Fic: Caring for You (1/1) Dean/Castiel

[aerilex]

Title: Caring for You
Author: Aerilex
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre/Pairings:  Dean/Castiel, H/C, Wing!fic, Fluff, Always-a-girl!Cas
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~4,010
Disclaimer: Author owns nothing recognizable. This is a fanmade story for entertainment and amusement only, not for profit.
Warnings: Except for girl!Cas, as long as you're familiar with the general plot of S6 you're fine.
Summary: Castiel seeks comfort in familiarity.
A/N: So, I wrote this as a birthday gift for ilfirin_estel . It was belated. 'Cause I suck. And then I forgot to post it. 'Cause I suck hardcore. So here it is, sorry, y'all.


Castiel is hurt. Castiel is…fatigued. That is the only way she knows how to describe it. Ever since the loss of Jamie Novak’s soul from within her Grace with her second resurrection, Castiel finds herself lonely, piqued with exhaustion and the overwhelming flood of emotions that she has learned through her time as a member of Team Free Will. Those emotions have only managed to hinder the progress she has scraped together in the war against Raphael; and between Castiel’s brother constantly making attempts on her life and the Winchesters calling for her assistance her energies have been nearly fully depleted. Castiel is struggling to maintain her Grace, command an army in battle, and indulge her protective urges toward the boys.

So, yes, Castiel has missed Jamie’s quiet words of encouragement much of the time. She has missed Jamie’s warmth. But if she is being truthful, she must admit that she has missed Dean’s much more.

The angel leans wearily against Bobby Singer’s wall, waiting for Dean or Sam to come through the library and notice her because she does not think she can move from this spot let alone go and seek them. Castiel tries to make her mouth move around the taste of copper and the heavy slick of blood but her throat is raw and feels closed, as though someone has stuck a blade through it; she only succeeds in creating a soft, aborted cough where she meant to call out. Her wings are tender and curled against her back-the flight here has drained her and she hardly has the energy to hold herself up. She braces her shoulder against the doorjamb for additional support as her vision grays for a moment before snapping back in place.

Castiel hopes that she is not bleeding on Bobby’s floor. He will be very displeased with her if she is.

Her breath comes in ragged pants, and she should not need to breathe but somehow it has become vital for her to do something to alleviate the pain that pulses through her back and chest. Her vessel’s knees are knocking together, quivering under her weight and Castiel isn’t sure that she will be able to slide easily to the floor without further damaging her wings so she hopes that she can hold out long enough to be found-

"…The hell’d those boys get to with my-Cas?" The shuffling footsteps of Bobby stop as he enters the room with her. Castiel feels a flare of relief that she has always found remarkable-Bobby Singer resonates with a deep presence of paternal comfort and gruff affection, and it is very often that Castiel finds herself wanting to curl into that feeling like a human child perched upon her father’s knee.

Castiel’s eyes shutter as she struggles to meet Bobby’s. Then her knees finally lose the battle and she begins to collapse to the floor.

"Balls," Bobby chokes and reaches to catch her and gather her in closely. "What happened? Talk to me, Feathers."

"Raph…ael…soldiers." Castiel struggles to shape the syllables, voice quiet and rough from screams and injury. Her body curls in wretched agony, and she forces her damaged vocal cords through the rest, "Am-ambush."

"Okay, okay, I got ya. You’re all right." Bobby handles Castiel with the utmost care (Castiel knows Bobby’s always had a soft spot for her, and that he always remembers how he wanted a little girl whenever he sees her) and lowers her to the floor as gently as he can before he turns and bellows, "Boys! Get your idjit asses in here and help me with your angel!"

Castiel’s mouth twitches at the corners. She decides she will never tire of hearing Bobby command the Winchesters as only he and John have ever been able to. Castiel has certainly never been able to get the Winchesters to listen to her in such a way. She hears sounds like thunder rolling as Dean and Sam come from separate directions, one entering the room from upstairs while the other is coming from Bobby’s secret stash of alcohol in the basement.

