"Help me."
Dean stares at Cas lying on the floor, not sure if he's hallucinating again. He casts a glance at Sam, whose worried expression tells him that no, he isn't hallucinating, and yes, Cas is lying on their floor. Guilt writhes in his stomach as he stands there frozen, eyes on the bloodied angel. The last time he'd seen Cas, he'd nearly killed him.
"Dean..."
For a second he's back there, Cas limp and bloody beneath him.
"Please..."
He'd been about to plunge the blade into his heart without a second thought, until something made him stop.
"Dean!"
The urgency in Sam's voice jolts him out of his guilt trip. Cas. Hurt. Right. He takes a step towards his friend, then falters. Cas will probably feel more comfortable with Sam. Safer. After all, Dean's not sure if he even trusts himself any more.
"I'll take him to your room," Sam says to Dean, taking charge.
His confusion at Dean's reluctance to take action is obvious in his tone, but Dean can't bring himself to explain. How does he tell Sam that he nearly killed their friend?
"He can lie down there," Sam continues. "You get the kit."
"I'll get the kit," Dean echoes distantly. He watches Sam help the angel to his unsteady feet then strides off without another word. When did his friendship with Cas get so damaged and twisted to the point that he's unsure if his help is even wanted?
"Help me," Cas had said. But was he talking to Sam, or Dean, or both of them?
Cupboard doors bang as he gets everything he might need and a lot of stuff he probably doesn't – antiseptic, gauze, needle, thread, tape and bandages.
A few minutes later hesitates in the doorway of his room. The sight of Cas lying on his bed is oddly pleasing, even if the circumstances are unpleasant.
"Dean."
Castiel's voice get his feet moving, and he sets the medical supplies on the bedside table before gingerly sitting beside the angel. The first time he reaches out to Cas he expects him to pull away – or at the very least flinch - but he doesn't. He just lies there, watching Dean's hands work. His touch is gentle as he unbuttons Castiel's shirt, exposing the extent of his injuries.
He has to force himself to stay calm, hearing Sam's sharp intake of breath behind him.
Dean licks his lips. Blood has never bothered him before, but this is different. This is Cas. Cas who shouldn't bleed. "Why… Why aren't you…"
"Healing?"
"Yeah."
"Rowena." His voice is low and rough as he answers, and Dean can hear in his tone that he's displeased a witch got the better of him.
Finally Dean catches Cas's gaze and sees his reddened eyes, familiar and terrifying. "Are you dying?" he breathes desperately, needing reassurance that Cas isn't going anywhere. He asks so quickly he doesn't even give himself time to filter his words.
Cas says nothing for a long time, holding Dean's gaze as both brothers stare at him. "I don't know," he replies eventually.
"I'll get on it," Sam says, leaving the room – though whether he is heading to the library or the Men of Letters' records room Dean doesn't know. But he hears his brother's unspoken words as clear as a bell; I'll leave you two alone.
Dean concentrates on wiping Castiel's wounds clean, his hand warm and comforting on Castiel's shoulder when the angel winces. That's not right. As he threads the curved needle, he thinks that just the other day he did this for Jenna.
He'd saved her, then she'd died. Now he's saving Cas, who thinks there's a chance he'll die.
Saved. Died. Saves. Dies.
No.
Saved. Died. Saves. Lives.
He isn't going to let this become a pattern.
Dean's touch is careful, tender, loving, as he pushes the needle through skin and stitches the wounds closed. "I'm sorry".
"You don't have to—"
Dean cuts him off with a sharp "I do!" and Cas falls silent. He takes a deep breath. "I'm so sorry, Cas."
"It wasn't you."
He loops another stitch through Castiel's skin. "It was," he disagrees quietly.
Castiel lifts his hand off the bed and places it over one of Dean's, making him stop. Making him listen. "It was no more you, here, than it was me in Lucifer's crypt."
Dean opens and closes his mouth several times. He wants to argue, except he can't fault Cas's logic. Naomi. The Darkness. Both outside forces affecting their actions.
Except, Castiel didn't choose to be brainwashed by Naomi...
"If I hadn't taken the Mark—"
"Then Abaddon would still be alive."
"But the Darkness wouldn't be out."
"You did what you had to do. And you'd do it again. That's who you are. That's the Dean I know and… That's the Dean I know."
Dean frowns at Castiel's hesitation. What isn't he saying?
"I know it doesn't even the guilt you feel, but know I don't blame you," Cas tells him.
How? How can Cas not hate him for what he did? Or at the very least be angry about it for a long time? Because he worries about you, the voice in his head tells him. "You didn't even fight back," Dean accuses him weakly.
"I couldn't," Cas tells him, avoiding his gaze.
"Why?" Dean whispers.
"I could never hurt you. Not intentionally."
"Why?" Dean presses, needing to understand.
"Because I…" But Castiel trails off brokenly, unable to get the words out.
Dean isn't sure he wants to hear the answer anyway. "What happened?" he asks, changing the subject.
"Ephram," he answers. "Jonah."
"They did this?" Dean asks, angry now. He'll stab them with their own angel blades if he ever runs into them.
"They wanted... your location..."
"You still with me?" Dean asks, pressing the back of his hand against Castiel's forehead. It's a relief not to find him burning up, but he's starting to sound a little out of it.
"I'm tired. Tired of running… of fighting my brothers and sisters. Tired of death."
"You killed them?" Dean asks. When Castiel nods, he clenches his jaw. "They did this to you, they deserved it. They weren't family."
"Hannah didn't."
Dean frowns. "Hannah's dead?"
"She tried to stop it."
Dean doesn't know how he should feel. He never liked Hannah, but Cas had.
"She wasn't a bad angel," Cas says. "She was... one of the good ones. I left Heaven in such a mess…" he trails off sorrowfully.
"You did what you had to do," Dean tells him.
Castiel looks at him, a sad smile that doesn't reach his eyes tugging at his lips. "We both make bad choices," he sighs.
"For the right reasons," Dean tells him.
Castiel nods slowly. "Yes. But, for once, it would be nice to make a good choice."
A hollow laugh bursts past Dean's lips. "Yeah. Good luck with that. Winchesters don't get that luxury." He says it without thinking. Castiel Winchester. It has a nice ring to it, he'll admit it. A sort of permanence, like Cas will finally stick around. But he tries not to acknowledge the idea that he doesn't mean it in the same sense that Sam is a Winchester.
"The angels are my family," Cas declares suddenly. "But so are you. You and Sam."
"'Course we are," Dean grins, snipping the ends off the last stitch. They've dwelled on misery for too long; it's time to be more positive. "You want to rest up here, or get something to eat? Or, I could bring you something to eat in here, if you promise not to get crumbs on my bed."
Castiel gives him a fond smile. "I think I'll just lie here for a while, if you don't mind."
"Sure. I'll go put this crap away."
When he reaches the doorway, Castiel's voice stops him in his tracks.
"Maybe, once you've done that, you could come back and sit with me?"
Dean feels some of tension in his shoulders ebb, and they relax slightly. "Sure," he tells Cas over his shoulder. "I'll be right back."