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Orpheus

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From the way Dean talks about the state of his house, Cas is expecting something along the lines of Gabriel's room circa their late teens: a messy, bottle-strewn magpie nest of dirty clothes, sporting equipment, half-finished books, chocolate wrappers and poorly-concealed pornography. The exterior looks innocent enough – wooden, one story, painted cream, crammed in between two taller properties on either side – but when Dean turns the key in the lock, he braces himself for chaos.

Instead, there's only a tidy hallway, the bare floorboards scuffed but clean, with colourful pictures crowding the pale walls. They're all shapes and sizes, each one lovingly set in a cheap, bright frame, and Cas feels an unexpected lump in his throat when he realises that every single one is something a child has drawn. There are dozens of them, some little more than scribbles, others the careful, more considered work of older hands, but they've all been hung with exactly the same degree of care and attention to placement, so that the frames pattern the walls.

Dean follows his gaze, and gives a shaky, embarrassed laugh. 'I, uh. I found a few of Sammy's old things when I unpacked, so I figured I might as well put them up, and when the kids at the library started giving me pictures, I sort of just... kept going. Didn't seem right to throw them out.' He ducks his head, trying to urge Cas out of the hall. 'C'mon, man. You promised not to judge.'

Castiel holds him still, cupping a hand to Dean's jaw. There's a smear of dried blood on his cheek and a swelling bruise over his right eye, and it's almost enough to make Cas want to drive back to Singer Auto for the sole purpose of tracking down fucking Kubrick, whoever he is, and beating the living hell out of him. But he doesn't, because Dean asked him not to, and because Dean is standing there looking shamefaced about his hall full of children's art, as though it's not the sweetest, most heart-melting thing in the world, and goddamn anyone who's ever made Dean feel less than kind and wonderful and extraordinary, because he is, he is

Cas kisses him tenderly, teeth barely grazing his lower lip, thumbing his jaw, only pulling away to press their foreheads together. 'I'm not judging you,' he murmurs. He strokes Dean's hip, pulling him closer, putting his mouth to his ear. 'God, you are so impossibly sweet, you know that?'

Dean drops an almost-chaste kiss on Cas's neck. 'Yeah, well, you're a sap.'

'And proud of it.' Cas kisses his temple. 'Show me the rest of the place?'

They keep going, passing a closed door on the left – 'Guest room,' Dean says, 'for when Sammy visits,' – before the hall becomes an open-plan kitchen and living room.

'My room and the bathroom are over there,' says Dean, pointing awkwardly off to the left, but Cas is only half listening, because he's transfixed by the pair of work tables pressed against the back windows. Both surfaces are covered in craft and DIY projects, and Cas wanders over, staring at the contents of the righthand bench in unabashed delight. There's a paper mache robot – 'For a library thing,' Dean says, scuffing his feet – alongside an assortment of old electronics, all in various stages of dis- and reassembly, or in the process of being transmogrified into something new. He also spies a knitting basket stuffed with a variety of colourful yarn, a fat, half-knitted scarf in shades of green and blue still wound around the needles.

Cas raises an eyebrow. 'Didn't you just mock me for watching a knitting documentary?'

'Hey, just because I knit doesn't mean I wanna watch a film about it.'

Behind the basket are old glass jars of odds and ends – shells, stones, buttons, plastic toys, beads, ribbons, even feathers – stacked haphazardly alongside boxes of model trains and aeroplanes, with some of the finished products hung on wires from the ceiling. But as Cas moves across the room, it's the contents of the lefthand bench that really leave him speechless. Standing above the clutter of tools, paints and other creative detritus is a model castle seemingly made from a combination of Lego bricks, scrap metal, beach pebbles, glass, toy parts and Christmas tree lights, the unlikely materials glued or welded together to make something that looks like a faerie nightmare, surreal and beautiful. Cas doesn't know whether it belongs in a child's playroom or an art gallery, but the sheer inventiveness of it takes his breath away.

'You made this?' he says, not quite daring to touch it, fingers ghosting over a line of crenellated battlements made from domino pieces. He looks at Dean, still waiting on an answer, and is horrified to see that Dean is visibly cringing.

'Oh, yeah, that,' he says, shoulders hunched. 'In my defence, I was drunk when I had the idea for it, and once I was done, the damn thing was too big to move.' He turns away and says, quietly, 'It's just junk, Cas.'

