No Shortage of Terrors and Traumas

 Note: Story assumes Castiel has helped Dean get rid of the Mark with the last of his stolen grace. C/P on ao3, as always.

No Shortage Of Terrors And Traumas

The first time Castiel and Dean share a bed and Dean wakes up in the middle of the night from nightmares, he does his best to hide it from Castiel.

Castiel wakes slowly, like layers of cotton are peeling away from his consciousness. There’s no abrupt switch from the images in his dreams to reality. Rather, it’s a subtle shifting from what he will later think of as almost nothingness to different senses coming back online – first sound, then touch, then sight as he opens his eyes.

Gradually he’s aware of movement next to him and a subdued snuffling noise. He turns his head to see Dean facing away from him, lying on his side, bare shoulders drawn away and lightly shaking. A wet sniffling breaks the silence, and then Dean exhales jaggedly.

Castiel almost speaks, to tell Dean it will be okay. But he knows how afraid Dean still is of being judged – of even being seen like this. So Castiel stretches his arms above his head and makes loud sleepy moans, feigning sleep restlessness as he rolls and curls against Dean’s back, slipping one arm around him comfortingly. He keeps his eyes shut and tries very hard to breathe evenly.

Dean doesn’t say anything, so maybe he’s buying it. He reaches for Castiel’s hand with slightly tear-damped fingers, and his breathing becomes very deliberate and controlled. Like he doesn’t know if Castiel is awake or if he was overheard, but he doesn’t want to let on just in case.

They both pretend for so long that Castiel isn’t sure later who falls asleep for real first. In the morning, neither one brings it up.

-

After the second time this happens, Dean’s eyes the next morning are shadowed and emphasized underneath, but he still doesn’t say anything. He sits sullenly at a table in the library, staring at a lamp while Castiel goes into the kitchen to get their breakfast started. Sam is out for a walk already.

Castiel still isn’t sure how to bring it up – or if he should. If he shouldn’t simply wait for Dean to open up on his own. Knowing Dean, he might not react well to being pushed.

Castiel is no fool. He knows exactly what memories are haunting Dean lately after the Mark has been banished with the last of Castiel’s faltering grace. He knows which nightmares Dean is struggling with, even if he’s 100% human now and has no way of knowing them for sure, much less stepping into them to push the horrors away supernaturally. The slaughters. The complete loss of control fueled by the Mark and Dean’s own rage that has never truly been worked through.

Or maybe… Maybe Castiel doesn’t know which specific nightmares they are.

That’s the sad truth: since the time Dean was four years old, he has had no shortage of terrors and traumas to haunt him. Starting with his mother’s death, the death of his father, the deaths of friends like Jo, Ellen, Bobby, feeling his brother die in his arms, forty years in Hell, a year in Purga— Castiel forces himself to stop as he realizes he’s tearing up now, too.

How much can one man be expected to carry?

He flips the eggs onto a set of plates and wipes a bent finger’s knuckle over his eye to brush away the tear, resolving that if Dean doesn’t talk to him soon, he’ll force him. Somehow.

-

It happens another time, the third within two weeks. And Castiel isn’t even sure how many times Dean’s had nightmares before they started waking him up too. It’s possible this has been happening off and on since the night the Mark was finally blasted away – well over a month ago.

This time when Dean pulls himself to the far edge of the bed, and Castiel follows to enclose him with both arms, he decides to speak, to let Dean know he’s awake. “It’s okay, Dean,” he says in a voice barely above an exhale.

Dean stiffens and turns his face further away, looking at the floor or the baseboard on the wall.

“I’m sorry I can’t get rid of them for you,” Castiel continues, tightening his arms. He crosses them over Dean’s chest and runs his palms over Dean’s upper arms.

Dean’s voice breaks when he starts to talk. “Tha-at’s—” He stops and clears his throat. “That’s my fault, too,” he says in a quiet voice. “Y’d still have some grace left if you hadn’t blown it on getting rid of the Mark.”

Castiel presses a kiss to the back of Dean’s shoulder, and then rests his forehead on the warm skin. “You know damn well it was failing anyway,” he tells him. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for things that have other causes.” There’s no answer. Castiel lifts his head and peers over, trying to see Dean’s face. “At any rate, you know I’m here,” he says gently.

Dean glances over at him. They sleep with a small nightlight at Castiel’s request, and the delicate pale glow highlights the twin lines down Dean’s face. His expression is wary, fearful of being this exposed. Castiel scoots back only enough to turn Dean over to face him.

“I don’t know why you’re even here, man,” Dean murmurs, not quite looking Castiel in the eye. He stares at Castiel’s shoulder, then over his shoulder at something on the opposite wall. “I’m broken. Always been.”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel repeats, planting his palms firmly on Dean’s face and brushing at the tear marks with his thumbs. “You think I don’t have nightmares, too? I am just as broken as you are.” Flashes of scorched angel wings and lifeless human bodies, of life fading from angel eyes and the weight of a killing blade in his hand, of the conspicuous lack of Dean’s presence as a mocking voice announces his death, flicker through his mind. Images he doesn’t even have to conjure up on his own, because they are always there in his dreams over and over.

Dean looks at him finally, searchingly. He seems hopeful for about two seconds, and then more self-hate clouds his expression. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he breathes, shutting his eyes. Another set of tears sneak out. “I didn’t… Shit. I didn’t even think… I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Dean,” Castiel swears, still running his thumbs back and forth over Dean’s face. He leans forward and presses their lips together, hearing Dean swallow before he starts to respond, hands sliding up Castiel’s arms and resting on his shoulders. The kiss is light, innocent, brief, but it does Dean some good; when they separate, there’s a warmth in Dean’s eyes that had been missing this entire time.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says. He doesn’t smile, but he appears a little less haunted than he’d been before.

Castiel shuffles closer still, managing to get his one arm back under Dean and draping the other over him, holding him tightly. “I’m here, Dean,” he says, running one hand down the back of Dean’s head and rubbing his back. “You’re gonna be okay. We both will.”

Dean is able to hold out for a minute or two more, and then begins to tremble. He buries his face in Castiel’s neck as he loses the battle and starts to cry, gripping Castiel’s back.

“I love you,” Castiel whispers, his own eyes damp. “So much.”

Dean tries to laugh, a rough, ruined sound against the wetness of Castiel’s neck. “You too,” he chokes out, the words squeezed past a throat thick with emotion. He lifts his head and brushes the back of his hand over his face. “You know i—” His voice fails once more. He licks his lips and stares at Castiel intently, green eyes probing. “You know it goes for you too, right? We’re both gonna be okay.”

Castiel nods. “I know.” He holds onto the back of Dean’s neck and kisses him again, tasting the salt of the tears between their lips before pulling back. “It’ll take some time. But we’ll both get there.”

This time, Dean does manage to smile at him a little.