Chapter Text
Dean is in his current hotel room, in the dark - Sam is gone, but Castiel has stayed around. Thus far, at least; so Dean isn't and has not been alone...
At least, not yet.
The angel was actually the one who suggested that Dean get off the road on this particular night. Maybe he's not one to show up in a car moving at speed at various points along the road; that, or Heaven needs the Michael Sword shiny and sharp and well-rested... but whatever his reasons, the angel tells Dean to locate a comfortable room, if he can. With a king sized bed because "you should be comfortable, and I don't sleep." And thus afterwards Cas has settled himself, ramrod-straight, upon the front edge of a chair in said hotel room.
But something is different for the elder Winchester on this occasion. Rather than falling fast asleep and remaining so with little to no stirring, he begins tossing and turning, groaning and sweating and whimpering and Cas just - he can't not do something.
So he gets up and goes towards the bed. With forehead wrinkled, hands opening and closing hesitantly as he shifts from foot to foot, speaks roughly, soft "Dean." Dean jerks but doesn't wake as Cas puts a hand on his shoulder and says, louder "Dean, I'm here."
Dean shouts, then; jerking up and throwing out his arms, ready to fight. His chest is heaving and he inhales sharply, having flung himself upwards on top of the bed. Crouched now as though ready to swing or shoot or stab, arms up, toes curled, clenched in the sheets. Sweat coats his face and neck and darkens his t-shirt.
After registering who it is over him, that same instinct subsequent to the past query of what were you dreaming about seemingly echoes, sounds and resounds in the head of the hunter.
Except this time even in the dark, Cas's eyes are so very bright and… concerned. The angel is reaching out and Dean can't do anything except snarl "What the f - don't dO that!"
There's the barest upward turn of the angel's wrist as he hesitates to retract his hand but eventually commits, arm falling to his side as he briefly bobs his head in a nod that he's certain the human can barely see. And he is quick to offer, "My apologies." Then, a beat. "You were in distress, I was – attempting to..." Ease his pain...? His brow wrinkles, though this gets lost in the shadows. "...wake you," he answers.
Dean blinks, exhales a gust that drops his shoulders as he rubs a hand across his face. He tries to relax. Of course he can't, but this isn't Cas's fault. He was trying to help.
Shaking his head and working to unclench muscles, Dean swallows. His throat bobs. "Well, I nearly took your head off, Cas," he says gruffly.
"No," Castiel is quick to answer bluntly with an ever-present tilt of his head, "I would've been fine. You, however, are not." He scans Dean's face, studying the expression peeking behind the hand that momentarily paused just below his nose. He shifts from one foot to the other. What is he to say...?
Silence passes between them, which seems to stretch endlessly yet instantly shrink down to a mere two seconds the moment Castiel decides on, "...You were dreaming." His eyes fall for a bit as he corrects, "Or perhaps – having a nightmare would be more accurate."
Dean pinches his nose between two fingers, closing his eyes so as not to roll them or say any sort of iteration along the lines of 'no shit, Cas' because he still at times isn't clear on the other's recognition of sarcasm. "Yeah," he croaks instead. "...yeah, it was a nightmare."
The corners of Castiel's eyes wrinkle as he ponders. Dean had tossed and turned a few times before, on many nights, as most humans do when they sleep the night away. But this... he didn't know. Should he provide solace? The man isn't exactly the type to accept an extended palm, of that much he's certain, especially from an angel. Besides, what could he hope to give? Dreams, he walks. He's never known nor cared to know of their intricacies. But – now, here....
"Would you prefer to be alone...?" the angel suggests.
Dean shakes his head and his lips work as suddenly rough cloth is underneath his fingers and he gasps a garbled something like "no", something like "don't leave", or maybe that's his heart crying out and not his voice. All he knows is that he shakes his head, knowing he should relax, and tries to; but all he can do is shoot out his hand and curl his fingers so minutely around Cas's arm, even as he tries to say something about needing personal space.
But - the thing is, he doesn't want it. Not right now.
