Chapter Seven

Cas was staring at the back of his eyelids, trying in vain to fall asleep, when a scream shattered the silence.

Cas was off the couch in an instant, sprinting towards Dean's room with his angel blade firmly in hand. He wasn't going to let something take him, not again, not ever again.

"DEAN!" He burst through the door, searching for the threat.

But there was only Dean, hopelessly tangled in his blankets, kicking and struggling to get free. His eyes were rolling madly beneath their lids, his head was tossing on his pillow and he was soaked in sweat.

"Nghh - no!"

Cas stowed his blade and stepped forward hesitantly. Monsters, he could deal with, but without his Grace he was powerless against nightmares.

"Cas," Dean mumbled.

"I'm here, Dean."

"Cas…" His voiced was strained. Distressed.

"Dean, it's okay."

"Cas! CAS! No-"

Cas reached out to him. "Dean, I'm-"

His hand made contact with Dean's shoulder. Dean lurched upright with a cry and his fist lashed out blindly. Cas took the blow to his jaw. His head snapped sideways and the shock reverberated through his teeth, but it was Dean that yelled out in pain.

"Fuck it, ow, goddamnit!"

Dean was cradling his hand – the finger splints had only been removed last week and now an angry red mark had flared across his knuckles. It was going to swell. He could have re-injured himself.

Cas should have ducked, or caught Dean's wrist before he could land the blow. "Dean, I'm sorry-"

"Cas!"

Before Cas knew what was happening, Dean had thrown his arms around him.

"Oh thank god, thank god…"

"Dean?" Cas asked hesitantly. He was torn between elation and sick dread at the thought that Dean could have remembered everything-

Dean abruptly pulled back. "Sorry. I know you're not comfortable with me touching you. I just – it was a bad dream, but I'm fine."

"What sort of dream?" Cas demanded. "A memory?"

Dean's laugh was brittle. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"I dreamt that some crazy chick had you tied to a chair and stabbed you to death."

Oxygen seized in his chest. Cas tried to make a sound but he could only gape at Dean in horror.

"I'm sorry, I had no idea my imagination was so morbid. But it's fine, I mean, obviously you're not dead. It didn't happen. It was just a dream."

"Just a dream," Cas repeated hoarsely. But it wasn't. April had killed him, right before Dean's eyes. Sure, she had brought him back to life shortly afterwards (Dean had promised to spare her life if she saved him, a promise he had promptly broken) but the point was that Dean had remembered. And it wasn't just any memory, it was one of the bad ones. One of the worst ones. Dean had confessed that it haunted him more than Hell did; physical torment had nothing on heart-break, and although Dean had yet to admit it, he had already been in love with Cas at the time.

"I thought I had lost you. I thought you were gone and that I'd never get the chance to tell you – god, Cas, if he – if she, I mean, if you hadn't been brought back to life, I – I don't know what I would have done."

"I'm sorry I woke you," Dean said. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

Cas frowned, but he couldn't expect Dean to remember that he had told him a long time ago to stop apologising for his nightmares. Cas would rather Dean woke him, confided in him, sought comfort from him, than suffer alone.

"You didn't wake me," Cas assured him.

"Trouble sleeping?"

Cas shrugged. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence these days. He had grown accustomed to having the comforting weight of his hunter beside him, often curled into his side with an arm thrown across his chest. When Dean had gone missing, Cas had searched feverishly for 96 hours, until his useless human body had given out on him. He had collapsed into their bed and had been sure that sleep would take him swiftly, but instead he could only stare blankly up at the ceiling. His eyes had burned and muscles had been aching with exhaustion, but his mind and heart had been unwilling to shut down. He couldn't rest until Dean was home, safe and sound.

Except days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and Cas had been forced to snatch moments of unconsciousness where he could. But he never slept well, never deeply, not until Dean had been found. Despite not having him home where he belonged, Cas had been content knowing that he was safe.

But being here, being so close but not being able to touch, had brought his insomnia back with a vengeance.

He craved Dean. He longed to hold him, to breathe in his scent, to wrap arms and phantom wings around him and to never let him go. He wanted Dean's warmth, Dean's solidity, Dean's nose buried in his neck. He wanted to be close, to be intimate. But he couldn't.

"You should have taken me up on my offer to come to bed with me," Dean said. "We both might have slept better."

