Cas likes to sleep naked.
He sleeps in his own bed, tangled and twisted up in the sheets so intricately that Dean thinks it must be hard to breathe, but that’s the way Cas likes it; secure, no air bubbles under the covers. Cas also claims that wearing clothes to bed is “restricting"; Dean thinks it’s because he likes the papery cotton slip-slide of the sheets on his skin, but who the fuck is he to assume what Cas likes?
Cas is burrowed under the sheets today like some kind of groundhog; just the dark sheaf of his hair is visible when Dean raps on the door and asks, “Cas?“
Cas grumbles, rolls his bare shoulders; the smooth skin over his shoulder-blades is still raw and pinkish-looking, puckered slightly around the dark new ink runes. After Cas had had a close encounter with a few demons in St. Louis three days prior, Dean had practically dragged Cas to get inked up, insisting he get one over his heart like him and Sam. It had the most effect that way.
But Cas had paused and disagreed in a quiet voice, saying he wanted one between his shoulder-blades instead.
Dean didn’t say anything when Cas quietly asked the tattoo artist for additional wings, with the pentagram in the center; there was a strange, tight lump in his throat throughout, watching the flinches twist Cas’ serene expression, and he didn’t bitch about the extra cost.
Still, it’s fitting for Cas, Dean thinks, leaning against the doorframe and watching the shadows dip in and out of the hollow of Cas’ back in fluctuation with his slow breathing.
"Caaas,” Dean tries again, rapping on the doorframe, and Cas grumbles, “Go away, Dean,“ and nestles deeper into the sheets.
"Dude, it’s like 10:30. Up and at ‘em. Remember all those times you woke me up at 4:30 in the morning? Consider this retribution with eggs and bacon. Come on, Sam made breakfast this morning and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Hey!” Sam calls indignantly from down the hallway, just within earshot in the kitchen.
Cas hitches himself onto his elbows to fix Dean with an impressive glare—a glare that’s effect is slightly ruined by the chaotic disarray of his hair and the purplish, crescent shadows under his eyes.
“I don’t want breakfast,” Cas says with true vitriol, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Tough. Get up or I’ll drag you out of here.”
“Is that a challenge?” Cas says in a pissy voice that still manages to remind Dean of that celestial-warrior prowess that lurks somewhere deep down, maybe in the core of Cas’ being.
“I’ll do what I have to,” Dean says in a serious voice, crossing his arms. “Seriously, Cas. You haven’t shaved and I can smell you from here. Take a shower or something.“
Cas grumbles for a few more minutes before he rolls onto his feet, taking his sheet with him and wrapping it around his waist, still glowering at Dean.
"This isn’t over,” he says as he stalks to the bathroom.
“Yeah, whatever, shortstop.”
Cas huffs and slams the door behind him. Dean stares after him for a few minutes and permits himself a brief grin before trekking down the hallway in search of Sam.