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Castiel has a perverse obsession with Dean's body.
The smattering of freckles across his shoulders, the faint scars that shine white in the darkness, the scrapes from recent fights. He traces them all with his fingertips while Dean snores softly, unaware.
It's cold in the motel room, the broken heater rattling and sputtering as it pushes around more cool air. The bed, though, the bed is warm. Just the two of them under the scratchy blankets, miles and miles of lovely, bare skin generating plenty of heat.
It's been just the two of them a lot, lately. Sam is back, and he's better, but he's also angry and bitter and he and Dean still have a lot to work through. So these days it's often just Castiel and Dean out in the field while Sam stays at the bunker to provide them with research in frosty phone calls.
Castiel should probably dislike this more than he does. But the truth is, it's been a long while since he was able to spend so much time with Dean, and now that there's this... this moreness to their relationship, well. He certainly doesn't miss having to share a motel room with Sam.
His hand rises and falls in time with Dean's chest as he draws swirling patterns over the anti-possession tattoo there. He has one himself now, in the same spot above his heart. Dean had insisted once they started hunting together, and held his hand in the tattoo place despite Castiel promising that he was fine, that it wasn't even his first tattoo. But it had been sweet (disregarding the huff from the artist) and a big deal for Dean to make such a public show of affection.
Castiel presses his lips lightly to the ink, his hand sliding down Dean's side to palm his hipbone. His little finger slips under the waistband of his boxers, but Dean doesn't stir.
There's a bruise on Dean's bicep, blue and yellow where it heals. Castiel kisses that too, then drags his lips down the soft skin on the underside of Dean's forearm to his wrist. He tastes salty, earthy. It's familiar despite the fact that they've only been doing this for a few weeks. Castiel thinks it's his favourite flavour of them all.
Dean inhales deeply when Castiel moves up and presses his nose into the dip under his bottom lip. "Freak," he mumbles good-naturedly, tired eyes cracking open. He blinks a couple of times, then grunts when he catches sight of the glowing green digits on the alarm clock. "It's not even four. You'd better be wakin' me up for sex."
Castiel rolls his eyes but doesn't reply, choosing instead to lick lightly in that spot behind Dean's ear that he knows makes his knees go weak. It works. There's a hot puff of breath against his shoulder and Dean whispers his name, hand coming up to fist in the t-shirt Castiel had put on to ward off the chill.
He loves Dean like this. There's something about the early hours of the morning that soften him, make him sleepy and child-like. He's clingier and more gentle, a quiet catch in his voice that isn't there in daylight and carries a hint of vulnerability. He's lovely.
"Roll over," Castiel instructs and Dean winks at him, says, "That's more like it," with a leer.
But that isn't Castiel's plan. Once Dean is on his stomach, forehead resting on his folded arms, Castiel leans over him and kisses the spot between his shoulder blades. His hand rubs Dean's waist in a soothing, circular motion as his mouth maps the vast expanse of warm skin.
"What are you doing?" Dean asks, voice thick and muffled.
"Not having sex with you," Castiel replies and Dean chuckles.
"Smartass."
Castiel gets back to the task in hand. He kisses down Dean's back, fingers following in the wake, over the dips and curves of his spine and the smooth planes of muscle.
When he skips straight past Dean's boxers he gets a small whimper of disappointment from up near the pillows, but ignores it in favour of studying Dean's legs. Bowed they may be, it doesn't stop Castiel from worshipping them also.
The sheets have disappeared, bunched somewhere around their ankles, but the sting of cold has given way to something cosy and comfortable now. Whether the heater has finally started working or it's just the energy between them, Castiel isn't sure.
He starts just below the line of Dean's shorts on his thighs, alternately kneading the flesh of each one until Dean groans in pleasure. When Castiel presses a thumb into the crease of his knee, his lips landing next to it and tonguing gently at the clammy skin there, Dean goes completely limp and boneless beneath him.
"Holy shit, Cas," he breathes, making a noise of complaint when Castiel stops and moves on down his calves to massage his feet.
What's nice is that there's no urgency to it. It's sexual, yes, but only because Castiel is craving the closeness, the intimacy that sex brings. He knows they'll get there eventually, of course, they often do. But for now it's good to just feel. To remind himself that Dean is there; he's breakable but whole, healthy. Quivering and sighing happily under Castiel's careful touch. He's beautiful.
Eventually, in between pleased moans, Dean growls, "Will you get up here, please?"
Castiel ceases his ministrations on Dean's left foot and crawls up the bed, tugging the sheets back over them simultaneously. When he flops down beside Dean he's awarded with a kiss that's deepened immediately. Dean cups his jaw to hold him steady, tongue plundering his mouth sloppily. His every action is loose-limbed and uninhibited and Castiel only clings tighter.
"You," Dean murmurs when they break apart, foreheads touching, "are the fucking best thing to ever happen to me."
He pushes a hand through Castiel's hair, bringing him closer. Castiel smiles, small and easy, and rubs a thumb over Dean's cheek. "Likewise."