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Well, to be fair, there’s normally a body in Dean’s bed, but that body is Cas, who is typically wrapped around him like a goddamn koala. And Cas doesn’t normally wriggle, because he sleeps like he’s getting paid to. 

So it must be--

“Jack,” Dean whispers, trying to sound both frustrated and caring at the same time and falling a little too much on the side of the former, “What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jack replies, his round face inches from Dean’s, and Dean sighs, scooting over because Cas, spread-eagle on the other side of the bed and fully unperturbed by the appearance of their adult-sized toddler, is unlikely to move. 

Jack snuggles down into the blankets and immediately shuts his eyes. Dean is just thinking that maybe he can fall back asleep on the sliver of bed he now has to himself when Jack whispers, “I had nightmares again.”

This is the sort of thing he only admits to Dean (and, sometimes Sam, although Sam’s not really around at night), because while Cas is....himself, and extraordinarily caring, sometimes Jack doesn’t need someone to fix things, he just needs someone to listen.

And Dean knows all too well about nightmares and about fathers ignoring them, and he knows he hasn’t always done right by Jack, so whenever Jack wants to talk about this stuff, Dean listens. 

“Same old?” Dean whispers back. For a three-year-old, Jack’s had a hell of a life. Shit, he’s really had two lives.

Jack nods, barely perceptible in the dark. “Do they ever go away?”

“One day, yeah.” And it’s true, Dean thinks. If you had told him five, ten years ago, one day you’ll hardly ever have nightmares, one day you won’t find yourself at the bottom of the bottle every other night, one day you’ll be really, truly happy, he woulda said you were full of shit.

But now he’s got Cas (all the words are wrong for him--husband, boyfriend, partner, Cas is just...everything), and his giant of a little brother has Eileen, and he’s got a kid who’s willing to turn to him for comfort, and Dean knows that everything’s gonna be alright.

That’s where he’s at this morning.

He woke up at four and watched Cas breathe next to him for a full hour, continually reassuring himself that Cas was, in fact, still alive. Eventually he started feeling like a crazy person and hauled himself out of bed, which landed him where he is now, standing in front of the big bay window in their kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee.

It’s nearly six now, the coffee half-cold, and part of Dean wants to go get his slippers so his feet aren’t directly on the chilly tile, but instead he’s...stuck here. 

Sometimes this feeling goes away when the sun fully comes up, when light floods the kitchen (painted yellow, per Cas’ request) and the rest of the house. One of their first post-Chuck priorities (minus pulling Cas topside) was moving out of the bunker.

Sure, it had been Dean’s first real home, after that long-burned house in Lawrence, but it was underground, and something about suddenly realizing that he was forty-two and actually free for the first time in his life made him want to get out as fast as possible, away from all those memories and towards the light.

Hence the cup of coffee--even cooler now--in a mug clumsily painted by Cas with sunflowers and the big kitchen with an island and an honest-to-god hanging pot rack and Dean’s slippers, in their living room by the big, squishy green couch (they’re shaped like bunnies, Jack picked them out) and the three rooms upstairs--a guest room, for when Sam and Eileen (frequently) visit, Jack’s room (crammed with books and Legos and a race-car shaped bed Dean built himself because, surprise surprise, you can’t buy fun toddler beds for toddlers that are adult-sized), and Dean and Cas’ bedroom, where Cas is still soundly sleeping. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Or not, apparently. 

Dean turns to see Cas standing at the foot of the stairs, in his pajamas, with a sleepy, lopsided smile on his face. Dean gestures at Cas and he pads over, shoving himself under Dean’s free arm and plastering himself against Dean’s side.

“’S early,” Cas says, yawning and reaching for Dean’s coffee. Dean pulls it away from him and Cas tilts his head up at Dean, frowning.

“It’s cold,” Dean replies, “And you can get your own.”

“But I don’t want to.” Cas pauses. “How long have you been up?”

“Couple hours.” It’s nice to feel Cas against him, warm and solid and real. Decidedly not a dream. 

Cas, as always, can tell what’s eating at him, and he moves away, pulling Dean’s fingers away from the mug and setting it on the kitchen table. Then he takes Dean’s fingers and presses them against his wrist. After a few seconds, Dean starts to feel Cas’ heartbeat, steady and regular.

“I’m still here,” Cas says, moving his hand to hold Dean’s properly. “Come back to bed?”

Dean nods, swallows. “Yeah.” 

Despite the fact that it’s probably six in the morning and Dean’s supposed to be asleep right now (long weeks at the auto shop always knock him out), he pulls himself out of bed and pads around to the other side of his bed, where Jack is standing, poking Cas’ face. 

Dean crouches down to Jack’s level. “Papa’s sick, remember?”

Jack looks down at his feet. “He has the flu.”

“Yeah, he has the flu.” Dean holds out his arms. “But Daddy can play with you instead.”

Jack sighs and lets himself be picked up. 

Dean knows that he can't quite replicate Cas and Jack’s special Saturday mornings together, but he can sure as hell try. The two of them always watch Plaza Sésamo, the Spanish version of Sesame Street, together, because language learning needs to start at a young age, Dean, and Jack has a mug of warm milk so he can be just like his Papa with coffee. 

(Leave it to Dean to marry an elementary school librarian.) 

