Perfect Little Army Man (Supernatural Fanfic)

Cas forced himself awake shivering. He pried his eyes open and glared at the squeaky ceiling fan that was now circulating the room’s crisp winter air directly up his nose: stinging his sinuses and sending a chill up his spine. He buried himself deeper into his bed and pushed himself farther underneath his warm comforter. He reached out to pull the pillow lying next to him closer and wrapped his arms around it. He snuggled in closer to it and hugged it as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. He yawned and closed his eyes to return to sleep, but it was no use. Despite all of his attempts, he couldn’t go back to sleep. However, that didn’t stop him from lying in bed. He liked the warmth of his bed and the comfort that it brought him. He liked the way his sheets smelled and the way they felt against his bare chest. Like a monster, his blankets wrapped around him and gobbled him up.

As much as he hated to admit, Cas was a lonely man who’s comfortable home was all he had. Even so he had nothing to complain about. He loved his cozy residence and everything that came with it. Although it was imperfect and had many flaws the small apartment was his home and he couldn’t ask for anything more.

Deciding that there was no way to avoid it, Castiel crawled out of his bed. While doing so, his legs got tangled in his jeans which he had removed last night, before turning in and decided to slip back into them in case someone were to come knocking on the door. However, that was extremely unlikely being that he had very little friends and the landlord was out of town.

After buttoning his pants, Cas wearily exited the room, only to return a few seconds later and turn off the fan. Upon entering the kitchen, Cas decided to make some coffee to wake him up. He opened the top cabinets and pulled out a clean mug and the bucket of ground coffee. He turned on the rusty sink faucet and filled the mug with water. He continued to poor the contents into the machine and turned it on.

Knowing that he would have to wait a while, Cas wandered into the bathroom and shut the door. He leaned over the sink and stared into the mirror. He examined his tired face for a while before turning on the faucet and splashing the water into it. He did this a couple times more before wiping his face and returning to the kitchen.

When the coffee had finished, Cas poured some into his mug. He then went to his room to fetch his computer and then returned to the kitchen to sit down at the worn and wobbly table in his dining room. He opened it up and opened an empty word document. Taking a sip of his coffee, he sighed. He was a novelist suffering from writers block. In the past if this had happened he would have just went online searching some tragic story and turning it into a bestseller, but not this time. This time he wanted to write of something he actually knew about; he wished to write from a first hand experience. However, this was easier said then done being that nothing ever happened to Castiel in his entire twenty-four years of living.

Deciding it was too early to stress over work, Cas put the computer aside and cleaned up.

He placed his empty mug in the sink with the pile of other dirty dishes and went to the bathroom. Although he lived alone, Cas still shut the bathroom door: not because he had to or felt obligated to, but because he was a modest man and if anything were to happen, even by accident, he would feel a little more violated than the average man. So, he shut the door.

He glared at his withering face on again in the mirror and rubbed his chin. He hadn’t shaved in a while and it was obvious. He just didn’t care enough to which wasn’t exactly surprising for those who knew Cas.

Castiel was the only twenty-four year old whom anyone in the complex knew that didn’t go out and party. He preferred a quiet night alone opposed to a booming room filled with hot bodies and dizzy minds. He also enjoyed his isolation; therefore he truly was the stereotypical novelist minus the cloud of nicotine and toxins. He had once pondered over taking up the dirty habit, but then changed his mind when he discovered he was ill; not because he wanted to live a long and prosperous life, but because he didn’t want to spend his final days tied down by an addiction.