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The Unyielding Truth

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It's in the not being able to stop himself from making special trips to might-as-well-be-goddamn-Neverland places, for expensive organic coffees and specialist woodland honeys...

 

In the not being able to force himself to tear his stare away when that thick, monotone gravel-growl--a sound that's now as comfortingly familiar as his own brother's voice--rolls like thunder off a silver-tongue; the weird, earnest-yet-sassy manor quietly screaming its intentions...

 

The not being able to help but touch, whenever and wherever he can, in probably--definitely--overly familiar ways; sometimes too-soft and featherlight; sometimes with firm and loaded brush strokes, and for undoubtedly--and now almost unashamedly--longer than strictly necessary…

 

And it's all over the not being able to ban his memory-foam-thoughts from drifting to desperately desirable images of fuzzy and darkly shadowed-jawline; to eyes a hue which he would swear didn't even exist in this world until a dishevelled but divine being arrived and blew blue straight out of the water for humanity--for him--forever; to long, pale and slender but inexorably strong fingers he just wants on him already; and to the softest and pinkest lips he's so very eager to press into and messily smother with his own, to document their taste in his mind, and then part them with his tongue, biblically, like Moses and the epic parting of the cyclonic waves of the goddamn Red fucking Sea…

 

It's every-bit Dean, and the unyielding truth of him not being able to stop loving Castiel.