( it's been a long few weeks since the green eyed spirits decided they wanted to play mad scientist with half the town, sam and cas included. it almost doesn't feel like enough that they got them back in one piece, because they should have gotten there faster (he'd been desperate to move on the medical center as soon as he knew that's where the captives were being held, but given his more recent encounter with death, he'd been convinced having a solid plan was less likely to get them all killed).
now, dean's made it his job to keep watch, to tend to sam and cas' needs, because of course he feels like, on some level, this is his fault and he's going to do his damnedest to make it right. to get them back to full health. it's taking longer than anticipated, longer than it would with an angel at 100% or with the swathes of healing magic at their disposal in the bunker and dean's dimly aware that he hasn't slept since they got sam and cas back. not that it seems to matter in this place, not the way it would back home. at least, not as long as he's eating and drinking — at this point, his coffee is more whiskey than it is joe.
he wanders over to sam's room to check on him, only to find cas already there, that familiar golden glow emanating from his palm. dean doesn't bother checking cas' lantern to check how dim it is; he's seen how faint the light has been these past weeks, knows that if cas pushes himself any further, it might go out. )
Cas... ( it isn't admonishing, not exactly, he's just worried, and it comes out in the rough sound of his voice. he sets his mug on sam's dresser, crosses the room to sam's bed, careful to avoid brushing cas' wings.
there's a cruel irony to this image of cas' wings, mangled and broken, and there's a righteous fury that comes with it, boiling dean's blood at the thought of the spirits who dared desecrate his angel. it's not new, that surge of possessiveness he feels, or even the way his heart shattered like stained glass when he finally found cas in that godforsaken place, all rational thought replaced with blinding rage (despair twisting like a knife, that something that should have been an intimate revelation was ripped coldly away from them, turned into a waking nightmare). he remembers his hands wet with cas' blood (already stained with sam's), his forehead pressed to cas', the whisper of i'm here, i've got you. he remembers dragging cas out of there like two soldiers escaping a wartorn battlefield, refusing to let alone else touch him.
not much has changed, except that now his anger simmers in his chest, waiting for an opportunity to boil over; the spirits who did this won't survive another encounter with dean winchester.
he reaches out, setting a hand gently atop cas'. the other reaches behind cas, settling at the small of his back to steady him, just in case. using this much grace ... he's surprised cas hasn't passed out yet. )
C'mon, that's enough. ( obviously, he appreciates cas wanting to heal sam, he does, but at what cost? sam will be fine one way or the other (the thing about torturing the winchesters is they've always had it worse). dean's willing to let time cover this one if it means cas takes that time to focus on healing himself. ) You want Sam bitching at you for using your grace on him when he wakes up?
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now, dean's made it his job to keep watch, to tend to sam and cas' needs, because of course he feels like, on some level, this is his fault and he's going to do his damnedest to make it right. to get them back to full health. it's taking longer than anticipated, longer than it would with an angel at 100% or with the swathes of healing magic at their disposal in the bunker and dean's dimly aware that he hasn't slept since they got sam and cas back. not that it seems to matter in this place, not the way it would back home. at least, not as long as he's eating and drinking — at this point, his coffee is more whiskey than it is joe.
he wanders over to sam's room to check on him, only to find cas already there, that familiar golden glow emanating from his palm. dean doesn't bother checking cas' lantern to check how dim it is; he's seen how faint the light has been these past weeks, knows that if cas pushes himself any further, it might go out. )
Cas... ( it isn't admonishing, not exactly, he's just worried, and it comes out in the rough sound of his voice. he sets his mug on sam's dresser, crosses the room to sam's bed, careful to avoid brushing cas' wings.
there's a cruel irony to this image of cas' wings, mangled and broken, and there's a righteous fury that comes with it, boiling dean's blood at the thought of the spirits who dared desecrate his angel. it's not new, that surge of possessiveness he feels, or even the way his heart shattered like stained glass when he finally found cas in that godforsaken place, all rational thought replaced with blinding rage (despair twisting like a knife, that something that should have been an intimate revelation was ripped coldly away from them, turned into a waking nightmare). he remembers his hands wet with cas' blood (already stained with sam's), his forehead pressed to cas', the whisper of i'm here, i've got you. he remembers dragging cas out of there like two soldiers escaping a wartorn battlefield, refusing to let alone else touch him.
not much has changed, except that now his anger simmers in his chest, waiting for an opportunity to boil over; the spirits who did this won't survive another encounter with dean winchester.
he reaches out, setting a hand gently atop cas'. the other reaches behind cas, settling at the small of his back to steady him, just in case. using this much grace ... he's surprised cas hasn't passed out yet. )
C'mon, that's enough. ( obviously, he appreciates cas wanting to heal sam, he does, but at what cost? sam will be fine one way or the other (the thing about torturing the winchesters is they've always had it worse). dean's willing to let time cover this one if it means cas takes that time to focus on healing himself. ) You want Sam bitching at you for using your grace on him when he wakes up?