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an ecstasy of living

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Cas sits on Dean’s lap and winds his arms around his back. He thinks of all the people who have been in this position with Dean; he feels like he should be jealous, but he finds he can’t be. Dean’s warmth, his generosity of spirit and body alike – he has wanted that for years, and it’s only recently that he had it in every way. He can blame no one for wanting even just a slice for themselves.

He lets his eyebrow raise as he shifts his hips down and rolls them forward, enough that Dean’s breath catches in his throat. Enough that his eyes shift to a darker shade of jade. “Not physics but ecstatics: that makes the engine run,” Cas murmurs, plucking a line from one of the plays Metatron forced into his head.

Dean raises an eyebrow in return. “Yeah?” His eyes are dark, but there’s a light in them too. A sharpness.

“It’s from a play,” Cas says. He puts one hand in Dean’s hair and strokes him, carefully. “That character was wrong. She wanted humanity to stop moving entirely. Stop progressing. That can never happen, not once you learn about the existence of free will. But she might not have been wrong about that one line.”

“So, what – you’re saying orgasms power existence?” Dean slips his hands over Cas’, palms warm, and kisses him. It’s foolish, how much one kiss – just lips on lips and breath shared, tongue over tongue – can make Cas entirely lose track of his line of thought. But it happens every time anyway. He will relentlessly embrace being a fool.

Cas pulls back eventually. Dean chases his lips, which is monstrously satisfying; even when he does sit back, his bottom lip sticks out a bit. It’s shiny. “I don’t know about that,” Cas says. “You know what the other angels are like. There are exceptions, but I don’t think they believe in the power of orgasms.”

“You, though?” Dean’s grinning, and it makes the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes stand out.

Cas pushes Dean down until his back is flat against the bed. He’s still smiling; if anything, the corners of his lips have poked out even more now. “I don’t know if orgasms can power existence,” he says, voice dropping lower as he rucks up Dean’s shirt. He skims his hands over Dean’s stomach, delighting in the softness he finds there. “But they are one of several things that make existence worth it.”

He thinks of the taste of honey on his tongue, the wind in his hair as Dean drives the Impala with the windows cranked down, as he lowers his own body to cover Dean’s. He thinks of the flat blue sky in summer, and rainy days too. He thinks of this physical closeness, him and Dean’s skin with nothing between them, as he kisses him again.

Many things make existence worth it, turns out.