Then, they make pancakes, which usually gets Dean to actually wake up and join them. After that, they go to the farmer’s market. 

And every Saturday is perfect.

But two days ago, after spending eight hours with snotty-nosed kids, Cas came home more exhausted than usual and then promptly passed out on the couch. One trip to the doctor later and it was confirmed--Cas had the flu. 

Which means that Dean’s gotta figure this whole “morning thing” out.

"What do you want to watch, Jack?” he asks, and Jack shakes his head. 

“I wanna color.”

“Alright.” Less time in front of the television is totally cool with Dean. He sets them up at the kitchen table, rummaging around on the bookshelf next to it until he finds the stack of recycled paper that they use for Jack to color and the box of crayons and markers. 

While Jack sets about drawing (there are several of his drawings from school stuck to the fridge--studies in crayon with Daddy and Papa and also Uncle Sam and Aunt Eileen and Grandma written on them in Jack’s kindergarten teacher’s neat handwriting), Dean makes coffee, and then decides to also make Cas some tea for whenever he actually wakes up and also to heat up some milk for Jack.

By the time he gets back to the table, Muppets in Space mug with warm milk in it in one hand and his coffee in a mug shaped like a spark plug that Cas got him because he thought it was funny in the other, Jack has used several sheets of paper, and Dean bends over him.

“Whatcha drawing?” Dean asks, and Jack tries to hide the paper with his tiny arms.

“It’s a secret,” he says. “You have to wait ‘til I'm finished.”

“Okay, okay.” Dean sets the milk down and then sits next to Jack, grabbing a piece of paper of his own. He’s halfway through drawing some sorta-realistic flowers (Cas has a big garden in their backyard that he loves to work in when he’s not, you know, actively dying of the flu), Jack is finished and poking Dean’s arm.

“Look,” Jack says, shoving his drawing at Dean. “I’m just like you, Daddy!”

It’s a drawing of a car, with two stick figures holding clumsily drawn wrenches standing next to it. 

“It’s you and me,” Jack adds. “We’re gonna fix the car.” He studies Dean’s face. “Do you like it?”

“I love it, kiddo.” Dean mashes Jack into a hug until Jack wiggles in protest, and then Dean tickles him, getting a laugh out of his son.

Later, while Jack is occupied with choosing between strawberries and blueberries for pancakes, Dean heads upstairs with the aforementioned mug of tea. Cas is sitting up when he gets to their room, with the comforters bunched around him, and he lets out a feeble cough.

“How’s Jack?” Cas asks, gratefully accepting the tea and taking a sip. 

“He’s great. We colored.”

“Oh good.” Cas coughs again. “Can you make sure to--”

“Get kale at the farmer’s market? Already on the list.”

“And more honey from--”

“The Turners?”

Cas smiles at him tiredly. “Hopefully later I can--”

“You can sleep later is what you can do. I’ve got this under control.” Dean presses a kiss to his husband’s forehead and turns to leave. “Although Jack and I will bring you breakfast in bed.”

“Can I put in a vote for strawberries?” Cas asks.

“I’ll see what the boss says.” Dean grins and then heads out, gently shutting the door behind him.

So maybe he’s not a morning person, and this isn’t a usual Saturday in the Winchester household. 

But today it’s unexpectedly cold--not just a solid, comforting drizzle but a proper storm, and Cas is loathe to go outside. He lays in bed, listening to the sound of Dean breathing, until he can’t stand the taste of the inside of his own mouth anymore. 

Dean shifts slightly as Cas gets up, but doesn’t awaken. Cas is extra careful as he pads out of their room and to the bathroom--the floors of their new-old house creak, and he’s sure to miss the boards that he knows make the most noise. 

One of the things that Cas wanted, when they decided to get their own place, after years underground, was a real bathtub. (He didn't stipulate that it needed to fit two grown men, but the one they found did, and he’s never complained about that.) He turns the taps on now, on the hotter side of warm, adding in some bubble bath that smells of lavender, and then rummages through their bathroom closet for a towel. 

(Dean is always disparaging Cas’ inability to neatly stack freshly laundered towels, but Cas’ theory is that he can find the towels, so it’s not really important.)

When the tub is full, Cas strips off his pajamas, leaving them in a pile next to the bathmat, and climbs into the tub, sinking into the water. He lets his eyes slide shut and the pounding of the rain fill his ears.

It’s meditative, almost, and Cas isn’t sure how long he’s been in the bath before the water sloshes, displaced. He lets his eyes flutter open to see Dean climbing into the tub. 

“What time is it?” Cas asks as Dean settles in next to him, their bodies pressed close together, overlapping slightly to fit.

“About seven,” Dean replies, dropping his head onto Cas’ shoulder, still drowsy.

Cas tightens an arm around Dean. “Why are you awake, then?”

“Because,” Dean lifts his head to look at Cas, “I married a maniac who gets up at the asscrack of dawn to watch the grass grow and take baths.”

“You still love me though,” Cas teases, and Dean responds by kissing him and then pressing his face into Cas’ neck. 

“I’m going to go back to sleep,” Dean says, “Keep communing with the bubbles or whatever.”

It occurs to Cas at this moment, with the solid warmth of Dean practically wrapped around him, that he never could have dreamed this up, never could have imagined having his own house with the one he loved, and being loved in turn.