#moonstiel

just tfw hanging in a laundromat eating froyo i would die a happy death

ofgraveimportance replied to your post: I’m sorry but I’m gonna need ...

Ah! Charlie walks in with froyo! I would die.

this would make such a cute fanart eeeep

and then charlie walks in at the inopportune moment would you just

Here you go anon, I wrote a thing. I hope it’s not too awful.

A hoarse scream wakes Dean sometime before dawn and for once, it’s not his own. He had been sleeping soundly, without a single nightmare, strangely enough. An occurrence that probably has more to do with the fallen angel sleeping safely in the room next door than Dean would like to admit. Three weeks after the angels fell, three weeks of worrying and the bastard had just shown up out of the blue a few hours ago. Typical.

He had wanted to yell and question but Cas had looked so defeated, standing there in grimy clothes and such a world-weary look on his face that he didn’t have it in him. And he was more relieved than angry if he was being honest with himself.

So he opened the door without a word and they stood staring at each other warily, not knowing where to begin. Until Sam walked in saying he heard something and stopped mid-sentence at the sight of Cas. A strangled cry escaped his lips and he half lunged towards Cas and pulled him into a hug. Cas froze for a second before giving into it.

They had stood, the three of them, the unanswered questions almost palpable between them but Cas had looked worse in the light, dirty and weary and Dean had decided it could wait till morning. So after Cas had showered and borrowed a few of their clothes, they had all headed to separate rooms, the promise of answers saved for the morning.

He hears another scream. It’s more a whimper this time but it’s human and is coming from the direction of Cas’s room so Dean grabs the gun from under his pillow and gets up. He hears one more, louder, as he’s walking but then there’s silence. He busts into Cas’s makeshift room, gun held out but meets only empty air and lower, a figure curled away from him on the bed in the corner.

Oh. He was having a nightmare.

Dean almost wants to laugh at himself as it dawns on him because he should be familiar with the screams of the tortured mind by now. He’s had more than enough of those nights when his own screams have woken him from the hell in his head.

Cas is turned towards him now, startled by the noise he made walking in. His face is faintly lit by the small lamp on the bedside table and it looks so twisted up that Dean can’t help but move closer.

He sits on the bed quietly, placing the gun on the table.

"Cas-"

"I destroyed everything. " He says it like it’s a fact, like he did and he does and he will. Irrevocably. And it chokes the air right out of Dean’s lungs. What do you say to that?

"Cas-"

"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-" He swallows thickly and turns away again, curling into himself a little. “You should go back to bed."

Except Cas is shaking, hunched into himself and hurting and Dean thinks back to all the times after hell and before when he was right here, and wishing for human touch, for a person to clutch onto. He sure as hell doesn’t know what to say but at least he can do that much. He shifts with a sigh and lies down next to Cas, pulling the blanket bunched up at the end of the bed around them.

He curls himself around Cas’s body and pulls at the same time, bringing him closer.

"Dean?" Cas goes still, not pulling away but not letting go either, body taunt with question.

"You can tell me to fuck off but I can do this for you right now, alright? We don’t need to talk about it." Dean hopes to god that his voice is steady.

He can feel Cas nod against his chest and go slack, letting Dean envelop him as Dean’s arms move cautiously around him. Cas’s skin is hot to to the touch, but it’s comfortable, like this, the two of them in the same bed like it’s not an anomaly.

"Dean-"

"We’re sleeping, Cas. Just go to sleep. I’m here." Cas lets out a quiet sigh but he relents, too tired to fight him on it.

----

five.

He could come stumbling out of the woods, Dean thinks. Any minute now.

"Cas!" he yells out again. He scans the tree line surrounding the church, glances up at the sky. Stars - no, angels - are still falling, crash landing all along the horizon. "Castiel!"

"Dean," Sam gasps out next to him before slumping back against the Impala. Sickly sweat glues his hair to his forehead. Dean looks back once more at the forest, before hustling Sam into the car.

four.

He could call. He has all of Dean's phone numbers, and Sam's too. Probably the numbers to the bunker's land lines as well.

Dean jumps when the phone rings, holds his breath, hoping it'll be the answer to the prayers no one can hear anymore. He picks up the phone tentatively, like it's a grenade.

"Hello?" he sucks in the, "Cas?" dancing on the tip of his tongue.

"Dean? It's Charlie."

Dean breathes out. "Hey, Charlie."

three.

He could be in the hospital somewhere.

Dean thinks about Castiel alone in a strange bed, in a sterile white-walled room, and the image inexplicably makes him shiver. He grabs Sam's laptop and starts digging into hospital records, using a combination of skills gleaned from quick lessons by Frank and then Charlie.

Sam wanders bleary-eyed out of his room a few hours later. He finds Dean squinting at the screen, trying to cross-reference known "meteor" landing sites with nearby hospitals. He joins his brother and they eventually establish a program that will alert them to a match to Castiel.

Weeks go by and the program doesn't make a peep.

two.

He could be in the next random town they go hunting in. He could be sitting at the local diner, throwing back a cup of joe.

Dean stops in his tracks when he sees a man with messy dark hair planted at the counter at "Granny's" in Danville, Kentucky. He doesn't notice the hostess trying to talk to him. Sam nudges Dean back to reality before answering her.

"Just the two of us."

They pass the dark-haired man as they're led to their table. His face is all wrong. Dean blushes and busies himself with the menu.

one.

He could be dead.

Dean would compulsively check every obituary, if he wasn't refusing to entertain the possibility.

and one.

What he does is show up at their doorstep.

It's mere months later, but Castiel looks worn and almost older. His coat is dirty and frayed, and the beard he had sported in purgatory is starting to reappear.

He arrives at the bunker just as Dean is leaving to pick up supplies. Dean drops his keys when he sees Castiel and his eyes widen to the size of saucers. He opens his mouth to talk, but finds the words won't come out.