9. Chapter 9

By the time he woke up it was dark outside again, but Dean still felt like he hadn't slept much at all. He stayed where he was for a few minutes, blinking heavily, listening to the faint sound of music playing somewhere in the house. His growling stomach was demanding that he get up and eat something, but all he really wanted to do was go back to sleep. Finally he gave in, pushing himself up and sleepily rubbing his eyes. The blanket that had been covering him slipped down as he moved and he shivered as his sleep-warm skin met the cooler air of the room.

He remembered exactly what had happened earlier, though there was a part of him that wished he could forget. Mortification prickled across his skin when he thought about drinking from that stupid cup or being rocked to sleep in Castiel's arms. The only saving grace was that only Castiel and Gabriel had been there to witness his shame. He wasn't sure that he would ever have been able to live it down if anyone else saw him like that. He was going to have to be a lot more careful about how far he allowed Castiel to push things.

Carefully, Dean swung his legs down and stood up. The room spun around him and he sank back down, putting his head in his hands and breathing deeply. This always happened after the really bad nightmares; it was did his best to hide it from his brother, because Sam would only get worried if he knew that Dean was having problems - and that would go triple if Sam knew that the problems were coming from nightmares about hell. Dean had no desire to be tricked into another girly conversation about feelings, thank you very much.

A little slower this time, he tried to stand up again and was pleased when his head didn't swim too badly. Using the wall as support, Dean slowly made his way towards the kitchen where the music was coming from. He was shocked to find Castiel standing at the counter. The angel was humming softly to the song playing on the radio (and was he seriously listening to country, of all things?) and mixing something in a pot. But as soon as Dean's feet hit the tile floor, Castiel turned around to look at him.

"Hello, Dean."

"Hey," Dean muttered, making his way over to the table and gratefully sitting down. He could feel the beginnings of a bad headache forming, though it was hard to say whether it was from his body demanding sleep, hunger, or the remnants of his panic attack. He rubbed at his temples, distantly noticing that he also needed to shave. His scruff was getting pretty bad.

"I made you some soup," said Castiel, and a moment later he placed a steaming bowl in front of Dean. "It's not your favorite, but it was the best I could come up with without leaving the house," he added apologetically.

Dean looked down at the chicken noodle soup. "It's fine. Thanks." He reached for the spoon, frowning when it trembled a little in the grip of his fingers. It took a lot more concentration than it should have to be able to get the spoon to his mouth without spilling it all over the place, but when he got that first mouthful none of that mattered. The soup, straight from a can though it was, tasted great.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"I'm fine."

"Dean."

"I'm fine," Dean repeated, not lifting his gaze. He could feel the weight of Castiel's eyes on the top of his head regardless, but pretended that eating the soup was taking all of his focus. He didn't want to talk about his nightmares. Talking wasn't going to do anything but make him relive it all over again, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

"No, you're not." Castiel sat down across from him but, surprisingly, said no more. He seemed to be content to just sit there and watch Dean eat. The scrutiny was a little unnerving, but it was better than talking.

When he was finished, Dean shook his head at an offer for more. Normally a single bowl of soup wouldn't have filled him, but his stomach still had that weird, shivery feeling that suggested anything else he ate was going to make a rapid reappearance. He rubbed his belly idly to calm it and said, "I think I want to take a shower."

"I'll come watch if you want to take a bath."

There was a little hesitation in the way that Castiel said that, like he was anticipating a fight. Fair enough: Dean hadn't hesitated to throw a fit about practically everything else that had happened so far. So he felt almost smug about the way he shrugged and said, "Whatever."

Surprise flitted across Castiel's face and Dean fought back a smirk as he turned and walked towards the bathroom. He wasn't really keen on the idea of taking a bath instead of a shower, but it wasn't worth the argument. And as far as bathing in front of the angel went, well. Growing up in such close quarters with Sam and his father meant that his sense of modesty was pretty much non-existent.

Plus there was the whole having rebuilt his body from the ashes up thing - Castiel had probably been the first one to see him naked after he was saved from hell. And, well, after the first ten times Castiel had appeared in the room while he was taking a shower, throwing a fit about personal space stopped losing its appeal. At least this time he would know the angel was there ahead of time.

He stripped off the pajamas he was still wearing, bundling them up and throwing them in the corner even though they were technically clean. But even if Castiel had removed the traces of vomit and sweat, to him they still stank and he wanted to wash them before he'd wear them again. The pull-up followed, tossed in the trash, and then he pissed and washed his hands, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist before he started up the tub.

