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1) Cas never thought to question God when he was in heaven. Not his plans or his orders, certainly not his creations. Once he's spent time in his vessel, however, and observed human bodies at close range, in all manner of activity, he does wonder about a few things. Men's nipples, for instance. They're entirely useless, a distraction in what might otherwise be an unblemished expanse of skin. He doesn't understand them, not that it's his place to.
Dean teaches him exactly how erroneous that conclusion is.
Skin, he's learned, is sensitive everywhere, a broad canvas of nerve endings, so it's not surprising that it feels good wherever Dean touches him. (Or kisses him, or licks him, or occasionally bites him.) But the first time Dean leans forward, dark head hovering over Castiel's chest, and sucks the small, rigid peak of a nipple between his lips, Castiel nearly jolts off the bed. The sensation is electric, an arcing current that races through him, and he feels Dean smile against his chest.
"You like that?" he murmurs, stroking Castiel's hip before he fastens his teeth around the same nipple, biting very precisely, just hard enough to make Cas shake with something that edges past pleasure into the first sharp spike of pain. He soothes it with his tongue then, pressing it flat and wet against the sting before sucking at it again, drawing it up between his tongue and his top teeth over and over.
It's unbearable, wonderful, a sweet-sharp ache that echoes in Castiel's cock with the pressure of Dean's mouth, and before he realizes what he's doing, he's holding Dean's head in place shamelessly.
Later, when they're finished and lying tangled on the sheets, panting and sweaty, Dean raises his head off Castiel's belly to wriggle up the mattress and lick at them again. Softly this time, gentle whispers of wet warmth, and it's soothing instead of arousing.
No, they're not useless after all, Castiel thinks, and falls asleep with Dean's tongue still lapping idly at him and his own fingers buried in Dean's hair.
2) Dean's feet are a surprise. Not that he has them, of course, but Dean is always so armored, clothes layered over his body so defensively, that Castiel nearly forgets about them until the first time he sees Dean completely naked.
There's too much else to look at to study Dean's feet at that point, of course. Smooth expanses of skin, the constellations of freckles on his upper back, the new scars acquired since Castiel carefully remade him, the trim efficiency of his hips, the long, muscled flanks, the sensual curves of his upper arms, the stiff, blood-flushed glory of his cock. Castiel doesn't suppose Dean minds that he barely gives his feet a second thought.
It's the first time Dean is clothed but barefoot that Castiel really studies his feet. They're shockingly pale, and surprisingly vulnerable beneath the frayed cuffs of Dean's jeans. They're more delicate than Castiel would have guessed, the bones as finely made as the ones in his hands, the bare toes strangely pretty, each nail neatly trimmed.
Dean is dozing on the bed, propped against the headboard, the TV remote held loosely in one hand and his feet crossed at the ankle. Castiel sits on the bed beside them and gently draws the top one onto his lap. Dean stirs briefly but subsides when Cas simply holds onto it, careful not to tickle him. Dean has explained tickling; apparently it's something he deeply disapproves of unless Sam is the victim.
When Dean doesn't stir again, Castiel holds his foot higher, examining it, lightly stroking the arch, feeling his way along the elegant bones across the top, cupping the rounded heel in his palm. He runs one finger along the length of the largest toe, skin giving way to smooth nail, and glances up when he hears Dean say, "You got a fetish there, buddy?"
Dean has explained fetishes, as well. Castiel is not sure this qualifies, but Dean's tone is fond, teasing, slightly gruff with sleep. Cas doesn't answer him, just raises Dean's foot even higher and turns it to kiss the deep arch. Dean shivers, his leg jerking slightly, but Castiel ignores it, holds on tighter, putting his mouth here, there, high, low, letting his thumbs press into the flesh until Dean is humming deep in his throat, contented.
"Fuck, that feels good," he murmurs. "Don't forget they're a matched set." His eyes are closed, but he slits one open to smirk when Castiel gathers up the neglected foot and sets to work.
"You like this," Castiel says, and it's not a question. A warm swell of something like pride blooms in his chest; making Dean happy -- peacefully, contentedly happy -- isn't easy, at least not unless an orgasm is imminent, he's just killed something unquestionably evil without sustaining injury to himself, or he's caught the aroma of warm pie.
"You'll see," Dean promises, crossing his arms over his chest as he closes his eyes again and relaxes. "I'll do you next."
Castiel isn't sure Dean will be awake when he's done, but he doesn't mind. He's already planning on taking Dean's boots off and doing this the next time Dean is frustrated and on edge.
He pauses for a moment, thumbs buried deep in the ball of Dean's foot. He might end up doing this every day given that criteria. It actually seems like something to look forward to.
3) Dean, Castiel learns early on, doesn't engage in much touch of a nonsexual nature.
