Dean raises one hand to his ear. "What was that?"
And Cas, he understands aggression, passive or otherwise. The pinch of his brow isn't a mark of suspicion—it's a flinch. The question aimed at him might as well be a swift kick. He doesn't know anymore if he deserves the damage, but he doesn't block, doesn't damn.
Cas speaks louder now, but he wasn't quiet the first time. "I need you."
And Dean, he recognizes the hurt he has inflicted. He knows it intimately and openly. He pulls the sour smile off his lips with one dragging thumb, and he imagines the shade of blue in a bruise he could make on Cas's heart. The two of them would match after a while.
It's like he can see the rack beneath Castiel's body. It's like Dean's soul isn't buoyant enough now that his angel's grace is gone. Dean feels himself sinking back into the heartless shape he held in the Pit.
The tightening of his sleeve drives away his nightmarish vision. Cas's fingers dig into Dean's jacket, physically wresting him from his vices once again.
They share a breath.
A look.
Yes, that blue, exactly.
Dean's fingertips graze whispers of dark hair. His palm ghosts over Cas's jaw.
Cross-posted from AO3, May 24, 2013