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“I think I’m done,” Dean mutters, handing the bowl back to Cas. He’d probably never admit it out loud, because Cas makes fun of him for it enough as is, but he still doesn’t have much of a tolerance for this stuff. He stares at the curtain for a minute, a little bit mesmerized as it sways in the breeze from the open window. He’s never quite able to describe what it feels like when he’s been smoking, like the world is going in slow-motion and super speed all at once. Completely normal things seem strange all of a sudden, and...but, no, that’s not quite...ugh. Dean shakes himself out of his reverie and leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes until he hears a soft noise and looks to see Cas turned towards him.
Cas peers at him and tilts his head, eyes squinting like he’s trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. Somehow the guy manages to be even more intense while he’s high, if that’s possible--his stare pins Dean in place even as it makes his heart stutter in his chest with the need to run away or punch Cas or something. Dean coughs uncomfortably.
“Uh,” he chuckles, “I got something on my face?”
Cas’s eyes flick up to meet Dean’s, and Dean realizes that Cas hadn’t actually been looking in his eyes before. Jesus, the dude’s eyes are stupid blue. He rolls his eyes and Dean’s question is ignored in favor of continuing to stare at...well, something on his face, Dean guesses. Cas hasn’t smoked that much and he can handle a lot more than Dean, though; he’s just kind of like that all the time. It’d weirded Dean out at first and kinda still does, but he’s used to it. He carefully doesn’t look too closely at the way it makes him feel to have Cas focus so much of his attention on him.
Cas continues to look, and finally Dean breaks. “No, seriously, dude, what is it?”
Cas meets his gaze again, eyes piercing. “You have freckles,” he says solemnly, the couple of hits he’d taken off the bowl making his voice even more gravelly than it usually is.
“I...have freckles.” Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay?”
“They’re very interesting,” Cas confirms. He leans in so their faces are only a few inches apart. Dean swallows. “Some are more prominent and others are much more transparent. It’s like they’re in layers. They’re very close to your skin color so I didn’t notice them immediately.”
“...Right,” Dean mutters. His skin feels somehow like there’s a low-grade current running through it. “Thanks?”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” Cas says absently. From anyone else, Dean would be insulted, but by now he knows that’s just Cas’ weird way of talking. Cas bites his lip and squints even harder for a moment before huffing a sigh. Dean feels the puff of air on his cheek.
He swallows again. His mouth feels dry. “What?”
“There are too many.” Cas looks genuinely distressed. “I can’t...They blend together too much in some places, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep an accurate count.”
“It’s, uh, it’s okay, man. They’re not going anywhere.” Cas nods gravely, like the reassurance is important, and Dean can’t suppress a smile. Cas is a fucking weirdo, and like, crazy intense sometimes, but he’s also--he’s just a cool dude to be around. Dean never really knows what to expect, whether Cas is going to touch his shoulder and scold him for thinking too poorly of himself or threaten to egg Dean’s car if Dean doesn’t drive him forty-five minutes away to the nearest Dunkin Donuts at 10:30pm on a Tuesday. Being around Cas feels different, too. Dean is somehow both ridiculously tense and more comfortable than he ever feels around anyone else. Still, strange as it may be, Cas is a good buddy, and Dean’s kind of stupidly fond of him.
Dean realizes that he and Cas have been staring at each other in silence with this dumb smile on Dean’s face for long enough that it’s probably starting to get awkward. He starts to turn away but Cas catches him with a gentle hand on his cheek and he leans into the touch involuntarily. For such a little guy, Cas has big hands. Soft, too. Dean realizes that his hand must have come up instinctively to hold onto Cas’ forearm. Not gripping tightly, just--anchoring there. Dean feels simultaneously high out of his mind and stone-cold sober.
Cas hums, thumb brushing over Dean’s jawline.
A beat.
“They’re more concentrated on your nose,” Cas rumbles. He uses the hand on Dean’s face to turn him to the left a little bit, humming.
“What, looking for constellations?” Dean smiles cheekily, trying to distract himself from the sound of blood rushing in his ears and his shallow breaths.
Cas tilts his head and squints at Dean. Again. “They’re freckles, not stars. There’s certainly no discernable pattern,” he says, with an undercurrent of judgment, as if Dean should know this already. Ugh. Endearing little fucker.
The hand on Dean’s face shifts, and Cas’ fingertips just barely skim Dean’s skin as he drops his hand. It’s probably just his imagination, but it feels like Dean’s skin tingles where Cas had been touching it. Dean lets go of Cas’ arm.
There’s another moment’s pause where Cas seems to sway closer and Dean can feel his breath on his cheek once again.
“I want raisins.”
Dean blinks, then blinks some more. Cas pulls away. “You want raisins,” Dean parrots.
“Yes.” Cas doesn’t deign to elaborate before he’s up and off the bed, walking out the door presumably to retrieve said raisins from the kitchen.
All of Dean’s breath leaves him in a gust once Cas is out of the room. That was...something. He moves to sit up more against the wall, then startles and glances down at his crotch and realizes that at some point during that interaction he’d gotten hard. Huh. Well, he rationalizes to himself, most of the time when he’s that close to someone it’s a chick he’s about to have sex with, and his body just doesn’t know any better. Weird, but no big deal. Obviously it doesn’t mean anything, since Cas is a dude.
Dean slumps against the pillows, eyes feeling a little heavy. Cas won’t mind if he dozes a little. He’s done it before--once the first wave of the high hits him, unless he smokes more, Dean tends to get really sleepy. What a weird little dude, Dean thinks to himself as he drifts off.