holy fuck that hurt
It’s amazing, really. Castiel has blown him off, lied to him, stolen from him, and broken his god damn heart too many times to count today. But when Dagon raises her hand at him for what Dean thinks must be the last time, it’s still the worst he’s felt all week.
“No!” he screams, before all the breath is punched out of him at once. A golden glow takes over Castiel’s eyes, one that he hasn’t seen before.
He forgets to flinch when Castiel offers to fix his arm. He exposes the most vulnerable parts of himself, again, he never learns, and allows Castiel’s hand on him. His fingers hesitate over the folds of his sleeve, pressing more insistently when Dean doesn’t move away. He hates that he’s being cautious. No, he’s grateful for it. No, he -
The familiar cold pulse of grace taking root steals his breath away.
“Are you ok?” he asks. Fragile and weak, like it always is with them.
The golden glow has left, but Castiel is still different somehow. He doesn’t slouch; he holds himself with all the confidence of someone that thinks themselves blameless. He’s seen that look at least once before, back when Castiel still liked to lie and go behind their backs for ultimately selfless reasons.
And he still asks Dean to trust him.
He would. He’s spent his day tracking phones and fixing trucks. It might hurt like a bitch, but this is all he has.
“Don’t,” he begs. A plea, a prayer.
Castiel drops his fingers to Dean’s head, and he doesn’t hesitate at all.