There’s a drop of blood, just one, slowly marking its trail down the side of Dean’s face. Dean winces when Cas raises his hand to the cut, swipes his thumb across his forehead, smears the blood on his skin. “Careful Cas,” he hisses, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. “Just slap a bandaid on it.”
Cas frowns, and pulls his hand away, studies the blood on his fingers. “I can’t heal you anymore,” he whispers, tone colorless and bleak. Dean blinks, and studies Cas’ profile, lit against the dim lamp of the motel room. Eventually, he reaches across, lays a hand on Cas’ knee.
“It’s okay Cas,” he whispers, and Cas turns to him with distress written across his face. “It’s okay,” Dean repeats, and swipes his sleeve across the cut. “See, it’s better already.”
“I wish I could heal you,” Cas mutters, and Dean frowns, leans forward, wants to erase that hopelessness from Cas’ voice.
“It’s okay,” he says again, face inches from Cas’, eyes catching his and holding them. He moves his hand from Cas’ knee, somehow ends up holding his hand tight instead. “It’s okay.” He licks his lips, waits for Cas to respond, to assure him he gets it, he’s not useless, Dean needs him.
It’s Cas who closes the distance between them, the kiss soft and fleeting as their hands grip tight between them. He pulls away almost immediately, clears his throat and looks away, and Dean’s lips are tingling, his breath caught in his throat. “I’m sorry,” Cas stutters, and begins to pull away, but Dean refuses to relinquish his grip on Cas’ hand.
“Just…” Dean starts, and feels the blush rising to his face. What can he say? Cas, I’ve thought about this a hundred times? Cas, don’t go? I think I might love you, you infuriating dick?
“My mom always told me that kisses make it better,” is what his mouth spews out, and he can’t even find it in him to be embarrassed because Cas turns back to him with an unbelieving smile, and then Cas sets to healing him, bit by little bit, kiss by kiss by kiss.