Chapter Text
“Why the fuck aren’t the dishes done??”
Dean hadn’t even heard Arthur come home, too out of it on the couch, existing in a fugue state thanks to his post-op fatigue. His surgeon had warned him that he’d be tired a lot after the surgery, but she’d failed to mention that it would be an all-encompassing exhaustion that would leave him unable to do even basic tasks – even now, more than a week past his surgery. He’s still healing, he knows this, but nonetheless it rankles him to be so useless. Apparently Arthur feels the same way.
Sorry – ‘Ketch’. Dean keeps forgetting that his not-quite-boyfriend recently decided he’d rather go by his last name instead of his first. Dean’s not one hundred percent sure, but he thinks it stems from a kid they’d met recently equating the name with the titular character of a kids’ show. Whatever the reasoning, he gets pissed when Dean calls him ‘Arthur’ now. It seems he gets pissed over a lot of things, lately.
Carefully hauling himself up from the couch (he’s still terrified of tearing his stitches), Dean walks into the kitchen to face Ketch’s wrath. He’s honestly so over it, but he’s stuck here for at least a few more weeks while he heals. He can’t lift his arms, needs to avoid using his pectoral muscles, and is therefore incapable of doing almost every basic task – including self care. He’s not keen to go a month without washing his hair, so Ketch’s place it is.
“What have you been doing all day?” Ketch asks in his pompous British accent the moment he spies Dean. “Laying about doing nothing? You know I can’t do everything by myself, while also taking care of you. You need to pitch in, here.”
“And do what, exactly? I’m like a goddamn penguin here, unable to move half of my arms. I can’t even put a fucking t-shirt on by myself!” Dean shouts, tugging at the front of the shirt Ketch had helped him put on that morning, insisting Dean get properly dressed. “I’ve swept the floors, I’ve picked up the clothes you leave lying around, and need I remind you that this isn’t my apartment? I don’t live here!”
Dean hates when people yell, and hates being the one doing the yelling even more. His frustration with his own inability, however, seems to have overwhelmed him as soon as Ketch started in. His emotions are out of control, and he can’t seem to rein them back in. Breathing hard, he glares at Ketch’s impassive face.
“You’re right,” Ketch tells him, voice gone cold. “You don’t live here. I’d like you to leave first thing tomorrow morning.” He folds his arms in front of his chest, expression hard.
Dean seethes, unable to see straight through the red haze clouding his vision. Stomping to the door, he shoves his feet into his sneakers, flattening the backs with his heels so that he doesn’t have to struggle to get them on. He pulls his leather jacket down from a peg with some difficulty, and doesn’t bother putting it on properly, just throws it over his shoulders.
“I’ll do you one better,” Dean tells a perplexed-looking Ketch. “I’m getting the fuck out of here right now. I don’t know why I ever thought you would be a good caretaker. You’ve been nothing but resentful the whole time.”
“You won’t go,” Ketch says, as he settles back on one heel, arms still crossed, all smug and sure of himself. “You have no one else to go to.”
“Maybe not, but it’s better than staying with you,” Dean shoots back. “In fact, I think that goes for our relationship, too. Consider us done.” With a yank that pulls painfully at his incisions, Dean opens the door and stomps out. He can hear Ketch yell his name, hear his footsteps behind him, but Dean keeps going and doesn’t look back.
“Dean, love, come on, you can’t be serious,” Ketch says as he catches up with Dean. “Just come back to the flat, we can talk about this.” He keeps pace with Dean as they descend the stairs, opening a side door that lets them out into the lavishly decorated lobby. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to touch Dean – it would probably hurt like hell to throw a punch right now.
Dean ignores Ketch’s pleas as he beelines for the etched-glass outer doors. What the fuck was he even thinking getting with someone who can afford a place like this? Dean isn’t posh, he barely makes a living as a mechanic, and is nowhere near being in the same sphere as Ketch. The relationship was doomed to fail from the beginning.
“Darling, please, come back upstairs,” Ketch tries one more time as they reach the heavy doors that lead outside.
Through them, Dean can see that it’s pouring rain. It’s the height of summer, so at least he shouldn’t freeze to death on the way home. With a deep breath, he shoulders his way through the exit.
Ketch doesn’t follow.
