Little Spoon

It’s a weird habit to have picked up, falling asleep on every trustworthy, warm body you come into contact with, but with those people being few and far between, Castiel finds it’s not too hard to cope. Mostly, it’s a byproduct of the trade - you live the life of a Hunter and you learn to catch sleep whenever you can and wherever you’re safe - but the other part, well, that’s something strange. Generally, he blames it on the aftershock of suddenly being so utterly human.

The first time it happens is an accident. He storms into the hotel room, half dead and half dead-tired, and drops his body onto the nearest soft surface. Unfortunately, Sam happens to get there first and by the time he notices, it’s too late. Castiel passes out right there, bleeding all over the sofa, Sam, and his only trenchcoat.

After that, it just gets easier. Being so vulnerable in this delicate body is tough and, frankly, scary, but mostly it’s just exhausting. He needs food and water and air, bathroom breaks, showers, clean clothes and so many socks. His hair needs to be combed, his nails cut, face shaved, and ears cleaned. He needs luggage and a wallet, IDs and badges and hotel keys, maps and a smartphone with GPS, cologne. Every stupid, arbitrary, human thing everyone takes for granted, he’s finding out is pretty fucking important to his (comfortable) survival. But most of all, Castiel finds he needs rest.

But this new life is unsafe. There are monsters that seem so much more terrifying now that he’s without grace. Vampires bite and werewolves tear human bodies to shreds. Ghosts and demons take possession. Witches and warlocks have petty and dangerous lovers’ spats. And, of course, there’s this God-awful flu going around. Literally anything in this world can kill him, a hundred times over, and how’s a guy supposed to sleep with impending death constantly looming over him and the ones he loves?

He doesn’t. Not well, anyway. Mostly, he stays up staring at the ceiling and letting every slight noise bring him to hysterical unease. Sometimes, he’ll climb out of bed, turn on the nearest lamp and practice loading and unloading his new Colt or he’ll remind himself of Enochian spells he might still be able to pull off. He reads John Winchester’s journal, trying to remember every important and potentially life-saving detail kept within its pages. On rare occasions, when really nothing else will keep him from losing it, he’ll watch the Winchesters sleep. There’s a strange sort of peace in that, in seeing both Winchesters alive and whole at the end of every long, God-forsaken day. If there’s nothing else to be grateful for, there’s always that.

But this body gets burned out so quickly. A few days without sleep and he can barely stay standing. His hands shake. His brain idles. His vision blurs. His stomach cramps. He starts to feel so wrung-out.

At first, conscientious sleep isn't a real option. He can’t just will the worry away or force his mind to settle. For weeks, he’s only allowed a few fitful hours of sleep at a time when his body crashes. Then he wakes with a start, heart pumping, head pounding, and his lunch coming back ‘round to greet him. For some time after, he feels so awful; it’s almost worse than no sleep at all. He knows he’s no use to anyone this way. As Dean so nicely puts it, he’s just a baby in a Goddamned trenchcoat.

Things are different now, though. Ever since that fateful day when he woke up stitched up and snuggled into Sam’s side, he’s come to a helpful conclusion: happiness is not a warm gun, as those “Beatles” claimed, it’s a warm body in your bed. Such a simple thing really, Cas wonders why no one’s ever thought of it before.

It’s clear to him that Sam and Dean sure as hell haven’t worked it out yet. They insist on “For every head, there lays a bed,” and order an extra cot for whatever motel room they’re holed up in at the moment. Dean splays his body across his bed, like an ‘x’ marking a spot, and Sam...well, Sam’s general being is usually bigger than any normal bed can hold. In the Impala, Cas is always relegated to the back seat, alone, and the one time he tried to nod off against Dean’s shoulder in a diner booth, Dean shrugged so hard Castiel’s neck nearly snapped. So mostly, he settles for sneak attacks.

His first intentional co-nap, happens back at the bunker. Again, Sam finds himself asleep on the leather couch in the corner of the library, and Cas quickly (and quietly and gently) takes advantage. He waits for Sam’s deep, rumbling snore to hit the air, and then he climbs over him, squeezes his body between Sam’s and the couch’s back, and rests his weary head on a flannel covered shoulder. He gets three hours of sleep this way and when Sam wakes up, groggy and weighed down, he only gives a quiet snort before sliding out from under Cas and getting on with his day.

