This was a request from greektsik13 ( u/4636174/).

She asked for a Destiel songfic, based off of "Demons" by Imagine Dragons ( watch?v=QtwQiueNLWI), concerning Castiel comforting Dean. She specified no smut, and self-harm. I did my best to really capture the feel of the song - or, at least, what it makes me feel - so feel free to tell me how I did with that. I really loved writing this, even though Destiel isn't my favorite ship...but the requester will be the final judge of whether or not it's any good.

WARNING: There's graphic self-harm in this. If you would rather steer clear of that, or you've had personal experience with it, please, please consider turning back. This is the darkest, most angst-filled thing I've ever written, and my intention is definitely not to hurt or offend anyone. Consider yourself forewarned and, therefore, forearmed.

Also, I just realized that this is the very first fic I've written that doesn't have Sam in it.

What.

Again - I do indeed do requests, even if you're a complete stranger; PM me if you're interested.

He's just...gone.

Dean could imagine the inevitable conversation between Sam and Castiel well enough.

He took his duffel bag, left most of his clothes, and about half the weapons in the arsenal are missing.

His bag was heavy on his lap, the guns and knives inside rattling heavily against each other. The guy driving the truck that he was riding shotgun in kept picking up on the sound and casting nervous glances at him.

He didn't even take the Impala. He just...bolted.

The thrum of the engine, unfamiliar enough to make him uncomfortable, on some deep level that knew exactly what his car felt and sounded like, traveled up through the ragged cloth of the passenger seat. Dean stopped himself from resting his forehead against the greasy window next to him and closing his eyes, despite how overwhelmingly bone-tired he was. No, not even tired. Weary. That was the word for it.

In his head, Sam's low, smooth voice, guilty and confused and afraid, changed into Castiel's gravelly rasp.

Have there been any noticeable changes in his behavior lately?

Dean snorted out a sarcastic laugh at that understatement of a question, dry and breathless because he hadn't so much as seen a bottle of water in about a day. He was thirsty, so hungry it made him weak, and he felt like he was travelling in his own personal cloud of dirt (like that one kid from Peanuts), but moving forward was more important than tending to the needs of his body. He just wanted to put as much distance between himself and a certain group of people as possible. Sam. Cas. Bobby. In a nutshell, everyone that some tiny, tender, unscarred part of him still held onto as the people he cared about more than anything else.

And now the driver was looking at him again, his expression efficiently conveying that he thought Dean was either crazy as all get out or a roving serial killer. He didn't know the half of it, and Dean found that funny in a way that felt like cracks spiderwebbing over the surface of his heart.

Well...no, he's been basically the same as he always has since you brought him back...you know. Obviously hurting, but lashes out at me when I try to talk to him about it. Grappling with his demons - almost literally - and, near as I can tell, losing on a daily basis. He's having nightmares that he won't tell me about, I hear him screaming and crying in the middle of the night - and, Cas, when you show up...you've gotta have noticed how he looks at you whenever you show up.

Dean shifted in his seat. His back ached.

It's like he wishes you never pulled him out of the Pit.

"Got any water?" he asked the truck driver, his voice dry as sandpaper. It rasped in his throat the way it had when he'd first clawed his way out of his own grave after spending four months in it. The guy glanced at him, sideways, and shook his head. He had to outweigh Dean by about fifty pounds, most of it muscle. There was barbed wire tattooed around his neck. But, for some reason, he seemed terrified of him. Maybe he could sense the twisted mess inside him, the innate cruelty, the pain and sorrow that had warped into rage and bloodlust after forty years in Hell. Maybe he could sense that that was pretty much all that was left of him.

Yes. I have noticed.

"No. Sorry, buddy." The trucker cleared his throat. "Rest stop comin' up in about forty miles, motel...you want I should drop you off there?"

"Yeah, sure. That'll be fine." He didn't really feel like admitting that he had no idea where he was going. Just away.

I just...okay. I don't know what to do anymore. I know he's in a pretty bad place - he's been in a pretty bad place for, like, a year now. I'm worried he's going to do something stupid. So...Cas, you gotta find him. Please. That's why I called for you. Bring him back. Help him.

He shifted his duffel bag on his lap, and the handle of a knife pressed into his thigh.

I can't heal wounds of the soul, Sam.

