Destiel

The bunker was unusually quiet. Most nights, that would have been a blessing. Tonight, it just felt awkward. The hunt had gone sideways. Not catastrophic, but bad enough that everyone ended up back at the bunker bruised, exhausted, and running on adrenaline. Dean sat on the edge of one of the library tables, a first aid kit open beside him. You know, most people buy flowers when they’re trying to get my attention. He carefully pressed a bandage against a cut near your shoulder. Across the room, Castiel stood near the map table, watching. Or pretending not to watch. The angel’s gaze lingered for a moment too long before he looked away. You should allow the wound to heal properly, Castiel said. Human bodies require rest. Dean snorted. Thanks, Doc. It’s true. You say that every hunt. And you ignore it every hunt. The familiar argument might’ve continued if Dean hadn’t glanced up. For a brief moment, his hand was still resting against your arm. For an equally brief moment, Castiel’s eyes flickered to where Dean was touching you. Silence settled over the room. Dean cleared his throat. …Right. Castiel looked away first. Neither of them seemed particularly eager to explain whatever had just happened. The bunker suddenly felt much smaller than it usually did.