This was… new. Dean didn't feel the normal sweltering heat that came with being trapped in hell. The agony of his wounds stung a little less. From his position, strapped vertically to a wall with the chains cutting into his wrists he looked up, squinting into the darkness. The burning was now a pleasant glow. He wanted to soak it all up, it was sunshine after a lifetime of hurricane weather.
"Hello Dean." The voice said to him.
"Wha-what are you?" he asked, his own voice hoarse from lack of use.
His eyes open to a different kind of blackness; it is the dark of the night, a natural black. The stale air of the motel lets him know all is well; he turns slightly and hears Sam's snores. Just a dream, the bed is weighted on the other side letting him know he isn't alone on his mattress either. Too blue eyes are peering at him and a hand is pressed against his own.
Sunshine in a hurricane.
There's no body attached to this voice, he can feel a grip on his wrists, the bonds falling loose. Dean isn't accustomed to standing on his own, as soon as he's no longer tied up he falls straight on his face, groaning against the concrete. This entity picks him up, skin on…whatever it is. It burns him, this feels more like hell. He fears this may be a more elaborate form of torture than he's used too but he also knows fighting it won't help him.
He does the smart thing and decides to go limp like a dead possum. The searing on his shoulder makes him cry out only once and as he does so the pressure and searing stops immediately followed by a jumble of things that could be apologies.
"Are you alright?" the words reach him as he's attempting to go back to sleep. Dean nods slowly through the haze, his head barely moving. Callused fingers rub a few times over the smoother hands of his bedmate as reassurance instead. The trenchcoat is pooled on the floor by the opposite side of the room and the tie is draped over a chair where the three ate dinner this evening.
"'M okay 'm okay." The Winchester mumbles, moving closer to bury his head in the crook where neck meets shoulder, his favorite spot. He likes it because he can hear his partner's breathing and it is soothing to him, it's very real he can count these breaths and they keep him grounded.
"Hello Dean." The voice repeats.
Dean is now struggling to sit up, it's a slow process, words are being spoken but they aren't a language that he can recognize. The thing has picked him up off the floor and there seems to be some kind of battle going on just outside this torture chamber, or at least it sounds like it. Maybe they're here on a liberation mission, some kind of Hell Coast Guard or something. Lots of screams and shouting followed by clangs like swords coming together. "Who are you?" Dean asks again, the light with no body says nothing and the next time he blinks he's sitting in a wooden box that smells like dirt.
His coffin.
Dean is counting breaths right now. One, two, three, four on and on they go and they don't ever stop and it took him a while but Dean knows that he would give almost everything he has to ensure they keep coming. How much this horrendously dressed person means to him. It's winter right now in this dingy Montana hotel room and Sam is shivering away in his bed bundled up but not him. Dean was never one for cuddling but there's a distinct warm shell buzzing around his head and he knows that someone has unfurled their wings in an attempt to keep the cold away while he sleeps.
"Thanks." He sighs.
"For what?" the reply is bemused and bewildered.
"Warm," is all he manages.
"Hello Dean." There's no mistaking who that could be. The voice has a body to go with it now and he expected something a little different. "I am Castiel."
An angel of the Lord, he's been god damned. This thing pulled him out and left that lovely scorch mark on him, oh boy did he feel loved. Dean doesn't understand, so he reacts the way Winchester boys do when they don't understand, they lunge at it with a knife and hope for the best.
This Castiel character looks mildly irritated, giving him a look as if to say 'I pulled you out of hell for this shit?'. He pulls the knife out and lightning flashes across the barn and the outline of wings are illuminated only in shadow.
Hands settle on Dean's back and Cas does that little contented hum he makes from time to time. The hunter likes it, soothing white noise to nod off to. He lets his chest expand as the inklings of sleep cloud his consciousness threatening to consume him.
He remembers a time when night wasn't always this easy.
Sam is trembling slightly and Dean knows that is just what Alistair would want him to think, that this was really Sam. His hold on his gun tightens and he narrows his eyes, the rain tapping against the window pane of the motel as he raises his chin. "You're not getting me this time." He snarls. "No, I'm gonna get you first."
"Dean this is real, put the gun down it's okay you're safe." His brother pleads but Dean knows better, he is seconds away from pulling the trigger when something appears in between him and the fake Sam.
A trenchcoat and a backwards tie with a soft gaze. Dean fires on reflex, spooked, and the angel doesn't even waver an inch. "Get away from me!" he yells into the night as thunder rolls across the sky outside. "Leave me alone!"
Castiel says nothing. He takes a punch in the face and endless beating as he moves forward and envelopes Dean in his arms, sinking to the ground with him, the hunter is still fighting after fifteen minutes. Sam looks shaken but still tries to help the best he can. Castiel assures him there's nothing to be done and slowly but surely the Winchester's struggling dies into heaving sobs. The angel waits. "This is real. I would not lie."
"I don't know." Dean says into the trenchcoat like a lost child. "I don't know what's real."
"I'm here." Soothes the angel and Dean sits on that floor for three hours with him. Castiel does not leave him. This is the first night they share a bed but one of them is not awake for it and the other is gone before the brothers are awake. Whenever nightmares strike and Sam cannot console Dean, Castiel can.
Nightmares still plague him every once in a while but less and less over the span of the months. Castiel shifts slightly, settling against Dean in a more comfortable position.
Sunlight filters through the cracks of the curtains and Dean blinks heavily to adjust his eyes, Castiel is laying on his back serenely. He senses the movement and turns his head slowly, a lazy smile on his lips and the hunter says nothing, lifting his chin to kiss the angel who accepts it gratefully and gives a few of his own.
Dean still has trouble, afraid to let his guard down in the event this is just another trick. Cas senses his hesitation and pulls back slightly to look at him. "Real." He assures.
The Winchester nods faintly. "Real." He repeats, letting out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.