Castiel doesn’t think he could ever get rid of the rose-tinted novelty of making love to Dean. It’s a new, yet familiar, sort of excitement as their lips meet again. Dean tastes of whisky, but Cas does as well.
There’s an utterly soft sigh of “Cas” as the angel lets his hands wander further down Dean’s body. His hands trail down from his face to the long stripe of bared neck and down his chest. He takes his time, slowly categorizing every inch of skin even beneath cloth. Dean claims he hates it, but Cas doesn’t think the other man would know what to do with himself if he didn’t take his time.
His hands skirt down his sides and Dean makes a huffing sort of sound into Cas’s mouth. Cas licks the sound from his mouth as his fingers dip beneath Dean’s shirt to tug it up.
Dean laughs then and that’s something new too. It’s not the sort of laugh Cas has ever pulled from Dean in public.
No, it’s a soft little trill, and thankfully in Cas’s mind he’s free from bruising Dean’s ego when he calls the sound out for what it is- a giggle.
”Cas,” Dean tries to sound scolding but it’s lost in the edge of his laugh, “that tickles.”
“Sorry beloved.” He isn’t sorry, not really, and he’s especially not sorry when his palms ghosts across Dean’s bare sides and he lets out a sound part-gasp, part-laugh.
He repeats the action again and again, drawing out laughs from Dean’s mouth and into his own as they finally collapse into bed together.