He loved the taste of blueberries. Purple-tinted lips would leave bruises on his heart, a permanent impression of absolute devotion.

Some days he'd get the terrifying feeling to stand in front of a train to feel alive, to get the notion that Dean could ever love someone else out of his mind.

The months slipped easily past the weathered pages of his book, leaving ink stains in the form of words. Chapter after chapter of stuttered phrases sorted itself in the back of Castiel's mind as he trudged through the winter slush.

Making his way to the mailbox was a feat all of its own. The cold weather settled in his joints and the solitary body heat didn't do much to relieve the stress. He really needed to contact the landlord.

He thought of that night with Dean often, and never again did he go more than three days without hearing from him, as the bare minimum. The chill from the broken window would be rendered null by the rock of the mattress.

The dogs in the neighborhood would mimic their howls and the thin walls would leave much to be desired, but the little imagination they left in the tenant's minds could never inflict embarrassment upon themselves. In the words of his beloved Winchester, "We don't give a fuck."

His boots were worn and his coat was in desperate need of a wash, a bit of blood around the cuffs. He pulled out the key and strained to hear the tumblers clicking, but to no avail. The box popped open soundlessly. Castiel imitated the quiet and pulled out the envelopes, all but one unimportant.

The last letter, the bottom letter, from one Dean Winchester.

Only semi-conscious of the black ice, Castiel locked the box and made his way back to his apartment, holding the papers under his arm. He was stuck in the old grooves and he kept the door unlocked.

He opened the envelope carefully and pulled the lined paper out with extreme care. Dean wasn't partial to handwritten sentiments and the stressed papers, scratched out and blacked out and erased, were reserved for him alone. He read each word separately, then each line, then finally, each paragraph in its entirety, his heart breaking from blood pressure.

Castiel,

I just got home. It's a really tiring drive from your apartment to my house. Not because it's far, but because it's lonely.

I don't know why I'm writing this. I'm not good at this writing shit, but I'm doing this for you. We need to get something clear.

We've been together for a long time. It's the most pathetic thing in the world, you and I. It's so fucking pathetic because I shouldn't have to come up with some stupid story about how I had to work extra hours so Lisa doesn't get more pissed than she already is. It's so fucking pathetic because I shouldn't have to only see you during the night. I shouldn't have to be lying. You shouldn't have to be waiting.

This is a story I've told you a thousand times, but I want to reiterate because I need you to be sure this is what you want. We've talked about it before, but only with traded words over the course of five minutes.

Lisa and I are going to get married. Or, we were. Some days Ben calls me Dean. Other days he calls me Dad. Can I live with leaving them?

I'm a selfish prick. Of course I can.

The thing is, Cas: can you live with them? You've been patient and kind. Aside from me being a wrench in the cogs, your life is balanced. You're fine. I'm at work, I'm at your place, then I'm back home, in a different bed with a different person.

I guess in a way I'm trying to convince you to get out of dodge. Skip out on me, you know? You had a girl once. I saw her obituary. She was fine as hell, Cas. Lisa's fine as hell. I'm sure that this is really fucked up in an even more fucked up way; I thought I was in love. I was never in love.

Until you.

God, this is like the script to a chick flick. Basically, Cas, you need to be sure of this. If you're afraid to break it off because of how long we've been together or how much you've invested in us, don't be. It's okay, it really is. There's still time to get out of this situation and live normally.

I'm the last damn thing you'd want to be with. I'm about to appear very contradictory but it's not my decision. If you leave, I'll hate myself. If you stay, I'll hate myself. Either way, it doesn't end up in my favor – but I'll be really fucking happy if you chose the latter. Don't let me influence you.

When Lisa and I first got together, I didn't know it'd be serious. I think I was trying to make up for the loss of my mother and my father and my brother. While Sammy isn't gone physically, he's gone emotionally. We're not as close as you'd think, you know? I took care of him while he grew up. I think I became the bad guy along the way; Dad was gone. I was the only one there. He took it out on me. It's not that he hates me, okay? He's smart. Maybe one day he'll figure it out.

I don't want the same thing for you, Cas. If we don't work out, I don't want you to hate me. If we don't work out, I don't want to hate you. If we don't work out, I don't want you to hate yourself.

I'm concerned for you. I get scared, because I don't want you to get hospitalized again. I don't want you to hurt yourself again, but I know you're slowly killing yourself by loving me. I'm a fucking disaster. I'm looking for peace of mind and I can't help you find yours. In fact, I think I was hoping you'd help me find mine. You get stuck in a rut eventually.

I didn't start off wanting to save anybody. I thought if I was good, God would give me my mother back. When I realized the world didn't work that way, I told God to fuck himself. I started praying about a year ago, hoping if God was real, then my prayers would be heard and answered. God's the biggest lie of them all. I don't believe in angels or demons, but I believe in you. It takes a lot to get me to believe in something; you're the only one.

