Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I wish I did, but I don't.
Summary: Dean's dreams were a wealth of sense memory.
Spoilers: Season 4
Warning: Drabble

Dean's dreams fascinated the angel- all of them, not merely the ones of the Pit (though he was especially attentive to those for different reasons). Dean's dreams were a wealth of sense memory, not only the touch and feel of his surroundings, but the sounds and smells as well. Makeshift holidays of his youth alive with distorted carols of the season, the clamour and boom of fireworks keeping Dean up nights assuring himself and Sammy that it was a celebration not demons outside their door, and smells of greasy diner food and stale cigar smoke. Fishing trips with the sun beating down and the stray splash of eager fish breaking the water's surface, invaded by the scent of over abundant algae and aquatic entrails. A park bench in autumn, warm wood underneath him, blue, cloud dotted skies above, freshly cut grass and the smell of impending rain in the air.
Castiel knew this last scene, he had been there, had spoken honestly with his charge. Castiel didn't understand why this scene played so often in Dean's mind, but he enjoyed it- it was the closest thing to peace the hunter allowed himself. Even Castiel, in all his angelic glory, found himself getting lost in the scene, inhaling deeply and feeling a strange comforting warmth encompass him- a blissful sensation he would forever associate with Dean.