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So here he is: post-Chuck, post-apocalypses, post-hunting altogether. Dean Winchester's life is his own. His time is his own. For the first time ever, he can sleep as many hours a night as he likes.
Except he can't fall asleep. What the fuck.
The new junior senator from Kansas is a real piece of work – smarmy, slick, self-satisfied, and bigoted as all hell. He's a rising star in his party, the darling of all those networks that the shitty people watch. His nasty little agenda is getting a flood of attention in the media, and there's already talk of him making a run for the presidency in a couple of years.
Dean wants to stab him right in his smirking fucking face.
He'd made the mistake of checking the news before he turned in, and now his damn brain won't shut off. He can't stop thinking about all the good people this guy is willing to hurt to make sure his rich-ass friends get richer. Dean's already had a couple of conference calls with Jack and Rowena, and he has finally been forced to accept that this guy's no demon, no shifter, no rogue angel. He's just a privileged asshole who plays the game well enough to score himself a heaping helping of power.
Dean stares at the ceiling and grinds his teeth. Beside him the blankets shift.
“You're doing the thing again,” Cas mutters thickly.
“I'm doing 'the thing'? What 'thing' is that? I'm just sleeping.” Dean knows what his husband means, but he's kind of an asshole when he's tired and pissed, so he tries to put up a fight on reflex.
Cas doesn't take the bait. “You're lying there in the dark, wide awake and angry, letting one bad thought roll around and around in your head until it seems apocalyptic.” He rolls over and plasters himself up against Dean's body. “Whatever is worrying you, there's nothing you can do about it right now. It's...” He pops his head up off the pillow and squints at the clock. “3:23 a.m. Not a time for decisive action.”
“Okay, but what if there's nothing I can do about it, period? World's going to Hell on a Harley, babe, and this ain't the kind of apocalypse we can head off with a spell.”
A warm hand begins running up and down his spine. “This is about that senator, isn't it?”
“S'about all of it. Everything. It's all fucked, and I can't make any of it better.”
“We can make a little bit of it a little better. Don't scoff at me. I'm serious. Look, tomorrow is Sunday. Well, actually, it's Sunday now but I refuse to participate with it for another five to six hours. If you settle down now, try to quiet your mind and get some sleep, I'll take you out to see the ladies before breakfast.”
“Cas, what do your chickens have to do with any of this?”
“I find them quite peaceful to be around. They have a very centering quality. Also, we can gather the eggs and take some to the neighbors, and that will make their day better. Then you can use the rest to make pancakes, which will make our day better. After that we can make some calls about volunteering for that asshole's opponent in the next election. Okay?”
“...Okay.”
“Good. Now come here, let me hold you. Breathe with me, alright? Get some rest. I love you.”
“Love you.” Dean slows his breathing to match his husband's and feels himself start to drift towards sleep.