SCARs

Castiel had seen every inch of Dean's body. He had both loved and praised it with his own, and along the way, he had become very familiar with it. Every dip, every curve, every line until, at last, he could see it all in his mind's eye, perfect and wonderful. And in seeing his body, he had become accustomed to the scars, small marks left there by the hand of friends and enemies alike, beautiful blemishes on the otherwise unmarked expanse of tan skin that made up the whole of Dean Winchester.

Ever since his revival and his "re-hymenization" Dean had managed to accumulate more physical marks. Tiny lines, full of stories, full of near death experiences, and pain that he had borne so well in the best interests of others.

There was the one that cut across his left eyebrow from a nasty piece of glass that had flown amiss in a bar fight with a demon. The hunter had saved them all that night, acting with his usual bravado and cocky swagger that so delighted the angel.

A slice on his right forearm from a shifter in Nevada that appeared to move when he flexed his arm. Cas remembered the sharp hiss of pain when the shifter cut him, but it was no match for Dean's steely scowl of determination as he tackled the creature to the ground, punching it repeatedly before finally plunging the silver dagger into its chest.

A myriad of cuts on the palm of his hands from the times when he had been forced to prove himself human, to act as donor for a tracking spell, or to create a sigil on the wall. All of those cuts made with the silver dagger, and at the time, they all seemed almost painless, just a part of the job, a portion of the duty that he put above all else, himself especially.

On Dean's back was a crisscrossing of marks. Slashes and scars from being thrown into walls or pushed back by any number of demons, witches, shifters, werewolves, and so many other things. But even after being pushed, he always managed to get back up, clutching his side and panting in pain as he staggers forth with his weapon, intent on saving those who needed his protection.

Then there were the scars that Cas himself had erased, more individual pieces of who Dean had been in his life before hell.

A small pucker on his knee where he'd fallen as a child. Dean could still remember his reluctant tears as he stared down at the torn shreds of his skin and the flowing blood. Even though he knew he would never trade in that day, the wind on his face, the bike underneath him, or his father behind him, smiling for once.

A slash on his inner thigh from his first real hunt. It was an incubus, flying through the air, moving in slow motion, teeth bared and claws outstretched ready for the kill. If not for the silver knife in John's hand that pierced the creature's throat, he would have died that time long before he'd had a chance to live.

But Cas's favorite scars were the marks that he himself had made. Nicks and scratches that had been created when they made love, and that faded quickly. His only lasting scar, the hand prints. Glaring and red patches that exactly matched to the contours of his hands. This was the physical manifestation, proof that he alone had raised Dean from perdition and brought him back to where he belonged. It was a permanent reminder of what they really meant to each other, and how no matter what they'd still be connected.

Cas remembered the one time he'd offered to heal all of the markings. They were lying naked in bed, wrapped tightly in cool sheets and the warmth of Dean's strong arms surrounded him. To his surprise, his lover responded in the most curious fashion. "No way, Cas."

He didn't understand. "Why?" The angel asked in shock. He couldn't imagine why Dean wouldn't want to be whole, unblemished. Why would he choose to keep these painful memories?

"Because that's who I am, Cas. For good or bad, I'm scarred, broken." It took Cas time to realize exactly what his lover meant that night. And when he finally did, he understood with a clarity that he'd never known he had.

All of these seemingly horrible moments coalesced into this man with a 'give 'em hell attitude,' into Dean Winchester. Though he may be a far cry from perfect, he was solid, grounded. But he was also broken, a collection of the marks, the lacerations, and the blemishes. Because without even one of those marks, he would cease to be Dean, and then become something else, something much less. And as far as Cas was concerned everything and everyone was meaningless if Dean ceased to exist. He, for one, wanted nothing to do with that world.

A/N:

Ugh, guys, it's been so long since I've written any fanfiction. I'm sorry about that, but I've actually been sort of dedicated to buckling down and writing a real novel. (Sooo much work!) But it's the summer before my freshman year of college, and I plan to donate at least some of that time to you people.

Anyway, thanks for reading this. I hope you enjoyed my first foray into the Supernatural universe. (I'm so addicted to this show. You don't even know.) Tell me what you think! Remember, reviews feed me and I'm not afraid of the flames.

Remember: Reviews= happy camper. Happy camper= quicker updates. Quicker updates= you reading more. It's a cycle keep it going!

Yours truly, madly, and deeply,

Einstinette