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He wakes up in bed, hot breath against his neck, and for a moment forgets entirely where he is.
You’d think he’d be used to waking up in unfamiliar places by now, and it’s true; this never happens in motel rooms, no matter how much they move around. Maybe it’s the familiarity that’s thrown him; he wakes, expecting not to recognize the room, and instead everything his eyes land on, he knows well; his bag by the door, his coat hanging on the back of the chair, by the desk. On the table, his dad’s journal, splayed open; in his arms, Castiel.
He lies there for a moment, just – thinking.
It’s been a long time since he’s shared a bed with anyone, let alone in this context, and it surprises him every time he wakes. He wonders if it’ll wear off, and supposes that it will, eventually, but for the moment he’s floored by it. Castiel is warm, and breathes too hot against his neck, and the crooks of his elbows are sweaty, and hooked around Dean’s arms. He burrows his nose in Castiel’s hair, breathes in just because he can, and shifts a little, aware of his arm falling asleep. The movement doesn’t wake Castiel, though. He’s glad it doesn’t. They haven’t slept together yet - well, obviously they have, but Castiel hasn’t touched his dick, or vice-versa - and the whole thing is so completely alien that he wakes himself up at night sometimes, thinking about it.
Of course, it’s preferable to nightmares, but Dean doesn’t know if it’s any more normal; not having sex is a problem he’s never really experienced before, and it’s not even really a ‘problem’; it’ll happen when it happens, and that’s that. It’s okay.
He’s just not used to sleeping in the same bed as someone without anything else in the cards keeping them there, and whilst before sleeping beside someone felt like convenience (of the dick-touching variety) before, now it feels different. Closer. He doesn’t quite know what to make of that. It’s… unprecedented. That’s the word, for now, that he’s chosen to use.
It’s also nice, which comes as a surprise.
Castiel shifts in his sleep, opens his eyes – half a blink, full blink, then open; the same, every time – and looks at Dean a little quizzically before kissing him quickly on the side of his face.
“Are you okay?” he says, whispering like anyone will hear them, alone in this room together. Dean laughs.
“I’m good.” He murmurs, and shifts, and says something so unintelligible he’s not even sure what he meant. Castiel’s hand moves up and down his side, beneath the bedclothes. “What time’s it?”
Castiel leans up, peering over his shoulder at the clock on the bedside table. “Six-forty.” He says, voice blurry. He closes his eyes directly after, as if they’ve finally given up on him. He slurs his cheek against Dean’s. “Sleep.” He says, and it’s not a command; more just a description of what he, himself is doing, and an invitation for Dean to follow after. Dean laughs, again, under his breath.
“Good plan.” He closes his eyes as well, but sleep doesn’t overtake him, and even as Castiel’s breaths slow again, even out, he can’t seem to get there.
He closes his eyes, and he breathes, and he holds Castiel, and is held.
It niggles at him, the sex thing, but it’s not the lack that bothers him; it’s this. Castiel has been back with them – with him – for a little over six weeks, now, and that’s way longer than he’s stayed before, but they’ve never been like this, either.
Dean doesn’t know if this thing will last, or if one day he’ll look at Castiel and think holy shit, I shared a bed with that guy. It’s a weird thought, sure, but not impossible.
The worries all come at once, pushing around his head, insistent, and he swallows, and he knows Castiel feels it, because he hums in his sleep.
Thing is, Cas knows him, even if it’s not biblically (yet) – and Dean doesn’t even know what that means.
They’ve been living pretty slow and easy, the past few weeks. A little research has gone on, sure – a couple of minor ‘disturbances’ that turned out just to be unusually big dogs, a salt and burn that was pathetically easy, further north – but nothing of note, by their standards. Even what happened while they saw Charlie had been more a brief distraction than anything worrying, and it’s been a couple of weeks, since.
Dean’s not great with downtime, as a rule. They’ve fallen into a sort of routine, the four of them – they have breakfast in the morning, they laze around the bunker during the day; Sam and Cas go running, and bug Dean and Kevin to do the same. Kevin relents, on occasion, but always comes back before the other two, sweaty and little better (or more cheerful) for it.
Dean feels bad for the kid, wishes he had any way to apologise for the derailing of his life; but, instead, he adds it to the long list of things he hasn’t got the words for, yet.
Sam comes back from his run and wanders around the kitchen, killing time while Cas is in the shower. He’s doing his typical morningtime thing; wandering around the kitchen post-run, pulling back his sweat-drenched hair with his fingers. Sam is pretty much insufferable in the mornings, in Dean’s opinion; he’s a big, health-conscious, spandex goliath, and the fact that he gets up about three hours earlier than Dean can manage does little for his self-esteem. He tells Sam this, but his little brother just rolls his eyes.
“Mornin’.” Sam says as he lopes around the kitchen, his bare feet making stickysounds on the tile. “Got any plans for today?”
Dean raises his head from his cereal and shrugs. “Is ‘TV’ a plan?”
Sam looks at him witheringly from across the room. “Nothing else?” he tries, hopefully, and Dean just stares right back at him.
