A/N: Hello! So it's been a while since I wrote a fic like this. Um. Warning: the rating is because of a rape scene somewhere in the middle of "passion." Not by Dean or Cas. But yeah. It ends happy. Also warning for drug use. Also some F-bombs. I am not good with words until I start writing wow. Um enjoy? Maybe? Reviews make me very very happy.
Commitment
The stars always were so bright and infinite—or so they like to preach. For no eye looks so far as a star.
Castiel parts his lips just enough to exhale and watch smoke puff up into the night sky. It is winter. Some place cold, some place far. His fingers are numb and his heart is still. Ever so carefully, he places a cigarette between his lips, takes a slow drag, and lets that circle up into the sky as well. As an angel, he could never get sick from the toxins, and it didn't provide much distraction as it might for humans, but it is still a habit Castiel picked up. He'd never smoke in front of Dean. The first and only time he had, Dean became angry and shouted at him, telling him it'd kill him. Of course, it couldn't, Castiel is still the angel he was those two years ago, albeit torn and frayed. He hadn't seen his own wings in years. He doesn't want to.
Castiel is an outcast. He has no place in Heaven, and little place on Earth. The Winchesters no doubt presume Castiel is busy with some "angel business" while he is away, but he is not. He has no business and no purpose anymore. He wonders if this is how God may feel, watching everyone but taking no action. Castiel's eyes dance along the edge of the mountaintops in front of him. He lies on his back in a grassy area. Castiel favored the night. He palms his cellphone in his pocket, the one Sam had given him after he fell from Grace. He no longer needs it; he can hear prayers again—or at least he believes he is able to. No one has prayed to him since he fell.
It's that thought that sends talons dragging bloodily down his familiar flesh. He is no angel, nor human. He wonders what he is.
Castiel sets his phone aside and lies more comfortably. He feels void, and Metatron's words crawl around unsettlingly in his heart and mind.
What is your purpose, Castiel?
And the answer was obvious to Castiel, not that he would verbally acknowledge it. His purpose had always been the same since he first laid siege to Hell. And in this moment, Castiel daren't let himself acknowledge it, even to himself. Not anymore.
So he closes his eyes, as if he were to sleep, and he waits for his cell to ring for the next time he is needed.
The Winchesters call in two months, and Castiel wakes from his trance. He sits up, and blinks. Without wasting another moment, he beats his wings and flies to their side.
Everything aches. He definitely won't be trying that again. Having not flown since before Naomi's death, his back strains to support his weight with his tooth-picks-for-wings. He crashed somewhere south of the bunker, and lay still for another two minutes. He brings his right hand to his chest and cradles it; his eyes flutter shut and his wound is gone. On his feet, he walks to the nearest bus station.
The bunker isn't much farther, and hardly an hour later he opened the door. Neither Sam nor Dean greet him kindly as Charlie had, and Castiel casts his eyes down at the thought of her. He should have tried harder. He should have looked farther. He should have—
"Cas?"
He was never really enough was he?
"Um. Yes," Castiel tries to shake himself free.
You don't even die right, do you?
"Did you catch any of that?"
"I was… Thinking. I apologize. Could you repeat it?"
Sam watches his face carefully before repeating something about angels in the area looking for something. Castiel listens, but only casually. He can't find it in him to focus more. That's what he is—distracted. In light of all the events that's happened, Castiel realizes he truly isn't needed. He wonders why Sam called him for a case he could have taken himself. Throughout everything—surely there is nothing Sam and Dean Winchester cannot achieve.
Damn, he really needs a smoke.
"And you'd like me to assist you?" Castiel clarifies.
"Well—yeah, if you're not busy."
He isn't. He never is.
"Of course. I'd love to help."
And it was an understatement to say the least.
"Great. We're leaving in an hour," Dean's voice was harsher, like graphite against sandpaper, despite bringing more comfort to Castiel's mind than Sam's voice.
Castiel nods absently, and the Winchesters are already moving about, packing for the hunt two states over. Castiel presses his lips together, and turns to find a secure place outside to take a quick smoke. His Grace lights it.
He is thoughtful. Castiel flicks ashes away and watches them fall to the grass. He wonders if there were other substances that might be more distracting than the slight buzz the cigarette provides. He never understood Dean's anger with him when Castiel drank too much, enough to be incoherent, smoked enough for it to be obvious, or the one time he absently mentioned marijuana. It isn't as if Dean were completely innocent. But he's taking too much time. He drops the half-burned-up cigarette to the ground and cleanses his scent with his Grace. He walks back to the bunker, and the brothers, of course, didn't notice his absence.
