Chapter Text
When Cas wakes up, it's dark and his back is sore. He realises Dean is asleep because he can feel every deep breath he takes. Slowly, he sits up and shakes Dean awake, his touch feather-light.
“Heya, Cas,” He mumbles, stretching slightly. Dean swears that, whilst he's still waking up, Cas has a halo. He wouldn't be surprised. Boys with angel names are probably just pure light moulded and shaped into human forms. It makes sense that this light would bleed out of Cas’ words and skin.
“Hello, Dean. I apologise for falling asleep so quickly.” Castiel's voice is rougher when he's tired, but there's still that hint of warmth, and Dean clings onto the sound of it and how he speaks and the way he forms the words.
Dean shrugs it off and stands, folding up the throw blanket and setting it on his bed. “It's almost 8. You wanna order a pizza?”
He hopes Dean isn't completely appalled by his answer. “I've never had it before.” And then Cas is reminded of the time he had two cookies instead of one and he can remember the punishment for that. His back aches at the memory.
“We're changing that tonight! Dude, you're like.. the most sheltered person I know. Although, this chick at school didn't even know what an iPod was. I guess you're not that sheltered.”
Cas blinks once, looking like a confused bird. An owl, maybe.
The pair play a few rounds of go fish and Dean just manages to find all of the cards in his uno deck before the doorbell rings and the pizza arrives. Half pepperoni, half plain.
“You want a drink, Cas? We got water, pepsi, or diet coke.” They're sat on the floor in Dean's room. Well, Cas is. He seems baffled by the idea of eating upstairs and having soda (which he's never been allowed before), but nods and quietly asks for whatever Dean's getting for himself.
While Dean's in the kitchen, his thoughts are on Cas. He's funny as hell when he wants to be, sometimes so subtly that its barely noticable, but he's also quiet. He gets these dark moods sometimes, where he just lets Dean talk and ramble about tombstone or how he hates scratchy sweaters, and when he's in one of these moods, his eyes seem duller. The light seems to trickle out of him instead of flooding the words he speaks.
He's got this barely-there strength, too. Like he's holding himself together by sheer will, even when his dad does the scary priest stare (as Dean calls it) or when he had to help his mother into their car (Dean doesnt think she was drunk off of the communion wine). He's also Dean's ‘dorky little guy’, apparently.
Not in like, a gay way, but that's just Dean's strange little guy. That's his weird, sheltered, little guy. In a platonic way.
Yeah.
He takes two cans of diet coke up to the bedroom, and he finally gets a good look at the scar on Cas' neck.
It's pale pink, and it looks like a brand. With an almost horrifying reality check, he realises that its a crucifix. What the fuck?
“Hello, Dean.” Cas turns around, tilting his head to the side upon seeing Dean's look.
Dean clears his throat and plasters on a smile, “Heya, Cas. Get ready for the best experience of your life so far.” He sat down next to Cas on the floor, opening his can for him, the faint fizzing noise filling the silence.
Hesitantly, Cas takes a sip. A few emotions pass over his face. Shock, confusion, questioning, then a smile. “I like it, Dean.”
Grinning, Dean takes a sip of his own drink. “I knew you would. Okay, now pizza.”
They eat with the second Star Wars movie on in the background, trading jokes and memories. Cas likes the plain cheese pizza, Dean has the pepperoni.
The scar on the back of Cas’ neck is a topic that Dean wants to talk about, but chooses not to. Yet. He doesn't want Cas’ first sleepover to be trauma dumping and reopening old wounds.
So, they sit and eat their pizza and drink their soda, and Cas doesn't ask why there are so many empty whiskey bottles in the living room and Dean doesn't ask what the scar is from. After eating, they're both wide awake, so they finish the secind Star Wars movie - Cas says he likes Han Solo - and put another record on. This time, it's Elvis. This one is Cas’ favourite.
Dean does his best Elvis impression, which makes Cas laugh so hard that he starts tearing up.
Admittedly, the laughter is mostly brcause of how awful the impression is, and Dean knows it isn't good. But Cas’ laugh is angelic, and he'd make a fool of himself a thousand times over just to hear it again.
“Woah, mama, what's so funny?” Dean's in fits of giggles by the time the first side is over, and they're left laughing and giggling over the staticy sounds.
Cas wipes under his eyes, and they're so bright and happy that they look like stars. “Please- please never pursue a career in impressions.”
Dean doesn't respond, just.. stares ar him for a minute. The flush to his cheeks and how the pale blue glow of the table lamp surrounds him in a glow, how his normally neat hair is like a bird's nest.
“Dean? Are you okay?” He tilts his head to the side, looking like a confused owl. This is the thought that breaks Dean out of his trance, and makes him realise that its a little weird to stare at somebody because this is the first time you've seen them laugh so much and its the most beautiful thing you're ever going to see.
He clears his throat. “Sorry, Cas. Zoned out a little.”
Castiel accepts the answer, and he smiles. “Alright, Dean.”
“How about we play a round of Uno?”
Six rounds of Uno and one pillow fight later, they're both exhausted. As it turns out, Dean is very competitive and Cas is weirdly strategic with his choice of when to place certain cards. During the pillow fight, Cas sees a strip of Dean's abdomen and very quickly realises that he likes it. And then the rest hits him. So does Dean's pillow, but that's not his focus. He falls asleep on the floor, one of Dean's pillows under his head, the scent of him clinging to it, and the throw blanket from their nap earlier.
He feels how Adam must have felt when he woke after Eve's creation. His side sticky with blood, an empty space where his rib used to be. He thinks Adam would've longed for God's touch again. His finger inside of his wound. The palm of his hand on his skin. To be left not sticky with blood, but with love and want and worship.
He hopes it isn't obvious that this is what he covets. Who he covets.
The scar on his neck burns like a brand when he wakes up at dawn, startled and ashamed that he'd dreamed something so sinful.
Castiel dreamt of Dean. His hands and what he imagines the planes of his back and chest look like, his warm voice out of breath.
It's at this point that he realises two things.
One: he is still experiencing.. side affects from the dream.
Two: it is very hard to breathe.
Fortunately, by the time that Dean wakes up, the panic has eliminated Cas’ first problem, but he's still hyperventilating.
“Woah, hey, Cas, look at me.” He's kneeling by Cas before he realises it, and his hands are clamped onto his shoulders. When Cas doesn't look at him, he cups his face and makes him.
“Deep breaths, c'mon, man. Look at me. I'll do it with you, see? Like this.”
He makes a show of taking deep, exaggerated breaths, watching to make sure that Cas is doing the same thing. He doesnt like how Cas looks right now, scared and trembling, like a wounded animal, it makes the ache behind his ribs intensify.
“See? There we go. You're okay, buddy. You're okay. I've got you.” He ruffles Cas’ hair, which earns him a half-hearted glare. He doesn't mind it, because it means Cas is okay. Almost.
“I'm sorry, Dean. That was unpleasant.”
“Don't sweat it, Cas. Not to me. Not if it's you, okay?”
Finger in the wound.