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When they get back to the bunker, Dean begs off early. He brushes off their worried looks with a laugh, blaming the fatigue on the post-hunt adrenaline slowly making its way out of his system. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Cas move as if to follow him, but Sam rests a hand on his arm, shaking his head.
Dean slips out of the room gratefully.
He does try to sleep, initially. But every time he closes his eyes he see’s fake Kaia, real Kaia, feels the phantom weight of wings at his back and the burning of grace through his skin.
After that, he figures he’s better off not sleeping.
Which is how Dean finds lying in bed, casting burning eyes around his room and hoping for a distraction. His eyes catch on the pile of papers he’d left scattered on the desk, the clothes scattered across the floor, all exactly the same as he’d left it except for a shirt draped over the back of a chair that he doesn’t remember putting there. Someone, Sam or- Dean thinks with a lurch- maybe Cas, had come through while he was gone and cleaned up. It should make Dean feel grateful but instead he’s left unsettled, out of place, like he’s been plucked out of time while everything else continued to flow around him. He shudders. Suddenly, he needs a shower.
Dean cranks the water as hot as it’ll go and steps in under the spray. He thinks that maybe if he tries hard enough, waits long enough, he can scrub away the lingering sense of wrongness, the feeling of being a stranger in his own skin. He stands there for a long time, scalding water beating at his back until it turns a raw, angry red. But by the time he’s pulled on his sleep clothes there’s still that raw itchiness under his skin that doesn’t seem to go away.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and feels his chest tighten. He looks haggard, gaunt. Bloodshot eyes stare back at him accusingly and Dean feels the anxiety creep up on him the longer he looks- and he can’t help but look, waiting for a twitch of an eye or curve of a lip to tell him that something’s wrong, that he’s wrong, that-
Dean shudders, staggering away from the mirror. He falls into the bed and just lies there, shivering, as the sickly green numbers of his alarm clock creep higher and higher.
It’s Sam who comes in first. Even with his back to the door, Dean knows it’s Sam because he brushes into the room without bothering to knock, plopping down onto the bed so hard that Dean bounces a little. Sam props open his laptop and settles against he headboard, coughing something about better connection speeds.
They lie there for a while, the silence unbroken except for the quiet click of the trackpad as Sam searches for something to watch. And it’s good, it helps, the vice around Dean’s chest loosening just a little every time Sam jostles, accidentally elbowing him in the back. But it’s not quite right, not quite enough. There’s still something missing, someone-
Cas slips into the room and Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The angel offers a murmured apology for being late, but Sam just waves him off, clicking through videos as they wait.
Cas doesn’t get in right away, though. Dean watches through half-lidded eyes, as the he shuffles quietly around the room, toeing off his shows and moving towards the closet to hang up his coat. He shrugs off his shirt, nabbing the one on the chair Dean had noticed earlier and slipping it on. Finally, finally, he sinks down onto the bed, shifting until he’s lying cautiously on Dean’s other side, facing him.
Dean’s hands twitch, and he itches to pull Cas towards him but he doesn’t dare, not now. He opens and closes his mouth wordlessly, choking on the fear that this would be too much, that Cas will leave, that he wont-
There’s movement as Cas’s hand creeps slowly across the sheets, hand hesitating inches from where Dean’s are curled tightly into fists. There’s a question in his eyes when Dean meets them, and Dean take a deep breath, reaches out to curl a tentative hand in the front of Cas’ shirt, gripping tightly.
Dean feels Cas go slack with relief, the angel pulling him forward until they’re pressed together, Dean’s head tucked firmly under Cas’s chin. Shakily, Dean lifts his hands up and under the hem of Cas’s shirt, sliding them around until he can hug him, press his face against the warm heat of his chest.
Cas tangles their feet together, drops a kiss to his hair and Dean feels like he can breathe again.
Sam gives Dean’s arm a quick, matter-of-fact pat before leaning back and pulling up some video with a British narrator and animal sounds. With great effort, Dean mumbles a noise of disgust against Cas’s chest, the most he’s spoken in hours. Sam seems to get it though, because he laughs, knocking his leg into Dean’s and turning the volume up. Cas sweeps a hand across his back and Dean exhales slowly, feels the tension leech out of him bit by bit.
Between one blink and the next, Dean is asleep, lulled by Sam’s whispered commentary and Cas’s warmth against him.
He doesn’t dream.