The angel's lips part just a fraction in surprise as his browline knits, his blue piercing the sight of hand clinging to fabric. Vaguely they travel a bit up Dean's forearm, though he hardly registers, more focused on his words when he declares in earnest, volume a hair above a gravelly whisper, "Alright, Dean."
He doesn't remove the hand nor does he move, but the faintest release of curled fingers summons back his will and he is soon to find a spot near the very foot of the bed, the softest of pardons falling from his lips when he sits beside the man, hands in his lap and eyes fixed on the wall. Not wanting to be rude, he places a two-foot gap between them.
Dean is internally calling out that he needs Cas to be close, that he wants him here - the way it is clear he's yearning through prayer or thought, and Cas takes that to heart as Dean wanting him physically close. Thus why he appears so close to Dean from then and ever onward in their acquaintance, even with the other iterating "we talked about this".
Dean's jaw works as Cas settles so friggin CAREfully on the bed. The mattress dips and he's just - there, studying the wall, steady and solid like some sort of... Dean isn't one for wacked out metaphors or anything, but he knows movies, and right now Cas looks like one of the statues of the kings carved above the Anduin in Lord of the Rings. Staring out over... nothing, really; but he's here, and he - cares - enough to have asked if Dean WANTS him here. It's enough to be pretty damn confusing, but it also makes his heart begin to slow down and his sweat to dry. At least this is something he can handle, now that he's awake.
The angel's gaze descends along the wall for a while, his fingers weaving together with the thumb of his left hand absently trailing to draw across his right index. Or perhaps it wasn't absent, his thoughts wandering to that – impression... He slowly angles the same hand towards himself, eyes falling to inspect the palm for a split second before returning to the wall.
"We could – discuss it, if you'd like," he says, head rolling as he turns to glance at Dean in spite of himself, bright blue bold even in the dark.
Those eyes like the sky in noon light practically burn even in the lowest possible amount peeking in through the window, from the moon. Dean rolls his shoulders, feeling a sharpness, a warmth on his left side that flares even as acid does in his gut. Discuss it, hah. He'd talked with Sammy about his little brother's nightmares, but - fat lot of good thAT did. Dean's mouth tastes acid-sour as his expression drops. This, what his dream had shown him...
"It's rippin' apart, isn't it?" He asks softly, voice scratching on the words. "This, what we do, the world -" jerking one hand "All this crap, the devil, angels -" indicating even you "it's -" in the dream, at least; there was agony and fire and so much blood. And he'd been as helpless against it as ever he's felt, since Hell. The way he felt whilst IN Hell. "...I couldn't fight," he says instead, coughing, clearing his throat. "Couldn't kick it in the ass, it was -" a dream. And yet he cannot do anything here, now, either. Which is absolutely ...all right, it's terrifying.
Alarm flashes across the angel's face, but it's for the briefest moment.
I have questions, I have doubts. I don't know what is right or what is wrong anymore...
He dips his head in a nod as he mulls over the other's words. Were dreams not meant to be an escape? Were nightmares not meant to serve as lessons?
To be unable to momentarily evade life's complications... to have the very same vexations ail one's subconscious...
I don't envy the weight on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don't.
It sounds tedious. Or exhausting. Or – horrifying.
My condolences, he wants to respond. Yet that sounds... almost inappropriate— but why? Why does he need to be concerned with his verbiage at this very moment?
Castiel swallows, then scowls. Maybe he should have visited after all. "Frustrating?" he supplies when Dean trails off.
Dean blinks, eyes flicking to Cas's and away, and then back again. "That's one word for it, yeah." He shifts his shoulders again, irritable at the sense of isolation, of cold he's suddenly feeling. Probably due to sweat drying on his skin and sapping his heat away, but - damn it "Are you just gonna sit like that the whole time?" He snaps, feeling a lump come to his throat. "Get -" comfortable, Cas, his head pounds with those words and the implications, but all he can force out is "Get your feathery ass up here an' lean on the headboard. Hurts me looking at you," he means because of the stiff way the angel holds himself even as he's listening. It's like he's on some precipice and Dean, no matter how discomfited he feels currently, wants SOME sort of comfort. And if that comes just from letting Cas lean back against the wall beside him, well, hell. It's something.
