𝔒𝔥, 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥

Dean knows how pretty Cas is. How smooth her voice sounds. How wise her mind is — much smarter than Dean could ever hope to be, especially when the angel is in the same vicinity. Something about that celestial aura of hers makes Dean’s brain short circuit every damn time.

However, the sweet scent of the heaven-sent is quite literally the cherry on top, overwhelming all of Dean’s senses.

Castiel smells like honey and powder. Clean. Warm. Light. Like cotton candy, delicate strings of sugar woven into her dark locks. Like syrup, the stickiness swirling in the sea-blue of her eyes demanding attention.

“Like this?”

Castiel’s question is so innocent it has Dean tense.

The rasp of her voice is laced with curiosity and for a second Dean wonders if she’ll be sent to hell — again — for this.

Is she corrupting one of God’s pure soldiers? Taking advantage of what has to be naïveté? Because frankly, there is no way she deserves a holy creature making herself comfortable against the curves of her mortal and unworthy body.

When Dean doesn’t answer immediately, a crease forms between Castiel’s brows and she does that signature, stupid little tilt of her head, which seems to shift the axis of Dean’s world right along with it.

“I’m doing this wrong,” Castiel grumbles. Pouts even, which triggers a different panic in the huntress.

Instincitvely, and hastily, Dean’s fingers grasp at Castiel’s form, as if she was scared she’d slip out of her lap. One hand settles at the fabric of the angel’s trenchcoat, the other curls around her bare thigh. Both are soft to the touch, too rich and divine for someone like Dean to stain.

Silk that might fray at the edges if Dean isn’t careful enough. Flesh that part of her wants to take apart at the seams.

Still, she claws at the sweet, feathery thing in her lap. Like one might keep a dove in a cage. Like one might keep a secret in their heart. Held close and locked away.

“You’re a natural,” Dean mutters, the fake smirk on her glossed lips about as brave as the tremble of her hands.

Castiel’s brows furrow further, some frustration mixed into the confusion now. “You’re not being sarcastic,” she states. An observation, not a question. “But you’re also not very convincing.”

If there’s any reason Dean can’t say it with her whole chest, it’s because the heart within is beating so fast that it might jump out of her throat, were she to say too much. Reveal too much. Admit defeat.

Fluttering like a restless bird that wants to break free and reveal the secret at the top of its lungs.

Ever had your heartbeat hammer against your ribcage so hard you thought you might die?

If that happened to Dean, which angel would even guide her into the light, when the only one she wants to follow is right with her in this moment?

“You just took me off guard, Cas,” Dean mumbles, clearing her throat and averting her gaze. It’s a pathetic attempt at hiding the warmth in her cheeks, especially when Castiel’s face follows her movement. Somehow, she leans even closer, taking the last of Dean’s breath away.

“You said flirting is a useful method for hunters,” Cas points out and holds up her hands to gesture quotation marks in the air, “You wanted to teach me how to ‘get some bastards real flustered’ and—”

“Alright, alright,” Dean interrupts her. “Said I’d show ya and I will, just gimme a moment to, y’know… adjust.”

The warmth spreads from Dean’s face down to her neck.

Yes, she suggested this dumb lesson. Actually, it was somewhat of a half-joke, despite her words being true. Being able to wrap someone around your finger is a useful skill to have as a hunter.

But this scenario? In all honesty, Dean didn’t think Castiel would jump right into it! Not by immediately climbing into Dean’s lap, the driver’s seat of the Impala now way too cramped. As if the huntress doesn’t feel small enough as is in comparison to an almighty, ancient, charmingly clueless angel on top of her.

Castiel’s eyes wander across Dean’s face, silently counting the freckles dusting the flushed skin like constellations dotted over a galaxy. Her gaze drops down the slope of her nose, stops briefly at the nervous twitch of her mouth. Dean feels the stare like a laser beam burning her up.

“Adjusting means…?”

As Cas trails off, blue eyes now searching for mossy green ones again, Dean exhales slowly — lets out some of that tension, allows a pinch of the secret to fly freely. Part of her hopes Cas is able to decipher the silent breath. That she can decode the longing for either freedom or shared pain in Dean’s little sigh.

The plush of the angel’s thighs brackets the huntress in place and even though the Impala has always been her home, it’s never felt more right than this.

Her fingertips toy with the hem of Castiel’s skirt, smoothing over it. A pencil skirt, too damn tight for her own good. For both hers and Dean’s. The fabric is dark, matching Castiel’s tie, which Dean wants to grab and pull at.

