Nowadays, Dean sleeps light. It didn't used to be that way. He's never been the sort of guy to sleep through drunken kids arguing outside at 1am, or the sound of someone's fist beating out a staccato heartbeat on their motel door, but recently he's found the smallest thing jolts him awake. Some nights he'll have closed his eyes only to be pulled back into consciousness by the noise of the cistern hissing. To say he is sick of this state of affairs would be an understatement.
There is a fierce storm blowing outside tonight, extinguishing any small hope Dean had for a satisfying sleep. Wind smacks against the walls of the tiny bed and breakfast and Dean fumbles with the TV remote, turning the subtitles on. Usually he has the volume on low enough for Sam not to be disturbed, making rough guesses as to what the characters on-screen are saying and thumbing the mute button whenever the canned laughter goes into overdrive, but with this storm, he can't hear a damn thing. He rubs his eyes and pushes his pillows up a little higher.
We should stop here, Sam had said earlier. It was still kind of early and Dean was all set to keep his foot on the accelerator until they'd gotten out of this flat, damp patch of country, but Sam was hungry and you had to pick your battles, sometimes. When everything around you was disintegrating, choosing a palatable motel to stay in overnight didn't register on your list of priorities. Dean let his brother sign them into this stupid small place with its three bedrooms and antlers stuck on the walls like dysfunctional coat hangers. He even ticked the boxes on the breakfast form. Bacon. Coffee. And then he had settled himself into this close, cramped room and flicked through the channels until he found a marathon of some show he's pretty sure he's seen every episode of already.
Sam was asleep, of course. He could sleep anywhere, like a two year old or something. His hair is spread out on one side of his pillow and there's a book next to his bed. He always used to have to read before he could sleep, some little routine thing that, okay, Dean can understand. A flash of light cuts through the room and Dean automatically heads for the window, covered by mustard-coloured curtains. He figures it's only lightning, but you can't be too sure.
He is pressing his forehead to the glass and staring down into the dark garden when he realises someone is stood behind him. His throat tightens for a second, and he doesn't entirely relax until he turns around and sees Cas there next to the oversized wardrobe.
"It's two in the morning," Dean says, somewhat redundantly.
"I know."
"That's when people sleep."
"I can tell." Cas' voice is more amused than it should be as he looks at Dean. Dean rubs at his eyes again and sits heavily on the edge of his bed. He should've figured something was up when Cas rang him just before Sam went to sleep. Angels don't just call up and make enquiries as to your wellbeing and location because they want to be kind friends or something. Dean wishes that maybe they would. The whole I'll-just-drop-by-since-it's-2am thing is the most ridiculous thing ever.
"So what's going on with you?" he asks, because he might as well, now. If anyone's got news nowadays, it's Cas. Not that there's ever any good news. They passed that point a long time ago.
Cas frowns slightly, and Dean realises that he's thinking that, too. "Doesn't matter," he says. "Beautiful weather out there, huh?"
"That's not just a storm," says Cas. He looks weary; he is leaning against the windowsill, hands folded around it. Dean grits his jaw. Of course it wasn't just a storm. Of course. "It'll be gone by morning."
"Well. Guess that's good."
Cas pushes himself off the windowsill and sits next to Dean. It's strange, having him just arrived and obviously untouched by the rain or blustering wind. Sometimes Dean manages to convince himself that Cas is an ordinary guy who happens to have an entire family's worth of social ineptitude; other days, the fact that there's a breach between them as wide as a canyon hits Dean square in the chest.
"How are you and Sam?" Cas asks.
"We're fine," Dean snaps: a reflex. "I mean, Sam's…he's okay, and we're good."
"But you're not sleeping."
Dean shrugs. It takes a lot of effort. "Not exactly top on the list of my concerns right now."
They sit silently for a few seconds. The TV is still on. Dean can hear one of the characters yelling. A wave of rain bashes against the window. And there's Cas, reassuring and warm next to him. The temporary peace is like a shot of Nyquil, and suddenly he kind of wants to collapse onto the covers and sleep the dreamless rest of the very exhausted.
"Did that help?" says Cas. Realisation dawns.
"D'you just pull some magic trick on me, Cas?" Dean smirks. The fact that there's some outside influence interfering even with his sleep bugs him only slightly.
"I'll leave you to rest." Cas stands up, brushing Dean's shoulder.
"Where're you going now?" asks Dean. He realises a second too late that it's probably a weird thing to say, but that's never stopped Cas before. He won't care.
"Away."
"Yeah, but…where?" Dean has always wondered where it is that Cas goes when he flits off. It can't be Heaven, because from what he's heard, Cas isn't head boy up there any more. It's a question he has contented himself with living with. "Stay here. It's a good episode," he mumbles, nodding towards the small TV.
And so it goes that as Dean is sinking into the starched sheets of an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, he can see the outline of a sloped back, clothed in material that glows dully in the light from the television; he can feel the slight tilt of the mattress as it keens towards Cas' weight. He closes his eyes and sleeps.