Work Text:
Dean’s not sleeping.
To be fair, in the time that Castiel has known Dean, he never had the healthiest relationship with sleep, but it’s somehow gotten worse. Dean has gone from four hours a night to two, maybe three if he’s lucky.
He is burning the candle at both ends. At all ends. He is a wickless puddle of melted wax, despite this, it seems as if Dean’s mind will not listen to the pleas of his body. Castiel can almost feel the buzzing of Dean’s brain, the thoughts that rattle around preventing him from finding peace.
Castiel doesn’t sleep because he doesn’t need to, but that means that he knows just how little Dean is sleeping, even if Dean has yet to actually say anything about it. He knows that the likelihood of Dean saying anything about it is slim to none, but Dean is the single planet in his orbit so Castiel knows many of the things Dean never says out loud.
He can hear Dean putter about the bunker at all odd hours of the night.
Sometimes Dean just sits at the kitchen table. Sometimes he has something on TV that he looks at but doesn’t watch. Sometimes he sits in the library in silence, lap full of an open book that he does not know the contents of.
Castiel will join in a show of quiet support. He will sit in silence at the kitchen table. Sit in the quiet glow of the TV. Sit with his own unread book in his lap.
Dean never has much to say on these long days turned nights turned days again, but that doesn’t matter much. Castiel has tried to get him to talk about whatever it is that has caused him enough anguish to make this kind of exhaustion preferable to what happens during his unwaking hours.
Still, Dean is stoic and stunted and Dean so he keeps the cards of his troubles close to his chest.
Dean doesn’t need to say anything about it, though.
The exhaustion hangs from his frame and has filled the very marrow of his bones. The half moons under his eyes are in a perpetual state of eclipse, dark and deep and ragged. Anyone with the ability to see would be able to deduce at a glance that Dean is running himself ragged.
Castiel is worried about him. Castiel is always worried about Dean. About his safety and his happiness and his selfless and sacrificial and self-hating habits. But it is not until Dean comes back from a hunt looking terribly beat up and bruised and significantly worse for wear that Castiel decides something has to change.
He exchanges a look with Sam. Brow furrowed and head tilted in wordless question. What happened? Sam’s face is pinched and concern is written in every crease. He shakes his head slightly to wordlessly convey later and later happens much sooner than Castiel could have anticipated as Dean makes a bee line for the shower.
He is looking at his feet when he passes Castiel but that does not stop him from seeing the dried blood on Dean’s face. The laceration through his brow and the one on his lip. The bruise that is already starting to form on his cheek, the one that is making the already bruise dark skin under his eyes even darker.
He wants to stop Dean, to heal him, but Dean is out of reach and out of the room before he can offer. Once he hears the sound of running water he turns to Sam.
“What happened? I thought this hunt was supposed to be ‘in and out?’” Castiel asks, using air quotes for the last part of his question. “That was the reasoning you applied when it was determined my abilities would be better served here conducting research than ‘ganking a coupla ghouls.’”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “You gotta stop spending so much time around Dean. That impression was scary accurate and I don’t think I could handle having two of him around.”
“Sam.” Castiel says, irritation evident at Sam’s skirting around the question.
“I don’t know. It was supposed to be an easy hunt and it was easy until we went to actually kill the ghouls and Dean was, I don’t know–slower than usual? Like he just wasn’t as sharp. Like he didn’t have enough fight in him. They shouldn’t have been able to get him as good as they did. But it was–” Sam trails off before taking a steadying breath, “It was almost really bad.”
The thought of losing Dean again knocks the wind out of Castiel. Dean is the single most important anything in Castiel’s life and if he were to be lost to something as small as a ghoul after quite literally surviving both heaven and hell Castiel would use every last ounce of his grace and raze the earth to get him back.
He doesn’t say anything else but nods to indicate to Sam that he has heard what has been said.
His mind is whirring, trying to come up with some way, any way, to help Dean. Castiel will not let him continue to be hurt like this. Cannot let him continue to be hurt like this. Cannot let him be hurt at all.
“I’m gonna go clean up.” Sam tells him as he lumbers out of the room.
Castiel doesn’t acknowledge his departure, his mind still filtering through ideas. He quickly works out where things went wrong tonight; Dean is dead on his feet under the best of circumstances, but with the added strain of a fight? It’s a miracle things were not worse.
