The first time Dean saw Cas as anything more than a rival hunter, horning in on his territory and stealing his kills, was the night Cas first saved his life.
He’d hated him for it, of course. Dean didn’t like to be indebted to anyone, never mind the insufferable jackass who kept showing up and telling Dean how to do his job in front of civilians. If Cas hadn’t been there, distracting him, that wraith might never even have gotten the drop on Dean.
Except he did. And now, instead of Dean’s throat getting slashed open, it was Cas with a big gash on his side, threatening to bleed out on the hospital floor. They both got out alive in the end and while Dean resented the fact that Cas had saved him, it was also what started to change his mind on him.
It’s been years since. Cas has saved Dean’s life a few times in the meantime, and Dean has saved his just as many, if not more. They’re not rivals anymore. They’re... well, whatever it is you call someone who keeps ending up in your bed but then leaves for weeks at a time.
Cas is here now, though, naked and asleep, and Dean can’t take his eyes off of the long, white scar on his side. He remembers all too well what it looked like, drenched in bright red blood, the dark cotton of Cas’ shirt sticking to it like some terrible makeshift bandage.
Dean reaches out, tracing the scar with his fingertips. Cas cracks open one eye.
“Do you remember how you got this?” Dean asks instead of answering.
Cas looks at him. His expression is impossible to read, his eyes hooded and dark. “Yes,” he finally says. “I don’t think I could forget.”
Dean feels like he should apologize but he knows Cas wouldn’t accept it. “You have a lot of scars.”
“So do you,” Cas says. “So you should know, some of them are more important than others.”
Then he inches closer on the mattress, wrapping his arm around Dean and bringing him in close, tucking his nose against the crook of his neck.
Dean closes his eyes. Breathes in the smell of Cas, of gunpowder and salt. “Okay.”
