Archive of Our Own

Overall, it had been a forgettable Sunday, the night it happened. They had eaten dinner, cleared the table, scrubbed the dishes, and crawled into bed, thoroughly exhausted by the events of the week. It was the kind of early winter evening in which the sky seemed to gasp out a kaleidoscope of color like a dying man’s last breath. It was the kind of stealthy midnight that invited moonlight in through iridescent, wind-caressed curtains, tentative moonlight which made itself comfortable in the foothills and valleys of a soft carpet, and hid bashfully behind the skirts of a queen-sized bed. The rounded edge of a blanket reached down to touch upon the moon soaked carpet, forming a makeshift ladder that would make any giant’s beanstalk proud. Up above, a lone foot could be seen peeking out from beneath the sheets, with a slight clench in the toes to ward off the cool air filtering underneath.

Moving upwards still, lines became blurred between the two bodies curled under the covers. Toes pressed into calves, thighs overlapped thighs, arms encircled waists. Soft fingertips pressed into the smooth, exposed skin of hipbones.

It was a forgettable Sunday. Forgettable, and perfectly so, until one of the bodies beneath the covers stirred with the arrival of a brisk wind through the open window.

Drawn from alluring dreams that whispered stories of his bedmate, Castiel sat up in bed, toed his navy, cotton slippers on, and dragged himself over to the window. Stretching up into a back-cracking yawn, Castiel looked out onto the street below. Warm, yellow light seemed to pour out from streetlamps into the cracks of empty roads and sidewalks, and Castiel was reminded of a bedtime story his mother once told him of a small boy accused of withholding the truth, and a town flooded with molasses. Silently shaking his head at his musings, Castiel quickly closed the window. But even with the window shut, he still felt a type of cold beneath his skin, a cold that he knew wasn’t going to be satisfied by simple blankets.

So instead of going back to bed, Castiel padded downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of hot chocolate. Goose-bump riddled arms wrapped tightly about himself, Castiel filled a teapot and put it on the stove to boil. He stood there in the moonlit kitchen, frustrated with himself and his inability to sleep. He had work in the morning, after all. But somehow, it just didn’t feel right to go back to bed just yet.

Castiel felt an uncomfortable itch, like he had forgotten something, but that was ridiculous considering the late hour and the fact that he was at home, surrounded by his belongings. He found himself randomly reminded of the younger Winchester in that moment. Sam was always forgetting things-- his car keys, his phone, even his height when he walked through doorways at the new house sometimes. That specific thought made Castiel affectionately smile, despite his shivering on the cold linoleum floor. It amazed and humbled Castiel, how quickly Sam Winchester had become like a best friend and brother to him. It made Castiel remember the last time he had seen Sam: during last week’s barbeque night in their backyard. Castiel had gone inside the house to grab some more aluminum foil for the grill, and Sam had followed him, in his slightly tipsy, gangly way.

“I can’t thank you enough, you know?”

“For what, Sam?” Castiel had been bewildered. He couldn’t think of a single thing Sam had to thank him for that he couldn’t thank Sam for as well.

“You make him so happy, man. I never used to see him like this.”

And then Sam Winchester, tongue loosened by one too many beers and easy conversation, had said those words that Castiel could still feel throbbing deep in his veins, even while waiting for the water to boil.

“He loves you. I think you should know that.”

Just then, Castiel was effectively transported from that sunny afternoon with Sam and back into his white-washed kitchen when two blanket covered arms encased him from behind.

“Didn’t you know a watched pot never boils, Cas?” Dean’s sleep rough voice tickled Castiel’s ear as he hooked his chin over the shorter man’s shoulder.

Castiel shivered and moved back to lean into Dean’s embrace, turning his head to meet Dean’s teasing smile. “You think you’re so clever,” Castiel grumbled against Dean’s cheek, his heart beating double-time.

“Well, yeah,” Dean said cheekily, but his eyes betrayed the effect of the early hour. “Why are you awake?”

Looking into the eyes of his boyfriend of almost three years, Castiel honestly could not answer, for even he didn’t know what was disrupting his sleep. These midnight bursts of restlessness had been occurring continuously for the past week--in fact, ever since Castiel’s conversation with Sam during barbeque night. Something had crept beneath Castiel’s skin, making it hard for him to find comfort next to Dean in bed, and this was a problem, because getting to come home and slip under the covers with Dean every night was the best part of Castiel’s day. The lack of sleep wasn’t helping him sort through his thoughts, either, and Castiel was growing irritated with himself. His relationship with Dean was the easiest thing in his life until now, so what was Castiel missing?

“Cas?” Dean’s eyebrows were now furrowed with increasing worry, and Castiel realized that he was still waiting for an answer.

“I’m sorry, Dean. The bedroom window was open upstairs and the breeze woke me.” The tall, freckled man standing behind Castiel was truly the only person it felt okay for him to be vulnerable with, and it was because of this that made Castiel turn fully into his arms and whisper plaintively to his collarbone: “I can’t sleep,” and still feel powerful enough to lead an entire marketing firm in the morning.

Dean pulled back slightly. “It’s alright, Cas, I’ll stay awake with you.”

