Dean was sprawled across the bed, legs stretched out and boots long forgotten somewhere near the door. An ancient-looking lore book was casually held in his hand, full of yellowed pages and tiny cramped handwriting. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he tried to decipher some faded passage on Norse banshees or… maybe it was Latvian wraiths. Hard to tell with all the chicken-scratch Latin.
And sprawled on top of him like an extremely heavy, incredibly warm, celestial weighted blanket was Castiel.
"Cas," Dean murmured, shifting slightly. "You're kinda heavy, buddy."
Cas hummed sleepily, not moving an inch. "I like it here."
"Yeah, I figured," Dean grumbled, even as his free hand reached up to absently stroke Cas’s hair. It was stupidly soft. Like angel-fabric soft. "You know I’m trying to work, right? There are actual monsters eating actual people."
"You're warm," Cas mumbled into his shirt. "And you smell like pie."
Dean rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated huff. “Great. I’m a space heater and a dessert buffet.”
Cas didn't respond. His breathing had evened out and his grip tightened slightly, like he was afraid Dean might actually try to move. Which he wasn’t. Not really.
Dean stared down at the page, squinting at a paragraph that might have been helpful. He shifted the book to the side, trying to read around the top of Cas’s head. The angel made a sleepy, annoyed noise and nuzzled in deeper.
“Fine. But if someone dies because I didn’t read page eighty-six, it’s on you.”
Cas didn’t answer. He was already asleep.
Dean sighed, leaned his head back against the headboard and let the book fall closed with a soft thump. Outside, a cicada buzzed lazily. Inside, the only sound was the quiet rhythm of two heartbeats and the soft exhale of an angel in love.
Dean didn’t really mind the interruption.
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