#writeses

"Dean, are you alright?"

"What?" Dean jerked awake. He had been dozing on the bed of their current motel room until...just now. "What's happening?" His words were slurred with sleep, and he noted that the angel standing over him looked confused.

"I'm here to look after you." Castiel said. "Sam said you weren't feeling well."

Dean narrowed his eyes and sniffed, trying to unstuff his nose. Damn his brother. Of course he would have noticed Dean had a cold. And of course he would have sent Cas here. He was obsessed with the concept that Dean spend more time with the angel, although Dean couldn't fathom why. "I'm fine, Cas. Just a sore throat." His voice sounded uncomfortably nasal. He took a cursory glance around the room and noticed something missing. "Where is—"

"Sam went to conduct the interviews without you. He'll return later."

"That bas—" Dean found himself interrupted by a sneeze. "Dammit!" He growled.

"Bless you." Said the angel standing by the bed, who was smiling tenderly now. Dean glared at him.

"I'm not sick."

"Would you like some tea?" Castiel was looking at him curiously, like he didn’t quite know what to make of this whole situation, or what he should be doing.

Dean looked at Castiel like he'd just told Dean he was secretly a unicorn. "Are you kidding? I don't drink tea, Cas."

"Tea would help you feel better--"

"I'm not drinking any damn tea, Cas!" Dean growled. He wasn't exactly feeling full of goodwill—his head was pounding and felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and all he really wanted to do was go back to sleep. But he had work to do. Slowly, he rolled off the side of the bed and headed for the chair he'd hung his coat on.

"Where are you going?" Castiel asked from behind him.

"I'm gonna find my brother and kill him. He thinks he's gonna get rid of me that—easily..." Dean's sentence trailed off as the world spun around him. His vision was suddenly filled with spots. There was a ringing in his ear, and he stumbled and reached out to clutch at the back of the chair.

"Dean? Dean!" Castiel was calling him, and the next second there were arms around the hunter's waist. Dean instinctively took this as permission to sink to the ground, even as Cas tried to hold him up. He blinked a few times to try to clear his vision, but it had no effect and he squeezed his eyes shut instead. Everything felt very distant. "Okay, I've got you." The angel murmured, somewhere close to Dean's ear. "Come on." Then Dean was being lifted, and a few moments later he knew he was back on the bed.

"We're not gonna tell Sam I just..."

"Fainted?"

"...Yeah. Got it? That didn't happen."

"I understand." Castiel said solemnly.

"Good." Dean slowly opened his eyes and found that his vision had cleared up; he could see the angel standing by the foot of the bed.

"You are sick."

Dean huffed. "I guess."

"Guesswork has nothing to do with it."

"Shut up, Cas." Dean moaned, closing his eyes again. If he was going to be sick, at least he could feel sorry for himself.  He sniffled again and let out a frustrated sigh. Then he stiffened, because Castiel's palm was on his forehead, soft and cool.

"Your temperature is two point three degrees above normal." The angel said, his voice low and quiet.

"I didn't know you worked as a thermometer, too." Dean joked, trying not to freak out. Castiel was oh so good at getting in his personal space, and Dean...Dean was starting to not mind it so much. Maybe even...

"This isn't a laughing matter, Dean." Cas took his hand away, and Dean couldn't help missing it a little. He was feeling awfully warm, and Castiel was cooler. That was why he missed it, right?  It was just because he had a fever, and was looking for some relief. And yet Dean couldn’t really deny the stupid calm and contented feeling that had come over him when Cas had laid a hand on his forehead. Oh fuck this, Dean thought, pissed at his own brain. He shoved the Castiel-oriented train of thought out of his brain. He didn’t really want to think about whatever weird feelings he was developing for the angel.  Especially now, when he didn’t really want to think about anything at all. There was silence for a little while, and then Dean heard the tap running in the bathroom. Shit, he was really out of it if he hadn't even noticed Cas had left the room.