It’s raw fear that prevents her from doing so. Whatever Dean touches, it breaks. Always has. Always will.

She’s not made to tend to things — Baby being an exception, maybe. She’s created to destroy. Not even a soldier, like she thought her father had raised her. No, she’s no protector. Her fate is not to defend at all costs, even though violence.

Her fate is violence itself.

Dean’s doomed to strike. Nothing more, nothing less.

Michael’s blade. Just a weapon, a tool, sharp-edged and pointed, used for attacking and attacking only.

She swallows, wanting to take and to push away at the same time. Instead, she looks at Cas, the one thing in her life that’s ever looked at her like she’s worth more than battles, blood, and bruises.

“Means you gotta give me a chance to get used to this,” Dean huffs in response, trying to recollect her thoughts.

At the end of the day, is it really that serious?

How many women has she tasted in the backseat of this very car? How many guys did she have the pleasure of making out with at random dive bars? How many lovers did she kiss in motel beds? None of which she regrets, per se.

But also, how many of them have looked at her like she’s worth the trouble — any trouble? Actually looked at her, like she was the one who deserves to be saved and protected for once. How many of them actually did go out of their way to rescue her when her hands were stained with blood and her body raw with injuries and her heart heavy with responsibility?

Sure. This, Cas and her in the car, is supposed to be just play-pretend. Like one of those dumb dares kids giggle at in high school. More of a spin-the-bottle thing than anything, although Dean’s head is the only thing running in circles.

There’s a small voice in the back of her mind, reminding her that she should do this the right way or not at all. That it should at least mean something. That with Cas everything always means something.

“Dean.” Castiel always says her name with such ease and compassion. Dean has mistaken it for reverence more times than she could count. “I can sense you’re uncomfortable. We do not have to do this if you don’t want to—”

“I wanna do this, Cas,” Dean admits and just like that the secret is no longer this sacred, scary thing.

It’s still ugly. Still raw. It has the same shape as the rage she feels when she thinks of the way her mother was killed and the need for revenge. It resembles the desperation she felt when she sold her soul to save Sammy and the fear when she took the knife from Alastair to start torturing.

But it’s out. Like a bubble bursting, or rather the pop of a balloon, loud and explosive.

“That’s the whole problem, feathers. I want too much. Things I shouldn’t have.”

“And why shouldn’t you have them?”

It’s a question Dean didn’t expect. There’s lots to unpack here, veiled confessions and blunt self-loathing. Then again, if anyone was ever subject to this part of Dean, it’s Cas. Of course she understands, or at the very least wants to. Actually wants to. Doesn’t shy away from asking, sees the ugly, and finds a way to coax out something else.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean chuckles, nervously, but her hands are still resting on the brunette’s curves. “I talked a literal angel into seducing me and she expects me not to fear being smited by the Lord?”

“That’s not what you’re scared of.”

Dean pauses. Blinks. Shrugs. Drops her gaze, head hanging low. “Well, not literally. Just…”

Angels are warriors of heaven, but when Castiel’s hands reach out to cup her face, the touch is gentle. Her skin isn’t calloused, yet her movement is that of a fighter. Graceful and precise as she wipes away Dean’s tears.

They’re hot even against Dean’s flushed cheeks, a stark contrast to Castiel’s fingers. Cold, not icy. Cooling, similar to the way fluttering wings cause a soft breeze. Her grasp is firm, determined, filled with purpose.

It’s clear that she’s familiar with carrying blades. She just never had to soothe one before. Usually weapons don’t weep. They get stained with blood, not sorrows. At least not their own. While they bend to their master’s will, they don’t melt into their grasp.

“I told you in that shed,” Cas whispers as though she’s Dean’s personal angelic choir, “Good things do happen. And just because you’re not used to experiencing them, doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of them.”

Heat flashes through Dean’s spine and it’s hard to distinguish between the familiar anger and the bottled hunger when both are flames. Her fingers curl into fists, so tight that the rings dig into her skin. She stares at Cas, glares at her through wet lashes and tears and hurt.

When she finally gathers the courage to square her shoulders, the woman shifts on top of her, rolls her hips against the rough denim of Dean’s jeans and presses forward. Left speechless, Dean wonders if that lesson was ever needed to begin with.

“Cas—” What’s supposed to be a warning is just pathetic. The whimper is broken, somewhere between despair and desire, both pained and desperate.

