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Castiel watches Dean. He sits in a booth in a diner in Buffalo Center, Iowa, watching straight-backed as Dean downs a hamburger with a chocolate malt; he walks up a dusty hillside in Jerusalem, squinting against the bright sunshine, and observes Dean as he sleeps half a world away. In strict theological terms, Castiel is not Dean's tutelary angel—his commission was not received from the Lord at the moment of Dean's birth; it is self-assigned and self-directed; he does not watch Dean to ensure his safety alone—but he supposes he has taken on the role by default. His observation is not required by any theological nicety, but Castiel still watches. He finds that he wants to.
His confinement to this vessel is not absolute. His senses are not bounded by the limits of those which used to be Jimmy Novak's; he is still far stronger than mere human muscle and bone should allow. His field of vision is not restricted to the three-dimensional—and yet Castiel's eyes want to follow Dean, to watch his movements. Castiel is still not entirely sure why that is. He has theories; they may be tinged with the ineffable.
They may simply be sinful.
Dean's thoughts provide no assistance. Castiel watches him, and listens to all the things Dean doesn't say. He talks at easy length about classic cars and beer, and regales Castiel with a lengthy anecdote about a vampire he'd once beheaded near the Mexican border; his mind is noisy with other concerns. Castiel cannot hear all of Dean's thoughts—where language does not suffice to convey Dean's feelings, so too does Castiel fail to translate what it means when Dean watches him in return. An image can mean a thousand different words, and Dean's thoughts are full of them, their colours made too bright by the shadows that surround them—dirt roads and a ring of fire, the clean lines of a tattoo and the crisp bite of salt and Castiel's hand on his shoulder.
Not just Castiel's hand on his shoulder, but the mark his hand had left on Dean's skin—memorial of Castiel's own harrowing of hell. Dean thinks of it often; Castiel scarcely less. It has meaning for Dean. Castiel doesn't know what that meaning is, but perhaps he knows what he would like it to be. Sometimes, he imagines himself placing his palm right there, right over the mark—the cool flesh of Castiel's vessel placed precisely where once his touch had seared. He wonders how Dean would think of that; he considers what he would like to Dean think. He wonders at himself for having the capacity for such imagination—wonders if he has been changed just by the act of watching Dean.
Perhaps it would be easier to entertain his thoughts if he were truly a guardian angel—if he had the luxury of detachment and distance. Perhaps then he would not be inclined to think of distance as a luxury. The car in which Dean insists they travel is small; it feels smaller still thanks to the way Dean sits as he drives. He drums the knuckles of his left hand against the window in time to the beat of the music; his right hand taps out a syncopated rhythm on the steering wheel. Castiel rests his palms flat on his knees and stares forward out of the window as southern Indiana slips past them. He tries not to turn his head, to not look at Dean, but even this choice has a curious consequence—the more Castiel tries not to look, the more aware he becomes that he is inhabiting a body, that beside him, Dean is living powerfully through his own.
Proximity is changing him—has changed him. The electric span of his wings have been bounded in Jimmy Novak's soft skin; the Speed of the Lord has become Cas, his name spoken by Dean with rough impatience and affection both; he watches and is watched and he... he wants. He wants to know what would happen if he pressed closer at one of those times—so late at night it's almost morning, when Dean is punch-drunk with tiredness and stumbling through the door of his motel room—when Dean's thoughts are a confused jumble of fear and urgency, anxiety and faltering determination and the shape of Castiel's mouth. These thoughts are dangerous; Castiel cannot rid himself of them.
Outside, rain begins to fall, turning the early March fields to vague blurs of green and grey, making Dean squint in order to make out the signs that will tell them which exit to take. He mumbles to himself about speed limits and the dangers of hydroplaning and the fact that he could really go for some waffles right now; Castiel finds himself staring at the chapped curve of Dean's lips. He lets his head fall back against the headrest, and prays for the strength to close his eyes.