The initial shock of the situation was a lot to take in. For everyone.

Not sleeping, not even feeling the need to sleep… He couldn't even remember a time when he hadn't had to consume endless cups of caffeine to keep sleep at arm's length in order to be able to function.

Food wasn't the same, either. It still smelled good, but the taste was nothing like it used to be, a mere fraction of the spices and sweetness registering on his tongue.

But the weirdest part, the part that he couldn't get used to, was how nothing felt the same. The pads of his fingers as he traced the side of an ice cube; it barely felt cold. When he'd tested his hand over a flame, the heat had been minimal, and the skin didn't redden or pucker like it should have. The only way he could explain it to Sam was to equate it to being in a sort of suit that made some of your senses stronger and some of them weaker, a suit that was constantly trying to expel him. He had to concentrate consistently so he wouldn't leave his body. Sam had started referring to him as "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble."

He also found that he had way too much time on his hands, being able to accomplish most things was a lot simpler when you had almost infinite power and didn't have to spend time sleeping or eating. Or even bathing for that matter. The Impala had never looked better. At night though, when both Sam and Cas were asleep (Cas sleeping was definitely different) he was left with absolutely nothing to distract himself with. That's about when the self-loathing would set in. Despite the differences in his various forms in feeling, he was still very capable of experiencing emotions. Even Cas had to admit he was surprised about that one.

Without alcohol to turn to in the same way he might have been able to once, he chose to sate himself by watching Cas sleep. Dean felt like the newly-human man was avoiding him. He'd exit a room when Dean entered if possible and didn't make much eye contact. Dean tried to ignore it but it was hard with his emotions betraying him every chance they got. It was so much harder to plaster on a smile and pretend he didn't notice.

He knew it was creepy to watch him, hell, he'd said so himself whenever he'd woken to find Cas doing the same thing. But something about the innocence on Cas' face as he slept, plus the bright (human) soul that shone through at the right vantage point did something to calm him in a way that no intoxicants could.

He always slept on his side, somewhat cramped in the twin bed that had already been in his room. He'd murmur in his sleep every once in awhile, but Dean could never make out what exactly he was saying. Dean knew if he moved closer to place a finger to the man's forehead, then he'd be able to have an inside look into his thoughts, and he was tempted to do so, but he couldn't justify watching him sleep, let alone invading his privacy any further.

As an angel, Cas had been attractive. He'd been innocent, clueless, and downright adorable, capable of tying Dean's usually quick tongue into knots. But now that he was human, and now that Dean's emotions were amplified by his holy state, he had a hard time keeping his hands off of him.

When Cas had looked up at him through his lashes in shame after he'd burned his toast, Dean had had to excuse himself from the room to hide the fact that a prized extremity was trying to show its appreciation for Cas' sweet expression. He was beginning to think Sam suspected something whenever he had to leave the room and rub one out (which was another thing that did not feel nearly the same now that he was an angel - he was gonna have to demand a refund very soon).

As Cas adjusted to a mortal life, omeone else might be annoyed by Cas' constant questions pertaining to everything it was to be human, but for the most part, Dean just found it unbelievably entertaining.

For the first five days or so, Cas had worn his trademark suit, tie, and trench coat and the concept of a shower was foreign to him. Sam and Dean had opted to step in at that point, unable to take the smell anymore. Dean had offered Cas some of his own clothes (Sam's would never fit) but the man had declined, saying something about them being "Dean's personal belongings." Dean could admit to himself that he would've been pleased to see Cas sporting one of his t-shirts or flannels, but he shut up after that, a little hurt by Cas' quick refusal, promising to take him shopping for his own stuff. They'd been able to find him some basic clothes; undershirts, boxers, jeans, but Dean had had to draw the line when Cas had voiced his admiration for some polo shirts: "Cas, there is no way I'm buying you some of that douche bag camouflage." They'd compromised on some neat button-downs (they weren't plaid but they'd do for now).

…

Dean found a chair in a room near Cas' and carried it in without making a sound. He set it a couple yards away from the bed and settled in. He marveled again at how the years that weighed down and pulled at Cas' face while he was conscious all just sort of fell away whenever he crashed. Still, it didn't keep his eyebrows from scrunching up in consternation, just beckoning Dean to take a finger and gently smooth them out.

So far, he'd been able to control himself, but it seemed to be getting harder. His hands grasped the arms of the chair, making the wood splinter a little. He tried to get them to release a bit, and instead resigned himself to crossing his arms with his hands fisted at his sides.

He'd been on edge for the past few days. At first he'd been distracted by his new form, trying to get the hang of it. Now four weeks had passed. Sam had suggested going to heaven to scope things out but Dean wasn't ready for that, the thought kind of scared the hell out of him, and Cas had agreed that they better wait awhile in case Naomi had something planned.

But now that the voices in his head didn't seem quite so loud, he wasn't so weighed down by the righteousness or whatever the hell was in him, he'd been able to focus a little more on the words uttered before he'd gotten his "grace transplant," as he liked to call it.

He'd verbally claimed the angel, called him his. He'd said he loved him, Dean was sure of it.

In some ways, it was a relief to have said the words that had been plaguing him. But Cas hadn't said one thing about it since, he hadn't even hinted. In fact, Cas barely showed any of the emotions that must be newly affecting him, so much so, that Dean was curious whether or not he was really, fully human. It was frustrating. How could someone with so little experience with feelings keep them from his face so well while Dean seemed unable to keep the smallest change in mood from his own face?

Dean didn't know whether the angel simply hadn't heard him (he had had a limited windpipe at the moment and Cas had been a little distracted with the whole trying-not-to-strangle-him thing) or whether the angel had heard him but had wished he hadn't. He wanted to hope for the best, hope that Cas had been too buried and out-of-control to hear him, but he often found himself leaning the other way.

It was easy to pretend that Cas felt the same way, to push down the doubt and insecurities, but it was never long before Cas' bright, shimmering soul shining through would remind him that he didn't deserve him anyway.

As he deliberated, Dean realized a scowl painted his face and he worked to smooth it out and to think of other things.

The logical side of him had finally managed to convince him to stop being a stalker and he'd stood up, turning to pick up the chair when he heard a very clear pronunciation of a word from the man behind him:

"Dean."

That's it, it'd finally happened, he'd been found out. He pivoted on his left foot, turning slowly with an ashamed look on his face. But when he finally had the balls to look Cas in the face, he realized that he was still asleep. A very warm feeling flooded his chest, bubbling up into his throat, making him clear it.

The man's face scrunched up in anxiety (was he worried?) as he repeated his name, "Dean."