“Nope.”
“Okay. Well. Me and Cas were gonna go get him some clothes, if you wanna come. Probably something for Kev, too.”
Dean chews thoughtfully. “No. I’m good.”
Sam finds what he’s looking for in the kitchen – granola, of all things, and Dean thinks again that he’s sure he raised him better than that – and then comes to join him, eating it dry, right out of the box. “You okay?”
“M’good.” He kind of wants to be alone. It’s weird but ever since he started thinking about it – since he and Cas finally got this thing going – there’s been something building at the base of his neck, some strange itch, and for the life of him he can’t figure it out properly. All he knows is it makes him want to be alone, today, and he hopes Sam won’t push. Reliably, he doesn’t.
“…Okay.” His voice is careful, but he doesn’t go further. “You want anything?”
“Underwear.” Dean says immediately, and Sam scoffs and says he’ll get them before he stands, taking the cereal box with him.
“I think Cas is out of the shower.” A pause. “You sure you don’t wanna come? Could be funny.”
“Yeah, Sam. Just not feeling it, that’s all.”
Sam’s gaze is half-worried, but he nods, “Sure.” And walks out of the kitchen, leaving Dean alone once more.
Dean eats his cereal in silence, after, and smiles, lifting a hand, as they troop out of the bunker in a line. Cas hangs back in the doorway, and looks at him.
“Cas. C’mon. They’re waiting for you in the car.”
“Alright.” Castiel turns to go, but Dean finds himself calling him back.
“Can we talk?” he says, and is worried Castiel won’t hear him from across the room, his voice comes out so quiet. “When you get back?”
“Of course.” Castiel hangs on the doorframe, paused, as if unsure if he should go at all; but Dean waves him on.
“Go. You can show me what you got when you come back.” he tries for levity, and winks, but Castiel looks no less perplexed. But he says goodbye, and he makes for the door after where Sam and Kevin have gone.
The bunker seems a lot bigger when the door shuts behind Castiel, and Dean wonders if they can get a radio down here, if the signal will carry, all the way underneath the ground. The sound of his feet on the kitchen floors is way, way too loud.
When the three of them get back they’re in high spirits; Dean is lounging on the couch, bored as hell, and he looks up gratefully when they return. Sam tosses him a box of underwear – standard black stuff, no big deal – and Dean grins at him, in lieu of thanks. Kevin and Castiel are engaged in some kind of philosophical discussion when they come in; Kevin’s talking about six alternate timelines, and moving his hands as Castiel listens intently, trying to follow. “See, like, the basic idea is that you createsix other universes every time you roll the dice.”
“And every alternate universe comes with a different result of the roll.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
Dean leans over the couch to look at them, and raises his eyebrow. “You teaching him physics, Kev?”
Kevin shoots him the most powerful you are so uncool look that Dean has ever received. “No.” he says, exasperated. He doesn’t offer anything else, though; with bags in his hands, he leaves the kitchen, presumably for his room. Castiel ambles over to the couch and drops a kiss onto Dean’s temple.
“I’m actually fairly familiar with physics.” He shrugs, kisses Dean’s mouth, says “Hello, Dean.” and hefts his own bags onto the couch. They’re not full to bursting, exactly, but there’s a lot more than Dean thought there would be; he feels a soft pang of loss for not having been there, however little it really mattersin the long run. “Kevin was telling me about a TV show.”
“Oh. Right.” It’s stupid to feel left out when he cloistered himself here on purpose, but he does, anyway; Castiel leans on the back of the couch and looks at him carefully.
“You wanted to talk?” he’s easy to read, still one of the worst liars Dean has ever met; his voice is way too careful in its nonchalance.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to see the clothes, first?” Castiel tries, and Dean smiles helplessly at him.
“Okay.”
He ambles after Castiel, back to his – their – room, and once there, Castiel tips the bags out onto the bed. Most of it is fairly boring; Dean’s not really into clothes, when they’re not costumes, and even then his attention is a careful sort; but Castiel seems so excited to have his own things that Dean can’t really bear to break his heart by expressing his boredom. Besides, it’s …interesting, seeing what Castiel chose for himself. Some of it is Winchester fare; jeans, a couple of plaid shirts, a pair of boots; but other things stand out from them, and Dean holds a large, yellow, cable-knit sweater in his hands in disbelief.
“You chose this?” he says, and Castiel looks at him.
“Yes.”
“Sam didn’t help you?”
“Dean. I don’t need help choosing clothes.”
Dean nods, slowly. “Sure, yeah, ‘course you don’t.”
“You think it’s funny.” Castiel says, not a question, and Dean looks up at him sheepishly.
“It’s a little…”
“It’s mine. For when it gets cold.” He says, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice. Dean looks up at him.
“Won’t be getting cold for a while.”
“It’s best to be prepared.” Castiel shoots back, obviously pissed that Dean is criticising his choices; missing the point, entirely.