'Just –' Cas sucks in breath, grabs Dean and pulls him back, thumbs stroking the inside of his arms, half possessive, half soothing. 'Who told you,' he says, voice dangerously low, 'that any of this was junk?'

Dean looks at him, then down again. 'Alistair,' he says, softly. 'And, you know. My dad, when I used to make stuff for Sam. And a couple of guys I brought here, back before I stopped doing that –'

'Well, it's not,' says Cas, and surprises them both by hugging him tightly, hands pressed to Dean's shoulders. 'It's really not, OK? It's amazing. You're amazing, and everyone else is an idiot.'

Tentatively, Dean hugs him back, a shudder rippling through him as he rests his head on Cas's shoulder, and for a minute, they just stand like that, Cas stroking Dean's hair as Dean breathes trustingly against him. Then:

'Cas?'

'Mm?'

'You think we could maybe go lie down? I won't sleep,' he adds, quickly, 'I'm just sore. Promise.'

'Sure,' says Cas, and lets Dean lead him into the bedroom.

It's a small, square space, and the walls and ceiling are papered with posters, the pictures overlapping each other at crazy angles, turning the whole thing into a collage, art prints and fantasy landscapes side by side with music and movie promos. It makes the artist in Cas light up, it's all so lovingly done – but then, he realises, that's how Dean does everything, quiet and caring and competent and so used to having his efforts either ignored or criticised that he has no idea what to do with praise. As Dean sits down on the edge of the bed and tugs off his boots and his coveralls, Cas is suddenly struck by a vision of their homes overlapping, his studio extending into a workroom covered with Dean's posters, his benches and projects against the walls and Cas's canvases stacked between them. There'd be a garden outside, and maybe, one day, children to play in it, and –

I'm in love with him. The realisation hits like a thunderbolt. Oh, god, I'm in love with him, this is so insane and I love him, who does that, who falls in love this fast? It's a dizzying question, and even moreso when part of him whispers, Idiot, you've loved him since you saw him, which is completely impossible, there's no such thing as love at first sight, but there's a sweet ache in Castiel's chest that says otherwise, and it's all too big, too extraordinary, and so he just stands there, heart in his throat as Dean starts to pull off his shirt, too, wincing as he stretches.

'Here,' says Cas, suddenly drymouthed. 'Let me.'

He kneels between Dean's legs, running his hands lightly across his thighs and up to his ribs, lifting the shirt as Dean raises his arms. Slowly, Cas tugs the fabric over his head, and Dean bows forwards, following the pull. Cas's fingertips brush against his shoulders, nape, scalp, then trail down his arms as the shirt comes away. They both inhale sharply, gazes locked. Gulping, Dean leans back on his palms, lifting his hips as Cas unzips his jeans and hooks his fingers into the top of his boxers, pulling both layers down at once, until Dean is naked. Cas drinks in the sight of him, then rocks back on his heels, shedding his own clothes with quick, practised calm. Dean watches him, lips parted slightly, eyes flickering over Castiel's tattoos.

'Lie back,' Cas says, softly, and Dean complies, sliding around the unmade sheets until his head is on the pillow, staring at Cas down the length of his body. Smiling, Cas kneels at the foot of the bed and picks up Dean's left foot. He strokes the skin, dropping a light kiss on the tip of a toe, and then starts to massage the sole, thumbs kneading expertly into the arch. Dean groans, tipping his head back, and Castiel takes his time, giving both sides equal treatment.

When he's done, he kisses Dean's ankles and murmurs, 'Roll over.'

'Cas, you don't have to –'

'I want to,' he says. 'Roll over.'

Dean complies, head turned side-on and resting on the crook of his elbow, and when Cas starts to rub his calves, he moans. Cas kisses the back of his knee, taking his pressure-cues from the noises Dean makes, steadily working his way upwards. He does the backs of his thighs, parting Dean's legs gently to work the inside muscle, and Dean gasps, shivering at the increased exposure. But as exquisitely beautiful as Dean is, and though Cas is unabashedly hard – the act of massaging that perfect ass is far more provocation than his body can resist – this isn't about sex. He touches and kisses Dean everywhere, letting his fingers trail over his skin, mapping out constellations in his freckles. Cas straddles him, thumbs sliding up taut muscles of his back, and that's when Dean starts to groan in earnest, gasping and hissing with pleasure as Castiel works on every knot he finds.