What makes angels so terrifying is that they’re so easily underestimated. Their power is brutal and their words cruel. Or maybe it’s just that one in particular, the triple combo wrapped in a trenchcoat — eerie strength that intimidates, glowing warmth that intoxicates, and that goofy sex appeal stacked on top of each other.

“Who said you’re the only one who wants this?”

Dean can’t wrap her head around the idea that anyone could genuinely want her. Not like this. Least of all the very epitome of all that’s supposed to be pure and good and righteous.

Not until Cas leans impossibly closer and Dean’s protest dies on her tongue. Not until Dean feels her own eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones and her breath hitches, before Cas sweeps in to catch it.

She catches all of Dean, every little gasp, the flutter of her heartbeat. The broken pieces and the solid ones. All collected in a single kiss.

Their lips lock, first chaste then deep.

There’s no biblical disaster crashing down on the car’s rooftop, no ground shaking beneath them to open a pit to hellfire itself.

Just Castiel’s mouth on Dean’s and Dean’s arms around Castiel.

Being kissed by an angel tastes a lot less like rebellion and a lot more like salvation than Dean would’ve guessed. Doesn’t make it any less fulfilling. Definitely makes it way more addictive.

Dean sits up straighter, pulls her closer, only to be pushed back into the leather upholstery. The force of Castiel’s palm on her chest, holding her in place, nearly has her groan. Her pants come out in short puffs of warm air and kiss-drunken whines, until the windows fog up and shield them from the things that go boo at night.

“Sit back. And let me.”

While it’s not the first order Dean would’ve easily thrown her life away for to fulfill, the angel’s command is definitely the only one that could’ve made her heart stop on the spot.

A squirm, a nod, reluctant but trusting nonetheless.

A subtle gasp when Castiel pushes the leather jacket off Dean’s shoulders, another when her fingers explore the newly exposed skin underneath. Short nails tracing freckled and scarred arms and leaving behind goosebumps, a hand placed on top of that print — a perfect match.

All Dean can look at is the curve of Castiel’s lips. Their color are that of a dusty rose petal, remnants of cherry lipgloss lingering now.

She finally understands why it’s called a cupid’s bow, a powerful weapon from above. Because the next kiss is as much of an arrow shot at her heart as the first one. Sinking deeper and deeper, then wandering down her jaw, nibbling at her neck. Right over her pulse, stirring her to life; yet again.

Maybe Dean finds herself not minding dying — screw hell or heaven or whatever lurks in between —, if resurrection always feels this holy. Or sinful. Pick your poison.

“Looks like you didn’t need a teacher after all,” Dean chuckles in between little mewls.

The vibration of Castiel’s voice against her flushed skin causes a deep shudder, as if it has shook the ground and opened up the earth numerous times before.

The words themselves, however? She’d be lying if she said they don’t make her cringe.

“You learn a lot by observing.”

“That’s not— you know what, that one’s on me,” the huntress utters, half-embarrassed and double-defeated. Lots to unpack there as well. Though she’d much rather focus on the moment than think about how often she’s had a tongue shoved down her throat after hunts — unaware of any witnesses.

Seriously, the only tongue that matters is the one that moves like a prayer. It speaks her name like one too. Slow. Deliberate.

You think of angels as these delicate creatures, innocent and gentle. Or at least, Dean did, until one decided to run her fingers through her hair. Castiel curls one of the longer pieces, one from the nape of her neck, around her finger like it’s some kind of prophet’s scripture. Like it holds the secrets of the world in every strand.

Then she grabs a fistful and pulls with just enough force to start another apocalypse.

For someone who claims to be just observant, Cas is quick at picking up all the different ways to make the woman unravel. She’s mapping out the bumps of Dean’s collarbone, the outlines of her tattoo, and the swell of her breasts like she’s trying to memorize the valleys and veins of a planet.

Or maybe it’s like Cas herself is the moon, rounding each corner of her skin, gracing Dean’s body, pushing and pulling. Ebb and flow.

Dean’s mouth seems to be the sun then, breathing life into it all — through gasps and whimpers, which the moon chases like it’s the light she wants to reflect.

It’s when Dean gets impatient from just sitting back and she dares to burn brighter that Cas knows the metaphor fits. The touch is warm. Searing hot, even — reshaping Castiel into a molten Icarus.

She kisses back as if she’d just discovered a new flavor, the forbidden fruit too sweet to resist.