This has been a long time coming, if Dean’s being honest with himself. The two of them were never more than a situationship at best, and they fought almost as much as they fucked. It’s not even the first time Ketch has kicked him out unceremoniously. Dean’s left in the wee hours of the morning more than once after a particularly bad argument.
With Sam out in California, Dean just couldn’t think of anyone better to help him after his operation. His first thought had been Cas, but Dean’s completely gone on the guy. He would have been humiliated having Cas see him like that, having Cas help him bathe and keep his wounds clean. At least he’d had Ketch’s fingers up his ass; can’t get much worse than that.
It’s warm and humid outside, even with the rain. Dean feels like he’s having the world’s worst shower while also walking through warm gelatin. His jacket at least keeps him partially dry, and he tugs it tighter around himself despite the temperature. The distance from Ketch’s apartment to Dean’s own is not insignificant, but Dean has walked it before after a night of drinking, so surely he can manage it now.
Barely more than five minutes into the walk, and Dean is already exhausted. His feet are dragging and he’s not sure the moisture on his face is just rain anymore. He finds himself praying to a god that he doesn’t believe in to get him home safely. It would be a real bitch to finally start feeling at home in his body, only to keel over in a ditch somewhere.
Cars fly past, some of them driving right through the water that’s begun to accumulate on the road, splashing Dean as they do. He’s so far managed to keep his bindings mostly dry, but his pants are soaked and his hair has begun to stream water down the back of his shirt. Maybe he shouldn’t have let it grow out. Dean’s not sure how long he’s been out here, and he’s starting to get dizzy. His breath is coming quicker, and he’s just about to break down into outright sobs when he hears a car slow down.
There’s a strip mall just ahead, and the car pulls into the laneway, stopping there and idling. It’s blocking Dean’s path, and his options are to walk out onto the road to pass it, or to trudge through the small pond that the parking lot has begun to turn into. He stops for a minute, deciding his best route when the window rolls down.
“Dean!” a familiar voice yells over the din of the pounding rain.
Castiel hates driving in the rain, and really just wanted to get home and enjoy a cup of tea while listening to the patter of drops on his copper roof. He would recognize that silhouette anywhere, though, so he pulls into the parking lot just ahead of the man, calling his name through the open window.
Dean tries to speed up, but it’s like he has nothing left in the tank. Moving gingerly, he reaches the shitty silver Camry Cas picked up after his Lincoln died, painfully tugging the door open and flopping down into the seat. He tips his head back against the headrest, taking a couple of steadying breaths. The world tilts sickeningly around him even when Dean closes his eyes.
Castiel watches as Dean works to compose himself. It’s obvious that he’s upset, and isn’t out in the rain for fun. He also shouldn’t be exerting himself so much, not so soon after surgery. Castiel completes a u-turn in the parking lot, heading back out onto the road that will lead to Dean’s house first, then Castiel’s a few minutes later.
The drive is quiet, with Dean alternating between his tipped-back, eyes-closed position and looking out the window blankly. Castiel has no idea what’s on Dean’s mind, but he’s dying to know. Why was Dean out in the rain? Where was he going? Why isn’t he with Arthur, who is supposed to be taking care of Dean? These questions, and more, circle through Castiel’s mind as he navigates the slick streets and poor visibility.
When Dean’s house comes into sight, Castiel considers stopping, he really does. His foot hovers over the brake, ready to slow them down cautiously in the driving rain. Instead, he presses the gas just a little bit harder, speeding up as much as he can in this weather. He hears Dean make a questioning noise, but he doesn’t voice any concerns, so Castiel keeps on going.
Dean’s not particularly concerned when Cas drives right past his house. His best friend doesn’t live all that far from Dean, and Cas’ bungalow is much, much nicer than Dean’s tiny rental house. He also gets a secret thrill from the idea that he’ll have to put on Cas’ clothes if he wants to be dry. Despite using the same laundry detergent, Dean’s clothes never smell as good as Cas’. It must just be Cas himself that makes the difference.
The deluge has barely let up by the time they’ve pulled into Cas’ garage, and the near-silence after they’re sheltered feels almost as deafening as the rain had. Dean’s aware that Cas will have any number of questions, but he’s not sure he’s ready to face them just yet.
“Dean?” Cas prompts, just like Dean knew would happen.
Dean struggles, trying to make his voice work while it’s dying in his throat.