He finds himself wandering towards Dean, figuring he must be out of the shower by now and if not, he must be close to being done. As he reaches the end of the hall where Dean’s room is he discovers his first thought was the correct one.
Dean’s door is cracked and through it Castiel can see him sitting on the edge of his bed wearing a pair of sleep pants but nothing else. The overhead light is off but the lamp on his bedside table is on, casting a warm yellow glow on everything.
His back is bare and exposed and the significance of this is not lost on Castiel. He can also see a myriad of bruises painting the delicate expanse of Dean’s back.
In the dim light and from his vantage point just outside of the door Castiel cannot see the freckles he knows form the constellations that adorn Dean’s body. They are one of the many things that Castiel adores about Dean, even if he knows the other man hates them. He has never understood why, but to be fair, he has never understood why Dean hates the things that Castiel loves the most about him.
Dean is resting with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, his shoulders gently rising and falling with each shallow and seemingly painful breath. Castiel would not be surprised if Dean had a couple of broken ribs.
He pushes the door open wide enough for him to be able to slip through.
“You’re hurt.” He says by way of introduction once he’s just over the threshold.
“It’s nothing.” Dean says because of course he does. Castiel would have been even more worried if he didn’t put up at least a little bit of a fight.
“You don’t have to lie to me, Dean. There’s no one here to take advantage of a moment of vulnerability.”
Dean scoffs but doesn’t say anything in return. Castiel takes a few tentative steps towards him, the closer he gets the more he can see the damage Dean’s body received on this easy hunt.
“You’re hurt.” Castiel says again once he’s just behind
Dean on the other side of the bed. Dean’s entire body is tense. It looks heavy. Like it’s a struggle to keep it upright. “I’d like to heal you, if you’d let me.” Castiel tells him in a voice that’s quiet enough to be a whisper.
A shrug is all he gets in response but that’s not a no so Castiel moves to stand next to Dean before reaching out a careful hand and gently placing it on Dean’s bare shoulder. His skin is still warm from his shower and he leans back into the touch ever so slightly.
This is all the invitation Castiel needs to remove some of Dean’s burden and within an instant the three broken ribs and dozens of various cuts and bruises and strained muscles are healed. Castiel lets his hand linger, unwilling to break the contact.
He had once suspected that Dean was unfamiliar with gentle touch and that suspicion has long since been confirmed. No touch Castiel has offered Dean has ever been met with resistance, Dean’s body gravitates to any connection offered even if Dean himself does not realize it.
Realistically, after that first time, after raising Dean from the pit, he had very few reasons to touch him, but Castiel quickly realized Dean craved those little touches, those little grazes, the hand around his wrist, the fingers on his forehead, the touches with clear and distinct purposes behind them. He leaned into every single one.
Castiel found more reasons to touch him.
And so if he keeps his hand on Dean’s shoulder after he has been healed because he can feel the relief rolling off of Dean’s wary frame in waves, because he is leaning into the contact, and Castiel knows Dean yearns for the warmth that can be offered by another, no one has to know. Least of all Dean.
The air between them isn’t heavy, but it’s something close to that. It’s teeming with the unnamed thing that exists in their quiet moments. Now it is practically being shouted from the rooftops.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t know why. No need for it.” Dean mumbles.
“I’d say your extreme exhaustion nearly getting you killed because you won’t talk about whatever is bothering you to the point of sleeplessness is reason enough to warrant worry.”
Dean sighs.
It’s loaded. It says more than Dean himself is probably capable of articulating with actual words.
Every time Dean struggles to make himself and his feelings known because the words must be forced out of his mouth, because they come kicking and screaming from his thoughts, because more often than not he chokes on them before he can even get them out, Castiel wants to find John Winchester and make him realize the gravity of his ineptitude.
He wants John to know just how much he mangled the self worth of the man who granted the world salvation many times over despite all the pain it caused him.
He wants to make John Winchester see the inherently good and achingly selfless man Dean turned into regardless, wants to make him hurt like he still continues to make Dean hurt.
“I know you and sleep have never been the best of bedfellows, but it’s gotten significantly worse the past few weeks. And while I don’t know what the cause of it is, what I do know is that it’s bad enough to prevent you from being able to rest unless your body forces you to.”
Dean opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out.
