Cas smells…different. Dean recognizes that this is a weird fucking thing to notice. It's not like he goes around sniffing people for fuck's sake. He's not Hannibal Lector. He's not a perv. He's not that creep from Perfume. It's just…Cas smells different, and Dean does notice and it's driving him a little crazy.
See, the thing is, Cas shows up at the bunker, two months after going mortal, after the failed trial, heaven collapsing, hell rising, everything getting fucked up yet agin. He'd endured two months of really shitty communication—staticky phone calls, random text messages, and, on one distinct occasion a post card, that Dean may or may not have rescued from a frustrated, crumpled heap on the far side of the kitchen, and now resides safely tucked in the top drawer of his desk. Mostly things between them were silent and Dean's stomach had been tied in uncomfortable knots. So, when Dean opens the door and Cas is standing there, Dean isn't sure exactly what's happening other than he's got a burning lump in his throat and he has a vague inclination to break Cas' nose for being so fucking stupid and for hiding away for so long. But Cas looks forlorn, scruffy, in jeans and a hoodie, dripping dully from the rain (did the moron walk here?), and Dean goes on autopilot somehow, so that instead of his knuckles colliding with Cas' face, Dean suddenly has the guy wrapped in his arms, and he's legitimately unsure how the hell he got there.
The weirdest thing about it—besides the obvious, which is that Dean should be literally shaking some sense into Cas or reading him the riot act, or letting Sam know that Cas has turned up, or any other number of things besides standing here half in the rain with his arms full of fallen angel—is that Cas is…he's fucking hugging Dean back. Like actually hugging him—a holding on for dear life, back-breaking, squeeze the life out of him, desperate sort of hugging. Dean is kinda sorta floored because—what the hell has Cas been through that he's this desperate for contact? So Dean holds on a little bit longer than he should, maybe because he's so freaked out, maybe because, in some deep dark recess of his brain that he's not really ready or willing to acknowledge, he recognizes that he's fucking grateful that Cas is here in one piece and that this feels fucking nice.
Anyway, that's when he notices it. The whole smell thing. It's before he really got the chance to look at Cas. They're pressed pretty close together, Cas' fingers are digging into his shoulders, and Dean sort of sighs and, on the inhale, comes back with something unexpected. Comes back with the scent of cheap motel soap and sweat, of clothes that have mildewed slightly and stale coffee, of muddy earth and rain, and something he can't quite place—and it's odd, surreal even, enough to startle him and bring him back to the present. He clears his throat and pulls back and tries to ignore the wetness in Cas' eyes and the stoic frown on his face and he drags him in out of the rain. Then Sam gets involved and sends Cas to take a shower and sends Dean to make some food and Cas sleeps for like two days.
Realistically, that should be the end of that; Cas is human, Cas smells human, one plus one equals two, blah fucking blah, but for some reason (probably because Dean's life sucks), this weird little thing gets stuck with him. When Cas is around, Dean's olfactory sense go into overdrive.
Cas used to smell…angelic, Dean guesses might be the word for it. He smelled like a force of nature, made Dean think of lightning strikes, blizzards, and for some weird reason, stars—and no matter what Sam might say, Dean is absolutely not off composing weird poetic soliloquies about Cas. The point is, even when Cas was in Purgatory, he smelled like that, under the tang of blood and rot, he smelled like a bottled tsunami, if that makes any sense. He smelled otherworldly, eldritch, in a way that when they first met, just emphasized that he was someone who was not human and therefore not to be trusted, but, over time, became something familiar, even weirdly comforting. Now it's gone; and it's weird.
Maybe that's why Dean can't help but notice, after a year of carting around a trenchcoat that smelled less and less like Cas and more and more like cotton and gunpowder and detergent, the way that Cas smells like someone new. Dean, without conscious thought or effort, despite his best efforts the contrary, catalogues the change.
He notices for instance the way that Cas smells like coffee in the morning—nurses three cups before he's remotely ready to face the day—and sometimes like strawberry jam because it gets smudged on his thumb when he munches toast absentmindedly and attempts to comb the newspaper for new cases with an squint that makes Dean wonder if Cas might actually need glasses. Sam can broach that one, Dean's not touching it with a ten foot pole.
Cas smells like spearmint toothpaste, and, bizarrely like coconut shampoo because he worked his way down the aisle at Target sniffing every bottle before he found one he liked. Apparently, Cas wants to smell like a Piña Coladas and distant beaches, and Dean can't exactly blame him since the dude hasn't had a vacation like ever and probably fucking needs one after this year.
The smell of ink hooves around Cas nearly always, from his time working with Sam in the archives. It's smudged on his fingertips and stains his wrists. He smells like dusty tomes by the late afternoon and occasionally weirdly metallic from handling old relics.
Sometimes Cas smells like mothballs because he pulls on some weirdly fitted outfit half a century old from the Men of Letters cash, and then Dean sighs and throws him a t-shirt to tide him over until they can make a trip to the (he shudders) mall to get him some stuff of his own. Dean's not really prepared for how much he likes it when Cas smells like him. When Cas pulls on Dean's old Zepplin tee with the hole in the armpit and walks past Dean in the hallway, Dean catches a whiff and he swears to god he wants to throw Cas up against the wall and bury his face in his neck and just take him. It's a little overwhelming to be honest.