He was starting to fade back into unconsciousness when Castiel returned. "I brought this for you." He said, and then there was something wet on Dean's forehead.

"A washcloth?" Dean actually smiled a little. "What're you, my mother?"

"I hope it will help your temperature return to normal." Cas sounded a little hurt.

"No, I didn't mean...thanks, Cas. It’s…uh…very nice of you." The gesture possessed some of that unusual tenderness (and, Dean thought, curiosity) that was typical of Castiel, and which really shouldn’t have been typical at all in a soldier of the lord. Normally Dean would have objected to such treatment at the hands of almost anyone else.  But with Cas it was…different.

The angel adjusted the cloth and withdrew. "Would you like something to eat?" Castiel sounded gravely serious. "Sam informed me that I should bring you soup."

Dean opened his eyes and peered at the angel of the lord looming over him. "Uh. Maybe later. Thanks." Something occurred to him suddenly. "Hey Cas, you couldn't just heal me out of this, could you?"

Castiel looked away, and his voice seemed full of frustration when he spoke. "No. I'm sorry Dean, but I...I still haven't recovered enough from Purgatory to attempt any healing."

"Oh," Dean held back a cough. "S'okay. I'm, uh...sorry, Cas."

Castiel turned back to look at him, a small and sad-looking smile on his face. "Don't worry. It isn't your fault. Is there anything else I can do?"

Dean shook his head as much as he could without getting dizzy, being careful so as not to dislodge the washcloth. "I think I'll just take a nap."

"Alright. Pleasant dreams, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes again and was asleep in seconds.

-

When he woke up again he was freezing. He shivered and mentally cursed himself for going to sleep in a thin t-shirt on top of the blankets. It seemed like the sun might be setting now--crap, how long had he slept? He sat up slowly and noticed that the washcloth had been removed from his head. "Cas?" He called, wondering if the angel was still around.

"Right here, Dean." Came the response; Castiel emerged from behind the divider that separated the beds from the small kitchenette. At seeing the expression of surprise on Dean's face, he stopped moving. "Is something the matter?"

"No," Dean stammered. It was the truth. Nothing was really the matter, per se, but the sight the hunter found himself gazing upon was—there was no other word for it—stunning. The golden light of the sunset that was seeping into the room was playing in Castiel's hair, giving the angel an almost tangible halo; he was bathed in gold and seemed to glow. Ironic, Dean thought. And beautiful. He shook that last thought out of his head. Where was this coming from? "Nothing. I just...I figured you'd flown off or something."

Castiel smiled, and Dean's stomach fluttered. What the hell was wrong with him today? "Of course not. I'm still here." The angel said. They stared at each other for a few seconds, Dean totally unsure of what to say and Cas just...being Cas. The silence was broken when Dean shivered again.

"You're cold." Castiel took a step towards the bed, his forehead creased with concern, and Dean shrugged.

"I'm fine."

Castiel approached anyway, getting right into Dean's personal bubble again. Dean swallowed hard. Cas put his hand back on the hunter's forehead and frowned. "Your temperature has increased."

Dean shook his head. "I'm fine, really. Is Sam back yet?"

"No. He thinks he may have found a lead."

"Well, I'm gonna go find him." Dean made to get up from the bed, but Castiel put his hands on the hunter's shoulders, forcing him back down.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dean. You aren't going anywhere."

Dean glared at Cas, anger beginning to swirl in his gut now. He was tired of lying around and moping. And who was Castiel to tell him what to do? There was no way he was letting Sam chase down some random lead alone; he wasn't that sick. "Get off of me, Cas, I'm going."

"You are staying here if I have to tie you down." Cas warned. Dean tried not to think of what the thought of that actually occurring had threatened to do to his dick (and he tried even harder not to focus on the idea that the fact that that thought had even crossed his mind didn’t surprise him). The angel didn't even have the decency to look angry. He just seemed determined. And he looked like he knew he was going to win, which just made Dean even more furious. "Sam will be fine. You need to rest." Cas insisted.

