23. Chapter 23

Ever since Dean started consuming grace, he'd noticed that he didn't have nightmares as often. It wasn't that the grace made him okay with hell, or even that it repressed the memories (though that would've been helpful). It was more like the grace soothed his subconscious at night and helped to keep the nightmares at bay. Sometimes Dean would wake up with the lingering feeling that a nightmare had been right on the brink of taking over his sleep, but it was rare that it actually happened. As it turned out, an angel's will was an extremely effective combatant against the human mind.

Tonight, though. Maybe it was the fact that the grace was a part of Castiel and that's what he was dreaming about, or maybe this nightmare was just too strong. Whatever the case, the second Dean closed his eyes he fell straight into a nightmare. At first it didn't even seem like it, and those were usually the worst: he was walking down the path with Castiel right behind him, and it was so warm and sunny. A squirrel ran across his path and, still smiling, Dean stopped and crouched down. He heard Castiel say something behind him and turned to look.

Castiel was still standing there, but now there was an angel blade protruding from his stomach. Blood and grace was leaking from around the wound and out of his mouth and eyes. Dean opened his mouth but no sound came out. He tried to stand up, but his body was frozen. All he could do was stare helplessly as Castiel slowly looked down at the blade, even lifting a hand to touch the point. Then it was wrenched out of him, leaving a gaping mess.

Alastair laughed as Castiel crumbled to the ground, then drew back his foot and kicked the angel in the ribs several different times, forcing him to roll over. Castiel was like a fish out of water, flopping around as he tried to move onto his back. His groans of pain were clearly audible, though gurgled because he was choking on blood. Finally, though, he was sprawled on his back with Alastair hovering over him. Alastair knelt, brandishing the angel blade with a familiar smile.

"Angels make the best targets. I never had the time to show you that, did I?" he said to Dean, slowly bringing the blade down towards Castiel. With great delight, he pressed the tip against Castiel's cheek, until more blood and grace ran freely down Castiel's face. "But then again, I find a lesson sticks best when it comes from the heart." His smile turned cruel, and he thrust the blade into Castiel's chest as Castiel screamed.

This time when Dean jerked awake, he didn't cry out. The effort of keeping his lips pressed together hurt. He remained perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling while his body shook uncontrollably and his lungs seized. It was several minutes before he started to calm down, and that was when he remembered that Sam wasn't in the same room as him. Sam wasn't even in the same town. He was alone. He finally opened his mouth and took several deep, shaky breaths. It didn't do much to help. He was soaked in sweat, but cold enough to shiver a little.

He closed his eyes for a moment and flinched when a picture of Castiel on the ground with Alastair standing over him flashed through his head. He sat up quickly, shivering harder, and rested his forehead against his knees. Sternly, he told himself that it was just a nightmare, and impossible besides: Alastair was dead, and Castiel was right down the hall. It was stupid for him to act like such a baby. It was just a damn nightmare. But no matter how often he repeated those words, a kernel of doubt kept his heart racing. There was no way he would be able to relax until he saw with his own two eyes that Castiel was okay.

Slowly, Dean shoved the tangled covers away and put his feet down on the cold floor. He stood up and crept over to the door, listening for few seconds. The house was quiet, but it hadn't taken long in his line of work to realize that meant nothing. He didn't have much to use as a weapon, but a quick perusal of the closet revealed a baseball bat. It was hard to imagine Castiel tossing a baseball around with him, but right then Dean was grateful for the forethought. Anything that could give him a leg up if something jumped out at him was better than nothing. He swung the bat over his shoulder and proceeded to carefully inch his way out the door, ears straining to hear any sounds.

It was dark, of course, with no lights. He turned down the hall towards Castiel's bedroom, fingers sweating around the handle of the bat. He took it one step at a time, making sure that the floorboards didn't creak beneath his weight, until he was standing in front of the door. It was wide open, and, thanks to the moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the curtains, he could see someone lying on the bed. Castiel chose that moment to roll over to face the door, his eyes closed as though he was sleeping, legs shifting beneath the sheets. He was dressed in just a loose pair of sweatpants, revealing the white bandage that still covered a large portion of his torso.

Dean's knees went a little weak from relief, and he slumped against the wall behind him. He slid to the floor, realizing for the first time that he must have wet himself at some point during the nightmare or when he'd woken up. The diaper that Castiel had sneakily put on after his bath was cold and unpleasantly wet. But that was the least of his worries. He put a hand over his face for a moment and forced himself to take a shuddery breath, hating himself when his throat hitched on the exhale. There was no reason to cry. Castiel was perfectly fine. He was sleeping, even if that was a little odd for an angel, and Dean should really go before Castiel realized that he was sitting here watching him.

In spite of his best efforts, a single tear slipped down his cheek. The nightmare was sticking a little too close for him to be able to leave yet. He could still hear the sound of Castiel's agonizing scream echoing through the forest, and if he actually managed to fall back asleep he would be right back in the nightmare - or worse. The last thing Dean wanted to dream about tonight was Castiel on the rack while Dean stood over him, Alastair pressed up against him and cooing instructions into his ear.

He dropped his hand, feeling like he might throw up, and leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the bed through blurry eyes. Now that the surge of adrenaline was leaving, he was crashing hard. His hands were shaking so hard he had to set the bat down or drop it. The sound of the wood impacting against the floorboards was as quiet as he could make it, but it still wasn't quiet enough. Castiel sat up.

