Dean is 37, he's almost 40. Had this happened at an earlier point of his life, he would have been wrecked and devastated for a long, long while without a real good reason for it. However, he's almost forty and everyone he knows except for Sam and Castiel are dead, taken by this life. He's tired. He's exhausted by the constant pain and loss.
The fact that Castiel is a dude has lost its meaning. Dean fell asleep thinking about it while his nose was buried in Castiel's neck against his stubble and scent of his sweat. He knows dicks, having had one for almost forty years. That's the only essential fact about this whole thing that he can think of. Castiel has a cock, so does Dean, bumping them together feels pretty damn good.
He sleeps like a baby, heavily on Castiel's chest, his arm wrapped around Castiel's middle in a gesture that seems and is quite a possessive one. He dreams about nothing, thankfully, just darkness and the feeling of safety, of peace. Dean never sleeps for more than four or five hours, usually with the help of some liquor. His mind is on a constant alarm mode. Because he never feels safe. He doesn't fail to go to bed without a gun and a knife at hand.
Except it seems that Castiel is a real security blanket. His chest rising and falling under Dean's rocks him into deeper sleep than he usually would enter at all. And when he finally stirs after hours and hours, it's already light outside, well tipping into the day.
Dean gives a groan as the first thing and stretches his limbs out while burying his face against Castiel's neck. Then he pushes himself up onto his arms and stares at Castiel beneath him. Something in his gut tells that this is going to turn awkward. Or maybe not.
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The fact that Castiel is a dude has lost its meaning. Dean fell asleep thinking about it while his nose was buried in Castiel's neck against his stubble and scent of his sweat. He knows dicks, having had one for almost forty years. That's the only essential fact about this whole thing that he can think of. Castiel has a cock, so does Dean, bumping them together feels pretty damn good.
He sleeps like a baby, heavily on Castiel's chest, his arm wrapped around Castiel's middle in a gesture that seems and is quite a possessive one. He dreams about nothing, thankfully, just darkness and the feeling of safety, of peace. Dean never sleeps for more than four or five hours, usually with the help of some liquor. His mind is on a constant alarm mode. Because he never feels safe. He doesn't fail to go to bed without a gun and a knife at hand.
Except it seems that Castiel is a real security blanket. His chest rising and falling under Dean's rocks him into deeper sleep than he usually would enter at all. And when he finally stirs after hours and hours, it's already light outside, well tipping into the day.
Dean gives a groan as the first thing and stretches his limbs out while burying his face against Castiel's neck. Then he pushes himself up onto his arms and stares at Castiel beneath him. Something in his gut tells that this is going to turn awkward. Or maybe not.
"Mornin'," he says, voice gravely and low.