Itās been three days, and for the first time in longer than Dean cares to remember, his bed is actually cold.
Cas is lost. Or missing. Or some other thing that is haunting his every waking moment. Waking, because heās not slept since Casā phone went dead and he stopped answering his prayers.
There has been no word. No signs of The Bad Things Coming. No strange portents or killings, or anything out of the ordinary that would explain his absence. So naturally, Dean is flitting between thinking the worst and believing heās somehow done something wrong, and thatās why Cas hasnāt come back.
They hadnāt been arguing before he left, Dean comforts himself with, although his memory is still cruel. Fragmented images of Casā skin against his, of his lips working a trail down his stomach, and the angle of them, well, together, repeats to Dean, tormenting him with thoughts he knows better than to allow surface. Like maybe thatās the last heāll ever see of him.
He can clearly picture the last time he did see him, and, he tells himself, it really wasnāt so very long ago. Far too soon to be worrying. Far too early to be anywhere near the level of frantic that he currently is.Ā
Cas was stood at the foot of their bed, facing him as he dressed, because Cas knows just how much Dean enjoys watching that, and all the while, he was leaning in for kisses that served as interlude to his reassuring Dean his ātrip upstairsā was nothing but the regular kind, and nothing to be concerned about at all.
Dean;s chest pulls at the memory, trying and failing not to feel the fear that something is very, very wrong here.
Which is of course when Cas arrives.
Dean freezes in place for all of two seconds, somewhere between shocked with relief and unsure if his eyes are actually deceiving him. And then heās up, catching Cas as he falls forward head first.Ā
Cas has clearly been fighting from the looks of the dried blood, split lip and bruises to his face. His trenchcoat is crooked and ripped, and the overall expression he gives is of utter defeat.
Dean wonāt ask questions now. He carefully helps Cas out of his jackets, unbuttons his shirt, bends to help him remove his shoes. He pulls back the cover on Casā side of the bed, gently guides him on to his back, and kisses him, resting his forehead against Casā in sheer relief.
Casā breathing is uneven; Dean places a hand on his chest to get some reassurance that itās at least still rising and falling. When heās sure Cas wonāt move, he leaves to collect a cloth to wash his face with since thereās no point trying to heal an angel who is clearly already healing himself before Deanās very eyes.
But he has to do something.
When Dean has gently washed Casā face, Cas opens his eyes, and captures Dean with his stare. Without a single word, Cas opens his arms, and Dean goes to him, heavily breathing in the scent of Cas at his neck and melting against him.
Deanās bed is cold, because it hasnāt been slept in for weeks.
Itās cold, because even the bunker is cold, with no one treading even a single footstep through it in the longest time since it has become a home.
The job that was supposed to be an overnighter has taken over a month now, and the only comfort they have is that finally, finally, there is an end in sight.
Motel beds have been used in place of Deanās bed; lumpy, uncomfortable things that either barely contain them, or are next to Sam, or are rarely used long enough to even sleep in, let alone do any of the usual activities in that normally keep them toasty and warm. The most activity motel beds are seeing is them slumping down on to them and groaning out whatever agony has befallen them that particular day.
But Cas and Dean, they still need things from each other. They still have needs. And so they have resorted to being creative, and quick. Shared showers that Sam pretends he doesnāt hear. Long toilet breaks that they return from simultaneously with smirks in their eyes and red in their cheeks. Sam might actually be missing them having their own bed and their own room more than they do, for those very reasons.
Which is why the final night of the kill goes through with near military-like precision. Slices and cuts and punches in all the right places followed by the lighting of matches and swirling plumes of smoke. And itās done. And Sam glances skywards and thanks whoever is watching over them that finally, finally, heāll be spared being in close proximity with them.
Seriously. Why did he ever think that seeing them happy and very much together was cute?
They should really go to another motel. Itās three in the morning, theyāre freezing and exhausted. But Sam canāt take another night of sleeping with his fingers in his ears as Dean and Cas end their evening with soft laughter and goodnight kisses. The sound of which drifts over to him and paints images behind his closed eyelids that arenāt ever coming out.
And so, they head home, to where Deanās cold bed awaits.
āHuh?ā Dean doesnāt look up from his cereal when Sam asks him a question.
āI said. āIs the bed coldā?ā
Now Dean does look up, asking his own question with confusion evident on his face. āWhat bed?ā
āMy bed? Why would my bed be cold?ā
Sam looks ridiculously pleased with himself. āCas.ā
Deanās brow furrows and he stares at Sam as though he is something unidentifiable or someone very stupid. Perhaps both. āCas. Whatās he got to do with my bed being cold?ā
āYou know. When he stays. With you,ā Samās face splits into a mocking grin.
Dean slowly puts down the cup of coffee he was about to take a sip from and continues to stare. āAnd why would my bed be cold from Cas staying over?ā He asks in a tone that Sam really by now should recognise as one of warning.
āYou know. Not human and all that.ā
āHeās an angel, Sam. Not Edward freakinā-Cullen,ā
Which Sam finds all too many shades of hilarious for Dean not to want to wipe the grin off his face. The question is simply how.
āIf youāre that concerned about the temperature between my sheets, then let me tell you, Sammy,ā and he leans forward, eyes filled with a glint, āMy bedās never been so warm. In fact, Casā got to be the hottest-ā
āOkay-ā Sam throws his hands up but itās too late.
āAnd his hands, god let me tell you about his hands-ā Dean leans back in his chair letting out a sigh of utter satisfaction.
Samās eyes grow wider, and wider, and heās very much stuck in headlights. āDean-ā
āOh and his tongue.ā Deanās eyes actually roll into the back of his head before he sits forward again and fixes Sam with a look that is going to scar him for life. āHe does this thing with his tongue where-ā
Which is when Sam decides the conversation is over, scrapes his chair across the floor with a wince, and stomps off out of the room.
Dean leans back in his chair again, smirking to himself, both in memory and of making Sam squirm.
Cold bed my ass, he thinks, and prays an invitation to Cas.
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