His appeal lies in all the hairline cracks that snake into his eyes when nobody’s looking, the way the skin pulls just a little too tight over his lips when he smiles.
How he can go from white-knuckled grips on knives that plunge into bodies (that once were carefree and laughed as easily as they breathed), to holding the old dishcloth as gently as if it were a child, passing soapy water against the lifeless, black shell of Baby.
He’s more careful with her cold, metallic form than any woman his fingers have held. More careful than he is with himself.
The way he can go from screaming obscenities and reciting latin incantations, to the desolate way he whispers in his head when he thinks the angel can’t hear him.
The way the green tint of his soul filters through all it’s hellburnt edges, through the demon-stained darkness…
It’s as astonishing as it is beautiful, enthralling and simply gravitational in its pull.
Dean’s appeal lies in the way his faults don’t match up with all the places that shine.
The way his voice calls out across the veil, across all space and time and all manner of distance and need; how in eons of existence, of trillions of voices calling out his name, not a single one has called out louder.
How in eons of existence, Castiel’s head has never felt so quiet.
Dean is sleeping, and now the galaxy is breathing.
He smiles, sometimes. When he dreams.
When the blackness folds away from nightmares and nothingness, he dreams. Castiel is always there when he dreams, if nothing more than to see the way the winkles in his forehead soften, the lines on his face die down to nothing.
Castiel finds himself smiling, too, because somewhere in the back of his head, he feels a tug. There’s something gravitationally green and plaid pulling at a little sliver of his Grace, sending things prickling up into him and through the veins of his body. Electric.
But the smile is gone as soon as it appears, replaced now with scowls and worry. He turns over in his sleep, mumbling and squirming. The tug grows stronger, more urgent.
Castiel wishes Dean would let him save him.
So when the sound of a hard ‘C’ and a soft ‘el’ come out as a choked whisper, the angel can’t breathe. The way Dean’s fingers clutch around the sheets and twist, the way his brow furrows deeper and his eyes squeeze shut tighter, Castiel just can’t seem to breathe.
He presses soft fingertips to the hunter’s forehead and the worrying fades, face falling back into peace. The tug fades back down, but he can’t take the way it feels. He can’t take the way it makes him feel.
Dean’s appeal lies in the way he won’t let anybody love him.
With one last look, the angel rises from his beside vigil, unwilling to subject himself to the torment any longer tonight.
“Cas.” There’s a sudden, very real tug on him, fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, pulling backwards. The breath hitches in his chest and he turns.
He’s upright now, shirtless and the blankets are a mess around him. The cold crusts the windows with frost, and there are goosebumps along his flesh. He’s leaning forward so far on the bed that he props himself up with his other hand. From the glare of snowy white, he can see green glinting in the darkness where his face is cast in shadow. They look so unearthly tired, worn with wisdom no man should possess.
“Stay.” The grip tightens. “Please."
Castiel feel something inside of him break, and he moves to reclaim his perch on the edge of the bed. Dean’s sitting upright now, his legs drawn up to his chin under the covers as his unreadable eyes look Castiel over, studying.
They are quiet for a long time, and blue orbs keep finding themselves attached to the raised red handprint burn scar on his shoulder. There’s a burning urge to touch.
"I only sleep well when you’re around, you know.” His voice is dry, almost horse with strain. He’s trying so hard.
Something constricts in the angel’s gut, twisting painfully with sudden guilt. He’s never around.
“I don’t know why.” Dean’s strong arms move to wrap around his knees, and in a rare display of weakness, he closes his eyes as he rests his head on top of his hands. The bedspread is haphazardly skewed around him, none of the corners matching up with their proper places. His dark, sandy blonde hair is spiked up in every which way from the pillow and he moves his head to stare straight ahead. The silence yawns out between them, palpable.
There is so much here, sprawled out before him at three in the morning on a February night. Dean has never shown this much before. He’s never been this honest, this open and raw.
“I can stay,” Castiel starts. “If you want.” Dean looks up, and the way his eyes look in the light is almost childlike.
A hand finds its way to match up with the burn scar, and a small shudder presses its way to the base of the other man’s spine.
“I’ll watch over you.” The hunter’s body uncurls, and the furrow in his brow finally releases. His callused fingers gingerly, tentatively reach up to press against the angel’s hand on his shoulder, and their eyes connect.
“Thank you,” is what he says. Castiel hears otherwise.
Dean lies back down and rolls over, back to the angel. Without the need for words, he shrugs off his iconic coat and toes off his shoes. With a soft sound of rustling fabric, he stretches out on top of the sheets beside him. They don’t touch. They don’t need to.
Dean’s appeal lies in the way he won’t let anybody love him
But Castiel hasn’t ever been one for following orders.
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