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Infinite Horizons
It's these little pockets of time that he treasures the most.
Like now, with the bluish darkness enveloping them and the weak orange light filtering in through the dirty plastic blinds. Like the feel of the scratchy lumpy couch that reeks of cheap bleach and would leave you sore when it should cushion. Like the sound of the fan on the ceiling stirring up the air because the motel's too cheap for air conditioning, whumpwhumpwhump.
It's the way Dean pushes him back against the couch, straddles him, pins him down in one spot like he's going to disappear again. The dark determination etched into his face, intensified by the slowly shifting shadows of the blinds swaying to the beat of the fan. His heart - his stolen heart - thunders, races faster than the fan's revolutions as Dean grips him hard by both shoulders, and then slides his hands up and holds his face in place.
"I'm not leaving," Castiel whispers before lips crash down on his, pressing deep, and his throat quivers, a moan swallowed as Dean rocks his hips hard, an explosion of light and sensation like and unlike the fury of an archangel.
He's not leaving because he left once, and that nearly destroyed the man. He's not leaving because he intends to see this through, all the way until the very end, regardless of who wins the war. He's not leaving because he craves these moments, these little snatches of lust so desperate and love so deep.
He's not leaving because he can no longer dream of not being by Dean's side.
Dean pulls back, breathing hard, his hands resting on the slope between neck and shoulder. He tilts his head, eyes studious, face glowing in the dim light. His lips are wet, puckered, shiny; Castiel wants to taste them again, and leans up and forward.
He hears, before he closes the divide, a hoarse, "I know."
