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How do you take care of a lovesick angel?
Well, if you water it twice a day and don’t feed it after midnight, usually you’d be trucking just fine.
But apparently, Castiel, the angel with a screw loose somewhere in that confused head of his, couldn’t understand the concept of cold. He’d harassed Dean to the point of insanity, complaining about the “chilling sensations” and “numbing pins and needles” crawling up his legs when he refused to wear socks around the bunker.
Tonight, Castiel woke slowly to the rattling of faulty heating pipes and groaning space heaters Sam purchased recently. There was no snow outside, but a metallic tang in the air left a weird taste in his mouth.
He wore simple mortal clothing: a white shirt, pajama pants, and nothing else. His socks lay draped in an orderly stack at the edge of his nightstand. He flicked the lamp on, a soft golden glow coating the room.
Castiel squinted, eyes tracking the outline of the door.
I’m cold, he thought. And almost insistently, his angel-brain went into overdrive. It couldn’t determine if he was currently dying or drowning. Small plumes of mist floated from his shallow breaths.
Eyes scanning, he found himself breathing heavy, padding barefoot to the door and into the dimly lit hallways.
Straight to Dean’s room.
Of course, he couldn’t bother Sam. No, he’d never hear the end of it— his glares would haunt his memory, his eyes burning into the back of his head. If he even admitted for a second that he enjoyed someone else’s company in bed rather than sleeping alone, he’d be shunned, scolded, and friend-zoned horribly.
Dean said friend-zoning is bad.
So, rationality and sanity kicked into high gear, guiding his body towards the hunter’s room. The door cracked a sliver of an inch—just enough for Cas’ eye to poke through and survey the land before entering.
He treated Dean’s room like a den, a cave, maybe.
Whatever lies inside is his and his only, and what he witnesses goes under “Fightclub Rules” until he leaves.
Inside, Dean was rolled onto his side, snoring softly with the sheets pulled taut. Wrapped around his body like some twisted burrito.
Castiel didn’t knock or announce his presence, he simply walked in. The door hinges squeak faintly in his wake. He was sure the screeee would wake him— but alas, he sleeps like a tranquilized bear most nights (of what he could observe before he was caught in the act).
He shuffled to Dean’s bedside, gently slipping himself under the sheets and curling up. The hunter still didn’t move, so Castiel, bless his soul— scooted closer. A mild temptation that turned into a contest of wit and skill.
He no longer felt the need for warmth (though that was very much on the table), but an agonizing desire to be as close as possible to Dean.
Their bodies were mere inches apart, Cas’ eyes fluttering shut as the last muscle relaxed into position like a well-coordinated attack.
His head rested between the nook of Dean’s neck and shoulder, nuzzling so he could take in the scents of his hair and musk. Whiskey and motel soap.
Dean suddenly stiffened from underneath the angel’s embrace.
He could feel his heart pattering, fluttering, and eventually galloping, to consciousness.
Brows higher than his hairline, Dean’s cheeks burned. Eyes as wide as saucer plates, jaw tighter than a stripped screw.
“Uh… Cas?” He choked between gasps, “What’re… whatcha doing?” He said tightly, shifting his weight so that his neck craned enough to see the angel’s slit for eyes.
The damn bastard’s falling asleep on me. Like THIS.
He was pretty sure between Castiel’s murmuring excuse for a reply and scooting closer, he’d tangled his leg with his. Their bodies melded together by sheer will alone.
Dean fancied the idea of wishing the hellhounds would’ve ended it sooner.
“Cas?” Dean managed, “Why’re you… in here?” The words broke between the constants, half-formed and flustered.
“I’m cold,” Castiel replied bluntly, nuzzling closer.
“He’s cold, of course he’s cold,” Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. He adjusted his posture so that Cas was no longer elbowing him in the ribs and digging his feathery ass into his spleen. It would’ve looked like a horrible excuse for spooning— but it’s safe to say the angel hadn’t had any former relationship experience or physical contact in general.
“Are you going to stay like this or should I prepare to not be able to shit for a week?” Dean asked.
“I will stay,” Cas replied, “you are… are…” he trailed off, head nodding until it completely fell limp against his chest.
Dean felt his traitorous lip quirk up at the corners. “Dammit,” he grumbled. And reluctantly began carding his hand through the pitiful angel's air. Cas’ fingers grip progressively possessively around Dean’s sheets and arm.
Dean decided not to exile him, but let him have his moment of valor and comfort.
After all, he earned it.
My little angel, Dean thought before his eyelids became too heavy to bear. And they both fell asleep peacefully.