Castiel wonders if his inability to fly is solely because he is only a fraction of who he used to be, or if it is because of lack of use. Perhaps his "muscles" (for human terminology) are only weak from disuse. He makes a note to ponder that later. Now, he is to aid the Winchesters.
Castiel slides into the back of the Impala and Dean turns on a cassette Castiel has heard fourteen times. Castiel forces his eyes away from Dean's face, instead looking down at his own hands in his lap. He contemplates what he is to do when the Winchesters call him for the last time. He could Fall—truly Fall, as Anael did—and live a life oblivious and human. It doesn't sound that bad, actually. For all he knows, this could be the last time the Winchesters call for his company. The thought saddens him, and Castiel immediately throws the thought as far as the east is from the west. If there is one thing Castiel is skilled in, it is denial.
For however long Dean needs him— for however long the Winchesters need him, he means to say— he will stay.
The car stops, Dean gets out to pump gas, and Sam runs into the convenience store to get snacks. Castiel wonders how long they were driving. It is dark outside.
Castiel opens the door and steps out. Dean's eyes find his own, and out of habit, Castiel gazes for as long as Dean allows him to. He forgets, in that moment, his own promise to himself to remember his place. For not five months ago, Castiel was on the floor of the bunker with books littered around his head— resources— much like Castiel is to the Winchesters, and though the words stay unspoken, Castiel read them in Dean's eyes.
I don't need you.
Castiel breaks eye contact, and it's the first time he's ever been the one to break it. He is numb, heart constricted, and eyes itchy. He takes in a deep breath, afraid if he were to look up at Dean's face again Dean might decide again that Castiel's true place isn't even by his side or following behind, but instead on the floor beneath his foot. It was the Mark, (or it might have been the Mark, probably was the Mark,) that caused him to act out of turn. Castiel hopes, at least, with the little hope he allows himself anymore.
"I will use the restroom," he mumbles, and for a moment he expects Dean to question it. Castiel is an angel once more, and does not need to go through human processes. But Dean nods, and Castiel pushes past the thick air a meter from Dean's shoulder.
True to his word, Castiel finds the restroom, steps inside, and locks the door. He grips the sink, pushes oxygen through his lungs, and looks up at his reflection. Fatigue drenches his features as water might drench a washrag. How far he has come from the stone soldier he had once been. He does not question his decision, his commitment to the Winchesters and to humanity, or rather just—
No. He doesn't allow himself. He will remember his place. His back muscles ache; he is more aware of his vessel, and he calls it his own flesh. It had been at one point. He closes his eyes and stretches his wings so they knock against the door and the walls of the small restroom. He will try to nurse his wings back to full health. At least then, when he is purposeless, he may fly.
He doesn't know how long he has until the Winchesters try to look for him, and he doesn't want to delay them any longer than he already has, so Castiel straightens his shoulders and blinks emotion away. The Winchesters are joking while leaning an arm on the Impala, mirroring each other perfectly from either side of the car. Dean's back is to Castiel, so it's Sam who sees him return, and relays the information to Dean. Dean glances behind him and gives Castiel a half-smile and a head nod. Castiel's hands clench at his sides. He will remember his place; he slows his heartrate with the aid of his Grace, and gets back into the car.
The music is back. The conversation (that Castiel doesn't bother to get involved in) is back. He is not a hunter coming to help on a hunt, nor is he a friend tagging along. He is a rifle loaded in the backseat.
Passion
Castiel stands in an open field sometime after midnight. His palms are open and his arms outstretched to the moon, his wings flutter softly in the air. The feathers are matted and falling out, even now. Castiel does not know if they will grow back. No angel had ever been damaged so badly before. And now all are, he thinks bitterly to himself. And it's all my fault. Much of the destruction of the world falls fault to Castiel, it seems.
Castiel heaves audibly and holds his head between his hands, elbow forming triangles on either side of his head. His wings flutter against the breeze. His fingers entangle in his hair, and it feels comfortable to be messed up. Castiel moves his wings a little faster, hovering above the ground half a meter. His shoulders burn under the weight and stress. He's never flown so slowly in so, so long. He feels like a fledgling, all those millennia ago. Angels fly so quickly the human eye cannot perceive it, and here he is, a child, flying as slow as waves crashing on a shore.
He drops to his feet again. He will work up to flying again.
