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Before losing his angelic grace, Castiel didn't need sleep, food, or anything else human, and so all twenty-four hours of the day belonged to him. He appeared whenever Dean had even the slightest thought that sounded even close to "I'd like to see Castiel." He was there for every danger, but, what was even more frightening, he was there even at night when Dean slept. Watching Dean in that state, so peaceful and calm, allowed Cas to forget for a few hours what kind of relationship they had, how much tension there was. The angel allowed himself to linger in front of the bed or the sofa in the hotel room where the Winchesters were staying, watching as Dean’s chest rose and fell, as his mouth was slightly parted. Cas had never thought he could feel something so tender and uncharacteristic of his nature just from witnessing another person’s life.
It became a habit.
It manifested itself in an unconscious attraction, when you're idle, unsure of what to do, but you know someone who’s clearly busy with their own affairs and can be observed. Castiel didn't reveal himself, but his surveillance of Dean grew more intense with each passing day. He watched how the man dealt with breakfast, settling for leftover fast food from the café on the lower floor of the hotel instead of proper, human food. Cas made sure his driving wasn’t too reckless, hiding in the back seat of the Impala and wincing at the volume of Winchester’s music tapes, which he sang along to, missing the notes, when he wasn’t absorbed in his caustic thoughts.
Dean, for his part, felt like an animal being experimented on and observed in a cage. He couldn't see the angel, he didn't even have proof that he was being watched, but he constantly felt as if he could feel that withering gaze on him.
At first, it was frightening. The first two weeks, maybe.
And then the feeling suddenly disappeared, just like Castiel did, and Dean realized he was uncomfortable alone, without this intrusion into his privacy. He couldn't sleep at night, tossing and turning, looking at the patterns on the ceiling and wondering what Castiel's muffled breathing would sound like if he were somewhere in the corner of the room, silently watching him sleep.
He would stare at one point on the floor right during the conversation with Sam, because he didn't feel the presence of an angel, his angel, the one his mother had warned him about as a child. He was feeling as though he didn’t belong there, like he wasn’t living his own life.
“Angels are watching over you," Mary used to say. So why did they stop now?
Dean couldn't justify this strange craving in any way. Maybe Castiel was using some kind of perversion, something that drew Dean to him. Or it was the result of their latest hunt; maybe a witch had cast a spell on him or thrown a hex bag, and he hadn’t even noticed? Only God knows what it all meant and what causal links lay behind this.
But he was only able to breathe freely after he felt those blue eyes staring at him again one night.
“I know you're there, Cas. We talked about personal space. You were gone for two weeks, and now you're staring at me in the middle of the night again?" Dean forces his eyes open, and his heart does a traitorous flip when his guess is confirmed and Cas is indeed standing in the middle of the room.
"I had things to do, Dean. You sound unhappy. I understand my mistake, I won't watch you quietly anymore.."
"I’m not unhappy because you’re watching, Cas."
The silence between them hangs by a fine thread, one that is on the verge of snapping if either of them says anything else. Castiel presses his lips together, tilting his head towards his shoulder in his usual manner. Dean doesn’t say another word. He closes his eyes in silence, without waiting for Cas to fade back into the emptiness of the room, and for the first time in quite a while, he falls asleep without any distracting thoughts.
~•~
The morning greets him with bright sunlight, blinding his eyes. Dean squints as the rays hit him squarely in the face: he thought he’d drawn the curtains before falling asleep. Memories of last night wash over him, bringing relief at the realisation that Castiel has returned. Hope immediately springs up in his chest that he won’t vanish forever again.
It’s unhealthy. This craving of his to be the object of someone’s examination, to know that his private life no longer belongs to him alone. Dean sits up in bed, rubbing his face with his hands. The last traces of sleepiness fade away as he accepts the obvious truth, the undeniable one.
He needs Castiel, and it seems Castiel doesn’t need him all that much, since he has no trouble flitting off to attend to his angelic business whenever he fancies it.
In the blink of an eye, the air in the room thickens, making Dean tense up. His shoulders immediately stiffen with vigilance; his hand automatically reaches under the pillow, where the gun for emergencies lies, but he lifts his head, and there, just like last night, a pair of azure eyes are staring back at him. Winchester exhales, letting his shoulders drop.
“Could you give me some warning before showing up like that and scaring the hell out of me?” Dean grumbles discontentedly, pulling one knee up to rest his bent arm on it.
Castiel stares at him unblinkingly, as if trying to bore a hole through his skull and read every thought swarming through his mind.
