A/N: I wrote this way back when but lost track of it for awhile in an onslaught of other plot bunnies. I thought I'd post something for the holidays! Happy holidays, everyone!The way you linger on my skin
The way you linger on my skin
The body Castiel wears is a foreign skin: too tight, too confining for the edges of his Grace which squeezes into the small spaces like it is something more malleable than it really is. Of course, it grows easier with time; soon sinking down into Jimmy Novak's bones becomes more habit than chore.
Still it's not his body: every bit of it is borrowed, from his heart to his toes. All of it belongs to somebody else. And yet even knowing this, things - feelings - still surprise the angel.
Oddly, Castiel first recognizes the sensation of coldness through the sensation of heat. It seems illogical that he should learn of one feeling through its polar opposite, but that he does is irrefutable.
It happens in the briefest of moments in Wisconsin and it's from something as simple as wearing a pair of gloves.
He's standing outside with Dean, waiting as Sam pays for their motel room at the front desk inside. He watches the steam rise off of the cup of coffee cradled between Dean's hands, oddly fascinated by the simple ritual that Dean practices as he drinks down the hot liquid.
First, he would blow across the top of the cup, his cheeks puffing out gently; reddened and slightly raw from the bitter chill. Then he would inhale deeply of the coffee; the aroma was harsh, robust, and acerbic to the angel's senses. Finally, with great care, he would raise the rim of the cup to his lips and drink down the barest of sips, the sudden warmth making his cheeks flush even redder than before.
He might have been staring, for when Dean speaks his tone holds a sharp edge. "Dontchya get cold or anything?" he asks, his gaze dropping to Castiel's bare hands. "I'm gettin' frostbite just looking at you."
Castiel thinks it's curious that Dean is so concerned with the well-being of his vessel, especially considering the fact that the human has seen fit to stab him at least once before. Still, the question, though gruff, is sincere. He's compelled to answer.
"I'm not as sensitive to the weather as humans are, Dean," he replies quietly, his voice a low hum that skips through the cold air.
"Well," says Dean, "you're making me cold as fuck." He tugs off his gloves with his teeth and hands them to Castiel. "At least put these on, Cas. Pretend, for a few minutes."
The angel hears the unspoken. He sees the true sentiment in the subtle shift of Dean's eyes; in the slight downward tug of one corner of his mouth. Give me a moment of normalcy. Please.
Castiel acquiesces and slips the gloves onto his hands. They slide over his skin, too large and slightly damp, the leather worn thin from constant use. The angel feels his brow wrinkle with surprise as an unexpected heat seeps into his skin; residual heat from Dean's hands.
It settles across his knuckles and fills the whorls of his fingers with comforting warmth; warmth the likes of which seems to radiate through his skin, seeping down into his vessel's bones. It warms him to the very core of his borrowed body. It warms him like nothing else ever has. It's Dean's heat, and even as Castiel contemplates how it's different than sun or fire, it fades.
When later Dean takes his gloves back, Castiel immediately craves the warmth of them again. He feels loss, and at that moment, he thinks he's gained new insight into what being cold truly means.
(The End.)