If you're certain about us, then let me know. If that certainty is it's better that we break, then okay. If that certainty is you want to continue us, then awesome.

You need more dreams and less reality, Cas baby.

This is either the ending or the beginning.

Dean


Along with the cover of darkness, nighttime brought a cold front. Dean's teeth chattered noisily outside the coffee shop and his hands were shuddering in his pockets. The time was late o'clock and Lisa was asleep; as far as he was concerned, this was another night she spent going to sleep angry.

Castiel's silhouette made Dean's heart jump and his spine slouch. The other brought a weary hand and awkwardly waved, but Dean just smiled back.

"Want to warm up a bit?"

Cas nodded, chillier than his facade. They entered the oven of a building and took respective seats by a large window, proclaiming the store's name. The warm building heated them considerably and Castiel's flushed cheeks represented his feelings for Dean.

Dean waved the waitress over and ordered for the both of them. The coffee, delicious. Not as delicious as Castiel's, but that goes without saying.

"What's the word?"

"Depends," Castiel said, sipping the liquid. "On what topic?" He rested the cup on the glass tabletop, his hands on his knees. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Do you already know the answer, Dean Winchester? You thought I had a decision in this?"

"It's your vote, Cas. There's really only two options here."

"No, you proposed your two options – stay or leave. It's my belief that, yes, there are two options, but they are different than yours." He raised a finger. "Number one option being I stay with you." Another. "Number two option being we stay together. Relationships were never meant to be one-sided, Dean. Whether by design or evolution, that's the way it is." He bit his bottom lip. "So which one is it?"

Dean's tongue was burnt from the coffee and from the honesty. "I like the second one."


"Jesus – Christ -"

Cas rolled his shoulders, lifting his chin a fraction. "Stop talking."

Dean shut up, fixated on the way Castiel's head bobbed over him. He clasped his hands through his angel's mussy brown hair and imaged himself at an altar, praying, despite his lack of faith. It was Cas he prayed to – an odd kink he developed. Castiel's lips were efflorescent cosmos, blooming at Dean's touch, watered by his smile. Their saliva pollinated each other's mouths and cocks, bleeding eloquence. For the moment, he was taped back together.

Castiel, on his part, viewed his role in these acts as symbolic. It was always top Dean, big spoon. Unbeknownst to Castiel, it wasn't just a sign of trust (as the quotable man assumed), it was also a sign of vulnerability.

And, unbeknownst to Dean, it was a probable sign of apology. He entertained the idea of living with Castiel, but it was stillborn.

Castiel touched him with care, holding Dean as if he were an art piece. Medication pumped through his fragile veins, a last ditch effort to keep together his fragile brain. He kissed, licked, bit carelessly. Emotions flicked in the room like a burning wick. The scent, ambiance. Gratitude. Motherfucking gratitude. The fire set free rays of light and cast a shadow. The shape, wings. The touch, roses. The feel, ecstasy.

Castiel's back popped as he readjusted his spine. He smiled into Dean's Apollo's belt, nose pressed into the slanted angles. He kissed his chest vertically.

"Cas -"

"What?" His lips pressed against his intercostal muscles. Dean's hands still gripped at his hair and Cas reached with his left hand, linking his middle finger with Dean's index.

"Is it fair to say I love you?" Driving trucks wasn't his dream, but having an affair wasn't either. At this point, he couldn't remember if Lisa or Castiel came first. He writhed as his hips were pressed under Castiel's.

"Is it fair I reciprocate?"

"No, but it's really fucking hot."

Castiel pulled his hand back and slid it across Dean's chest. Their lips touched before he stretched back, adjusting himself over Dean. A thin string of spit connected Castiel's hand to his mouth and with an approving glance from Dean, smeared it over Dean's cock.

Dean lazed his fingers on Castiel's hips, incredibly flexible, selfishly his. His head was full of anguish, drowned out by moans and mattresses and matrimony, momentarily postponed as Cas moved expertly and Dean groaned maturely. Sex was one thing, but Cas being a bottom-top was another thing all on its fucking own.

He moved faster and Dean, a knight, seized the opportunity and aided Castiel in the process. He pumped him with his right hand and massaged his side with his left, eyes begging to stay closed.

An epic wave of aphrodisia accompanied his orgasm only after Castiel's. Dean kept the knowledge Castiel was always to come first in the back of his mind and a smashed box of condoms in the back of his pocket. The rubbers were rarely used, long forgotten in the pair of denims splayed on the floor (along with miscellaneous clothing). Opened, from months ago. Unused, from weeks ago. Honestly, they got in the way and they both tested safe, so the design of the restrictive wear was nothing less than absolutely pointless. He could never be close enough to him. All the days and weeks and motherfucking months spent apart tested the limits of both patience and sanity, especially Castiel's, who at this moment panted hotly (mainly sexually) with sweat-tipped hair. Dean acknowledged and released his grip, hand sticky from a mixture of fluids.

