Dean is so angry.
"It will be alright," Cas insists for the third time in as many minutes, but it has no effect. Winchester tunnel vision is at play in the way Dean is all hands and force and pressure. Cas' body wants to slouch away from the ancient wallpaper, but one firm palm planted on his shoulder keeps him pinned to the ballroom's rear wall. The chandelier is still spinning, shadows dance around the room, and Dean's not even looking, not really acknowledging the eyes Cas puts on him—the same fierce and cold light eyes Cas has always put on Dean, but now—
Dean's fingers vice over top of Cas' bloodied hand. A nasal breath shudders out of Cas, and he tries to bend and shrink away, but he's already as low as he can go, sprawled on the floor. He grabs Dean's wrist, part in reflex, part in demand, and assures him, "I've got it."
Two days later, Cas decides that laundry is the worst part of being human. He doesn't care that it's an extremely bias decision, nor that he'll probably overturn it in the next week more than once. Right now, laundry is the worst thing he has to do, because everything is stained with his blood.
"Just throw them out, we'll get new ones," Sam tells him when he finds him out of bed and staring at the washing machine.
Cas glances at Sam, careful not to move more than necessary. His shoulder still hurts. Two days. It still hurts. It'll hurt for a long time. "No. I want to do this."
Sam's not going to argue, but he is going to make a face. He leans into the small room, grabs a jug from the dinky shelf on the wall, and puts it down next to Cas' unclothed feet. "Might wanna try this."
It smells a little like borax and a lot like bad memories.
"I get it, okay. Same monkey suit since day one. But you're not a monkey anymore. C'mon, we'll hit Goodwill on the way out there, my treat."
Cas starts, only just now aware of Dean lurking in the doorway, and drops the shirt. Oh. That's what that feels like.
Dean's trying. He has put on his most patient face and is pretending like he's willing to accept a no, but they really gotta get going. Rogue reapers tend not to wait.
"I'm staying here," Cas mumbles when he finally pulls his gaze away from Dean. He reaches with his one good arm and fishes the shirt back out of the washer.
Dean doesn't miss a beat. "No dice. You stay, Kevin won't. We need Kevin, so you're coming with us. Head's up!" A burgundy button-up work shirt sails at Cas. He manages to catch it before it can muss up his already messy hair.
It was nothing like the shirt he'd worn for years. The material was softer, slicker, thicker. It was all wrong, and that much showed plainly in Cas' face. Dean was gone before Cas could criticize it, though.
Given a few more seconds of thought, Cas an at least appreciate the color.
Cross-posted from AO3, May 20, 2013