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Dean wakes to the sound of shuffling feet and creaking drawers. With a groan, he throws back the covers and rolls out of bed. He doesn't have to check his watch to know that it's stupidly late; he can hardly see a thing and his legs feel like jelly as he moves about the room, throwing on a loose sweater before heading downstairs.
He finds Cas sitting at the kitchen table, nursing an empty mug. His blue eyes are heavy with bags as he stares down at his hands, rocking back and forth slowly. It's no surprise that he doesn't notice Dean slipping into the seat beside him; he's too busy counting the specks of dirt beneath his nails to mind his surroundings.
Dean doesn't speak for a few moments. He props his elbows up on the table, leans his head on his hands, and waits. If Cas wants to speak, he'll do it in his own time.
After ten minutes or so of absolute silence, Cas scrapes back his chair and hobbles over to the cupboards again. Dean muffles a yawn with the back of his sleeve and watches his roommate sort through packets of noodles and old jars of spice.
The rumbling of the kettle snaps him back from a state of semi-consciousness. There's a mug of coffee waiting for him, a cloud of steam blinking the sleep from his eyes. Cas has put it in his favourite cup: the one that says 'I'm Batman' across the side.
Dean grins sleepily when Cas glances over his shoulder and waves. He looks adorable in Dean's dressing gown, dark hair all mussed and sticking up in places. Cas is always stealing his clothes and wearing them late at night; he says that the smell of Dean is like a small comfort when he can't sleep. He never knows whether to be concerned or flattered when Cas speaks to him like that, as if he's some kind of godsend or something.
He can smell the honey wafting from the mug as soon as it reaches his lips; ever since Cas discovered that bee hive out back, he's been dumping the stuff in anything he can find. The taste isn't bad, either – just different. Plus, the pleased little smile that graces Cas' face makes the extra sweetness more than worth it.
When Dean feels his eyelids beginning to droop again, he beckons Cas over to the table. He doesn't want to fall asleep before making sure that his friend is okay, that he feels safe.
Cas plops into the seat opposite him, sipping contentedly at the honey-coffee in his hands. You wouldn't suspect that the guy hadn't slept properly in over a month; he seems perfectly fine, other than the bruise-like smudges beneath his eyes.
Dean takes his hand silently, pulling Cas' body back against his chest. He can feel his heart beating against skin and bone, nervous excitement fluttering inside him like a schoolboy. He's done this countless times already – coaxed Cas into sleep with his mere touch – but he still can't seem to stop his breath from stuttering.
Well, the man he's been in love with since puberty is currently nuzzling into his shoulder like a damn cat, so excuse him for being a little out of it.
Cas' breathing slows down fairly quickly, warm puffs of air blowing against Dean's collarbone. He buries his face in soft curls of dark hair and smiles. Cas has always smelt like vanilla, ever since they were just kids camping out in Dean's living room. The simple aroma is something that frequents his dreams all too often.
Gentle fingers pry at the buttons of his jeans subconsciously. Cas doesn't mean it in any kind of way, but the feather light touch is enough to make him semi-hard in his pants. He wants more than anything to lay back and let Cas do his work, to pull him out of his boxers and run his sweat-slick palm against his growing erection. But Dean cares about his friend far too much to let him do something like that unknowingly.
With a sigh, he hoists Cas out of the chair and slings him over his shoulder. Cas would probably be pissed if he was awake; he hates it when people presume he's as weak as he looks, when actually, the guy can throw a finer punch than he and Sammy combined.
He places Cas gently over the covers of his bed, careful not to wake him. Cas doesn't like being under the blankets; it makes him feel too confined, which Dean can kind of understand.
For a moment, he allows himself to observe. Cas looks gorgeous lying there, cheeks rosy and hands scrunched tight by his chin. His feet twitch like a puppy dreaming of chasing a cat and Dean grins, completely lost in the beauty of this man before him. He can't remember when things got so bad that he started resorting to things like this, but he knows that it aches like crazy. Someday, he'll have to call it a day and leave, accept that Cas will never feel the same way and find someone who can love him back.
But for now, he watches the steady rise and fall of Cas' chest and smiles, thankful to have known the guy as a friend, at least.
When he gets up to leave, a finger slips into the loop of his jeans and pulls him back. Cas is watching him with wide, blue eyes, bottom lip protruding slightly. The bastard was never asleep and Dean curses himself for falling for such a trick – again.
"Cas, man. Go to sleep."
Cas shakes his head defiantly and tugs at Dean's jeans, lurching him forward onto the bed. He braces himself over Cas' body with two hands on either side of his head. Maybe he should protest, or argue, but Cas is looking up at him with such hopefulness that he can't resist rolling over beside him.
He finds it fitting that their sleeping positions coincide, with Cas on the left and Dean on the right. It's almost as if they were always meant to share a bed together, because they just fit – like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
"Stay with me," Cas shuffles closer, curling into his side like a magnet "Please, Dean. I can't sleep without you here…"
Dean swallows the lump in his throat and loops and arm around Cas' waist. His body is warm and firm against his side, and the sheets smell like vanilla and honey.
"Course I will, Cas. I'll stay with you."
He can feel the smile against his shoulder, the soft curve of lips sliding against his skin. His fingers curl gently around Cas' arms – a reminder that he's still there. Cas seems to appreciate the sentiment as he nuzzles deeper into Dean's armpit, breathing in the heavy scent of aftershave and pinewood (well, that's what Cas says he smells like, anyway).
"I'll always stay."
When Cas' breaths have evened out, Dean presses a kiss to his forehead. Cas' skin is clammy and tastes faintly of salt, but Dean savours the sensation tingling against his tongue all the same. He wants to surround himself in honey and salt and vanilla and coffee; he want to surround himself in Cas, forever and ever.
He finally drifts off with Cas in his arms, grip never loosening around his wrist. And when a pair of soft, dry lips brush against his skin, he simply smiles, completely unaware of how much his dreams are actually a reality.