“Can we maybe…Can we just wait until I’m dry for the interrogation?” he rasps, unable to look Cas in the eye. Instead he stares straight ahead at the shelf holding old paint cans, a hedge trimmer, and other odds and ends that Castiel hasn’t found a permanent home for. It’s so disgustingly domestic, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with that. ‘Domestic’ is not a word that would describe his life so far.
He can only see Dean’s profile, but Castiel can tell that something is weighing heavily on his best friend. Said friend is dripping rainwater all over the upholstery, however, so he doesn’t push. Castiel opens the car door, watching out of the corner of his eye to ensure that Dean does the same. His laptop is in the back seat, but Castiel has different priorities right now.
Cas ushers Dean into the house, hands hovering around Dean like he wants to touch, but isn’t sure he’s allowed to. Right now Cas is probably the only person Dean wouldn’t mind touching him. He sloughs off his leather jacket, not even caring when it falls to the floor. Cas, of course, picks it up. He carefully hangs it on one of the hooks that line one side of the entryway, not seeming to be bothered by the steady drip that’s creating a small puddle on his hardwood floors.
Thankfully, Castiel’s place is all on one floor, because Dean doesn’t think he has the energy to navigate stairs. He can barely put one foot in front of the other as he follows Castiel through the house. Dean’s been here before, so he knows his way around, and quickly realizes they’re heading towards Castiel’s bedroom. It’s the one room that Dean’s never been allowed in. He hates that this is how he sees it for the first time. Things could have been so different, if only Cas loved him back.
Directing Dean through his bedroom, Castiel hates that this is how Dean’s seeing it for the first time. Things could have been so different, if only Dean loved him back. Dean doesn’t love him, though, so Castiel lets his hand hover at Dean’s back, never actually touching him as he escorts Dean into his bedroom. He quietly keeps his feelings to himself, and goes into caretaker mode.
“Take off everything that’s wet,” Castiel directs as he moves to get dry clothes for Dean, pointing him in the direction of the en suite.
Dean heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Once the other man is out of sight, Castiel’s shoulders sag. He’s been keyed up since the moment he first saw the familiar shape through the downpour. Knowing they’re both safe within the walls of Castiel’s home allows him to relax, at least a little.
Castiel can hear Dean moving about behind the bathroom door, so he takes the time to select the softest, most worn-in clothing he owns for Dean to change into. His own clothes aren’t wet, but he’s still in the suit he has to wear for work, and wouldn’t mind being comfortable, too. He manages to strip down to just his boxers, and get a pair of old, dark sweatpants on when he realizes how quiet it is. Too quiet. Forgoing a shirt, he puts an ear to the bathroom door. There’s no sounds coming from the other side.
Knocking on the bathroom door, Castiel calls Dean’s name uncertainly. He waits a moment or two before knocking again. When he gets no response, he tries the handle, finding it unlocked. “Dean, I’m coming in,” he tells him, hoping Dean is alright.
As Cas pushes the door open, Dean can’t even bother to lift his head. He’d stepped into the bathtub to prevent his sopping wet clothes from dripping on the floor any further. Getting his pants off was no picnic, but eventually they’d slapped wetly into the bottom of the tub. His damp flannel had come off, but his t-shirt had proved to be a worthy foe, fighting him as he tried to take it off without lifting his arms too high. Frustrated and defeated, Dean sat down in the tub, pressing his face into his knees.
From this vantage point, Dean looks like a frightened animal to Castiel, curled in on himself, protecting his soft underbelly. He’s completely bedraggled, his hair thoroughly soaked, rivulets tracing from it down his shins. He doesn’t look up, heightening Castiel’s worry. He moves carefully so as not to spook the man.
“Dean?” he calls softly, shutting the door behind him so that they’re cocooned in the small room, just the two of them with no outside world intruding.
Dean tries to stop when Cas comes in, he really does. The care with which Cas says his name, however, is the final break in the dam, and Dean starts crying in earnest. Great big sobs tear themselves from his chest, and he can’t seem to catch his breath. He can hear Castiel’s voice, but can’t make out the words he says through the high-pitched whine in his ears. He senses as his best friend moves closer and hovers a hand over Dean’s back. Wanting the reassurance of that touch, Dean leans into it.
“Dean, can you tell me what you need from me?”
