After Dean finally drifts off into an uneasy sleep, Castiel doesn’t let go of his hand. He knows he could but he doesn’t want to. It would feel too much like a betrayal, even though he’s well aware that Dean might not think of it as such. In fact, Dean might not think of it at all.
It took him more courage than he would’ve ever thought possible to reach across the small space separating their hands and touch, to hold Dean’s hand after all these years. He isn’t afraid, not of Dean or the Mark of Cain—although Dean probably thinks he should be—his hesitation is more about whether or not he’s allowed to have this.
Whatever this might be.
He shifts slightly so that he isn’t sitting in such an awkward angle. It doesn’t bother him, really, because now that he’s all…powered up, as Dean likes to say, trivialities such as bad posture, sustenance, or sleep don’t concern him anymore. But he picked up some things during his brief time as human and, for whatever reason, he can’t quite let them go.
Beside him, Dean frowns, either because of yet another nightmare or because Castiel’s movement disturbed him. In a low voice, Castiel shushes him and then nods when the frown slowly melts away.
Sleep is something he has never quite figured out. Angels have no need for sleep and Castiel finds the idea almost frightening. He knows enough of the dream world that he understands the dangers and how utterly vulnerable the human mind is during sleep. It’s frankly astonishing that more humans haven’t gone mad because of sleep.
Then again, even if Castiel was able to sleep, he wouldn’t. Not now, not when Dean trusts him to guard his rest.
Dean’s hand is lax in his hold, more at ease than the man resting on the bed. Through his fingertips, Castiel can feel the thrumming pulse in Dean’s veins, the steady beat of a heart that has been through so much more than a man of Dean’s age should. It’s a marvel how he can still go on after everything he’s lived through. Lesser men would’ve succumbed under the weight of all the responsibilities and demands, but Dean…
Castiel sighs.
Dean. The Righteous Man he still believes in, the bright, brilliant soul he rescued from Hell. Dean, who has defied angels and demons and who has been literally through Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. Dean, who still doesn’t see his own worth.
Dean, for whom Castiel is ready to do so much.
And who would never love Castiel back.
He’s pulled from his morose thoughts when the door creaks softly and Sam peeks inside. His eyes drop momentarily to their joined hands but he says nothing, and when he looks at Castiel, his eyes are warm.
”I’m heading to bed,” Sam says in a low voice. ”Do you need anything?”
Castiel shakes his head.
Sam nods. ”Night,” he whispers and closes the door behind him.
Without letting go of Dean’s hand, Castiel shifts to lean against the headboard and looks up at the ceiling. In the darkness, he can’t see the small cracks traveling across the plaster. It doesn’t matter, he knows they’re there anyway.
Beside him, Dean lets out a small sound. It’s not enough to warrant waking him up, but it serves as a reminder: this is what Castiel is here for.
He gives Dean’s hand another gentle squeeze and settles in for the night.
This is where he belongs.