44. Get Lonely

Dean stays wrapped in his arms for a good long while. 

Castiel hates that he made Dean doubt himself, even for a moment. Hates that he let his own issues get in the way. It’s clear that Dean is in a vulnerable position, clear that there are things on his mind that are more pressing than what Castiel had been concerned about. He wishes he’d been there for him earlier than this. 

There is a vine of sadness tangled around Dean’s scent even now. Castiel wants, more than anything, to uproot it – only, he doesn’t have the faintest idea where he should start digging. 

Dean doesn’t let him think about it for long. He pulls away. Straightens his shirt and rubs at his face, clearly trying to piece himself back together. He gestures to the elaborate set-up on the table with a slightly sarcastic flourish, laughing a little at Castiel’s confused expression. “I... nervous cooked,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “And cleaned.”

Castiel eyes the sparkling kitchen. “It would appear so.” He looks around, heart sinking when he takes in the pristine countertops. He nudges the single, solitary plate with a knuckle, his voice soft. “Why is there only one, Dean?”

The omega blinks as though he is genuinely surprised that he forgot to make a plate of food for himself. “I… I didn’t even realize,” he says faintly. “Sorry. Didn’t think about it – I don’t know what was going on in my brain.” After a moment, he snorts, shaking his head as he turns around to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Whole lotta nothin’.”

Castiel grimaces, because he thinks he understands. When Dean is stressed, he tends to fall back into old habits and patterns of behavior. And, not that long ago, Dean would not have been allowed to eat the same food as his master at all. If he’d ever been allowed to cook – and Castiel is not sure that he had – he wouldn’t have been able to touch the meals he’d created. 

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he retrieves a plate from the cabinet and silently splits the frankly enormous stack of flapjacks, smiling as he hands Dean his portion. “Lucky for us, you made more than enough for two. They look delicious.”

Dean scoffs a little, but he takes the plate without any other sort of complaint. He plops down on the floor. It takes him a couple of tries to hold his fork steady, but after a second of fumbling, he starts eating. Things return to normal.  

Well. Almost normal. 

Castiel… hesitates. He holds his plate in his hands, unsure of where he’s supposed to place himself. Unsure of what will make Dean the most comfortable, after the difficult morning that they’ve had. 

On the one hand, after waking up like they did – and after the visible, slap-in-the-face reminder of Dean’s history just now – Castiel doesn’t want to do anything to reinforce the dynamic he hates so much. Especially not... after telling Dean he’d reacted physically to his presence. That he is… attracted to him. That feels like jumping into shark infested waters. Feels like tempting fate.

But Dean… requested this. Just last night. And Castiel hates the idea of denying the omega any of the few things he’s been brave enough to ask for. 

He sits down at the table, stomach twisting at the obvious distance between them. He feels miles away from whatever is going on in the omega’s mind. Wishes, more than anything, that he was close enough to see past Dean’s walls.

Castiel picks up his fork and tells himself to get a grip. He is well aware that he is visibly uncomfortable, despite his intention to hold it together for Dean’s sake. But, of course, the omega picks up on that immediately. He’s staring at Castiel from his seat against the table leg with his lips pressed together, more of that sadness and frustration already curling into his scent. 

“You really hate doing that, don’t you?” 

Castiel hesitates. “I don’t… hate it,” he hedges, trying his best to be honest and spare Dean’s feelings at the same time. It doesn’t work – Dean’s expression quivers, a little more vulnerability seeping in. He looks away.

“Don’t gotta do it all the time,” he mumbles, nudging at his food with his fork. “I… I like sitting next to you, mostly.” 

Relief runs through him. Castiel hadn’t minded sitting with Dean this way last night – in fact, it had been rather nice. It’d been a lot less difficult to accept the stereotypical position when it had so obviously made Dean comfortable and content, when it had filled the room with the sweet, heady scent of his happiness. 

Today, he’s struggling. The lingering evidence of the omega’s nerves is still a sharp tang in his nose. The memory of this morning – the close call he’d had with scaring the living daylights out of Dean – is just as sharp. It does uncomfortable things to his stomach, looking down on the man with those ghosts present in the room. Makes him feel... wrong.

