Castiel didn't sleep much. He didn't need it at all, really, but it felt wrong for him to just stand there, waiting for Dean to wake up. So the angel had gotten into the habit of laying beside Dean as the hunter drifted off to sleep; he loved it, in all honesty. He loved the way the bedsheets tangled around their ankles, how his legs tangled with Dean's. Sometimes he would wrap his wings around Dean, when he wanted to hold the hunter extra close - but usually he would just watch the hunter sleep, so peaceful and so innocent. Dean looked so young when he slept, especially in the moments before he woke up. His blonde hair was a mess, tufts of feather-soft hair sticking up in every which direction, green eyes closed and calm, and sometimes, if the hunter was dreaming, his lips would twitch into a slight, minute smile. Castiel wondered what he dreamed of and what it was like dreaming. Gazing at the hunter, the angel reached out, drawing his fingertips down Dean's strong cheekbones, tracing the curvature of his Cupid's bow full lips, tracing the outline of his strong jaw. Dean stirred in his sleep, and Castiel slowly and reluctantly drew his hand back. Dean moved in his sleep, a soft inhale and then a sigh coming from him as his green eyes opened slightly, illuminated by the morning sunlight streaming through the sheer motel drapes. Dean's eyes fixated on Castiel, full of sleep and laziness, and he smiled, small and groggy and sloppy, still trying to shake the sleep from him. Castiel grinned back.