[ Shocked still, like a knife to the throat, as if moving would break the spell and he’d wake up, castiel forgets what breathing is. Hell, he forgets what being is - standing, speaking, seeing, any of it. It’s Dean’s lips pressed to his in no uncertain terms, and when the realization that this is no mistake, no spell or illusion (and who the fuck cares if it is - this could be his only chance) - castiel’s mouth melts against his. Softening, parting slightly to welcome the touch, to explore the feeling of dean’s lips on his, still unsure how necessary oxygen is at the moment.
It’s everything at once, the universe focused down to a single point. Dean’s kissing him. dean is kissinghim. The fingers tugging him in at the back of his neck are the same rough ones used to cleaning guns and fixing engines, and the prickly brush against his chin is the same perpetual scruff that’s seemed frozen at the same length for the last decade. It’s dean, his closest and most beloved friend, and the entire thousand-eyed, three-headed, six-winged, wheels upon cosmic wheels that make up this being scramble down to that single fixation - dean, dean, dean.
Somewhere behind the pair of them, a set of lightbulbs buzz and abruptly pop, glass shattering on the ground.
A flip switches, and cas doesn’t care that he’s drenched in rain water and sand-turned-mud, doesn’t care that they’re in the middle of a scifi garden inside a dead dragon on an alien planet, doesn’t care that he can barely believe this is reality. he's greedy with it, drunk on the light of this soul he's trailed after like a mesmerized moth for years. yearning and wanting and calling himself 'content' with simply observing and being near. that was nothing, compared to this.
It’s desperate, a little awkward, probably not the most skilled kiss dean’s ever had, but all that’s made up for in passion and need. The fist curled tight at dean’s lapel, unfurling to press against the natural heat of his body (heart beating, lungs expanding), arm wrapped tight with a hand splayed at the small of his back, holding them flush, chest to chest. Castiel steps into Dean’s space, walking him a couple steps back against one of the lab counters, as if trying to share his space, mix up their atoms and molecules, like merging could be that simple (maybe it is for angels, who knows).
In the back of his mind, the old fear of will this call the empty, is this too much happiness, that deep dread that often accompanies any instance of joy in their lives, but the deal’s already been done. By whatever insane means, he’s here, dean’s here, and castiel’s no longer burdened with the knowledge that he sold the one chance they might’ve had at something. At this.
And this? This is worth every last instance of it, every century of waiting, every death, every catastrophic mistake and every vicious fight they’ve had. Cas feels like his entire body is singing, glowing from the inside out (it isn’t, though it could, but we’ve already wasted some lightbulbs, so let’s not be overkill here).
He’s alive in ways he never understood before, present in this vessel like Dean’s anchored him to his reality (a tether he's been for him in so many other ways), and when fingertips push up into dean’s hair, Cas is neither interested or entirely sure how to pump the breaks on this. Chuck himself could waltz in and declare an asteroid on a collision path, about to scatter the planet and everyone on it into space dust, and Castiel simply would not care. ]
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It’s everything at once, the universe focused down to a single point. Dean’s kissing him. dean is kissing him. The fingers tugging him in at the back of his neck are the same rough ones used to cleaning guns and fixing engines, and the prickly brush against his chin is the same perpetual scruff that’s seemed frozen at the same length for the last decade. It’s dean, his closest and most beloved friend, and the entire thousand-eyed, three-headed, six-winged, wheels upon cosmic wheels that make up this being scramble down to that single fixation - dean, dean, dean.
Somewhere behind the pair of them, a set of lightbulbs buzz and abruptly pop, glass shattering on the ground.
A flip switches, and cas doesn’t care that he’s drenched in rain water and sand-turned-mud, doesn’t care that they’re in the middle of a scifi garden inside a dead dragon on an alien planet, doesn’t care that he can barely believe this is reality. he's greedy with it, drunk on the light of this soul he's trailed after like a mesmerized moth for years. yearning and wanting and calling himself 'content' with simply observing and being near. that was nothing, compared to this.
It’s desperate, a little awkward, probably not the most skilled kiss dean’s ever had, but all that’s made up for in passion and need. The fist curled tight at dean’s lapel, unfurling to press against the natural heat of his body (heart beating, lungs expanding), arm wrapped tight with a hand splayed at the small of his back, holding them flush, chest to chest. Castiel steps into Dean’s space, walking him a couple steps back against one of the lab counters, as if trying to share his space, mix up their atoms and molecules, like merging could be that simple (maybe it is for angels, who knows).
In the back of his mind, the old fear of will this call the empty, is this too much happiness, that deep dread that often accompanies any instance of joy in their lives, but the deal’s already been done. By whatever insane means, he’s here, dean’s here, and castiel’s no longer burdened with the knowledge that he sold the one chance they might’ve had at something. At this.
And this? This is worth every last instance of it, every century of waiting, every death, every catastrophic mistake and every vicious fight they’ve had. Cas feels like his entire body is singing, glowing from the inside out (it isn’t, though it could, but we’ve already wasted some lightbulbs, so let’s not be overkill here).
He’s alive in ways he never understood before, present in this vessel like Dean’s anchored him to his reality (a tether he's been for him in so many other ways), and when fingertips push up into dean’s hair, Cas is neither interested or entirely sure how to pump the breaks on this. Chuck himself could waltz in and declare an asteroid on a collision path, about to scatter the planet and everyone on it into space dust, and Castiel simply would not care. ]