Dean wakes up drenched in sweat.
It's the same nightmare again. He should have gotten used to it by now. But how's he supposed to get used to the blade piercing Cas's heart, the flash of his dying grace, the burnt shadow of his wings? To the discarded rag doll of his body, lifeless on the ground?
Cas dead and gone before Dean could ever tell him—
There's no getting used to that.
He lies still in the darkness, trying to calm his pounding heart. Telling himself it was just a dream, that it wasn't real (though it was), that he's being stupid. All he needs is just a little bit of light or a little bit of comfort and he'll be alright. It was just a nightmare, after all.
He opts for comfort — it's so easy to get these days, right there for him to reach out and take it. No questions asked. He turns to the side to search out the outline of a body, hardly visible in the weak, red glow of the alarm clock. He pulls out his hand to find the solidity of his lover.
His palm falls through, down on the wrinkled sheets. His breath catches, just for a moment, but long enough for his thoughts to come racing; he's not here, he was never here… Even though the warmth still lingers on the mattress.
Dean exhales for a long, long while, eyelids closed and the beams of holy light beneath them. Around his shoulder blades, the tension remains and grows and aches, nagging him to move, just to check, to make sure. Because until he does, it might as well be a lie.
He gives in, sits up, his feet land on the cold floor. His fingers flick the light on. It's not that much better, after all. He rubs his eyes with the backs of his palms to wipe away the remnants of sleep and of dreaming.
It's not as middle-of-the-night as he assumed. The red numbers on the clock are soon to strike eight am. Beside it, from a photobooth picture, Cas's blue eyes glare at him. A corner of Dean's mouth curls up in a smile. This should be enough.
He still gets up and slips out of the bedroom into the dim corridor. The wing is quiet, as it usually is, but as he approaches the kitchen, clatter of dishes breaks the silence.
Dean reaches the kitchen door, he breathes out, relieved, for the first time this morning believing all is as it should be. There he is, standing by the stove, dark hair sticking out in all directions, Dean's gray robe wrapped around his body.
"Hey, Cas," Dean lets out.
It comes out a little more exasperated than he planned, at least that's what Cas's concerned expression tells him when the guy turns around.
"Dean?" he asks, brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"
Dean shakes his head. The question couldn't be more out of place.
"Nothing," he says, a wide grin brightening his face. "Not anymore."
Cas doesn't let go. He abandons his post at the stove to get closer, reach out to cup Dean's face.
"Nightmare, again?" It's more of a statement than a question. How many times has Cas woken up in the middle of the night just to soothe Dean, to rock him back to sleep? "I'm sorry I wasn't there."
Dean shrugs. "I'm fine, Cas," he assures, then softer, as he puts his palm on top of Cas's, still caressing his cheek, he adds, "Better than fine. I'm perfect."
With the other hand on the back of Cas's neck, he pushes forward to lay a kiss on his lips. It's quick, but it says it all. Thank you, it tells Cas, and, I'm glad you're here, and, I don't know what I'd do without you, and, Good morning, too.
And most of all, of course, it says what Dean needed too many long years to tell him.
I love you, Cas.