Cas tries the same deal with Dean too, only it doesn't go half as well. After a long, hot fight with an angry ifrit, everyone arrives to the bunker dog-tired and in need of a cool bath. Dean crashes right away, soot-covered face dirtying his pillow, and not twenty minutes later, Cas follows. The way he’s laying - center of the bed, one foot hanging off the edge, pillow over his face - the only way Cas can fit is to drape himself over Dean’s body (“Like a big ol’ blanket,” he sings nonsensically in his head). There, with their stomachs pressed together and his head wedged at the crook of Dean’s neck, Cas gets the best sleep of his short human life. He wakes that night (nearly twelve hours later) as his body falls to the floor and an angry Dean looks down on him yelling, “What the hell, Cas?! Personal space!”

After that, he just sticks close to Sam.

Nearly a month after their run-in with the ifrit, Cas and the Winchesters find themselves surrounded by hard-bodied college kids and totally bitchin’ frat parties. They’re in Missouri, hunting what Sam believes is a maenad, only Dean doesn't really think there’s anything there at all. (“A bunch of co-eds drinking and fucking each others brains out? Well, Sam, I’m beginning to understand why you were so hell-bent on higher education.”) It’s been three days of keggers and puke and pungent body odors (with the occasional amputated limb thrown in) and even with the free beers flowing, this case is wearing on everyone.

On the fourth night, they catch a break. When a bleary-eyed guy in an Omega Psi t-shirt blusters past them on campus, muttering about “that stuck-up, black-eyed cow,” Sam asks him to point them in her direction. They end up at the Sigma Epsilon Mu house - cleverly called ‘the Barn’ - where a raucous, “invite-only” bacchanal is being held by the sorority’s sisters. There they witness what can only be describe as the world’s bloodiest orgy, worthy of only Sade and Bacchus himself. They actually get to see a guy fuck his dick raw and before the night’s over, someone (Cas) has to stop someone (Dean and Sam) from joining in on what would probably have been their last and most painful sexual exploit.

In the end, though, Cas - of all people - manages to lay waste to the maenads’ leader, the ‘black-eyed cow’ wearing a golden wreath atop her head, and drag both Winchesters back to the Impala. Eleven hours later, they’re walking through the front door of the bunker, red-faced and maybe still a little horny, and quickly heading to their own corners. Dean and Sam spend an inordinate amount of time in the showers and Cas, who quickly trades his trench for a soft cotton shirt and boxer briefs, impatiently waits for them to get to bed.

He watches four episodes of The Justice League before he finally hears Sam’s tell-tale snoring and, with a whispered ‘Finally,’ makes his way to the younger Winchester’s room. He stumbles into the door when it doesn't give as he expects. It takes a moment for him to realize it’s actually locked and when he jiggles the knob, he hears Sam’s muffled voice apologizing and suggesting he tries Dean’s for the night.

Disappointed, if not a little curious, Cas slowly makes his way towards his own room. He spins in his bed for an hour before giving up. He knows, of course, there’s no chance he’ll get a wink of a sleep laying there all alone. For a moment, he contemplates marching down to Sam’s room and banging on the door until he lets him in, but quickly banishes the thought. Sam has been accommodating enough and if he needs just one night on his own, well, Cas can give him that. Instead, he heads into the kitchen. In hopes of somewhat resembling an actual functional person over the next sleepless day, he plans to make and ingest an unreasonable amount of very strong coffee.

He’s nose deep in his first cup when Dean comes clomping into the room. He’s shirtless, in a pair of dark sweatpants the Men of Letters left behind, and Cas is sure he’s only half-aware or half-awake.

Blurry-eyed and stiff-jawed, he speaks, “You still awake?”

Cas can only nod, quietly sipping.

Dean sniffs at the newly brewed coffee, nose scrunching in disapproval. “Not shacking up with Sammy tonight?”

Cas can only shake his head.

