Castiel blinked his eyes open. They were dry and scraped like sandpaper. It hurt. He surveyed his form. Wounded. Badly. Pain was not new but this was bone deep.
The ceiling was patchy grey. Water had seeped in spots, staining the plaster into a bland landscape that reminded him a little of Purgatory. Washed out. Stripped of everything that made here…livable.
He surveyed his surrounds and felt muscles in his face twitch. They must be healing. Irritating. Much like the vague pressure surrounding his eyes. He supposed they were varying shades of purple and yellow. It must have been a few days since he last vaguely remembered an apparition of Dean Winchester hovering over him and cradling his head as though he were the most precious…
Yes.
Days.
He took experimental breaths, necessary for speech and winced at the pull and tug of what was probably broken rib bones. If he was any judge, the seventh, eighth and ninth rib was cracked on the right side. The eighth, ninth and tenth was damaged on the left.
He considered. Why didn't he remember? He remembered Rowena. Before a red haze took him, he remembered Crowley. He swallowed and found the motion stuck. Damn human forms and their need for…lubrication. He blinked again.
A sound like a chainsaw burring through a chunk of metal assailed his ears and made him wince. He turned toward it. He frowned.
It took a moment.
Blonde hair that looked like it could do with a wash. Freckled lightly tanned skin. Features pleasingly assembled. Ears. Two. Lips, curved and plump, faintly vibrating as an expelled breath of air did the reciprocal of the snore. A lean torso in plaid shirt and leather jacket. True, the cloth was nice enough, but the red assailed the senses. Soft blue denim on the legs, crossed at the ankles, the heels propped on the edge of his bed. Socks with holes in the toes.
Who was this? His head ached. Oh yes. Dean Winchester.
Damn it.
His grace churned in the fragile shell of the body. And he remembered.
Dean.
One hand lay draped over the arm of the comfortable looking armchair. The other splayed on the flat stomach.
Castiel blinked slowly again, wincing.
His own hand lay palm up on the sheet. He was …not naked. He was in shorts, yes. Someone had bound his chest in thick swaths of dressing.
Dean?
Charlie?
No.
The one called Charlie was not on earth.
Castiel reached out and touched the hand of Dean Winchester.
His back arched with the sudden rush of emotions that assailed him from the sleeping man. He should have shielded himself. How could he have forgotten?
Pain.
Loss.
Fear.
Guilt.
Castiel closed his eyes against it. Letting out a small sound.
Love.
He opened his eyes and turned to stare at the face of Dean Winchester.
"Hey. Cas." Dean scrubbed at his eyes, before dropping his booted feet from the side of the bed. "'Bout time you came around. Been sleepin' too long, buddy." An awkward pat was given his shoulder. "How you feelin'?"
"Much better." Castiel studied the green eyes that barely met his, just slipping to the side. "Hungry."
"Yeah? Good. I always feel hungry after a good sleep." Dean sounds relieved. Castiel is relieved. The sudden flare of tension in the room had battered his senses.
Dean stands and heads for the door. "Will let Sammy know you are awake. He will be happy to know."
The sudden abyss made Castiel feel uncertain, unwelcome, unsure. "I am fine, Dean."
"I had faith." Dean's hand clenched hard on the doorway. "Didn't have many folks left to pray too, but I figured they owed you a thing or two."
Castiel laid his head back on his pillow and for some unfathomable reason, his eyes burned with tears.