Dean groans and slings an arm over his eyes. “C’mon, Cas, please? It’s a trillion degrees out.”
Castiel runs his fingers through the damp hair at Dean’s temple, cradling his head in his lap. “No,” he says again. Even the bench they’re sitting on his warm through their clothes. The scent of the boardwalk is a pleasant mix of sugary and damp, the ocean lapping rhythmically against the wooden posts under the pier.
Dean pops one eye open. He’s laying flat on his back on the bench, head pressed against Castiel’s thighs, a smear of cotton candy on the right side of his mouth. Cas thumbs at it and Dean pokes his tongue out to lick the pad of his finger.
“We could go swimming,” Castiel offers. The groan he gets in return is answer enough. “Or we could sit here and roast.”
“I’ll roast,” Dean corrects, “you’ll just sit there in that trench coat with your angelic air conditioning and watch me sweat.”
The idea is not as unpleasant as Dean is making it out to be. He musters up the smallest bit of grace and runs his icy cool fingers along Dean’s cheek. This groan was certainly a happier one.
“That’s the stuff,” Dean mumbles, squinting up at Cas with a smirk. “Keep that up and I’ll forget all about the ice cream.”
“You’re a hedonist,” Castiel accuses him gently. Dean just makes a happy noise of agreement and leans into Cas’ touch.