If Castiel is a storm, Dean is the sea.
He sleeps in waves, breath rushing in a tide through the pink seabed of his lungs.
When he opens his eyes, Cas will see the broken green glass of his eyes, red-rimmed like the first blush of an ocean-caught evening. He lays a hand on his hunter's shoulder, burned golden as a tortured sun-and golden it may be, but it's cool from the caress of conditioned air. Fresh and silky as a tide pool.
This man, this human, this mortal, who should by all rights (and all Castiel has ever been taught) should be weak. He should be fragile and beaten and worshipping at Castiel's feet.

His breathing should not be as smooth and guileless as it is now.

Looking at this creature of wave and stone and tide, stretched on the sheets of a cheap motel bed, is something of a blasphemy.
Perhaps because he is unbreakable, and that's not something any human should have. It should belong to angels, but Cas has seen too many of his brothers and sisters break and fall screaming to believe it does.

Dean has come through so much.

He is still so alive.

At moments like this-awake while the rest of this strange and frightening globe sleeps and as drunk as he'll allow himself to get-Cas thinks that if there's anything left to believe in, it's Dean.