Dean managed to worm his way out of Castiel's grip. He sprung to his feet and had a short moment of victory before he was stopped by a sudden and violent wave of nausea. His head throbbed and the world began to spin again. Dean let out a stream of curse words, hating his body's inability to do anything useful. He reached out to steady himself on something, but there was nothing within reach, and for a moment he experienced the terrifying sensation of being on the edge of unconsciousness despite still standing; of being right about to fall.

Castiel seized his hand and pulled him backwards, lowering him onto the bed gently. Gradually, Dean's universe stopped spinning and he was able to look up at the angel, who was pulling the bedcovers over him. "You're not leaving here until your fever decreases, Dean. I will take care of you, and look out for Sam. Just rest."

Dean, still feeling like he could throw up if he opened his mouth, and suddenly bone-achingly exhausted, nodded. He had to admit, he was beginning to think the angel had a point about staying in bed. He didn't even protest as Castiel tucked him in, like he was a goddamn child. He sneezed again.

-

He dozed for a while, somewhat fitfully, because truth be told despite the blankets he was still freezing cold. He couldn’t stop shivering. He tossed and turned and curled in on himself, trying to capture his own body heat. Nothing worked, though, and it felt like he'd been dunked in ice water.

And then it just...didn't. He was simply suddenly warmer. He didn't really know why, just that there was a source of warmth in the bed now. He nestled into it eagerly, and soon was properly fast asleep.

When Dean woke up he figured out why. It was because Castiel was curled around him, his arms encircling the hunter, whose face was pressed against the angel's chest. If they had been any closer together they would have melded into one person. Dean wasn't entirely surprised to find that one of his own arms was draped over the angel's hip; their legs were somewhat embarrassingly tangled together. Castiel was really really warm and really really comfy, and Dean's sleep-addled brain thought this was pretty normal, comparatively.

"'Ey, Cas," he muttered, smiling a little and trying to burrow further into the folds of the angel's coat. "You were holdin' out on me."

"I don't understand." Castiel replied softly.

Dean made a kind of contented humming noise. "Warm."

"Oh." There was a tinge of laugher in Cas' voice. "My apologies. I wish I had realized you were so cold earlier."

"Better late than never." Dean's words were muffled by shirt.

They were silent for a blissful minute, which Dean spent being insanely comfortable and content, and then Castiel said, "Dean, look at me."

The hunter reluctantly obliged, prying his eyes open and craning his neck to stare up at the angel. Blue eyes searched his face, as though trying to find some sort of answer there, and a moment later, before Dean could even process what was happening, Castiel's lips were pressed against his forehead.

Dean's breath caught in his throat, and he stayed absolutely still, suddenly very awake and very afraid that if he moved, he might ruin this moment forever.

Then it was over. Castiel smiled down at him and said "Your fever's gone down a little."

Dean just stared at him.

And then they were kissing. Just like that. Dean wasn't sure how exactly it happened, or who moved first, but he didn't give a shit, because Castiel's lips were against his and the angel was pressing into it insistently and holy shit was this the real life—Castiel—

"Called it!" Came a voice. Startled, Dean jerked away from Cas and leaned over him to see who was talking. Sam was standing in the doorway, covered in blood, holding a duffel bag, and smirking something fierce. He was seemingly totally unsurprised to find his brother and an angel of the lord getting to first base in a motel room bed.

"Hello, Sam." Castiel said.

"You guys are gonna need your own room from now on." Sam grinned.

Dean Winchester was gonna kill his brother. "That's not your blood, is it?" He asked as he tried to slow down his breathing, because he wasn't anywhere near angry enough not to be concerned.

"Nope." Sam said casually.

"Then you're definitely dead, Sammy." He growled, trying to hide how low his voice had suddenly gotten in the time before his brother had walked in.

