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There’s a murmur around the camp after the group return. He hears Jane and Andrew talking as they walk past him, and there’s a tone to their voices that he understands, even if he can’t pick the individual words out. Cas assumes it’s something important—that they must have picked up something on the run, maybe fuel, or meds, or even toilet paper. He doesn’t rush as he makes his way towards the hut they call the ‘general’s quarters’. There’s nothing but time in Camp Chitaqua, and it’s not an emergency. Even if it was he wouldn’t be the one to rush in—his contribution to the camp hampered by his downgrade in status.
It’s been a heavy hit to take—once an angel, now just human—and a practically useless one at that. He used to do so much; he was their heavy hitter, their healer, their source of information. Now even that is fading. He finds more often than not that when members of the camp ask him for information he’s sure he once knew, he can’t seem to recall any of it. His once encyclopedic knowledge now hampered by his only-human brain.
It hurts to know just how much he’s lost in his fall.
Castiel’s found other uses for himself around the camp. He’s good at gardening, has cultivated a garden which helps to feed the camp—even though he isn’t involved in the cooking aspect of it. He helps Chuck with the maps—his spatial awareness was thankfully retained—and with every returning patrol they update them, making notes about which areas are no longer accessible, which have been overrun, doing their best to keep their people returning back to them.
And he helps Dean.
He's not sure if that should count—but it counts to him. In planning meetings it’s Cas’ opinion Dean asks for, when he needs to talk a strategy through it’s Cas he comes too, when something goes wrong it’s Cas he talks it out with.
And when the day is over, it’s Cas’ arms he falls into.
It churns Cas’ stomach sometimes to think with all the pain and suffering that’s happened—he gets to have this one thing. Gets to have Dean in a way which he never could before.
The voices are loud when he reaches the general’s quarters, the voices spilling out even if the words aren’t coming through. He catches the sound of Dean’s voice, already raised judging by the fact he can hear it outside, and Cas takes a deep breath, readying himself for the task of defusing whatever the situation has escalated to.
It is his job after all. Even if it’s only self-appointed.
“—it shouldn’t be here! How could you risk us all by bringing it back here?” Someone yells it’s hard to tell who the voice belongs to from outside.
“We couldn't ignore this opportunity!” Dean yells back. His tone is just as loud, but for all his volume it lacks the anger of the previous voice. Cas hesitates to push aside the curtain and enter. It's not that he's afraid to get between the fight—it won't be the first time he's had to break up a fight, and it’s unlikely to be the last—but there’s still a feeling of apprehension, possibly some echo of his grace telling him that the situation is still dangerous. It happens to him sometimes, and Dean likes to call them his spidey-senses, which at least glosses over the reason he has them—how the fact he has them at all is just a reminder of what he’s lost.
There’s also the two Chitiquans standing outside the hut who look even less impressed with the situation than Cas feels, and a whole lot more concerned. It doesn’t bode well, but Cas doesn’t let it stop him, and he pushes the curtain aside, ducking his head as he enters their own little warzone.
“It's an opportunity for us to get dead!” Risa spits at Dean. “For the whole camp to get dead!”
Dean doesn’t respond to that, just stares Risa down. It's not a battle she can win—before Dean came here he'd stared down angels and demons and even his own father.
“Fine,” she says, in the frosty tone that would have been enough to tell everyone it was not fine, if the words hadn't already been enough. “You do whatever you’re gonna do Dean. I hope it keeps you warm at night.”
She stalks towards the door, and Cas moves to the side to let her pass. She glares in his direction as she walks past, staring at him with a venom that Cas is sure he hasn’t done anything to deserve.
He struggles with blackouts sometimes, but he’s sure he’d remember if he’d done something to deserve that look.
With Risa gone, he turns his attention to the room—
“Demon,” Cas says in shock, eyes locked on the person tied to the chair in the middle of the room. There’s no outward sign—his eyes aren’t black, just a normal human shade of blue—nothing spectacular about him at all. But there’s still something about it, something that screams wrong to Cas and he just knows, he knows.
