one morning cas stares grumpily into his morning coffee when the cat who he usually waves to every morning when he goes to get the paper ignores him. he doesn’t wake up before noon for the rest of the week. the cat is inconsolable.
cas buys enough plants to turn the bunker into a little greenhouse. he waters them every day, like a routine, and sometimes he’ll murmur stuff to them while he’s watering them, soft little encouragements to help them grow.
cas loves bees but he hates mosquitos and whenever he forgets to bring the repellant to the park he glares at nothing for the whole outing, daring them to come close. cas fought armies in heaven once, he’s a brilliant solider, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from the way he swats at the small pests, sporadic and irritated. usually he ends up with a few bites, and he sighs tragically around the bunker for days, convinced his end is near.
cas refuses to sleep with anything less than two blankets; in one memorable incident dean wakes up in the middle of the night to cas slipping the blanket right under him. dean grumbles angrily but cas retorts that dean isn’t even using it, the heathen, and he slips away like a badly remembered dream.
cas sucks at making coffee but he’s good at demanding it. if it’s not made just right, he’ll make pointed comments all day, sniffing at everything before tasting it like there was poison in his coffee instead of too much sugar.
and cas will leave his stuff everywhere. one time he absentmindedly asks sam where the book he was reading went. it turns out cas left it on the top shelf in the pantry while digging around for a midnight snack. he loses slippers all the time, taking to wearing mismatched ones to compensate the difference. sam and dean are on constant alert for Cas’ Things.
and at night cas has his own bed, his own room, his own space to call his own. cas finally can call a place home.