By the time he finally reaches Dean's shoulders, his hands are starting to ache; he's lost track of time, but he must've been doing this for at least half an hour, and except for a few murmured questions about whether something hurts or not, they haven't spoken. Remembering Dean's list of old injuries, Cas goes carefully around those areas, and when he pauses, balling and flexing his fingers to stave off a cramp, he kisses tenderly along Dean's neck.

I love you. Cas almost says it aloud, but once spoken, the truth would be either dynamite or fireworks, and he doesn't know which prospect terrifies him more. Instead, he says it with touch: in the sweep of his hands along Dean's arms, the brush of his lips against Dean's ear, the rock of his hips and thighs. He works his fingers into the tense muscles above Dean's collarbone, eliciting yet another pleasurable groan, and thinks, I love you. He thumbs gentle circles up the column of Dean's neck, and thinks, I love you. He massages his scalp, digging his fingers into that soft, gold hair, rubbing the pressure points behind his ears, and thinks, I love you, I love you, the words beating in his blood like a second pulse, and it's only then, when there's no new skin to touch, that he lies down alongside him, grabbing the rucked-up comforter and pulling it over them both.

Boneless and mellow, Dean turns to face him, looking across at Cas through long-lashed lids. 'I think you broke me,' he murmurs. 'Like, in a really good way. My spine is liquid right now.' He drags a hand over the mattress, covering Cas's knuckles with his palm, squeezing gently. 'I've never had a massage before you.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

Cas kisses the back of Dean's hand. 'Well, it won't be your last, I can promise you that. I –' love you, I love you, '– very much enjoy touching you. And seeing you relaxed.' He smiles, a little wickedly. 'And hearing you moan.'

'You –' Dean makes a noise that's not quite a sigh and not quite laughter, and moves his hand to cup Cas's face. He rests his palm there, thumb stroking over the cheekbone, eyes shut like he's gathering himself for something, and when he next looks up, his expression is almost excruciatingly vulnerable. 'You've understood me better in a week than most people have my whole life, you know that? You see me, Cas, and I keep waiting for you realise how ugly I am, to look away again, and I just – god, I don't understand it, why you were even free to begin with. How has anyone ever let you go?'

Castiel's heart just about stops. 'Would you believe,' he says, softly, 'that I feel the same way about you?'

'Oh,' says Dean, like this never even occurred to him, and Cas reaches out to cup his cheek, mirroring his touch. They shift closer to one another, knees and thighs bumping, feet tangling shyly. Dean's breath tickles against his wrist, and Cas turns his head and lips the skin gently, making them both shiver. There's so much they could talk about – the fact that they're apparently both switches, Kubrick, Cas's job, Dean's nightmare, what's going to happen tomorrow – but the silence is both comforting and comfortable, a warm, safe space into which they've crawled, surrounding them like blankets, and despite Dean's promise not to fall asleep, it's exactly what they both do.

Until Cas wakes, groggy and disoriented, to the sound of Dean moaning in his sleep. He's wrapped in Cas's arms, head pillowed on his chest, and while he's not thrashing like he did last night, he's still twitching unhappily, his breathing fast and shallow.

'Dean?' Cas murmurs, stroking his back. 'Wake up, Dean. You're safe. Come back to me.'

But Dean doesn't wake; just presses his face into Cas's shoulder, too deep under the dream. 'Don't,' he slurs, low and pained – and then, the single word piercing through Cas like a spear, 'Lucifer.'

Time seems to stop.

Cas freezes, arms locked tight around Dean, heart beating wildly. There could be an innocent explanation – he mentioned his brother's nickname over dinner, and even if he hadn't, it's a word in its own right – but Dean's been going to Dante's for years, and it's not like Luke's sexual morality is so robust as to preclude sleeping with patrons. He wouldn't have to identify himself as the owner; he could just walk out, find someone – find Dean – and oh, god, Jesus, no, not that, anything but that. Cas can't bear to think about it, he's so horrified, but all at once, the timing of Dean's nightmare makes a sudden, appalling sense: it happened after he told him Luke was Lucifer, and hadn't Dean seemed shocked by that, in retrospect?