"So, uh...what's in the bag?" the trucker asked. He sounded like someone trying desperately to make small talk, just to ease either the unbearable awkwardness of a situation or his own fear. "Just your stuff, huh?"

"Yep." He didn't want to talk. And he definitely didn't want to get the cops called on him, which would probably happen if he explained what was really in his duffel bag.

I know! Just find him, Cas. You've gotta be as worried as I am. He's practically your brother, too.

The cheap neon lights of a gas station suddenly lit up the horizon, and the stars all but completely disappeared from the night sky. Dean couldn't help but feel some measure of relief, but it was muted, shapeless. Almost like he was feeling all of his emotions through some sort of veil.

I'll look. But I'll promise nothing. I may be an angel of the Lord, but some miracles are beyond even my grasp.

When the truck crested a slight rise, the gas station and motel, fairly close together, came into view. The motel was seedy, even by his standards, which were pretty damn low after a lifetime of seeking out the cheapest lodgings he could find. It...well, it looked like the kind of place where Joe Blue-collar went to blow his brains out once he got tired of it all.

Dean hadn't come to kill himself. At least, he hadn't made a conscious decision to do anything like that when he snapped and ran away. And he wasn't exactly blue-collar, either. What the hell kind of class would you lump hunters into, anyway? One of their own - like, black-collar? Maybe just redneck.

I'm not asking for a miracle, I just want you to find Dean!

"Thanks," Dean rasped out, shoving open the door when the truck came to a stop within the pool of bright, familiar light from the gas station.

"Eh. Don' mention it," the trucker replied in his nervous pseudo-drawl as Dean slung the strap of his bag over one shoulder. He turned around, to find the guy squinting at him. "Listen. Don't mean no disrespect at all, but...ain't you a bit old to be hitching?"

"'M thirty," Dean muttered. Apparently, having him out of his truck made the driver feel a whole lot braver.

"Hnh." He grunted. "Look older."

"Yeah. I know."

I will do my best.

He took long-legged strides across the asphalt of the massive parking lot that the gas station and the motel shared, eyeing the blinking sign that spelled out its name for the whole world to see. The Palomino Motel. He wondered if it was a fairly common name for motels; he remembered staying at couple different ones with the same name bent out in neon at the tops of the signposts.

Thanks, Castiel. I...thank you.

The ghostly presences of his brother and his angel faded out of Dean's mind as the imaginary conversation he'd been holding between them ended. He wasn't quite sure what the purpose of it had been, or it'd made him feel.

He dug a tangled wad of bills out of his wallet and slapped it down on the counter when he entered the lobby of the Palomino, in front of a guy he really would have pegged for a vampire, if he didn't know that they all looked like normal people until the fangs popped out. His duffel bag, dirt-streaked jeans-and-flannel ensemble, and three-day-old stubble weren't given a second glance - he was just directed to a room on the end with one queen-sized bed. It wasn't until he'd unlocked it, dumped his bag on the floor, and cupped his hands under the metallic-tasting water from the faucet in the bathroom, so he could drink, that he realized he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do now.

He had left because he just hadn't been able to take it anymore. The way Sam looked at him, eyes so full of concern, and tried to offer him comfort all the time, in the form of encouraging words and sympathetic glances and his favorite foods and songs...like he hadn't turned his back on him so recently to take a drug no one had ever even considered before, and bear down on Lilith for revenge. Like he didn't know what Dean had done in Hell, before Castiel pulled him up and out and back into his body. He hadn't been able to take Sam's efforts to rebuild the relationship they'd had before, because he knew it could all be gone again in an instant, and he didn't deserve it, anyway. He hadn't been able to take Bobby's help or his company, because he acted like Dean was just the same as always but kept dropping little hints that he absolutely had to keep fighting, keep healing. And he acted like Dean hadn't gotten so many people he knew killed.

He hadn't been able to take Castiel anymore, either. The angel's stoic manner, his unshakable faith that everything was going to turn out more or less all right despite the fact that he was out of touch with Heaven, and his adamancy that pulling Dean out had been the absolute right thing to do...he felt like he was something that lived in the dark, like a million different types of monster, and he was looking at an extremely bright light that hurt his eyes to the point where he had to turn away. Sam and Castiel were invested in this, a new war, another disaster they had to prevent. They were willing to fight, reading to keep going. He wasn't.