Even with Dean’s blessing, though, he hesitates. He rocks back and forth on the chair as he tries to decide which path is the right one – which will cause Dean the least amount of distress. He clears his throat, tries to keep his tone even. “If this is something you need…”

Dean makes a dismissive noise. Castiel can see his walls starting to go up, can see him put on his defensive shields. “Not something I need, Cas.”

Castiel frowns at him, and Dean deflates. Looks back down at his lap, his expression twisting into something bordering on frustrated. “I don’t know how to explain it to you. It was something I wanted, last night, but I don’t now. Don’t want it all the time. Just… just when things are too much.”

The words are vulnerable enough that his walls have crumbled to the ground by the time he’s finished speaking, and in the wreckage, Dean looks more than a little lost. Dean’s scent becomes sharper, more agitated – and Castiel isn’t sure who Dean is upset with. 

Silently, Castiel gathers up his plate and his cup, and folds himself down on the tile facing Dean. He doesn’t look up – just continues to stare down at the perfect, apologetic pancakes he’d created. 

“I hate that you feel like you need to sit down here,” Dean admits quietly, when the silence has grown unbearable. There’s something far too close to guilt in his expression. “It’s stupid. You shouldn’t have to.” 

“Dean, I enjoy this,” Castiel corrects, a little surprised that that particular fact isn’t obvious. He gestures to their respective positions on the ground when Dean gives him a confused look. “I’m not sure if I’ve made that clear. But if you’re under the impression that this is something I’m forcing myself to do for your sake… it quite simply is not.” 

Dean meets his gaze with something caught and vulnerable in his eyes, as though he’d never expected Castiel to say those words. So he doubles down, digs in even deeper, because he needs the omega to understand that this is not something that Castiel deigns to do, not something that he is sacrificing. 

“I want to be equal to you,” he stresses. “Want to sit with you. Where we sit does not particularly matter to me.”

“But…” 

Dean looks away, avoiding his eyes. “Alphas don’t sit on the floor,” he mumbles, clearly uncomfortable that he’s having to spell it out for him again – they’ve been through this once already, Castiel knows. But he’s beginning to realize that, in this as well, he and Dean have a very different view of things. 

“I think we both know that I do not behave like most alphas do,” he starts, unsure of how to begin to explain himself. He’s trying very hard to keep the vulnerability out of his voice. 

For the most part, he is glad that he does not seem to be as aggressive or pigheaded as most alpha men tend to be – not that he hasn’t acted like that quite a few times around Dean in recent months. But there is still a little voice inside of him, sneering and belittling, that tells him he is not enough of a man to be the protector that Dean needs. That anyone needs. 

Dean does not seem to be thinking along the same lines, though, because he laughs. Just a little. “No, you don’t,” he agrees, except it doesn’t sound like a condemnation. He chews on his words for a second. “Benny said you didn’t care about it,” he admits. “I just… I don’t think I believed him.”

Castiel huffs. “Well, you can. Because I don’t.” He nudges Dean’s leg with his foot, smiling a little. “Like I said, I don’t mind changing things when you need me to. When you want me to,” he corrects, before Dean feels the need to condemn himself. “But please understand that I like sitting with you, Dean. It makes me... happy,” he says, and realizes at the same time that it is true. 

Dean makes him happy.

The omega looks up at him, and though there is still that same vein of sadness in his scent, he gives Castiel a small smile. “Noted.” 

Silence falls over them again and Dean lifts his fork, tears off little bites of his pancake. As he pretends to eat, his eyes go distant. The slow scent of sadness fills the room again, and Castiel is lost, watching helplessly as Dean drifts further and further away. 

The day slides by quickly. Dean is still a little quieter than normal, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. Castiel leaves him be. He figures that the omega has a lot to process – he does too, to be frank. 

He is still, on some level, shocked that Dean is not upset with him. 

Castiel knows, to an extent, that he has somehow managed to earn Dean’s trust. That alone is a battle that was hard fought, and something he’s desperately grateful to have won. Considering how often he has misstepped, it’s nothing short of a miracle. Even more than before, he realizes that Dean believes him when Castiel tells him he is safe from harm. 