Castiel lowers himself onto the bed next to Dean, hand still on his shoulder. He does not look at Dean even though he very much wants to. He knows that sometimes being looked at when Dean’s already struggling to form words makes him clam up further. So Castiel sits and he waits.
“Can’t sleep.” Dean finally manages to get out.
Castiel lets out a laugh that’s more breath than anything else. “I’ve noticed. There’s something keeping you from sleeping. I’d like to help, if I can.”
“There’s not much you can help with.”
“You can’t say that with certainty if I don’t know what’s causing this problem in the first place.” Castiel says, moving his hand from Dean’s shoulder, smooth skin slipping under his fingertips before coming to rest on his forearm.
“Maybe I don’t deserve your help.” Dean snaps, pulling his arm out from under Castiel’s touch.
He’s trying to sound angry but he doesn’t quite manage to mask the hurt that’s just under the surface. The hurt that makes him self-sabotage over and over and over again.
“That’s not true.” His voice quiet but fierce.
“Like hell it isn’t, Cas. We both know it. I’m–I’m not worth it, man.” Dean says. He’s wringing his scarred hands in his lap.
“Not worth it?” Castiel parrots back, anger that he is unable to hold back seeping into his voice.
“I rebuilt you. I rebuilt your body. I have held your aching soul in my hands. I rebuilt that, too. Body, blood, soul, and divinity, Dean Winchester. I have seen and touched it all. I have seen and held your every atom. I know the ways in which your very synapses fire as I am the one who struck their match. I know you. I know what you are and who you are. I know what is inside of you and your heart. And you are good. Look at me when I tell you this, Dean.”
And when Dean does his eyes are wet. Castiel’s chest twinges. His tone is softer as he continues. “You are good. You are kind and you are just. You are a righteous man. You are deserving. I know you far better than most, so don’t you dare try and tell me you’re not.”
Dean just shakes his head, eyes downcast.
“You think of the needs of everyone but yourself. You have never once put yourself first. You have never allowed yourself to be taken care of. Please let me put you first. Please, please. Let me take care of you. Please, let me help you with whatever this is.”
“I’ve just–”Dean stands abruptly, running a shaky hand through his still damp hair before he starts pacing.
Dean has always reminded Castiel a bit of a caged animal when he is upset like this. You cannot approach him too quickly, you cannot push too hard. You have to let him come to you. If forced into any one direction, Dean will strike wildly and blindly with teeth and claws and will not stop until they are both bloody.
“I’ve done a lot of shit, Cas. A lot of bad shit. There are so many people that I’ve hurt. You and Sam and Bobby and fuckin’ everyone. There are so many people that I haven’t been able to save. There’s so much fucking blood on my hands I feel like I’m covered in it half of the time. And I just, I see their faces. I relive the mistakes that I made, the mistakes that got them killed. I can’t stop thinking about it. I mean I’m always thinking about, but can usually keep it quiet enough to do my job. But I can’t now. And I don’t know why. I feel heavy. So fuckin’ heavy I don’t know how much longer I can stand.”
Dean lets out a laugh. And they both know it’s not because Dean thinks what he said is funny.
“You feel guilty.” Castiel states.
His hand is still shaking when he runs it through his hair. “Yeah, man. I feel guilty.”
A thought crosses Castiel’s mind. “Do you trust me?”
“What?” Dean questions. He’s stopped pacing.
“Do you trust me?” Castiel asks again.
“More than anyone. Why’re you asking?”
“A thought occurred to me that might help you feel absolved of some of your guilt. Would you be willing to try it?”
Dean hesitates, tired eyes meeting Castiel’s gaze. A moment. A beat. A shallow inhale. Dean nods his head.
Castiel offers him a soft smile in return “Thank you. Will you sit back down please?”
Dean walks woodenly back over to the bed, sitting closer to Castiel than he was before. Dean turns to look at him, brow raised expectantly.
Castiel takes a moment to look at Dean before he starts speaking. Hurt and exhaustion are warring with one another for what emotion gets to take up the most residence on his face. Despite this he is still beautiful.
Still Dean Winchester.
“I’m not saying that you’re a sinner, Dean. I don’t think you are. But my opinion of you and your opinion of yourself don’t always line up.”
“Okay?”
“Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, even so I send you.’ And when he had said this, he breathed on them,” Castiel leans closer, allowing his breath to ghost over Dean’s features, “And said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”
Dean sucks in a breath and the air in the room shifts. “Cas, what the hell are you on about?”
“In Confession, you talk to a priest who acts in the person of Christ and with His authority to listen, offer guidance, and offer absolution. I may not be a priest, I think I may be just holy enough to count.”
Dean snorts then winces from the residual soreness in his ribs. “Confession? Really? I’m not exactly looking for forgiveness from the big guy upstairs.”
Castiel offers Dean a small smile and a shrug, feeling somewhat relieved at Dean’s response. He hasn’t stormed out of the room and sometimes that’s all Castiel can hope for.
“Confession takes place in the ‘tribunal of penance,’ as it is a judicial process in which the penitent is at once the accuser, the person accused, and the witness, while I, acting as a priest who is acting In persona Christi, pronounce judgment and sentence. I don’t think you’ve done anything worthy of requiring absolution, but it may be beneficial for you to free some of the things you feel guilty about from your conscience. Confession is a means to absolution.” He finishes quietly.
Dean swallows, all joking gone. “I don’t deserve it.”
Castiel aches.
“Still, after all this time? After all that you have done for others and after all that others–after all that I have done for you, you still don’t think you‘re deserving? That you’re worthy? You still don’t think you deserved to be saved, but you do. The greatest honor of my life which has stretched millennia is that I was the one to reach you first. That I was the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition. Saving you is the greatest thing I have ever done, the greatest thing I will ever do. You deserve joy and peace and softness and love, Dean. You deserve so much, you are worthy of so much more than the lot you have been cast. I wish you could see it. I wish you could see yourself the way those who are fortunate enough to know you see you. I wish you could see what I see when I look at you.”
Dean’s voice is quiet and thin and vulnerable and full of tears that have not yet fallen when he asks “What do you see?”
Castiel studies Dean for a moment. He knows the bravery required for Dean to ask this. Knows just how difficult it is for Dean to show this kind of emotion.
They’re sitting so close Castiel can feel the heat coming from Dean’s body. If either of them were to shift even just a little bit they would be connected ankle to shoulder.
He gently places his hand on Dean’s forearm again.
“When I look at you, I see love. I see your love for Sam. Your love for your family. Your love for the world. I see your willingness to always do what you think is right no matter how much it will hurt you. I see a man who is selfless to a fault. I see a man who is deserving. I see a man who is brimming with mercy and grace. When I look at you, I’m reminded of creation. I’m reminded of the painstaking love that humanity was tenderly crafted with. When I see you, I feel reverence. When I see you, I see Christ. The one that I walked the Earth with all those thousands of years ago. I see the reason I fell in love with humanity. I see you, all of you.” His voice is quiet and soft and it feels like he himself is on the verge of tears when he is done speaking.
A droplet of water hitting his hand makes Castiel shift his attention to Dean’s face. There are tear tracks on his cheeks. More still threatening to spill over.
Dean is staring straight ahead. His jaw is clenched. In a moment of Dean-inspired bravery, Castiel brings the hand not resting on Dean’s forearm to his cheek. His fingers come to rest at the bolt of Dean’s jaw, thumb wiping away the wetness under it. Dean turns his head into the touch, his eyes are closed. Castiel cradles Dean’s face, feather soft hair tickling his fingertips.
They’re both silent for a handful of breaths.
Dean shifts and Castiel thinks he is moving away so he moves to drop his hold but then Dean’s head is on his shoulder and they are connected ankle to shoulder and he still has a hand on Dean’s cheek and Castiel feels something shift and break and grow in his chest. He looks down at Dean. His eyes are still closed.
More silent breaths and then Dean is speaking and his voice is rough and Castiel can feel more tears seeping into the sleeve of his borrowed shirt.
Dean had told him most people don’t wear the same thing every single day like a cartoon character and had insisted Castiel wear whatever of Dean’s he wanted. Tonight he’s in a shirt for some band that he’s sure Dean has shown him at some point in time or another but has no memory of. He picked it because it had smelled the most strongly of Dean.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned, its been, well, never since my last confession.”
Castiel huffs out a laugh, turning his head, and is startled to find that suddenly his lips and his nose are buried in Dean’s hair.
He’s surrounded by Dean. His warmth. His sorrow. His everything. The slightest movement from Castiel’s mouth and he could kiss him.
