Dean talks - a lot.
In his sleep, to himself, while we're making love.
He's a curious creature, and even when I had my Grace I still couldn't quite figure him out. But now that we're one, I can understand him a little bit better. And now that I'm human.
His soul has been tortured by things not even the bravest superhero could fathom - things that crawl in the shadows of your worst nightmares. He's faced them dead on. And he's won. And he's lost. He's been let down by so many people, so many times, myself included, that sometimes he can't trust anyone, not even himself, because he, too, has let himself down.
But he really does talk a lot. I remember the first time we made love; although I don't know if you could really call it that. It was so feral and raw; there wasn't really any love involved, per se. Just human nature and desire. But he talked the whole time. Of how good I smelled, how he felt pressed against me, how I tasted, how he'd never, ever forget this. It was the single most beautiful experience of my whole entire existence. And even though he bit me and scratched me until I bled, I had never felt so whole; so completely in perfect unison with another soul, not even God. And he cussed a lot, too.
"Damn it, Cass, just turn over already."
"Fuck, Cass - you feel so good."
"Cass, oh, fuck, Cass…shit this is perfect."
I knew I was done for. I would probably go to hell for this kind of interaction. A fallen angel and a fallen soldier.
But then he said it. The one thing I knew would have me like clay in his hands; my eternal damnation. He said, "God dammit, Cas, you're beautiful."
And it wasn't so much that he called me beautiful; it was how he so effortlessly took the Lord's name, my Father's name, in vain. He didn't flinch, he didn't think twice, he didn't apologize. Because he's Dean. He pushes and shoves and barges his way through to your heart until you can't not love him with your entire being. He has proven to be my tragic undoing.
And oh, how I've longed to be undone.