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Metatron left Castiel with a parting gift that he kept hidden under more and more layers of clothes. At first, the former angel didn't even think about something as minor as attire when thousands of other angels marooned on Earth wanted him dead.
But soon his trench coat fell apart.
He lost his tie in a fight that he barely escaped alive.
Slacks got ripped by another angel trying to slash him with the blade.
Piece by piece, Castiel lost touch with life in a vessel and had to get used to that vessel being his body. Jimmy hadn't shared the space with him in quite some time and he felt guilty about destroying his suit so quickly. He considered himself a failure as both an angel and now a man.
But home tugged at him. It kept him moving across the country day by day. Home was a place in Kansas, but more than that, home was a man named Dean and a man named Sam. Occasionally, the former angel stole pieces of clothing out of laundromats along his journey. A green T-shirt. A white button-down shirt. The red hoodie. The dark gray jacket. Baggy cargo pants.
Castiel never liked to look at his naked body as he changed his clothes. It only reminded him of the harsh reality that Metatron had left him. The evidence of what he had been burned and stabbed at him in gaping wounds through each shoulder blade. He couldn't bear to look at it even though he knew it needed attention. He was mortal now, after all. Such things mattered.
The night he showed up at the bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, the downpour had soaked through this stolen clothes hours before. Dirty, unwashed hair matted to his forehead in the rain, and a beard like the one he had in Purgatory grew around his jaw. Exhaustion stalked him in the night no matter how he needed to push ahead, and hunger steadily grew into awful pain ravaging his gut.
Nothing hurt more than the wounds seeping blood through the many layers of clothes though. He considered stopping to add a fifth layer in hopes of hiding it, but even he knew five layers looked ridiculous on a human.
The front door of the bunker flew open before he even reached the steps leading down to it. Immediately, Dean's frame filled the doorway, light pouring between his bowlegs and over his wide shoulders. Relief flooded Castiel so thoroughly and drenched his new, raw emotions until the flood poured from his eyes down his cheeks. He stumbled down the steps where Dean crushed him against his chest without a word.
Finally, the hunter spoke through a broken voice, "I thought you were dead."
"I should be dead, Dean," said Castiel in sweeping despair.
"Don't say that shit. You made it home, okay? You're home, Cas." Dean shook him by the shoulders to drive the point into him but the former angel winced in pain. "What's up? You hurt?"
"No, I—"
Dean didn't wait for him to make an excuse. They knew each other well enough by now to know when the other intended to lie, even before it came out of their mouths. He yanked Castiel inside by his wrist. The bunker's warmth and dryness instantly surrounded him, making him feel so much more out of place, pitifully wet and cold.
"Where is Sam?" he managed to ask as Dean dragged him upstairs.
"Sleeping. He's still sick," Dean replied, shoving open the door to his bedroom. "Got two of you now, I guess. S'okay though. I'd rather have both of you sick than not at all."
"I'm not sick."
"Okay, you're hurt."
"I'm not—"
"—Don't lie to me, Cas. Look, whatever you're ashamed of, it's done. Clean slate between us. Okay?" As Dean spoke, he propelled Castiel to sit on the end of the bed, where he peeled off the first sopping wet jacket.
Limp with surrender, the new human couldn't even make eye contact, nor could he fight. "I'm not an angel anymore, Dean."
"I know," he said. "I knew when I saw you. Can't explain it. Something different in your eyes. And if you don't get out of these wet clothes, you're gonna be a human with pneumonia. Cooperate or I'll wrestle you into the tub myself."
Trouble was Castiel didn't want Dean to see his back. It shamed him to feel so naked there without the parts of him that had once made him so powerful and impressive. Now all he felt was small and useless. Pressure in his face began hurting too. His nose felt swollen and full. And the cold. He was always so cold now that he was human.
Suddenly Dean had him stripped down to his green shirt. He tugged on it but dried blood made it stick to his back and rip at the wounds. Castiel winced louder and jerked away.
