“Tell me again,” says Dean, his nose pressing into Cas’s cheekbone, “how you always come when I call.”
It’s not a nuzzle. Hunters don’t nuzzle. Nor do they whisper sweet nothings into ears, or give flowers and chocolates to their lover, or even use words like “lover”. And they certainly don’t let their lips slowly drag across stubbled cheeks just for the sheer sensation of it.
And they don’t nuzzle.
“That doesn’t count,“ Dean admonishes.
“You humans,” Cas growls. “Always needing reassurance of the obvious.”
His voice is deeper than usual, rougher and grittier, like the bottom of a riverbed. Dean pulls Cas in a little tighter. Cas’s cheek is cold, but somehow he still smells like sun-warmed grass, and summer rain on asphalt, and other impossible things.
“Did you just smell me?” Under Dean’s arm, Cas’s shoulders pull together and relax reflexively.
“Nah, man.” Hunters don’t nuzzle. And they don’t smush their noses gratefully into faces they once thought they’d never see again. Dean grins, his hand tightening on Cas’s shoulder; the empty chocolate box bumps against Cas’s scarf. “You’re going crazy. Again.”
“I don’t get the joke,” says Cas.
“It’s hilarious,” Dean insists. “I’m hilarious.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Cas sniffs the air dramatically. “And you reek of cacao and high fructose corn syrup.”
“That just means I’m sweet.” Dean leans closer, rubbing his hip against Cas’s. Satisfyingly, a hint of color stains Cas’s cheeks.
The corners of Cas’s lips twitch upwards. “Hunters aren’t sweet,” Cas reminds him.
“And they don’t nuzzle,” Dean agrees.