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Sometimes he couldn't help but stare - subtly, of course; he is the King of Subtle after all - at Castiel. He doesn't necessarily know why he stares at him when, more often than not, Castiel simply stands there and does nothing particularly exciting. But, of course, it seems as if his body has a mind of its own, his eyes attracted like a magnet to the other man's - yes, man, of course he is - figure, so strong and steady.
Other times he would find himself staring - not at Cas, mind you - into space thinking about Cas and the way his fitting trench coat does nothing but emphasize his sculpted back. He would imagine how the muscles would shift as he runs his hands delicately, but oh so firmly, over his chest. It irritates him that he can't seem to shake the image of the dips and planes lining his stomach, hidden to him by that damned suit of his (but of course all this is just in his imagination).
During these times he would catch himself just before his body would move of its own accord and pull Castiel near him to - well, honestly, it changes from time to time. It just frustrates him that Cas made his mark on him but he would be hard put to make his mark on him.
Would it really be a sin to follow his gut and simply kiss the hell out of his fallen angel? Wait, his? Damn, he's screwed.
It's not as if Cas is exactly helping matters much. He swears that Cas does this on purpose. It's like he knows - but Dean's not quite sure exactly how he knows. He just knows that Cas knows that Dean knows what he knows. Cas just sits there, immediately in his line of sight, so perfectly poised and - god, if he didn't have the self control that he has... Cas better consider himself damned lucky, that son of a bitch.
Worst off, Cas seems inclined to ignore this little thing he likes to call his 'personal space'. Although, if he was being honest with himself, he doesn't really mind that much. But he'd rather get dragged back down to hell for another forty years rather than admit it to anyone, especially Sam or Cas.
So when he accidentally saw Cas peel off his shirt slowly, sinfully so, and toss it in the general direction of the couch, he thinks that he just bought himself a ticket straight down to damnation. This is all part of an elaborate prank, surely. Cas can't know how to act in a sensual manner even if it hit him across his face. Right?
Of course, what sort of personal torment would be complete without the dreams? Though, if Dean is being honest with himself, he quite enjoys the dreams; looks forward to them, even. It just immensely annoys him that he has no control whatsoever when it comes to his dreams; he's forced to submit, more often than not, utterly helpless beneath the searing touch of his angel.
He's learned to tolerate them though; sometimes he's allowed to switch the positions around and pin the damn fucker down. The look of utter surprise and a flash of something much darker and much, much more enticing goes straight to his nether regions, and he can't help but growl low in his throat before he claims Castiel's mouth as his own, dammit. But of course, even in dreams his angel is just that much out of reach.
Fuck. How screwed does he have to be to technically be considered screwed? Is he even making any sort of sense at all?
"Dean."
Dean looks over to Cas as his name was uttered and - fuck - sends shivers down his spine (manly shivers of course; none of that girly shivers that teenage girls always seem to spout out about their crushes).
"I believe there is a problem with the ceiling of this room. I can hear constant moaning and a distinct sound of something banging all night. Are you positive it is not possessed at all?"
Then Dean stares intently at Cas, sporting a look of mixed humour, exasperation and maybe infatuation because Cas is being his usual Cas-self again, and Dean doesn't think he can ever get tired of it.
He can probably, most likely, endure the torture. Cas makes up for them anyway.