Drew this in today’s stream. I like this, especially the folds in in Cas’ coat and the background.
They never stopped to sleep anymore.
“Waste of time,” Dean had said, as if he could bluster his way past biological need with the same bravado he once used to muscle his way past coroners and receptionists. “Who needs sleep when there’s monsters to run from?”
And it was true that the longer they stayed in Purgatory, the less rest Dean’s body required; but the truth of it was, Dean didn’t think he deserved it anymore. After all, it seemed the height of selfishness to demand sleep when Cas’s grace writhed in pain nonstop, his agony calling out to every creepy crawlie they’d ever ganked, and even a few they hadn’t. It was time, Dean knew, for him to man up; to put his machete where his mouth was and stay on his feet for Cas’s sake. After everything, it seemed the least Dean could do.
Most days, that was enough. But sometimes, the spasms would overtake Cas, and the angel could no longer refrain from screaming, and that’s when Dean found staying on his feet in fact meant sitting on the ground, arms draped like armor over a lapful of shaking angel.
“You sound like a lullaby by James Hetfield,” muttered Dean, not knowing where to look. Eventually he settled on the battered hospital bracelet on Cas’s wrist; “WINCHESTER, CAS” were the only words still legible under all the wear and grime.
Cas moaned loudly, sounding utterly wrecked.
“Watch your mouth, dude,” Dean said, brushing back a lock of wayward black hair. “I know St. Anger was bad, but Hetfield’s still a genius.”
In response, Cas merely shuddered.
“Heathen,” replied Dean, rolling his eyes. He adjusted his seat to offer Cas a better angle, and, before he could think too deeply about it, took the angel’s hand in his. “Exit light; enter night. Take my hand,” he sang softly, running a thumb along the back of Cas’s hand. “We’re off to Never Never Land.”
Cas had slim fingers and slim wrists and slim everything, yet the angel still sagged into Dean’s legs as if he were plummeting from a great height, gravity flattening him to earth with such urgency it couldn’t be denied. Under such weight, was it any wonder that Dean felt himself sinking to the ground as well?
“No,” he muttered, shaking the drowsiness from his eyes. “Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight.”
But lullabies were still lullabies, even if hunters sang them, and the next thing Dean knew, he was jerking awake, pushing himself up to his elbows under Cas’s still-warm trenchcoat. His vision swam, and his mouth felt cottony and raw; he’d apparently been snoring, like the asshole he was.
Next to him, Cas looked pale and weary in the feeble moonlight, and very, very awake.
“I can’t believe you let me fall asleep,” Dean grumbled.
Cas looked down at Dean, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
“Anything to stop you from singing,” he said.
I can’t describe my happiness for you writing this other than hjkahfwkjlqhælhioaæjkønjbk