catastrophekat:

Cleo: Armor.

Emma: What?

Cleo: My jacket, the one you like to ridicule. It’s my armor.

Emma: What are you talking about?

Cleo: Can I give you a piece of advice? You got to learn how to protect yourself. Look, whatever we find here, that ain’t gonna be the end all be all. Find your armor.

Castiel watches the scene with interest, watches Emma’s face as Cleo tells her her jacket is armor, and as he so often does, thinks of Sam.

It’s rare to see Sam in a single layer, the hunter always wearing several and before today, Castiel had thought nothing of it. But now he notices. He combs through his memory, trying to think of a time he’s seen Sam without his normal layers.

There isn’t one.

He remembers when humans wore armor going into battle, how it protected them from getting hurt. How sometimes it didn’t. Sam’s clothes are a bit like that, he thinks. They don’t stop the pain – pain always seems to follow Sam Winchester – but they keep him from being vulnerable. They’re a security measure.

He’s seen how reserved Sam is, how he keeps a careful distance between himself and everyone around him. Keeps a distance between himself and Castiel. Cas wants to close it.

The wall between them falls gradually, when Castiel isn’t attempting to cross it. The bricks crumble when he talks to Sam about his time with the garrison, when Sam gives him a book to read. Sometimes Sam will watch Netflix with him, and they sit close enough for Castiel to feel the warmth of Sam’s skin seep through their jeans. He takes his trench coat off when he’s around Sam, takes off his shoes and socks when they watch Star Wars.

At some point, Sam does the same and there’s something softer about him, barefooted and leaning against the headboard. It never ceases to amaze Cas how such a large man can seem so small.

After the shoes Sam gets rid of his over shirt. Sam gets clawed by some monster and takes off the over shirt so Dean can bandage his arm. He doesn’t put it back on. Later, when the blood is gone, Cas zeroes in on Sam, clad only a v-neck and jeans.

The next time Sam lets Cas get a little closer, he’s wearing a worn T-shirt and shorts. Cas doesn’t say anything, but he smiles at him and Sam smiles back. The sight of dimples make Cas feel something, but it’s a good something, so he doesn’t worry.

A few months later Sam pulls out his laptop, setting up an episode of Once Upon A Time and Cas remembers Cleo and her armor. He looks over at Sam, blinking in surprise when he realizes Sam is looking back at him. The other man leans forward slowly, until their faces millimeters away from each other.

“Can I?“ Sam asks, low and rough, and Cas gives a small nod, scared a bigger movement will make Sam back off.

Sam closes the distance.

No clothes come off that night, but that’s okay. Sam is holding his hand and there’s promises of more movies with kisses later. Cas can wait.

catastrophekat:

Cleo: Armor.

Emma: What?

Cleo: My jacket, the one you like to ridicule. It’s my armor.

Emma: What are you talking about?

Cleo: Can I give you a piece of advice? You got to learn how to protect yourself. Look, whatever we find here, that ain’t gonna be the end all be all. Find your armor.

Castiel watches the scene with interest, watches Emma’s face as Cleo tells her her jacket is armor, and as he so often does, thinks of Sam.

It’s rare to see Sam in a single layer, the hunter always wearing several and before today, Castiel had thought nothing of it. But now he notices. He combs through his memory, trying to think of a time he’s seen Sam without his normal layers.

There isn’t one.

He remembers when humans wore armor going into battle, how it protected them from getting hurt. How sometimes it didn’t. Sam’s clothes are a bit like that, he thinks. They don’t stop the pain – pain always seems to follow Sam Winchester – but they keep him from being vulnerable. They’re a security measure.

He’s seen how reserved Sam is, how he keeps a careful distance between himself and everyone around him. Keeps a distance between himself and Castiel. Cas wants to close it.

The wall between them falls gradually, when Castiel isn’t attempting to cross it. The bricks crumble when he talks to Sam about his time with the garrison, when Sam gives him a book to read. Sometimes Sam will watch Netflix with him, and they sit close enough for Castiel to feel the warmth of Sam’s skin seep through their jeans. He takes his trench coat off when he’s around Sam, takes off his shoes and socks when they watch Star Wars.

At some point, Sam does the same and there’s something softer about him, barefooted and leaning against the headboard. It never ceases to amaze Cas how such a large man can seem so small.

After the shoes Sam gets rid of his over shirt. Sam gets clawed by some monster and takes off the over shirt so Dean can bandage his arm. He doesn’t put it back on. Later, when the blood is gone, Cas zeroes in on Sam, clad only a v-neck and jeans.

The next time Sam lets Cas get a little closer, he’s wearing a worn T-shirt and shorts. Cas doesn’t say anything, but he smiles at him and Sam smiles back. The sight of dimples make Cas feel something, but it’s a good something, so he doesn’t worry.

A few months later Sam pulls out his laptop, setting up an episode of Once Upon A Time and Cas remembers Cleo and her armor. He looks over at Sam, blinking in surprise when he realizes Sam is looking back at him. The other man leans forward slowly, until their faces millimeters away from each other.

“Can I?“ Sam asks, low and rough, and Cas gives a small nod, scared a bigger movement will make Sam back off.

Sam closes the distance.

No clothes come off that night, but that’s okay. Sam is holding his hand and there’s promises of more movies with kisses later. Cas can wait.

waterbird13:

Cas, as a point of fact, does not actually spend every night in bed. He doesn’t sleep, after all, so it’s just hours and hours of unfilled time. He’s an angel, he’s millennia old, but he can, in fact, get bored.

Most nights, he spends reading. He tends the garden Sam helped him make. Some nights he goes for a drive, or watches television. One memorable night, he tried–and failed–to make brownies.

But some nights, he never leaves the bed. Even after Sam is long since asleep in his arms, he doesn’t slowly make his way out. It’s just something about the way Sam looks on those nights, although Cas can never pin down what exactly it is.

He looks soft when he sleeps, like the weight of the world is finally leaving him. His hair will curl around his head, fanning out on the pillow. He always sleeps with his lips slightly parted. Cas gets sucked into watching.

He wishes he was a painter. He wishes he could capture this is some great, meaningful way. He’s tried photographs, but they always come out too dark, too shadowed, too blurry.

So instead he gives up and just spends these particular nights watching, occasionally touching Sam’s hair or cheek or shoulder, but not daring to touch too much, lest he wake Sam. Some nights, he thinks Sam is the angel, sleeping and full of some sort of grace like the stories of old.

There’s no light in the Bunker, no windows, no sun and no moon. Cas wishes there was, sometimes, wishes to see the moonlight play out against Sam’s skin. Still, Sam wakes with the sun most days.

“Did you watch me all night?” He asks Cas, voice rough with sleep, a small smile playing on his face.

Cas leans down and kisses him. “Beautiful things should be watched,” he says.

Sam laughs, shaking his head, messing his already sleep-mussed hair more against the pillow. He doesn’t say anything, though, just allows Cas to kiss him again.