[ It's not. None of this is necessary. Castiel knows from experience what the bare minimum looks like. But he also knows what it looks like to hold someone in your arms and watch them die. Castiel doesn't watch Dean work; he watches Dean, instead: the concentration in his expression, the flush of red through his lower lip as he bites it in distraction. He's avoiding guilt, Castiel decides. He'd rather have Castiel's blood on his hands literally than metaphorically. That's what this is. That's why.
The excuse sounds incomplete and hollow in Castiel's head, but the waves of pain as Dean digs around his shoulder is a distraction from serious thought, anyway. Castiel is silent through the blinding flashes of pain that spark behind his eyes. He squeezes them shut, grits his teeth, and squeezes his fist in Dean's jacket until his knuckles go white. His brain can't even process what Dean means by a souvenir. He doesn't feel the bullet dropped in his lap, only collapses back against the seat once the pain returns to a dull, hot throbbing, and he allows his panting breaths to escape him and his eyes to crack open.
Dean is still there in front of him when Castiel opens his eyes: threading a needle, talking about avoiding infection. "We'll have to keep this clean," as if Dean is going to stick around that long, rather than escape. Castiel doesn't call him on it. His mind is a marble rolling and clacking endlessly around a wooden labyrinth. ]
I'll be fine.
[ Castiel doesn't believe it, but if it's guilt that's keeping Dean here, then Castiel feels as if he owes it to Dean, to say as much. ]
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The excuse sounds incomplete and hollow in Castiel's head, but the waves of pain as Dean digs around his shoulder is a distraction from serious thought, anyway. Castiel is silent through the blinding flashes of pain that spark behind his eyes. He squeezes them shut, grits his teeth, and squeezes his fist in Dean's jacket until his knuckles go white. His brain can't even process what Dean means by a souvenir. He doesn't feel the bullet dropped in his lap, only collapses back against the seat once the pain returns to a dull, hot throbbing, and he allows his panting breaths to escape him and his eyes to crack open.
Dean is still there in front of him when Castiel opens his eyes: threading a needle, talking about avoiding infection. "We'll have to keep this clean," as if Dean is going to stick around that long, rather than escape. Castiel doesn't call him on it. His mind is a marble rolling and clacking endlessly around a wooden labyrinth. ]
I'll be fine.
[ Castiel doesn't believe it, but if it's guilt that's keeping Dean here, then Castiel feels as if he owes it to Dean, to say as much. ]