Castiel does not need to guess which Winchester is which, but she feels her blood run cold when she hears Dean gasp, "Holy fuck, Cas." There is the shuffling of clothes and the creaking of bones as Castiel and Bobby are joined on the floor. Castiel manages to glance up at the worried expressions of both Sam and Dean as they gather near Bobby. Dean’s warm hands tug her from Bobby more gently than she expects them to, and she soon finds herself engulfed in his loose hold. "Christ. Blood everywhere," Dean mutters as he begins to fumble with Castiel’s coat.

"What happened?" Sam asks quietly as he helps Dean to free Castiel’s arms.

Castiel makes a small, pained sound and Bobby quickly explains, "She says Raphael’s people ambushed her."

"Fuck." Seeking her wounds, Dean skims one hand over Castiel’s stomach then around her back to land between her shoulders. Castiel stiffens and against her will a whimper escapes her lips. The world spins and darkens for a brief moment as Castiel pitches forward away from Dean’s touch. When she comes back from the blackness of her agony, she notices the three men are still. Dean’s expression is tight when her gaze falls on his viridian eyes. "Cas?"

"Wings," Castiel hisses. "Cut into…wings." Castiel trembles, her heart racing with what she recognizes as fear as she experiences the sensation of falling again and again-

Castiel distantly hears someone call her name as the darkness surges up to claim her.

~

Castiel dreams of the Impala. She dreams of its cracked leather seats, the scent of summer sunshine and gun oil and rain and gasoline-the scent of Dean. She dreams of the last time she had been invited into the backseat, nothing on her mind but Dean’s green eyes and his kiss-pinkened smile. She dreams of the absence of that smile, of the darkness creeping behind Dean’s gaze and the sadness that lingered there as he had explained the promise he’d made to Sam-a promise that couldn’t include Castiel, who could even then hear the call of Heaven.

Castiel dreams of heated kisses exchanged to chase away the ache of her fractured heart, of hands exploring her slender frame for what she had been certain would be the last time.

The heat of Dean’s verdant eyes quickly cools as the dream descends into the darkness that is spreading throughout Heaven. This darkness blooms behind the dusky gaze of Raphael as he glares down at her, demands obedience of her. Castiel rebuts this demand time and again in her dream, but she is bitter that she should have to do this on her own. The angel is embittered and upset and scorned by the ultimate rejection in that last goodbye, in the silence she has had to condemn herself to until it had been broken by a single prayer in the midst of Heaven’s chaos.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to Castiel to get her fine, feathery ass down here. C’ mon, Bright Eyes. We got ourselves a plague-y...situation here.

Dean only called Castiel Bright Eyes a few other times since the night they captured Raphael together, since the first time they’d lain together. Nobody gets to die a virgin, Bright Eyes, he’d said. Not even the nerdy librarian angels. The hunter had said it teasingly, but he’d offered her a smile warmed by affection and edged with the fear of losing his angel.

The bitterness clouds over the warmth again as every cool, detached meeting since that first prayer passes through the world of memories Castiel’s dreams have created. Every hurtful word tossed by Dean, every cold reply returned by Castiel-expanding the chasm between them until it collapsed under the weight of their bond and filled with its own debris, leaving them desperately clinging to one another again. She tastes this bitterness like sickness clinging to her Grace as she rises slowly, stirring at the vague hint of sound that echoes near her ears.

…stitch this, might need…

…not sure when…be okay…

…Bright Eyes?

Castiel recognizes the soft, gruff tone as the one Dean used with her before this terrible war between the angels dragged them further apart. The angel latches onto that tone, uses it to claw her way from the darkness that claims her so slowly. On the heels of the warm presence of Dean, Castiel experiences the first sharp tugs of pain at her borrowed (not anymore) body and her Grace. The sharp stinging sensation propels her into full alertness, and Castiel gives a slight gasp as she begins to rise from the soft surface she lay upon.

