Imagine Cas having some important information for Dean, so he just pops into his motel room.
But instead of waking Dean up, he just stares at him, because he isn’t prepared for Dean to just be laying there, in his underwear and only his underwear, bare skin exposed and glowing in the moonlight streaming through the window. Cas can see every line of muscle, can see every perfect line he recreated when he pulled Dean out of Hell, can see his own handprint seared into Dean’s skin.
As if he knows Cas is there, Dean’s eyes blink open slowly, and he sits up, hair sticking everywhere and smacking his lips as he tries to wake up.
“What’s up, Cas?”
Cas stares at the sleep-flush on Dean’s cheeks. “I don’t remember,” he says, and Dean answers with a smirk, patting the empty spot next to him in invitation.