“Yes,” Dean agrees, “an old-fashioned one.”
“Okay,” Cas says slowly, because that explains nothing. Even before the Camp was set up, Dean had given up trying to save every person possessed by demons. “Why is it here?”
Dean shoots him a look, and his lips are turned upwards a little, teeth on display—it’s not a grin, far from it—and it’s unsettling, to see, Cas’ stomach twists at the sight of it.
“Because,” Dean drawls, voice ice cold on the words, “it’s going to tell me where the Colt is.” Dean turns away from Cas, staring at the demon in the chair, and Cas can’t see his eyes but he can see Dean’s profile, and even that sends a chill through him. “Aren’t you?”
The demon looks back at Dean defiantly—and they always do, don’t they—but Cas doesn’t care about the Colt, doesn’t care about the demon—couldn’t care less about either of those things. All he cares about right now is Dean.
“Dean, can I speak to you?” Cas is proud of how his voice comes out steady, stable in a way he certainly isn’t feeling internally. It’s a good mask, but Cas has gotten good at wearing them now, can feel himself slip into a fake indifference when he needs it.
The moment holds, Dean still staring down the demon in a human suit. The demon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, but there’s a shift of it’s eyes, a flicker of something. Dean catches the moment as easily—if not easier—than Cas, and the resulting grin is something Cas hates, wants to brush off his face. When Dean turns to face him, the expression is gone, but the feeling of dread at its appearance remains inside Cas.
Cas waits until they’re outside, hopefully out of ear range before asking, “So you’re going to torture him?”
“Yeah,” Dean drawls casually, and Cas knows that's all fake, all false bravado, but he also recognises the determined tone in Dean's voice. His mind’s made up on this one.
He doesn't ask why, doesn't want to listen to Dean try to justify his actions.
You can't do this, he wants to say, although that's not true—Dean can, and it's looking increasingly like Dean will. I don't want you to do this is true at least—but it doesn't make a difference to Dean, and saying it would only burden him further.
But Cas still can't be a part of this. Can't watch Dean fall back down into that hellscape he'd fought so hard to drag him up from. He asked him to do it once before—he can't watch him do it again.
“I can't watch you do this,” he confesses.
Dean's face is a stormcloud, and he's usually so open with his emotions, but he's starting to close them off and it's the one thing Cas hates.
“No one's asking you to,” Dean replies, voice filled with venom, and he turns away before Cas can say anything more, long strides taking him back to the cabin. “Stay out of the cabin, Cas.”
He knows Dean doesn't mean the words as an infinite commandment, he doesn't mean don't come back at all , but Cas hears the barb for what it is.
He hears the rejection.
He heads to the gardens—the therapeutic process of pulling the weeds and tending to the plants usually helps to clear his head.
Except today it’s failing. With every weed he pulls he imagines he can see Dean’s hands wrapped around a weapon, sliding it in and the subsequent pull through flesh. The sound of the ground giving up the weed is nothing like the suck of a punctured lung, yet it’s all he can hear as he does it, and when his hands get covered in dirt, he imagines Dean’s hands, soiled and dirty from his own work.
It’s not working, and he needs to clean the dirt off his hands—needs his hands to be clean again. He heads down to the lake to clean himself off in the water there. The water is shockingly cold, and he shivers as he uses a well-worn scrubbing brush with frayed bristles to clean up his hands, before moving to scrub the dirt from under his fingernails. The comfort of being clean again does help, and his mind turns—as it is so often want to do—to Dean. To Dean’s soiled hands, and how he’ll need to clean them off, too.
It’s then he realises what he needs to do. It won’t be easy—but then, nothing is these days.
