Title: Through The Holes In Your Touch

Author: isasminion

Pairing: Dean/Castiel

Genre: Slash, Angst

Rating: NC-17 (very brief explicit sex)

Word Count: 400

Warnings: None, really. Um, blatant abuse of similes, ignorance of physics, heat-induced dreaminess? The mood of this is fairly sad/angsty, but it's quite open to interpretation I think, so you may not see it that way.

Spoilers: Season 4 and beyond, nothing specific.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of it's characters. They belong to Eric Kripke, WB and The CW. No copyright infringement intended. This is fiction for enjoyment purposes only. I'm just playing with someone else's toys (shhh!)

Summary: Angels are so much more than humans. Time is not inflexible, but a force to be molded. Castiel molds himself to Dean.

Author Notes: Yes, I'm wordy. Probably more than necessary. Yes, I am a metaphor whore. And I probably spend a long time saying something that could be said in 2 sentences if my brain was actually working – but it's 41 Degrees Celsius here today, so I'll give my brain a break. I'm not even sure if I've written this in a way that makes sense... I found it hard to convert the concept to words, so sorry it's messy.

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Castiel lets Dean think he's taking care of him. He lets him believe he needs guidance, coddling. The blushing, naive virgin, the student of affection. He lets Dean take control, guide him, watches the uncertainty turn to determination and back again.

Those green eyes are always such a kaleidoscope of emotion, as much as the stoic hunter tries to hide it.

An angel - fierce, unyielding, potent - he puts his body in Dean's hands, and he watches.

Each touch and stroke, each breath and moan, stretch out like individual atoms along a string of matter. Miniscule and invisible. Every moment is an incomprehensible distance from the previous.

He takes up residence in between - as only a celestial power can - in the unnoticed, inconceivable space where there is no time. Not even a millisecond to Dean's reality, to a human, but a possible eternity to himself - malleable, elastic like taffy.

Time's like that. Or not, as it were.

He writhes as this experienced lover breaks him, takes him apart and puts him back together with skilled hands and a soft mouth. He watches from the in-between, the gap between worlds. He savors.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, makes it last forever - so they never stop, so he never has to leave.

He'll remain here now, while the world carries on, as Dean continues forward, as a part of himself, even, moves on. To the war, the battle that will never end. The exhausting hope. The even greater battle of faith.

He'll linger, this speck of his being, basking in a pocket of reality that contains nothing but Dean, nothing but the feeling of being filled, stroked, tendered, clutched; rocked slowly into heat and ecstatic oblivion.

It's like falling, but with no limit. No age to grow to, no struggle to adapt, no pain, no dying - no living.

It's like giving in, without giving up. A part of him fights on still, somewhat lessened by this selfish sacrifice to pleasure.

While this Castiel, Cas, stares into deep green eyes flooded with aroused black pupils, and arches, spilling hot seed over Dean's confident hand… again and again.