Sometime in between him turning the water on and turning around, Castiel appeared in the room. Dean jumped and then silently swore at himself. If Castiel heard the silent recriminations, he said nothing. He just stepped closer to the tub and leaned down to test the water, then took a bottle of something from the ledge and poured a few capfuls of blue liquid in. At the sight of the bubbles that were foaming up, Dean's eyebrows lodged themselves somewhere in the vicinity of his hair.

"Seriously?" he said skeptically. "Bubble bath?"

"I was led to believe that little kids enjoy bubble bath."

"Yeah, little kids do," Dean muttered, shaking his head. But there didn't seem to be much point in emptying the tub just to re-fill it, so he crossed his arms and waited, trying to remember the last time he'd been in a bathtub with bubbles. He couldn't. He remembered John buying a couple bottles from the dollar store and using them in Sam's bath, back when all it took to get Sam to smile was bubbles and a cheap plastic tugboat. Surely at some point, though, his mom or dad had given Dean a bath in bubbles too?

"It's ready," said Castiel, switching the tap off when the tub was nearly full.

Dean stepped forward, ignoring the hand Castiel held out to brace him as he lifted one leg over the edge of the tub and then the other. He pulled the towel off and sank down with a gasp. The water was hotter than he was used to, but it still felt good on his muscles. Aches he hadn't even noticed were disappearing. He leaned back against the tub and closed his eyes, content to soak for a few minutes. Maybe the bath hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

Hearing movement, he opened one eye a slit and saw that Castiel had taken a seat on the toilet. Apparently he really did intend on sitting there and watching. Well, fine. With the amount of bubbles he wasn't going to get much of a show. Castiel had poured in so much that there was a thick layer of white foam all over the surface of the water, and it didn't seem like it was going to dissipate anytime soon.

He scooped up a bit of the foam and blew on it, remembering how much Sam used to laugh when he piled the bubbles on his head in silly shapes. Or when he made it look like they both had beards. Or when Dean would pretend that he was a sea monster and grab at Sam's ankles when he wasn't looking. That used to make him go crazy. He'd shriek and laugh and squirm around so much that water would go all over the place and Dean would end up soaked.

Bath time with Sam used to be so much fun. But then Sam had started wanting to take showers like his big brother and daddy, and before Dean knew it he was sitting on the toilet watching Sam shower just like Castiel was. And then, once Sam was old enough to be trusted in the bathroom on his own, he just sat outside and watched television by himself.

"Dean?"

The sound of Castiel's voice made him start, and he realized that he had been absentmindedly playing with the bubbles while he remembered playing with Sam. He dropped his hands quickly, embarrassed, and turned to see that Castiel was holding out a washcloth. Dean took it and quickly set to scrubbing his legs. Angel grace did the trick in a pinch, but there was nothing quite like the power of hot water and soap to make you feel really clean.

When he was close to being finished, Castiel cleared his throat again. "Would you let me wash your back?"

Dean paused, the movement of his hand on his shoulder slowing, because that seemed like it was definitely crossing a line. But before he could say no, Castiel leaned forward and gently tugged the washcloth out of his hand. With a tenderness that made his skin crawl, Castiel set the cloth on the back of his shoulders and started to move it in slow, large circles. He sat perfectly still while this was happening, frozen.

Because the last person who had done this for him was Mary.

After Mary died, John had thrown himself into hunting and didn't have the time to spare on things like baths unless he had to. Dean, at age four, was considered old enough to bath himself. It had been a struggle at first, but he could remember wanting so badly to do it on his own so that he didn't have to bother his dad. He also remembered spending a lot of those baths crying quietly because he missed Mary so much.

He wanted to speak, but he was afraid of what would come out of his mouth if he did. So he stayed silent, even when Castiel finished scrubbing his back and then moved on to washing his hair. He moved when and where Castiel told him to, uncertain how he should feel about the movement of fingers in his hair as Castiel massaged the shampoo in. And then, when he lowered his head so that he could be rinsed, the angel pressed a palm over his eyes so that no shampoo would get in.

"All done," Castiel announced, reaching in to pull the plug.

Dean didn't move.

"Dean?"

Slowly, he turned his head and looked up. Whatever on his face made Castiel's eyes widen and then go very, very soft. He stood up and reached into the tub, lifting Dean to his feet and then helping him to step over the tub. When Dean shivered, feeling pathetic and lost, Castiel wrapped a warm towel around his shoulders and, even more surprisingly, pulled him into an even warmer hug.

"It's okay, baby," he murmured against the top of Dean's head. "It's okay."