Without consciously thinking the words, his sentiments stand at the fact Cas is too far away and looks so uncomfortable and Dean FEELS uncomfortable. It's as close as he can come to expressing the fact that he needs touch or nearness or - something. He can be vulnerable and yet cannot fathom why he's acting like this around the angel, so is internally crying out -something along the lines of- "goddammit plEAse–"
"Oh," a confused Cas immediately utters, halting in saying more, hands then separating and running across his slacks as he rises to his feet instantly. He misses the slightest jerk of the other's head as the hunter follows his subsequent motions with wide eyes concealed in shadow, the angel silently tracing the edge of the bed as he strolls to the other side. Once again he is calculated in taking his seat, closer to the head of the bed, his hands carefully patting the covers as he shuffles his body further inward, legs swinging and plopping onto the fabric rather precariously. Shifting to rest his back against the headboard, he intertwines his fingers again, hands across his stomach, and looks to Dean expectantly. "Is this less distressing...?"
Dean nearly jerks, practically falls into Cas's space, wants to - friggin hell, he needs to control himself. Inhaling an enormous breath through flaring nostrils he clears his throat again and shifts the slightest bit to rest the end of his shoulder against Cas's.
With that, a white-hot feeling clenches instantly in the place that still holds the imprint on his skin. Stripes of heat burn in the shape of Castiel's hand even as he isn't touching, not with that, and Dean - Dean grunts out a sound at the sensation, bowing forward, lips slamming shut on that because what the hell is it? It's this ...warmth, this ache, this something striking into him from his shoulder, from Cas.
He squeezes his eyes shut and then reopens them with a gasping groan even as he wants to just say yeah and be done with it.
But... This feeling -
It's as if he can't.
Castiel is quick to shift even before he can register the sound, the hand closest to Dean— that very hand— finding the bed as he twists his shoulders, ultimately moving away from the man, but his opposite hand is already reaching for him. "Dean, are you all right?" he practically barks, insistent, face twisted in concern.
Dean's movement into Cas's space occurs with his knowledge this time, and as Cas reaches out, he does too, body buckling and arm shooting forward. His fingers cinch and tangle in the cloth of Cas's tan trench lapel as he shakes his head - sharp, desperate. He doesn't know if he's all right, to be totally honest. He just, for now, clutches. Aches.
"Dea—..." the angel whispers, only for the sound to die off when he feels an abrupt shift, as if the room itself is suddenly askew despite being completely untouched.
Castiel isn't certain what makes him move. Whether it's the visual of the hunter's hunched figure or the faintly trembling grasp on his coat or something else entirely, he wouldn't know and didn't realize he did, but suddenly he's moved closer. It's not that much different to many of the calls his brethren have made, the ones he would answer by appearing before them in an instant.
Here he is, with only a foot or perhaps even less between him and his earthly charge, feeling as if his entirety flew five thousand parsecs in a split second just to be here. He cannot even help a slight exhale of breath, blue eyes fixed on Dean, silently asking for... something. To hear the question Dean's unknowingly asking. Or... to ask questions of his own.
He shouldn't be this close. But something hidden, something so inherently Dean... is wanting him to be. And so he is.
"Cas," tone barely a breath, fingers shaking as they tighten, knuckles bulging as his throat and chest constrict. Hold on to me, hold me. Tell me it's gonna be okay Dean thinks so hard and wants to say, but any and all of that is utterly ridiculous. Because it's all a buncha lies, you poor stupid sonofabitch! To keep you, and me, and all of us in line.
I don't envy the weight on your shoulders, Cas had told him once.
That's got to be what this is. The weight, it's crushing him. The weight of being the righteous man, seared into his very flesh - but by this, this particular being. Who doubts. Who fears.
Of anyone, Cas ... trying so hard, always: I'll hold them off, I'll hold them all off! Just stop Sam! He said that, he made the choice. He understands. Or he would. He's got to.
"Cas," Dean's words are wobbling as his eyes blur and burn. He looks desperately into those blue orbs so little distance away. "...What the hell are we gonna do, man?"
