Dean wakes up because there's something poking him.

He frowns, opening his eyes – a luxury he only allows himself because he's home, he has one of those now, and he knows it's safe.

What's poking him is Castiel's feet on his ribcage.

Castiel, obviously, has a few problems adjusting to being human, and one of them is sleeping like a normal person. He just can't seem to get the hang of it – either he clings to Dean like an octopus, or he moves down and around the bed so much they end up like this – Dean sleeping normally, head on the pillow and everything, and Cas with his head at the corner of the bed, his feet in the middle of Dean's back, and one of his arms on the floor.

It's very… well, Dean wants to say annoying, but truth is that it's endearing as all hell, and he can't stop the soft smile from showing on his lips even if he wanted to (and he doesn't. He doesn't want to stop any more smiles than he did in his life before. Before he accepted that he isn't responsible for other people's actions any more than they are for his, that he can't change things just because they'll hurt).

He doesn't stop his smiles anymore because if he wants to teach Cas to be a happy human being, he has to at least try and be one too.

Dean sighs, still looking at the sleeping man near him and reaches out slowly, running a finger up and down Castiel's calf. The man sniffs once, sighing in his sleep and moves a bit more, dangerously close to the edge of the bed.

Dean snickers quietly and repeats the gesture, very gently, feather light touches that he knows won't really bother Cas enough to wake him up – he can't help it.

For so long everything in his life was misery and tears and regret. The endless deals with devils and angels, and the constant fear of being found out, of having to tell the truth, the lying to fix one thing breaking fifteen more. For so fucking long everything was so damn complicated and now…

Now he can do this.

Now he can reach out and trace the skin on Castiel's leg and sigh softly and smile a bit just because he can.

He can wait for the cases, and he can feel safe inside his little bunker with all of his protections – and life isn't perfect, sure it isn't, nothing is – but it's so freaking good he can't quite believe it sometimes.

His hand runs down all of Castiel's naked leg and he smiles a bit, biting his lip to stop from laughing when the angel (he'll always be an angel to Dean, no matter how many times he bleeds) tries to kick him away.

Finally, with a deep sigh, Castiel turns around, his chest bare (scars, scars all over it from the many, many times he's been hurt and couldn't heal, flashbacks of all the times he looked on, amazed, when the skin didn't immediately started kitting up together) and he looks at Dean with something that would be a frown if he wasn't so clearly sleepy.

"Why?" he asks, voice rough with sleep (Castiel, as it turns out, isn't a morning person as a human. On a good day it takes him at least half an hour to come to full sentences. But only when they are safe. Castiel as a muttering and mumbling mess with a coffee in his hands and eyes narrowed at anyone who tries to talk to him is to Dean the biggest proof that they are safe), and Dean doesn't answer.

Instead, he crawls up the bed, kissing Castiel's thigh and the man lets out a hum of contentment, settling against the bed, his eyes closed again, a small, soft smile playing on his lips.

Dean settles against him, smirking at his morning wood (not that he can say anything, being the exactly same way) and rocks his hips once, making Castiel call out his name once, in that voice full of sleep and intent and, now, desire.

He moves again, and Castiel puts one arm on Dean's shoulder, the other one caressing his back, moving against him too, increasing the friction.

They don't really kiss when they wake up like this – morning breath isn't attractive even if you're in love, but lips touch bare skin, running through shoulders and arms and necks, until they come, not really sure in what order, only stopping when they are both sated, and content and safe.

Always, always, safe, before anything else.

"You could have waited until I had woken up to do that" Castiel tells him, mouth brushing on the skin of his neck, hands still running on his back.

"You were poking me" Dean tells him and pulls away when Castiel snorts.

He stares at the angel, who has a sneaky expression on his face – sly and knowing and way too Dean to make him comfortable.

"I was poking you, huh?"

"Shut up, feather head" the hunter mutters, settling again against his angel, his lover, his… just his.

For as long as they can, and not fighting anything for it.

Safe.

(Or as safe and a hunter and his angel can ever be).