"Cas?" implored Dean.
Questioning green eyes peered up at Castiel as Dean knelt on the floor. He couldn't see the wounds from there, Castiel knew, but it was only a matter of time before he saw it too. All Dean understood was that he caused him pain and he looked horrified by that thought.
"Metatron ripped out…" But Castiel couldn't say it out loud. He crumbled into his own hands, elbows planted on his knees, and a battle raged on his face to contain emasculating tears.
It seemed Dean understood. Castiel felt a rush of air as the hunter flew off the floor to the bed behind him. A curse under whiskey breath pierced the silence at the sight of week-old blood gluing the green fabric to a pair of identical wounds like cement. Dean tugged gently on the shirt but it Castiel's torn flesh pulled with the fabric and subsequently pulled a dangerously pitiful growl of pain out of him.
Angry growling followed from Dean. "I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him! He’s fuckin’ dead!"
"Dean…" Castiel choked.
"How far did you walk like this? God damn it! I don't--" Shaking his head, Dean's hands turned up as if he didn't have the slightest idea of what to do. Clarity came to him a moment later and he grabbed Castiel's wrist once again. "Okay, c'mon. It's not gonna come off without soaking."
"I don't understand, Dean," he replied but he let himself be dragged off to the bathroom down the hall.
Like the rest of the bunker, the bathroom resembled an art deco museum display. It wasn't particularly attractive, not wealthy design by any means, but even functional things in the art deco period had some class.
Dean moved the bath mat next to a clawfoot bathtub and knelt there, turning the knobs until water flowed. Castiel observed with detached interest as he put the toilet lid down and sat. Now that his body understood he was home and protected, exhaustion demanded that he stay off his feet. He watched Dean swoosh the water around as the tub slowly filled. Cold tiles and porcelain appliances chilled Castiel even more and he leaned over with arms wrapped around himself. He never could get warm.
"Don't worry. Water's hot," said Dean absently as if he understood. "Take off your clothes."
"What?" Castiel didn't quite understand the emotion. Discomfort. A desire to hide.
Sighing, Dean grabbed a towel off the rack and handed it to him. "Don't get modest on me. Christ. Wrap this around your waist if you don't want me to look then. It's not like I don't have the same junk. Don't mess with that shirt. We gotta soak off the dried blood."
Though he squawked impatiently, Dean did turn his back to Castiel while he yanked off his shoes and socks. He stood and fumbled with the button and zipper on his stolen baggy pants, and then dropped his underwear to the floor. Something hot burned his face in uncomfortable exposure until he wrapped the towel around his waist. He connected the dots that humans must inherently be shy about nudity among each other, aside from sexual congress.
"Okay, Dean," he said, gripping the towel at his hip.
Dean faced him again and Castiel noticed a clear avoidance of looking at his body even though nothing vital exposed. He climbed into the bathtub with a helping hand, feeling weeks of dirt instantly begin to dissolve in the pleasantly hot water.
"You..." Dean stopped, brows knitting together in confusion. "You're cold? But you're sweating." He pressed the back of his hand to Castiel's forehead and then his cheek. "Shit. Fever. Must be an infection. Okay, lean back."
He obeyed, neck resting on the rim of the clawfoot tub. Despite the stinging of hot water infiltrating the wounds along his shoulderblades, being in a bath did feel pleasant enough. He let out a deep breath and closed his eyes. They let his shirt soak a while in comfortable silence, Dean perched on the bath mat with his forearms resting on the rim of the tub, watching over his patient. Castiel supposed he could handle a bath alone but Dean clearly didn't think so. He hadn't been there to watch his first few weeks of navigating humanity.
Movement at the other end of the tub roused Castiel from some dreamy place of relaxation. Eyes open, he saw Dean grab a long plastic bottle from the bathroom shelf. Neither of them spoke as Dean squeezed shampoo into his hand and fingered it through Castiel's matted, greasy hair. The hunter never asked permission and the former angel never fought him. It just required too much energy.
