SPN Fic: "Sleeplessness"
Title: Sleeplessness
Author: deHavilland
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 3,724
Spoilers: None, really, but didja watch season five? Okay, good.
Warnings: None.
Summary: “Dean, I think your angel needs to go to bed.”
Sam narrows his eyes when Castiel’s head nods involuntarily forward for the sixth time, jerking back with a start. The angel blinks rapidly, brow furrowing as he peers around the hotel room in bleary, blue-eyed confusion. He’s been church nodding like this all evening, from their quick dinner at the little restaurant across the street right up to now, but it isn’t until this moment that Sam realizes their angel companion has absolutely no idea what’s happening to his vessel.
His brother, it’s clear, has not noticed a thing. Dean’s attention has been focused unflinchingly on the television in front of him since they checked in to the less than luxurious Luxury Motel a little over an hour and a half ago. Sam can’t say that he’s all that impressed by this, his brother has been walking into motel rooms and flicking on the TV for as long as he can remember. While John evaluated the room’s locks, Dean would turn on the television as though confirming a connection - however detached - to the rest of the world.
“Dean, I think your angel needs to go to bed.”
The statement incites its desired effect, peeling the older Winchester’s eyes away from the latest episode of some drama he has been following and up to Castiel’s face.
Sam’s words have had a similar incendiary effect on the angel, snapping him out of his drowsiness. Blue eyes a little wider perhaps than usual, he peers back at Dean.
“Looks fine to me.” Dean says perfunctorily, as though examining an animal or a young child, and turns back to the television. He doesn’t bother to combat the ‘your angel’ part of Sam’s comment. The issue, as he sees it, has been identified, tackled and quite firmly resolved. Sure, Cas looks tired, but he always looks tired. Dean’s never seen him without the characteristic dark circles under his eyes or the wearied lines in his face. That’s just Cas.
Sam lets the argument slide, redirecting his own attention to his laptop screen. His inbox, once flooded with concerned emails from his Stanford friends is now embarrassingly empty. If any of his friends from law school still remember him, they clearly aren’t too concerned with his whereabouts. It’s been months since he’s heard anything from anyone and even his Facebook page, forced on him by Jessica, is glaringly devoid of any activity. It’s as though the Sam Winchester who gave up hunting and went to university is well and truly dead. Which, Sam figures, isn’t all that untrue --
“Dean, look, he’s falling asleep in his seat!”
If Sam himself is surprised at the harsh tone he’d just used, Dean is at least twice as startled. This time, his eyes are drawn to his brother’s face rather than the angel’s.
“And what exactly do you want me to do about it, Sam? Do I look like a nursemaid? Should I sing him lullabies?” He spares Castiel a quick, sidewise glance, “Because you know what? I don’t know any.” His voice sounds more frustrated than genuinely angry, and Sam knows this is because his brother is more worried about their celestial comrade’s growing humanity than he’s willing to let on.
What Sam doesn’t understand is why Dean’s so bent on hiding his concern. Castiel’s fall is a problem. For all three of them. Without a fully-powered up angel at their side, what chance do they stand of taking down Lucifer?
Yet for days now, what Sam had thought was growing friendship between his brother and the angel has started growing strained. Castiel’s increasing number of bumps and bruises have been met with disdain and general disregard.
“I’m fine.” The gravelly voice that announces this startles both Winchesters as Castiel rises shakily to his feet. “I am tired, yes. But this body is only a vessel and it sustains itself with my grace. It does not need sleep.” As if on cue, meant to belie the validity of this statement, Castiel wobbles precariously on legs that are too tired to support him.
Immediately, Dean is at his side, looping an arm around the angel’s waist and holding him in place, wondering momentarily just who switched his brain to autopilot. “Yeah, grace. Well, Cas, you know your angel mojo really just isn’t what it used to be.” He manoeuvres the angel back to his seat, “Maybe a little shut eye would do you some good.”
Sam watches the interaction with unveiled interest. This is a step in the right direction, anyway. At least his brother is acknowledging the angel’s problem.
Dean doesn’t find the scenario quite as fascinating as Sam does. He recognizes that all-too-familiar look on the bigger Winchester’s face and it’s an expression that is entirely Sam because certainly neither he, Dean nor their father ever used it. It’s the one that that makes its recipient feel like they may as well be in a test tube or under a microscope, because they’re being clinically researched.
He’s about to call Sam on it or better yet pawn the angel and his sleep problems off on the stupid sasquatch when he notices that Castiel is also staring at him. This in itself is in no way unusual. Castiel is always staring at him. Between his brother the professor and the scopophiliac angel, it’s no wonder that half the time Dean feels like he lives in a fucking zoo.