But no, no, that doesn't fit; Dean said it was an old nightmare, one he'd had before, one he insisted wasn't real – except, Cas amends, feeling sick to his stomach, that's not quite right, either. Dean might have said it wasn't real, but his terror and pain suggested otherwise, like he only hoped it wasn't, and if this is the same bad dream he's having now, and if Luke is part of it – Luke, who never met a sexual taboo he wouldn't joke about breaking; Luke, who owns Dante's and named himself after the devil; Luke, who'd have to be blind to have overlooked Dean – if there's even a chance that Luke hurt Dean, that he – that he –

Dean whimpers, curling against him, and Castiel can't bear it. He runs his hands over Dean's back and shoulders: fast, urgent strokes, desperate to wake him but unable to let him go.

'Wake up,' he croaks, 'Dean, please, you have to wake up, it's just a nightmare.' Except, of course, that it isn't just anything, and when Dean shudders and wakes, Cas realises he has no idea what to say. Dean looks up at him with wide, scared eyes, and Cas can feel the speed in his pulse where his hand rests over Dean's ribs, a sharp staccato. Something ugly twists in his chest: he can't not ask, but he's terrified of what the answer might be.

'You OK?' Dean asks worriedly, and the absurd reversal of the question – the fact that, even now, he's more concerned for Cas than himself – is what gives him the strength to speak.

'Are you?' Cas asks, softly. 'Dean, you had another nightmare. And you... you talked, in your sleep, this time. A name.'

'What did I say?'

'Lucifer,' says Cas, and the word is ash on his tongue, as paper-pale as Dean's face turns on hearing it. He can barely speak, but he has to say it, has to get it out. 'Dean, if he – if my brother hurt you – if he did something, anything, I won't – you can tell me, I'll believe, I – oh, god –'

Dean looks terrified; he sits up, knees to chest, still half-wrapped in the blankets, jaw working soundlessly as he struggles to answer. 'I don't know,' he says at last. 'Cas, I swear, I don't know, I don't –' he runs a hand through his hair, the gesture tense and jerky, '– it's a dream, I always thought it was a dream, I didn't want it to be anything else, but it has to be, it can't be your brother.'

'Dean, he owns the club, you could've met him –'

'No!' He shouts it, flushes. Shakes his head. 'No,' he says again, more quietly. 'I mean, it doesn't fit.'

'Fit what?'

'The... whaddaya call it, chronology. Timeline.' He gulps, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. 'First time I had that dream, I was still with Alistair. I didn't start going to Dante's until later. So that just proves it, you know? It's a dream. It's just, I don't know, some messed-up composite, stuff I'm remembering wrong, stuff that's out of order.'

'But it's the same dream?' Cas asks, desperately wanting to believe otherwise. 'I mean, has it always been the same, or does it change?'

'I don't know. I don't know how to describe it.' Dean is rocking slightly, hands gripping his legs. 'It's not like a regular dream, you know? It's like I'm underwater, all I can see is flashes of things, light and dark, like my eyes don't work, and I try to move, but I can't, I can't, and people are... it's all just hands, hands and pressure and pain and talking and someone laughs, and it doesn't – it's fragments, different but the same, and it shouldn't, it shouldn't scare me like it does, but it's fucking terrifying, Cas, and I hate it, I don't want it to be real, because if it is –' he gasps a little, voice cracking, '– god, there were these mornings, sometimes, I'd wake up at Alistair's, and I didn't, I was so sure I hadn't drunk that much, but I couldn't remember getting to bed, and one time there were bruises but he said I fell in the hall, he said he carried me he said I, I –' he's almost crying, staring at Cas with this look on his face like something inside him has broken; and then he shudders all over, pale as bones, and whispers, 'Oh, god. It wasn't just a dream, was it?'

