Chapter Text
“Keep still!” Dean grumbles, holding Cas’s hand nestled in the palm of his own, swabbing at Cas’s bloody palm while Cas fidgets like a five-year-old.
“This is ridiculous,” Cas says, his this-is-ridiculous face seriously undermined by the wincing, and his occasional huff of displeasure.
“And don’t huff at me like that - kids huff.” Dean flicks his eyes up briefly to glare so that Cas knows he’s serious.
“I did not huff,” Castiel says. He pouts instead.
Sam sniggers.
“Shut it, Sam. Cas is bad enough, I don’t need you joining in too.”
“I don’t want a bandage. Can I have my hand back?”
“No. Keep still. It needs a bandage.” The manticore (a manticore, for God’s sake! What the hell was a manticore doing in Utah?) had shot a poison dart from its tail at Dean that Cas had stopped with his hand, and for some reason Cas can’t heal it and that is pissing him off.
The fact that Cas doesn’t know why he can’t heal it seems to be the main cause of his displeasure, rather than the injury itself, but the injury is the main cause of Dean’s displeasure given the current state of the back seat of the Impala. He scowls at the memory. Surely the damn angel could have flown to the motel rather than messing up his car. He doesn’t say it. The dude saved his life - again - he really shouldn’t complain.
“It’s nearly stopped bleeding.” Cas says, blatantly ignoring the fact that his hand pools blood in his palm every time Dean stops swabbing.
Dean stops swabbing to prove his point. Blood pools in Cas’s palm. Dean holds Cas’s hand tighter to stop him pulling it away, and he goes back to swabbing before putting on a thick wad of dressing and using both of his hands to sandwich Cas’s hand and the dressing between his own.
Cas winces. “It will heal.”
“When?”
“A few days.”
“A few days is human healing time. It needs a bandage.”
“Then at least please stop squeezing. It hurts.”
“It hurts?” Dean looks up, eyes wide, suddenly contrite. “Really?”
Cas never - like never - admits out loud that he hurts.
“Really,” Cas says, looking away and down at his shoes.
“I’m sorry, dude.”
Sam looks aghast. “That’s it? That’s all it takes? Castiel says,‘It hurts’, and you turn into… into… oh, I dunno - Florence Nightingale? Damn I wish I’d learned that trick about twenty years ago.”
“Sam, I already told you to shut up once. Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Dean?” Cas questions.
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing?” Cas is looking at their hands and Dean follows his eyes to watch his own fingers, with a mind of their own, stroking gently across the pads of Cas’s fingertips peeking out from under all the gauze.
Dean flusters and stops.
“Don’t stop - it helps,” Cas says, looking up to stare at Dean. So Dean starts up again, even though he feels extraordinarily embarrassed, and he’s fairly sure his face has gone an unflattering shade of pink. At least, Dean tries to justify it, Cas is now sitting still and has stopped complaining about the bandage.
Sam clears his throat and smothers another snigger.