I told you. He’s an angry sleeper. Like a bear.
Those words echo in Castiel’s mind on mornings like this. They almost make him laugh, because things have changed so much now.
Now that the fighting is over. Now that the last battle has been won. Now that it’s just him, and Jack, and Dean, tucked away in their little three-bedroom home at the edge of a small coastal town.
There’s nothing angry about the way Dean sleeps anymore. Except, maybe, the way he’ll punch and wrestle with his pillows when they aren’t molded to a shape exactly of his liking.
No, these days, Dean sleeps comfortably. Contentedly. On the same mattress every night, with the same nest of blankets, his phone and wallet and reading glasses spilled over the same nightstand. If he wakes to something in the night, it’s with droopy-eyed confusion, rather than a frantic vault into defensive alertness. In the mornings, if Castiel tries to nudge him awake, he’ll grunt and grumble good-naturedly as he begs for ‘five more minutes’ while wrapping Castiel up in his arms. His way of settling the debate. At least temporarily.
On mornings like this, when Jack has decided to sleep in too, Castiel doesn’t try to wake Dean up. Instead, he pads out to the kitchen and turns the coffee on. Thumbs through a grocery store flier, taking note of the discounts on ground beef and red grapes. Looks out the window and laments at how long the grass is getting. Dean will want to cut it again soon, while Castiel sees no harm in letting it grow a little wild.
He pours two cups of coffee. Balances a plate of cheesy tea biscuits on the mouth of one of them as he heads back to the bedroom. Dean has changed positions since he left. He’s on his stomach now, having rolled over to claim Castiel’s pillow as his own, while the rest of his body is angled back towards his side.
Setting everything down on his nightstand, Castiel lowers himself into a seated position on the edge of the bed. He reaches up and cards his fingers through Dean’s hair. In response, Dean’s next breath is much deeper than the one before it, and he exhales a pleased little hum.
“I made coffee,” Castiel murmurs.
Dean catches his hand on its next stroke, and uses it to pull Castiel down beside him. He resists him though, because he has every intention of enjoying his coffee while it’s still hot. They do a bit of maneuvering until Castiel is propped up against the headboard, Dean having abandoned his pillow and using Castiel’s midsection instead.
“Kid awake yet?” Dean mumbles against his skin.
“Not yet,” he answers. “Though…” He tossed a glance at their door. “It’s only a matter of time.”
Castiel has only taken his second sip before Dean has drifted back to sleep.
He loves this. This man. This home. This little family they’ve built for each other.
He loves that Dean doesn’t sleep angry anymore. And that he doesn’t sleep alone.