Cas feels like his heart is breaking. 'Dean –'

'I don't understand.' He's rocking again, harder than before, his speech gone choppy and sharp. Cas wants nothing more than to reach out and hold him, but every line of Dean's body is radiating do not touch like an aura, and instead, he forces himself to wait, listen, watch. 'I don't understand why he'd, why, why, I don't, he already, he had me, he could do whatever he, I never, I never said no, he didn't need, he didn't need to drug me, I would've, for him, but the – hands –' he hunches in, swallowing a noise that's not quite keening, '– too many, there's too many, but he's there, his voice, his, I, he, I think he said, he, I remember, I – oh, god –' and suddenly he's up off the bed and stumbling for the door. Cas lurches after him, following close enough to watch as Dean falls to his knees in the bathroom and retches over the toilet, shuddering and sweating, and Cas will fucking murder Alistair, I'll kill him, I swear to fucking god, I'll rip his heart out, except that he's shaking so badly, he can barely stand, because god, Luke, please don't be part of this, please don't have been there, please don't have hurt him, please please please –

Slowly, Dean pushes himself upright. He wipes his lips, spits, rinses his mouth with water. The sound of the toilet flushing is loud, obscene. He can't seem to look at Cas, gaze fixed on the tiles, or on nothing at all, and when he speaks, his voice is so flat, it's barely recognisable.

'He drugged me. Shared me. I don't know how many times. I don't know with who. But he did it. Alistair did it.' His hands clench into fists, a tremor creeping into his voice, and Cas can barely breathe, it's so horrific. 'I don't think they fucked me. Or maybe they did. Or maybe not always. I don't know. I only remember hands. Some pain. Choking. I remember choking. Alistair said not to mark me. That's in all the dreams, his voice. And someone says, Fucking Lucifer, but I don't know why. So maybe he was there. Or not. Maybe it means something else. They could've said anything. Done anything. And. I. Couldn't. Move.'

Dean's shoulders heave, and a sound wrenches out of him like tearing flesh. His legs buckle, and Cas – finally, desperately – catches him, arms wrapped tight around him as he screams himself raw, face pressed to Cas's shoulder. There's nothing to say, no words – the violation is too big, unspeakably so. Dean holds on hard enough to hurt, his fingers bruising Cas's back, and all Cas can do is hold him, one hand coming up to stroke his hair. The screams become a string of choking sobs, slowly petering out into plain tears, cold against against his collarbone, and Cas doesn't know when he started talking, only that he can't stop, a rushing murmur against Dean's ear, I won't let them touch you again, you're safe, you're beautiful, you're so beautiful, I'll kill them, I'll protect you, anything you want, anything you need, anything, I'm not going anywhere, I believe you, I believe you, you're not broken, I promise, I believe you, I'm here, please, please, and all the while he thinks, I love you, I love you, wanting to say it, fearing it would hurt, that tethering a pure truth to an ugly one, now, when he's never said it before, would only diminish them both. Then:

'No,' Dean says, and his voice is so thin, so ragged, it's barely audible. 'No. Fuck this. Fuck this. Four damn years, he doesn't get to steal what I am.' He lifts his head and looks at Cas, as furious and fragile as a breaking storm, then kisses him like a raging one. Castiel gasps into his mouth, as much in shock as from desire, palms hovering over Dean's shoulders, not sure whether to hold him or pull away. Dean's hands slide to cradle his face, and when he sits back looks at Cas, he seems almost feverish. 'Give me this,' he whispers, 'Cas, please, I need this, I need you, I can't –' he gulps, fighting the shudder of his flesh, '– god, I can't let this own me, I need, I need to choose this now, and I want you so fucking badly –'

'Dean,' Cas gasps, and it's all the permission Dean needs to lean in and kiss him again. They've been naked and spraddled on the cold, hard tiles for long enough that it's starting to hurt, a fact they both seem to remember simultaneously. They stagger upright, and Cas has scarcely got his feet under him before Dean is manhandling him backwards, biting kisses interspersed with tugs and shoves as they lurch into the bedroom. Cas can't even think any more, and he's not sure he should try, either: the only thing he wants is to let Dean take what he needs, and beyond that, the world can go fuck itself.

'Back, get back,' Dean growls, shoving him onto the bed. Cas obeys, pushing up the mattress until he's sitting up against the pillows, panting as Dean grabs a bottle of lube from the beside table. Kneeling over Cas, he kisses him so hard, his skull thumps into the headboard; his groan is muffled as Dean bites his bottom lip, almost drawing blood, and Cas is on fire, dizzy and gasping. He's so focussed on Dean's mouth, he doesn't register what else is happening until he slides his hands down Dean's hips and finds them crooked at an angle. His eyes fly open, and that's when he realises Dean is prepping himself one-handed, the other braced on the headboard. Everything is urgent, fast; Dean twists on his own fingers, flush and trembling, and in an absurdly short amount of time, he pulls them out again, his lube-slick grasp sliding up and down Cas's cock.