It’s a far cry from the weary, hollow-eyed fear that Dean had carried before.  

Castiel values that trust. Hell, he cherishes it – it makes him feel warm and complete, as though a missing piece of himself has fallen into place. But he can’t help but fear that he is going to ruin things. 

He’d come very close, this morning. He shudders to think of what might have happened had Dean woken up before him. He has no idea how the omega might have handled that. Would he have scrambled out of bed, fled from him? Would he have frozen, paralzyed with fear? Would he have offered something he didn’t truly want to give, just to appease the alpha that has promised him safety? 

He hopes not. He hopes that Dean’s knee-jerk reaction would have mirrored the one from before breakfast – a gentle sort of forgiveness, an awkward laugh or two thrown in to make light of what could have been a very serious, very scary situation. But he doesn’t know. 

Calling Benny probably should have been his first step. That, or Balthazar. But he is simply too embarrassed and too afraid of what they might think of him. Too afraid to know, based on what they might tell him, that he is doing something wrong. Too afraid to be chastised for giving in to Dean’s wishes, despite the danger he knows they pose. Too afraid to be told that his choice, which had mended something that had broken inside of him long ago, is really just a form of selfishness.  

They eat dinner together in the living room, Castiel watching the evening news with a detached sort of interest. Dean is quiet, subdued – he picks at his food without even the pretense of paying attention to the television. He is as distant and silent as he’s been all day, his eyes unfocused and his thoughts far away. 

There is obviously as much weighing on his mind as Castiel’s, but he has not pushed, and the omega has not shared. After their discussion this morning, Dean’s mood had faded from a faint echo of sadness to something darker. More hollow. A mix of emotions that is difficult for him to pick apart. Every time he catches Castiel staring, though, the omega holds his head up a little higher. Makes an obvious effort to push those scents away, till there’s nothing but faint traces of them in the air. 

He’s remarkably good at it. But Castiel isn’t fooled for a second. He wants very much to ask what is eating at him, but he won’t. Mostly because he’s afraid that Dean will simply brush him off – or, somehow worse, that Dean will force himself to tell Castiel before he is truly ready. 

When the dishes are washed and they’ve both showered, they turn in for the night. And, in the quiet lamplight they stand together in the doorway and stare their choice in its face.

Clearing his throat, Castiel retreats to his side and pulls back his covers, crawling into his bed without looking at Dean. He doesn’t want to pressure him, doesn’t want to influence his decision in one way or another. Castiel isn’t even sure what he wants. 

Well. That isn’t precisely true. He very much wants to wake up with Dean in his arms again. Wants that every day for the rest of their lives, if he’s being brutally honest with himself. 

But that isn’t important right now. The alpha voice barking in the back of his brain is the opposite of helpful – it’s forgotten all the extenuating circumstances that have the potential to make this arrangement a profoundly bad idea. And he doesn’t even know if Dean wants this – doesn’t know if last night was a one-off, or a product of a particularly rough day, or if it’s something that Dean might consistently desire. 

When he finally makes himself look up, Dean is turned away from him. He’s looking at his bed, one hand rubbing the fabric of his pyjama pants in an agitated sort of way, the same discomfort and sadness that’s been intertwined in his scent all day slowly growing stronger in the tense silence.  

Castiel swallows. “Dean?”

The man turns back to look at him, a flash of something vulnerable quickly hidden away. And in that instant, Castiel knows exactly what Dean needs, and knows just as well that he is not going to ask for it. 

So, in a clear invitation, Castiel pulls back the covers. 

Relief pulses from Dean like a wave, and his expression crumples like a dry sandcastle. He doesn’t hesitate before picking up his green pillow and joining Castiel across the room. 

He’s careful when he climbs in. Avoids his eyes. Castiel can only assume that he’s unhappy to put this particular vulnerability on display. His cheeks are a bright and vibrant red, flushed with shame, and even still there’s that thread of sorrow in his scent. Some deep sadness that Castiel wants more than anything to erase.  

Silently, he scoots over and makes room for the man beside him, wondering if he should invest in a larger mattress if he and Dean are going to continue to share. The thought makes something inside of him flutter, but he pushes that away in favor of soothing Dean in whatever way he can. He starts by helping the omega arrange their pillows in a way that is comfortable for both of them.

