Castiel doesn’t have to sleep, but he tried to, at least for one night. 

As he opens his eyes, he takes stock of his surroundings: dingy motel room, morning light filtering in through the curtains, the cool sheets on his naked thighs, the warm body next to him, still asleep.

It’s a lot of new sensations at once, as was the night that led to this moment, last night, when Dean hauled him out of the brothel, howling with laughter, before sobering up and saying, “New plan.” 

(Castiel had found Dean Winchester beautiful when he rescued him from Hell and rebuilt him, but he found Dean even more beautiful when he was spread out before him, face flushed and eyes wide at the sensation of their skin-to-skin contact.)

Afterwards, Castiel had expected Dean to go out by himself, to a liquor store or a bar, as if to wash the night away, but instead, he had pulled Castiel into his arms under the sheets and was asleep in minutes. 

He’s still asleep now, although they shifted in the night so now his breath is warm against Castiel’s neck, one of his thighs tucked between Castiel’s legs, a hand loosely covering Castiel’s free hand, fingers just barely laced together and brushing his stomach.

For just a moment, Castiel’s infinite world is narrowed down to this room, this bed, these points of contact, and all is still.