"Hold your nose and dunk," said Dean once he used two squirts of shampoo to combat the grime.
Castiel pinched his nose and sank into the water, fully submerged, and he felt Dean's hands scrub out the shampoo. He resurfaced and Dean handed him a washcloth and a bar of soap.
"Ditch the towel. Scrub everything you can. If you don't get clean, I'm gonna do it and you're not gonna like it."
Still without words, Castiel nodded and took the washcloth and soap. At least Dean sat on the floor with his back turned if he wouldn't leave the bathroom altogether. He washed his body in silence and as he reached under the shirt, he felt the fabric pop free from the left shoulderblade, though the right side pulled painfully.
"You remember it?" Dean asked quietly to fill the silence.
"Which event?" replied Castiel. "The event of Metatron drawing out my grace for a spell to force millions of angels out of Heaven, or the event in which he strapped me down and ripped out my wings to be certain I couldn't return to Heaven even if I managed to get my grace back?"
Dean's head fell. Castiel couldn't see his face but the droop in his shoulders and the white-knuckle grip on his jeans told him all he needed to know.
"I can't ... I can't imagine," he said hoarsely.
"Don't try, Dean. I don't even want to imagine it and it happened to me. I just want to sleep for about a year. Maybe longer." The washcloth turned brown in places as he wrung it out and hung it over the rim. "Okay, I believe I'm finished."
The second Dean scooted around and leaned over the tub, Castiel recognized twisting, painful guilt in his features and red-rimmed eyes. He said nothing about it but he realized, once again, Dean took the blame into himself. He hadn't been able to stop his brother from going through the trials and he hadn't been able to save Castiel from being cast out either.
"Sit up a little. Lemme look," Dean said in a hollow tone.
The former angel sat upright in the tub, only then realizing he'd forgotten the towel, but Dean didn't seem to care at all. He plucked at the back of Castiel's shirt.
"It's giving. I'm just gonna do it. This might hurt. Hold on."
"Yes, Dean."
One of Dean's hands dropped into the bathtub and latched around Castiel's palm as the other hand grabbed the back of his shirt. He peered curiously down at their entwined hands, which his apparent caretaker didn't even acknowledged. It comforted him - at least he guessed that pleasant emotion was comfort - and closed his eyes, squeezed tightly, and braced for--
Fabric tore from raw, tender flesh and Castiel yowled in a spasm of agony. Then it was done. Sharp pain eased into dull stinging and he felt a breath pass through his lungs. Beneath the water's surface, Dean silently rubbed Castiel's hand under the pad of his thumb. Then, as if he'd never done it at all, he pulled his hand away.
"Dry off and come back to my room. I gotta clean up that mess back there before you get septic and stroke out or whatever Sammy says happens with infected injuries."
Castiel nodded but Dean left the bathroom before he could say anything. Something in the hunter's demeanor changed. Before he rushed off, Castiel caught the shadow of a struggle cast over the increasingly weathered state of Dean's face. And as he climbed out of the bathtub in search of a dry towel, careful not to look at himself in the mirror, he wondered if thinking of the bunker as home had been a mistake. After all, Dean had more than enough trouble on his hands with Sam being sick because of the trials. The last thing he needed was someone else dependent on him.
The ruined green shirt was forgotten on the bathroom floor. He wrapped a white towel around his waist and padded down the hall back to Dean's bedroom. There he found a hunter agitated as he dug through his dresser drawers. An old, faded Beatles t-shirt flew behind him toward the bed, followed by electric blue boxers and faded jeans. He squinted, having never taken Dean for a brightly colored underwear sort of man.
He waited, quite awkwardly. Did Dean even know he was there? Green eyes flickered to his face, his chest, and his face again. Yes, he knew he was there. Then why didn't he acknowledge him?
