Restless Sinners
Troublesome thoughts rattled like loose change in Castiel's mind. He knew he was being selfish where he should be grateful. He didn't just sacrifice everything for any Tom, Dick, or Harry—"hairless apes", as Lucifer famously put it—supplying to global warming and overpriced sensationalism. To be lying beside Dean Winchester was an honor among honors. Just hearing the slow, rhythmic thumping of his heart tucked beneath the shallow concave of his ear; inhaling his scent before falling into a leather-induced coma; feeling his many-times lacerated, yet always milky skin linger on his in an otherwise motionless room. All of these things and loving him with every fiber in his weathered vessel were fruitful treasures bestowed on his immortal soul.
To think, in less than twenty-four hours he was going to spend eternity with a practically faultless man while he alone—aside from many-times faithless—was fruitless and painfully immoral. What could he, a hairless, careless ape, possibly offer the Righteous Man, a participation ribbon?
Somehow these thoughts only seemed to enhance his insomnia. Instead, he schooled his attention on his Droid's LED screen. Fleetingly he wondered, as he descended to the lowest level of the bunk, if Jimmy Novak was plagued by restlessness. According to Web MD, the condition sleep paralysis is common when a high dose of stress is administered… and substance abuse becomes regular…. and when personality disorders go undiagnosed…
Yeah, maybe this wasn't the most reliable website.
He ran his thump over the home screen, trying a separate search. There, real people. Ebunny69 says her sleep paralysis is caused by the disembodied tulpa of her ex-boyfriend. Before sundown, he turns out the lights, slinks into her bed and—
Oh, so that's how the Winchesters find cases.
Beneath him—aside from the marble wood floor and the plodding numbness consuming the ligaments in his feet—was a younger, more pensive brother. Sam sat in one of the many systematically-grouped chairs of the library. Illuminated faintly by the pillar lamps adjoining the study, disenchantment held heavy in his hazel eyes. When Cas came around, he closed his laptop and acknowledged his presence with the small upturn of his head. Not only did he look the part for Grumpy Old Men, but he also seemed besieged by fatigue.
Cas could relate. "Can't sleep?"
Sam laughed humorlessly, bringing his fingers up to massage the bridge of his nose. "Neither can this testimonial. I'm the best man and ring bearer; tomorrow I'm apparently the suit coordinator. I swear, if I have to walk him down the aisle too—" He paused, smiling sheepishly at his pseudo brother-in-law. "Sorry."
"Don't ever atone for honesty, Sam," he said, sliding into the chair directly across from him. "Dean can be taxing at times, but it's only because he puts so much faith in you." Sam smiled knowingly at the declaration (which may or may not have been totally speech worthy…) as Cas budged uneasily, an odd ripple-like sensation washing over him like a tidal wave. "Is it customary to experience muscle spasms after ghost rape?"
The second-born opened and closed his mouth a couple times. "Cas, what hour is it?"
"Eleven standard time, twenty-three hundred hours military—"
"No, Cas, I mean how long since your last siesta?" he amended, searching his cobalt eyes.
The ex-angel blinked away the sudden graininess swimming in his cornea. He remembered scanning over something from that not-so-figurative brain blastin pop-culture that dealt with grit—the Sandman. Of course, there were limitations to his knowledge, granted all he had to show for was a Metallica song (his husband-to-be would be proud, no doubt) and a graphic novel. Either way, between the two, it didn't sound like a pleasant experience.
Then again, what midnight terror specialized in pleasant?
"Oh, well… 10, 11, 12, add the five, carry the one to make a very big number."
Sam had to bite back a laugh; sleep-deprived Cas was an apathetic Cas. He crossed his arms over his chest and pursed his lips. "Alright, I'll bite. What's up?"
"Nothing," he said. He looked up to find Sam, in all seriousness, staring reprovingly at his preemptive attempts to conceal the truth. "It's nothing!" Sam's eyebrows raised and he looked like he was about to give his friend the 'truth or die' ultimatum (which, according to Dean, is acquired through an uncanny canine smolder) when Cas blurted: "I'm nervous."
If there's one thing Sam thought he'd never hear, the preamble to the death of an angel's valor took the crown. "You're nervous?"
"Dean, what if he..." Cas deigned, head sinking faintly. It wasn't anything he wanted to conceive let alone say for fear it would materialize into one of the monsters they hunt.
The youngest shook his head, dubious. "What if he what, doesn't love you? Cas, this isn't a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome. You two have literally been to hell and back together, how many couples can jot that down on their vows?"
The angel's eyes crinkled at that. Dean never was one for words, at least when it came to him. He nearly choked on his own tongue divesting his true feelings. (Then again, that wraith did do a number on his neck before he impaled the creature with a silver dagger.)
Nonetheless, Cas found it again the following day—in more places than one.
"Hey, are you good?" he asked. Cas nodded without causing further detriment to his aching head. Poltergeist or not, sleep deprivation spread faster than the plague. "Good. Because as much as I'd love to get out of this damn speech, I'd sooner sell my soul than watch you guys play eye dodgeball. Dean's not exactly what you'd call subtle."
Jimmy's vessel ran his hands over his scarlet face before his cell vibrated—multiple times. There were five messages total, all from the same inconspicuous sender. He smiled languidly scrolling through his inbox and internally debating whether or not to send a healthy reassurance in return.
Sam caught the redefined gleam in his eye and decided to humor him anyway as he pulled his laptop open again. "It's totally fine by me if you wanna camp out here tonight. The couch is actually pretty comfy once it's broken into."
"Thank you, but the bed's probably getting cold," he replied, overturning his phone with a courteous smile. "Besides, I'd rather have Dean in a good mood before the big 'I do'."
Sam began typing again and Cas began to make his long but more refined ascendance to his shared bedroom—Bobby's diffident dialect resounded in his cranium ("Keep both hands on the wheel.") as he came to the ironic conclusion that he too was only human—when the former man uttered his name once more. The wayward angel stilled his hand on the rustic railing and turned to meet a complacent smile. "I'm glad you're marrying him."
Cas nodded, replicating the same tender expression. "Me too."
That night, as Castiel returned to his midnight chambers and his heavy-eyed boyfriend took him in an arms' burrito, he was replenished with the comfort of a thousand burning stars. Though he may always distinctly carry the bittersweet tang of leather and whiskey, his lover would be forever his. For it was then he realized that Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, was, by Castiel only, completely and totally inebriated.
-END-