He places the pot down and turns to face him, palms leaning against the counter, eyebrows quirked. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Yes,” Cas starts quietly, a little confused, “I need to help my brothers and sisters back to heaven and Metatron still needs tending to...”

Before he can finish, Dean’s already shaking his head. “No. Things with Sam…Look. Nevermind. Why aren’t you asleep right now? Missouri was a bitch. You gotta be tired, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Cas mimics. Yes, he’s tired. Exhausted. He knows this. But Sam’s locked him out. “I think Sam needed some...personal space.”

The bunny ears does it. It sets a smile so bright across Dean’s face, it rivals Father’s ethereal glow. A moment later, he attempts to reign it in; what remains is just a tiny tilt on one corner of his mouth.

“You really can’t get to sleep on your own?”

Again, Cas shakes his head. “I don’t like being alone. I can’t.”

Dean gets that; the sympathetic tilt of his head says as much. The way he looks at him now, as if he’s seeing something new, that look creates an uncomfortable ache in the center of Castiel’s chest; an ache so strong he feels its edges burning through the tips of his fingers.

“Alright, Cas,” Dean says this as he turns to leave the kitchen. “Come on.”

At this moment, every human, angel or demon who’s ever accused Castiel of dog-like loyalty to this Winchester is being proven right. The eagerness in which Cas follows Dean down the dimly lit hallway can only be rivaled by an actual ‘lost puppy’ and, really, the phrase is more apt than anyone could have imagined. Castiel, this freshly-human being, is absolutely lost and tonight he will finally seek solace in the arms of his North Star.

Dean’s room is unusually cool. He has two tiny fans circulating cold air around the small space. Cas notices the bed is not unmade, just a little rumpled, and turns to question Dean as the door closes.

“Were you not sleeping?” he asks.

Dean rubs over the hair at the nape of his neck. “No,” he says, eyes shifting quickly to the open, but sleeping, laptop on his desk. “Not really.”

He walks over to quietly shut it and then turns his gaze back on the former angel. “The, uh, Missouri Maenad, you know? She really did number on everyone.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees. “Quite a number.”

At that, Dean’s curiosity peaks. “Yeah? You too? Looked like you a had a handle on things back there. Sam and I…”

“Oh,” Cas’ eyebrows raise. “You mean the sex?”

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, the sex…”

Between the two of them, they can’t figure out a way to continue this train of thought. Mostly, Cas is just too tired to talk. Dean, on the other hand, isn't really interested in sharing what he’s been up to the last few hours, considering he was focused on “hot Asian babes” and a more than friendly, personal handshake. Instead, to sto’ the creeping silence, he turns out the lights and approaches the bed.

In the dim glow of the night table lamp, Cas can see Dean rid himself of the lounging pants and crawl into the right side of the bed. He leaves as much of an open space as possible on the left and there’s something in that move that leaves Cas a little breathless

“Get the light, will you?” Dean says this with his body tucked up to the neck in fleece blankets, his head resting on exactly one-half of the pillow pile.

Cas does just that, quickly, but he approaches the bed slowly and with great thought. Almost reverently he lifts the blankets on his side and with irritating caution, he slips beneath it. There’s no room, of course. The bunker is fully equipped with single living spaces and that means a extra-long, but still extra-small, twin bed. Even if he wanted to, which he doesn't, he couldn't escape pressing his body closely against Dean’s.

This is new for him, mutual bed-sharing, and this is Dean letting him, so of course, he’s frightened nearly to death of making a wrong move. To prevent any invasion of his personal bubble - any more so than he’s already allowed - Cas gently shifts to his side, showing Dean his back. Straight as a board, he wiggles to the very edge of the bed, effectively giving as much space as he can. Though he’s still close enough that his back brushes Dean’s arm, Castiel is almost sure he’s done this right. He hopes his best behavior will encourage Dean’s acquiesce in the future.

Apparently, Dean disagrees that this is his 'best behavior.' With a gruff, whispered, ‘Goddamnit, Cas,’ Dean’s arm snakes between the bed and Cas’ side and soon after, Cas finds himself being pulled surprisingly (wonderfully) flush against his favorite Winchester.

He is the little spoon.

And nothing has ever felt quite this good.