Cas stiffened. "I don't think so."

"What's the problem? We're already married."

The problem is that you're not him! Cas wanted to scream. You're not my Dean. Sleeping together meant something to us. It was a demonstration of trust, of love. We allowed ourselves to be completely vulnerable with each other, and it took us a long time to reach that point. You don't even know me.

But he held his tongue. "It is four a.m. Do you think you are going to be able to go back to sleep?"

"Maybe. If you come with me."

"No, Dean."

Dean sighed. "I'll try."

"Good. Call me if you need anything."

Dean muttered something under his breath, but Cas ignored it.

Once Dean had settled back under his sheets, Cas returned to the couch. He lay on his side, with his back pressed against the back of the couch and a cushion hugged to his chest. It wasn't the same.

It was a long wait until morning.

When Cas heard Dean begin to stir, he gave up the pretence of sleeping and relocated to the kitchen. He raided the fridge and pantry, finding it stocked much like the bunker kitchen had been for most of the past year. Sam's shopping style. Dean would have bought more meat and beer, less rabbit food.

Cas selected some ingredients and set about making omelettes for breakfast.

He heard the shower run. Dean entered the room just as Cas was setting the food out on the table.

"Mm, smells good," Dean said.

Cas turned – and froze at the sight that greeted him.

Dean's hair was dripping wet. The water ran in rivulets down his bare chest and was absorbed into the towel that was slung casually around his hips.

The first thing he felt was a rush of arousal. Dammit, Dean was teasing him deliberately.

But then what he was truly seeing registered in his brain. He had automatically overlaid an image of the Dean he knew – muscular, tanned, cocky and smiling as he placed his hands on his hips and invited Cas to 'find out what's behind curtain number one' – but the figure standing in front of him now wasn't the same.

He was pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in months. He was thin, with clearly visible ribs and jutting hip bones. And his body was covered in scars. Jagged lines, knots of mottled flesh, entire patches where skin had been torn off and painfully regrown.

Cas had seen the bandages. He had never seen what lay beneath them.

A small gasp escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Dean's face crumpled. "I should have known," he mumbled to his toes, in the most dejected tone Cas had ever heard from him. "I thought that maybe – but of course not. I'm disgusting. Who would ever want to touch me like this? Who would even want to see me like this? God, I'm sorry, I'll go put something on-"

"Dean."

But Dean wouldn't look at him. He shuffled towards the door and Cas noticed the state of his knees – his stomach lurched with horror.

"Dean, wait!" Cas caught his arm and Dean flinched, but didn't pull away. "I'm not disgusted by you. Don't ever think that."

"Yes, you are."

"No. Dean, I'm disgusted by whatever - whoever - did this to you."

Dean looked at him. "You don't know?" His voice was small, almost trembling.

Oh Father, he's scared. Cas swallowed, wishing that he could lie. "No, Dean, I'm sorry. We don't know who took you. We searched – for months we searched, but we never found them."

Dean was shaking now. "Then how did I end up in that hospital?"

"You were-" Cas felt a surge of nausea. Father, he couldn't do this. "You were left for dead on the side of a road. A good Samaritan called it in and an ambulance picked you up."

"So I wasn't wounded in action overseas."

"No," Cas whispered.

"And whoever it was is still out there."

"We're still searching. Sam is out there right now. We won't stop until whatever – whoever it is, is no longer a threat to you."

"Is Sam some kind of cop?"

"No – it's – Dean, it's complicated. I can't explain it to you."

"Because I might remember."

"You were missing for seven months and twelve days, Dean. We have no idea what they did to you. You wiped it from your mind to protect yourself from the trauma of those memories. I don't want you to have to relive that. Even if – even if it means you never remember me."

Dean swallowed. "Thank you for being honest."

Cas nodded wordlessly.

Dean glanced down at the table. "Food's getting cold," he noted dully.

"Yes."

"I married a man who can cook."

"No, I did. You taught me."

Dean smiled a little. "Well, that's something anyway. I'm going to go change."

"Dean-"

He looked back, questioningly.

Cas struggled to find the right words. "I was never attracted to you because of your body." He winced at how awkward he sounded, but ploughed on ahead anyway. "There was – is – a lot more to you than what you look like."

Dean's eyes were sad, but he quirked his lips. "Thanks."

They never did end up eating breakfast.

ooOOoo