;; Acaronar
(a-ka-ro-NAR) Catalán Verb : : To tenderly pull someone closer
for damnedkxng
It is taking far longer to collect his courage in the wake of his Fall than he had hoped. His determination to stay true to Dean, to prove his loyalty had carried him both to and through the agony of his sibling's wrath - but it has left him no recourse thereafter.
He knows not what to do, nor where he should turn. He fears clinging to Dean as he so desires, for he fears alarming him. He sits in an overstuffed chair, swaddled in blankets for the chill that nips at ankles of a day - and lies away in bed of a night, fearing to close his eyes for what he will see and feel.
Humanity has fallen upon him as a wave. Displacing the ordered authority of a former life, casting him into complete and utter disarray. He scrambles for purchase on any and all notions, yet his only salvation is that which he fell for.
Dean Winchester. Beautiful, terrible Dean. With his gunpowder heart and his hazard hap soul. Dean Winchester. Whom Castiel loves above all else.
He's there for when his breath grows short and his grip choking. He's there when he shifts poorly and pulls at unhealed wounds. He's there to clean and care and coo.
He's there when Castiel needs him. And when he doesn't - he's there anyway. Just in case.
It is in this adulation that he finds his solid ground.
The shadows play across the roof, shifting shapes in the fathomless darkness that has Castiel gripping tight the pillow beneath his head and shuffling his shoulders oh- so-delicately.
His throat is tight and his eyes sandy for reasons utterly unknown to him. He does not feel the need to weep, yet his body betrays him with actions he cannot comprehend. His every breath is steady, and his chin is tucked to his chest - but still . . . still Dean knows.
" Cas?"
The word is sleep sodden, but it is more than a thoughtless mumble of dream. The fallen angel stills what minute movement he makes in favor of warding off interest. He cannot explain himself, for he does not know. Nor does he want Dean to see him so weak.
He does not make a sound. But still still Dean knows.
" C'mere."
The bedding dips as the Winchester shifts, closing the distance that lay between in a series of shuffles that scarcely disturb the blanket beneath which they lie. A knee is sliding between his own, and a shape is rising before him, arms winding about his frozen form with a delicacy that speaks of respect as opposed to uncertainty.
Dean knows.
He knows not to touch upon Castiel's back, just as he knows not to ask after his wellbeing. The answer is obvious, and they both know that Castiel will lie. He doesn't know how to be anything other than fine.
Chest to cheek, Dean rests his chin atop the mussed mess of Cas' head; an arm curled beneath the former Seraph so that calloused fingers might cradle the back of his head and card through his hair. The Winchester rumbles quietly, settling himself once more. He does not demand that Castiel sleep, nor speak further. He does not need to.
He simply pulls him close and holds him. Without witty comment, or ulterior intentions. He holds him close and settles down to sleep once more. He assumes that it is enough.
And it is.
It takes some time, but when next he is opening his eyes - there is light and colour to the world. The ache of his bones is lessened and his limbs are bound in the warm embrace of dreamless sleep. Still, he is pressed to Dean's body and tangled in his embrace. It has been enough.
Green eyes greet his arrival, and a sleepy smile tugs at ample lips. This - is the precise moment that Castiel decides that he likes their bed.
