Dean knows Cas only sleeps when he’s been injured. The rest of the time, the angel meditates or cogitates or prays or zones out or whatever the hell it is that he does that Dean doesn’t understand and that looks damn close to sleeping.
The whole thing gives Dean distinctly mixed feelings.
He loves seeing Cas curled up and relaxed, all the lines and tension smoothed out of his face.
He hates knowing that Cas is hurt even when he knows that pain and injury don’t translate to the angel the same way they do to humans.
It had been a ricochet -- totally accidental, impossible to tell who had fired the shot. There was even an outside chance that Cas had managed to shoot himself. Despite Dean’s best efforts, the angel still had lousy aim.
It wasn’t bad -- little more than a deep graze across the muscle of Castiel’s shoulder, just over the shoulderblade.
Dean reminds himself for the nth time that Castiel is safe now -- if he turns his head two inches to the left, he can see the angel stretched on the bed beside him on his side, one hand close to his chest, the other open, fingertips almost touching Dean’s thigh.
Dean had settled himself here an hour ago with the stated goal of cleaning and oiling his gun and Sam’s. Since Sam thought he had a shot with the cute waitress in the diner where they’d had lunch, Dean had stepped up like the good older brother and taken over upkeep for the evening.
He had his own handgun disassembled and spread out on a towel at the foot of the bed, but that was as far as’d gotten.
It’s hard to focus on the gun when Cas is lying here, relaxed, warm -- and hurt, Dean reminds himself grimly and picks up the gun barrel, rubbing an oiled cloth over it. And maybe hurt because of Dean -- if the ricochet could have come from Cas' gun then there was no reason it couldn't have come from Dean's which doesn’t make it any better and--
‘You will break that.’
‘You should be asleep.’ Dean angles the barrel so he can see down it, squints, begins with the oiled cloth again.
Castiel sighs and twists onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling. ‘Sleeping is...such a bizarre activity. I do not know how you do it so easily.’
‘Practice.’ Dean glances down at him and nudges Castiel’s hip with his knee. ‘So practice.’
Castiel shakes his head. ‘You are feeling guilty again.’
‘What? No, I’m not -- I’m cleanin’ this gun.’ Dean returns his attention to the handgun, scowling at it. ‘Can’t do two things at once.’
Castiel snorts and his narrow pale fingers slip the barrel out of Dean’s hands and leave them on the towel before Dean can do more than make a token sound of protest.
‘Come here.’ Castiel tugs on Dean’s hand. ‘If you wish me to sleep, I will sleep better without you worrying over me.’
Dean goes with the tug, letting Castiel pull him down so he’s curled behind the smaller man, one arm protectively over Castiel’s ribs. ‘How do you know I don’t worry in my sleep?’
‘You do.’ Castiel pushes back against him, sliding his fingers between Dean’s.
Dean grumbles low in his throat and presses his nose against the back of the angel’s neck. Castiel’s hair soft and smells like the slightly chemical cheap shampoo they share. ‘Should take better care of y’self,’ he mumbles.
‘Dean.’ Castiel sounds slightly amused now as the light flicks itself off. ‘I am an angel.’
Dean grumbles again and pulls Castiel back against him, flattening his hand over the smaller man’s stomach, feeling the reassuring lift and fall of his breathing. ‘Yeah -- but you’re my angel. So fucking watch it.’