Castiel’s protests were smothered by the whistle of the teapot and Dean pulling away to rifle through the cupboards for hot chocolate packets. Accepting defeat, Castiel watched as Dean’s wide, capable hands prepared two hot chocolates in Castiel’s favorite red chipped mugs. With the mugs scooped into one hand and the corner of a bag of cookies between his teeth, Dean placed his free hand on Castiel’s shoulder and steered him onto the couch in the darkened living room.

Once each of them had a mug in hand (and cookies wedged between them for easy access), Dean curled into Castiel’s side, pulled the blanket hanging over the nearest armrest over their laps, and dropped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel blew across the hot surface of his mug and felt the itch beneath his skin take a backseat.

Three infomercials and a rerun of Dr. Sexy later, Castiel leaned to place his empty cup on their coffee table and turned to press his lips against Dean’s neck. “Thank you, Dean.”

In response, Dean simply began to run his fingers through the softly curling hairs at the back of Castiel’s neck, and Castiel suddenly felt that itch flare back to life. What could be wrong, here in Dean’s arms?

Lost in his thoughts, Castiel didn’t realize another episode of Dr. Sexy had come and gone until the credits were suddenly rolling onto the screen. He felt Dean shuffle against him and yawn, retracting his arm from around Castiel to gather their mugs and the cookie bag and take them into the kitchen. Castiel stayed put on the couch, eyes transfixed to the flickering light of the television, feeling weighed down by the unsettled feeling that had curled up behind his rib cage. It was thick and cloying, like molasses, Castiel thought. His eyelids were heavy with exhaustion…and yet, he couldn’t rest them, not until this intruder in his heart took leave.

Castiel heard the dishes clatter in the sink, and then Dean was walking back into the living room with purposeful strides, all the way until he was standing in front of Castiel’s knees.

“Alright, Cas, up you go.” Grabbing onto the loose sleeves of Castiel’s robe, Dean was suddenly quite forcefully pulling Castiel to his feet.

“Dean, what--”

“There’s only one way to beat your little spell of insomnia, Cas. Do you trust me?” Moonlight enhanced green eyes staring imploringly into his own, Castiel could do nothing but nod. Dean’s warm, callused palm slipping to the small of Castiel’s back certainly didn’t hinder his decision, either.

Using his other hand, Dean guided Castiel’s right hand to his shoulder, and intertwined the fingers of their remaining hands together, simultaneously pulling Castiel closer into his warm embrace with the hand in the dip of his back.

And then…Dean began to sing. Softly into the skin beneath Castiel’s ear, like he was afraid of startling Castiel. And oh, how Dean could sing, in his sweet, gruff tenor. Castiel felt a shiver run down his body, and could do nothing but hold on to Dean as they swayed in a tight circle on their worn living room carpet.

If asked even the next day, Castiel would not have been able to tell what Dean sang that night. The luminous light from the infomercials unraveled between their knees as he blindly followed Dean’s lead, creating a dreamlike sensation of buoyancy, lifted into the air on the sound of Dean’s cresting high notes and smoldering undertones.

To keep from floating away, Castiel removed his hand from Dean’s to wrap both arms around the taller man’s shoulders, tightening his hold. Still swaying to the caressing notes of Dean’s song, Castiel pressed his nose into Dean’s soft t-shirt collar.

There, fully immersed in Dean’s presence, Castiel begins to see so clearly--a life unfolds in front of him, a story in pieces, as if someone were flipping through a photo album that only Castiel could see. Their backyard, the trees hung with strings of fairy lights and flowers…with Dean standing at the far end of an aisle, beneath an arch of roses…a day at the beach, and a little girl in purple, knee deep in the ocean waves, her curly brown hair swept in the wind…but before Castiel can see her face the page turns…and it’s the front seat of the impala with the windows down, Dean tapping his hands on the steering wheel to some unheard beat, the sun lighting up graying hairs at his temple, but most importantly his wide smile…it’s windy days, it’s rainy days, it’s them entangled on a mattress with Dean whispering yours, Cas, always yours into the pale skin of Castiel’s inner thigh…and it’s even nights spent sleeping on Sam’s couch, praying for forgiveness until Dean shows up at 2 a.m. with an extra pillow and answers Castiel’s apologies with budge over, I’m not gonna sleep without you.

And just like that, it’s gone, and Castiel is still holding onto a sleepily humming Dean, who is starting to lean heavily against him. And the images were imperfect, but they were all theirs, and Castiel wants more than he ever has for something in his life.

And there’s that intruder again that’s taken up tenancy in his heart, and this time it’s knock-knocking behind his ribs to the tune of Dean’s waning song. But Castiel is certain now he knows what is missing. Three years of being with Dean, and now Castiel wants a lifetime, and it’s not enough to hear it second hand from Dean’s younger brother.

So, cupping Dean’s face in his two palms, Castiel lifts until their eyes meet, and his heart is beating fast, faster.

“I love you, Dean.”

Instantly, the late hour is cleared from Dean’s gaze, and he pushes forward to kiss Castiel fully on the mouth.

“I love you, too, Cas.”

With those five words, the knocking behind Castiel’s ribs is silenced. Dean says those three coveted words with an easy grace, like loving Castiel is only secondary to breathing.

For the first time in weeks, Castiel feels warm inside.

And that Sunday night, they fall back into bed and curl into each other.

Castiel sleeps.