"Dean."
The eldest Winchester didn't look up from his work. Hundreds of papers and files reflected through an empty glass bottle of whiskey.
"What, Cas?" he snapped, but then, realizing his own harshness, let his shoulders sink and sighed.
"Dean." The husky voice hesitated. "I need you." Castiel knew that his human form would have flushed deeply in that moment. These were not the right words.
Dean turned, a hint of tenderness in his movements. "I know," he said, like it had always been between them but too thick to breathe in. "I need you, too, Cas."
Castiel pressed his lips into a thin line, afraid his friend would reject him outright. "Dean, I have...an affection for you-" Immediately, there was a space in the air between them. A space he could so easily cross, and on the other side of which he might find happiness. Instead, he pulled back and put his hand around his beer; an anchor. "Not now, Cas."
"Dean," the voice was forceful, with just an ounce of desperation that came from the simple fact that they were both so afraid.
Dean Winchester stood from his chair in a moment of irritation and uncertainty, ready to shout "What?!" at the angel before him, but then suddenly there was no space. No space and a hand on his cheek and a nose on his nose and the soft scrape of stubble and lips on his lips. His mind went blank and there was no time, either. No time and no space. Just lips.
Castiel pulled back after only a moment, almost certain he'd crossed into the territory of immeasurable betrayal. His grace slammed against every pore of his vessel like a full-body heartbeat.
There was a sheen of moisture above Dean's bottom lashes. Their eyes never met. "I'm not-"
"I know," Castiel replied without thinking, unsure even what he meant by those words.
Dean watched the space reform and felt and uncharacteristic pang of loss. He gripped the arm fabric of Castiel's trench coat and dragged the angel's palm to his shoulder. His hand lined up with the old burn through Dean's jacket.
Dean's eyes were sad. Keeping Castiel's hand at his arm, he took a step forward and closed the space for himself. Lips. Once again time left him, not in a fog, but in a rush of clarity that defied existence. It was like touching a soft, bright light with his own ragged soul.
Dean moved back for an instant, wetness under his eyes where the dark circles of sleepless nights sat. He swallowed and squeezed Castiel's palm against his shoulder, then let the hand fall away, as if to say, "I'm not ready."
Castiel watched his friend turn silently and reach for his beer, then reconsider, and leave the room without a bottle to press to his lips, or alcohol to erase the memory of what they'd done.
The angel sank into a chair, his grace filling him with warmth, and sighed, relieved.