He knew he wasn't the same man he'd been before Hellhounds tore him to pieces and dragged his soul off. He'd come back broken, weaker, completely haunted by what he'd been through...and guilty. So freaking guilty. He'd risen, when other people, better people than him who deserved it more, stayed dead. He felt like every single terrible thing he'd ever done had been carved into his skin, but no one could see the wounds he was sporting.

"Jesus," Dean muttered, staring blankly at his cupped hands. The water in them had overflowed while he was zoning out, washing away at least some of the dirt ingrained into his rough palms and splattering into the sink. Instead of drinking it, he splashed it into his face, the tepid wetness waking him the rest of the way up out of whatever trance he'd been in.

Sam was the one with the poet's soul, not him, which was why he was shocked by the sudden flood of emotions and metaphors that had just washed over him. Fake-Sam had been right, he was in a bad place, he was hurting - but it was a constant ache in his chest and the back of his mind, muffled, as if wrapped in cotton. It didn't overtake him like this.

Being this alone wasn't good for him. He didn't actually care.

He turned and shuffled out of the tiny bathroom, the fact that he'd never really gotten a drink registering as only the smallest possible blip on his radar. He thought about taking off his boots, but decided that it probably wasn't worth the effort, since he didn't even know how long he was going to be here. Dropping onto the bed with a massive sigh, hearing the springs protest his weight, he leaned forward, hooked the fingers of one hand around the strap of his bag, and dragged it close to himself.

Yeah, he was hurting. And it ate into him, etched his every movement, sucked enjoyment out of even the simplest of pleasures. It made things tough for him and changed him into a new person. But, if that was all it was, he might have been able to deal with it. The grief, the memories, the guilt - he could handle that. Bad stuff had happened to him before - hell, bad stuff had been happening to him his entire life - and he'd gotten past it. Granted, this was about a million times worse than anything he'd felt before, a dire wolf compared to the yapping, metaphorical Chihuahuas he'd kicked out of his way before. But, still, he knew what to do. How to shove it down and ignore it until it went dormant or he grew a thick enough emotional scab over it, how to focus on Sam and Castiel and hunting and sex while he waited for that to happen.

The only problem was that the pain wasn't the only thing with its fangs sunk into his mind. He was hurting inside (as he'd already admitted to himself half a million times), and his strongest, most basic urge was to take that hurt out on something or someone else. To slash and rip and tear until someone in front of him, someone helpless and terrified, looked the same on the outside as he felt on the inside. A monster, he thought sometimes. Or, more often than not, just whoever was closest to him when the urge reared up. In his dreams, it was always Sam or Cas laid bare before him. Alastair gave him a choice between another day of torture, or turning a knife on one of them...and, in his dreams, he always said yes to that second option.

It was a survival technique he'd picked up in Hell. He could practically hear Sam's voice right now, explaining the whole thing in sympathetic, clinical tones. It wasn't surprising he'd brought it back with him, and it would fade with time. But Sam had never seemed to really get the fact that he'd liked it. Even now, the idea of hurting someone, watching them bleed - it excited him. It made him sick, absolutely horrified him that he felt that way, and he hated himself a little more every time the thought crossed his mind. But he couldn't stop himself.

So, he'd snapped. He'd had all he could take, and he bolted. He'd reached a point where he was sure that the wounds on his psyche were never going to heal, because, if anything, they'd just kept getting deeper. He was never going to get better. And, at that point, he'd also realized he no longer trusted himself not to snap in a different way, not to, say, tie Cas in with Enochian scrawl and holy oil, then go to work on him. Find out what color angels bleed...and, so, here he was. Because some part of him, whatever tiny little scrap was left of the original Dean Winchester, wanted to protect them from what was inside of him.

Dean was entirely alone, broken into something he would think needed hunting if he just had fangs or claws. And, now that he'd put about five states between himself and his makeshift little family, he had absolutely no idea what to do.

He unzipped his duffel bag, reached in blindly, and jerked his hand back with a muffled curse when several of his fingers had an encounter with the razor-sharp blade of a knife. Feeling his expression settle into something impassive, he examined the thin, wet red line drawn across his three longest fingers, just above the knuckles. Blood welled out of it quickly, overflowing and running scarlet trails down over the scars and tiny hairs. It hurt, really hurt, stung like a son of a bitch, and...well. Hey.

This felt real.