Cas smells like sweat when he comes back from running with Sam. It's not a bad scent. He doesn't stink or anything. He smells sharp, clean. Every so often this is accompanied by the smell of cut grass or mud or gravel or rain.
Cas turns one of the spare rooms into a quasi-yoga/meditation retreat and he starts to smell consistently of the patchouli and sandalwood incense that he burns while he practices. It's a rich aroma, sort of spicy, without being overwhelming, and Dean would think that he was getting some kind of contact high from it if such a thing was possible. Dean gets his Zep tee back, folded neatly at the foot of his bed, and that's what it smells like, a combination of yogi incense and ink—a blend he's starting to associate entirely with Cas—and he puts it to his nose and inhales deeply before tucking it safely in his dresser.
There are other scents too: gunpowder from time at the firing range, silver polish from the weaponry, iron, leather. Cas wrinkles his nose at the guns, calls them 'inelegant weapons' and Dean has to take a minute to catch his breath from laughing at Cas' accidental Obi Wan moment. They marathon Star Wars that nightand Cas smells like popcorn. Cas covets the lightsabers. He prefers to fight with blades.
Cas smells like blood during one of the first hunts they go out on. In the midst of fighting a demon, he forgets that he's not impervious to sharp objects, blocks without thinking, and catches the downward slicing knife with the meaty part of his forearm. It goes straight through his layers, carves open the flesh beneath. To Cas' credit, he doesn't hesitate, just ganks the fucker. Afterwards though, Dean sees him staring at his arm like it's completely disconnected from his body and he's not sure where it came from. The coppery aroma of blood lays heavy between them; it makes Dean feel strangely sick though the scent hasn't bothered him since he was five. He stitches Cas up without comment until he smells like antiseptic ointment instead.
Cas has the aura of a hunter, a predator. He smells like grave dirt, freshly torched corpses, fire and gasoline, like the herbs they sometimes use for a summoning because Cas is the best with rituals out of the three of them and likely always will be.
Other times, Cas carries himself like a person, a little unsteady in it perhaps, but still. He smells like the onions that he's chopping while he helps Dean make shepherd's pie for dinner; like salt and butter from the biscuits that he's arranging neatly on the pan, and like dish soap when he and Sam cleanup after they're done eating. One afternoon, he helps Dean make an apple pie, and he smells so strongly of cinnamon and nutmeg that Dean thinks he's going to go actually lose his mind is this doesn't stop soon.
Sam's starting to notice Dean's glazed over expression, gives him weird looks like Dean is supposed to know without words what he's trying to say. Frankly, it's annoying, and Sammy can suck it.
Then, three months out, Dean and Cas are sparring. They've been at it for an hour, neither has bested the other. Dean is mildly suspicious that Cas isn't giving it his all, might be going easy on him, which is just insulting, or might be prolonging the fight just for the hell of it, which is weird but not unwelcome. Dean's been on edge for weeks. They're both breathing heavily, the room smells like sweat and something unidentifiable. Cas shakes his sweat soaked fringe out of his eyes, and Dean is momentarily distracted by the fact that Cas' hair is shaggy enough to impair his vision in the first place, and, then suddenly, he's going down. The wind gets knocked out of his chest and Cas is a warm, wet weight on top of him—a warm, wet weight that doesn't move. He's straddled across Dean and he's pinned one of Dean's arms over his head; his face is an inch away, which is not helping Dean catch his breath at all.
There's this weird moment where time seems to slow down, where Dean sees Cas' eyes are wide and dark. Both of them are panting and no one's moving, even though Cas has clearly won that match, and all of Dean's blood has gone south. He is so hard that he thinks he might actually die. A drop of sweat falls from Cas' nose onto Dean's lip and he licks it involuntarily, tastes salt, and Cas chases the motion of Dean's tongue with his eyes and then with his mouth, and Dean recognizes the unidentifiable smell in the sparring room as sex.
That's how Dean collects a whole fucking host of new smells unique to Cas. Dean flips Cas over and licks the sweat from the divot in his collar bone, buries his fingers in the damp hair curling at the nape of Cas' neck. Dean sucks a mark at Cas' hipbone, and Cas bucks and lets a groan that is positively sinful. Dean takes his time. Places a kiss at the base of his cock, takes him in his mouth. He inhales. Cas smells sweaty, earthy, male. He smells like Cas, a real human Cas, and when he comes, he tastes hot and bitter, heavy on Dean's tongue. Cas is dazed and Dean is pleased with himself until the tables are turned and, Jesus fuck, where did Cas learn that? They leave the sparring room twenty minutes, two earth shattering orgasms, and eight hickeys later.
Dean showers first. Tosses his towel at Cas' head and kisses him before shoving him towards the bathroom. Cas pouts spectacularly.
Dean wanders to the kitchen. He's starving, Cas probably is too. He roots through the fridge, collects what he needs, dons the "Kiss the Cook" apron that Sam got him last month as a joke. He whistles as he works and should be thankful no one is around to see the goofy smile plastered across his face. Cas comes up behind him when he's placing the burgers in the oven. Slips his arms, awkwardly, but then more certainly around his waist (the sappy smile intensifies). He turns around, kisses Cas' neck. Cas used Dean's shampoo. Dean grins.
"You smell nice, Cas."
I honestly have no idea where this even came from. The hiatus finally got to me apparently. Hope you enjoyed the weirdness; I'd love to hear your thoughts. xo