Still, There's You

by bridget.thornton

Short and sweet. Dean's fleeting thoughts on Castiel, and his actions that can only be described as love for the Hunter.

I can feel your fingers running through my messy hair. I can feel them trailing over my forearm, leaving raised gooseflesh. Everywhere they skim is touched by Heaven's grace, and they show as shining trails on my arm, my back, my chest.

I feel light. I feel free.

I feel I don't deserve this.

While your skin is pale and pure, mine is colored with week-old bruises and scarred with battles long gone, but never forgotten.

I'm tired. I'm sick. I'm hateful. I'm broken.

But you don't care.

Still, your soft touch grazes my shoulder. Still, your lips brush against my neck. Still, you hum a low, simple melody that reverberates in my deprived ears, echoing of stars and planets and deep, brilliant blue.

And as your fingers draw on my skin letters of a language, old as Heaven itself, I let go, and give my battered body to your radiant grace.