Okay, so a little reference to a beach near my home [= Just a short one about our Angel's feelings about his reintroduction with Dean. Writer's block; you have been warned!

Castiel had spent a lot of time over the last ten days up in Heaven, hidden away in any random person's little corner, vanishing back down to Earth at the slight hint of a nearby Angel. It was a Thursday that he chose sit on the cliffs of Amroth beach to watch the permanently dank looking water thrash violently against the rocks that were scattered across, diving it from Telpyn beach. Wales was almost like stepping back a century or two, but it held some of his Father's better work which hadn't been ruined by mankind's insatiable need to destroy everything they came across.

He pondered how he had come back. Again. The last time he had saved the world, but this time he had just about ended it. He knew it wouldn't be long before he was found again. All the time he was gone, Castiel had been reaching out to Dean. He had called him, screamed his name, over and over, sobbed and choked through his own blood and Grace, blood and Grace that his own brothers and sisters had been slashing and slicing from him. The harder he thought, the more it hurt. Castiel could remember every last detail of his time at the hands of his family, the hateful utterings and agonizing torment from his siblings of literally forever, but none of it pained him more than the knowledge that he had ruined the trust between himself and Dean. The last thing he had fully registered as Cas was the hope draining from Dean's eyes, the pain at the loss of yet another friend, his Angel, and worst of all, the betrayal. He had done the two worst things anyone could do to Dean; he had betrayed his trust and hurt his brother. He dropped his head on to his fists as the very thought of it, wishing beyond anything that he could take it all back. He had hurt and betrayed the man he... The man he what?

Castiel found himself thinking about Dean against, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his trench coat – a trait he had picked up from watching Dean scuff about in Bobby's yard in between hunts, clearly unsure of what to do with himself when he wasn't on the road and killing things – walking down a dusty track somewhere in Arizona. He thought back to his encounter with Dean. A punch, or even a hug followed by a punch, he had expected. Then some more than harsh words, strung together with profanities that would make a cheap slasher horror movie proud. Heck, even total ignorance he would have understood, but that? What had it been? That embrace, the frantic breathing, Dean literally holding on to him, his heart hammering in his chest, and Castiel could feel the electricity coming off him. The way he had wanted it. He had wanted Dean to be that close to him, to pull him closer still, and he couldn't forget the way their fingers had locked together, so perfectly, the way their movements had been in time, Cas physically shuddered just thinking about it. And it was then that it all fell in to place for him. Like putting together the pieces of a puzzle. He might have been an Angel of the Lord, but he knew enough to know what it was he was feeling.

All those years, Castiel had battled with his longing to be around his Charge. If only to watch him slouching on the sofa, with his trousers undone and one hand tucked in to the top of his boxers, the other restlessly pressing buttons on the television remote, or clutching a bottle of beer like it held the sustenance of life itself. Or to watch Dean sleep. It fascinated him, the way Dean's entire body would be totally relaxed and at rest. Even his mind would be mostly settled. Dean often slept on his back, one knee cocked and overhanging the side of the bed, and an arm draped loosely over his eyes, and other times he would sprawl across the bed on his front one arm stuffed under the pillow. He would rarely have the covers pulled all the way up, and favored sleeping in his boxers and a loose tee. Dean was a sleep talker, and more times than not, it was incomprehensible mutterings, but sometimes he would speak as clear as day. Castiel knew he had heard his own name mentioned, but had never thought anything of it. As a frequent subject in Dean's life, he was unsurprised by his presence in Dean's subconscious.

Occasionally, Dean would sleep in just his boxers, and Castiel found himself admiring the raises and dips of the smooth skin on Dean's front, back and arms. He had thought he was gaping in awe at the creation of which his Father was most proud. Back then, Castiel didn't register nor understand the stirring in his loins. Back then, Castiel could fight the urges to curl up next to his human and lay a protective arm over him. He wasn't sure that now he could manage such restraint. Now, with his shredded Wings trailing along the floor behind him, his hair ruffled by his fingers, and his five o clock shadow more like a half past eleven shadow, Castiel didn't think he could be near Dean Winchester again without losing control. He felt the raw human instinct of lust gnawing away at him.