Dean’s hands are rough, with nails bitten and some monster’s blood always beneath, with scars that connect the freckles like they’re stars aligned. They’re hungry hands, desperate to reach for the sky and harvest its softness.

Castiel finds herself squished between Dean and the steering wheel, which digs into her shoulder blades. Briefly, at least. Until she reclaims the upper hand by shifting and pinning the huntress down across the bench seat.

Humanity at her fingertips, splayed out for her like some offering at the altar. Skin glowing like simmering gold, veins and limbs trembling like dancing flames, green eyes glassed over like a rainforest; and peering up at her in search for something.

Maybe approval. Or her own worth. Or just the connection. The collision a lesson where Dean is the student.

Dean knows how pretty Cas is. How smooth her voice sounds. How wise her mind is — much smarter than Dean could ever hope to be, especially when the angel is in the same vicinity. Something about that celestial aura of hers makes Dean’s brain short circuit every damn time.

However, the sweet scent of the heaven-sent is quite literally the cherry on top, overwhelming all of Dean’s senses.

Castiel smells like honey and powder. Clean. Warm. Light. Like cotton candy, delicate strings of sugar woven into her dark locks. Like syrup, the stickiness swirling in the sea-blue of her eyes demanding attention.

“Like this?”

Castiel’s question is so innocent it has Dean tense.

The rasp of her voice is laced with curiosity and for a second Dean wonders if she’ll be sent to hell — again — for this.

Is she corrupting one of God’s pure soldiers? Taking advantage of what has to be naïveté? Because frankly, there is no way she deserves a holy creature making herself comfortable against the curves of her mortal and unworthy body.

When Dean doesn’t answer immediately, a crease forms between Castiel’s brows and she does that signature, stupid little tilt of her head, which seems to shift the axis of Dean’s world right along with it.

“I’m doing this wrong,” Castiel grumbles. Pouts even, which triggers a different panic in the huntress.

Instincitvely, and hastily, Dean’s fingers grasp at Castiel’s form, as if she was scared she’d slip out of her lap. One hand settles at the fabric of the angel’s trenchcoat, the other curls around her bare thigh. Both are soft to the touch, too rich and divine for someone like Dean to stain.

Silk that might fray at the edges if Dean isn’t careful enough. Flesh that part of her wants to take apart at the seams.

Still, she claws at the sweet, feathery thing in her lap. Like one might keep a dove in a cage. Like one might keep a secret in their heart. Held close and locked away.

“You’re a natural,” Dean mutters, the fake smirk on her glossed lips about as brave as the tremble of her hands.

Castiel’s brows furrow further, some frustration mixed into the confusion now. “You’re not being sarcastic,” she states. An observation, not a question. “But you’re also not very convincing.”

If there’s any reason Dean can’t say it with her whole chest, it’s because the heart within is beating so fast that it might jump out of her throat, were she to say too much. Reveal too much. Admit defeat.

Fluttering like a restless bird that wants to break free and reveal the secret at the top of its lungs.

Ever had your heartbeat hammer against your ribcage so hard you thought you might die?

If that happened to Dean, which angel would even guide her into the light, when the only one she wants to follow is right with her in this moment?

“You just took me off guard, Cas,” Dean mumbles, clearing her throat and averting her gaze. It’s a pathetic attempt at hiding the warmth in her cheeks, especially when Castiel’s face follows her movement. Somehow, she leans even closer, taking the last of Dean’s breath away.

“You said flirting is a useful method for hunters,” Cas points out and holds up her hands to gesture quotation marks in the air, “You wanted to teach me how to ‘get some bastards real flustered’ and—”

“Alright, alright,” Dean interrupts her. “Said I’d show ya and I will, just gimme a moment to, y’know… adjust.”

The warmth spreads from Dean’s face down to her neck.

Yes, she suggested this dumb lesson. Actually, it was somewhat of a half-joke, despite her words being true. Being able to wrap someone around your finger is a useful skill to have as a hunter.

But this scenario? In all honesty, Dean didn’t think Castiel would jump right into it! Not by immediately climbing into Dean’s lap, the driver’s seat of the Impala now way too cramped. As if the huntress doesn’t feel small enough as is in comparison to an almighty, ancient, charmingly clueless angel on top of her.

Castiel’s eyes wander across Dean’s face, silently counting the freckles dusting the flushed skin like constellations dotted over a galaxy. Her gaze drops down the slope of her nose, stops briefly at the nervous twitch of her mouth. Dean feels the stare like a laser beam burning her up.

“Adjusting means…?”

