone his very own guardian angel, but right now he doesn't want to stop, because for once he feels like he might not be all alone and that's something he can't comprehend and maybe it's beyond comprehension and maybe it's okay.

And Cas doesn't break eye contact as he sinks to his knees (Cas on his knees before me, why, why, why, how can he do this, I don't deserve this) and it should feel violating or at the very least sexual that he just presumes it's alright to open Dean's belt buckle and the button of his jeans and slide the zipper down and slide the jeans down as Dean toes off shoes and socks, but it doesn't feel like anything.

Cas isn't looking at his cock, he's looking at the past two days worth of mental scars somewhere behind Dean's eyes and sexual and weird and awkward freak-outs about orientations and taking liberties with your friend's body (he put it back together himself, Cas put you back together and now he's cleaning up his mess and it's so nice to be someone else's mess instead of my own) just weren't in the cards for right now.

The jeans are on the floor and his boxers along with them and Cas grabs a washcloth to take to Dean's arms and hands. Dean lets his back and his head sink back against the warmer than usual tiles and his eyes fall shut again, because he is just so tired and even if he might prefer Castiel's bare fingers (and maybe Cas didn't hear that, I hope he didn't hear that, that wouldn't even help with the cleaning at all) right now, the frothy cloth feels so good against every single fleshy part of his digits, the pad of his thumb, the inside of his knuckles, and at least Cas is holding his hands steady with gentle fingers around his wrist.

He focuses on the sound of the drops as they continue to fall down and that can't possibly be tap water, because they even make the sound of rain and that shouldn't be soothing and it is. Cas is quiet, but not silent, not really. Dean can't hear anything from him, but he can feel him (and Cas has already seen you in hell and it didn't scare him away and it's so, so nice to be taken care of like this and if you need to, freak out later, but don't do it now, because now is nice and warm and not alone.)

And Cas spends so very long on his hands and lower arms, too, then carefully guides them back to Dean's sides, lathers the washcloth up again and leans close (I can feel you close, Cas, it's like you're inside of me and I'll examine just how gay that sounds some other time, because close is good and Cas still has no understanding of personal space) and washes Dean's face in gentle sweeps of his thumb and dabs of the washcloth. His forehead, his brows, his closed eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his ears again, his jaw, his chin, his lips, dab after dab, touch after soft touch. Dean's breathing is normal again, deep and steady and rested, and he has never felt so free of tension.

Cas doesn't do more than that, doesn't wash his unsoiled upper arms or his chest or his back or his legs or his ass or his dick, and maybe Dean should do it himself, but he's just too tired and he's been under the rain for so long and he feels cleaner than he thought possible after a job like this (and the job before that and the job before that). Instead, Cas turns off the spray and Dean opens his eyes and neither of them is smiling and it's okay.

Cas is dry again in an instant, but his trench coat and jacket stay gone for now, even though Dean knows the next time he will see him, they'll be back with him. He's holding out a towel for Dean and he accepts it, slowly rubbing himself dry with it to Cas' turned back. When the angel walks out of the room, Dean doesn't panic and sure enough, he only brings him a pair of boxers, sweat pants he didn't know he owned and a simple black t-shirt. Normally, he would just sleep in the nude after a day like this or don the boxers at the very most, but this is nice and good and he puts it all on.

Before he knows what he's doing, he's clearing his voice and saying "Don't make a big deal out of this."

And Cas just looks at him, as serious as ever, and simply nods and Dean knows he gets it and he gets it the right way.

Then Dean sighs, because it's been a long 48 hours or so and he can feel the weariness inside his bones as if this body knows how much time the soul spent in hell and at least he knows that when the sister finds the girl, she will appear to have died in her sleep, which is so horrible still, but so much better and there won't be any bloody rags and carpets and ceilings to give away what really happened.

And sometime after grabbing Castiel's hand and letting his head rest on the smaller man's shoulder, the fear and the panic and the what-am-I-even-doing and the holy-crap-this-is-so-gay creep back out of the relaxation and exhaustion and the comfort of a warm, strong person staying with him and no matter how much he feels he can't breathe and like the walls are closing in, he only holds on tighter.