Dean didn't know what it was that woke him up. Cas hadn't screamed or moaned. Hell, he hadn't even moved. But for some reason Dean had risen out of a deep sleep just in time to see Cas flick his eyes open and stare silently at the ceiling.
There had been only one room left at the motel when they had rolled in at midnight, and it only had two beds. After a round of rock-paper-scissors, Dean had found himself sleeping in an overstuffed chair. (Cas had won a bed by virtue of the fact that neither Sam nor Dean felt like explaining rock-paper-scissors to him. That, and if Dean had won he probably would have just given Cas the bed anyway.)
Dean waited for a few seconds, watching Cas's face. There was no expression on it to hint at what he might be thinking, but Dean was pretty sure he knew. Usually, when Cas woke up in the middle of the night he would just roll over and go back to sleep (not that Dean paid attention to things like that). But this time he just lied there, rigid. Something was wrong.
"Nightmare?" said Dean hoarsely, and that finally made Cas flinch.
Cas sat up so he could see where Dean was curled up in his chair. "I'm sorry I woke you," he said.
"Dude, don't apologize," Dean sighed, "What was it about?"
"Nothing in particular," said Cas. His voice was steady, but he was picking at the bed sheets absently to cover the fact that his hands were shaking. "I was running away from something, I think."
"So are you okay?"
Cas raised his eyes to the ceiling once more, as if it might hold some answer. Then he met Dean's gaze and replied, "I don't understand. I remember very little about the content of my dream, and yet it has produced an intense emotional response."
"You're scared shitless and you don't know why," Dean translated, "Cas, that's the way nightmares are."
"I thought they would be different," said Cas, twisting the sheets tighter around his fingers, "Your nightmares were always very specific."
Dean didn't really feel like talking about his own nightmares. "Do you think you can get back to sleep?"
"It's almost morning," said Cas, "I'll just stay up."
Dean glanced at the clock. It was three. "You need to sleep," he said, "We haven't had a full night in a week, and we're not likely to get another one soon. Just try to forget about it. It wasn't real."
Cas squinted one eye at Dean and lifted his lip as if to say, "No shit, Sherlock." Sam had taught him that face. He had been practicing it. "I know it wasn't real," he said, "But in my current state of mind, I doubt that my sleep would be restful."
"You wanna get smashed?" Dean suggested, "That's what I do when I can't sleep."
Another incredulous look from Cas. "No, thank you." Then his eyes widened. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then quickly closed it again.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Dean didn't buy that for a second. "Dude, what?"
Cas gave the balled-up sheets in his hands a squeeze and then, as if he might think better of it if he didn't say it fast, he blurted out, "I believe it would be comforting to sleep beside someone."
Fill 1/2
There had been only one room left at the motel when they had rolled in at midnight, and it only had two beds. After a round of rock-paper-scissors, Dean had found himself sleeping in an overstuffed chair. (Cas had won a bed by virtue of the fact that neither Sam nor Dean felt like explaining rock-paper-scissors to him. That, and if Dean had won he probably would have just given Cas the bed anyway.)
Dean waited for a few seconds, watching Cas's face. There was no expression on it to hint at what he might be thinking, but Dean was pretty sure he knew. Usually, when Cas woke up in the middle of the night he would just roll over and go back to sleep (not that Dean paid attention to things like that). But this time he just lied there, rigid. Something was wrong.
"Nightmare?" said Dean hoarsely, and that finally made Cas flinch.
Cas sat up so he could see where Dean was curled up in his chair. "I'm sorry I woke you," he said.
"Dude, don't apologize," Dean sighed, "What was it about?"
"Nothing in particular," said Cas. His voice was steady, but he was picking at the bed sheets absently to cover the fact that his hands were shaking. "I was running away from something, I think."
"So are you okay?"
Cas raised his eyes to the ceiling once more, as if it might hold some answer. Then he met Dean's gaze and replied, "I don't understand. I remember very little about the content of my dream, and yet it has produced an intense emotional response."
"You're scared shitless and you don't know why," Dean translated, "Cas, that's the way nightmares are."
"I thought they would be different," said Cas, twisting the sheets tighter around his fingers, "Your nightmares were always very specific."
Dean didn't really feel like talking about his own nightmares. "Do you think you can get back to sleep?"
"It's almost morning," said Cas, "I'll just stay up."
Dean glanced at the clock. It was three. "You need to sleep," he said, "We haven't had a full night in a week, and we're not likely to get another one soon. Just try to forget about it. It wasn't real."
Cas squinted one eye at Dean and lifted his lip as if to say, "No shit, Sherlock." Sam had taught him that face. He had been practicing it. "I know it wasn't real," he said, "But in my current state of mind, I doubt that my sleep would be restful."
"You wanna get smashed?" Dean suggested, "That's what I do when I can't sleep."
Another incredulous look from Cas. "No, thank you." Then his eyes widened. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then quickly closed it again.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Dean didn't buy that for a second. "Dude, what?"
Cas gave the balled-up sheets in his hands a squeeze and then, as if he might think better of it if he didn't say it fast, he blurted out, "I believe it would be comforting to sleep beside someone."
"Someone?"
"You," Cas admitted.