A warm, familiar weight falls against Castiel’s clavicle, thumb brushing over her throat as Dean presses her back down. Castiel is strong enough to resist, they both know. Even still, she allows Dean to guide her back to the pillows that had been cradling her, aware that her Grace still hasn't replenished itself enough to heal the multiple wounds sprouting over both her angelic and human forms. Her familiar long coat has been removed, as well as the dark-colored blazer and the white blouse and satin heels Jamie had so favored. In the stead of her shirt, Castiel feels the thick padding of gauze and bandaging wrapped around her torso, covered by the smooth, well-worn cotton of one of Dean’s shirts. Her wrist, bruised and throbbing, is also wrapped and laid carefully across her stomach as though to restrict its movement. There are butterfly bandages decorating the shallow cuts over her temple and the hollow beneath her right eye.

Castiel finishes her inventory quickly, then her gaze seeks Dean’s verdant eyes unerringly. She blinks at him, then sighs, "Dean."

"Hey there, Bright Eyes," Dean responds kindly, and Castiel pulls a face at him. His brow furrows in consternation as he observes her, but he makes no comment on her source of agitation. Instead, he asks, "How’re you doing?"

Castiel takes a moment to survey her true self and what damages her Grace has incurred. She swallows, rasps, "Not so well."

Dean’s face twitches sympathetically, and Castiel is again brought to confusion. She has become far more accustomed to the coldness with which Dean has treated her over the last several months, a coldness that had been birthed in their abandonment of each other to their respective duties. The angel thinks to comment on this, perhaps to speculate that Dean truly seeing her injured for the first time (though it is not the first time she has been hurt) must have brought upon this change in behavior. What she says is, "Where are Sam and Bobby?" She knows she is in the spare bedroom Dean claims for his own at Bobby’s house, but neither Sam nor Bobby are near.

"Sent Bobby to bed," Dean says, and Castiel is glad because she knows Bobby must have been fretting. He worries for her much of the time, frets in his unique manner over the angel and the brothers Winchester all of the time. "Sammy passed out on the couch after we got done stitching you up the best we could," Dean adds, glancing away toward the bedroom door. "We kinda had a long day, and then you came crashing in."

"My sincere apologies," Castiel says softly. She knows that her human family is suffering, often wishes she were available more often to alleviate their aches physical and spiritual alike. (She wonders if her Father thinks she is lacking, that she can no longer carry out this responsibility and is not defending Heaven as well as she should be able to. She prays to her Father for understanding and forgiveness but it has been months and He remains silent.)

Dean scowls at her for the apology. His soul sputters bright reds and frenzied shades of siena like a nervous tic. "The hell is going on up there, Cas?" he asks, his face twisted into a familiar, disgruntled expression. Castiel has seen it often lately, more so than she remembers seeing it even during the Apocalypse when Dean had clung to her to have faith in him, to help him to believe that he wasn’t broken and empty, void inside his human flesh.

Castiel inhales deeply, though she has no need. "War, Dean. I am at war with my brothers and sisters. Were you not aware?"

Dean shoots her a look and opens his mouth to offer a hot retort, then seems to change his mind. His entire demeanor settles back into the expression he had given her during their most intimate moments before. "Yeah, guess I kind of deserved that," he sighs. "Sorry." His hands skim over her again, checking her for any sign of further discomfort. They hesitate and linger at the curve of her shoulders. "Your wings... How bad is it? Is there some way for me to check them?" His fingers curl over her shoulders, stroking softly in comforting circles. It feels warm through the thin shirt, and Castiel curls her Grace around the feeling. Her human heart pounds as though it is near to bursting, then calms abruptly as the feelings confound her.

Castiel can honestly say that she has expected coolness and the disregard from both Dean and Sam, though Sam is softer and somewhat more attentive to her silent struggles. This? This new, strange genteel way Dean handles her? This is enough to finally tempt her heavenly wrath for the first time since Dean had blatantly denied her very existence and defied her at every turn. (He’d called her a creepy angel stalker, sometimes wondered if she and Ruby were in cahoots, and once to her great annoyance had even contemplated the idea of she and Anael lying together while he’d pleasured himself.) "Why do you care to know, exactly?" she asks in dark tones, drudging up the voice of that stone-hearted angel who had threatened to toss Dean back into the Pit.

