Castiel stays awake for a long time, rubbing Dean's back in slow circles. He has never hurt this much for someone else, and it's surprising, because he barely knows Dean at all. He's worked on cases with people he felt less for, and had more contact with. But Dean is like a coal burning deep, deep down in the dark, and he's drawn Castiel in, with his quiet, secretive mix of anger and regret.

He feels like he's cheating, and maybe he is, as he lies in the dark and feels Dean's weight against his chest, all his muscle and tight, bound up shoulders relaxed into a sloppy bundle of sleeping limbs. He smells like sweat and fuel, and he's still wearing his clothes. Castiel touches his hair, spiking up and slightly rough to the touch, puts his hand on Dean's arm and feels the warm bulge of it. He's cheating on Sam just by being here, he knows that. And it's Sam's sorrow too, his history. But somehow Castiel can't connect it to him. Sam is confident, urban, his roots so well hidden that they might as well not exist.

Dean is messy by comparison, neither one thing nor the other, a thing of broken glass and metal and earth.

Inside his head he promises himself that tomorrow night he will be back on the couch. Or at least sticking to his side of the bed. He loves Sam. Closing his eyes, Castiel tries to remember how Sam feels when they sleep next to each other, the way he breathes in his sleep, his broad smile, his clumsiness when he's too tired after work. Sam, who respects his boundaries, who doesn't push for anything, not even sex.

Castiel frowns into the dark. Not that he wouldn't mind if he were to be a little more forthright there. Castiel might be profoundly shy when it comes to that sort of thing, he knows that, but it doesn't mean he doesn't like sex. He's just not very...sure of himself.

In his sleep, Dean moves closer to him, one arm tightening over his chest, he rubs his face against the front of Castiel's shirt and groans quietly.

Castiel looks down at him with difficulty. Still fast asleep. He settles onto the pillow and tries to relax himself towards unconsciousness. He really needs a good night's sleep.

He wakes periodically throughout the night, each time he feels Dean against him, heavy and relaxed with sleep.

In the morning, Castiel extricates himself with difficulty and pads to the bathroom for a shower. The compactness of the trailer's limited facilities bothers him a lot, but it's serviceable. When he emerges, still mostly wet and clutching a towel around himself, Dean is just sitting up in bed, rubbing his face and running his fingers through his hair.

"Morning," he says with his eyes screwed up, "Shit, what time is it?"

Castiel glances at the clock on the floor. "Just gone eight."

Dean flops back down onto the mattress with a groan.

"If you're going back to sleep, I'd suggest changing your clothes," Castiel says, hunting through his bag for clean underwear and a fresh shirt.

The mattress complains as Dean wriggles on it, before finally dragging himself out of bed.

"You're not a morning person," Castiel observes.

"Bite me." Dean mutters on his way to the kitchen. "It's my day off, I can sleep all I want."

Dean disappears outside to feed the dogs, who come bounding into the yard and mob him excitedly. Castiel watches through the window as Dean pats heads and scratches bellies, gently tugs ears and ruffles backs.

He puts the coffee on and checks his tablet. New emails from work, nineteen of them. One from Sam, just a quick 'I miss you' and some 'xs' Castiel looks at them fondly. He can't wait for Sam to come down to see him.

He's sitting at the table, frowning over an email when Dean comes back. He pours them both coffee and then takes down cereal and puts it on the table with milk and bowls. Casitel glances at the box of Lucky Charms.

"I believe those are for children."

Dean pours himself a heaping bowlful, drenches it in milk, and grins, as if hoping to provoke a reaction. Castiel tries to keep a smile from his face, but fails, so he quickly looks away.

"What's with the serious business face?" Dean asks a few minutes later.

"Work."

"What kind of work?"

Castiel looks up. "One of the cases I'm working on...it looks like the defendant's alibi didn't check out, so now the police want to know exactly where he was the night he was arrested."

"What's he supposed to have done?" Dean asks.

Castiel frowns.

"You don't have to tell me."

He heaves a sigh. "He's accused of raping a sixteen year old girl."

Dean drops his spoon into his cereal. "Fuck."

Castiel nods.

"Did he do it?"

"No. I don't think he did. He was in her neighbourhood at the time, he was seen in the same park where she was attacked, and he's been identified in a line up."

"Seems kinda like he did it."

Castiel looks sorrowful. "He was there seeing his boyfriend, who is incidentally ten years older than him, and married. The line up didn't prove anything except that in a ten second period of time, one African American teenage boy in an off brand hooded jacket, at night, looks like any other."

Dean is still watching him, levelly, considering.

"You can see why he doesn't want to give his real alibi." Castiel mutters, going back to his email.

"Is every case you have like this?" Dean asks.