“It is customary for something along the lines of ‘may God, who has enlightened every heart, help you know your sins and trust in His mercy,’ to be said in response, however, I believe you will not begrudge me if I omit that part.” Castiel responds, Dean’s hair tickling his lips as he speaks.
“So instead I will just say, anything you choose to tell me will be held in the silence of my heart and will do nothing to change the way I look at you, Dean.”
Castiel feels something soft touch the hand still resting on Dean’s forearm. Dean has moved his hand so that his fingertips are touching the top of Castiel’s hand. His other hand is still on Dean’s face. He moves his thumb one, two, three times to wipe away the fresh tears that have fallen.
Dean begins to speak.
He tells Castiel about the guilt he carries. How heavy it makes him. How he has trouble reconciling the fact that he is not the man his father wanted him to be. That he’s glad he’s not that man. How he feels guilty for hating his father. Guilty for loving him.
Dean tells Castiel the names of every single person whose death he feels responsible for because of course Dean remembers their names. Of course Dean carries them with him.
Dean continues to cry. Castiel has started to cry with him at some point. He talks about how he doesn’t want this life. How the older he gets the more he wants to be able to settle down, to have an apple pie life. He tells Castiel about the guilt he feels for thinking these things.
He tells him about how he wishes he had never gone to Stanford to get Sam because Sam had gotten out and Dean ruined that and the life Sam had built by dragging him back in.
He tells Castiel about how he used to steal food to feed Sam when he was a child and his father would be gone longer than expected or wouldn’t leave them enough money. He tells him about the boys’ home.
He tells him about how he turned to selling his body to feed his baby brother after that. Tells him about his father beating him senseless after discovering him with a man who had given him enough money to feed Sam for days and to send him on a rare and treasured trip to the arcade.
He tells Castiel that his father wasn’t able to beat his attraction to men out of him. How he hated himself for a very long time because of that. How he shoved every urge down as far as it would go. How he still hates himself. Hates himself for so many things.
Having long since given up any and all pretenses, Castiel places gentle kisses on the crown of Dean’s head, his thumb strokes Dean’s cheek.
Dean weeps.
He doesn’t know how long Dean speaks for. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if it was for minutes or hours or days. It doesn’t matter because Castiel can feel the tense set of Dean’s shoulders getting looser with every confession. With every admission, with every burden he trusts to be shared and carried with Castiel, Dean grows lighter.
Castiel will help hold anything Dean places at his feet. It makes his heart swell to know that Dean has this kind of faith in him. But eventually the confessions fizzle out. They sit, quiet and exhausted and washed in the tide of each other’s breathing.
“Is now when I get my penance?” Dean asks, breaking the silence in a voice that’s not much louder than it.
“There is no penance. You’ve been paying penance your entire life. You’ve paid enough.”
“What happens now?”
And God, he sounds so small it makes Castiel want to hunt everything and everyone that ever made him feel that way and showcase just how fearsome the wrath of a warrior of heaven is.
“Absolution.” Castiel answers, voice quiet and soft because anything other than that would break this thus far unnamed thing that is coming to a crest between them.
“How?”
“God, the Father of Mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father,” Castiel stops his prayer to press his lips into Dean’s hair.
“And of the Son,“ Castiel moves his lips to the shell of Dean’s ear, another press. “And of the Holy Spirit,” Another press, but this time at Dean’s temple. “Amen.” Castiel whispers into his ear.
Something passes over both of them. Dean shivers. Castiel brings him a breath closer.
Dean removes his head from Castiel’s shoulder so that they’re looking at each other. They’re on the precipice. This is the point of no return. The air in what little space exists between them is full. Castiel leans forward, Dean follows.
They have both always gravitated toward each other in this way, haven’t they?
Castiel is a breath away from Dean’s lips. He waits, giving Dean one last out, one last chance to let this moment pass between them like so many others before it. Dean moves.
Oh.
Oh.
In all the times and all the ways Castiel thought of this moment, it in no way compares to the real thing. Dean’s mouth is on his and it is in this moment that Castiel understands what the purpose of his creation was.
He was created for this. For this moment and this man.
And he had been told time and time again that falling was the worst thing that could ever happen. That burning was the worst feeling he could ever experience.