Dean glowers at her and gruffly admonishes, "Cas." He leans away from the angel, as though she has caused him some unknown hurt. "I thought you knew..." Better, Castiel hears him think. I thought you knew better than that. Dean’s thoughts are always loud, and it is when he is on the edge of anger that she can hear them the clearest.

She has refrained from voicing her frustrations in the past few months, worried that if she should start she will never cease.

Perhaps it is time that Dean sees some evidence of why she is frustrated and exhausted. "Close your eyes a moment," she requests (requests because she knows better than to issue a command to Dean Winchester by now) and to her relief and pleasure, Dean blinks at her once before his eyes flutter closed.

It only takes a thought to twist her Grace, dampening it and reshaping it in her wings until they take corporeal form. Her Grace spills over for a moment, brightening the room like a flare of pure sunlight, then the light dissipates with the sound of feathers fluttering. Castiel releases a soft breath, and her voice is strained again as she says, "All right."

Castiel looks away from Dean’s face, fixes her gaze pointedly on the middle distance behind him as he takes in the sight of her tattered wings with a choked-off gasp. "Cas," he says like a curse. Castiel risks a glance over her shoulder at the wings that had once been so pure, clean like the driven snow. Now they are black and oily, blood-streaked and torn. Castiel pulls her gaze away again, shamed. "What...?"

"Angels’ wings are their...you would say Achilles Heel, I believe," Castiel says half-questioningly. "This last ambush is not the first time I have had to engage Raphael and his lieutenants in battle alone." She speaks so calmly, as though war in Heaven is commonplace. (And so it is, she supposes as she recalls the war that their glorious Morningstar initiated. The realization saddens her.)

A strange expression comes over Dean’s face then, and Castiel thinks she can recognize it from a long, long time ago. "Alone?" he repeats, and his voice sounds dangerous. Castiel almost smiles. It has been awhile since she has seen the strange protective side of Dean, at least where she is concerned. She’d have thought that Dean would have realized by now that angels can look after themselves.

"Yes, Dean," she says patiently. "I am not always with my soldiers in Heaven. Sometimes we have to stay apart in order to attract less attention to ourselves. It provides a tactical advantage."

There is silence for a time as Dean digests this. His emotions are flaring bright like fireworks across his soul. Most of them are angry. Some, Castiel is unsurprised to find, are tinged with guilt. And then there is the protectiveness, intermingled with a deep, deep possessive feeling. "This is how it always is?" Dean finally asks, voice like gravel and stone.

Castiel would like to shield him from this, but if it helps him to understand... Castiel cannot always be there for Dean and Sam. Castiel may not be around if they need her. She shifts uncomfortably as Dean continues to contemplate her, and his olivine eyes wander back to settle on her wings as they thrash gently against the bed.

His gaze becomes sweet and caring as he reaches for Castiel. His fingertips thread very lightly through her feathers and still. "Can I?" he asks with a sidelong glance to Castiel’s cerulean gaze. Castiel feels her eyes widen at the bittersweet ache that pulls through her wings at Dean’s light touch. She holds her breath and offers a silent nod. Dean’s lips quirk, and he bends toward her, more actively massaging the tender flesh beneath Castiel’s soft feathers. They’ve done this once before, Castiel manifesting her wings at Dean’s request after Gabriel had caught her in his twisted limbo of television programs. Castiel had taken an injury to her wings while trapped within the battlefield Gabriel had designed to distract her from the Winchesters, and Dean had soothed the hurt as best he could with a loving caress.

"Aches," Castiel murmurs plaintively as Dean rubs one battered wing down. He pauses, and reaches with one hand to cup her cheek in his palm. His thumb brushes the corner of her mouth. Dean has always enjoyed touching her in this manner, gently and subtly. It does nothing to sate her Grace-deep yearning, however. Castiel always longs for this, always wants Dean near. She had grown accustomed to not having this. Its sudden reemergence baffles her but Castiel relinquishes her resistance. She sighs quietly into the gentle caretaking, forsakes the mistrust of what it could possibly mean to simply drink it all in. At the sound of her sigh, Dean’s lips quirk and his fingers smooth over her cheek in another soft caress before he returns both hands to her wings.

