![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tiptoe39As requested, a sequel to yesterday's cuddlefic.
Sam crept downstairs late. He'd had a long conversation with Bobby about this, that and the other thing -- the mechanics of hunting the Mother of All, the difficulties of time travel, the weird, winding path their lives had taken from monsters to demons to angels and back to monsters again. He doesn't expect Dean to still be awake, and he definitely doesn't expect Castiel to still be there.
So he's surprised to see, as he passes the den, an angel crumpled into Dean's shoulder, hand around his waist, as Dean nods forward, asleep, cheek pressed gently against Castiel's. Two pillars, each off-balance, leaning on each other to keep from crumbling to earth.
It's sweet, almost cloyingly, and Sam has to stand there for a minute and smile. When was the last time his brother let anyone get that close? When was the last time he'd seen Dean with his arm slung around someone, not to keep them steady or to shuttle them away from danger, but just to support, just to say I'm here?
Sam's proud of him, he realizes. Damn proud that Dean can open himself up like that. After all the betrayal and all the heartbreak, in the knowledge that Castiel is facing hard times, Dean's managed to give of himself, and Sam's proud.
He ducks into the doorway and tiptoes toward them. There's room on the couch beside Dean, and Sam sits as gradually and as gingerly as he can, his legs stretching in an easy sprawl before him as he sinks into the cushion. Sitting upright, alert, he carefully lifts an arm and slides it across the back of the sofa behind them both. His forearm grazes the back of Dean's neck as it goes.
Nobody stirs. Sam waits a long moment, and then his hand creeps -- gently, so gently -- from the sofa back onto one of Castiel's hunched shoulders. For an instant, he thinks that's all that will happen. He'll be able to sit here, offer his own strength and comfort to them unnoticed. Just an instant, before blue eyes open.
Sam starts, but Castiel only catches his gaze for a moment before letting his eyes close again. If it weren't for the soft quirk of Castiel's mouth as their eyes met, Sam would think he was sleeping through the whole thing, open eyes and all.
Castiel's head droops, lolling on Dean's shoulder for a moment before tilting, then dropping to rest on Sam's hand. Sam turns his palm upward, offering a cradle, and Castiel makes a small, contented noise as he accepts it. Warmth and affection floods Sam in a bright wave, and he leans in, smiling, almost teary-eyed with the simple pressure of a cheek pressed to his palm, trusting.
So attuned is he to the weight of Castiel's head on his hand that Sam doesn't notice his own head nodding forward until his lips brush the back of Dean's neck.
Dean murmurs and shifts, but he doesn't awaken. Sam's afraid to move, afraid to disturb him. It's the most peaceful he's seen Dean in a long time, and he doesn't want to stir the waters. Still, he can't help exhaling, the puff of breath tickling against the hairs at the nape of Dean's neck.
Dean's arm rises from his lap and searches backward, seeking in sleep the touch of the person instinct tells him is there. He finds Sam's hand, curls his fingers around Sam's, and drags it forward until Sam's arm is wrapped around Dean's waist.
Arms and hands full now, heart throbbing painfully at the closeness and the trust, Sam closes his eyes, feeling like a mother bird with wings wrapped tight around her young. His thumbs stroke Castiel's cheek, Dean's fingertips, and he squeezes, barely, as though with gradual, steady pressure he can solder them into his grip so he'll never have to let them go.
And he lets himself trust, too, enough to fall asleep there.
Sam crept downstairs late. He'd had a long conversation with Bobby about this, that and the other thing -- the mechanics of hunting the Mother of All, the difficulties of time travel, the weird, winding path their lives had taken from monsters to demons to angels and back to monsters again. He doesn't expect Dean to still be awake, and he definitely doesn't expect Castiel to still be there.
So he's surprised to see, as he passes the den, an angel crumpled into Dean's shoulder, hand around his waist, as Dean nods forward, asleep, cheek pressed gently against Castiel's. Two pillars, each off-balance, leaning on each other to keep from crumbling to earth.
It's sweet, almost cloyingly, and Sam has to stand there for a minute and smile. When was the last time his brother let anyone get that close? When was the last time he'd seen Dean with his arm slung around someone, not to keep them steady or to shuttle them away from danger, but just to support, just to say I'm here?
Sam's proud of him, he realizes. Damn proud that Dean can open himself up like that. After all the betrayal and all the heartbreak, in the knowledge that Castiel is facing hard times, Dean's managed to give of himself, and Sam's proud.
He ducks into the doorway and tiptoes toward them. There's room on the couch beside Dean, and Sam sits as gradually and as gingerly as he can, his legs stretching in an easy sprawl before him as he sinks into the cushion. Sitting upright, alert, he carefully lifts an arm and slides it across the back of the sofa behind them both. His forearm grazes the back of Dean's neck as it goes.
Nobody stirs. Sam waits a long moment, and then his hand creeps -- gently, so gently -- from the sofa back onto one of Castiel's hunched shoulders. For an instant, he thinks that's all that will happen. He'll be able to sit here, offer his own strength and comfort to them unnoticed. Just an instant, before blue eyes open.
Sam starts, but Castiel only catches his gaze for a moment before letting his eyes close again. If it weren't for the soft quirk of Castiel's mouth as their eyes met, Sam would think he was sleeping through the whole thing, open eyes and all.
Castiel's head droops, lolling on Dean's shoulder for a moment before tilting, then dropping to rest on Sam's hand. Sam turns his palm upward, offering a cradle, and Castiel makes a small, contented noise as he accepts it. Warmth and affection floods Sam in a bright wave, and he leans in, smiling, almost teary-eyed with the simple pressure of a cheek pressed to his palm, trusting.
So attuned is he to the weight of Castiel's head on his hand that Sam doesn't notice his own head nodding forward until his lips brush the back of Dean's neck.
Dean murmurs and shifts, but he doesn't awaken. Sam's afraid to move, afraid to disturb him. It's the most peaceful he's seen Dean in a long time, and he doesn't want to stir the waters. Still, he can't help exhaling, the puff of breath tickling against the hairs at the nape of Dean's neck.
Dean's arm rises from his lap and searches backward, seeking in sleep the touch of the person instinct tells him is there. He finds Sam's hand, curls his fingers around Sam's, and drags it forward until Sam's arm is wrapped around Dean's waist.
Arms and hands full now, heart throbbing painfully at the closeness and the trust, Sam closes his eyes, feeling like a mother bird with wings wrapped tight around her young. His thumbs stroke Castiel's cheek, Dean's fingertips, and he squeezes, barely, as though with gradual, steady pressure he can solder them into his grip so he'll never have to let them go.
And he lets himself trust, too, enough to fall asleep there.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2011-04-30 06:54 pm (UTC)