When Cas comes back, Dean falls head over heels in love with one specific part of his body that he’s never really worshipped before.
It used to be Cas’ hands, his sides, his thighs even, his ears and his soft lips and perhaps the curve of his jaw, the wrinkles around his eyes. It’s different now.
Dean, obviously, falls in love with the spot right over Cas’ heart.
He kisses it, lips against smooth skin. Drags his mouth against it. Places his hand over it - in bed and out of it, obsessed with it even through fabric. He wouldn’t admit it but he falls asleep with his cheek pressed against Cas’ chest nearly every night. In fact, it’s the only way he can sleep the first few weeks after Cas comes back.
Because there is Cas’ heart. Beating. Alive.
You know that cliche Sylvia Plath poem about listening to your own heart and it beating in the old familiar rhythm of I am, I am, I am.
Dean doesn’t care about his heart. He cares about Cas’. He listens.
And all he can think is, You are, you are, you are. Alive, and mine, and don’t leave again.