Dean's in a hotel room and he can't remember for the life of him if it's in Oklahoma or Montreal because Cas is standing in the doorway. That's all Dean knows, really; it's raining outside, Sam's asleep on a chair near the kitchenette, and Cas is in the doorway. No one else stands like that; no angel and no man.
Dean smiles. He tosses Sam's laptop on a bed, Frisbee style, flips his wrist all jaunty because Cas is there, in the doorway. Cas stands in Dean's doorways and walks through them and sits in Dean's car and tries to make jokes, and if that isn't a miracle, a real goddamn miracle, what is?
Sam snores. The rain beats on the window. Cas comes through the doorway, trenchcoat soaked and dripping on the nice carpet, the one that tries to swallow feet. Dean is new to this fancy hotel experience. Cas is new and old with everything, flashes with it, bounces curiously on the carpet.
Dean's standing without remembering anything beyond laptop-frisbeeing and that disgusting grin is still on his face and won't go away. There's an angel in here testing the carpet. For God's sake.
Cas looks up just then, and he doesn't look at the window, he doesn't look at Sam, he looks straight forward and says, "Hello Dean," only he smiles through it, and Dean doesn't think he'll ever find someone else who'll look at him that way, so he grabs Cas and gives him a hug which could maybe morph into a manly broslap if Sam wakes up, but more likely will devolve into kissing, lots of kissing, whether to torture Sam or for themselves, who knows.
"Eurch," says Dean, "You're all drippy, Cas."
Cas's arms wind around him and are unmovable because Cas is a goddamned octopus, Dean swears.
"Caaas," he complains, cause really, his shirt's soaking through. Cas nestles his face in Dean's shoulder. "Let me go, dude!" he says. He's trying to escape. Really, he is. Cas probably spent a lifetime possessing an octopus, because he is a dirty cheat.
So is Dean, so he figures it's fair.
Cas begins to shake. "You're laughing," Dean says. "Oh my god, you're laughing you asshole." He says it with about the same level of wonder as any wise man following a star, any old testament schmuck faced with the glory of God. That wonder and more.
Castiel snorts, laughs harder, nips him, hums against his skin. They're soaked through and baptized with it, to a church all their own.
"We can head home in an hour?" Castiel says. Sometimes he phrases statements as questions, when he's comfortable enough to let old habits die hard.
Dean loves him.
"Whew, yeah, looking forward to using a bathroom I can trust the maid to have actually cleaned. Ass germs, you know."
Cas nibbles at his collarbone.
"We do not have a maid, Dean," he informs him.
"Nope," Dean says, gripping the back of the coat and the wet tufts of hair plastered to Cas's neck. "We have Sammy."
Cas brings his head up, lazily, to look into Dean's eyes. "Of course Dean," he says, even though they all know Dean's the one who cleans the bathrooms, every Wednesday.