[ Cas sways back - not far - a simple look of bliss in the clear blue of his eyes, lips parted while eyes trace the bob in Dean's throat, feel the push of his chest as his lungs fill.
Tell me this is real, Cas wants to beg, but not half a second later, he supplies the answer himself - does it matter? hasn't that been the point this entire time, through the manufactured obstacles, the poorly drafted storylines chuck dragged them through, rabbits chasing a carrot on a string (horde of hellhounds charging behind clear enough motivation to keep going). the conversations they had, the moments they spent together, the pain they shared - it was all them, only them. all as real as the blood in dean's veins, the torture carved into his memories, the grace fusing cas to the vessel that's solely his own these days.
You asked, what about all this is real - we are.
we still are, and the certainty of the sentiment curves kiss blushed lips into a contented smile. somewhere among the pulling and gripping to dean's frame, a hand slipped under his jacket, and fingertips trace out from his spine in seemingly nonsensical patterns. eyes gently closed with forehead pressed to dean's temple, joining him in the simple act of catching up with oxygen, his fingers follow neuropathways, mapping them out from the vertebrae they're woven into along the trail under his skin. roadmaps cas once used for reassembly, more complicated than IKEA could dream of, and utterly, breathtakingly beautiful in that complexity. trenches set to spark sensation, knowledge, and command through. Soul to mind translated to body, and Dean’s so physical a thing in ways Castiel rarely is.
It feels genuine, and cas could swear he’d know this connection from any type of phantom or fake, but he’s been catastrophically wrong before. If dean twists into a malevolent shadow and the Empty cackles in his ear, it can't make this moment any less of a lighthouse in the dark of his mind trapped in a torturous afterlife. willing the fear of it away, soft lips brush another chaste kiss against dean's jaw, tip of his nose nudging the angle of a cheekbone. there's certainly other ways his body's reacting to the pressure and heat of dean's closeness, pooling low in his stomach making his slacks feel a bit too tight, but that's more a backseat thought to the angel now.
Fingertips light over the side of dean's face, tracings over long memorized symmetrical framing, until thumbs find his chin and the lower bow of his lips. Cas smiles, the lightest, easiest, most natural expression that’s graced his human features, eyes blinking open to find dean's, though lazily half-lidded, dark of his pupils edging away the thinning rim of cool blue. ]
no subject
Tell me this is real, Cas wants to beg, but not half a second later, he supplies the answer himself - does it matter? hasn't that been the point this entire time, through the manufactured obstacles, the poorly drafted storylines chuck dragged them through, rabbits chasing a carrot on a string (horde of hellhounds charging behind clear enough motivation to keep going). the conversations they had, the moments they spent together, the pain they shared - it was all them, only them. all as real as the blood in dean's veins, the torture carved into his memories, the grace fusing cas to the vessel that's solely his own these days.
You asked, what about all this is real - we are.
we still are, and the certainty of the sentiment curves kiss blushed lips into a contented smile. somewhere among the pulling and gripping to dean's frame, a hand slipped under his jacket, and fingertips trace out from his spine in seemingly nonsensical patterns. eyes gently closed with forehead pressed to dean's temple, joining him in the simple act of catching up with oxygen, his fingers follow neuropathways, mapping them out from the vertebrae they're woven into along the trail under his skin. roadmaps cas once used for reassembly, more complicated than IKEA could dream of, and utterly, breathtakingly beautiful in that complexity. trenches set to spark sensation, knowledge, and command through. Soul to mind translated to body, and Dean’s so physical a thing in ways Castiel rarely is.
It feels genuine, and cas could swear he’d know this connection from any type of phantom or fake, but he’s been catastrophically wrong before. If dean twists into a malevolent shadow and the Empty cackles in his ear, it can't make this moment any less of a lighthouse in the dark of his mind trapped in a torturous afterlife. willing the fear of it away, soft lips brush another chaste kiss against dean's jaw, tip of his nose nudging the angle of a cheekbone. there's certainly other ways his body's reacting to the pressure and heat of dean's closeness, pooling low in his stomach making his slacks feel a bit too tight, but that's more a backseat thought to the angel now.
Fingertips light over the side of dean's face, tracings over long memorized symmetrical framing, until thumbs find his chin and the lower bow of his lips. Cas smiles, the lightest, easiest, most natural expression that’s graced his human features, eyes blinking open to find dean's, though lazily half-lidded, dark of his pupils edging away the thinning rim of cool blue. ]
Hello.