The question breaks through the noise in his head but Dean just shrugs, not knowing the answer. He’s peripherally aware as Cas drapes Dean’s sopping jeans over the shower curtain rail, then the heat of his body is encroaching on Dean’s space. Dean’s not bothered – would actually like it if Cas were closer. He can’t ask for that, though, can’t ask for anything right now.
There’s no answer to his question, but Castiel can’t let his best friend, and the love of his life, suffer silently in the bottom of a cold bathtub. He casts around for what he can do to help, eyes catching on the water still dripping from Dean’s hair. He’s been wearing it longer lately, in a style Castiel had affectionately called ‘boy band chic’, and it’s held onto the rainwater more than a shorter cut would. The strands lay damp and lank against Dean’s forehead.
“Your hair is still very wet,” Castiel tells Dean, hoping that by narrating everything he’s doing he can prevent further distress. “I only have a couple of towels in here right now, so I’m going to sop up as much as I can. Then I’d like to use the blow dryer to make sure you don’t catch a chill. Is that alright?”
Castiel gets another shrug. It’s the best he’s likely to get right now, so he continues on with his ministrations. Grabbing the small, white hand towel off of the hook beside the sink, Castiel does his best to get as much water out of Dean’s hair as possible. Once Castiel’s satisfied that the towel won’t hold any more, he tosses it over the curtain rail as well. He pulls the small, white hair dryer he rarely uses out of a drawer under the sink, and plugs it in above the toilet.
There’s no easy way to get at all of Dean’s hair, so Castiel slots himself in behind Dean, one knee on the edge of the tub, his other foot bracing him on the shower wall. He makes sure to leave enough space that they don’t touch, but is close enough to feel through Dean’s t-shirt the warmth that’s finally returning to his body. He wants to press closer, to drape himself over Dean and warm him up with his own body heat, but Castiel’s certain that would not be received well.
Even through his damp t-shirt, Dean can feel the heat radiating from Cas as the other man gets comfortable behind him. Just his proximity helps calm the static in Dean’s mind, settling him enough that he starts to rein in his emotions, bringing the heavy crying down to just a few hiccupping sobs. He’s desperate to lean back into the vee of Cas’ legs, to take comfort from the other man, but he’s certain that would not be received well.
The hair dryer turns on then, making Dean jump a little. Castiel places a soothing hand on Dean’s shoulder, waiting until Dean’s breath begins to even out before removing it. Keeping the heat and the blow settings low, Castiel directs the stream of warm air towards Dean, some of the less-wet strands bobbing feebly in the current until Castiel disrupts them with a brush of his fingers. It’s something he’s longed for – some day in the future where he gets to run his hand though Dean’s hair, to care for him so intimately. He never imagined it could happen like this.
Truly, he never believed it would happen at all. Castiel has been falling in love with Dean since the day they literally ran into each other, the dog’s leash tangling them up until Dean could get Miracle to unwind herself from around them. As he runs his hand through Dean’s drying locks, Castiel remembers how they had both apologized profusely then stood there, awkward in the way it always is in the beginning, neither one wanting to be the first to walk away. Castiel had been disappointed when Miracle started yanking Dean down the street.
“The boss is tellin’ me it’s time to head out,” Dean told him. “Maybe I’ll see you around? We’re just over on Elmhurst, near the community center.”
Miracle gave another good tug on the leash.
“Sorry, we’ve really gotta go,” Dean apologized, sounding genuinely sorry. “It was really nice to meet you!” he called as Miracle dragged him away.
Castiel wasn’t happy to see the man go. He realized almost immediately that they never even exchanged names.
As he uses his fingers to comb Dean’s hair into his usual part, Castiel remembers how he wasn’t upset for long. Dean and Miracle began passing Castiel on his run several days a week. It could have been coincidence, but Castiel dared to hope that Dean had begun to time his walk in hopes of meeting again. While he runs his fingers though the nearly-dry hair, just because he can, Castiel remembers how, on the third time they passed each other, Miracle had decided she’d had enough. Castiel was a new friend, in her mind, and she wasn’t happy he didn’t stop to say hello.
Slowly carding his fingers through the light brown strands, denying to himself that Dean’s hair is fully dry, he remembers Miracle making a mad dash for his knees, pulling the leash from a very surprised Dean’s hand. He remembers his poor wardrobe choice, dressed in shorts for the unusually warm December afternoon, and snowy paws on his bare knees. Remembers Dean’s apologies, his cheeks red in a way the weather couldn’t account for.
