Dean wakes up when the sun is just bright enough to cast a glow of light between the panes of their open-curtained windows.

His eyes take in the body lying soft and warm beside him; a tuft of dark hair, the curves of muscles and skin and bones, graceful hands made to hold Dean’s face between them—no longer the hilt of a glinting sword. Cas shifts, and with him come the covers as he rolls toward Dean sighing out a breath of content. When his eyelashes flutter open to greet the day, Dean is right there, taking in the flood of blue like he’s thirsty for it.  

“Good morning, Dean.”

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Cas presses a kiss to his hair. Dean makes a sound like defeat and comfort rolled into one, and tries a little futilely to pull his arm out from under Cas’s hip.

“Come on, I’ll make us coffee,” he offers, but like every other morning, Cas couldn’t give a care. He presses another kiss to Dean’s temple before heaving himself bodily on top of Dean, trapping all of Dean’s limbs beneath his arms, his legs, and his chest. He reaches out behind him to grab the covers and drag them over the both of their bodies until the only thing Dean can see is the yellow glow of sunlight filtering through cotton, and Cas’s face tucked tightly beneath his chin.

“It’s nice to sleep,” Cas says to his neck, drawing his arms down until Dean can feel clever fingers trailing his ribcage.

“That’s what lazy people say.”

Cas pulls up, only to drop another kiss against his mouth. He gives Dean a thoughtful, considering look, then continues kissing any patch of skin his lips can find.

“One,” he says on Dean’s nose.

“Two,” he says on Dean’s jaw.

“Three,” he says on Dean’s left eyelid.

“Four,” he says on Dean’s shoulder.

“Five,” he says on the apple of Dean’s cheek.

Dean sucks in a breath and lets that familiar feeling of Cas unfurl in his chest.

“Are you really gonna try for a hundred today?” he asks. Cas’s lips linger on the shell of his ear.

“Yes,” Cas answers mildly, like they have all the time in the world for him to lay Dean out and press kisses to his flesh—each a prayer, a salve to the wounds thirty plus years of hunting can leave on a man’s body.

And the thing is, Dean laughs, they do. They have all the time now.

Cas starts shifting down, counting out, “Fifteen,” as he brushes his lips to Dean’s chest, where a heart beats healthy and strong, safe at last. Cas smiles.