Castiel pats the cellphone, sitting heavy in his pocket. He forces his mind to be absent of thought, specifically of— Yes. He starts to walk slowly, gazing at the stars above him. They always stay the same. All throughout his troubles, the stars are the same. They provide security, a sense of belonging he'd never felt. Ever. Perhaps once though— No, he is mistaken. Or he tries to force himself to be. There is no greater ache than that of once being wanted and having that taken away. Many want him dead, and the rest want him in chains. Castiel pulls a cigarette from his pocket and it's lit before it reaches his lips.
—iel meaning, of God. And he certainly has dishonored that name?
"Cas," he whispers to the trees hanging above him.
Time passes. Weeks pass. Cas doesn't pay much attention. He finds himself paying less and less attention. Sometime ago he'd found access to other types of distractions which proved to be much, much more effective. Amphetamines, little pills that came in a bottle, were Cas' favorite. Time blurs a lot easier now. The Winchesters haven't called in two months, and Cas finds himself not caring. He'd taken a pill half an hour ago, and finds himself giggly and ecstatic. His heart is pounding much faster, and for a second Cas might have thought Dean was around. That's the only thing that makes his heart race anymore. But he doesn't allow himself that. Dean had proven it again and again—Cas isn't needed. So he downs another pill, the second this hour, and walks a little faster.
He isn't sure what happens exactly. Sometime that night, his head starts aching, but not too much that it's too unsettling. It's almost as if someone is playing really loud music and then shut it off again. Cas makes it to a bar at one point, seated alone at a table. There might be someone coming, or maybe that's just in his head—No. The hand on his thigh is very much real. Cas is grinning, his cheeks are hurting. There's a man close to his face with brown eyes that are so, so wrong. They're the wrong color. There's no freckles on his face. There's no weight on his shoulders.
The man has a name. Cas doesn't care about his name, but he has one. He asks if Cas is free to come home with him for the night, and Cas can't find any reason to object. It's disgusting and hot and sweaty, the man's bare chest is, his back is. His room is clean and kept which makes Cas want to mess it up. Dean's room isn't nearly this tidy. Cas looses his shirt at one point and then his belt.
"Dean," Cas whispers, the name falling from his name like it's a sin.
"Daniel," the man corrects in a voice that's too smooth. It's wrong.
"No," Cas insists, "Dean, please."
He's on his back. The mattress is stiff, but not uncomfortable. The man is hovering over him, and his hands are on his body in places Cas has only had touched once by April. It doesn't feel nearly the same, and it feels just as wrong. There's not much pleasure, only physical sensation. If anything it feels uncomfortable. It isn't supposed to feel like this. It isn't supposed to be like this.
"Whatever," Dean mutters, and Cas clasps his face between his hands and brings their faces together messily. It's dark, and for once, Cas feels unsettled in the darkness.
Cas' pants are around his ankles and he kicks them away. He's hard, and everything is uncomfortable. He wants it all to stop, but he can't force his voice to work. He's too drained. His legs are forced farther apart and everything is spinning. He feels dizzy. His mouth is dry. He lies limp and compliant as the man above him takes whatever he's offering. He wants to pretend it's Dean. He closes his eyes. He wants to pretend.
There's two fingers shoved into his ass and Cas arches his back and sighs shakily. It's painful and awkward and Cas just wants it to be over, whatever this is supposed to be.
"Just—Come on," he croaks through his dry throat. His voice is shaky and unconvincing, but the man doesn't take note of it.
"Eager for it, whore?" He chuckles.
Cas doesn't respond. He closes his eyes tightly and clenches his teeth, hands fisted in the sheets as the man pushes into him, forcing his way in. It's quiet. The bed shakes as the man thrusts in again and again and again and again and again and again and again. Quiet. It's unbearably quiet. The man is breathing quickly, sharply. Cas whimpers to himself and pushes his face into the sheets. He's coming down from the high, the illusion the drugs provided. It's so so so quiet. Why is it so quiet? And then it's over. The man sighs and Cas feels come fill him. It's disgusting; the man pulls out, and flops next Cas.
"Feel free to leave whenever," he says at some point. Cas isn't sure when.
He stands and collects his clothes, wincing, limping. His hand wipes the come and blood that's trickling down his leg. He finds himself yearning—wishing—for something to take the pain—
Oh. He'd almost forgotten. He's an angel.
