A/N: Originally written in April, 2012.
Warnings for: voyeurism, UST and pre-slash.
Castiel's fingers trace Dean's cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the swell of his lips, the jut of his chin, the lines of his skin down to his shoulders. He can do this when Dean's like this. Castiel can do this because time is fluid; he can freeze it, bend it, shift it, and end up in between now and then, leaving nothing behind. Dean would never know.
Time floods back to its normal pace, and Dean's fingers ghost over his lips where Castiel's were just a moment ago. Sam looks over at Dean, raising a brow to say 'something wrong?' but Dean just leans over and takes another swig of his beer. It's easy to ignore the tingling under his skin when there're so many things that go bump in the night out there, just waiting for him to leave his motel room.
Castiel stands, invisible and silent, in a corner of the room, watching Dean swallow down more alcohol than he should. Sam says what Castiel can't, warns Dean without uttering a word; their bond is a chain of things Castiel cannot begin to comprehend.
Dean stands and stretches, peering around the room, stopping short in a dark corner. Castiel doesn't breathe, but can't look away. Could Dean see him? Sense him?
Sam squeezes Dean's shoulder to break him out of his daze, and Dean nearly spills his beer all over the front of his shirt. Dean blinks, and looks away. Castiel lets out a breath he doesn't need.
Castiel watches Dean disappear in the bathroom, fighting the urge to trail after him. It wouldn't be the first time the older Winchester has cracked the angel's self-restraint. It couldn't be that bad, though. He isn't going to touch him again. Castiel convinces himself it's okay to look since he is Dean's guardian.
The bathroom door doesn't keep Castiel from passing through and having to face Dean's gaze head on. Dean is staring at his reflection in the mirror—but he's not really looking at himself—hand gripping the side of the sink, his face flushed. Castiel sees Dean's chest heave, his other hand somewhere Castiel cannot see from behind his charge.
He moves aside slightly, and sees flashes of skin against skin at hip level, and Dean's eyes screw tight. The knuckles against the porcelain are white from straining to keep him standing. Castiel's heart pounds against his ribcage, threatening to fall out and onto the floor where he couldn't deny spying on his charge.
Dean gasps, throwing his head forward, with three syllables dangling from his lips: Castiel.
Castiel feels it more strongly than any prayer he's ever received from the brothers, and it very nearly forces him to reveal his presence. But he snaps the tug, the rope drawing him out, and retreats to the living room where Sam can't see the sweat at his brow or the bulge in his pants.
Humanity has more to offer an angel still.