There are four bedrooms in the bunker, two on each side of the hallway with storerooms in-between, and when he and Sam had decided to set up a sort of permanent base here, they had chosen rooms at opposite ends, on opposite sides.
Sam's room is closest to the library; Dean's, the firing range.
Now, with Castiel beside him him, Dean stops at the end of the hall and drums his knuckles against his collarbone, chewing on the inside of his lip.
Both the empty rooms are pretty much the same, but he can't think of a single good, non-feelings-related reason why he should suggest Castiel take the one opposite his.
But he wants him to.
He wants him close.
Wants to be able to open his door in the middle of the night and see a sliver of light shining out underneath Castiel's door; wants to be able to cross the hall and knock, to sit with him and talk until the early hours of the morning without the risk of waking Sam.
He can't say any of that, though.
Giving up the possibility of coming up with something convincing, he turns to look at Castiel, waiting patiently at his side.
"So, it's your choice, Cas," he says, pointing at the two doors, "pick a room."
Castiel just looks at him with confusion.
"What do you mean what for? For your room."
"Why do I need a room?"
"For sleeping," Dean says, exasperated, and Castiel tilts his head, so he elaborates, "or... I don't know. For when you get sick of the sight of Sam and me and you just want some space to yourself for five minutes. For a place to keep your stuff. Or to do whatever angels do instead of jer-"
Dean cuts himself off, his face heating up as he tells himself to steer very clear of that line of thought. He clears his throat.
"Just pick one."
Castiel glances briefly at the two doors, then points to the closest one; opposite Sam's room.
Irrational disappointment flares in Dean's chest, and he dutifully pushes it down, shoving the door open and flicking on the light.
The room is sparse—even more than Dean's—with nothing but a single military cot pushed up against the back wall and a chest of drawers by the door, and the single bulb stutters as it warms up.
Castiel steps inside and takes it all in, eyes roaming over every corner.
"The other room's a little bigger," Dean tells him, though he feels like an idiot for even saying it, "y'know. If you change your mind."
"No, this room is better positioned, I think," Castiel says, looking around.
Dean frowns at that, offended, and Castiel catches the look on his face before he can rearrange his features.
Resting his hand on the chest of drawers, he explains, "it's closer to the building's main entrance."
"Oh," Dean says, nodding, then stops and narrows his eyes, "Wait, why does that matter?"
"If someone were to break in, I'd be able to stop them before they got to you or Sam."
Dean huffs out a laugh.
"Nothing's getting in here, Cas. You said it yourself; place is so warded it's invisible."
"Still. I'd feel better here, I think. Just in case."
Castiel walks across the room and sits down on the edge of the cot, bounces a little as though testing the springs. He looks absurd, bouncing in his suit and coat.
"Thank you, Dean."
With a lopsided smile, Dean shrugs.
"S'nothing," he says, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed.
As Castiel reaches over to prod at the single pillow, Dean notices the blood-stained cuffs again.
"You want me to put that in the wash?"
"You've got blood on your coat."
"Oh. I suppose."
"Alright. Just... wait here, okay?"
Castiel nods, and Dean heads to his room. He yawns, widely, and with a glance at his watch discovers that it is already after four in the morning. So much for his early night.
Carrying a couple of t-shirts and a pair of gray trackpants, he shuffles back up the hallway, ducking into the spare room for a blanket—though who knows if Castiel even gets cold.
He pauses just before Castiel's door to dwell on how amazing it is that it's Castiel's door. That he's here, and he's staying, even if only for a while.
It's more than he's let himself hope for, and even with the potentially awkward fact that his feelings for the guy are a lot more complicated than he'd been able to admit to himself until tonight, he's happy.
He can't remember the last time he was this happy.
Composing himself so he won't have to explain the smile, he walks back in.
"Got you some stuff," he says, holding it up.
Castiel hasn't moved since he left, but now he stands and crosses the room to take the bundle from Dean's arms. Up close, Dean can see him looking at the dark circles under his eyes, and, self conscious, he takes a half-step back, scratching at his chin.
"You should get some sleep, Dean."
"Yeah. Prob—," he doesn't even get the whole word out without a yawn splitting it in two, "—probably."
"I'd like to take a look at that storage room tonight, if that's okay?"
Castiel places the pile of clothes and blanket down on the edge of his bed gingerly, as though they were breakable, precious artefacts.
"You remember where the bathroom is?" Dean asks, and Castiel nods, "okay. Just leave your coat and stuff there when you're done. I'll take care of them in the morning."
Dean still doesn't leave, just watches as Castiel shuffles through the clothes to pick up a black t-shirt.
Part of him is still a little worried that it's all in his head, that any moment he's going to blink and it will all have been a dream, that he's fallen asleep at the table in the library and is currently sprawled out over his book, drooling onto the pages. He crosses his arms tight over his chest.
Castiel turns to look at him. He tilts his head.
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean," he says, as if he can read the specific worry from the lines around Dean's eyes, "not this time."
Dean just nods.
"You'll be alright?"
"Yes. Get some sleep."
"Yeah, yeah," he waves one hand, dismissive, stifling another yawn, "just knock if you need anything."
"You've already given me everything."
Castiel smiles at him, then, the softness spreading to his eyes, and Dean tries to ignore the way that look and those words set his pulse racing. He smiles back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
Back in his room, he undresses and flicks off the light, stopping for a moment to lean his forehead against the cool door and just breathe.
He hears the clunk of pipes and the hiss of water in the bathroom down the hall, and closes his eyes. Tries not to imagine the scene unfolding in the shower right now, and fails, though the image in his head is less pornographic than he'd have expected his subconscious to present him with.
Instead, he's wondering if Castiel is going to wash his hair.
If the bubbles will get in his eyes; if he'll notice his reflection in the mirror and pull his dark hair straight up into one messy spike; if he'll sigh as the warm water soaks into his tense shoulders; if he'll write his name in the steam on the glass with a pruny index finger.
He feels a fast, dizzying thrum within his chest. Four-thirty in the morning or not, he doubts he'll be getting any sleep at all.
He's been struggling enough as it is, what with Sam's steadily worsening sickness and Hell still open for business, so with the keyed-up buzz of knowing Castiel is here, he can't imagine he'll be able to get his brain to shut up long enough to let sleep take him under.
Somehow, though, he's out as soon as he gets under the covers.