"Fix these words in thine mind and heart; place them like a seal upon thine arm."
Stretched out along the bed, Castiel's voice a warm rumble against his skin, Dean is ruminating over fate and decades-old promises; years spent burying bitter resentment, a childhood fear becoming a lingering, hollow ache.
A fingertip traces the handprint on his shoulder, pulls him back into the present. Glancing down at the head of dark, messy hair on his chest, at bare skin and entangled limbs, Dean suddenly thinks, 'I guess Mom was right after all.'
Castiel meets his eyes then, nods, a slight smile curving his mouth, and just this once, Dean finds that he doesn't mind being wrong.