"I found you some clothes," said Dean, moving for the door, head bowed. "Don't bother with the shirt yet. I gotta clean you up."
Again, Castiel nodded, but Dean took off before he could say anything. He didn't understand. Perhaps he underestimated how modest Dean was with nudity even though he'd seen Castiel nude (and covered in bees), and technically, Castiel had a towel around his waist.
By the time Dean returned with a box of gauze bandages and a bottle of some official-looking liquid, Castiel had been sitting on the end of the bed for ten minutes. And in those ten minutes, the former angels decided he really liked the feeling of soft cotton boxer briefs and somewhat snug denim along the length of his legs. Much better than the baggy clothes he'd stolen from five different laundromats on his journey home.
"Okay, so I asked Sammy." Still, he avoided eye contact. "He says hi, by the way. Dude's not feeling good enough to get up and see you now."
"Is he improving?"
"Slowly, yeah. He said this squirty stuff should help you. Gotta change the gauze every day. Keep an eye on that figure. All that stuff. So ... you know ... hold still."
The mattress shifted under Dean's weight behind Castiel. A palpable sense of - what - something tense emanated from Dean's presence, though the new human somehow knew better than to ask about it. Cold liquid squirted into each wound as Dean pressed the discarded towel to his back. The liquid soaked into the towel, probably mixed with old flesh and dried blood. No, no, Castiel didn't need to try to imagine it. His stomach turned.
"You okay?" Dean leaned over and peered at his profile.
"I feel sick," he admitted.
"Pain'll do that to you. Hang in there."
Dean squirted the liquid through the other wound and against his will, Castiel imagined a long diagonal gash. The other gash pointed inward as well, like a wide V over his shoulderblades, marking the spots where his wings used to be. His head fell and he stared at the floor. Tape ripped behind him, as did the paper wrapper of one of the gauze bandages.
"I can't believe you made it home like this, Cas," whispered Dean hoarsely. Emotion curled around each word.
"I had to," came Castiel's simple whisper in return.
The softness of gauze taped over the wounds actually gave him some relief. Tension in his limbs melted away, caving in to increasingly paralyzing exhaustion.
"So, um, Cas... is this permanent? I mean, does the dick up there still have your grace and wings squirreled away? Because we'll figure this out. I'll do whatev--"
"--No, Dean," he interrupted. "My wings turned to ash and crumbled the moment Metatron ripp--" The words tangled in his throat and he couldn't make him say it out loud again. "And my grace was drained from my throat and used it in a spell. I'll never get them back. I'm just a man now. I'm just me."
A deep breath, tense and perhaps tragic, escaped the man behind him. Light fingertips traced the skin bordering each bandage. "I never got to see..."
"I didn't know you wanted to see."
Unintelligible mumbling brought Dean back to reality, it seemed, and Castiel felt his presence back away even though he never physically moved. He still didn't understand and the exhausted state of his very human brain left him a bit irritable. As the silence engulfed the room, washing every table and lamp around them like murky flood waters, Castiel decided he needed to find a bed in the bunker and collapse.
But when he stood, something hooked through his back denim pocked and tugged him back down on the mattress. He craned around at the moment Dean's arms latched around his naked waist.
"I need to go to bed, Dean," he said, uncertain of the closeness.
"You are in bed," Dean replied. A rough chin hooked over Castiel's shoulder. "Cas..." What was that in Dean's voice? Insecurity? Self-doubt?
And Castiel squinted. "You mean--"
"--Stay."
The single word punched the air around them as if it was an incantation binding them together. Stay, the one thing both of them wanted to say for almost five years but never found a way. And he knew it took every ounce of courage in Dean to make that one-syllable request. Every other person in his life abandoned him whether by choice or by force. The one thing Castiel intended to do as a man was never abandon the one who never abandoned him.
"There was never a time when I didn't want to stay," he said, lacing his fingers between Dean's. "I'm home now."