His physical wounds healed in a moment, and Cas dressed himself in a mechanical motion. He misses Dean with a fervor that cannot be described. He'd never ached in this way.
The Winchesters call the next day. There's a hunt they're on that needs a translation of Enochian words.
He's distracted. He's hapless, he's hopeless. When he drops this low, he always takes something. The pill sits heavily on his tongue, and then he swallows. He's on the bus. The bunker is twenty minutes away. His head lolls to the side and he grins, feeling ecstasy bubble up in his chest. This is why amphetamine is his favorite. His pulse gets faster and he finds himself restless. It doesn't matter, though, because the bus stops and Cas sees it's his stop. He walks the rest of the way to the bunker.
Sam and Dean look up when he enters, gives a little wave, and then continues talking about the hunt. Cas gravitates towards Dean. He can't help himself. He needs him, craves his presence, the safety and security he provides. He'd broken his promise last night. He's selfish. He needs Dean. He can't keep pretending to be content being nothing but his weapon, his servant. He is still both of those things, but he needs to be more. He would give everything to be more.
It's consuming him. Their hands brush and it's electrocuting. It was only his finger, and somehow it brought so much more than the man could ever do last night. Sex was supposed to be pleasurable, wasn't it? Cas had never enjoyed it. Not with April, not with no-name-man last night—
"Cas!"
He jolted to attention.
"Yes."
"Where are you, man? We've been calling your name for forever!"
Cas blinked. "I apologize."
Green eyes find his own, and Cas can feel Sam's eyes on him as well, but he's selfish. He grabs onto Dean's gaze with desperation. He is a drowning man in sight of land. He needs it, needs it, yearns for it.
"Are you… all right?" Dean asks tentatively.
"I'm fine," Cas forces himself to say. Where would he start, had he said anything otherwise?
Dean's eyes flickered over his face, unconvinced.
"The Enochian," Cas tries to change the subject. "It says…"
Love consists of commitment, passion, and intimacy. It is sacred, and incorruptible. Cas reads from the scrawl Sam copied down on a sticky note.
He is startled, "What kind of case are you on?" he bites. It comes out harsher than he intents. It feels as if fate is following him, dangling what-could-have-been's above his head.
Dean is taken aback by his tone, so Sam answers, "There's a cupid in the area that's gone rogue," his eyes flicker from Cas and then to Dean. "He leaves that note with every dead body."
"What does it say?" Dean cuts in. His eyes are hard and unwavering. Cas avoids his gaze.
He doesn't look away from the sticky note as he says in a seemingly bored voice, "Love consists of commitment, passion, and… intimacy. It is sacred, and incorruptible."
"Huh," Sam nods. "But why would a cupid be killing people and then leaving a note about love?"
"Well there's obviously a connection," Dean says, and not a second later does Sam shoot back, "No shit."
Cas picks up the sticky note and rubs his thumb over it. Cas is obviously committed to Dean. He never would have fallen if he weren't. The fire ignited in him yesterday after—that—can only be described as passion—but intimacy was something way beyond Cas' grasp. Dean was not an intimate person. He had his walls up, and maybe some time, years ago, Cas may have broken some of those down, but not anymore. Intimacy is something Cas will always be deprived of. His fingers twitch. He really needs a smoke or a pill or something.
Fingers snap in front of his face.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
Dean's face is a breath away. Cas watches the light in his eyes dance around. It keeps him alive. Dean's life keeps him alive.
"Nothing," he whispers. Everything is too quiet, and still, Cas can't force himself to be loud. Dean's eyes are green. He was freckles. His eyes are heavy with a burden no one else can carry. It's Dean, and Cas would have reached out to grab him, but he knew that he couldn't.
Dean's fingers are fire, and Cas is dry grass. He touches his chin, and Cas nearly melts into the touch. He's ablaze. Dean is staring at his eyes so so so so so so so closely.
"Are you—high?"
Oh. Cas deflates. He really thought this was going a different direction. Or rather hoped.
"Generally, yeah."
Something flashes in Dean's eyes and he pushes Cas backwards, hard. Cas stumbles and falls, and Dean is downright furious. His mind is hazy, and he momentarily forgot Dean's obsession with making sure Cas stayed sober.
"What the fuck?" he demands. "You don't get to—What the fuck did you take? Weed? Where the hell did you find this shit—isn't there something better you should be doing? Like, I don't know, saving the world like Sam and I try our damnedest to do?"
