The angel gasps out "Brother, don't!" but it's too late; Castiel's arm is already is in motion and his sword stabs into her heart before he can stop himself. He remembers her name, Talitha, and how when he'd been chosen to fetch the Righteous Man she'd sought him out and told him she would pray for his success and safety. How she'd been kind. Her vessel's red hair swirls out as she falls and for a moment she looks like Anna.

She was the last of four. He staggers back panting and realizes he's surrounded by bodies.

He blinks; he's standing in a motel room smelling of mildew, decorated with moldering wallpaper older than his vessel and ten feet away Dean is sleeping with his arm hanging off the side of the bed. He doesn't think he's made any noise but Dean stirs, then startles awake. "Dammit, Cas," he says, slumping back to the bed, "can't you learn to knock?" Then he jumps up like he's been electrified, limbs tense and urgent. "Shit. Shit, Cas, how much of that is yours?"

Castiel blinks until he realizes Dean's talking about the blood spatter on his clothes, which he hadn't noticed until Dean did. He doesn't think any of it is his but he allows Dean to slide his coat from his shoulders, to loosen his tie and open his shirt, and it turns out his does have a nasty cut on his shoulder he never even felt. Dean starts talking about shock and stitches - "You have to be more careful, Cas, some son of a bitch is going to put one through your heart one day" - and Castiel lets the words wash over him. He briefly imagines one of his brothers' swords piercing his heart before banishing the thought; Dean would grieve, he knows this, he's watched Dean have that dream and seen him wake up panicked and trembling. He remembers a swirl of red hair falling and shivers; he feels Dean misinterpret, Dean's hand closing around his wrist as he grows quiet, grows serious. "It hurt, Cas?" Dean says, his keen, practiced eyes examining him, and Castiel truthfully shakes his head no.

"You're lucky you heal fast, buddy," Dean says after going through the motions of applying first aid, plopping back on the bed with a child's bound. Castiel sees him cock his head to the side, a rehearsed motion made natural by repetition. "Think you'll stay the night?" he asks, keeping his voice low to avoid waking Sam, although Castiel (and Dean too, he suspects) knows Sam has long been awake and is rolling his eyes at them, like always.

"I...yes, I think so," Castiel replies. As if the question has ever had more than one answer, but there's a certain comfort found indulging in the old script.

He leans against the window, watching until Dean lets out an exasperated huff. "Cas, you're hurt. You can't just stand there all night." He shifts over. "C'mon," he says, then his eyes narrow, and this is another old dance. "Cas, do not make me shoot you. It's too damn late."

Castiel allows himself to be pulled down to the bed, as if either of them actually believe he's capable of being tired. Weary, yes, always, but not tired. After a few minutes he feels Dean throw his arm across his chest with calculated carelessness; he knows Dean's watching him through hooded lids and pretends to not see the worry. Before too long Dean's breathing deepens and he tightens his arm around Castiel, draws him closer in that quiet moment before true sleep and Castiel closes his eyes. He doesn't know how he functioned before discovering the small comforts his vessel could provide, the soothing sensation of skin on skin in the dark.

Even the pretending is soothing in its way, the small fiction that Castiel doesn't desperately need this comfort and that Dean isn't happy to give it. That the war isn't going poorly and that Castiel hasn't personally murdered more of his brothers and sisters than Lucifer. His breathing hitches before he can control it and Dean senses the distress, curling close around him, murmuring sleepy nonsense in his ear. Castiel listens to Dean's heart beating for a while, watches his dreams, then allows himself a small indulgence and drops his barriers, catching a glimpse of Dean's soul. The depth of Dean's affection always, always stuns him and he basks in it, basks in the bravery and honor and sheer genuine decency of the man lying beside him.

Dean doesn't understand it, but he's why Castiel is fighting this war. Humans have so few years allowed them, hunters even less so. If it costs his life, if it takes sacrificing every thing he is Castiel is determined to create a Heaven worthy of Dean Winchester.

Even if the blood caked on his hands means Castiel won't belong there.