It’s the nature of Castiel’s look that stops Dean short, though. The expression, because of its abnormality takes the Winchester a moment to process before he realizes that those big, blue eyes are actually fearful. Castiel is afraid.
The revelation gives Dean a moment’s pause as he considers this. Castiel, an angel, has never needed to sleep before. In thousands - millions? - of years of existence, his mind has never wilfully ceased in its running, even briefly. To pause it now, even for a few hours is probably a lot for someone to be afraid of.
This isn’t really Dean’s department though. He doesn’t do the comforting friend thing nearly as well as Sam does and it’s to his brother that he turns, mouth open, ready to suggest that Sam take control of the situation, which is when he notices that Sam has moved away from them, unplugged his laptop, and is zipping up his bag while making a beeline for the motel room door.
“Woah, where are you going?”
Sam blinks as though his sudden need to depart isn’t some carefully thought out ploy, which Dean is certain it is. “I just thought I’d go to the library and see if I can dig up any more information. The wireless in here is really slow.”
A lie. Dean knows it’s a lie.
“Why, is that a problem? Is there some reason I should - “
Dean scowls and gestures Sam towards the door, hating that smug, smug grin on his brother’s face. If he’s going to be playing that game though, it’s better that he play it as far away from Dean as possible, because frankly, the older Winchester doesn’t want anything to do with Sam and his stupid, misguided assumptions. At all.
The turned-up grin on Sam’s face only broadens as he slips out of the motel room.
Leaving Dean and Cas completely alone.
The room seems bigger, quieter with Sam gone, as though the larger Winchester’s vitality presents a more filling presence than either Dean’s or Castiel’s.
Dean holds off facing the angel for a moment, moving instead to turn down the volume on the television and then out of habit crossing the room to lock the door behind Sam. It’s not that he expects anything to come bursting in, guns blazing, but it’s something his father would have done and therefore it’s something Dean does. Even if supernatural beings aren’t quite their daily fare anymore, not with Lucifer rampaging about anyway, Dean’s pretty certain that anything that came through the door - aforementioned devil aside - would meet their match with Castiel.
He hazards a glance in the angel’s direction. Castiel’s eyes are drooping halfway shut, his head nodding forward as though overbalancing his neck, mouth and jaw completely slack.
Okay, so maybe not.
Dean’s first thought is to just let Cas stay where he is. Sure, that chair doesn’t look like it’s especially comfortable and Dean’s slept upright enough times to know that it’s killer on your neck in the morning, but letting the sleeping angel lie just seems an awful lot easier than going through the process of waking him up, moving him to Sam’s bed - because there’s no way the angel is going to take up Dean’s - and then coaxing him back to sleep. This plan is obliterated, however, when Cas snaps awake once more, eyes wide and confused.
The expression makes Dean chuckle.
“So, Cas, how are you feeling?”
Castiel doesn’t answer immediately, and Dean realizes that maybe his experience with this is so very lacking that he doesn’t have the words to describe what it is he’s feeling. “It’s... unpleasant,” the angel answers, finally, eyes still too wide. It’s almost as though he’s forcing them to remain so very open in order to keep the sleep at bay. The utter naiveté of this forces Dean’s face into a softer expression and he wonders briefly when Castiel’s oft irritating innocence became quite so endearing.
It’s as if there are two Castiels, he’s decided. Castiel, the celestial soldier, grave and unflinching. Who follows commands and executes orders without question. The dick. Then there’s this Castiel. Cas. The angel who is falling too rapidly for his vague understanding of humanity to keep up. Who teeters perpetually on the brink of comprehension and uncertainty. Whose eyes are a little too wide, whose expressions are a little too open.
This is the Castiel Dean loves best.
Even before the thought is fully formed in his mind, Dean flinches. Scratch that, this is the Castiel that Dean prefers in a totally platonic way. If forced to make a choice between the two. Yeah. That.
He can do this, though. Put the angel to bed. It shouldn’t be any different than coaxing a six year-old Sammy to sleep, though hopefully it would be without sticky apple juice smears and the somewhat insistent presence of Yellow, the floppy-eared stuffed dog his brother had carried around for years until it was forgotten in some motel room somewhere.
“Okay, come here.” Dean beckons the angel forward, replacing his image in his mind’s eye with a young Sam. A very big, young Sam.
Castiel rises, still shaky, but manages to plant himself only a couple of inches away from Dean’s face, looking up at him with so much trust that Dean’s substitution with Sam isn’t that far off of its mark. His brother no longer views him with the same need and idolization that he had had as a child, and Dean hadn’t realized quite how much he missed that.
“First of all, let’s get this off.” Dean tugs at the worn trench coat before him, releasing the coat flaps to for Cas to take over.