Cas opens his mouth to will words to the surface, but they fail and all he can do is stare. He is reminded of that fateful day, when he turned his back upon everything he knew, for – humanity... Yes. Humanity. Still, stubbornly, things linger.
I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You. They feel I've begun to express emotions.
He bows his head just slightly, subtle; eyes still focused on those shining emerald green in the dark, save for a stripe of faint light crossing Dean's face at an angle and revealing for a moment an alluring hint of chartreuse. Their intensity makes his blue fall, and he can finally find the words.
"We'll figure it out, Dean." Blue meets green again, and he nods in his direction, a hint of fondness in his tone. "You seem to have a knack for doing that."
Dean chokes on a laugh, wetly; thankful, resigned, incredulous, and bitter by turns - and with everything inside him he suddenly wants to pull Cas into a bruising hug. Just crush the angel to his chest and bury himself in Cas's neck, but he's not a kid, this isn't like what his mom said about angels watching over him. And he's been through too damn much to fall apart like that. He hears his father's voice echoing distantly in his head, telling him to man up, he's a soldier, and he swallows, opening and closing his grasp before croaking "...Thanks, Cas."
The angel nods and offers a small "of course," his attention briefly switching to the hand that had been outstretched and was now draped across his lap. He closes his palm, the pads of his fingers dancing in his fist as he pulls his arm away and straightens up his posture a little. Then his gaze wanders to Dean's hand still gripping his lapel, and, swallowing down the equally cold and hot sensation of worry, he dares to ask, "Dean. Would... you like for me to – stay until you fall asleep?"
Dean very nearly whimpers. He squeezes his eyes shut and nods rapidly, gulping and, with his hand still holding Cas by the coat, he practically throws himself to lie back down. Next to the angel.
RIGHT next to him.
Dean holds his breath as his eyebrows pinch together.
Castiel blinks rapidly then returns the nod once, carefully placing his hands to either side of his body and easing himself down the bed the best he can without obstructing Dean's grip. His body as rigid as ever, his head on the other hand loosely falls to the vacant pillow beneath him, lifting and dropping in small increments as he settles down to look at Dean. Distantly, he wonders if he should avert his gaze if that would help him feel more comfortable. But he's silent once again, waiting patiently.
Dean's lashes flutter, glint of his eyes visible as mere slits, crinkled at the edges. His heart is pounding, feels like it's beating in his throat as, at the sight and shift of Cas's body - so stiff and still but so close - right HERE.
He's here.
Dean licks his lips and parts them in an unintended almost groan. He shuffles himself, rolls his head, and his hair barely brushes the shoulder of the trenchcoat as he sighs and settles as best he can.
Castiel draws in a breath he doesn't need and holds it, gaze flicking across Dean's form. He sighs through his nose as he turns his head, lasering in on a spot on the ceiling, the anxious hum of the room beginning to lull to the quiet harmony of their breathing. He may be awkwardly resting atop the bedsheets, legs as straight as an arrow, but he would be lying if it isn't gratifying to sense a bit of ease settling in his companion.
Dean sighs, heavy. He peeks up, even as his eyes blink long and longer, tilting his head back to look at Cas. "Hey," his tone is scratchy but also gentle as he slowly relinquishes Cas's coat to reach and pat his side once, twice. His lips quirk up even as he works to ensure they don't tremble. "You c'n relax, y'know." For as long as you're gonna stay here. He's going to fall asleep soon and maybe that'll make it easier.
Cas's eyes zigzag southward as his brows draw together, his heart hammering for a split second. "I am," he insists. But really, how can he be relaxed? What can he make of this?
Dean huffs and rolls his eyes. "Really. Because the uh -" lifting his hand and twirling his index finger in the direction of Cas's stiff legs. "Look under the boardwalk says otherwise."
Boardwalk...? The angel squints down at his legs, wiggling his feet for good measure, and he puffs out a small sound that might be a laugh when he realizes he is also still wearing his shoes. "Ah." A tiny smile dawns on his face. "I appreciate the thought, Dean, but you need to sleep, I don't."
