@bunnymcbunnister requested Cas using his coat as a blanket for Dean. Here you go darling, hope that I did your idea justice!
Dean shivers as he clutches his coat closer to his body. The breeze, which had been pleasant in the sixty-five degree afternoon, has turned into something with teeth here in the darkness of the forest. He and Cas are huddled up against the base of some old, giant oak, one of the biggest offerings that the paltry scrap of woods outside the town has to offer. They’ve been out here waiting for at least thirty minutes with no end in sight, and Dean’s body is starting to feel the strain of the ten hour drive to get here.
“You don’t have to stay here,” Cas says, stupidly unbothered by the cold as always. “We all agreed that it was more likely that the satyr would return to the club. You could go there and give Sam some back-up.”
“No, because all we’re going to be able to do at the club is chase him away from any victims. In order to kill him, we’re going to have to corner him here.”
He doesn’t mention that Cas could single-handedly take care of a satyr by himself or that he’s long since lost the feeling in the tips of his fingers. Or that, despite the cold, his eyelids are feeling heavier than ever.
“So I’m staying.” Dean’s eyebrow lifts, daring Cas to contradict him.
“Suit yourself,” is all that Cas says, which. Dean wasn’t exactly angling for a fight, but bland compliance isn’t really what he was aiming for either.
Cas doesn’t even deign to respond to that. He just settles further against the tree, with the patience of an eternal being who doesn’t get bothered by paltry concerns such as exhaustion or hypothermia. Dean, who is just a mere mortal and who does get bothered by those paltry concerns, also shifts.
Cas’ arm is a brand of heat against his arm and Dean tries to curl into that warmth without being too obvious about it. He and Cas aren’t official, not yet anyway. They haven’t exchanged rings or given each other any flowery declarations of love or sung any dramatic duets yet, but. They’re the kind of not official that’s official, in that Dean recoils from the thought of anyone else, in that Cas hangs around the bunker even when there’s not a case, in that Dean chose to be out here in the forest with him instead of the club where he could at least con his way into free drinks.
And what’s a tree root digging persistently into his ass compared to that?
Dean’s jaw aches from stifling his yawns, but he’ll be damned if he gives Cas the satisfaction. Not that Cas would gloat. No, Cas would do something stupid and nice like insist that he go back to the hotel. Once the suggestion was in his head, he’d plant his heels in the stubbornly angelic way that he has, the one that reminds Dean that he’s dealing with a being that had enough patience to watch continental drift.
So yawning isn’t an option. But it becomes an undeniable reality as the time drags out and their satyr continues to be a no-show.
“Perhaps we should give up for the night,” Cas suggests, either a few minutes or a few hours later. “I’m not sure that our satyr is going to return here tonight.”
Dean hears his words through a haze, like they’re standing at opposite ends of a tunnel. He grunts, hopes that it sounds disagreeable. They can’t afford to give up for the night. This asshole is targeting single women, hunting them down as they leave clubs. There’s no way that this bastard sees another sunrise, not if Dean Winchester has anything to say about it.
But Cas is so damn warm. And what could it really hurt, closing his eyes for a few minutes as his head drops down to Cas’ shoulder?
That’s the first thing that struggles to Dean’s consciousness, is the fact that he’s cozy warm, from his fingers down to the tip of his nose. It’s the kind of warm that makes him want to wriggle around, just to revel in the feeling. Languid delight races up his spine and a lazy smile graces his face.
The second thing that rises in Dean’s slowly sharpening consciousness is the lack of discomfort in his body. Years of hunting and hard living have ensured that some part of his body hurts almost all the time–from the three fingers that never healed exactly right to his trick knee that twinges whenever it’s going to rain, to that weird space between his shoulders–some part of him always feels the job or his age. But not now. Now, he’s just lazy and heavy, aware of his body but without the pains.
The darkness of the forest surrounds him, dim and dark. Starlight just barely filters in through the trees and it’s only years of experience peering through almost pitch blackness that leave Dean able to see anything. He would worry except…
His stumbling brain finally catches up to reality as he realizes exactly what his fingers are curled around. The fabric of Cas’ coat is softer than he always imagined, worn thin and soft through years of use. It’s thicker than he always thought, enough to provide him with a snug little bubble of warmth in the middle of the forest. When Dean ducks his head down, he can scent the particular mixture that he always associates with Cas–the petrichor mixing with the sharp, salt tang of the ocean, so unlike anything that he’s ever smelled in his life spent in the heartland.
His cheek is resting against something soft and unyielding. It only takes Dean a second longer than it should to figure out that it’s Cas’ thigh, and the heavy weight on his shoulder is Cas’ hand.
He blinks, flicks his eyes up, as he pulls Cas’ coat in closer around himself. Cas doesn’t look down at him, but judging from the tiny smile gracing his face, he’s aware of Dean’s return to wakefulness.
It’s only after he’s had a few seconds to stare at Cas that Dean notices the thin trickle of blood tracing down from underneath his hairline.
“Satyr finally show?” he guesses. His voice comes out as a rough rumble that sounds more pissed than he is.
Luckily, Cas reads the tone beneath his voice. He tips his head to the side, a playful little glint shining in his eyes.
“About forty-five minutes ago,” he answers. His thumb strokes over Dean’s shoulder. Through the fabric of the coat it’s barely noticeable, but Dean can hear the rasp of skin and if he tries hard enough, he can imagine that pressure.
“And I’m just now finding out about this because?” He doesn’t have to fake the petulant tone in his voice, though he does play it up a little. It’s so rare that he gets to tease Cas; he’ll relish every opportunity he gets.
“You looked so peaceful,” Cas answers. There’s something secret and pleased in his eyes, something soft that lives right at the very heart of him, and that Cas so rarely gets to display.
Maybe if Sam were here, then Dean would feel the familiar prickling of shame and the desperate need to deflect. As it is, with only the stars to witness them, he snuggles in deeper into the pocket of comfort which the coat provides.
“You did,” Cas confirms. His eyes linger on where Dean’s chin is tucked into the collar of the coat and where his fingers pull it closer to his body. “It seemed rude to wake you.”
“And so you let me sleep through a whole ass fight.” Dean sighs, but he wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything, not even getting his ass kicked by a rogue satyr.
Cas doesn’t answer him, though his fingers do grip at Dean’s shoulder through the coat. Which, now that he thinks about it, is an answer.
“Now that the fight’s over, we should probably go back to the hotel,” Cas finally says, tilting his head up to look at the narrow window of stars visible through the canopy above.
“Yeah.” Dean can already feel a yawn pulling at his jaw. This time, he doesn’t fight it. “We probably should.”
He wriggles around, before he tugs the coat up close to his face. He tucks his nose into the collar and breathes in the scent of Cas. Dean feels his muscles relaxing further, the tension of the car ride and the wait seeping out as he surrounds himself with nothing but Cas Cas Cas.
They can afford to stay for a few more minutes.
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