Genres: Established relationship.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke Enterprises and the CW. Dean belongs to Castiel.
Author's Notes: Written for Moonlettuce for my kissbingo card square 'body: arms'. Because I luffs her, even if she makes me write stuff.
Of all of his Father's creations, Castiel thinks, it is the humans who are the most complex, the most compelling and the most terrifying. He knows that his brothers and sisters would disagree - even those who do not feel a terrible fury at being supplanted in their Father's affections still see the humans as nothing more than an inconvenience, pets that they need to look after on their Father's behalf when he has long since lost interest and wandered away.
Castiel wonders, sometimes, if he is the only one who sees the glory of the humans, with their potential and capacity for great good and even greater evil, and even he, at first, was blinded to their wonders.
The contradictory nature of humans is summed up most clearly in Dean, or perhaps it is that it is Dean that Castiel sees so clearly. There is no denying that Dean is stubborn, hot-tempered and hard-headed, and dealing with him on a day to day basis is frustrating. There are many times when Castiel feels as though Dean is unruly and un-housebroken. He will not stay to heel, no matter how much Castiel demands it of him.
When he looks at Dean, he sees humanity in all of its infinite, Godly glory; all of the perfections and all of the flaws. And there are many, many flaws.
Dean's heart beats strongly within his chest, fierce and free, but his arteries are already starting to clog from the food that he eats, from the hours that he drives and drinks, and doesn't sleep. His soul is tarnished, dirtied by the world and by the battles he has fought, but it still sings out, burning so brightly that Castiel sometimes has to look away.
Dean is a creature of appetites, for food and for sex, slovenly and greedy, but there is still a core of steel in the man, one that will not bend and has not broken yet. One that will not give entirely into temptation; he tempts Castiel instead and Castiel has long since fallen, in flesh if not in spirit.
But it is Dean's scars that fascinate Castiel most of all. Angels do not scar; they heal. They are perfection, and it is in that perfection, Castiel thinks, that lies his brethren's most fatal flaw.
Dean's scars heal crookedly, the flesh knitting itself together, rough and raw. There are welts and hollows scattered across Dean's body, and Castiel's fingers trace them all, each touch of his imbued with awe. Dean would not understand that if Castiel were to try to explain; his patience with Castiel's bumbling is far from infinite, and he much prefers actions over words. And so Castiel keeps silent, letting his mouth trace across each mark to ensure that he stays that way.
It is the scar that Dean bears on his upper arm that fascinates Castiel most of all. That imperfection fits perfectly to the shape of his fingers, left when he gripped Dean tightly and raised him from perdition; in the quiet of the evening, when Dean has wrought all pleasure possible out of the body that Castiel inhabits, and when Dean himself slumbers, exhausted by his efforts, Castiel winds his fingers around Dean's arm, tracing over the raised, red flesh and matching the mark, touch for touch.
The skin is rough under his lips when he presses them against Dean's flesh, bumpy and uneven where it blistered, and Castiel presses his mouth harder against it, a silent apology - although for what, he cannot say. It is enough to know that it is there, that Castiel is burnt into Dean's body the way that Dean is burnt into Castiel's soul. It is enough to know that when Castiel offered to take it away, smooth out each and every scar Dean bear's and leave Dean clean and unblemished, free from all taint, Dean looked at him as though he feared that Castiel had lost his mind.
In fact, Dean may have said as much, in that way that is uniquely Dean. He'd earned them, Dean said. And Cas could back the fuck off.
Castiel lets his mouth trail over Dean's skin again, and Dean's sleepy voice rises up to greet him. "You know you're a freak, right?" He rolls over and Castiel moves away the bare inches necessary to let Dean do so. "I mean, you got some weird scar fetish I should know about, Cas?"
Castiel cannot explain it - he commands a thousand human tongues, can speak God's words in each and every one of them, and has been able to since Babel fell, but Dean often stops the words in his mouth, each one fled in the face of Dean's quirked eyebrow, Dean's scowl or mocking look.
"I did not mean to wake you, Dean," he says instead, and Dean blinks up at him groggily.
"Yeah, well, you did," he says, and wipes his hands over his face as though that will wipe away the need for sleep. "So now you woke me up, you feel like putting that mouth of yours to better use?"
There are no scars down where Dean's flesh rises to his touch, nothing to mar Dean's skin, just dark hair, thick and wiry, to greet Castiel; it holds the scent of Dean in its roots, rich and heady, another human miracle.
There are no scars, but Castiel still kisses every inch of skin in worship.