[ so maybe he's a little lost. and maybe he's
a little hungry. and maybe he's missing a home
he'd not known to appreciate until he'd given it
up. but he's calling home because he needs to
know home is still there. home is - after all - why
he's doing any of this. lamentably enough, he
gets the answering machine. ]
(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.