Dean sighs. Feels a ridiculous desire to start humming. Under the boardwalk, out of the sun... "Yeah no shit, Cas," he says instead. "But you can take your shoes off at least. Or somethin'. C'mon." He feels uneasy, a prickling sensation travels around his head. He's not sleeping, he's leaving, he's not gonna take off his shoes -
"If that helps," the angel starts, punctuating with a bit of a struggle in kicking off his shoes. Normal occasions would have him sitting up to remove them by hand, but the last thing he wanted to do was move from Dean's side...... why was that exactly?
"Does that suffice?" he offers with his usual gravel subdued by the whispered tone, rolling his head to face Dean again.
Dean chuckles a bit, wanting to roll his eyes again. He rolls his head side to side fondly, the feeling making something in his chest lurch. He's...so fond of Cas, he realizes, no matter how much of a girl that would make him seem if he was to say it aloud. It's just - erupted after everything he's done. How he broke free from the clutches of bible camp. How he tried so damn hard to get Dean to Sam. How he said to Chuck - hell, they may not be a part of the story but nonetheless they're still here.
We're making it up as we go.
"Better," Dean speaks now. "I'd get ya to lose the trench too, but heh. Baby steps."
The genuine question of why not travels through the angel's thoughts, and his brows raise just barely as he earnestly supplies, "Keeping it on isn't a necessity. I could, if that would—"
What? Dean wants to ask. What would it do, except - they'd be closer, there'd be less of a barrier between them. What the hell is he thinking like thAT for? His heart is pounding. He licks his lips, eyes flickering as he bites the bullet and asks "What, Cas?"
At this, Castiel's browline twitches in confusion. "My coat," he explains, a bit cautious now. His eyes fall to his attire. "I'll assume it's a bit aberrant for me to still be wearing it. It might cause you discomfort while you sleep."
"Me?" Dean's brows go up. "Ah, Cas -" sweet sonofabitch. The word pops into his head and he can't stop it, coating his tongue like honey might, but he swallows and says "...I don't - care about that, man. I just want you to -" stay. "Be comfortable too. Enough, at least. Since uh, you don't sleep." That's also gotta be a ten-dollar word. Aberrant. Dean doesn't think he has ever heard it. Sammy probably would in one'a his college papers, but. Cas is a regular thesaurus. Who else would say something like that instead of, Dean doesn't know, annoying?
Dean wants – him... to be comfortable? That's... new.
That isn't to say his brothers and sisters haven't been courteous before, but one might say the extent of their compassion is limited to... business partners. And why should it go beyond that? Angels do not need to sleep, and there is so much to do. Granted, he supposes, if an angel wanted, they could. Probably. He's never tried. But since when does an angel have free time?
So... what would this be considered then? Uriel might call it a waste of time. Castiel might call it—
He sits up, eyes warily passing to Dean for a moment. Right. Be... comfortable. He could do that.
I just thought I'd... sit here quietly.
He shrugs off a sleeve and tugs on it, following suit with the other side. All the while, he couldn't help but think... when was the last time he ever slowed down like this...? It almost made him feel—... No, nauseous isn't the word. It's something... between uneasy and...
He folds up the coat and lays it in his lap, looking to Dean, eyes wide. Was this good, his expression silently wonders.
Dean shifts to the side a little as he feels Cas begin to move, shrugging off his outer coat. A sort of skipping sensation fills his chest with ...warmth as the angel folds his trenchcoat awkwardly in his lap. "There ya go, buddy," Dean encourages. Something hits him, occurring to him, and he throws his legs out of bed as he adds "Get rid 'a that suit too," an offer that exits his lips and makes him move to his duffel before he thinks too much about it. Just has to focus on the task at hand.
And right now it's getting Cas comfortable. He can hang up that coat, his shirt and slacks - toss the tie over a chair or whatever. Dean tugs out his old Deep Purple shirt, soft and a dark rich color, grape or eggplant or something.
He turns and offers the shirt, arm extended. Ain't no big thing, except it is, and Dean feels his heart beating in his fingertips. "Here, Cas," he offers, willing his voice not to crack. Even if he's not gonna sleep, he should be able to relax, right? Angels can do that.
Or at least, he has hope for this one.