Cas is already waiting when Dean pushes aside the curtain to enter the shack. He sees the moment Dean notices him, sees the hesitation, and he assumes Dean hadn't expected him to be here. Dean's always expecting the next mistake to be the one that drives him away. It hurts Cas that despite his assurances—despite everything they've been through together—that Dean still expects it. Cas will keep telling Dean with every touch, every trade of whispered words, until either Dean believes it or—as is looking more likely—his last breath.
Dean hesitates in his progress into the room, trapped under Cas’ gaze, and Cas takes that as his cue to move, pushing off the mattress and walking to stand in front of Dean.
All the determination from before is gone, drained away, and now it feels like Dean shrinks beneath his gaze, looking away from Cas to the ground. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders turned down in a futile attempt to make himself smaller. Cas looks over Dean, taking in his appearance. He looks tired—he always looks tired—but this is worse, exhaustion running deep into his bones. His hair is sweaty, and there are streaks of blood at his forehead. Dean's face is clean, most likely splashed clean, but the blood at his hairline lingers, marking him for what he's done. There's blood on Dean's clothes too, and there's a lingering smell of sulfur, permeating through the layers.
None of that matters to Cas right now though—he doesn’t care about what Dean’s done, doesn’t care if it was successful, or all for naught. His only care at the moment is Dean, of making sure Dean realises that.
He reaches out for Dean's wrists, using the grip to pull Dean's hands from his pockets, and up to inspect. As he expected there's still traces of blood on his hands. They’ve been washed, but it's still there, under his nails and in his cuticles.
“Cas—”
“Don't,” Cas interrupts him. He doesn't know what Dean is planning on saying, but knows nothing good can come of it. Cas drags his eyes back up to Dean's face, and this time Dean looks at him, eyes locking on each other. “Just let me take care of you.”
Cas wants this, needs this. He thinks Dean needs it too, but he needs Dean to be on board, he doesn’t move at all until Dean gives him the go ahead with a short sharp nod.
Using the hold on Dean’s wrists, Cas walks them both backwards to the bed. He turns them, pushes Dean down to sit on the mattress. Dropping to his knees Cas reaches for his right boot, undoing the knots and tugging the laces loose, slipping the shoe off easily, before following with the left one. He places them behind himself, out of the way. Next he reaches for Dean's overshirt, pushing it off his shoulders, before throwing that behind him as well. He'll pick the clothes up later—Cas plans to wash them himself, wants to clean the blood from Dean's clothes so he doesn't have to look at them and be reminded of his transgressions—but for now it's enough that they're off and out of the way.
Cas pushes Dean's legs apart and falls into the space between them. There are two bowls of water on the bookshelf which functions as the bedside table, hot when Cas first placed them there, but lukewarm now. It's still warm enough for what Cas wants. Taking the rag, he wrings it out before bringing it up to Dean's face. He starts with Dean’s cheeks, wiping the cloth along the line of freckles which cover his cheekbones. He follows the natural line, brushing down in front of Dean's ear, before running along his jaw, then repeating on the other side. Dean’s nose is next, then his forehead, and Cas takes more time with Dean’s eyebrows, wiping away the blood, sweat and grime. Only then does he take the cloth to Dean's hairline, rubbing harder at the smear of blood until Dean's face is completely clean.
He turns to dip the cloth back into the bowl, rinsing it before wringing it out again.
He takes Dean's left hand next, pulling it into his own before taking the cloth to it, wiping and scrubbing, running it under Dean's nails, using his own fingernails to pick out the blood and dirt where that fails. When he's satisfied that the hand is cleaned of all the blood, he starts on Dean's right hand, repeating the movements with the same goal. The calluses on his right hand are different, hands worn from the gun he so often uses, and Cas has to scrub harder at these to remove the blood which has caked and stained. There's a fresh blood blister on the palm of Dean's hand, the blister still soft, and Cas doesn't know, doesn't want to know how he got it, but he's careful around it, nonetheless.
The rag is a little more red, and when he rinses it out in the bowl, the water turns pink, but he'd been expecting that—came prepared for this eventuality.
