Work Text:
He feels Dean’s call like it’s a scorching rope around his soul twisting, tugging.
He doesn’t even think. He goes, throws his atoms across space, turns around to find himself in another motel room, cheap and bright the way Dean secretly likes them.
“Cas,” Dean looks up and grins. “So you can tell where I am.”
“I can’t feel you,” Castiel corrects, tilting his head at him. “But I can feel your prayer.”
Dean’s eyes are shining as he folds his arms. “So every time I say ‘Oh, God…’,” he half-closes his eyes, inhaling suggestively, profane, “you can feel it?”
“Only if you mean it,” Castiel tells him.
Dean’s smile is blinding, sacrilegious, and Castiel doesn’t want to rebuke him. “Every time, Cas. Every time.”