“Say it,” Castiel says, his voice echoing across an empty room, across Dean like the shadow of his wings, extending outward.
Dean feels it, feels the power in those words, what the repetition would mean. He turns slowly, looks at Cas. His mouth opens as he takes steps toward the angel in his sight. “I give myself over, wholly, to the word of God and...you guys.” In his mind he feels the words gilded onto some deep part of him. He imagines them embossed in copper on his soul and almost laughs. But then Cas lays a gentle hand along Dean's jaw, fingers curling slightly into his hair. Dean swallows.
“You have made a deal before, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean's mind flashes to a dark night, a woman in red, a kiss like sin, and he knows what's coming but hopes he's wrong. “You know the ritual.” It's not a question.
“Yeah,” Dean's voice is gruff, as if he hasn't spoken in centuries, “I know how these things work.” So he leans forward a mile and touches his lips to Castiel's. It's chaste (go figure, for an angel) but a feeling of cool water washes across Dean's body, from the dry lips against his to the tips of his toes and fingers, which tingle as if his body has been asleep for years. It feels like waking up, like coming home.
Castiel is the one to pull back.
Dean's mouth is too dry. He clears his throat, asks, “Now what?”
“We will call on you when you are needed.” He winks out in a heartbeat.
'Will it be a collect call?” He asks the empty night. His voice wavers, breaks on the last word, like his heart.