The angel stiffens under his hands, but gives in, sliding his arms out of the sleeves and allowing Dean to pull the coat gently away from him once he’s done. He dispenses with the familiar, blue tie as well.
“Shoes next.” The Winchester points down at Jimmy Novak’s cheap dress shoes, demeanour entirely businesslike.
While Cas bends to fumble with the laces and pull the shoes off, Dean moves over to the bed, drawing the sheets down. His hands are light, brisk. If he thinks about all of this any more than he needs to he’s going to start second guessing himself. Every fibre of his being is screaming at him that not only is Castiel fully grown but a fully grown man and he just doesn’t think he can handle that. By the time the angel has straightened, devoid of footwear, Dean’s fluffed the pillows and taken two big steps back, distancing himself from the bed.
He gestures for Castiel to take over the vacated spot.
“Wait.” Dean doesn’t stop to think, can’t stop to think, as he leans in to unbuckle the angel’s belt, tugging the flimsy leather through the belt loops and away. “Okay, it’s all yours.”
Castiel sits at the edge of the bed, drawing his legs up onto the cheap sheets. He remains upright for a moment, eyes on Dean’s face, hesitant. He lies down without being told, perfectly supine, his back ramrod straight against the mattress. “... Dean.”
“Uh, yeah.” The Winchester surveys the sight before him, sighing inwardly. Castiel’s body is so very tense that his muscles almost tremble from the sheer exertion of remaining still. Dean drops his face into his hands, so much for a hands-off approach to the whole affair. “This... isn’t going to work, is it?”
Dean runs over his options in his head. Vulcan neck pinch? He peers at the angel curiously, seriously considering it for a moment before groaning at his own wishful thinking. He should know by now that when it comes down to angels, things just aren’t that easy.
Especially when that angel has practically thrown themselves off of whatever cloud Heaven’s on and put every ounce of their faith and trust in you.
Fuck it.
“Move over,” Dean says.
And he slides into bed next to the angel.
“Okay, Cas,” Dean’s voice sounds rougher than usual, huskier. He writes it off to the strain of the embarrassment at being in bed with the angel, but somehow he’s not quite sure. “Just try and get comfortable, okay?” Now that he’s here, lying next to Castiel, it’s not quite the terrible thing he had thought it would be while still standing next to the bed moments earlier. In fact it’s not so different from the times he’s had to share single-bed rooms with Sam and been so tired that he and his brother just bite their tongues and flop onto the same bed. It’s better, actually. Dean has a pretty good feeling that Castiel isn’t the kind of person who unconsciously cuddles whoever is in bed next to him the way Sam does.
Though it wouldn’t be too abhorrent to wake up pressed against Cas’ smaller body, his blue eyes peering sleepily back at Dean’s green ones.
Dean coughs. Only because at least Castiel isn’t his fucking brother.
He closes those selfsame green eyes, as if willing away the unbidden thoughts of waking up with Castiel. When he opens them again, Cas has shifted and is lying on his side, staring at him. Of course.
It takes all of Dean’s self control not to leap out of the bed. “Woah, okay, uh... Here.” Placing his hands on Cas’ shoulders, he twists him to face the other direction. “There we go.”
Castiel’s entire body goes stiff as soon as he has been turned away and that’s the only reason Dean notices that he had even relaxed at all. “Dean,” a sort of petulance seems to permeate the angel’s usual gravitas, “How am I supposed to sleep if I cannot see you?”
The Winchester holds back a grimace when he realizes that the question is making his face flush. “It doesn’t matter, Cas, you won’t be able to see me when you’re sleeping anyway. Just close your eyes and you’ll be out in a minute or two.”
The pair remains still and silent for several long moments, Dean trying his hardest to keep his brain free of all Castiel-related thoughts, though it’s proving difficult. What with the angel lying next to him and all. Closing his own eyes, he can feel himself succumbing to what is probably a much needed rest.
“Dean?”
He holds back a sigh. So much for that. “What, Cas?”
“This,” Castiel groans lightly, shifting his body. “This isn’t working.” He turns around to face Dean once more and at this range, Dean can see that the falling angel really does look more exhausted than usual. “I... I can’t...” His blue eyes are wide again, fearful.
“It’s okay, Cas, it’s just sleep. People do it all the time. You’ll be fine.” Dean surprises himself when he reaches out and touches the angel’s shoulder, drawing his fingers down to Castiel’s right hand and grabbing it. Ignoring just how very gay this all feels, he tugs on Cas’ arm, dragging the hand over to his own shoulder before releasing it. He doesn’t really remember that that’s where the angel’s mark is seared into his skin until Cas is pressing down lightly on the scar. “I’m right here and for now I’m not goin’ anywhere, okay? Just close your eyes.”