Castiel pulled off, faltering a half-second, and pressed his forehead into Dean's pectoral after framing their bodies together. "When the weather gets cold, I think I get sad."

"Why?"

Cas lifted his head and kissed Dean's eyelids. Hushed, "The white looks so heartbroken."


Winter showers result in snowflakes. They trudged like smitten soldiers.

"People will tell you each snowflake is unique," Dean mused. "But it's a lie. They may look different, but they're all made of the same stuff; water … cold."

"It could be raining." Cas pulled his gloves tighter and slipped his hand under Dean's. "Raindrops are all the same, too. Why do snowflakes get designs?"

Dean's jacket sleeves rubbed against Castiel's trench coat. It was a risk, being so close in public. Dean's bare hand proudly displayed the makeshift ring. He considered two things: kissing his red nose and answering his question.

Finally, "Rain is like tears. Sadness, right? Snow is cold, detached. When it rains, the flowers get watered. Your precious tulips – they grow. The snow gets no such result. They need something to make them beautiful. Common, but beautiful." He paused his musings, letting Cas linger around the slush. "Because of the foliage, they get designs."

The wind nipped at their heels and snow flurries whipped, dove, danced in their eyes. Cas considered how vicious the beauties were and likened them to tigers.

"What do the snowflakes think of their beauty?"

"I don't know, Cas. What do you think?"

He blinked the white constellation away. "They're happy when they melt. Because only then are they like the rain."

Dean nodded his approval. He kissed that red nose and through the slush they trudged, like smitten soldiers.

Despite the hour of the morning, few people loitered. The town was notorious in its disability in keeping to itself. When people got too close, their fingers drifted away. When people were out of sight, their hands were back.

The sea was tepid behind Castiel's eyes and the bus did not run at such an early hour (though the position of the sun indicated a much later hour, due to the weekend scheduling, the bus did not run until a later time). Books, pages, shells, foam. All was alright in the world with new thoughts and new feelings and new ideas.

"Am I bad?"

"No."

"Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Last night." Dean shrugged, jacket crinkling around his neck. "You're self-conscious, aren't you?"

"Partnered with my anxiety and mild depression."

"Speaking of – ?"

"Yes, Dean." A twinge of annoyance. "The doctors believe I am doing better." Softer.

"How many does that make?"

"Doctor or medication?"

"Whichever. Both."

"My primary then a couple recommended and one for the depression, which aids in the anxiety." He tapped melted snow, droplets splashing his already wet shoes. "They're trying to get me on another one, but the side-effects give me pause. I do not think I will take it."

"What's it for?"

"Anxiety. Side-effects are mild depression, low sex drive, suicidal thoughts."

"Shit." Dean squeezed Castiel's hand. "No sex?"

"Priorities," he chastised, smiling. "I can have sexual intercourse, but I can't get an erection."

"No boning."

Cas laughed, moving closer to Dean to avoid a puddle. "No boning."

Dean's mind was a sine wave of Sam, snow, suicide, sex. He felt defeated and dismantled, broken down and barred away in a lonesome prison cell. He did not want Castiel to think he was perfect. He did not want Castiel's love to transform him into something other than he was. His first incarnation died with his mother and he lost the other ones along the way. Castiel touched his wrist and Dean scared, jerking his hand back.

"What?" Cas yelped, slipping on a slide of ice. He caught himself and threw Dean a nervous glance, who had stumbled backwards himself in his adverse reaction.

"Sorry – s-sorry." He placed his hand on the small of his back and helped him over the ice patch.

"Did my reiterative alarm you?" Careful step. He reached for the lamppost versus Dean's shoulder. One more careful step. "Don't touch me."

I'm smart, Dean said to himself, don't fuck up yet. He withdrew his hand and allowed Castiel to regain his balance with the aid of the lamppost. Cas pulled at the gloves and stashed them in his pocket, bare hands providing a much better grip. They stood in silence for the better part of a minute, three feet apart, Castiel with the lamppost, Dean with the building. He did not want this to become a Pyrrhic victory. He did not want to apologize, because sorry can only be used so often before it turns to smoke, wafting away like balloons, floating in essence, dying in reality. His voice croaked and he asked, "Do you want to go somewhere with me?"

They drove around in Dean's old truck for a few hours, waiting for the sun and the citizens to retire (due to the earth's tilt, they did not wait long). The location was far; a pit stop, perhaps, to a strikingly different galaxy with more leaves and less lassitude. An old church with languor. He cut the engine and strode to the entrance, the legality of breaking and entering into a cathedral not an issue. He ushered Castiel in, more of a wave than a touch, and closed the doors behind them.

