At night, when the only light left on is the one just outside his and Sam's bedrooms, when Dean's lying in bed (his own bed, finally), he lets his mind wander. He can afford more than four hours of sleep, here, waiting out news from Kevin and searching for cases nearby. They're closed off and no one knows where this place even is, and Sam's so relaxed he's lightly snoring in the room next to Dean. He thinks maybe he should relax, too, but it's quiet and he's alone, and without the rustling of sheets, the even breathing, without something filling the silence, Dean feels out of place.
Half an hour later, he gets up, sets the record player as quiet as it'll go, shuts his door so it won’t disturb Sam, and crawls back into bed.
He's already prayed. Never does much good. Dean even got down on his knees and pressed his hands together. Still nothing. But it doesn't stop him from doing it. Cas never answered in Purgatory, either. The difference is that at least in purgatory, Dean could find him, could seek out answers to where he was and is, and fight and claw his way to him.
How the hell's he gonna find Cas now?
Sighing, he rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Maybe it'd be easier if the place didn't have a thousand wards in place to keep things out (if Cas would even show up), but Dean's been pretty careful about reading them through to make sure they aren't angel-proofed. Not anymore, at least, if they ever were.
Maybe the angels are a threat, maybe they’re not, but Cas isn’t. Doesn’t feel right to punish him, after all.
Metallica plays softly and Dean hums to himself for a few moments, closing his eyes. He’s gotta get some sleep. Any amount at this point, although it doesn’t look like much.
In the silence between songs, he hears it—the rustling of feathers. Probably just his imagination (he’s been listening for a long time), but Dean swallows and says, “Cas?” anyway.
But it’s met with empty air, and after that the next song starts playing, and Dean drops his head back to the pillow. Too good to be true, really. Winchesters can only have so much good in their lives at once, and Dean’s already figured that the Men of Letters bunker is enough good to last him a few years.
He’s almost asleep when he hears, “Dean,” and feels the bed dip by his knees.
He jerks, kicks Cas in the lower back, but Cas doesn’t move an inch—and Dean feels like he’s hit his leg against steel. He flips on the light near his bed. “Where’ve you been?” he says, intending for it to come out angry and upset—but his voice is quiet and not exactly hurt, but close. Castiel drops his hand on Dean’s shin. Dean doesn’t mention that it’s like Purgatory, but the aching relief in his chest is the same as it was when he found Cas then.
Instead of answering, Castiel gently pushes at Dean’s knee until he’s scooted over enough to make room for both of them and lies down. Quiet, like everything else tonight. Dean’s used to quiet from Cas, but it’s just—different. Nudging his shoulder, Dean asks, “What’s going on with you?”
If he's being honest, he doesn't expect an answer at all. It's not really that Cas is secretive, but--yeah, maybe a little. Or he seems that way, at least, and even though Dean gets pissed (royally), he can't hold it against him. Dean's not exactly the most honest of people himself.
They're pressed together side by side. The bed's not made for two grown men, not the way they're laying, but Dean doesn't reach out for him, doesn't pull Cas on top of him like he wants. "Anything I can do to help? I mean--kind of a worthless offer, but you just gotta ask and--"
He doesn't think about it, not really, just reaches out and grabs Cas' wrist, holds it between his hands, against his chest, and frowns at the ceiling.
“You’re not disappearing on me.” Too many times Cas has pulled the ‘just for a second, just long enough to deliver a ‘thank you’’ shit that Dean doesn’t even deserve, just to pop back off again. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you in weeks.”
After a while, Cas gently takes his hand back from Dean, shifts onto his side, and stares down at him. Just for a second, he looks like he’s going to say something, but instead reaches up and brushes at Dean’s hair, rubs his thumb at Dean’s jawline, and leans down to kiss him. Slow and chaste until Dean’s grip on him goes lax, until he’s got his hand against the nape of Cas’ neck, until he’s not worried about him disappearing.
When Castiel pulls away, some time later, when Dean’s comfortable and relaxed and not worried about him disappearing again (for the moment, at least), he presses their foreheads together and whispers something Dean can’t make out.
“Hey,” he says, eyes closed, feeling Cas breathe against his lips, his throat dry—but he feels like he needs to ask, because for as well as Cas reads him other times, this hasn’t ever been something he’s good at reading. He stalls, plays with the hair at Cas’ neck, and asks, “Stay?”
It’s a nice bunker, and it’s his room, and Sam’s safe in the next room, and for the first time in a long time Dean feels at home in something with four walls, because he can make it his, but—it’s missing something.
“Stay with me,” he says again, brave from desperation and tiredness and Castiel’s lips. It’s the first time he’s said it aloud, but he wants this whole ‘home’ thing to work out, if it can. He should maybe get up, turn on the lights and tell Castiel to spill about what’s happened, why he’s been missing, anything he knows about what’s going on, but—
--he’s safe and Dean can’t break the moment, even if everything he knows is telling him to.
Beyond that, with Cas close, pressed against Dean where he fits too well, he can’t even bring himself to feel guilty about it.