The physical contact seems to help, and Castiel gives him a shallow nod before complying.
This time, Dean watches as the angel falls asleep, marvelling at how young he looks now that his face is fully relaxed. The worry lines in his brow, whether a product of Castiel’s stressful occupation of Jimmy’s body or just a part of the vessel itself have receded. There is only the slightest crease there now, one of the few clues that alert Dean to the fact that Castiel isn’t quite asleep yet. His breathing hasn’t quite evened out yet either - and since when did Cas need to breath, anyway? - but despite this the angel is probably as loose and relax as he’ll ever be.
No, that’s not quite true.
Dean takes a deep breath of his own and decides that he probably owes Cas. Big time. The angel’s been taking an awful lot of shit lately, from the universe, from his boss, from Dean himself. In fact, he’s not even sure if he actually ever thanked Castiel for the whole raising-him-outta-hell thing. Given the way things have been going lately, Dean wouldn’t really be surprised if he hadn’t.
That, on top of the way he’s been treating the person who has quickly become as great an ally as his own brother lately, is pretty unacceptable.
Never one for heartfelt apologies, Dean decides to just suck it up and do the next best thing.
“Hey, turn over.”
Castiel’s eyes fly open. He was even less asleep than Dean had initially thought.
“You heard me, turn over.” Dean brushes Cas’ hand off of his shoulder and pushes at the angel’s side.
Finally, Cas moves, lying on his back once more.
Dean surveys him clinically and shakes his head, “No, on your stomach.”
A moment of shuffling later and Castiel lies on his stomach before Dean, head turned to the side, eyes straining to watch him despite the uncomfortable position.
“It’s okay, just bear with me.” Dean throws all caution - and those nagging little voices in the back of his head - to the wind, pressing his hands to Castiel’s shoulders and rubbing them gently. “Close your eyes and think of Heaven.” The angel stiffens, but lets the Winchester’s hands continue their gentle ministrations. Dean would never claim to be an expert at this, but it’s something he’s done with a couple of the girls he’s slept with over the years. Associating Cas with one of his former flings probably isn’t the healthiest of comparisons, though. “Relax.”
Dean kneads and presses against the stiff muscles in Castiel’s back, feeling them loosen and ease up under his touch. He is just beginning to wonder whether this pliability is a sign of the angel’s growing humanity or if even as an angel his body would have responded to the massage when his hands move lower down his shoulders and Cas lets out a barely-muffled groan.
Dean pulls back immediately. “You okay?”
“I’m,” Cas is panting, “Fine. Can you - “
“A little sensitive, huh?” Dean places his hands back where they were, rolling the tense muscles between his palms.
The angel groans again, eyes falling closed and body positively melting. He barely manages to let out a sharp exhale of breath accompanied by a single word. “Wings.”
Almost eagerly, Dean peers down at the angel’s back as though expecting to see his wings unfolding from within his rumpled dress shirt, but Castiel looks as human as ever. As human as Jimmy, anyway. “Should I stop?”
Cas pants again, eyes still firmly closed. “No, it - it feels good.” He relaxes under Dean’s continued ministrations, body growing more and more boneless with each pressing touch. Even verbal responses begin to fail him as he succumbs into mute limpness, more comfortable than he can ever remember being over the past two years of occupying his vessel.
When it becomes clear that Castiel is down for the count, Dean finally stops, rolling over onto his own back. He remains like this for several long moments, certain that the angel has successfully fallen asleep, a state that he anticipates he himself will be in shortly.
For now, anyway, it’s best to let the muddled series of thoughts racing through his brain at a mile a minute reconcile themselves later, because all he knows now is that here, in bed with Castiel, he feels content. More than that. Though his arms are feeling a little sore from the strenuous massage he has just bestowed, Dean feels secure. Comfortable. Happy.
And even Dean Winchester isn’t dumb enough to let such feelings pass without taking the time to appreciate them. In a swift, brainless movement - and what might have been a low growl - Dean tugs Castiel into his arms, pulling him close until his back is flush against Dean’s chest.
By way of response, the angel murmurs something contentedly and though Dean strains his ears to make out the words, he’s not entirely convinced that it was even in English. The last part of Castiel’s sleepy mumbles is astoundingly difficult to miss though.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he answers, voice belying his own tiredness. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
As Castiel slips into the oblivion of dreams for the first time, Dean finds himself thinking that he’s kind of looking forward to waking up with the angel. Even more than he’s looking forward to Sam realizing that he’s been locked out of the room for the night.
And yeah, Dean’s been fucking up a lot lately when it comes to his friendship - more than that? - with Castiel. But now when the angel is starting to fall, Dean’s finally ready to catch him.