Fandom: SPN

Summary: Cas seeks out Dean when his friend is at an emotional low.

Company

Castiel stared at the surrounding destruction, wary at his welcome.

The bedroom that Dean had put so much effort in lay in shambles. Carefully displayed weaponry were knocked from their perches, shredded bits of Dean's personal book collection littered the floor, and shattered glass was everywhere. The angel couldn't tell wich bits were from the whiskey bottle, or the lamp that had obviously thrown across the room.

Dean himself was at the epicenter of the carnage, seated on the floor with his back against the bed.

With some dismay Castiel noted that Dean's prized matress hadn't escaped the damage.

"Dean?"

His chin dropped further to his chest instead of rising to look at his visitor. Those green eyes were fixated on his arm, on the Mark, his other hand loosely clutching a blade. The fine edge of the knife kept drifting over the cursed scar tissue, and then came to rest limply between the hunter's knees.

Something clenched in Castiel's chest when he noted the blood. It was irrational of course, any injury Dean had, self inflicted or otherwise, would be far from fatal. But that didn't stop the cold sensation of worry settling in his chest.

Treading carefully, he stepped forward until he was beside his friend and silently sat beside him. Dean tensed at first, muscles coiling as if preparing for a fight. Castiel kept very stll, and his posture relaxed, and waited.

Finally, after an eternity of tension and silence, it slowly began to ebb. Dean shifted, bumping his shoulder against Castiel, searching out contact without asking for it.

Castiel leaned against the pressure, a silent reassurance, and waited for Dean to be ready to speak.