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Dean was stretched out against the headboard in a pair of worn gray pajama pants, bare skin warm beneath the dim yellow light of his bedside lamp. Castiel was curled against him in nothing but dark boxers, one leg tangled lazily with Dean’s while the laptop balanced dangerously near Dean’s knee played an old movie neither of them had been paying attention to for at least twenty minutes.
Dean carded his fingers absentmindedly through Castiel’s hair.
“You know,” he murmured, “normal couples probably don’t spend date night researching fake FBI badges and eating cold takeout.”
Castiel hummed against his chest. “That is because normal couples are cowards.”
Dean barked out a laugh, the sound vibrating under Castiel’s cheek. “Wow. Okay. Hostile.”
“I’m merely observant.”
“Sure you are.”
The movie exploded into a loud car chase scene. Dean reached over to lower the volume before settling back again, his arm immediately returning around Castiel’s shoulders like it belonged there.
Which it did.
Cas traced lazy shapes over Dean’s stomach with two fingers. “Sam bought oat milk again.”
Dean groaned dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Man looked me dead in the eyes this morning and said it was ‘creamier.’”
“You were offended for several hours.”
“I’m still offended.”
Castiel tilted his head just enough to look up at him. “You are very sensitive.”
Dean narrowed his eyes fondly. “You say that while cuddling me like a teddy bear.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Cas.”
“I am simply existing near you.”
Dean snorted and squeezed his hip. “Uh huh.”
Castiel let his head settle back onto Dean’s chest, listening to the steady heartbeat beneath his ear while Dean’s fingers continued combing slowly through his hair. The room felt warm. Safe. Dean smelled like soap and sleep and the lingering traces of coffee.
The realization crept over him quietly.
He had become accustomed to this.
Not simply sharing space with Dean, not the occasional touches or kisses stolen in motel kitchens or against the Impala after hunts. This. The softness of it. The ease.
The domesticity.
Dean adjusting the blanket over both of them without even looking away from the movie.
Dean rubbing slow circles into his back because he knew Castiel liked it.
Dean letting him steal all the warmth without complaint.
Castiel frowned faintly.
Dean noticed immediately, because of course he did. “What’s going on in that giant angel brain?”
Castiel was quiet for a moment.
Then, softly, “I think I’ve become very comfortable with you.”
Dean’s expression melted into something unbearably tender.
“Well,” he said lightly, “yeah, sweetheart. That’s usually what happens when you’ve been dating somebody for years.”
Castiel ignored the teasing. “No, I mean…” He glanced down at where his hand rested over Dean’s heart. “This feels natural to me now. I did not expect that.”
Dean’s face softened further somehow.
“C’mere,” he murmured.
Castiel was already as close as physically possible, but Dean still tugged him higher against his chest until Cas was half sprawled over him. Dean pressed a kiss into his hairline.
“You know what’s natural to me now?” Dean said quietly.
“What?”
“You being here.”
Castiel looked up at him.
Dean smiled, sleepy and crooked and entirely fond. “Also you stealing all the blankets. Which is impressive considering you literally run colder than humanly possible.”
“I cannot regulate my temperature properly in this vessel.”
“Yeah, yeah. Excuses.”
Castiel leaned up just enough to kiss him, slow and familiar.
Dean kissed him back with a soft hum, one hand sliding up along his spine.
When they pulled apart, Dean rested his forehead against his for a second before mumbling, “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I was under the impression you found me devastatingly handsome.”
Dean grinned. “See? Comfortable. Couple years ago you would’ve stared at me like a confused tax accountant if I flirted with you.”
“That still occurs occasionally.”
“Yeah, but now you flirt back, so.” Dean kissed the corner of his mouth. “Character development.”
Later, when it’s dark outside and Cas is almost entirely asleep, the movie is still playing quietly from Dean’s laptop, though neither of them has changed it in hours.
The bunker has gone silent around them.
Cas is sprawled half on top of Dean now, face tucked into the crook of his neck, one arm heavy across Dean’s stomach. His breathing has gone slow and deep in that way that means he’s right on the edge of sleep, vessel finally relaxed enough to fully rest.
Dean can’t sleep.
Not because he’s anxious. Not because of nightmares or unfinished hunts or the million ugly things usually clawing around in his head.
Just because Cas is here.
Warm and sleepy and safe in his arms.
Dean glances down at him again.
God, he loves this man.
Cas’ hair is a mess from Dean running his hands through it for the last hour, dark strands sticking out in every direction. There’s a faint crease on his cheek from where he’d been pressed against Dean’s chest, and his lips are still slightly swollen from kissing earlier.
Dean feels something painfully soft settle in his chest.
Years ago, he never would’ve imagined this for himself. Not the bunker feeling like home. Not quiet nights. Definitely not this: Cas curled against him in nothing but boxers, trusting Dean enough to fall asleep like he doesn’t have to stay alert for the end of the world.
Dean brushes his fingers carefully through Cas’ hair again.
Cas makes a tiny sound, barely conscious, and instinctively presses closer.
Dean’s heart practically folds in on itself.
“Yeah, okay,” he whispers fondly. “C’mere, angel.”
Not that Cas could physically get any closer, but Dean still shifts him gently higher against his chest and pulls the blanket tighter around both of them.
Cas’ eyelashes flutter.
“You are staring at me,” he mumbles sleepily.
Dean huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought you were asleep.”
“I nearly was.”
“Uh huh.”
Cas squints one eye open just enough to look at him. “Why are you staring?”
Dean should say something sarcastic. Usually he would.
Instead, his hand slides slowly along Cas’ bare back, and he says honestly, “Because I love you.”
Cas goes still for half a second. As he does every single time Dean says the words.
Even half asleep, those words still affect him every time.
Dean watches the sleepy confusion melt into something soft and luminous in Cas’ expression. Like he still doesn’t fully understand how Dean could possibly look at him this way after everything: with so much affection it almost aches.
“There is an 87% chance you are being sentimental because you are tired,” Cas murmurs.
Dean grins helplessly. “And there’s the little shit I fell in love with.”
“I love you too,” Cas says quietly.
Simple. Certain.
Dean looks at him for another long moment after that, unable to stop.
Cas’ eyes are already drifting shut again, completely relaxed against him, trusting Dean to hold him through the night.
The fondness in Dean’s chest feels almost overwhelming.
He presses a kiss against Cas’ forehead and whispers, so softly Cas probably doesn’t even hear it.
“Best thing that ever happened to me.”