Dean comes into the bunker to a lot weird sights, ever since Cas came back to them – but none so unnerving as this.
Castiel is curved against the arm of the couch, his head in his hands – his shoulders are hunched up around his face, and he’s turned away from Dean – but Dean can see the way he trembles indefinably, and his eyes are locked on the TV.
“I’ll be right here.”
“Oh, fuck.” He finally recognises what he’s seeing on the screen; the swirling blue lights, the dark, early-eighties film quality. He rushes over – too late, now, of course – and makes to shut the TV off, but Castiel grabs his sleeve, preventing him.
“Dean.” He says quietly, and Dean looks down at him, and he looks small. He’s found himself a fucking blanket, like he was playing at being the weird little animatronic puppet, and he looks tiny and fragile and swept away. His eyes are red-rimmed. “Dean, I-“ his words fail him. He sobs.
Dean doesn’t know what to do, other than to apologise; he blames himself for not worrying about what Castiel might catch, watching TV at all hours of the day, like he does; he blames Steven fucking Spielberg for a lot of things, to be honest. “Cas, I’m sorry.” He says quietly, and sits beside him; lets Castiel fold his hands in his shirt, helplessly. Castiel doesn’t pull him close; Dean does it for him. He wraps his arms awkwardly around his shoulders.
“Dean, I don’t – I don’t understand.” He mumbles nonsensically, muffled, and Dean thinks maybe he does.
There’s nothing to take Castiel back now, no fucking home to phone. There’s just the black empty the sky above them, from where all the stars fell; there’s just silence.
Dean doesn’t know what to say; doesn’t have the words.
He just holds him, instead, until the tremors cease.