His emotions had been blurred for awhile now. Like they were hitting him wrapped in rags. It was the same with sensations, wounds - even his internal pain. He'd been wondering why everything was fading (though not much, he thought he might prefer numbness); his personal theory was that everything out here just paled in comparison to what he'd felt when he was down in the Pit. But this? This shallow, bloody little cut that barely even merited a Band-Aid? It hurt. It sliced through everything, provided him with perfect clarity, and...maybe...just the smallest hint of a sense of penance.

Dean dug through the bag, actually looking this time, until he found a knife with blood beaded on the edge of the blade. It was pretty big, extremely sharp, with a sturdy, oak-and-brass handle. Probably picked up with beheading in mind, or disembowelment. He didn't actually remember ever using it. He held it in one hand, the uninjured one, and, letting out a long, slow breath, he pressed the blade gently against his open palm. Too gently to actually break the skin. With just as much care, he loosely curled his hand in around the blade, fingers pressing it a little harder into the skin of his palm.

He hesitated. Was he really going to hurt himself like this, in an effort to sort things out? To be able to understand? Because he hated himself for what he'd done, and what he might do, and how he felt?

Yes.

Dean squeezed. His eyes snapped shut the second the blade popped through his skin, the searing, stinging pain of it making him gasp and forcing tears past his eyelids. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, and he couldn't focus on anything but the physical pain. Blood was oozing through his fingers, and his nose was completely full of its sticky, metallic scent.

There were tendons in the palm that ran to the fingers, and nerves, and veins. All sorts of important stuff that he only knew about because Sam had babbled it out to him back when he was in his anatomy phase, when he was fifteen or sixteen. If he squeezed any harder, he'd sever those, make his hand all but useless.

But he didn't want to do that. At least, not yet.

He forced himself to open his hand and let go of the blade of the knife, the joints of his fingers sticking like hinges that needed oiling. He pulled it out of the wound, unable to stop a hiss of pain or a rush of fresh blood. Opening his eyes, he didn't look at it, just dropped the knife to the floor and closed his fist around the cut so tightly that his knuckles went white. His blunt fingernails dug into the edges of it, and he grunted in agony. But...this was better. This, he knew what to do with, how to fix. Though he wouldn't, not for awhile. Dean wanted to bleed.

He sat on the edge of the bed with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed, his uninjured hand gripping one knee and his other one clenched into a fist right in front of him. When a sudden rush of air hit his back, like something from the beating of powerful wings, he just closed his eyes.

"Dean."

"Get lost, Cas," he muttered. The gravelly voice made it harder to keep the physical hurt at the forefront of his mind instead of the emotional.

"Dean, Sam is concerned." He heard a rustle of fabric as Castiel moved, and turned his head, eyes still closed, away from the sound of his shoes on the worn-out carpet. "He has told me that he's afraid for you, because you left him without saying a word and he has no idea where you are - "

"Yeah, I figured Sam sicced you on me." Dean coughed. He really should've gotten something to drink before he started bleeding himself. "Go back, and tell him I'm just awesome, but I need some time alone. I'll be back in a couple days."

Castiel paused. Dean could sense his presence, near the foot of the bed, a combination of his clean, sharp, unidentifiable scent and the near-silent breathing of his vessel. His hand hurt, and his back, and his head, and his throat - but mostly his hand. He just wanted to be left alone.

"You're lying, and I'm afraid I don't understand why," Castiel said finally. Dean's face twitched in slight confusion. The angel didn't quite sound like he normally did. Yeah, his voice was still rough, still perfectly blunt and matter-of-fact, but it was also somehow quieter. Gentler.

"You don't need to understand, you just need to leave," Dean snapped. "I'm fine. I'm super. Go tell Sam that."

"You want me to lie to him, then?" Castiel asked. There wasn't any anger in his voice; in fact, he just sounded...sad. Dean had never heard him like this. "Give him false hope? He won't believe me...and I would never be able to forgive myself, were I to leave you now and turn your brother away from you. When, it appears, from what he has told me, that you need he and I most."

"What? Look, I don't need you." Dean tipped his head back slightly, sighing through his nose. "What part of 'fine' don't you understand, Cas? Go away."

"No. It took me days to find you, and, as I have said, I will not leave you when you are...so obviously...fighting your demons." He heard fabric rustle again as Castiel shrugged, awkwardly. "We are worried about you, Dean." He hesitated before quietly adding, "I am worried about you."