"Dean?" he said, head turning automatically towards the doorway. He looked momentarily confused when he saw Dean sitting on the floor, and he immediately got up. "Little one, what's the matter? Are you hurt?"

Dean's throat was so tight there was no way he'd be able to force any words through it, so he settled for mutely shaking his head. It was so tempting to run away, even though ultimately that wouldn't do him any good because Castiel would just follow him, but he was experienced enough with the limitations of his body to know his legs wouldn't hold him. And crawling was out of the question.

Trapped, as helpless as he'd been in the nightmare, he stared at his angel. And in the glow of the moonlight, as stupidly corny as it sounded, Castiel looked like an angel. The way he stood, with such perfect posture and rigid command, hinted to his otherworldly nature, and the light seemed more, gathering around him like the untouchable light of heaven - or worse, a halo. His blue eyes were practically glowing.

Castiel came closer, out of the moonlight and into the shadow of the hallway, eyes widening as he took in Dean's appearance, and then he just looked like a concerned parent. Dean had to wonder just how bad he looked. He blinked in an effort to hold back any more tears, but it only served to make them spill over. Castiel crouched down in front of him and cautiously, like he was expecting Dean to knock his hand away, reached out to cup Dean's cheek. His palm was unexpectedly warm.

It felt like something in Dean's chest snapped. He lunged forward, throwing his arms around Castiel with a muffled sob. Castiel grunted softly at the impact, but quickly hugged Dean back. Dean was shaking again as he cried, but he couldn't make it stop. Even with Castiel pressed against him, he kept remembering the nightmare. It would've been so easy for one of those demons to make a killing blow.

Losing Sam had nearly killed him. Losing Castiel would destroy him. There was no doubt in Dean's mind that he wouldn't be able to take it. Over the past couple of years, Castiel had wormed his way into their lives slowly but surely. At first he'd been nothing more than an annoying angel, but that had changed. He was already family, but now he was so much more to Dean. So much so that it was terrifying. Dean clung to him more tightly, whimpering when Castiel shifted.

"Oh, Dean," Castiel murmured, freezing. "It's okay. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm fine."

"A-Alastair..." Dean managed to choke out, shaking even harder. Just saying the name made him feel cold all over, like it might be enough to bring the demon back to life.

Gentle fingers swept through his hair, and Dean felt the faint touch of familiar grace passing through his mind. He knew that meant Castiel was trying to see what had upset him so much, and, since there was no way he could ever put it into words, he let it happen. After a moment Castiel growled, and his grip tightened a little. Lips pressed against the top of Dean's head in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

"Baby boy, that's never going to happen. Alastair is dead, and I won't be stupid enough to let any demons get the drop on us again," he said soothingly. "Now come here. You're cold, and you need to be changed."

Castiel picked him up effortlessly, apparently not minding that Dean's clinginess made it awkward, and carried him down the hall into the bathroom. Dean buried his face in Castiel's shoulder and just held on as tight as he dared as Castiel removed his pajama pants and the soiled diaper and, presumably, threw that away. Tender hands cleaned him thoroughly, the tingle of grace removing a lingering trace of discomfort, and then Castiel put another diaper on.

"All done. You're being so brave for me, Dean," he crooned, patting Dean's back. Dean sniffled in response, and Castiel whispered, "I know. Come on. You need something warm. How about some hot chocolate? Uncle Gabriel showed me how to make it a couple of days ago, and I believe he left some of his syrup behind."

Dean didn't care what happened as long as he didn't have to let Castiel go. They walked out into the kitchen. Castiel held him with one arm while he gathered the ingredients with his other, never ceasing his low stream of one-sided conversation. It was comforting to listen to the familiar sound of his voice and, behind that, the idle clatter of utensils against a pot and the refrigerator door closing, all normal sounds of home.

"What's going on, Cas?" Balthazar asked from somewhere behind them. Dean tensed a little in surprise. Castiel patted his back again and bounced him a couple of times.

"Dean had a nightmare. I'm making hot chocolate."

"Do you want me to get Gabriel?"

"No, it's okay," Castiel replied. There was a pause, and Dean didn't need to look to know that the angels were having one of those private conversations.

Then Balthazar said, "Did I ever tell you, Cassie, about the time I caused a riot in Ancient Rome?"

"I believe I missed that story," Castiel said wryly. From the sound of it, he was stirring the milk.

"It was a long time ago, but I don't think Rome's ever forgotten it. One day Michael came to find me because he said that Rome wouldn't stop praying to him..."

The words washed over Dean. Balthazar's voice wasn't as soothing, but the things he spoke of were so far away from his awful nightmare. Gradually, he became comfortable enough to relax his fierce grip, until Castiel was doing more to hold him up than Dean was. By the time Castiel brought two mugs of hot chocolate to the table and sat down, Dean could lift his head and look around without expecting to see Alastair.

Balthazar accepted his hot chocolate and then actually smiled at him without once pausing in his increasingly elaborate story. Shyly, a little startled, Dean smiled back, leaning against Castiel's chest. Castiel picked up the second mug and held it to Dean's lips, helping him to drink from the mug. It was sweet and warm, chasing away the last bit of cold, and Dean relaxed against him fully.