Dean settles down with a fidgety, flighty sort of energy, looking everywhere but at Castiel. At first, he’s flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with the blanket pulled nearly up to his chin – but after a moment, he rolls to the side with a frustrated huff. His back is a tight line of tension, shoulder blades drawn together as if he is struggling to hold something inside of himself. 

Even with a few inches between them, Castiel can feel his warmth. Can feel his weight. 

If Dean was at all nervous, Castiel might have nixed the idea right there and then. Might have gently explained that he was under no obligation to do this. Might have chased Dean back to his own bed and sat on the floor next to him instead, offering his presence without this new level of intimacy.  

But Dean just smells… sad. 

“What level of touching are you comfortable with?”

He winces even as the question tumbles out of his mouth – sure enough, Dean snorts. He glances back over his shoulder, and while his expression is still tight, he looks a little less unsure and a little more amused.

When Dean realizes that his question is entirely serious, though, the flicker of humor fades from his face. His eyes dart away. “Do you… uh. Do you remember what you did last night? ‘Cause I’d be… okay with that. Again.”

Castiel blinks. “I… no. I mean, I woke up, and I was...” 

He blushes. Holds his hands together awkwardly, one cupping the back of the other as he tries to demonstrate what their position had looked like – the corner of Dean’s mouth twitches as he takes in the picture Castiel is inexpertly painting for them. He lets his hands drop, fidgeting with the covers in a much too visible, nervous sort of way. “Did I… was that…” 

He trails off, incapable of forming the words to ask if it was something that Dean initiated, or if it was something Castiel himself did while they slept. 

Despite the awkward nature of the discussion, Dean doesn’t tease him. He presses his lips together. “You kinda… maneuvered me.” Castiel winces, but Dean just nudges him. “Only after I got in your personal space, though. And you didn’t, like, keep me there or anything,” he insists. “I coulda left if I’d wanted to.” 

He pauses. “Didn’t want to, though,” he mumbles, his eyes sliding away. And there’s that shame again. 

Castiel lets out a breath. He’d been afraid that he’d overreached. That he’d overstepped. But it’s clear Dean had not been bothered by anything Castiel had done. He is simply upset, Castiel thinks, about allowing himself to be vulnerable in the first place.

He places a hand on Dean’s arm. “Would that be alright again?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth curls up in something like a smile, though it does not reach his eyes. “I think I’ve pretty much established that I’m okay with whatever, Cas,” he says, more than a little self-deprecation in his words. “I’m more worried about what’s gonna freak you out, ‘cause I don’t really want to wake up on the floor in a few hours.” 

Castiel rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed at the reminder of how he’d reacted this morning. “I think that’ll be less likely if I know ahead of time that I’ll wake up with you.” 

Castiel is well aware that he is blushing and stammering like a lovestruck fool. But there is something so deeply pleasant about this discussion that he cannot help but be pleased by it – they are communicating, and even though he is clearly embarrassed about it Dean is asking for his help. This is progress. 

Making an executive decision, he rolls to his side and holds up an arm. “Will you be the little spoon this fine evening, Dean?”

The omega snorts at the formality of the request, but he humors him pretty much immediately. The line of him against Castiel’s chest and stomach is somehow both firm and pliant, and when Castiel hesitantly drops his arm around him, Dean relaxes into the mattress with a long, soft exhale. He reaches up and holds Castiel’s hand. 

There is no answering call of arousal inside of Castiel, no urge to take this any further. The realization is like a breath of fresh air – he’d been terrified that holding Dean like this would reawaken the instincts from this morning, ones that he’d had to drive away with an extremely cold shower. But that doesn’t seem to be the case at all. Instead, he simply feels… calm. 

And as he holds Dean, some of the bitterness of his scent retreats. Slowly, the chaotic signals he’s been struggling to hold on to all day fade along with his tension, until Dean is limp in his arms. 

Castiel slowly finds himself relaxing, too. Dean needs this, clearly. And Castiel can, and will, control himself – especially because it is clear that this is helping Dean. The scent of the omega’s contentment slowly seeps into the room, curling around them both until he feels sleep begin to pull him away.