Dean's voice rises louder and louder and it shakes. Cas' muscles are tense and he pulls his knees closer to his chest. For a moment, there is fear, cold and hard in his chest. He is on the floor under Dean's towering body again, and though he could fight back, he couldn't. He would kill himself with each hit.
And then it's silent again. Cas is suffocating. He can't take the silence. The quiet—too reminiscent of—
So he breaks it with the only thing that was on his mind.
"Well, hit me already."
Dean flinches backwards. "I'm not going to hit you!"
Cas says, "Oh," with surprise hanging to the end.
"I'm sorry!" Dean erupts. "I didn't fucking mean to—fuck, I'm so bad at this, so bad at everything— I thought if I just tried to pretend it never happened— You know I couldn't—Fuck I couldn't fucking stop myself and I wanted to stop, just wanted to stop—I knew what was happening, but I—I fucking enjoyed it, my sick bastard self—and I felt so consumed with rage and—You can't hold that against me, I didn't mean to— Don't hold it against me, please, I just—Oh fuck, of course you hold it against me, I tried to fucking kill you! I'm just—I'm so fucking bad at apologies, but I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry."
Cas feels his jaw go slack, hope starting to flower in his sorry-excuse-for-a-heart. Hope is bad. Hope always leads him to go wrong.
"I need you, okay? I'm never going to stop needing you, and damn it scares the hell out of me that I can't stop thinking about you, I feel like I'm going to go insane every time you leave, and I just need you. I just—"
"Dean," Cas interrupts Dean's rambling. "You have me."
Dean kneels in front of Cas, eyes set firmly in his lap. "I can't," he whispers, almost to himself, "I'm not good enough for you. Hell, I fucking tried to kill you—I can't look in the mirror without seeing—shit."
"I'm all right, see?" Cas takes Dean's hands in his own. Fireworks shoot from his stomach to his heart. "I'm an angel, you ass," he tries to joke. Dean doesn't laugh. "I can heal cuts and bruises."
"But I—"
"Forgive you," Cas finishes. "I forgive you."
Dean laughs this time, humorlessly. "You shouldn't," he insists, voice hoarse and tight, "I'm a fuck-up."
"Do you see who you're speaking to?" Cas mumbles.
And so Dean's eyes lift to Cas'. They're gentle and soft and everything Cas wishes he could believe. But he can't. He's always wrong. Everything always hurts. Intimacy is something Cas will never be able to have with—
Dean's lips are soft, and taste faintly of whisky.
Intimacy
The barrier between he and Dean shatters. After the hunt, Dean has Castiel throw out the drugs he brought with him. Despite still not understanding the reason for Dean's hostility with Castiel and drugs, he learns to accept it. If Dean wishes that he not touch them again, he won't. For Dean.
Everything's always about Dean, isn't it?
From the moment Castiel took the initiative to bring up it, the barriers between them broke down and lay at their feet in shambles. The only other time he'd felt so open and vulnerable with Dean had been in Purgatory, where everything was pure. There wasn't evil and good, there was only survive. And here, on Earth today, there is only the Winchesters and everyone else. Perhaps that's always the way it's been.
It's even more unbearable. Castiel constantly wants to be nearer and nearer to Dean, and standing closer couldn't ever be enough. He could read Dean enough to know that any kind of affection couldn't be seen by Sam. Castiel, himself, didn't mind, and he knew Sam wouldn't be too weirded out by it, but Dean insisted. So he stands at a respectable distance, eyes knocking at every door of Dean's eyes, and every once and a while Dean would look up and meet him.
He doesn't leave that night, can't bring himself to. He wants to go outside to stretch his wings and try to fly, but the desire for Dean overpowers that one. He sits in the library while Sam and Dean unload for the hunt. The books there keep him entertained, but he still finds that itch to go out for a smoke. He suppresses it. He promised Dean. Promises to Dean are to never, ever, ever, ever be broken ever again.
"So. You and Dean."
Castiel jumps at the voice. Sam stands by the doorway to the library, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His expression is plain and unreadable.
Castiel opens his mouth to object, like Dean would probably want him to, but Sam says, "Oh save it. I heard you guys. You were gone for like twenty minutes, you didn't think I'd come back in to see what was taking so long?"
Castiel's jaw snaps shut again and he looks at his hands in his lap. He, himself, has no problem with Sam knowing about anything more-than-friendly about he and Dean, but he is only thinking For Dean. What if he were to say something and Dean get angry with him later? With the Mark gone, Dean no longer gets angry at every little thing, but still, Castiel doesn't want to take any chances.
