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Castiel was confused. Confused and just a little frustrated. He understood perfectly the premise of sleep, but the actual practise was more complex than he had anticipated.
The ex-angel had lain down on the bed about half an hour ago, arranged his body in a vaguely comfortable position and closed his eyes. And waited.
A good while he laid waiting for the sensation of sleep to come – however it would. He’d slept on the streets, but only when he’d had to – he’d been so tired that he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and he had barely closed them before he was roused by the blast of a passing car horn, but now he listened to the sound of his deepening breaths, the distant ticking of the clock beside the bed. There were no background noises down here in the bunker; the business of life was far away now, and it was a relief. As much as he had enjoyed experiencing mundane tasks and really seeing the world first-hand, being back with his family gave him a break from the intensity of all that. Now he felt safe. He felt like he was home.
But that feeling didn’t help him sleep. He shifted, trying to see if any other positions would be somehow more comfortable, but whichever way he turned seemed to be about as uncomfy as the next – Cas assumed it was thanks to this magical product Dean had referred to (with a twinkle in his eyes) as ‘memory foam’ that made the experience of sleep much more enjoyable. Cas had to admit the squishy mattress was far more preferable than the cold hard ground, but somehow it didn’t help.
Cas rolled over again, frustration creasing his brow. It hadn’t been this difficult last time – although, to be fair, last time he had just passed out from exhaustion rather than consciously attempting sleep. Eventually he sat up and huffed, clearly getting nowhere. He looked around at the sparsely decorated room – weapons hung on the walls and sat on the ledge over the bed, which was just so Dean it was ridiculous. A couple of lamps sat on either side of the bed and a few CDs on a shelf, but the thing that really fascinated Cas was the photo sat on the desk. It was only a small one, about wallet-sized, but he could tell it was old. Walking over, he could distinguish the two figures in it – he recognised them immediately, and smiled fondly and possibly the happiest image of Winchesters he had ever seen.
Out of the quiet, Cas becomes aware of the sound of footsteps approaching his door. It’s probably just Dean having gone to get something – a beer, probably, or pie – and coming back to resume his watch post outside. Cas felt much more comfortable having someone close by. But Dean didn’t usually wear heels…
The unknown person stopped. And knocked.
It couldn’t be anyone unwelcome, Cas reasoned, or Dean would have stopped them. Maybe it was this Charlie they always mentioned. He opened the door.
It wasn’t Dean. It wasn’t Charlie. And he knew that because it was Naomi. Her eyes were bright with crazed excitement and they were trained on Castiel.
Cas had almost forgotten about Naomi with everything that had happened with Metatron, and seeing her now just topped up his nightmares. His breath came fast as he backed away from the angel who had corrupted and controlled him, but her hand shot out and grasped his wrist tightly, not letting him go anywhere. She pulled him through the doorway and stepped to the side, revealing a large white room that was horribly familiar.
Everywhere he looked his best friend lay dead. Everywhere. They went further than he could see. Worse, he felt a blade heavy in his hand, stained with the glistening red blood of the bodies before him.
It was too much for Cas. He had never felt physically sick before, but being human he felt it in full now. Salt water filled his eyes, blurring his vision, his throat tightened, a terrible taste at the back of it, he dropped to his knees, choking, trying to breathe, clutching at his neck, his stomach – everything hurt, his body and his heart, and there was nothing he could do –
“DEAN!”
Cas sat bolt upright on the soft mattress, gasping for air as tears streamed down his face. Every muscle in his body was tense, his hands fisted in the sheets, his stomach cramping and heaving.
Dean burst through the door – Dean was here – he took Cas by the shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. “Breathe, Cas, in and out – I’m here, it’s alright, it was just a dream…”
His voice soothed as like he never believed anything could. Focusing on his firm green eyes anchored him, the solid reality of his hands were the reassurance he needed – Dean was alive, it was okay, he was here, he hadn’t done anything. Dean said it was a dream so he supposed it must have been – he’d never had one before, but he’d now decided he didn’t like them.
Cas took deep breaths in time with Dean – once he’d remembered that he had to breath – in and out, in and out, and the dream (or nightmare, as Dean had said it sounded like) slowly faded to a distant fabrication. Eventually, all that was left was the tears. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms tight around his friend, burying his face in Dean’s chest. The confirmation that he was there was all he needed right now. Dean held him in return, his head resting on Cas’, one hand on Cas’ hair. The whole position was comforting, and it occurred to him that was what Dean would have done if Sam had a nightmare, and that made him feel safer than ever.