“You’re warm,” Dean murmurs, his eyes drooping closed in the dim light of the lamp. He sounds exhausted. “S’nice. 

Castiel just smiles. He scoots a little, tugging Dean closer until he’s satisfied, his chin nudging the back of Dean’s neck, their legs folded together with nothing but their clothes between them. The omega hums, barely awake, and squeezes his hand.

And Castiel falls asleep content.

For a while after he wakes up, Castiel is just as content. 

He can feel Dean’s warmth, the reassuring weight beside him. And it feels right, somehow – like something he’s been missing for a very long time. 

But when he takes in a breath, he realizes that Dean is not nearly as relaxed as he is. 

He slowly blinks sleep out of his eyes, wincing as the sunlit room comes into focus. Dean is still laying next to him, but they are no longer touching. Castiel feels the distance like a physical pang – it’s clear to him that it has been put there intentionally, because the omega is on the very edge of the mattress. Staring up at the ceiling blankly. 

He figures that he should probably say something – let Dean know that he is awake, at least. But he hesitates, his concern deepening as he picks up on the sheer depth of the emotion in the room. Dean is… upset. Sad, and frustrated, and guilty, and Castiel has no idea why. 

He opens his mouth to ask, but Dean beats him to the punch. 

“It’s Sammy’s birthday.” 

The words are… flat. Blank. There is none of the sadness in his voice that there is in his scent. None of the grief. Instead, his tone is hollow, the revelation almost... distant. 

“He’s 23,” Dean continues, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “A grown man. He could be married.” The omega doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t flinch at something that should by all means be devastating to acknowledge. “Could have a kid.”

Unease prickles down Castiel’s spine as he watches Dean. As he listens to the deadened, numb way he’s speaking. The man closes his eyes, mouth tightening – and Castiel can see him trying to reign in his emotion. Can smell the flickering scents in the air, the vain attempts to mask them. They rush back in as quickly as they go. 

Dean takes a deep breath that does not sound steadying in the slightest – it simply sounds mechanical. Then he rolls out of bed, leaving the room without a word. Castiel can do nothing but lay there, stunned, as he listens to Dean turn on the shower. 

He feels as though he has just been punched in the chest. 

Heart in his throat, he does eventually pull himself out of the tangle of blankets and rub at his face. The scents in the room are chaotic, worse than they’d been last night, and he has to wonder how much sleep Dean had actually gotten. How long he’s been awake and alone with his thoughts. He knows that he’s probably being more than a little illogical, but he cannot help but be disappointed that he was not able to comfort Dean the way he so obviously needed to be comforted. 

The swirl of so many negative emotions makes his heart beat a little faster, makes him want to go find Dean and scent him and sooth him. But he’s not going to do that while Dean’s in the shower, obviously. So, instead, he pulls himself out of bed and goes to take a shower of his own. 

By the time he’s finished, Dean is already in the kitchen. His hair is so wet that it’s still dripping, clothes damp and stuck to his body in odd places. It’s clear he’d dressed in a hurry. Clear, too, that the shower has done little to ease whatever chaos is happening in his brain. 

Castiel frowns, rubbing his hair dry with a towel as he slowly sits down in a chair. Dean does not look back at him – does not even murmur a greeting. Instead, he mechanically opens the fridge and starts pulling out containers, seemingly at random, stopping and starting in little hitching motions that do nothing but deepen Castiel’s concern all the more. And his face is still blank. A sharp and worrying contrast with the cacophony of scents in the room. 

“Dean? What... are you doing?”

The omega still doesn’t look up. He drops a container of strawberries on the counter, the movement so jerky and abrupt that a few bounce out and roll away. He does not chase them.

For just a moment, the robotic mask he’s wearing wavers. “Breakfast,” he answers, voice more raw than it has been all morning. The clarity lasts for only a moment, because in the next, Dean’s hands tighten into fists and his mask slams back down like a floodgate closing. 

Paralyzed, distressed, Castiel can do nothing but watch as Dean continues to move through the motions of productivity. He has no idea what to say. No idea how to begin to suture these wounds. What could he do, with his feeble understanding of Sam, and of what’s hurting Dean in the first place? 

