Alistair sleeps like someone who’s never been afforded a bed of his own—a nice one, anyway, complete with soft down pillows and bedding of silk and sheep’s fleece and not a single bit of itchy straw poking through the sheets. He sleeps curled up tight, some part of his dreaming mind still confined to the cramped tent they use to share. No, love, Emilia thinks, there’s room for us both now. She traces her fingers through his hair–it’s soft, much softer now that he’s had the time to commit to a real bathing regimen, more than a bit of cool streamwater to wash with.
With one last run of her hand over his head, one soft kiss to his forehead–many more to come, love–she slips out from beneath the thick comforter. He doesn’t wake, not at first, and she’s grateful for the time she’s granted to collect her carelessly discarded clothing from the floor next to their bed–his bed, she corrects herself, ours tomorrow.
“’Milia,” he mumbles sleepily, and ah, of course it didn’t last. “Come back here.”
She only smiles back at him, pulling on first her smalls, then her nightgown back over them, and when he cracks an eye open to look for her in the dark, he knows he’s lost this one. As always. Emilia knows what she wants, and Emilia gets what she wants. “Tomorrow, Alistair,” she whispers from the doorway, blowing an apologetic kiss to him.
“Tonight,” he whines, though he knows he argues in vain.
She shakes her head. “It’s nearly midnight. Bad luck to see your bride on her wedding day.”
Alistair grumbles to himself, still shaking off sleep; he’s never been one for Fereldan tradition–and why would he be? she thinks, he never had anyone to teach it to him–but she adores it nearly as much as she had years ago as a child. Tradition was romantic; if you asked her last year for her cares on tradition she might say she had none, might be perfectly content to smite tradition where it stood out of sheer dedication to duty, out of hatred, out of hurt. And now, a year later, a lifetime later, there would never come a day where she didn’t silently thank Alistair for bringing her back to herself, for making her into a romantic once again.
“I won’t be able to sleep without you,” he pouts.
“Oh, stop it.” But the smile playing at her lips betrays her serious tone, and she can’t help but laugh. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t be able to sleep either. But you should at least try, love. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She can hear him huff in the darkness, accepting his inevitable defeat. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight, Alistair.”
She’s nearly out the door when she hears him again, “Em, wait.”
“Yes?”
“Can I say it? One last time, before it’s…different?”
“Say what?” she asks him, and she can hear him exhale fully.
“I love you, Emilia Cousland.”
She flushes red. Even after all this time. “I love you, too,” she whispers, slipping out the door and into the chilly halls of the royal palace.
They find the love seat at an estate sale outside of town. The seat is sturdy and clean – perfect, Dean says, for a single person to sprawl (and maybe fall asleep) on while watching TV. He pats it appreciatively in the sunny, stubbled wheat field. Bounces once or twice to test the cushion. Perfect.
The bunker’s full these days. Full of hunters and researchers, medics and cooks. But there are still little nods to his legacy here. This is Dean’s chair, Dean’s mug, Dean’s favorite weaponry. They all seem to know the invisible territorial lines although Dean never hears a word exchanged on the subject. This new seat – it’s Dean’s seat.
The TV room is full. The new Star Wars is out and hunters have emerged from their rooms in unruly numbers. Despite the crowd, Dean doesn’t have to share his seat. He doesn’t…except he does. Because Cas is standing off in the corner with his hands pushed into the pockets of his worn, second-hand jeans. Dean can tell that he’s debating the merits of staying in the crowded TV room, standing while the others sit. (They’re human, he’s an angel. He can take it. Really.)
Dean sighs. Scoots over. Makes eye contact. Pats the cushion. After a long awkward interlude of squinting and frowning, Cas finally takes Dean up on his offer and settles into the cushions. His thigh is hot against Dean’s. They lean away from each other, draped on opposite arm rests.
Dean’s not sure when it happened, or how. But he wakes up later in a dark room lit only by the blue-black glow of the sleeping screen. He’s on the seat, wrapped around a warm body. Somebody must have draped a blanket over both of them and it’s intimate and…comforting. “Cas?” he whispers into the fabric of Cas’s shirt.
“Mmph,” comes the reply. Then, a moment later Cas tenses. “What is it, Dean?”
Neither of them move. Dean barely breathes.
“Nothing,” Dean says, finally. “It’s nothing.” Slowly, carefully, he slides his arm down to wrap around Cas, encircling him. He tucks his head alongside the curve of Cas’s warm back with the deliberation of a chess master moving a knight. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs.
Cas slowly relaxes against him and Dean knows he’s won – they’ve both won – when Cas burrows his cheek into the armrest like a bird settling into a nest. “Okay,” he sighs and the movement of his rib cage shifts Dean’s arm out. In. “Night.”
“G’night.” Dean lets himself melt back into the love seat, into slumber, into the warm touch of Castiel.
Perfect.
Added bonus, here’s a little behind-the-scenes. The underside of the dudes before I glued them onto the chair. Glamorous!
Mayerine 
