Dean curls his hands around the cold edges of the sink, keeping his grip tight in an attempt to stop his shaking. The memories of Purgatory hum violently in the back of his mind, cushioned by the resentment towards Sam that he can't forget (a fucking girl and Sam forgets his own brother when all Dean's ever done is kill himself over and over trying to keep him safe).
But nothing burns brighter than his guilt, found in the way he can still feel Cas' hand slipping from his grasp and hear the desperate, guttural shout of his name.
He'd always believed that giving voice to his plans for the future was a surefire way to keep them from ever happening, so he'd kept his mouth shut about all the things he'd thought of for him and Cas. Hunts together again, the Winchesters and their guardian angel. Cas's fingers pressed to foreheads and whiting out the evil, saving each other with violent desperation, then locking eyes and knowing that they, the three of them together, were better than ever.
A quiet, far more private part of him had imagined something for just the two of them: lips on lips and hands against skin, sheets being kicked down the bed and fingers sliding into hair, the room silent save for the muffled sounds of gasps and moans and "Dean" and "Cas." The things he'd thought about, craved for, when it was him against the monsters and nothing mattered but making sure his angel was safe.
Then he'd met Benny, who led him to Cas and saved both of their asses without even particularly wanting to, and Dean still feels that drop in his heart when he imagines the leviathan looming over Cas, mouth thrown wide.
He splashes water, icy cold and grounding, and tries to push all of it out of his mind. Tries to forget how it felt like Cas wasn't losing grip as much as letting go, tries to forget how Benny looked when Andrea's head was severed, tries to forget the way that Sam drifts further out of reach and had threatened Dean's only friend. He tries to forget the way he hates himself for never being enough, for trying to be good and failing miserably, for dragging his brother and a fucking angel down with him.
For falling in love and hoping the outcome would be different.
For hoping, briefly, that he's worthy of any such thing.
Dean wipes another cold wave of water down his face, breathing heavily through his nose as his shoulders tense and shake. He runs his tongue against his teeth and blinks against the sting of tears, pushing a hand towel against his wet skin. He hesitates in lifting his head, not wanting to view his own face and be confronted with the reality of his failures. He sighs, throws the towel off to the side, and raises his eyes.
A flash of dirtied tan fills in the side of his vision, and when his eyes focus his knees go weak. Big blue eyes glint at him in the reflection of the mirror, and the breath rushes out of his lungs abruptly. It's all he can do to turn around and not fall apart, to stare wide-eyed as Cas' mouth lifts and his eyes glimmer and that mouth opens and speaks: "Hello, Dean."
Words, air, hope, all catch in Dean's chest and refuse to leave. He can't do much of anything except for stare, and Cas stares back contently, the way he always has. When Dean finally can speak, the words are punched out of him.
"Cas? Is it really…"
He doesn't finish the sentence; he doesn't want to hope. He hasn't forgotten the glimpse of Castiel he'd thought he'd seen on the highway earlier in the day only to have it slip through his fingers just as quickly.
But the Castiel in front of him smiles serenely and doesn't disappear, so Dean lets one of his shaking hands reach out and curl around a dirty forearm. The rough, grimy fabric of the trenchcoat catches against all of the calluses on Dean's hands, real and tangible against his skin, and the contact lasts for all of a second before Dean is moving forward and wrapping his arms tight around Cas.
He's hugged Cas once before, in Purgatory. He's felt the stiff line of the angel's body in his arms, tensed up like having Dean in front of him and touching him was the worst thing he could imagine. But now, Castiel's hands rest tentatively against Dean's spine, broad and warm through the fabric of his t-shirt. Relief is sharp and crippling and Dean shuts his eyes tightly against the onslaught, holding Castiel a little bit harder. One of the angel's hands slide up his back and fingers brush against the soft hair at the nape of Dean's neck, soothing and gentle.
All of the things Dean's hoped for, the quiet familiarity of their bodies near to one another, a life of hunting demons and kicking ass and taking names, the privacy of them together beneath the thin quilts of a motel bed, sweep over him with a new desperation, and then he's pulling back and pushing forward again until their mouths are swallowed up together.
Cas hums softly against his lips and his gentle hands don't stop in their perusal of Dean's back, and Dean kisses him with all the fervor of a dying man with one last wish. Cas tastes stale and dirty and his beard is rough against Dean's face but he doesn't stop kissing, hard and wide like it's all he can do not to drink Castiel up completely.
There are questions still burning in the back of his head, questions like how and when and are you okay did it hurt what did you have to do and were you safe, but they can wait for later, for when Dean can get Cas out of these torn and dirty clothes and can bury his face between the angel's shoulder blades and listen to that gravel voice tell his story and Dean can pretend that the warmth he feels inside and out means that he's being enveloped by wings.