Dean doesn’t say anything else – he just keeps moving. Forges ahead, as he always seems to do, probably intending on ignoring the problem entirely until he can force it back into the depth of his mind. But his usual tactics do not seem to be working – every time his scent starts to ease away from the stomach turning, burnt sugar smell of his distress, it snaps back to it just as quickly, stronger every time. Careening wildly between anger and sadness and grief and guilt, until it feels like it will choke them both. 

And still, he does not look at Castiel. 

He plops a cutting board down on the counter. Digs a paring knife out of the dishpan. Warning signals flash in Castiel’s brain – the omega’s hands are shaking. He hardly seems to be able to stand, let alone cut things with any sort of precision, and he’s almost certain he shouldn’t allow Dean to – 

The smell of it is sharp. Bright. A lead scattershot of wrong. 

Heart stopping fear has him leaping up from his chair so quickly that it knocks back, crashing to the floor with a clatter he hardly hears. He’s already at Dean’s side, panic closing like an iron fist around his throat.

But Dean is not panicking. He is staring down at the slice on his hand with a blank expression, as though it is not his palm that is slowly dripping blood on the cutting board.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, voice strangled. Hardly louder than a whisper.

Dean blinks. Looks up at Castiel, finally; but it’s as though he’s staring through a thick fog. His eyes are glassy. 

Slowly, Castiel reaches out. He waits for Dean to move, but he doesn’t – waits for Dean to give him permission. But he doesn’t. 

When he touches Dean’s wrist, he flinches. 

Under any other circumstance, Castiel would pull away. He’d give Dean his space, would remove himself from the situation. But right now, he can’t; he can barely string two thoughts together with the sharp, choking scent of Dean’s blood clawing into him. Screaming and awful and wrong. 

So he grits his teeth. Guides Dean’s hand to the sink, turns on the water and holds it under the stream until he can see the source of the bleeding. The wound is smaller than he expected, somehow; an inch long slash, relatively shallow. He knows that the water should sting, but Dean doesn’t complain. Nor does he protest when Castiel nudges the tap back down and wraps a paper towel or two around the cut, holding pressure on it so the bleeding will slow. 

By the time he thinks to look at Dean’s face again, the omega has clearly been crying for a while. There are long tracks of tears running down his face – ones that have been shed in complete silence while Castiel worked to clean him up. 

Castiel cannot imagine what kind of effort that must have taken. What kinds of awful practice Dean must have had in the past, to be able to cry like that, and not make a sound. 

He barely thinks, just pulls Dean to his chest and holds him there. For a moment, Dean does not move – he passively allows Castiel to maneuver him, unresponsive. But it takes only seconds for his stunned sort of stillness to wear off. Guilt crawls back into his scent all too quickly, and he gently pushes Castiel away. Wipes at his tears with an angry movement, turning back toward the counter. 

The loss of the contact makes Castiel feel like he’s going to pull apart at the seams. But it’s clear that his touch is not what Dean needs right now. He just wishes he had some clue as to what he does need, what he could do to fix this. 

All he can do is ask. So he does. 

“Dean,” he says, carefully quiet. The omega tenses anyway, his injured hand clenched into a fist around the paper towel and pressed to his stomach. “I don’t…” 

He swallows. “What can I do?”

The question makes Dean close his eyes, a spasm of something like pain jumping over his features. He shakes his head, half laughs before swallowing the noise. And all the while, his scent continues to snap back and forth like a flag in the wind, moving so quickly that it is making Castiel nauseous. 

“I.” Dean starts, then stops. His jaw flexes. “I don’t know. I don’t-” 

He cuts himself off. Shakes his head, bottom lip clamped between his teeth.

Castiel takes a breath. “Can you… describe what you're feeling? Because I'm... I'm struggling to understand.” 

Dean makes a choked sort of noise, something incredulous. “You think I know? I can’t even –” He struggles, stumbles over the words, his breath hitching like a scratched record. He cannot seem to finish the thought. 

