"Son of a bitch" Dean mumbles as his legs finally give out and he hurls himself at Cas, not to fall to the ground.
But there's no need to. Cas holds him tightly and securely, with his arm wrapped around him, carefully, over the provisory bandage on Dean's sliced side.
"I got you, Dean," he whispers, while he single-handedly struggles with the key and the old lock to the bunker.
"Are you gonna carry me bridal style down the stairs?" Dean teases.
"If I have to," Cas answers seriously and he apparently isn't joking.
He does have to carry him. Dean would protest if his damn leg at least tried to hold his weight. He thinks it must be the most embarrassing moment in past ten years of his life or so, as he pretends he doesn't enjoy snuggling his nose into the guy's collar. Cas's strong arms lift him securely and firmly even devoid of angelic powers, Cas makes it quick to the bottom of the staircase, almost painlessly, save for the wounds left on Dean's pride.
Then Cas carries him all the way to his room, gently lays Dean on bed and proceeds to take his bloodied clothes off. The only thing Dean's really thankful for is that Sam is away and doesn't get to witness his older brother at Cas's mercy.
"I really think you should get this leg checked, it might be broken. Or fractured at least"
Dean snorts at that, but he barely holds back a scowl, when Cas attempts to take his left shoe off.
"It's not broken. I know how a broken bone hurts," he answers and he relaxes a bit when the shoe is finally off. "It's just badly bruised. The knee's worse, I think it might be screwed up," he adds, chewing at his lower lip where it's not split.
"That's even worse," Cas mumbles, but he knows it's a lost battle. "I'll get the aid kit. Don't move."
Dean doesn't move, but he sure as hell wants to. It's not something he's good at – letting other people take care of him. It's his job. And he could patch the cut himself as well, but Cas is just as stubborn as he is and won't let Dean do it. So instead Dean loosens up and lets his aching head sink into a soft pillow.
He watches Cas as he walks back into the room with the aid kit and a bunch of towels. Bruises already started appearing on his face, a red stripe along his jaw line, purple under his left eye, traces of smeared blood dried on his forehead.
Dean's aware he looks similar. Or probably even worse, judging by Cas's expression as he cuts with the scissors through his already torn shirt to uncover his torso. It's all surely gonna hurt much more tomorrow.
The bandage covering his abdomen is soaked with red where the blade sliced the skin. The slash isn't too deep, but it's a few inches long and the location won't make it easy to heal. Cas puts the towels under him, to save the memory foam and the sheets. Dean watches Cas's cracked knuckles as he picks the needle and threads it on the first try.
It's easy to ignore the pain shooting from the wound and the unpleasant tugging sensation at the broken skin – he's used to it, he's known it for all his life. But this? This is new. The sight of complete concentration of Cas's face, as he watches his own long, nimble fingers, carefully pushing the needle through Dean's flesh. The frown on his brow, lips pressed into a thin line. The tip of the tongue peeking out once in a while, when he ties the knots and cuts the thread, before moving on to the next stitch.
The gentleness of the touch is also new. It's not the same as when Sam does it, quick and clean, or when Dean does it himself, with hands shaking from pain. There's some sweetness to Cas's touch, a dose of deep care, when he caresses the healthy skin around with his free fingers in between tugs; calming, soothing.
But he's also swift, unhesitant, his moves firm, almost professional. He finishes long before the pain gets unbearable, and with a tiny, self-complacent smile he goes on to cleaning the blood around the sawn wound.
"Thanks, Cas," Dean says softly, when Cas is almost done putting fresh bandage on.
It's the first time that Cas takes his eyes off his work and turns to Dean.
"At least this much I can do."
He moves closer, having thrown the dirty towels on the floor, carefully sits down on the edge of the bed. There are bruises on the man's face and minor cuts, that he wants to take care of next. He reaches his hand and barely pecks Dean's cheek at first, afraid to do more, but Dean leans to the touch, instinctively, closing his eyes. It feels so good and safe, his breath comes out with a tiniest sound.
He opens his eyes again and Cas is so close, moving his thumb along his jaw, grazing the corner of Dean's lips and then shakes his head.
"I wish I could heal you," he says, with a sting of regret.
Dean's hand grabs Cas's palm that is still petting hunter's face. They've gotten rough with time, from the trigger, from the handle of the knife, from the shovel. The hand that can kill in all the new, different ways and in all different, new ways can also heal.
"You do," Dean whispers to his fingers. "You patched me up, it's good enough."
He suddenly feels vulnerable, more than he should. Under this touch, with those words, pressing at his mouth, trying to escape.
"Maybe… Maybe it's even better," he confesses.
Cas's eyebrow rises in curiosity.
"Is that so?"
"Yeah, well…" Dean hesitates. "At least you're here and…"
He lets Cas break the touch. He wishes he wasn't lying down like that, small and exposed, but it feels right. His face lights up, bright like a little child's.
"This is nice, Cas. It's nice," he finally finds the words that might not say much, but they say a lot at the same time. "You, taking care of me."
Cas brushes a stray strand of hair off his forehead with a smile. There's no passion in this kind of intimacy. It's not the sort of closeness that would lead to a night of sweet lovemaking, although there's more love in it than in any blowjob or in burning kisses.
"You deserve it, Dean." Whispered, the words fall on Dean with the force of a command, only sweet. "All you do is take care of others. Of Sam, of me. And you never let us… You never think about yourself, and you should, Dean. You should let us help you."
Dean doesn't protest, he doesn't have anything new to say. Same song, same verse: he's my little brother, you're not an angel anymore. Like a broken record.
"You keep telling me," Cas continues, "that it's okay that I'm human. But Dean, you are a human too. And I know I am the one who's new at dealing with emotions, but you're not really good at it yourself."
At the last sentence Dean huffs in surprise.
"Whoa, there, a little harsh, talking to an emotionally impaired person like that." But he's not angry nor offended, why should he be offended by truth? Cas has made bigger progress in some of the 'human stuff' within last few months than Dean has within his whole life. If anything, Dean's amused by the path the conversation has taken. "You were supposed to patch me up, not go Freud on me."
"That's a bonus." Cas answers, catching on the light note in Dean's voice.
They go quiet after that, as Cas goes on to cleaning the cuts on Dean's face. Palm gently cupping his cheek, thumb caressing his skin in response to every tiny hiss, when the soaked gauze touches a gash.
"Okay, you know what?" Dean breaks the silence, a blush peeks through the bruises. "You are right. I'll kill you if you tell anyone, but this… I kinda like this."
"Being taken care of or me petting your face?" There's a teasing smile on Cas's face, as he leans down to press a gentle kiss to Dean's split lip.
"Both." Dean answers quickly and surely. "And just you, too."
"Good," Cas says, "because I kinda like you too."