'Gonna ride you,' he gasps, and thrusts himself down onto Cas, gripping the headboard with both hands to keep himself upright. Cas makes a punched-out sound, and Dean whines in his throat, seating himself deeper, tight and hot. Cas runs his hands up his back, and as Dean starts to move, he leans in and kisses his chest, sucking his nipples, teeth grazing the flesh. Dean widens his stance, rocking in place hard enough to jolt the whole bed, banging it against the wall; he digs the fingers of one hand through Cas's hair and grips, forcing his head back, savage and demanding.

'Look at me,' he pants, 'fuck, watch me fuck you, watch –'

'Dean, Jesus, I –'

'Harder,' he snarls, and Cas grips his hips, his ass, and thrusts upwards as Dean pushes down, throat bared as Dean keeps gripping his hair. Cas's eyes are watering; his neck is starting to hurt, the angle is so sharp, the muscles in his back and thighs aching with the jaggedness of it all, and in a flash, he realises he's terrified that they shouldn't be doing this; or worse, that they should, and it's only him who can't, that he's too weak, or selfish, or cowardly, or something. His safeword's on the tip of his tongue – he can almost feel it there, fine and sharp as a fishbone – when Dean suddenly drops his hand and whispers, 'Shit, Cas,' and kisses him with all the gentleness that was previously absent, fingers trailing featherlight along his jaw.

Castiel moans; his arms come up to wrap Dean's back, holding him. Dean is panting, not-quite-crying as he presses their foreheads together, hips barely moving as he rocks against him, letting go of the headboard to hold Cas in turn, until the only thing keeping either of them upright is the other. Cas leans his head against Dean's chest, kissing the hollow of his throat, and when Dean brushes his lips to his ear, he comes, his orgasm a slow, electric shudder. His fingers cup the back of Dean's neck, stroking gently as he kisses up his throat, along his jaw, the gesture no less possessive for being light.

'Let me finish you,' he murmurs, and Dean nods, going almost boneless as Cas pulls out and lays him back on the covers, kissing along his chest, ribs, stomach, licking his hips, stroking his thighs. Finally, Cas swallows him down, and Dean cries out, bucking up into his mouth. His fingers slide through Cas's hair, but this time, there's no force to it, no pressure; just touch, plain and wanting. Cas licks and sucks, his efforts more languid than urgent, and when Dean comes he's deep enough that he barely tastes it, swallowing in reflex. He pulls off, satisfied, and moves to lie alongside Dean, pulling him against his chest, kissing his cheeks and temple.

'Was that what you needed?' Cas asks, softly.

'Yes.' Dean shudders, throwing a leg over Cas's thigh, clinging on like a limpet. He kisses his collarbone, but his eyes are worried. 'Was it all right for you, though? I didn't mean to be so rough, I don't know what happened, I –'

'Shh.' Cas hugs him closer, thumbing a circle against his back. 'It was fine. I had a... a moment, I suppose, where I was worried, but you pulled back. You made it better.'

Dean shudders all over. 'If I'd hurt you –'

'You didn't.'

'But if I hadn't stopped –'

'I would've used my safeword.'

'But if I hadn't listened –'

'You would've.'

'You don't know that.'

'I do. I trust you, Dean. And I... I know you, I think. Or understand you, like you said.' Cas strokes his lover's cheek, and wonders if he'll ever tire of eyes so impossibly green, even wet as they are now, like spring leaves after rain. 'You're a kind man, and a good one. Even in the extremis of pain or grief or fear, you think of others before yourself. You notice people; you notice me, and I... you make me want to be worthy of you, of what you see in me.' He twines their fingers together, bringing their joined hands up to kiss Dean's wrist. 'You mend things. You build cars and fairy castles and stories, you map out pleasure in me like I didn't think was possible. You're beautiful, but it's not just your skin; it's how you inhabit yourself, the way you move and breathe; every atom of you is beautiful, Dean. I could paint you for the rest of my life, and never catch all your colours.'

Dean's eyes widen. 'Cas,' he breathes. He can't seem to manage anything else. Slowly, he levers himself up, stretching out along Castiel's body, warm and heavy and perfect, and kisses him like he can't quite believe it's permitted, and Cas kisses back the same, because he can't, either.

They stay like that for a long time, and for once, the world lets them.