Dean felt his eyes sting, and, when he spoke, it came out as a furious snarl. "I don't want or need your freaking pity."

"It's not pity, Dean. It - " Castiel had moved closer to him, rubber soles scuffing over the carpet, but he stopped suddenly. Dean could practically see him cocking his head, like a bird, bright blue eyes fixed on him. "You're bleeding."

"'S not a big deal - " Dean muttered, drawing his fist in next to his chest and trying to turn away, but, suddenly, Castiel was right beside him, one hand on his shoulder and the other gripping his wrist. His first urge was to jerk away, run as fast and as far as he could - again - but Castiel was holding onto him firmly, if gently, and peeling his fingers back. Dean's eyes were open now, and his heart and stomach clenched as he got only the barest glimpse of the mess in the palm of his hand before he glanced forcefully away. He wanted to be anywhere in the world but here, with Castiel looking at this, because he knew how pathetic it was. He was weak, and he was so screwed up, and it hurt him that the angel - his friend, his best friend - knew that.

Cas didn't say anything for a long time, just held the back of Dean's torn-up hand in his own palm, examining the blood and the cut. It'd dripped all over the place. The bedspread, his jeans, the carpet. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before now.

"You hurt yourself," he murmured finally. It wasn't a question.

Instead of answering, Dean refused to look at him as he yanked his hand out of his grasp and forced himself to his feet. Blood ran down his fingers in slow rivulets as he shoved past Castiel, moving away from the bed. His bootsteps sounded impossibly loud to him, until he stopped, head bowed and shoulders squared, with his face inches from the wall and his hands down by his sides. He was only there for a couple of seconds before he heard Castiel behind him, and felt fingertips brush his wrist.

"You must be in pain," he said, voice still quiet and gentle. His fingers started to move down, onto the heel of his hand. "Let me - "

"No." Dean snatched his hand away, whirled around, and pressed his back against the wall. He looked down at his boots, finding himself completely unable to make eye contact with Castiel. "Don't heal me."

"You're wounded, bleeding. Why won't you allow me to close it?" He sounded so unbelievably steady. Despite himself, some part of Dean was slightly comforted by the sound of his voice.

"I don't - " He swallowed, hard. There was a lump in his dry throat, and his next words came out soft and choked. "I don't deserve it."

"You believe you need to punish yourself." Again, it wasn't a question. "You don't want me to heal you...Dean. Why are you so convinced you don't deserve the benefit of my powers?"

"You don't understand." Dean clenched his hands into fists, and the gash on the one hurt so bad he almost cried out.

"No," Castiel agreed. "I'm able to admit that I don't understand."

"Good for you." Dean gave a bitter, raspy laugh. "Look, can't you just leave - "

"I don't understand," Castiel repeated softly, interrupting him. "Please, Dean. Explain it to me, so I may." Dean looked up, though he still couldn't make eye contact. He focused on the dark stubble of Castiel's jaw, his small, pink mouth. "Tell me why I can't heal you."

"I don't need your help, Cas." Dean closed his eyes briefly. "I just...I don't want you here. I wanna be alone."

"You'll have to forgive me for saying that that doesn't seem wise, in light of the circumstances." Dean felt three points of sudden heat against his cheek, but it wasn't until he opened his eyes that he realized Castiel was touching his face, the gesture incredibly tender. He thought about slapping those three fingers away, or moving, but, somehow, he couldn't quite bring himself to do either of those things. "Now. Please. Will you tell me?"

"There's not a lot to tell," Dean murmured. For some reason, being touched like this...well, it felt good.

"There must be." Castiel cocked his head slightly, brilliant blue eyes searching Dean's face. "I didn't know you before your time in Hell, but you've seemed deeply troubled ever since I raised you from Perdition. Haunted, I believe, would be a better word for it."

Dean laughed again, and, even to him, it sounded intensely harsh and empty. He smiled down at Castiel, even though he was only about two inches taller than the angel's vessel, and he knew that he must look insane. The smile had to be cruel, unbalanced, and predatory, and he was almost happy about that. Maybe it would convey to Cas what he wasn't quite sure how to put into words - just what was going on inside him.

"Why the hell do you care so much, anyway?" he asked, still smiling. He shook his head slightly as he spoke, and the muscles in his cheeks were starting to ache from the effort of holding the smile. He welcomed it. "I haven't been anything but a total dick to you, most of the time. I mean, I yell at you every time you do something I don't like, I make fun of your people and your faith...I use you. Just because you can do so much stuff that Sammy and I can't."