Sam shrugged, the smile not leaving his face. "It's not my fault. Leave a sock on the door next time."

Cas cocked his head to the side, giving his best confused puppy look. "I don't—"

"I'm kidding, Cas. Except," Sam shot a look at his brother. "I'm really not. Glad you're feeling better, Dean."

"You're screwed." Dean glared at him.

Sam walked towards the bathroom, dumping the duffel on the floor. He turned back to Dean and a devilish grin lit his features again. "Not as screwed as you are—"

The younger Winchester ducked the pillow Dean launched at his head, chuckling.

Castiel smiled. Dean sneezed and swore, and the angel hugged him tighter. Sam kept laughing.

            He loves Dean’s mind.  He loves the way he can see Dean think, really think, so many thoughts racing through his head.  Dean is a hunter and he prides himself on his physical strength, but Castiel knows Dean is brilliant.  He has the mind of an engineer, which you can see when he fixes his car or an EMF meter or builds a new kind of explosive.  Cas knows Sam can see it too.  Dean shrugs it off and sells himself short in the brains department, but his angel sees thoughts whirl and shift and he sees Dean judge and solve in seconds.  He tells Dean this and the man smiles at him softly.

            He loves Dean’s soul.

            Castiel is reminded of his profound love for Dean every day through any combination of things the hunter might do, but sometimes, when Castiel takes a peek at Dean’s soul, he is immersed in a feeling of affection that he cannot escape, that fills him up and makes him smile, even when Dean gives him a strange look in return.  In Dean’s soul he sees limitless determination.  Perseverance.  A darkness that has shaped him since Cas has known him, but has not taken hold of him, because above all in Dean’s soul there is boundless love and care—for Sam, and for Castiel (although there’s something else there for the angel, too).  Dean is a survivor, a soldier, a fighter, a struggler.  But he loves with total commitment.  And that makes Castiel unafraid to love him totally in return.

            He loves Dean’s body.

            When Castiel dragged Dean out of hell so many years ago, he memorized Dean’s body unconsciously.  He had to.  After all, he put it back together.  He knows the number of freckles on Dean’s face, the jut of his chin, the shape of his shoulders, the curve of his hips.  He has seen Dean inside and out, and he loves every centimeter.  He knows Dean’s tattoo and the scar that Castiel himself made on the hunter’s arm.  He knows the rest of the scars that the man has collected over the course of his life, from the one he got playing on a swingset with Sam when they were small to the one he got two weeks ago fighting a demon that got in a lucky strike with a knife.  Yes, Castiel knows them all.

            Dean Winchester loves Castiel.

            He loves Castiel’s mind.  He loves the angel’s dedication to his purpose.  Cas is goal-oriented and focused.  He is sharper than a tack and you’d have to kill him to stop him from doing something he really wants to do.  Dean knows Castiel is plagued with doubts, and that it’s probably Dean’s own fault (which makes him feel no end of guilt), but he also knows that the angel is capable of solving his problems; of fixing his mistakes.  He knows Castiel is fiercely protective of him and Sam, knows the angel is loyal to a fault and would walk through fire if Dean asked him to.  This scares Dean to no end, but sometimes he sees Cas sit, thinking, staring out a window, and knows he could never fully understand the being he’s looking at.  Castiel is older than Dean can conceive of, and his knowledge is nearly limitless.  What could he be thinking about, sitting in a motel armchair in Nebraska?  Then Dean will realize Castiel is looking at him and smiling and he forgets the question.

            He loves Castiel’s soul.

            Castiel is full of love, which makes Dean think maybe the emotion isn’t as foreign to the angel as Cas would like them to think.  He knows Castiel loves him, and that he’s fond of Sam, and he’s also seen Cas’ attachment to Gabriel and Balthazar and other members of his family.  When Dean first met the angel, he seemed emotionless and closed off; but Dean knows now that the opposite is in fact true.  Castiel forms bonds and he forms them on a permanent basis.  To be honest, Dean thinks Cas overexposes himself in this way—he makes himself vulnerable to betrayal.  But to Dean, it’s kind of endearing in a bizarre way.  Castiel is unafraid of his emotions, even if he doesn’t always understand them.  He doesn’t seem to worry about what he’s feeling most of the time.  He just feels.