He looks down at the mustard-coloured sweater in his hands, and swallows thickly. His hands tighten in the knit. “I guess you’re right.” He says. “I like it.” He concludes, and when he looks up from it again, the expression that meets his eyes is disbelieving. “No, I do! I like it, Cas.”
“Well, good, because Sam got you one, too.”
Kevin insists on sitting Castiel down to watch a TV show, that evening; Dean isn’t sure of the name, but to be perfectly honest, it’s a little lost on him; everyone talks way, way too fast, and the jokes mostly fly over his head. Charlie might like it, he thinks; Cas seems to be enjoying himself; but Dean’s attention drifts, and he makes up for the sleep he lost from waking up at five in the morning by wandering back to his room, and falling asleep on top of his bed, fully dressed.
He wakes up, hours later, with a start; gets up and goes into the living room again. Kevin and Sam are gone and only Castiel remains, TV remote in one hand, gaze focused on the screen in front of him. When Dean enters, Castiel turns to look at him absently, then turns back to the TV.
“This mop is very impressive.” He says, attention rapt. “It dries the floors, as well as cleans them.”
“We’ll get you one for your birthday.” Dean mutters, amused, and blinks, kneading his forehead with one hand, when Castiel turns to look at him again.
“I don’t have a birthday, do I? Technically.”
“Don’t you know?”
Castiel shrugs. “I don’t remember when I was born. I don’t know if I was born, actually, in the traditional sense. Some of us think we simply…are.”
“We’ll think of one.” Dean supplies, and Castiel smiles.
“We could use the day I came to earth, I suppose.”
“D’you remember what day that was?” Dean asks him, walking over; he climbs over the back of the couch when he reaches it, and plops himself down beside Castiel.
“September, I think.”
Dean looks at him, considering. “You think you want a winter birthday? Might as well choose a good date, if you can.”
“When was the last time you celebrated yours?”
Dean shrugs noncommittally. “Can’t remember.”
“We could celebrate this year.”
“Sure. Whatever.” He pauses, “What about a day in the summer? Might be nice.”
Castiel is quiet for a long moment, then says, “I think I’d like September. Maybe on a Sunday.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t say I thought Thursday was your thing, because Castiel might have avoided that on purpose. “So – September. Fall. Guess that gives me enough time to make you a cake.”
They lapse into silence, there on the couch, and before Dean can bring up what’s made him feel and act so distant all day, Castiel turns to look at him. “We should go to bed.” He says matter-of-factly, and Dean nods, still a little fuzzy from napping.
He follows Castiel to the bedroom, trips through the doorway, and sits on the edge of the bed to pull his socks and pants off, watching as Castiel does the same. It’s becoming one of his favourite things, the wind-down; the way Castiel moves more and more comfortably with every day that passes. While Castiel wanders around the room, searching for something to wear as pyjamas, Dean follows him with his eyes.
“We missed you today.” Castiel says, not looking at him. “I missed you.” He plucks a t-shirt, one of Dean’s, from the floor, and pulls it on, foregoing pants. Goes to the bed; crawls beneath the covers.
Dean comes to join him, moments later. They lie apart, and Castiel’s eyes on his are considering.
“Did you? You were only gone a few hours.”
“What did you want to talk to me about, earlier?”
Dean closes his eyes, but when he opens them again, Castiel is still there; still looking at him from across the pillows. “It doesn’t matter.”
He shifts over and kisses him, moving a hand into his hair, thumb against his earlobe; leaves his mouth to kiss his jaw, fit their bodies together. Cas pushes at him; rolls him over, sliding a thigh between his legs, and flattens his palms over Dean’s shoulders. He stills, looking down at Dean, and then he smiles; he laughs.
“Dean, sometimes you are very, very transparent.”
He smiles, busted, and looks away. “I know.” He moves his hand into the hair at the base of Castiel’s neck again, and Castiel smiles down at him.
“Talk to me.” He says, and Dean sighs.
“I’m being dumb.”
“Probably.” He smiles again, and Dean flicks him. “Tell me anyway.”
“Are you still gonna be here in the Fall, Cas?” It’s easier than will you stay?
It’s what he’s been wanting to ask, all day – longer, even.They’re getting so much like family; Kevin and Sam and Cas and Dean, living like Lost Boys.
What he wants to ask is if there’s any point in letting this go on; the shopping trips and the jogging; TV marathons and basketball games. He doesn’t want to talk about how much he’s enjoying being together, the four of them, if it’s just going to end as abruptly as it started.
“I don’t know.” Dean’s heart plummets in his chest. Castiel is still looking at him.
“Huh.” It’s all he can manage. Castiel gets off him, and folds himself against his side, instead.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen, Dean.” Castiel says quietly, groping for his hand beneath the sheets before he finds it, and squeezes his fingers. “But I want to be here.”
“Yeah. I know.” He doesn’t know what he was expecting; some reassurance, maybe; but perhaps it’s better than Castiel was honest. He’s silent, for a moment; Castiel’s warm fingers play with his own.
“I want you to be here.” He says, and then, “Y’know; wanna see you wear that sweater.”
“Go to sleep, Dean.”