Dumping the cloth in the bowl, Cas stands up, stepping away from Dean.
“Take your clothes off and lie on the bed,” Cas tells him, although the words feel like a question. “Facedown,” he adds.
Picking up the stained water Cas leaves the shack to empty the bowl. It leaves Dean to follow his request or not—the ball is in Dean's court now.
When Cas pushes the curtain open again, he's greeted with the sight of Dean's ass lying on the bed. The sight sends a flush of heat straight to his groin, his body reacting without a conscious decision to do so. But then Dean's always had that effect on him, and his cock has never cared about the appropriateness of his blood flow. That's not what this is about though, and he reaches down to readjust himself, making himself a little more comfortable.
Dean's laid out on the bed, head pillowed on his folded arms. His legs are parted just slightly, and if Cas wanted to slide between them he'd have to push them wider but that's not what he has in mind. He approaches the bed, depositing the now empty bowl near Dean's clothes, before stripping out of his jeans, down to his underwear, and slipping off his top, until he's standing by the bed wearing just his shirt and underpants.
Dean must hear his approach, the rickety floorboards announcing every step, but he doesn't move from his position—doesn't even open his eyes to look. And maybe if Cas were someone else that might deter him, but he knows just because Dean doesn't show interest doesn't mean he's not interested.
There's another bowl of water on the bench, with its own cloth, and Cas soaks it, straining out the water before he kneels on the bed. He gives the mattress time to settle and Dean time to expect his touch before he slings a leg over Dean's body, straddling his lower back.
Cas takes a moment to appreciate the view, observing the lean lines of muscle on Dean's back, the way his folded arms accentuate his muscles, and the soft lift and fall of his breathing. He's had an appreciation of Dean's body as long as he can remember. Maybe since he pulled him up from Hell, since he remade his body with the life-force of a hundred trees, soaking up their potential and forcing it into the shape of Dean. He's not sure if that's right, to appreciate something he made, but it was Dean's body first—all he's ever done is return it to its glory.
It’s what he intends to do now—restore Dean's body, Dean's soul, Dean's humanity. His own humanity is hard won, bought with the pain of falling and the hard lessons that taught him what it means to actually be human, more than just to appear as one. As difficult as that can be at times, it's something worth treasuring, something he can't let Dean leave behind in the harsh world they’re living in now.
Taking the lukewarm cloth, he starts at Dean's neck, wiping along his hairline to remove the dirt and sweat from his skin. He follows the lines of the musculature, moving further down, taking the cloth along his neck, running it along his shoulder, following first the line of his trapezius, before moving down to the deltoid, then following his tricep up, as far as he can go until Dean’s arm disappears, folded under his head. He repeats the movement on Dean’s right side, following Dean’s muscles and the fold of his arm. He rinses the cloth when he’s done, wringing out the sweat and filth from the material.
When the cloth is fresh, he brings it to Dean’s shoulder, to the back of his deltoid, and he starts making long sweeps from one shoulder to the other, wiping the cloth across the skin. With each pass he moves down a little, making his way down Dean’s back, until he’s made his way all the way to Dean’s lower back, to the barest dip of dimples and Cas runs the cloth over them, resisting the urge to press his thumbs into them instead.
Cleaning the cloth out once again, Cas shuffles down the bed, sliding from Dean’s back to between his legs, pushing them out and wider to fit between them. Dean grunts at the manhandling—but it’s not an objection, and Cas pays it no mind, focusing instead on the muscles of Dean’s gluteus maximus, then the lines of his hamstrings, careful to clean Dean’s legs off completely. He carries the cloth down, and his brush of the cloth is light when he runs it over Dean’s feet, but Dean still twitches at the touch on the sensitive skin.
