He smelled like the dirt that was smeared across his skin. His hair was laden with the rusty stench of blood, matted down with dark red clumps in places and sticking out unkemptly in others. The stink that resulted in months on end of going without soap in Purgatory clung to his clothes. They weren't anything like the surprisingly pleasant aroma of cheap cologne or motel shampoo.

On more than one occasion, Castiel had found himself drawn to the laundromat freshness of Dean's clothes, imagining for fleeting moments what it would be like to bury his face into the shoulder of one of those flannels. He didn't concern himself with the actions leading up to it or what Dean would say to him when Castiel pulled away, but instead focused only on immersing himself in that feeling. How strange he'd always thought it that humans gained such comfort from the act of hugging, and so he tried to understand. He pictured it with as much detail as he could manage, taking care to do Dean's strong arms justice. He attempted to pinpoint the sensation that would accompany Dean's hands reaching around him and settling on his back, splayed fingers crossing over Castiel's spine. There would be warmth when Castiel rested his own hands on Dean's waist, and all he'd smell would be that freshness.

This was nothing like his daydreams, though it was more perfect than any fantasy could have been — it was real, and Dean was there. If Castiel's heart had lurched when Dean met him with a warm smile, the light reigniting in his friend's tired eyes, it was forgotten when he was enclosed in a hug and struck by an entirely new exhilaration that he could only describe as flying. He couldn't tell if the world around him was growing blurry from lightheadedness or tears clouding his vision, but he didn't care. He lost himself in Dean's touch, safer and more gratifying than he ever could have dreamed, and savored the feeling of their cheeks pressed together, sucking in a small gasp of air when he was abruptly clutched tighter as if in a desperate need to have his presence validated.

He'd wanted few things more in his countless millennia than he ached right then to helplessly fall into Dean and reciprocate the touch. If it had been two years ago, he might've been braver. He might've held Dean in return, just to see how it felt to blend bodies with someone you'd let yours die for. But this was now, and things were irreversibly different. Those two years had long since come and gone, and taken with them was Castiel's worthiness of Dean's affection. His hands were mere inches from the warmth he'd imagined, and yet he wasn't deserving enough to close the space. Instead, he formed a tight fist and closed his eyes to settle for another daydream. He saw himself resting his face on that earth-spattered leather jacket, arms finding their way around the small of Dean's back and gripping protectively. He held his breath, letting himself believe for a moment that the familiar laundromat freshness had replaced the heavy scent of dried blood.

"Damn, it's good to see you" was the first thing he registered outside of Dean's embrace.

As the hug was broken, the three seconds that might as well have been endless, Castiel longed more than ever for Dean to be washed clean of the grime and death that masked him like a fog, leaving him with untainted skin. Maybe he was odd for thinking it, but if home had a smell, it was Dean.