"Has it only been that long?"
Castiel's whisper echoes in the dark bedroom, soaking into the sheets and dancing with the shadows cast by the small nightlight in the corner. He receives no answer, the only other occupant in the room being asleep. Dean lay next to him, one arm curled into his chest while the other draped above his head, hands relaxed and lips slightly parted.
They had fallen asleep holding each other, as lovers often did, but soon relaxed into their own spaces. There wasn't any need to cling tightly, as they had in the beginning, neither were going anywhere. Dean always fell away before Castiel, finally surrendering to the deep sleep his body craved, denied by stress and constant vigilance for what seemed like a lifetime. He didn't mind, his body still buzzed with wakefulness.
Castiel still had trouble falling asleep. Usually, he lie awake thinking of falling angels or his broken home, soothed into sleep only by a soft word from Dean. Tonight, however, his thoughts were older; foggy remains trapped in a now human memory.
For a while he only sees smoke. He hears screaming, but only shadows of demons lurk around him, poking and prodding at their subjects, twisting them into images of themselves. They cower in his light, but he pays them no mind. He has orders.
His brothers and sisters crowded around him, wedging their way through the onslaught of evil trying to neutralize their blinding light.
Their orders were simple. Find the Righteous Man.
No specifics. The first angel to lay a hand on Dean Winchester would save him, or there would be consequences. Castiel sighs to himself, trying to remember what it had been like to be a good soldier, blind to everything except whatever masqueraded as God's will.
Until he needed to put a man back together.
In the soft evening light, back in the present, Castiel, former angel of the lord, traces his fingers along Dean Winchester's skin. He remembers seeing a soul, so beautiful and grand in scope, but twisted with rage and sadness. Hell hadn't broken Dean Winchester, but he wasn't without scars. He remembers taking that soul in his arms and healing it, piece by piece, with his own grace. Pouring a little bit of himself into the righteous man with every bone made unbroken and every muscle stitched together, finally breathing life back into the man he would one day call his friend. His lover.
5 years ago. Had it only been that long?
Dean shifts in his sleep, and Castiel draws his hand back, unwilling to wake him. But the hunter's eyes remain closed. He longs to wake him up, to touch and kiss and crawl into each other's spaces as they had before falling asleep. But he also feels an overwhelming contentment just watching. Dean Winchester, healthy and whole, beside him in every aspect.
Knowing he won't sleep tonight, he starts counting freckles; he has a whole lifetime to count them all.