“I just want to help,” Castiel says, his voice pleading. “But I'm not sure how I can, if I don't know what’s wrong–”

Dean bares his teeth. Cuts him off. “I can’t even figure it out! Not without freaking you out! You’re in my – in my fucking head, and every time I so much as breathe wrong you notice, and I – I can’t–” 

Castiel flinches – he can’t help himself. It’s been a long time since he’s felt guilty about their scent bond, but he does now. Shame douses him like a bucket of ice. He takes a step back. 

And Dean snaps his eyes open, locking onto the scent of his guilt immediately. Because, whether he deserves to be subjected to it or not, Dean is in Castiel’s head, too. 

His face twists. Stepping forward, he takes a breath. Tries visibly to steady himself. “That’s not… Cas, that’s not what I meant,” he says, voice achingly gentle. 

Castiel tries very hard not to hold his breath. Tries to keep his heart in one piece, tries to keep his guilt in check. The last thing Dean needs to deal with is another crisis on top of his own. Castiel is supposed to protect him, not add on to the swaying tower of his troubles. 

Dean’s expression wavers. He closes his eyes, takes in a sharp breath. “I just. I meant – fuck,” he curses, jaw tightening. “This is too hard. Why is this so hard?”

Castiel has no answer for him. 

After a moment, Dean opens his eyes. And when he meets Castiel’s gaze, there’s a familiar sort of determination there. A familiar sort of steel. And that same metal rigidity laces through his words until his voice is no longer shaking when he speaks. 

“Cas, I can’t work through my shit without it messing you up, too. Every time I freak out, or get sad, or angry, or whatever the fuck else, you’re always right here. And you know, you always know, and it twists you up even worse than it does me. ‘Cause I’m used to feeling like this. I’ve spent a lifetime ignoring this shit. Building up a goddamn resistance to it. But it’s a fuckin’ overdose for you.” 

Castiel opens his mouth, intent on reassuring him that he doesn’t mind, that he’d rather be with Dean when he’s feeling those things than away from him, even if it keeps him awake at night. But Dean is not finished – he takes Castiel’s hand in his uninjured one. Holds it tight. 

“I can’t get my shit together without hurting you. And the last goddamn thing I want to do is hurt you. I can’t… I can’t do that to you,” he insists, something raw in his voice, “not today. Not like this, not with this.” 

Castiel takes a long, careful breath. He pushes aside his first instinctual response – namely, to insist that he does not care, that he will be here with Dean through the thick and the thin. Instead, he takes a careful mental step away from that path. Considers – really considers – what Dean must be going through. 

He’s well aware that Dean has been trying to hide his distress over the last few days. And, far too late, he’s realizing what that means – that Dean has not been able to work through the whole spectrum of his feelings. That Dean has been muting himself for Castiel’s sake, and has not at all been able to process.

“Tell me what you need,” he asks gently. It’s all he can do. All he can offer. 

Dean’s expression quivers, some of the tension melting from his jaw. He looks down at their clutched hands. 

“I just. Can you.” He takes a breath. Struggles with himself, strains to state what he wants in plain words when it is clear that he is afraid to. 

Castiel squeezes his hand. Silent. Encouraging. 

“Time,” he finally blurts. “I need time. Just. Alone,” he chokes, and the words sound like they’re being ripped from him as he squeezes his eyes closed. Guilt floods the room in a rush. But Dean, brave as he is, does not capitulate. Does not back away from the request, even though he is clearly terrified that Castiel will disagree, will be angry.  

So, as much as he does not want to, Castiel takes a breath. Holds Dean’s hand just a little tighter. And says, “You’ll be okay here on your own?”

Dean’s expression shakes. Splinters. Cracks down the middle. He pulls Castiel closer. Holds their hands to his chest with his injured, shaking fingers, and takes in a deep breath. And then another. 

“You’ll give me that?” he checks tentatively, eyes still squeezed closed. “You’ll… I can have that?”

Castiel feels something inside of his heart try and claw its way out. “Of course. For as long as you want, Dean. For as long as you need.” 

Dean’s shoulders slump. He leans forward until their hands are caught between their warm chests, birds in a cage. And he presses into Castiel’s neck with an exhausted sort of relief. Inhales his scent in gulps, his own still as jagged as the reading on a heart monitor. 

And then he loosens his hold, and steps away.