Setting aside his trenchcoat on the bed, Castiel— having risen to his feet a few moments after Dean— with a bit of hesitation intermingled with confusion, works at his tie and manages to partially remove it before Dean's extended arm catches his attention. He blinks at the shirt and then at Dean's face, which is slightly ducked, and he takes the garment with his free hand. His eyes pass between the fabric, his own clothing, and then a doorway a bit beyond the hunter. Something seems to ripple in his chest, a sort of trilling sensation, and he's suddenly very aware of where they are and the human practices of which he should remember.
Squeezing the shirt and nodding once with a low thanks and a softer pardon, he strides past the bed, past Dean, and into the bathroom, which closes with the tiniest of clicks.
Inside, the angel is frozen, staring down at the shirt, both hands holding it now. He studies it so closely that his gaze begins to drift to a random spot on the floor without his knowledge as his thoughts begin to scramble. Was this – one of Dean's shirts? Was he even allowed to— Surely. Dean offered it to him.
Here, Cas.
Subconsciously, he holds the shirt close to himself. Why did Dean's familiarity in behavior delight him?
Dean feels himself tense, his shoulders jerk even at the quiet click of the door. Even as it's as if a cool rush cascades across his arms and legs, spreading from his neck and shoulders to extend to the rest of his body. Save for his face, which currently burns, and that shoulder that feels like it's being pierced by bolts of lightning as he moves. He's very aware, suddenly, of his own state of half-dress, shirt still stuck to his chest and back with sweat, and he hadn't taken off his own jeans, so he shucks them and down they go as he leans over to snag a black shirt - AC/DC. Tugs it over his head just as the bathroom door reopens.
Castiel steps out, barefooted, his folded suit in one arm as he uses his other hand to steady his socks on top. He has donned the Deep Purple shirt and wears plain faded gray boxers, and his hair is just slightly out of place from removing his dress shirt. Eyes still fixated on the stubborn clothes for a few seconds, he grumbles, "This was unexpected," more to himself than Dean, who he finally makes eye contact with. Then, holding his arms out a little, so as not to drop his clothes— unfortunately, his tie does tease him by falling on the floor— he starts, "Is this–... I — hope this is to your liking." He squints in that way that is oh-so-familiar to Dean, with a hint of incredulity in the expression. "Although, you really should get some rest, Dean." He steps further into the room, snagging his tie up on the way and chopping his clothes with an arm to keep the bundle pressed as he goes to settle them in a chair. "I almost feel like you're stalling."
Dean gulps heavily at the sight of Cas. He hauls in a breath and has to lick his lips and focus before responding. That look and the way Cas asked if this was to his LIKING - and even...the hair, the way he holds his suit, folded so careful, socks and tie balanced precariously - the latter in particular as it slithers onto the floor.
Dean nods in response to Cas's hope, a wrenching sound exiting his throat before he ducks and grabs the tie, scoffing as best he can "I'm not stalling -" as he stands up, right in front of Cas in his shirt and those boxers. Nothing but his arm holding folded clothes is between them.
Dean feels his heart pounding, and not just in his chest or fingertips this time. He clenches his mouth closed, jaw jumping, and holds Cas's gaze as he holds the tie without saying another word. He's counting seconds, can't help himself.
One, two…
Move, Dean, move or you'll do something -
Something you're gonna regret.
"...You're not in bed either," Cas points out simply, voice quiet, almost reserved rather than the nearly biting tone it had been a second prior. But he too doesn't move, eyes traveling to Dean's new shirt, and— He squints as his gaze falls southward. Did he change his clothes too…?
Dean nearly wriggles under that intent gaze. It's - making him feel... hot, like his skin is burning, even though all Cas is doing is looking in that way he does. There's nothing overtly...anything about it except pure curiosity, and yet Dean aches. Cas's voice is so quiet, he can so easily imagine ...no, stop. Just - get back in bed.
Swallowing again and cocking an eyebrow with, in this moment, absolutely false bravado, Dean returns "So are you gonna make me get in bed, Cas?"