He didn't mention that Castiel, with his stoicness and indifference, had been someone for him to lean on, multiple times in the past, or that he counted him as one of the two people he was very closest to. Or even that he liked him and all his quirks, and had been grateful for his awkward friendship. He didn't think any of that was important.

"Are you really that blind?" Castiel took his fingers off of Dean's face, looking right into his eyes with an intense, searching expression, and some part of him wanted the contact back. "I've been your companion for over a year now. I've entered your dreams, confided in you my plans and suspicions - I defied the will of Heaven for you. And you have no idea why I've come to care so deeply for you?"

"I just can't imagine why you would," Dean replied. His smile had faded, leaving him feeling vulnerable and confused, and he flinched when Castiel took hold of the wrist of his wounded hand.

"If you remain adamant about not allowing me to heal you," he said, "at least allow me to clean your injury. I understand your kind are prone to infections, and you have scattered your blood everywhere. I doubt the proprietor of this place will be pleased with you."

His formal, old-fashioned way of speaking made something flutter and warm in some distant part of Dean's body, and, numbly, he allowed himself to be led to the tiny bathroom. Like a little boy who had scraped his hands up while playing outside. He was pathetically grateful for the lightness of Castiel's touch, because he didn't think he could stomach anything heavier. His skin felt tight and hot, ready to burst at the slightest pressure and unleash God-knew-what on the world.

"So...after this?" he asked quietly, as Castiel turned on the water in the sink just by looking at the faucet. "Are you gonna leave?"

"I will not."

Dean sighed heavily. "Yeah, I didn't think so...Cas. You're just one stubborn son of a bitch, you know that?"

Cas cocked his head again, still cradling Dean's hand, but he didn't ask about the figure of speech, like he'd expected him to. Instead, he guided his fingers under the water, and Dean bit back a yelp of shock as the first, freshest layer of blood was washed away. It was so cold it hurt.

"It's obvious to me that you haven't the slightest grasp of why I feel the way I do," he said, voice perfectly calm as he massaged Dean's fingers with his own, getting the drier stuff off. In the back of his mind, Dean briefly wondered how he knew how to do this, but then he realized that he must have seen him and Sam binding each other's wounds a million times before. The shallow, unintentional cuts on the backs of his fingers stung as the freezing water ran over them, then went numb. "And I don't understand why you keep asking me to leave, when I can sense your turmoil, and know you need me to stay with you. If only so you don't harm yourself again." He looked up from Dean's hand, and - Jesus, those eyes of his practically glowed, didn't they? "Your need seems to be more pressing. Tell me why it is you want to be so far away from Sam and I, so alone."

The sleeves of his trench coat were getting soaked by backsplash, going a wet, rusty-red color from the blood swirling in the sink. He didn't seem particularly inclined to push them up. Dean was searching for words that would just get him off his back when he moved his hand, positioning the actual wound under the icy flow. He swore loudly, his entire body jerking in unexpected agony, and grabbed the edge of the porcelain sink so hard it shook a little under the fly-specked mirror. Before he could control himself, he was snarling out, "I don't wanna hurt you."

Castiel was silent for awhile, focusing only on turning and manipulating Dean's hand under the water, washing out the cut. When he added soap, Dean swore again, viciously. The word he chose was pretty bad, even by his standards, but Cas didn't berate him. Once he'd rinsed all the soap out and washed away all the blood, he turned off the water, again just by looking, and guided Dean into sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. He pulled a scrubby hand towel off of the rack and swaddled his hand in it, patting gently at the gash. It was only then that he looked up and replied.

"Do you have the urge to hurt me?" he asked calmly. Dean felt himself shake a little, maybe from pain, maybe from guilt at how sick he was.

