Dean was stirring up some smoke and dust in the kitchen before noon that next day (which wasn't very in character for him). He had the stove on, and was making french toast off to the side with one of those fancy helping tools Cas' mom used to have in the house. He thought it was a bit odd that they still had it after so many years. If it worked, though, he guessed it made sense. Every so often, he'd peek around the corner, down the hall to see if Cas had come out of his room yet. He was hoping it'd all work out as planned: that Cas would sleep until the meal was finished. He smiled at the thought. Cas was going to be so happy, he wouldn't be able to contain it!
Within the next few minutes, Dean pulled off the end product of his journey of cooking what was supposed to be an omelet. He set it on a plate and then collected the french toast, syrup and orange juice to complete the tray he'd found in the top of the cupboard. Soon, he was making his way to Cas' room. (Yes, he had to text Michael and ask where most things were, but... Y'know, it got done, and that was the important part.)
The portal to Cas' dark haven opened with a slight struggle, being that his hands were full, so he had to check to make sure Cas was still out from the night before. The black curtains over the windows frequently kept him in bed until two or three, so it really shouldn't have been a surprise that Cas was still sound asleep.
Dean rested the tray on the end table, and crawled up next to Cas, then rested his legs on either side of Cas' knees, because Cas had rolled onto his side. The covers had swarmed around him while he'd slept as well; it looked like he'd pulled them closer after Dean had left. The older boy wondered if he'd woken at all, or it was an instinct. But, soon, he pushed those thoughts away, and kissed at Cas' shoulder. He tried for Cas' hands, too.
He untangled his arms from the blankets, and kissed at his forearms. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes on the skin, especially since there were such bright, thin marks from just a day or two ago. He decided, silently of course, that that's what Dean had interrupted him during on the previous night. He bit his lip in sentiment, and shook his head slightly. He continued to kiss at Cas' pale and torn skin until he woke. "Good morning, angel." He whispered.
Cas looked down at the sight: Dean was above him, and so close... He blushed, but then couldn't hold back a smile. 'What're you doing, Dean?"
"I see them." He stated, kissing at his arm more gently now. "I want you to know that I see them. And I don't know why you're ashamed. I'm ashamed because I let you get so sad. I should be ashamed. Not you. I allowed you to get sad enough to do this. I hope you feel better." He spoke with such sincereity that it made Cas' heart swell (it was a bit uncomfortable, too, because he felt like his chest was clogged or something). He smiled again, and turned over, helping Dean into his lap. The volumptuous cotton sheets and bed spread were helping separate them, but warmth was still shared. "I feel funny." He said, rubbing at his eyes. He was still in the black t-shirt when he looked down. After a few seconds, he revealed the world to himself again, and spoke. He sounded so relieved! "You do see them, don't you?" He asked. "You're not upset with me?"
Dean shook his head. "I'm just sorry I couldn't help before it got this bad. I won't make you promise anything, I don't want you to feel trapped. I just want you to know that I'm here for you, alright? And I won't tell a soul. Just... Be careful, alright, sweetie? I worry. I worry so much that i'll lose you some day..."
"Well, some day, I mean-" Cas started, but then the invasion began. The cinamon swirled past his eyes and down around to his nose, and tickled all the way to the back of his tongue, to tell him just where it needed to be.
Dean sighed. "Oh hush. " He said, as Cas noticed the tray beside the bed. 'What's this?' He asked, holding his face.
Dean smiled brightly, seemingly showing all of his teeth at once. "I made you breakfast." He was proud; it was clear from how straight his posture began to be as he'd spoken.