As he gives a final drag of fingertips over Dean’s scalp, feeling the way he shivers even now, Castiel remembers how they kept meeting like that, exchanging names, their conversations getting longer and longer each time. He remembers how, far too late, Castiel realized that when he had said ‘we’, Dean was referring to himself and Miracle, not the beautiful wife Cas had imagined for Dean. He’d realized even later that Dean had been dropping hints at his single status and sexuality almost since the first time they’d talked. By the time he’d caught up to the conversations they’d been having, Castiel had missed his window, and was firmly in ‘the friendzone’ with Dean.
When the dryer is finally off, there’s silence in the small bathroom before Dean sniffles, suddenly feeling small and fragile between Cas’ legs. He tries to dry his eyes on his drawn-up knees but it only serves to smear the tears, with nothing covering them to absorb the dampness that clings to Dean’s eyelashes. God, he fucking hates crying. Cas gently asks what Dean needs of him, and Dean is so surprised by it that the truth falls from his mouth, not the prepared ‘I’m fine.’
“Hurts,” is what he manages to croak out.
It's not a lie. There's a deep ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the the way his exertions have tugged at Dean’s incisions. He can't have this. He can’t have Cas’ care, his kindness, or this close intimacy. Cas had ignored every signal Dean put out, rejecting Dean’s romantic advances. Dean wouldn't deserve it even if Cas hadn’t. Dean had known from the first time they’d talked that Cas was leagues above him.
Both men were working from home, but on vastly different types of employment. Dean had just moved in when the shop he’d been hired at closed upon the owner’s sudden death. The best he could get was working a car repair hotline, helping people with small fixes on their cars. Castiel was, and still is an expert translator in several languages. He’s flown all around the world to translate for archaeology digs, and museum curators. Dean may have worked his way up to shop manager at one of the local garages, but it still doesn’t compare.
After Miracle forced a meet-cute, Dean had eventually invited Cas to movie night, where his friends teased him about gatekeeping such a cool person from them. Charlie declared Cas her new best friend. Dean could only feign affront – he was secretly pleased that everyone loved Cas so much. It wasn’t easy, but Dean has managed to keep his growing crush from his friends and, most importantly, from Cas. Seven years later that crush has settled into a deep, abiding love, one that’s harder to hide every day. The gentle carding of fingers through his hair as it dried hasn’t done anything to help.
As Castiel carefully extricates himself from his position behind Dean, moving to kneel beside the tub, there’s no response from the other man except to drop his forehead back to his knees. Castiel can see that, while he was able to dry Dean’s hair, several inches of Dean’s neckline are damp. Somehow he managed to get into the t-shirt this morning, but Castiel doesn’t want to put him through the pain of taking it off.
“Are you particularly attached to this shirt?” he asks, dipping a finger beneath the hem of the neck to pluck it away from Dean’s skin. It feels provocative, scandalous even, to have some part of him below some part of Dean’s clothes. They touch, for sure, but it’s always through layers of fabric – a hand on a shoulder while they laugh at an inside joke, or a pat on the back when they achieve something they’d been working towards; a hand that stays firmly within the bounds of clothing.
Dean shakes his head, making a small noise that Castiel takes to mean ‘no’.
“I’ll be right back,” Castiel promises, squeezing Dean’s shoulder once before standing to rummage under the sink. Behind sink- and shower-cleaning products, a can of shaving cream Castiel hadn’t liked but can’t bring himself to throw out ‘just in case’, and a few spare rolls of toilet paper, the first aid kit sits. It’s rarely used, Castiel living alone and not being particularly accident prone. He’s fairly sure that there’s a set of safety shears in it. He hopes he’s right – he doesn’t want to leave Dean alone right now to go get scissors from the kitchen.
Dean barely registers it when Cas returns to the side of the tub. It’s not until cold metal brushes his skin that he can even begin to ground himself in reality.
Coming back to his body isn’t easy. Everything sounds like he’s underwater, his chest aches, and he’s starting to shiver in the cool air. He can feel his shirt being cut away from his body, but he’s still not entirely sure what’s going on. The last thing he really remembers, after walking so long he’d almost collapsed, is Castiel calling his name. It’s a voice Dean would recognize anywhere, even when reeling from pain and exertion. It’s the voice Dean hears now, directing him with gentle movements until the damp fabric of his t-shirt falls away from him entirely.