"Yeah." It came out low, rough, barely audible. He squeezed his eyes shut, because he couldn't look at Castiel while he was admitting this. "I...I do. You, Sammy, every single person or monster we see, the thought just crosses my mind. It's gone again in a second, but, before that, it feels like...like I'm back down there." He had a feeling that he didn't need to clarify what he meant by that. "I haven't been right since you brought me back topside, and, honestly, feel like it just keeps getting worse. There's no light at the end of the tunnel, there's no magic cure. I'm so screwed up I don't even know what to do anymore, or what to ask for, or what to fight." He pulled his hand out of Castiel's grasp and the towel, and let it rest on his thigh, laying open like a dead spider. He didn't want to be touched anymore. "Most of the time, I just..." He bit his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, and his eyes stung with helpless, furious tears. "I wish you'd just left me where I was. You came too goddamn late. There wasn't a whole lot of me left, and what you dragged up out of the Pit only really has enough humanity left to hurt like hell. All the time." He tipped his head back, and swallowed, trying to ignore the teardrops leaking out from between his eyelids. "So...I'm done. I am just so done with everything, and I just want an end. I want all of this to be over, and I want you gone, because, like I said - I don't wanna hurt you. I don't wanna - I don't know, taint you with whatever it is that's wrong with me. And I don't want you to get hurt." He scrubbed a hand over his face, using his uninjured one, and grinned humorlessly up at the ceiling. "I don't know if you've noticed, but the people around me, anyone I give a damn about...they have a real nasty habit of getting themselves killed." He thought of Sam. "Or going behind my back, completely screwing me over. Then trying to fix everything up all nice and pretty for my sake, even though it's not anywhere near worth it." He coughed. "I'm not worth it, and now you know that. Go back and make sure Sam understands, too."

Castiel was crouching in front of him, expression as blank as ever, the towel still in his hands. Dean felt empty now that he'd gotten everything out in the open, and somehow lighter. He waited for the beating of invisible wings to send a gust of wind into his face as the angel left, but it didn't happen. Instead, Castiel just reached for his hand again.

"You deserve this," he said gently, "for every innocent life you've saved." And he touched his fingers to the ugly slice across his palm.

It closed in the blink of an eye without leaving so much as a scar behind, and the pain vanished with it. Dean tried to pull his hand back, gritting his teeth in anger, but Castiel held onto him tighter, and stood, before pull him up onto his feet, too. Dean flinched a little when he moved closer, expecting him to press a palm to his forehead and vaporize him from the inside out, like he did with full-fledged demons. Maybe the healing had just been a quick farewell gift before he gave him what he actually deserved. But, instead, Cas put his mouth next to his ear.

"I've never attempted anything like this," he murmured. "Please correct me if I do something wrong...I only wish to provide you with some measure of comfort. You are in pain, and I am unable to heal you in the conventional manner. Therefore, I resort to this."

The next thing Dean knew, Castiel's chest was pressed against his, the heart of his vessel beating slow and steady against him, his warmth seeping through his trench coat and business suit and Dean's T-shirt. He hadn't even realized he was cold until that reached him. Castiel's arms were around his torso, holding him close with strength that his slender build didn't suggest, and the side of his face rested against Dean's. He could feel his dusting of scruff against his own, and his breath puffing in his hair and on the bare skin of his neck.

"You've described yourself to me as a monster." Castiel's voice was low, and rumbled against his chest. Dean closed his eyes, knowing he should pull away but unable to leave that warmth. That...comfort. "I have seen creatures of the void, the look in Lucifer's eyes as he rebelled, things my kind were ordered by God Himself to hunt into extinction to protect your forebears. I've accompanied you and your brother on your hunts, seen what your people are capable of doing to each other, what they can become. I have cradled your soul in my wings. Sam has spoken to me at great length about the kind of man you are. And I have seen for myself how valiantly you respond to difficult choices and nigh-insurmountable odds." Castiel's heart gave a timid little flutter, and it resonated through Dean's torso. "You are no monster, Dean Winchester, and I am not afraid of you. Only for you."

Something in Dean broke, and it felt like reopening an old, aching wound and letting the infection drain away. A sob burst out of him before he could stop it, a dry, ragged sound. He tried to control himself, he did his absolute best, but then he was crying in earnest, a flood of tears draining away what was left of the water in his body, huge, gasping sobs meeting Castiel's shoulder as he buried his face in it. His hands came up, arms wrapping tightly around his angel, fingers digging into something sinuous and twitching under his coat that might have been wings. And it hurt, like he was being torn apart, but it also, somehow, felt good. Better than cutting himself, better, even, than cutting someone else.