“You needed me, Dean. And I came.”
Dean frowns, feeling as though he’s been caught red-handed. Castiel immediately corrects himself.
“You thought of me, and that impulse was enough for me to pick up a signal, much like a prayer. Your thoughts have been very… intense of late. I can’t ignore signals like that; they interfere with the frequencies on angelic radio,” Castiel takes two steps towards the bed, coming to a halt at the edge: to Dean’s surprise, Winchester realises that now, in the sunlight beating down on his back, Castiel seems much larger and more majestic.
Dean tilts his head back, his body unconsciously turns towards Cas, and now their position looks even more awkward. Castiel is standing directly opposite Dean, whose legs are dangling off the bed, slightly manspreading. He seems relaxed, but there is a tension in his shoulders and his gaze is heavy, the cause of which is unknown even to Winchester himself.
“Bullshit. I didn’t ask you to be here, Cas, I’ve only just woken up and…”
“You said you weren’t upset that I was watching you. What did you mean by that?” Castiel interrupts him, not letting him continue.
Dean raises his eyebrows.
"Why do you care? You had no problem just disappearing, after all. I don’t owe you any explanations."
A shiver runs down the back of Winchester’s neck, for he feels, sees, Castiel’s hand rise, pausing at an almost unnoticeable distance from Dean’s temple. Cas touches him with the tips of his index and middle fingers, tapping lightly.
“I can easily read everything that’s going on in your head, Dean,” Cas replies, his voice lower, just as it had been when they first met: serious and almost threatening. “But I don’t want to. That’s why I’m asking.”
Dean snorts, rolling his eyes. “Now that’s what I call a charitable act. Thanks for not getting inside my head without my permission.”
Castiel’s hand slides lower, his fingertips tracing the line of Dean’s jaw, and he flinches ever so slightly, not realising what’s happening. His breathing slows. Cas’ blue eyes look expectantly, searching for the truth Dean willl never say out loud.
“You’re afraid to admit that you like it when I’m watching you,” Cas begins, and his fingers rest on Dean’s chin, forcing him to lift his head, not daring to look away from the angel. “You like the fact that your personal space is constantly being invaded. You don’t feel lonely, knowing that every morning, day and night, I’m right by your side, studying you, memorising your little habits and quirks.”
Dean’s breathing becomes so erratic that he quite simply forgets to breathe out.
“You can’t really function unless I’m around,” Castiel says with such convincing coldness, stating facts that Winchester would like to deny to the very end, but that would be foolish. “And I can’t help but watch you, because my interest in you borders on madness. It’s the forbidden fruit which, having tasted it once, I’ll never be able to cast aside or forget its taste.”
Dean’s hands clench the crumpled sheet beneath his fingers; he stares, spellbound, at Castiel’s face, only now noticing details he hadn’t seen before: the way his eyes shimmer in the sunlight; the small scar near the bridge of his nose. Cas leans closer, bending over him, and Winchester shifts uneasily, swallowing with a hollow sound.
"You’re addicted, Dean," Castiel whispers, his hot breath scorching the hunter’s cheek. "This feeling is consuming us both."
Dean’s stomach drops as Castiel’s lips draw close to his own, and his body leans forward before he has time to process what is happening. Cas slides his hand down to Dean’s neck, gripping it not tightly enough to cut off his breath completely, but firm enough to make Dean gasp sharply through his nostrils, raising his hand and winding the angel’s blue tie around his fist. Their tongues intertwine in a silent tussle for dominance, and no matter how hard Winchester tries, he loses miserably when Castiel’s fingertips press against his Adam’s apple. Dean almost chokes on his own saliva because Castiel is such a good kisser.
Is that what they teach them in heaven? Or had he already practised it on earth? A stab of jealousy pierces him between the ribs, and Dean forces himself to focus instead on the way the angel pinches his lower lip between his own, drawing a sweet half-moan from his mouth.
“Bloody hell,” Dean breathes quietly as Cas pulls away from him, restoring a semblance of distance. “I… admit it. Everything you said earlier.”
Castiel grunts complacently, and his hand rests on Dean’s cheek, his thumb gently brushing against his skin, stroking him as if he were a big puppy. Dean’s emerald eyes glint with something resembling the ecstasy one feels after taking a massive dose of drugs. “Good boy.”
Dean closes his eyes, coming to one final conclusion. He’s a bloody junkie, and his drug is none other than the angelic creature standing right in front of him.