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For someone so adamant about personal space, Dean can’t comprehend Castiel stationing in a room other than his. It’s simply unfathomable. Dean has known the flying sack of feathers for years—a simple bedroom change means nothing. Sam cleared out some extra space going through the Men of Letters, and Castiel liked the room.
Which means he’s no longer sleeping with him. No more constant body heat and (not so) secret spooning late at night. What will Cas do if something happens? A demon breaks the seal and Dean can’t get to him fast enough?
Images of Castiel’s body being violently stabbed, crushed, and destroyed flash through his memory. Dean swallows stiffly.
He stares at the ceiling above him, wishing for his partner’s comforting warmth.
“Nope,” Dean says, and tosses the scratchy sheets off his body with a flourish. His bare feet hiss at the cold concrete, but he endures. Padding out his room, guided by yellow lamplight, to the room only ten paces away from his. The door is cracked open slightly, darkness enveloping the space. Only through the crack can he see Castiel’s large frame tucked tightly in silken, eggshell white sheets. His trench coat hung up on a nearby chair, tie, and belt as well. His undershirt flopped helplessly across the rim of a nearby basket, and pants prepared to be ironed out come morning.
He looks…peaceful. At ease.
Without him.
Dean’s nose curls into a sneer, and lets himself in. Careful where he steps, not to accidentally touch anything. What, you may ask? Dunno, maybe Cas keeps his angel blades under the bed, or point-up on the floor as a second layer of defense.
Dean approaches the bed, and without hesitation—slides in, tucking himself under the sheets.
Castiel’s body shutters with sleep, and his neck cranes lazily, slivers of blue squinting at Dean. The hunter curls up, back turned, pressing on Castiel’s spine. His nerves are already beginning to ease. He has a serious problem, and he denies admitting it.
He needs Cas like an addict to drugs. He can’t function without the flappy bastard you his ass. Without him…he wouldn’t know what to do with his life other than curl up in a ball somewhere dark and die alone. Of course, there’s Sam, but Cas has stayed the only thing relatively constant in his life. Such a sad thought, really.
Castiel’s gruff voice floats to him, “…Dean?” He scans the man’s vibrating form, “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
Dean grunts, “Yeah,” he admits, “Can’t sleep.”
The angel hums, “Alright.”
A silent beat passes with nothing but the rattling of old pipes. Dean fiddles with the sheets, unable to focus on one solid thing. He feels bad, intruding on Cas’ personal space. He always harped on him when it involved him breaking into Dean’s space, yet he never reciprocated for Dean’s actions.
Dean swallows, “I’m sorry I woke you up,”
A sigh, “It’s fine,” Castiel murmurs, already drifting back to sleep.
Dean rolls, flopping until both arms are wrapping around Castiel’s chest, and his pressed to the angel’s back. He nuzzles into his shoulder, and inhales the scents of ozone and something sharp and acidic. The knot in his shoulders ease.
“Can we take turns during the week?” He asks.
Castiel, to his better judgement, nods. His head of raven hair bobbing against the pillow. “What is best suitable for you, Dean.”
“Okay.”
And Dean falls asleep soundlessly, content.