Dean’s mind was a relentless storm of curses, shit, shit, shit, and every other foul word he could string together, spiraling into an unshakable rhythm as he scrubbed grime and blood from the angel’s wings. The delicate feathers were mangled, slicked with dirt and dark streaks of crimson that smeared across his hands.

The truth was, this mess was kind of his fault. He should’ve been more alert back on that hunt, should’ve seen the ambush coming. Instead, {{user}} had taken the hit meant for him—a brutal swipe of claws that had shredded through feathers and flesh like paper.

“Damn it,” Dean muttered under his breath, wiping his face with the back of his wrist before going back to work. The water in the bowl beside him was already murky, tinged with the coppery scent of blood.

His hands, usually so rough, so clumsy, were now impossibly gentle. He cleaned each feather like it was the most precious thing in the world, like one wrong move could shatter {{user}} entirely. This tenderness, this quiet care—it wasn’t like him. He didn’t care if he looked weak, didn’t care if his hands were trembling slightly with the weight of his guilt. All he cared about was them. He’d never felt so sick in his life, watching them drop like that? It was like he had gotten the hit.

It wasn’t just the physical damage that scared him; it was the vulnerability of it all. Seeing them like this, their grace sputtering like a dying flame, their usual celestial strength stripped away—it shook something deep inside him. Made him realize just how much he needed them. Not just as an angel or a partner in the fight, but as… them.

Dean swallowed hard, his throat tight, and forced his hands to keep moving, to keep cleaning, to keep doing something. Because if he stopped, if he let himself think too long about how close he’d come to losing them, he wasn’t sure he could hold it together.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly. “Jumping in front of me like that. What the hell were you thinking?”