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There were days when Dean loved Castiel feverishly.
When Castiel would come into their homey kitchen, fresh from the garden, soil under his nails, and caked on his pants, and find Dean waiting there; pulling him in and burying his face in the crook of Cas’ neck, heedless of the dirt and sweat. Dean would breathe him in, mouth at his skin, before dropping to his knees. Days where Dean was needy, and looked up at him in disbelief, like he was still dreaming, and this wasn't their home now, and Cas was still gone, and this was his only chance.
There were days when Dean loved Castiel furiously. Like that time when he’d gotten hurt on a Wendigo hunt with Claire, when Cas was supposed to just be visiting for the weekend. Dean had shown up at his motel room, pushing his way through the door with fury in his eyes and fire on his tongue, and Cas had let him. He let himself be shoved to the bed, clothes dragged off, staring up in awe as Dean had ridden him, demanding Castiel remember that you’re practically human, now, Cas, you can’t just put yourself in danger like that! Which Castiel knew, translated into I love you, we just got here, please keep yourself safe for me.
There were days when Dean loved Cas in wonder. In early April, when they visited Cas’ windmill. On an old quilt borrowed from the bunker, spread on the field damp from rain. Air permeated with petrchor, surrounding them as Dean welcomed Castiel into his body. Soft lips parted on breathy gasps as rich, verdant eyes stared, mesmerized; not at the solar eclipse in the sky, but at the swathes of gold peeking through the high arch of Castiel’s outstretched wings.
There were days when Dean loved him in laughter. When there is flour on Castiel’s face coupled with a hopeless expression, because he just can’t get that pie crust right. Dean kisses thank you’s into his skin and tells him it will be the best damn pie he’s ever had.
There were times when Dean loved him in silence. When words became too much, and his eyes were liquid and his breath hitched on sobs. When Dean’s hands had to do the talking, worshipping Cas’ body with firm strokes, gentle caresses, and tearstained lashes fluttering butterfly kisses to the inside of Castiel’s thighs.
There were times when Dean loved Castiel loudly. When they would road trip in Baby, and Dean held Cas’ hand, singing along to the mixtape he had gifted him. Not the goofy, off-key singing he did to make Sam laugh, but soulful, toe-curling singing that sent shivers up his spine and through his wings. When he would kiss Cas’ lips, lingering and lush in the middle of a Walmart supply run; proudly calling Cas sweetheart, despite the dirty looks on a few ignorant faces in the dairy aisle because who gives a fuck what those people think, Cas. We saved the goddamn world. When they both were hit on by the waitress in Flagstaff and Dean charmingly smiled, introducing Castiel as his ball and chain. Castiel had rolled his eyes, fondly, while internally resembling a marshmallow with how soft he felt at Dean’s casual acceptance.
And there were days like today, when Dean loved him lazily.
Sunk into the softness of their comforter, Castiel arched, and sighed, softly, as Dean’s fingers laced with his, pressing them back against the mattress. There was no rush, just the delicious slow slide, as Dean dragged his cock against Castiel’s in a lazy, rutting glide. Morning sunbeams from the skylight colored Dean’s hair from burnt molasses to golden honey and Castiel was lost when a smile as slow rolling as Dean’s hips bloomed on his lover's face. Like ripples on a pond, Cas trembled from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes, spending between their stomachs with a long, juddering sigh. Dean’s fingers clenched in his as he followed, his release mixing with Cas’ as he bonelessly slumped on top of Castiel, moaning in satisfaction. There was no desire to move, not when there was all of this sweat-damped freckled skin to caress and the tender way Dean was sucking bruises onto Cas’ collarbone.
Once upon a time, Castiel could have cleaned them with nothing but a thought; but that was not the deal he made. He had his wings, yes, but his mojo, as Dean called it, would stay dormant, until it was time to bring Dean home to heaven. Many, many, years from now, if Castiel had anything to say about it. So for now, he let Dean relax against him, while Castiel blindly reached onto the nightstand for the Kleenex. It was nearing noon, Cas knew, but he felt languid, entangled with Dean and he didn’t see any harm in indulging in a post-coital nap.
Dean breathed an I love you, Cas, into his ear before drifting into a doze, and Castiel murmured it back, eyes slipping closed. As he floated away, Cas wondered how Dean would love him tomorrow, and knew the answer was perfectly.