            He loves Castiel’s body.

            Dean knows Castiel knows and understands Dean’s own body completely, maybe even more than Dean knows himself.  He is trying to understand Castiel in the same way.  He knows Cas’ eyes, which are still the bluest things Dean has ever seen.  He knows the line of Castiel’s collarbone, the muscles in his arms and legs, the arc of his spine, the tone of his abdomen.  He’s memorized the set of Castiel’s mouth, and the stubble that surrounds it. Castiel has no visible scars for Dean to recognize, for he always heals his wounds away, but the hunter doesn’t need landmarks on skin to memorize.  Dean knows all this about Cas, and still he wonders where exactly on his back the angel’s wings are set, and what they’d feel like to the touch.  Someday he’d like to find out.

            Castiel loves the way Dean knows exactly where to touch, what to touch, and when, to drag the deepest and most unholy noises out of his throat.

            Dean loves that Castiel is full of grace—is literally graceful—and yet the angel can still kiss gorgeous sin into his flesh.

            Castiel loves that Dean seems filled with appreciation for everything he tries, and that he gives very vocal, guttural feedback.

            Dean loves the way Castiel’s pupils blow when they make love, the way his lips part as he cries Dean’s name.

            Castiel loves kissing the scars on Dean’s body, sucking bruises into his skin, hearing the little gasping noises the hunter makes as each new one is formed; his favorite is when he runs his mouth over the handprint and Dean jerks and groans in pleasure.

            Dean loves feeling Castiel against him—before, during, and after—warm and solid and tender and there.

            Castiel loves watching Dean buck up against him, feeling the hunter keen when he has him in hand, his eyes closed and his hands in fists in the sheets, moaning yes, more, there, fuck.

            Dean loves capturing Castiel’s lips during sex, exploring the angel’s mouth with his tongue and biting softly on swollen lips as they grab at each other and Castiel makes damn stunning sounds into his mouth.

            Castiel loves kissing a line down Dean’s back, feeling the hunter shudder underneath him.

            Dean loves hearing Castiel make the most wrecked noises as he takes him, both of them trembling with pure ecstasy.

            Castiel loves feeling Dean’s fingers moving, ghosting over his hips and moving on down, seeing a sinfully happy smile on the hunter’s face as they shift together.

            Dean loves Castiel’s flexibility and lack of a gag reflex, and the things the angel can do with his tongue that would probably get both of them banned from heaven.

            Castiel loves holding Dean and feeling muscles unknot and relax as the hunter gives himself over to feeling good for once.

            Dean loves watching Castiel’s face when the angel’s on the verge of orgasm, because Cas is beautiful, so damn beautiful, and he can never resist kissing him as they both go over the edge.

            Castiel loves having his arms wrapped around Dean while the hunter sleeps, feeling his even and steady breathing and watching his face and knowing that Dean looks more tranquil, more peaceful—even in sleep—than when they’re not together.

            Dean loves falling asleep against Castiel, his head nestled against the angel’s chest and knowing he’ll be there when he wakes up; as he closes his eyes he looks forward to pressing a kiss to Cas’ lips when he wakes up and seeing the angel smiling tenderly down at him.

            But Dean and Castiel really just love touching each other.  Being with each other.  Seeing each other.  And above all, knowing that the other is there, and isn’t going away.  Not ever.  Because they need each other, they love each other, they can’t get enough of each other.  And they can’t leave, they can’t, because one without the other is incomplete and they would be lost and there would be no one to love all of those things about the other one, not in the same way.  No one ever could.

            And so, of course, they stay.  They’d be crazy not to.