Dean’s body is a temptation of his own making, lying with his legs open to accommodate Castiel. The temptation is there, impossible to ignore in totality, so he allows himself a moment just to appreciate, to take the image of Dean in. He can’t remember the last time they were naked around each other which wasn’t rushed and furious—and half the time they don’t even waste the time to unclothe themselves completely.
“Roll onto your back,” Cas instructs, sliding out from between his legs to allow for Dean to move easier. He steps up to the bowl again, methodically filling and rinsing the cloth in a way that allows Dean to move without Cas’ eyes on him—releases him from that pressure. Dean moves without complaint, the only sounds the ruffling of sheets. Only when the noise ceases does Cas turn back to Dean. Dean’s in practically the same position he’d been in the first time—but the thing that stands out is the arm strewn across his face, covering his face from Cas. He takes a moment to look over Dean—and he’s sure Dean knows he’s doing it but he doesn’t let that stop his eyes. There’s a flush on his cheeks only just visible from underneath his arm, but his neck is a darker shade than it usually is. He doesn’t miss the semi Dean’s sporting either, and he takes that as a sign of success.
This time Cas sits on the bed next to Dean, leaning over him as he wipes down the front of his neck, over his adam’s apple, then along his clavicle, before running it up his arm, then back down. He follows the line of Dean’s clavicle across to his other arm, the one resting over his face. When he’s done, he moves to Dean’s pectorals, wiping carefully over the muscles. Dean gasps at the touch of the cloth against his nipples. Cas ignores the sound, but he mindful to pay an equal amount of attention to Dean’s other nipple, watching as Dean bites down on his lip this time instead.
He moves the cloth further down, brushing over Dean’s abdominal muscles, further still until the cloth brushes against the hair just above his cock. Dean is harder now—it would be the easiest thing to move lower, to brush the cloth or his hand against Dean’s cock, and when the cloth brushes the hair the sound of Dean’s sharp intake of breath reaches Cas’ ears.
Instead he pulls the cloth away, moving down Dean’s legs. He ignores the groan from Dean, and the twitch his cock gives at the sound of him. He’s almost finished, then he can give his and Dean’s cock the attention he wants to give them, the attention he deserves. Cas takes his time as he works on Dean’s legs, running the cloth down his quad, rubbing his leg as much as he washes it, massaging the muscles a little as he works his way down. He pauses on Dean’s bad knee—the years have taken their toll, and the knee is always a little swollen, but Dean’s never going to take the time to let it rest. He massages the muscles around the knee, sticking his fingers into the tender muscles, holding the leg still when Dean’s knee jerks from the administrations. He remembers a time when he could have just placed his fingers against the skin and healed this, taken away Dean's pain with barely a thought otherwise, but now he can't. He places a kiss against the muscle instead when he’s satisfied.
He finishes cleaning off Dean’s leg, before repeating the movements on the other, then discards the no longer required cloth.
He moves to align his body with Dean’s, lying over him and placing a knee between Dean’s legs. Dean pushes up with his hips, seeking the pressure and friction of bodies pressed together, but Cas doesn’t let him find it, instead pulling back, withholding the pressure they both want. Dean’s not ready yet.
He wraps his hand around Dean’s wrist, tugging on his arm to pull it away from Dean’s face.
Leaning down, he places a kiss on Dean’s newly revealed face, a soft brush of his lips against the corner of Dean’s, before moving to his jaw, dropping a kiss there too. He kisses along Dean’s jawline, making his way along it until he reaches his ear, placing a kiss just below his earlobe.
“Let me take care of you tonight,” he whispers against the the skin, and they’re so close Cas can feel the intake of breath from Dean as much as he hears it, feels the movement of this stomach with the inhale, “let me do this.”
When he pulls away Dean’s eyes are open, and Cas catches Dean’s gaze, holds it even as Dean flushes under his watch. When Dean nods he answers the unspoken affirmation with a kiss against Dean’s lips, still soft, before moving down Dean’s body. He places a kiss just above Dean’s clavicle, another over his heart, just below the tattoo that rests there. Dean’s ribs are a place he’s marked before, both inside and out, and he places another kiss against the skin, seeing the Enochian scripture he knows still lies below the skin, even if he can no longer see it. From there he moves to kiss the jut of Dean’s hip bone, before placing a final kiss at the join of his leg.