"You are magnificent," Castiel whispered to him, as he cried and let himself be held and maintained his grip on him like he might be torn away at any moment. "Strong, loyal, altruistic to a fault. Your soul has been dragged through Hell and brought back, you are wounded in ways no one can even begin to imagine, yet, still, you think only of protecting those you love. You seem unable to see this in yourself...but, of course, it's evident to me in everything you do. And that is why I will not leave you. I will never leave you, Dean."

"You're a moron," Dean muttered, voice thick and shaky with tears. "You're a frickin' angel, Cas, I mean - you're pure, you're perfect, you're just about flawless, and I...well, just look at me." He laughed through yet another sob. "I'm bawling my eyes out in a motel bathroom. I'm broken."

Castiel's reply was immediate. "Then it is my responsibility to repair you, one that I accept wholeheartedly. I believe, more firmly than anything, that it will be worth it." Dean felt him rub right between his shoulder blades, the movement soothing and reassuring. "I have great faith in you."

Dean's first reaction to that was to protest, to shove him away, because, once again, he didn't deserve this. He knew, without a doubt, that Castiel's faith was not something he was worthy of. Faith was like air to an angel, or water; it was practically their medium, and he was sure that he couldn't bear having Cas believe in him.

But, standing so close to him, practically melting in his arms, having his voice buzz so steadily in his ear...he didn't know. Some part of him was able to believe that he did deserve it, maybe. Just a tiny bit.

That was a start. It was more than he'd ever had since he came back from Hell.

Castiel let him cry himself out without saying another word. By the time he was finally done, emotionally and physically exhausted, they were sitting on the tacky floor of the bathroom. Dean was all but in Castiel's lap, curled up against his chest like a little kid, and he would have been embarrassed if he hadn't been so tired or felt so perfectly safe.

"I'm sure you're aware of how late it is," Castiel said, voice soft as Dean pushed himself out of his embrace and struggled to his feet. He offered him a hand, and the angel took it. "You should rest."

Dean shook his head. He was having trouble thinking, with his thoughts fuzzy and strung out and laced with something that might have been happiness.

"Gotta shower first," he muttered wearily. "Get something to eat, something to drink..."

Castiel pressed the tips of his three middle fingers to his forehead, right at the hairline. With that single touch, all the dirt and sweat of the past few days was gone from his skin and clothes and hair, his stomach was full, and his throat was wet. His eyelids still felt like they weighed a million pounds each, though.

He stared at him for a few seconds, mouth slightly open with everything he wanted to say, but, yet again, he couldn't sort his feelings into words. Finally, he managed "Thank you, Cas," which seemed to fit about as well as anything else he could have come up with.

For the first time Dean could remember, Castiel smiled. At him. It was a slow, gentle smile that lit up his intense blue eyes even brighter than they already were, and there was love in it. Maybe not entirely human love, but still. Love. A stunted, fragile version of which Dean felt stirring in his own heart in response.

Was he okay with this? Castiel - or, at least, Castiel's vessel - was a guy. And Dean had certainly never swung that way before.

Then he remembered how it'd felt to have Cas's arms around him, and he decided that, yeah. He was just fine with this.

He didn't bother with the covers on the bed, just kicked off his boots and collapsed on the covered mattress with a groan of unrivaled exhaustion. Eyes closed and muscles aching, he felt the bed shift slightly as Castiel put one knee on it, then hesitated.

"Were I to lie next to you, would it make you uncomfortable?" he asked in a quiet voice. Dean opened his eyes and glanced over one shoulder, picking out Castiel's familiar shape in the darkness.

"Uh-uh." He shook his head as best he could, with the awkward position it was in. "No. I...you can do that. Please do that." He dropped his head back to the pillow. "Just stay with me. Stay right by me." He swallowed past a lump that was suddenly growing in his throat. "Don't leave me alone."

"Of course not." The bed creaked, and then Castiel settled down right behind him, nudging quickly into a position that he must have had in mind beforehand. Face pressed against the back of Dean's neck, one arm wrapped protectively over him, back to chest and legs tangled together. He was warm, and this felt good. Dean felt tears stinging his eyes again, but he didn't know why he was crying. "We'll have to go back, in the morning. To Sam. To war."

Dean stayed silent for a long time, then took a deep breath and said, "I can do that."

"I know." The way he said that. If Dean hadn't believed his own words before, he sure as hell did now, spurred by the conviction in Cas's voice. "Now...rest, Dean. You are safe."

He did rest. And, for the first time in over a year, he didn't have a single nightmare.