[ The smile was pretty much almost heartbreaking. Stoic independence, pride, or something else, Sam didn't know, but the least he could do was let Castiel ruin one of the small towels in its wake. He left it in his possession, and turned to the basin instead, running the water warm and half filling the sink with it.
Considering the amount of blood Castiel was soaked with, the water would need to be changed in no time, but Sam knew from past experience that getting the blood off felt good. There was something cathartic to it, really: it felt like peeling off a layer of the hurts that had been left behind. All those little missteps and mistakes that had happened when blades were drawn could be washed away, and then at a certain point the ache became an ache of survival, an ache of still being alive, and having survived your enemy despite their very best efforts.
Sam, ignoring the efforts of Castiel's independent streak, set about cleaning the blood from his back, just the same way as he'd done dozens of times before, and just the same way as he would have expected to be done to him. The only difference was that this was an angel covered in blood, not a human being, a fact that slipped his mind too easily sometimes. He had depended on Castiel's powers so much, but at the end of the day, despite them, Castiel had still been just another member of the Scooby Gang. Now that the angel in him was oozing out through all the cracks, he was almost more pitiful than Sam had ever known him to be, if only because Castiel knew how it felt to be human, and still strained against everything to hold onto just a slither of his diminishing grace. That, more blatantly than anything else, told him that Cas didn't want to be powerless again; didn't want to be like them.
But his bloodied clothes were testament to that spiral. Somehow, usually, they'd get angel-dry-cleaned, and he'd step out of nowhere looking shiny and new, but not this time. This time the marks were staying, and the bloodstains would have to be soaked out with saltwater, and the wounds that peppered Castiel's back, and bled a little when Sam ran his washcloth over them, would have to heal the old fashioned way. ]
You'll be alright. [ He murmured, absently, concentrating on his task. ] You have to be.
no subject
Considering the amount of blood Castiel was soaked with, the water would need to be changed in no time, but Sam knew from past experience that getting the blood off felt good. There was something cathartic to it, really: it felt like peeling off a layer of the hurts that had been left behind. All those little missteps and mistakes that had happened when blades were drawn could be washed away, and then at a certain point the ache became an ache of survival, an ache of still being alive, and having survived your enemy despite their very best efforts.
Sam, ignoring the efforts of Castiel's independent streak, set about cleaning the blood from his back, just the same way as he'd done dozens of times before, and just the same way as he would have expected to be done to him. The only difference was that this was an angel covered in blood, not a human being, a fact that slipped his mind too easily sometimes. He had depended on Castiel's powers so much, but at the end of the day, despite them, Castiel had still been just another member of the Scooby Gang. Now that the angel in him was oozing out through all the cracks, he was almost more pitiful than Sam had ever known him to be, if only because Castiel knew how it felt to be human, and still strained against everything to hold onto just a slither of his diminishing grace. That, more blatantly than anything else, told him that Cas didn't want to be powerless again; didn't want to be like them.
But his bloodied clothes were testament to that spiral. Somehow, usually, they'd get angel-dry-cleaned, and he'd step out of nowhere looking shiny and new, but not this time. This time the marks were staying, and the bloodstains would have to be soaked out with saltwater, and the wounds that peppered Castiel's back, and bled a little when Sam ran his washcloth over them, would have to heal the old fashioned way. ]
You'll be alright. [ He murmured, absently, concentrating on his task. ] You have to be.