The ceiling caved under stress on the north face of the structure, illuminating a small section of the building. Snow fluttered lifelessly. Dean stretched an arm and unveiled the large space, mysteriously lonely and proportionally bigger on the inside. He led Cas under the hollow and whispered (more out of respect than anything), "Decades of providing sanctuary and worship. All gone. I'm sorry, Cas."

"I could never be mad at you." He leaned on Dean's shoulder, thumbing Dean's palm. "Not forever, I mean. When people die, the world doesn't care. I could go on with my cutting and the atmosphere would not be compromised. My death would not inspire a poet to change the name of his poem."

"Do you still want to die? The doctors say you're getting better, but what would they know? Nothing could change your mind, could it? Not even me?"

"I'm still here."

"For how long?"

"I'm around for as long as you want me."

"I'm selfish. I want you forever."

"Then you won't have to worry."

"You didn't answer my question."

Castiel observed the tall ceilings and wondered how high his soul could reach. Dean's urgency made him nervous because he was not, at this moment, aching for metal. He could quote poems and lyrics, some famous, some his, and he considered making love to him on the floor of the church. His skin was lotion-soaked and his heart was waterlogged. Dean was the center of his mind and the center of his heart and the center of his everything, and if the feeling was mutual and could be reciprocated, then he would not have to again worry about cutting with razor blades or drowning in a tub full of soapy water. To say Dean never mattered would make him a liar. To say he was free of those darkly lethal emotional tendencies would make him a fucking liar.

"You can't just go," he said. "You can't just kill yourself."

"Let's get out of here. Let's travel," he panted, out of breath, guiding Dean's hands to his waist.

"Minnesota?"

"No. Warm. Georgia. I've heard they have bees and peaches. The coast, the – the fucking beach." The curse was rugged and harsh coming from his tongue. He jarred his hips and curtly suggested, "Let's have sex."

"Now?" Dean croaked, Castiel palming his hard-on. "Baby -"

"Dean." He pushed away. "Now, Winchester."

He ran shaky hands through snow-tipped hair. "Fuck."

Dean dropped to his knees and undid Castiel's jeans, zippers and buttons the obstacle. Castiel struggled to keep from slipping down the wall, boots refusing to find traction. "Isn't this blasphemy?"

"Don't you have a thing for this?"

He pulled Castiel down and they fell backwards, startled by the cheering echo. Dean cupped the other's face and kissed him with reason. He kissed him to make up for the time of night. He kissed him to make up for the cold; frosty rubble chilly against their bodies. He kissed him to apologize for his personality and his habits and his fear of commitment, making him sleep alone for months on end. He kissed him twice, because he loved him.

Layer after layer was peeled off and arranged on the ground to keep them off the concrete. Castiel's teeth chattered and Dean's heart pattered, still worried to hurt him after all this time.

"Don't … have to be gentle."

"I can't hear you."

"Just – just do it."

"You want me to do it? Just do it?"

And so he did, thrusting harder with each turn, white light blinding behind his eyes, nerve endings sending sensors gyrating like his hips. The stale arctic atmosphere amplified his sensitivity, ears throbbing from Castiel's moans, back throbbing from Castiel's fingernails. Raw lungs and warm bodies and big ideas and big mistakes; he cared about Castiel's visible scars and lost sleep over the invisible ones, treating him to images of a beautiful place beyond the pines for the simple price of blood. Heat rose from his crotch and fired freely feelings of fucking felicity.

Castiel stuttered Dean's name and Dean stuttered Castiel's, the latter's back arched in a perfect curve, Dean cradling his neck with his right hand. Castiel held onto Dean's scapula and thought of the freezing frozen lake, tearing torn pages out of his biographical novella, dreamed of loving Dean. His climax came moments before Dean's and his body trembled under the weather, under the influence. His voice hiccuped as Dean lingered, pressing on his stomach, empty, but not hungry; aching, but not sick. When Dean pulled out, he left wet uniform kisses on Castiel's chest and clavicles. Dean got to his knees, chest syrupy with cold, cum, sweat, sea foam. Castiel buried himself beneath the sand, icy despite the sun, lonely despite the people.

Dean squeezed Castiel's hand, knowing he needed convincing. He allowed him one minute.

Ten seconds. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. Sixty.

They stood and they dressed themselves. Dean grinned at Castiel, who struggled with his stuck zipper, and Castiel bit his lip to restrain his own smile. He turned his head, looking through the lacuna. He was terrified of forgetting Dean and terrified of Dean forgetting him. A hollow spot, a cavity, an emptiness where he would have been or could have been or had been, all the places in his head and heart he had touched lovingly and cruelly, one hundred percent of the time leaving him gaping and gasping and gone. To believe he was here, he touched Dean's wrist. Dean reciprocated the touch and palmed his hair back, wonderfully awed by his eyes, relics of some distant Creation. They kissed because they loved each other. They kissed because they could.