A/N: I need angelic, innocent Castiel in my life right now. So I resurrected season four Cas, brushed off his trench coat, and gave him a little fic. Dean is in it too, of course. And for some reason, I couldn't get this idea out of my head that Castiel must have been confused when he first saw Dean having a nightmare, or any human having a nightmare for that matter.

Warning: slight gore in the beginning, but I wouldn't even call it that. Also, cheese. Because I'm a cheesy ass bitch. Oh, and swearing.

"I already told you, I won't do it. I won't, damn it! I'd hurt myself before I hurt another soul, you sadistic sonovabitch!"

He remembered the spark that ignited in Alastair's black stare, the predatorial smirk on his twisted visage. The gutteral barking that Dean supposed was laughter chilled him to the bone, the claw-like appendage this monster assumed he could call a hand trailed harshly down his cheek.

"That can be arranged."

And before he could register a single thought, inhale another ragged breath, he was whole again. He was whole, but he was not himself. His hands moved, but not of his own volition. His right arm began to dig into his left, scratching away through his dermis, tearing into his muscles. His veins and arteries gushed like a firehose with no owner, drenching him in his own blood. He remembered the pain, the raw agony as he tore into himself. The touch of it was worse; he could feel the slimy tissue as it twisted and snapped with the pressure, bending to his will without so much as a fight. It blinded him and he called out for help, begged for mercy and release and for a damn miracle because he did not know how much longer he could withstand this.

"Ready to come down, boy?" Alastair appeared before him, the same feral grin he was wearing before having increased tenfold. Goodness, he was hard to look at.

Dean mustered up the energy to sneer, "Sorry, I don't make ugly friends."

He spat a gelatinous, murky mixture of blood and mucous at the demon. Alastair wiped the nastiness off of his face and disappeared with a wave of his hand.

Dean felt his hands rise before his face. His index and middle fingers slid between his teeth and lower lip and began to pull and Dean squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that he would learn to stave his tongue if this could just end.

And, suddenly, it did. Dean blinked, and stood before the sand and waves of a beach off of the coast of Oregon. He looked around, confused for a moment, because this was definitely not hell. His eyes fell on Castiel, who was regarding him with a perplexed, pitying stare. It confused him even further. "Cas?"

"Hello, Dean."

Dean cracked his neck, regarded the angel with all the patience of a saint. "Can I help you?"

"Why do you do that?" When Dean waited for him to elaborate and he did not, he motioned for Castiel to continue with an annoyed grunt and a raised eyebrow. "Oh. I mean, why do you dream of your time in hell?"

Dean managed to look affronted. "What do you mean, 'why'?"

"Well, when someone generally asks a person 'why,' it's because—"

Dean waved his hands in front of the angel, stopping him mid-explanation. He put a hand to his forehead and massaged gently. "I meant to ask, exactly, what does that mean? I don't choose my dreams, Cas. They just happen."

Castiel's head cocked to the side, and he stared at his companion for a long while, confused. "I do not understand."

Dean sighed and made himself comfortable. He sat in the sand and stretched out his legs, resting back on his palms. He motioned for Castiel to join him and the angel mirrored his actions. Dean could only laugh at how unnatural the angel managed to look, all awkward limbs and stiff elbows.

"You ended my nightmare, didn't you?" His tone wasn't malicious, but Castiel still managed to look sheepish.

"Yes, I did."

Dean hummed in appreciation. "Well, thanks, you know, for that."

"You're welcome, Dean."

Dean sighed. "I wish I could control my dreams, man. I really do. But it's not something we have control over. Sammy says it has something to do with our subconscious processing information or whatever," Dean snorted, "But nightmares, I don't know where they come from. They're just vivid memories of a time I would rather not think about. It kills me, dude, it really does. I wish I could go to sleep every night, and wake up in my mother's arms, or whatever, but it doesn't work that way."

Castiel regarded him for a moment, his head cocked at a slight angle and his eyes searching, digging for something Dean could not even begin to fathom. And then he nodded, and turned his attention to the sea.

"I see."

They sat like this for a long while, watching the tide as it swelled and receded. They watched the waves crash into the jagged rocks and explode into a mess of sea foam and mist. And it was peaceful, and Dean had forgotten the last time a dream had made him feel so relaxed. He forgot about hell, forgot about the jeering insults, and the endless begging. He felt like he could just close his eyes and fall asleep, again.

"Is there any particular dream you would like to have tonight?"

Dean opened an eye—he didn't even remember closing them—and regarded the angel. He contemplated that for a long while. While it would be nice to dream of his mother, he did not look forward to waking up without her presence in the real world. That was worse than any nightmare he could conceive. He could also go to that bar in North Dakota, the one with the girl with the split tongue, but he knew Sam was in the room and waking up next to one's brother with a boner was definitely not something Dean wanted to deal with in the morning.

Dean smiled and moved to rest on his elbows. "Y'know, Cas, I think I'm happy where I am. Thanks, though."

Castiel nodded, "Of course, Dean. No thanks is necessary."

The angel stood and began to brush the sand off of his dress pants, and it was such a human gesture it was almost comical—had it not been for the fact that the angel was attempting to leave. Dean frowned.

"Cas, why don't you stay for a while? Unless, you know, you're busy, or whatever." Lame, Dean, lame. He's an angel, not some eighth grade crush. He wasn't good at this friend stuff.

Castiel contemplated this for a long moment, before nodding and resuming his awkward sitting. He gave Dean a small smile. "It would be my pleasure, Dean Winchester."

And so they sat. And, would you know it, Dean dreamed peacefully for the rest of the night.

I told you it was cheesy. I haven't written a story in a while, so this is really crusty on my part. But, I hope you enjoyed it.

Leave a review~