If falling is such a terrible thing, why does it feel like he’s flying? If burning is the worst fate imaginable, why does it feel like he’s a hearth fire? He has fallen and he has burned and it was all worth it because Dean’s mouth is moving against his.
All too soon, Dean pulls away, resting his forehead against Castiel’s as he catches his breath. Castiel in turn presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. His chin. His cheek. The tip of his nose. Everywhere his mouth can reach without displacing the man resting against him.
Dean leans forward again and they meet again. And again. And again. And again. Moments and minutes and millennia pass as the only thing that exists is the two of them and the incessant press of their lips. Eventually, Dean breaks away and drops his head to Castiel’s shoulder. He can feel Dean’s smile.
“How do you feel?”
A watery laugh escapes as he extracts himself from Castiel’s embrace. He lets him go but sorely misses the warmth.
“Better. Fantastic. Lighter and all that crap. You happy?” Dean says, offering a cocksure smile that almost fully reaches his tired eyes. It’s close enough to the usual Dean that Castiel feels some of the pressure he’s been carrying around in his chest the past few weeks lessen.
“Delighted.” He responds, zero emotion seeping through to betray just how delighted he actually is.
“Bastard.” Dean fires back and it’s warm and fond and makes that thing in Castiel’s chest shift and stretch.
“You should sleep.” Castiel tells him, standing to make his leave even though he absolutely does not want to. He makes it all of one step towards the door before Dean shoots out a hand that wraps around Castiel’s wrist, effectively rooting him to the spot.
Dean is looking at him with wide eyes, mouth open and trying to form words. Castiel gives him a soft smile that he hopes conveys that it’s okay. That Dean can take his time. That he would wait for him. Anywhere and always and forever will Castiel wait for Dean Winchester.
“You could–” Dean croaks out before closing his mouth with a snap only to open it and try again. “I mean, if you wanted–” And again the words fail to come out.
Castiel takes a step closer to him. Dean’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist.
Dean huffs out a breath before shaking his head and saying, in a rush, “You could stay. If you wanted.” But before Castiel can respond Dean is shaking his head again. He meets Castiel’s gaze and the terror is apparent in his eyes, but so is the determination.
“Would you–will you stay? I–I want you to stay. Please?”
And how could Dean have ever thought that Castiel would deny him anything, but especially this?
“Of course, Dean.” And Castiel’s body is still so warm he’s surprised he’s not actively burning.
Dean drops his hold, “Okay. Uh good. Good.”
Castiel can see the heat staining Dean’s cheeks. Pink and warm and pretty.
Dean stands and winces and he moves to pull his covers down. Castiel furrows a brow at him.
“I’m fine. Just stiff from sitting in one position for so long.”
Castiel hums in response as Dean settles himself under the blankets.
A moment passes between them. Castiel is suddenly uncertain of himself, vaguely afraid of how everything will look in the sunlight of tomorrow.
“You just gonna stand there all night or are you gonna come to bed?” Dean asks and does he sound flustered?
Castiel breathes a laugh but pulls the blankets on the empty side of Dean’s bed back and slips under them. Dean turns out the light.
Everything feels different in the dark. Quieter and bigger and endless. Castiel rests on his back, he can feel Dean shift, turning onto his side.
A moment. A beat. A breath.
Castiel shifts, too. He wraps an arm around Dean’s middle, tangles his legs in Dean’s. He is overwhelmed. Surrounded by warmth and softness and Dean. Dean’s bare skin is warm and smooth.
Castiel runs his hand up Dean’s stomach to his chest, stopping when he feels the heart he rebuilt beating somewhat quickly under his fingertips. Dean inhales sharply at the action.
“I’m not the little spoon.” Dean grumbles even as he leans back into Castiel, as he brings the hand that was acting as a pillow under his cheek to rest on top of Castiel’s, as he twines their fingers together.
“It’s okay to want to be held.” He tells Dean softly, placing a kiss to the back of his neck.
Dean shivers. Castiel pulls him closer. “And I’ll have you know, I rather like holding you.”
“Shuddup.” Dean mutters, no heat or malice behind it. The first signs of sleep clinging to the edge of his voice.
“Sleep, Dean. I’ll be here.”
Dean squeezes his hand.
“Sleep well.” One more kiss, just for good measure.
“Night, Cas.”
And finally, finally, he rests.