It took Castiel a long time to isolate exactly what it was that Dean smelled like. There was the definite undertone of old leather, of course, dusky and smooth. There was the ever-changing note of motel soap and shampoo and laundry detergent. Hints of whiskey came and went with a sharp tang. But all of these were superficial, almost a distraction, overlying the dark brown musky velvet that was Dean himself. Like petrichor, it was an aroma all its own that, to Castiel, was unmistakable and ineffable.
It evoked a reaction in him that also took a long time for Castiel to identify. It wasn't until very late one night, after sharing a six pack in front of a horrible movie, that their eyes caught in an undeniable way and all caution had been thrown to the wind; Dean cupped his hand on Castiel's cheek and brought him roughly close and Castiel had instinctively responded, curling his fingers in the short hairs at the back of Dean's neck; against Dean's warm and chapped lips Castiel finally found that whatever Dean's scent could be called, he just wanted to take his clothes off and roll around in it.
Judging by the way Dean paused their feverish ministrations to stand and lead Castiel firmly by the hand to his bedroom, with frequent interruptions along the way to press him against the wall and continue his concupiscent attentions, Dean seemed to approve of his plan.
