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there are three bedrooms in bobby’s house, two so filled with lore books and stray weapons as to be unusable, so they spend the night like this: sam sleeps in bobby’s old room upstairs, bobby sleeps in his new bedroom which used to be the front room, dean sleeps on the couch, his face illuminated by the light from the moon and socked feet sticking over the arm of the couch, and castiel watches over him.
dean is deep asleep, beyond even dreams, eyelashes fanning delicately across his cheeks. in sleep, he looks peaceful, brow unwrinkled, hard set of his mouth softened. newly cut off from heaven as he is, it takes castiel a little more concentration than usual to see dean’s soul, but see it he does (he could see it with human eyes, he could see it with no eyes at all), rays of light and of dark, colors unimaginable, silky tendrils of grace intertwined faintly throughout like butterfly stitches, a subtle reminder that every cell in dean’s body had been placed by castiel himself.
every one of his father's creations divine, and yet he doesn’t truly understand until the moment dean shifts in his sleep, the motion riding up the sleeve of his t-shirt, exposing a delicate ribbon of red that marks the scar that castiel had left on him months before. castiel freezes, staring at the narrow strip of skin as an uncomfortable warmth seeps over his vessel.
blasphemy stings his lips and stains his cheeks. dean winchester has not broken him; he has torn him apart and carelessly rebuilt him in a new god’s image.
he’s been in this body too long; it isn’t even on this plane, and yet it blushes. no wonder the other angels think him odd.
dean shifts again, waking now. he had told castiel that it was creepy to wake up to castiel watching over him, so he stays invisible, watching curiously as heaven’s most powerful weapon stirs awake and knuckles at his eyes like a child. dean yawns, stretching and blinking his way into consciousness, and flops back into the couch with a sigh.
“dammit, cas. i told you, cut it with the edward cullen act.”
castiel doesn’t bother asking who edward cullen is. he pulls his vessel to the mortal plane so dean can see him. “you knew i was there.”
dean scoffs. “yeah. feel this, uh…” he trails off, one hand reaching from under the thin blanket to tap the back of his neck in lieu of an answer.
castiel frowns. “you shouldn’t be able to feel that. perhaps being cut off from heaven has weakened my powers more than i thought.”
dean shakes his head, saying “nah, it’s nothing like that,” with a comforting sense of finality. “felt it before, too.”
this relaxes castiel some. “our souls are bound with one of the oldest rituals in existence. i fought to rescue your soul from heaven and built your physical form cell by cell, as well as assisting your soul in healing before placing it in your body.” castiel looks for dean’s soul again, the traces of grace less visible now that he’s awake. he used to think that was what had drawn him in about dean, that trace of the angelic, but from this distance he can see the sleep in his eyes, the cut on his cheek scabbing over, and he understands.
dean just stares right back. “well, good morning to you too, cas.”
cas frowns. “it’s 2am. the sun won’t rise for four hours and twenty three minutes.”
“o-kay,” dean says. “i’ll, uh. go back to bed then.”
“of course, dean. sleeping will help you maintain your strength.”
“yeah.”
there’s a beat of silence. “i will stay here,” castiel says.
dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. “yeah, great. i don’t need a guardian angel, cas.”
cas takes in the scene in front of him, dean still sleepy on the couch, stretched out and vulnerable and comfortable.
“i’ll stay here,” he repeats.