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Dean is having another one of his bouts of self-loathing. He’s not saying any words, just sitting on the motel bed, nursing a beer and watching the TV without seeing, but even if Cas was still human he would be able to sense it, waves of internalized hatred drift from the hunter like tendrils of black smoke.
Castiel sits down on the opposite bed, rests his elbows on his thighs, and drops his clasped hands to his knees, like a prayer of resignation.
"Dean…"
Dean looks up at him, eyes bloodshot from unshed tears and too little sleep. “What?”
"You need to stop."
“‘m not doing anything.” Dean replies, ever petulant.
"You need to stop beating yourself up. It’s not your fault.”
Rage flashes in green eyes, “Bullshit. What’s happened to Sammy, to you, to Kevin, the poor bastard, that’s all on me.”
"No. We chose our paths. Free Will, remember? You taught it to me.”
Dean made a huffing sound, but gave no other reply, so Cas continued.
"I need to make you understand. This has to stop. It’s going to kill you, and I won’t have that."
Dean lifted his eyes from the bottle resting on his knee and looked at Cas with curiosity and veiled desperation. Still, he remained quiet, lips parted on a “W” but the question left dangling.
"I’m an Angel of the Lord, Dean. We’re designed with two purposes, Love, and Wrath. I would think the fact that you inspire me to the former rather than the latter would be proof enough to you that you are good, you are righteous, but that doesn’t seem to be enough.”
Dean’s lashes dropped to brush his cheeks, then rose again and he peered back at Cas with wide eyes, “What are you saying, Cas?”
"All these years, and you haven’t noticed. The White Room, the molotov at Stull, YOU broke me out of Naomi’s control, and you still don’t realize.” Cas looked back at Dean, head tilted in confusion, and heart break written on his face, “I love you.”
Dean’s jaw dropped in shock, eyes widened further in surprise and wonder, he sputtered, “But you, but how, bu-“
He was cut off, first by the dull thud of a half empty beer bottle landing on filthy carpet as Cas knocked it from his hands, and then by Cas’ lips crashing against his own, Cas' hands fisted in his t-shirt with barely restrained angelic strength.
At first Dean was unresponsive, but when he felt Cas’ grip twitch to loosen he came alive, kissing back hungrily, desperately, with need.
And Castiel gave back just as good at he got, kissed Dean like the hunter’s life depended on it, and at that moment, maybe it did.