He doesn’t want to move away from Dean, but there’s the matter of his clothes which he needs to resolve; he steps away from the bed, divesting himself of his remaining clothing quickly and efficiently, leaving them where they fall on the ground. He swipes the lube from the table before he moves to the foot of the bed, kneeling on it and knee walking until he’s exactly where he wants to be, positioned between Dean’s open legs. The click of the lid sounds loud in their cabin, and he doesn’t miss the twitch of Dean’s cock, nor the heat that pools in his own stomach.
He covers his fingers in the lubricant. He's generous, too generous for the rations they're on but there's a time and a place for rationing and that's not now, not here. He warms the lube up on his fingers, before reaching his hand down between Dean's legs, searching for the spot he finds easily from learned familiarity. Dean's dick twitches as he strokes over the muscle there, and he massages as he starts to speak.
“I know you think this is probably some sort of penance for me, or maybe a punishment for you, but I assure you Dean it's anything but.” Cas gently and methodically strokes the top of Dean's thigh, moving closer to his groin, closer to Cas’ goal. “I'm doing this because you are worthy, because I know everything you do you do to try and help, and because you need to know that everything you're doing, it’s enough.” He leans down, placing a kiss to the inside of Dean’s thigh, and when Dean groans at the touch, he takes the opportunity to slide his index finger inside Dean.
The movement elicits a deeper groan from Dean, one Cas imagines he can feel from his hand on Dean’s thigh, from his finger inside of him. He takes his time working the finger in, delighting in the movements of pushing in, twisting, before withdrawing a little and repeating. When his finger is inside as far as he can get it he takes a moment to pause, just to appreciate the feel of Dean around him. He pulls his finger back, and he doesn’t hesitate to add another finger, watching the stretch of Dean’s entrance around both of his fingers. He’s slow with his ministrations, taking his time to stretch Dean out, watching the slide of his fingers and relishing the clench he feels around them. He slips a third finger in only when he’s sure Dean’s ready, noting Dean’s full body twitch and the way his hands grip at the sheets. He could just do this, could just get Dean off on his fingers, maybe use his mouth or slip down and rim him—except Cas wants to fuck Dean, wants the proximity of it and to mark Dean up as his own, inside and out. The thought forces a moan from Cas, and he slips his fingers out of Dean, before taking the lube in his hand again and coating his cock liberally, squeezing hard at the base as he lines himself up.
He slides in easily, the slide made easier than usual thanks to the lube and time spent on prep, but no less pleasing and they both groan as Cas bottoms out inside Dean.
For all the time he’d spent before it’s quick now; he’s thrusting into Dean, and when he hears Dean’s breath quicken—that familiar gasp meaning Dean’s getting close—he wraps his hand around Dean’s cock, stroking him in time with his own thrusts. He increases the pressure, and Dean cries out louder, his stomach muscles clenching as he pulses around Cas, coming over his fingers. Easing off pressure of his fingers he maintains his own thrusts as Dean’s aftershocks continues to seize around him, and it’s two-three thrusts as most, before Cas feels his own orgasm overtake him, closing his eyes to the world as he comes inside Dean.
Afterwards, when Cas has cleaned them both up again—this time with the cold not-so-clean cloth—he watches Dean by the light of the moon as he sleeps, his soft snores barely audible even in the quiet room.
They're not going to talk about it—Cas isn't sure if he could and it's not like Dean is ever one to bring up a conversation about feelings when he could avoid it instead, but that doesn't mean Cas is leaving Dean to deal with it on his own. He can be this, the safe port for Dean in the storm, and he'll be waiting here for Dean as long as he'll have him.