Other people do, he knows, even people who are involved in sexual relationships. Castiel has seen them, holding hands, sitting close enough that their thighs align and their shoulders touch. The swift, glancing weight of a hand on an arm as one passes the other, hugs in greeting.
Dean's mode of touch seems to have two speeds. Hitting -- clapping Sam on the shoulder, high-fiving Bobby, playfully smacking Castiel's ass -- or the kind of caress designed to leave Castiel speechless and shaking with pleasure.
But one night, after he fucks Castiel to orgasm and Castiel is face-down on the damp sheets, still vibrating with sensation, Dean props himself on one elbow and lays his hand on the back of Castiel's head.
It's a warm, comfortable weight, and Castiel doesn't mind it. Dean doesn't usually touch his head unless they're kissing and he's changing the angle, or Castiel has Dean's cock in his mouth, but he's too sated to question it. He doesn't open his eyes, and a moment later Dean begins to stroke, raking his fingers gently through Cas's hair, again and again, the blunt nails on Castiel's scalp providing just enough pressure to make the skin tingle.
It's ... delightful. Hypnotizing, rhythmic, perfect, and Castiel finds himself pushing up into the pressure of Dean's hand when he pauses, suddenly horribly sure that Dean is going to stop. He doesn't want that. Whatever this is, it isn't sexual, but he can feel it everywhere, those tingling sensations rippling along every nerve ending, and yet strangely soothing. He had no idea that the top of his head could provide such an addictive sensation, and such an animal one. If he were a cat, he thinks distantly, he would be purring.
He never opens his eyes, but he can feel Dean's smile anyway, and he drifts into sleep with Dean still petting him.
4) As orifices go, Castiel supposes mouths are more a bit more attractive than ears or nostrils or anuses. They're more individual, certainly, but Castiel always assumed they were merely functional otherwise. A means of breathing, a means of fueling, a means of regurgitation when necessary.
("Jesus, Cas, just stop, okay?" Dean looks pained. "And don't call them anuses. Christ.")
But Dean's mouth ... After Dean's eyes, which Castiel believes anyone would agree are arresting, his mouth is endlessly attractive. Long before Castiel understood what he felt for Dean, long before he understood just how much more mouths could do than eat and breathe, he found himself staring at the sensual shape of Dean's lips on a nearly daily basis.
It was when he realized that mouths themselves were not fascinating, not in general -- Sam's mouth certainly has no appeal for him, nor does Bobby Singer's -- that he began to understand his attraction to Dean's mouth meant something unique.
And the first time Dean kissed him? In nearly two thousand years of existence, it's a moment that will continue to stand out as shocking in the most pleasant possible way.
Castiel had always assumed that kissing was nothing more than a sort of signal, a handshake, as it were, sealing an agreement to engage in sex together, if not a questionable deal with a demon. He's been wrong about many things -- most of them, notably, since he came to earth for Dean -- but it's possible he's never been more wrong than about this.
Kissing is a mutable, living thing, it seems, lips, tongue, teeth all coming together in a fluid sort of language of its own. And the taste of it -- Dean tastes not of what he's eaten, although sometimes those flavors linger for a few minutes, but simply of himself. Dark and heady and complicated, indescribable.
And it's more than that, as well. It's pressure and texture and wetness, the hard bump or nip of teeth, the mobile softness of tongue, the shared breath pushed back and forth, the plush swell of their lips when they pull away, red with heat and blood. If Dean hadn't made it clear to him that there were many more physical pleasures to explore, Castiel would have been content to simply kiss him whenever he had the opportunity.
He does it now, leaning over Dean's sleeping body on the bed, and watches as Dean's face softens in a smile.
5) Castiel always tries to say exactly what he means. Primarily because it seems sensible, but also because he's still unfamiliar with so many of the nuances of human language.
Dean almost never says what he means, on the other hand. Unless he's shouting. Then he's fairly direct.
It's startling to realize how much Dean says without speaking aloud. Only in private, only when they're naked, or near enough that it doesn't matter if a sock is left on or a T-shirt is simply pushed up beneath armpits. Dean can say more with his hands than anyone using sign language, Castiel thinks, and even though he knows objectively that this isn't really true, it's what Dean says with his hands that echoes so deeply.
Things like, "I want it now, I want you now," when he's pushing Castiel up against a wall, his hands almost too tight around Castiel's upper arms. Or, "I'm going to take my time, so get comfortable, buddy," when he's got Castiel's wrists pinned over his head and he's tonguing his way down Cas's throat to his chest, Castiel's erection still a distant goal. Something like, "This isn't just a simple release, this is something more, this means something to me, you mean something to me," when he brushes the hair off Castiel's forehead as Cas fucks into him, lets his fingers wander the hard-set line of Cas's jaw before tracing the curve of his lips, delicate, almost reverent.
Castiel loves above all things to listen.