Dean is very thorough in this soothing practice. He smoothes every bump and bruise hidden amongst her feathers, hunts down all the aches and chases them away. Her Grace lights up and basks in the loving attention, and oh, oh, it has been so very long. She knows that she would weep if she could, but she lacks the luxury of allowing herself even that small human comfort.

As Dean continues his gentle ministrations, Castiel lifts her gaze to watch his expression. She is surprised to find the hunter’s eyes staring at her, gauging her responses to his touch. Dean chews his bottom lip thoughtfully, his emotions a muddled haze and Castiel only sees his intention as he catches the arch of one wing and carefully pulls it up to his lips.

The kiss seems far more intimate than any he has ever given her before. All those other kisses had been filled with gentlness but edged with the heat of passion, but this? The soft butterfly kisses the hunter presses to Castiel’s wings glow with unbridled affection, and Castiel wants to hold onto this feeling that washes over her forever. Her breath hitches as she inhales sharply. Dean glances up at her, mouth quirking against her wing. "This help?" he asks rustily.

Castiel wets her lips, but her throat is dry and her voice raspy. "Y-yes."

Dean gives her his best roguish smirk, but his eyes soften it into something...else. Castiel feels her Grace shiver in anticipation. And then Dean is leaning over her, bracing himself on one arm to hold himself away from her injuries as he arches over to her other wing, pulling it to him to give it the same treatment as its twin. The incandescent glow bathes over Castiel again, filling her with warmth and flushing her skin with heat. She squirms just slightly, and Dean anchors himself upright over her. His eyes are sparkling with laughter, his mouth curved with it. The only beauty Castiel knows to surpass the look on Dean’s face now is seeing his soul in its purest form, a golden light overflowing with selflessness and love.

She catches her breath. Dean grins. "That was good, huh?"

"Dean." Castiel intends to chide him, but her voice is breathless. This whole thing seems...backwards, somehow, but Castiel can’t bring herself to question it any longer. The whole of her yearns, and Dean is softening that ache, filling that terrible void. Their eyes meet and hold, exchanging a familiar, soulful stare-Castiel searching, Dean simply...watching. Castiel feels something niggling in the core of her Grace, something she has not felt for a very, very long time. It takes her several moments, staring into gold-flecked green, for Castiel to identify it.

Peace.

Castiel exhales softly and something in the movement traps Dean, his eyes flickering. When he leans into her, Castiel is fully expecting it and rises to meet him. The kiss is soft, chaste, sweet-nothing like anything they have ever shared before. Castiel wants to bury herself in it deep, curling inside the essence of Dean, and never emerge again. Dean pulls back, presses light kisses like feathers tickling over Castiel’s jaw and at the soft place beneath her ear. She trembles, and he chuckles, and pulls back to give her space.

His expression is soft again, warm, but something darkens behind his gaze. "I don’t like you fighting alone," he admits quietly. "I wish there was something I could do to help."

Castiel considers him. Her flushed cheeks warm further as she murmurs, "I find that it helps very much when we...do things like that." (It proves that he still cares, somehow. She cannot fathom the reason he does but that fails to matter, in the end.)

Dean chokes on a laugh, and gives her a fond smile. "Pretty sure I can fill that order." He swoops in for another quick kiss, then gives her his most charming smile. "Is there anywhere else you’d like me to kiss you, Bright Eyes?" he asks, meaning to tease and to chase her blush.

Castiel does not blush. She does not think of her injuries or the ambush that had caused them. She doesn’t think of the war in Heaven. Because, as a matter of fact, right now? Castiel thinks of Dean’s kisses and his question, and can definitely get behind the idea of his lips roaming over her skin and filling her Grace with that strange warm sensation again. Possibly repeatedly.