He’s not really wet anymore, but Dean is wrapped in a large fluffy towel anyway as Cas helps him to stand. Dean can’t complain, it’s warm and cozy. He briefly remembers Cas boasting about his towel warmer, and he’s grateful for it now. By the time they’ve navigated the small bathroom and around to the side of Cas’ bed, Dean has stopped shivering. His chest still aches and his binder feels extra tight, though, so he’s grateful to be sitting down again. It’s all he can do not to fall backwards on the bed and pass out completely.
Dean makes a pitiful noise when Cas opens the front of the towel, letting the cold in again. He wants to complain about the air conditioning, but words are still beyond him. Thankfully, a moment later he finds his arms threaded through a soft, long-sleeved shirt, one that appears to be the top from a pair of pj’s, if the cats sleeping on clouds are anything to go by. Once it’s buttoned, Cas helps him stand to put on the pj bottoms. The whole set is a little loose – Cas has bulked up over the years, while Dean has stayed fairly lean. They smell like Cas, and Dean finds himself closing his eyes to revel in it.
“How much pain are you in?” Castiel asks, eyeing Dean cautiously. He doesn’t like how flushed Dean is, and he’s not entirely sure that he shouldn’t be changing his bandages. The poor man seems so exhausted, however, that Castiel just wants to get him into bed so he can rest.
“Hmm?” Dean can barely get it out, is far too tired for using words out loud. He hears Cas call his name, but just the idea of opening his eyes and answering exhausts him. He’s expending so much energy just to keep his head up, and he’d really like to get some sleep. He knows he’s on a bed, maybe he could sleep here.
Dean goes to lie down, moving to brace himself on his arm when he’s shocked by a sharp pain just at the outer edge of his incision. His eyes fly open on a gasp, and suddenly he’s wide awake. The look of concern on Cas’ face is enough to make Dean do his best to focus.
“–ell me what you need?” Dean hums questioningly, not having heard the full sentence. “Dean, focus on me. Are you in pain?”
Dean nods. Words are even more difficult than before, and he wishes he knew why – wishes he had some idea why his voice fails him whenever shit gets hard. John used to slap Dean when he didn’t talk, and he’s glad that bastard isn’t around to see this. Cas is asking a question though, so Dean needs to pay attention.
“ – bring any meds with you?”
A shake of the head brings a slight frown to Cas’ face. Dean braces for the incoming reprimand, but it never comes. Instead, Cas apologizes for having nothing but acetaminophen and ibuprofen. He offers to get Dean some of both.
“Please,” Dean manages to croak, his senses returning enough to allow him that.
Castiel isn’t sure that Dean won’t just fall asleep before he gets back, but there’s a burning need to do something, to be useful, to somehow turn this shitshow around so that Dean doesn’t jeopardize his recovery. There’s ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet in the ensuite, but the acetaminophen is down the hall in the main bathroom. He nearly runs down the hallway, nabbing the bottle of Tylenol before dashing back to his bedroom.
Dean’s chin is on his chest, and he’s tilted a little to the side, but he makes an effort to raise his head when he hears Cas come back into the room. Through bleary eyes he watches Cas shake out two pills each from two different bottles. Dean is distantly aware that Cas could be giving him pretty much anything, but he’s too tired, and too sore to really care – not to mention the fact that he trusts Cas implicitly. Dean opens his mouth for the first two pills, swallowing them with the water Cas holds to his lips before doing the same for the next two.
He’s fully medicated, and looks like he’s too tired to do anything on his own, so Castiel simply guides Dean gently down onto the bed. As he moves back, a hand shoots out from the blankets, grabbing Castiel in a surprisingly sure grip.
“Don’ go.” It’s muffled by the pillow, but Castiel still hears exactly what Dean says. While Castiel is still processing, Dean tugs gently on his arm before withdrawing his hand back into the blankets. “Please?” he asks, sounding so small and weak that Castiel is completely unable to deny him this.
Climbing onto the bed, Cas slots himself in behind Dean, daring to place a reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder as they fall asleep.
Fully medicated and too tired to decide anything on his own, Dean allows Cas to guide him gently down onto the bed. Somewhere in the back of his head there’s an alarm blaring, trying to warn him of something. He thinks he says something to Cas, thinks he feels something heavy join him in the bed, but he’s hit by a wave of sheer exhaustion and he falls asleep moments later.