The next morning, Cas rolled over and groped the bed sleepily. His hands grasped for a body, seeking warmth where there was none. His heart throbbed. "Dean," he moaned softly. "Dean…" His faded green t-shirt was twisted around his chest, constricting his motion, and the covers were in mounds around him as if he'd had active dreams. The mattress was so big, maybe Dean had just gone further away, he thought hazily. When his arms found nothing but emptiness and cold sheets it flipped a switch in his head. He felt an icy, draining feeling when he opened his eyes and he was alone in bed. His blue eyes dilated as he blinked rapidly. Dean wasn't here. Well, of course he wasn't. Dean had never slept with him in bed before. Why did he miss him this deeply, waking up? It felt like a blow to the chest, like a piece of him had just been ripped away.
Sitting up, he ran his fingers through his fluffed-up hair and blew a sigh. His heart still ached. He was in deeper than he thought with this whole Dean thing. Maybe he should take it easy. Dean could still bolt at any time, he had never done this before after all. Cas had. He'd felt the pain. The blows. The pleasure. He knew what it took to stay, and how hard it was to leave.
Shuddering, he reached over and grabbed his maroon jacket, pulling it on. He knew what it would be like to lose it again, and was terrified of feeling those emotions again. But what he felt for Dean was growing stronger every day. Too strong to be ignored. He could only keep being there to teach him what to do, and hope Dean wouldn't get scared off by all of it. That was a dangerously thin line to walk without knowing anything about Dean's love life before this. But he was strong, and that gave Castiel courage.
Cas pushed off his covers and dragged himself out of bed, shuffling to the door. Cracking it, he looked out nervously. Light poured into his blue eyes and he squinted out into the hall. He knew nothing was going to go wrong until tonight but that did not make his nerves go away. No one was in the corridor and he could see the kitchen light on, and hear the shower running. Both of his parents were up. He slid out of his room, cautious, and breathed in the cool morning air. His soft draw-string pajama pants dragged on the floor.
Getting possibly in too deep gave him all the more reason to talk to his parents. This could become huge or go south really quickly, this relationship; he wanted them to know either who he was marrying or about to kill himself over. His bare feet padded along the cold hardwood and he rubbed his face. All right, that was a little too dark. That had happened before. Joking about it was not ok.
As he approached the kitchen he spotted his father making eggs at the stove, pushing the gooey yellow and white around with an old spatula. The smell filled the room. Although Cas had never been close with either of his parents, fearing their opinion of his homosexuality and ultimately being correct, he respected and loved both of them. It was just so strange seeing them here. Usually they were up before the sun and gone before breakfast, and back after ten, every day. The fact that they'd both cancelled their weekend plans to spend it with him was an amazing feeling.
Castiel found a smile on his father's lips when the sound of his approaching footsteps gave him away and he turned around. A worn, tanned version of his own face smiled back at him, covered in the scruff of a goatee. Deep laugh lines wrinkling around his eyes as he spotted his son's deer-in-the-headlights expression. Cas swore his dark eyes twinkled. "Hey, Cassy," his dad chuckled in his deep tone, "Good to see you."
His name was Byron. Byron Novak. Married to Cas's mother, Cassandra Novak. Usually he was pretty casual – an army-green button down shirt and jeans, so it was not unusual to see him dressed in a loose-fitting t-shirt he knew he'd just flung on when he woke up, and his green plaid pajama pants all dads seemed to have. His dark hair wasn't combed but his eyes were bright under bushy eyebrows. He turned back to his cooking with that same smile on his lips, looking smug with himself for surprising his son. He was a little taller than Cas was – probably about Dean's height – because Cas had inherited three things from his mother; her scatter-brained mind, her blue eyes, and her height. But the fifty-something man looked well rested and content while he cooked, which was usually mom's job.
"You too, dad," Cas managed a smile as he leaned against the door frame, rubbing his arm. "You look great. How've you been?"
"We've been all right. The house is pretty empty since you left, so we've been keeping busy. Your mother's got a sort of meeting today with her quilting club – she'll be back before dinner – and I've gotten closer with my co-workers, and a family I'm fixing the wiring for in their new house, too. We go out for drinks sometimes." He turned back to Cas, carrying the pan with him. "But your ol' folks are just fine, besides missing you. How've you been keeping?"
Castiel went to the cabinets and brought out three plates, grabbing three forks from the silverware drawer as his father pushed an oven mitt on the dining room table to put the pan on. He placed them all on the table as well, frowning, "I've been pretty good. My classes are going really well. Loads of work, but… I can deal with it." He went to the fridge as his dad gathered glasses for the orange juice. "English is my best class so far, besides art."
His dad leaned around the fridge door to give him a look. "English, really? I thought you didn't like writing?"
"Well, not usually. But we get these opinion papers sometimes that are fun. And the teacher loves our radical opinions." Cas laughed a bit. "It's fun to hear him read them out loud, too. It makes us want to write more outlandish things." He smiled. "But I do like reading, and we do that more."
"Good to hear. Do you have any classes with your roomie? And how's that whole situation going?" Cas fumbled with the ketchup on the fridge door as his dad pushed the glasses to each place at the table. "I know you've never had to share a room before, how do you like it?"
All Castiel could think about was the first week or two before he'd known Dean pretty well. Rolling over in the dead of night, waking from a violent nightmare that left him in cold sweats, glancing over at Dean to make sure he hadn't woken him up… only to see him sleeping like a rock. His peaceful face was like a painting; a capture in time Cas would never be able to forget. He never snored, never stirred; just lay there, looking way too handsome, and way too content, chest rising and falling gently. That was the only time he didn't frown – when he was asleep. His dreams were always peaceful. Knowing he was there, that he was all right, made Castiel's heart feel much lighter. Knowing if anything from his nightmares followed him into the waking world, that he wasn't alone... that was a treasure in itself.