Notes: Written as a Christmas present for my friend Bri! She wanted Sassy cuddles and kisses and not angst. I think I might have failed somewhat on the not angst part, but it's mostly hurt/comfort type stuff, so hopefully that's okay. Set sometime in season 5 after My Bloody Valentine.

Sam's sleep was not peaceful.

Castiel had only dropped in to inquire as to the Winchesters' progress. When he found the room dark and Dean absent, he had intended to leave immediately, but a hitch in Sam's breathing stopped him, and he moved forward to investigate.

He should have left.

Sam was twitching in his sleep, brow knitted, jaw tense. A cursory brush against his mind confirmed what Castiel had already suspected – Lucifer – and he retreated swiftly. He told himself that it was because Sam would not want a witness to whatever temptations the Morningstar had devised. (He worried, deep in his mind, that it was because he was not as brave as the Boy with the Demon Blood.)

Still, he did not leave. He was not certain what kept him there, except that it was the same strange feeling of duty which had obliged him to stand as a sentinel outside the panic room while Dean fled into alcohol and despair. He told himself that Sam Winchester was important; Lucifer's vessel, Dean's anchor, a man of faith. (He worried, deep in his soul, that those were not at all the reasons he stood watch over the boy who had been left alone with his nightmares.)

Something was changing. The almost imperceptible chill at the edges of Castiel's senses dissipated as Lucifer withdrew from Sam's mind, and Castiel relaxed. Sam would sleep easily now.

. . . but Sam was not sleeping easily. His breath did not even out but roughened further, catching on sobs as he curled in on himself.

Castiel had witnessed millennia of war and famine, oppression and plague, but in that moment he could not recall any sound worse than Sam Winchester, weeping softly in his sleep.

"Sam," Castiel said, and again when he received no response. "Sam." He reached for his shoulder.

An instant later Sam was on his feet, knife in hand, eyes wide and wild. Castiel waited patiently while he registered what he was seeing and lowered the weapon.

"Cas," he said, shoulders slumping as adrenaline gave way to weariness. "Hi. Uh. Dean's down the street," he said, waving vaguely at the door. "But it's, uh, probably not the best time to talk to him."

"I understand," Castiel said. He was not unfamiliar with Dean's drinking habits. He could, of course, ask Sam for a report of their progress – he expected he would receive a more coherent answer, as well, no matter what Dean's state of inebriation – but it seemed inappropriate to inquire after such matters when Sam was still trying to surreptitiously wipe tears from his face.

Castiel was aware that he should leave, and yet he did not, watching Sam turn on a light and pull out his laptop.

"You are not going to sleep?"

Sam blinked at him, looking surprised at his continued presence.

"Uh . . . no. Not really much point," Sam said with a shrug.

Castiel frowned. Even a human would be able to tell that Sam was tired, the shadows beneath his eyes and grey pallor of his skin betraying his attempt at nonchalance. With his angelic senses, Castiel could tell that the younger Winchester was exhausted. His normally bright and quick mind was hazy and sluggish, his hormones and certain other chemicals tilting out of balance.

"A sufficient amount of sleep is necessary to maintain your physical and mental wellbeing," Castiel stated.

". . . That's not what I meant. I won't be able to go back to sleep."

"I see." said Castiel. "I am sorry. I should not have woken you."

"No, that's . . ." Sam made a huffing sound which might have been a sigh or a laugh. Castiel could not tell, and he had noticed that, with Sam, they were often one and the same. "That's not what I meant, either."

It took Castiel a moment longer to puzzle out the meaning behind this statement. Sam watched him until understanding dawned, and then turned back to his computer.

"Could you not tell Dean? He has enough to worry about."

"You need sleep."

There was a note of command in his voice. Sam jumped, and Castiel was slightly surprised at his own vehemence. He did not often feel responsible for Sam's wellbeing. Of course, he did not often interact with Sam while Dean was not present.

"I know that," Sam snapped, bristling, defensive. "But unless you're going to knock me out –"

"No," said Castiel firmly. He had, in fact, been considering it if all else failed, but the emotions flashing in Sam's eyes – anger and trepidation, shadows of the fury and terror which constantly swirled within him in recent months – made him discard any thought of it.

"It's fine, Cas," said Sam shortly. "Just leave it."

Castiel frowned. He was not going about this properly. He was aware that the best way to persuade a person to do something was to give them what they wanted. Sam Winchester wanted many things, but Castiel understood very few of them and was not certain he could offer any. He tried again.

"Sam –"

There was a bang as Sam's hand hit the table, and then he was on his feet, violating every rule of personal space Castiel had learned. Castiel felt his heartbeat quicken. He told himself that it was his vessel's natural reaction to being towered over by an angry, muscle-bound, trained killer. (He worried, at the back of his mind, that it had very little to do with either his vessel or fear.)

"What do you want from me, Cas?"

Castiel wanted quite a few things from Sam, most of which he could not adequately explain even to himself. Most immediately, he wanted him to sleep. He wanted him to smile. He wanted him to care for himself the way he did for everyone else. He was slowly becoming aware that he wanted several things which were . . . disquieting.

He did not say any of this. Sam sighed, his breath hot on Castiel's face, his shoulders slumping. Resignation crept into his eyes – close, so close that Castiel could see all the shimmering flecks of green and amber – and he began to turn away.

Castiel felt a surge of chemicals through his vessel, a stab of desperation through his heart, and quite suddenly he was kissing Sam Winchester.

Sam froze for a moment – but only a moment, and then he was responding with lips and teeth and tongue, hands on Castiel's back, his shoulders, his hair, hungry, desperate – Castiel pushed him away.

"Sam."

"Cas," Sam panted breathlessly, and tried to kiss him again.

"Sam," Cas repeated, and caught Sam's shoulders in a gentle but implacable grip, even though his vessel ached to accept what the beautiful man in front of him was so clearly offering, even though his heart ached to fill the sucking loneliness which the trembling boy beneath his hands was so clearly harboring. "You are very tired. I should not have –"

Sam was staring at him, brows furrowed, lips parted, eyes hazy with exhaustion or arousal or both.

"You think you're . . . taking advantage of me?" he questioned incredulously.

"You need sleep," Castiel reiterated, with new determination. He understood, now. He knew what Sam wanted, and he could give it to him. "You need not attempt it alone."

Sam's eyes cleared, and then they shone.

The bed was not exactly adequate. Castiel put an arm around Sam's shoulders and Sam clung, weariness leaving no room for shame. Castiel shifted awkwardly as he attempted to find a suitable arrangement for his wings (Sam should not have been able to perceive them, but Sam often perceived things he should not). Sam's hand tightened on Castiel's shirt when he turned off the light.

Slowly, slowly, they relaxed into each other. Castiel stilled, his wings settling protectively around Sam. Sam's grip loosened and his breathing evened. Dean stumbled in at two in the morning, stared at them for a moment, and fell into his own bed without a word.

In the morning, Castiel knew, this new development would bring its own complications. Dean would make comments and Sam would be flustered and Castiel was not at all sure how he himself would handle the situation. He was now fairly certain that all his worries about the matter had been correct (and he was slightly worried, in an easily ignorable place at the edge of his thoughts, that he was no longer terribly worried by them) – but for a few hours, Sam Winchester slept peacefully.

Castiel told himself that that was not the most important thing in the universe.

(He admitted, deep in his heart, that just for this night, it was.)