Castiel shrugs. "Some are different, usually because the defendant is guilty. But...mostly they all have the same things in common, people in the wrong place at the wrong time – victims and the accused alike." He takes a sip of coffee, "Sam deals with the larger criminal cases, working for the state means he gets a lot of the really bad trials."

"I know, I read about them in the paper." Dean says, picking up his spoon and returning to his breakfast.

"All of them?"

He nods.

"I'm sure he appreciates your interest."

Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. Castiel knows he's said something careless, but doesn't know how exactly.

"Why do you do it then, if all the cases are so messed up?" Dean asks, "You got some big reason to fight for the little guy?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. But I'm not a top lawyer, like Sam, I came out of law school not knowing what I wanted to do and, I thought I'd do some time with legal aid while I figured it out. This job just sort of happened."

"Not one of the head honchos at Harvard?"

Castiel snorts. "Not even one of the middling students. And I didn't get into Harvard." Dean looks a little surprised. "I'm not really...good at stressful situations, it makes exams difficult, it made getting a work placement difficult. When it comes down to it, I don't have the killer instinct...so I suppose I'm not a very good lawyer."

"Do you like it?"

Castiel thinks for a moment. "I think so. Sometimes it's hard to remember that this wasn't always my life. That I used to do things at the weekend that weren't work related. I try to do my best for all my cases."

Dean slides the cereal box over to him. "Have some sugar."

Castiel pours himself a bowl. What he said is true, he does try his best. But at the same time, he knows his best isn't good enough, not really. Whenever he loses a case that shouldn't even have been brought, or wins one that puts a criminal back on the street, he asks himself what the hell he's doing with his life. But doing his job is better than doing nothing.

"You know what you need, a hobby," Dean says, "something not work related, you can just kick back, have a beer, and go fishing."

"I hate fishing."

Dean shakes his head. "That's my hobby, what do you like?"

Castiel thinks hard, then shrugs. He doesn't like doing anything, except being quiet and comfortable in his apartment, in the big wing chair by the balcony. Where he look down at the street lights and police beacons, and up at the stars. He reads there, he sips his gin there.

"I just like being quiet."

He's all set for Dean to make fun of him, but instead the other man just looks at him strangely and then shrugs. "So find a place to be quiet, and just go there."

Castiel likes that idea. He rarely gets a chance to enjoy his quiet apartment, he gets calls from work constantly for one thing, and most evenings he speaks to Sam, either in person, or more often, via skype or telephone.

"If you don't mind though, I thought I'd go to the bar tonight," Dean says, "you can come, if you like."

"I'm good thanks," Castiel says, feeling a flicker of guilt. "I haven't made such an ass of myself in years."

Dean snorts. "Well, I was an ass too, and that's pretty much my setting 24/7."

"I'd noticed."

"Funny," Dean throws a dehydrated marshmallow at him. "But seriously, I need to get laid, especially if Sam is going to be here – I cannot be tense for that."

Castiel frowns. He'd known of course that things weren't great between the two of them, but was it really so bad that Dean was already dreading it?

"Why do you two not get on?" He finds himself asking.

"Ugh, let's not do this," Dean mutters, "we just...we're very different people. He's the big city lawyer kind...and I'm the white trash kind."

"With two degrees."

Dean shrugs. "It's a dusty piece of paper Cas, it doesn't mean shit."

But Castiel had seen his face when he'd first brought it up. That small flash of pride in his eyes. He'd seen how Dean looked about him, he wasn't stupid, he wasn't even average. He was smart.

"You're a very intelligent person Dean, I envy that, honestly," he finds himself saying.

A flush creeps up Dean's neck, and Castiel can't help staring at it, even as Dean avoids his eyes.

"I know what sounds ridiculous but...I was wrong about you, and I want you to know, I realize that."

The flush spreads, pink under Dean's tan, he turns away, waving Castiel off casually.

"I'm full of crap, and I really need to get some of the junk in the yard moved somewhere out of the way...so...I'm gonna go."

He fairly sprints from the trailer, and when Castiel gathers up the dishes and goes to the sink to wash them, he sees Dean outside in yesterday's clothes, wearing a thick pair of canvas gloves, hefting a car's bumper from one heap to another. Castiel can tell he's angry from the way he moves, but at what, he has no idea. Watching Dean work furiously to reorganise the scrap metal, Castiel tries to recall the feeling of Dean's arms around him, relaxed and warm. It's like he's a completely different kind of man when he's awake.

A tiny, buried part of him is already waiting for nightfall, then he remembers that Dean is going out, to meet a woman in a bar. It makes him feel bad, in a way he doesn't want to examine, and in a way that makes him feel worse because he's with Sam. He shouldn't care what Dean does.

He doesn't care. Not even a little part of him cares.