"Relax," Sam sighs, "I just wanted to know if—Are you serious about him?"
"I have always been," Castiel promises.
Sam nods and his eyes trail around Castiel's face in a familiar manner. Then he steps aside, and nods to the doorway.
"Dean's in his room," he says pointedly. "He's probably lonely."
Castiel opens his mouth, eyes bright and grateful. He can't think of what to say. Thank you for your blessing? Was that even his blessing? So he shuts his mouth again, and nods. His heart is thumping loudly, reminiscent of the drugs he used to take to make him feel like this. He is high on passion, on hope. He raises a fist, unsure if he should knock or just walk in. He lowers his fist and twists the handle slowly.
Dean is on his bed, lying there with his arms crossed over his chest and his shoes still on. Castiel tries to find his breath.
"Hello, Dean," he means to say, but it comes out a whisper.
Dean's eyes find Castiel's quickly and in shock. He says, "Hey."
Castiel looks down at his shoes, just the toes of them over the border into Dean's room. The atmosphere is thin and warm, and he takes a step in.
"Um," Castiel says in absence of anything else to say. He wants to hear Dean's voice again.
"Well are you just going to stand there?" Dean asks, and his voice is laced with something Castiel hasn't heard before.
"Well—if you'd like—"
"To hell with what 'I'd like.' What would you like?"
"You," Castiel replies without thought—and then quickly adds, "To be happy," just in case the single word on its own is too much for Dean to take in at the moment.
Dean's eyes drop from Castiel's eyes to his lips, and he nods to himself. "Then come here," he says softly.
Castiel complies, and sits at the foot of his bed. They watch each other. That's all they've ever been good at, all they've ever allowed each other.
"You should take your shoes off," Castiel says absently. Dean does as he's told.
"And your coat," Dean tells Castiel. "Too many layers."
Castiel takes off his coat, and then the other, and then his tie. Dean licks his lips and then his eyes drift back to Castiel's lips and to his eyes. His gaze is the tide of the ocean, always coming back. Castiel takes off his shoes and pulls his legs up so he can sit more comfortably on the bed. He and Dean are still so far.
"Is this okay?" Castiel makes sure to ask.
Dean nods. "More than okay," he says, voice still hard as it always is, but it's gentler somehow. "Come closer."
So Castiel does, and they lie next to each other. It's awkward and new, but Castiel wouldn't trade it for anything. Castiel's hands are pulled close to his own body, unsure if he has permission to touch Dean yet. They are close, but don't dare to touch each other yet. Then, Dean puts his arms around Castiel's shoulders and pulls him tighter so their chests press together. Castiel can hear Dean's heartbeat, higher than his own. It shoots ecstasy through him. He did that. Dean's lips tickle his neck, and Castiel lies stiff and immobile, afraid if he were to move Dean would change his mind and leave.
"I'm really sorry," he whispers, quiet and tentative. "I'm really—really sorry—"
"I forgive you," Castiel utters. Their voices are nearly silent. "I've always forgiven you."
Dean's body shudders and his grip on Castiel tightens. One of his hands fist Castiel's shirt and the other grips his hair. They're so close. So, so close. Castiel wouldn't trade it for anything.
"I don't deserve you."
"I don't deserve you," Castiel counters.
It's quite possible neither of them deserve anything. But love is greedy and selfless. Love takes what is not its own and gives everything for its theft. Castiel relaxes into Dean's embrace at last and brings his arms up to return it. Their legs tangle together and Castiel presses his lips to Dean's neck, softly. It's hardly a kiss. They touch the skin, stay there for a while, and then slowly lift off and hover above the skin, breathing gingerly over him.
Castiel realizes intimacy is not what he had with April or the no-name man. It isn't sex. It's this. It's not skin on skin, physicality being for the world to see, it's not like that. It's how his soul, or his Grace, it's how it is bare and open like a crystal gem in the middle of a crowded city. It has no protection from banks or security from the owner. It's there, ready for the taking. And Dean takes Castiel's soul in his hands and cradles it, and kisses it, and keeps it. This is intimacy, Castiel knows, and he shuts his eyes tightly, afraid he will do something as silly as crying over it.
"Don't ever leave," Dean breathes into his hair. "I hate it when you leave. I feel like you're never going to come back."
"I'll always come back," Castiel promises. "Not even Death can keep me from you."
Dean sighs, heavily and shakily, as if all his sorrows just poured out through that single breath.