The mild-natured and curious countenance Castiel wore fades into one that is serious, stern as fierce blue snaps to find green— It's an expression that screams 'are you testing me?' Cas tilts his head to the side and upwards just a little, brow taut as he says in a low gravel, "If I need to," the edge of the sentence laced with something unspoken. A warning. "Dean, you require sleep. This isn't a debate."
Dean's eyes widen and his lips part in the smallest circle as he holds his breath. He has to, because otherwise he would expel the most undignified whine - and it wouldn't be one of dissent, he knows himself well enough. He jerks his head and whirls around, any jaunty iterations of 'well go ahead' or 'like to see you try' thrown from his mind and scattered to the wind as he throbs.
"...Oh -okay, Cas," he very nearly squeaks, voice barely a breath. Near-silent "geez" is expelled subsequent as he practically throws himself face-first into the pillows and mattress - for his own sake.
Cas's browline twitches in bemusement as he stares at Dean's form, then moves away from the chair and strides to the other side of the bed. He hovers there for a while, and, figuring Dean might protest if he stands there too long, he eventually sits and lays back down the way he had been previously... though he does fidget with his feet a little, feeling a bit odd in his new attire. He probably shouldn't get under the covers either— that's Dean's space after all. Regardless, as he crosses his fingers over his midsection, he's... surprisingly more content than he had been before.
Dean groans, arms going around his pillow as he twitches and buries himself into the blankets. He tries to stay as still as possible because if not there could be an issue...but feeling Cas stretching out beside him again as well as the sensation of the angel's legs shaking slightly - even if he doesn't feel cold, his body obviously does - Dean grunts, flings his arm to tug on the blankets, and says "here, c'mon, get warm" a mutter half-buried in the pillow because if he turns to directly gaze at the angel right now, well. His body tells him that wouldn't be the best idea.
He feels slick cloth tangled around fingers and lifts his other hand to spy Cas's tie. He's still holding on to it. What the hell? Dean's brows wrinkle and with his lips jerking and pursing briefly he bends his arm at the elbow before launching the tie towards the ever-present hotel table and swearing.
Castiel, at Dean's insistence to fret over his own well-being instead of focusing on falling asleep, shoots daggers at the back of Dean's head. He has half a mind to hurry things along, touch the hunter's forehead and have him fall asleep that way. But part of him feels that might result in another bout of nightmares if Dean were to suddenly plummet into unconsciousness like that.
Begrudgingly, he does get under the covers, though there is no class or method to this, just desultory movements fueled by impatience. When he ultimately settles, he turns his head to face Dean, opens his mouth to encourage him to try to sleep, please... but he doesn't. Instead, he turns away again, staring back up at the ceiling. And after a minute of this, he closes his eyes. Perhaps playing the part would help put Dean's mind at ease as well.
Dean wiggles in the puddled pile of blankets and, once he hears Cas get under the covers he pulls at one to get underneath as well. He still throbs but tries to breathe away the shifts and all the - feelings. And then as he hears the settling of the other's breaths, feeling the assurance that yes, okay, he's here, Dean relaxes.
With a sound, as his eyes start to drift closed because in spite of his actions he's tired as hell, Dean flops one arm across Cas, holding his breath as it lands and then curling his hand to nearly hold the angel's side.
All the while he can't stop thinking, because he can't help where his head goes, especially after Sam -
Please, Cas. Don't leave me.
Castiel does all in his power not to draw in a sharp breath when Dean's arm falls over him, but the faint feeling of tingles across both of his own arms— as far up to his shoulders and down also to his wrists— signals that it did in fact affect him. Not that the hunter would notice, the angel notes, not moving an inch— save for his eyes peeking open and sneaking a glance in Dean's direction as the other's breathing begins to slow while the minutes tick on.
The still yet cool air of the room needles at his face in the dark, reminding him of how surprisingly desolate a hotel room feels in spite of its many visitors. Yet it does nothing to halt the warmth he feels in the core of his chest. Is this...
After several second guesses, Cas lifts the hand furthest from Dean, ghosting his fingers across the other's forearm before daring to rest his hand. He heaves a big sigh, for what reason he doesn't know.
...Having fallen, is this truly– so awful…?