As Cas trails off, blue eyes now searching for mossy green ones again, Dean exhales slowly — lets out some of that tension, allows a pinch of the secret to fly freely. Part of her hopes Cas is able to decipher the silent breath. That she can decode the longing for either freedom or shared pain in Dean’s little sigh.

The plush of the angel’s thighs brackets the huntress in place and even though the Impala has always been her home, it’s never felt more right than this.

Her fingertips toy with the hem of Castiel’s skirt, smoothing over it. A pencil skirt, too damn tight for her own good. For both hers and Dean’s. The fabric is dark, matching Castiel’s tie, which Dean wants to grab and pull at.

It’s raw fear that prevents her from doing so. Whatever Dean touches, it breaks. Always has. Always will.

She’s not made to tend to things — Baby being an exception, maybe. She’s created to destroy. Not even a soldier, like she thought her father had raised her. No, she’s no protector. Her fate is not to defend at all costs, even though violence.

Her fate is violence itself.

Dean’s doomed to strike. Nothing more, nothing less.

Michael’s blade. Just a weapon, a tool, sharp-edged and pointed, used for attacking and attacking only.

She swallows, wanting to take and to push away at the same time. Instead, she looks at Cas, the one thing in her life that’s ever looked at her like she’s worth more than battles, blood, and bruises.

“Means you gotta give me a chance to get used to this,” Dean huffs in response, trying to recollect her thoughts.

At the end of the day, is it really that serious?

How many women has she tasted in the backseat of this very car? How many guys did she have the pleasure of making out with at random dive bars? How many lovers did she kiss in motel beds? None of which she regrets, per se.

But also, how many of them have looked at her like she’s worth the trouble — any trouble? Actually looked at her, like she was the one who deserves to be saved and protected for once. How many of them actually did go out of their way to rescue her when her hands were stained with blood and her body raw with injuries and her heart heavy with responsibility?

Sure. This, Cas and her in the car, is supposed to be just play-pretend. Like one of those dumb dares kids giggle at in high school. More of a spin-the-bottle thing than anything, although Dean’s head is the only thing running in circles.

There’s a small voice in the back of her mind, reminding her that she should do this the right way or not at all. That it should at least mean something. That with Cas everything always means something.

“Dean.” Castiel always says her name with such ease and compassion. Dean has mistaken it for reverence more times than she could count. “I can sense you’re uncomfortable. We do not have to do this if you don’t want to—”

“I wanna do this, Cas,” Dean admits and just like that the secret is no longer this sacred, scary thing.

It’s still ugly. Still raw. It has the same shape as the rage she feels when she thinks of the way her mother was killed and the need for revenge. It resembles the desperation she felt when she sold her soul to save Sammy and the fear when she took the knife from Alastair to start torturing.

But it’s out. Like a bubble bursting, or rather the pop of a balloon, loud and explosive.

“That’s the whole problem, feathers. I want too much. Things I shouldn’t have.”

“And why shouldn’t you have them?”

It’s a question Dean didn’t expect. There’s lots to unpack here, veiled confessions and blunt self-loathing. Then again, if anyone was ever subject to this part of Dean, it’s Cas. Of course she understands, or at the very least wants to. Actually wants to. Doesn’t shy away from asking, sees the ugly, and finds a way to coax out something else.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean chuckles, nervously, but her hands are still resting on the brunette’s curves. “I talked a literal angel into seducing me and she expects me not to fear being smited by the Lord?”

“That’s not what you’re scared of.”

Dean pauses. Blinks. Shrugs. Drops her gaze, head hanging low. “Well, not literally. Just…”

Angels are warriors of heaven, but when Castiel’s hands reach out to cup her face, the touch is gentle. Her skin isn’t calloused, yet her movement is that of a fighter. Graceful and precise as she wipes away Dean’s tears.

They’re hot even against Dean’s flushed cheeks, a stark contrast to Castiel’s fingers. Cold, not icy. Cooling, similar to the way fluttering wings cause a soft breeze. Her grasp is firm, determined, filled with purpose.

It’s clear that she’s familiar with carrying blades. She just never had to soothe one before. Usually weapons don’t weep. They get stained with blood, not sorrows. At least not their own. While they bend to their master’s will, they don’t melt into their grasp.

“I told you in that shed,” Cas whispers as though she’s Dean’s personal angelic choir, “Good things do happen. And just because you’re not used to experiencing them, doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of them.”

Heat flashes through Dean’s spine and it’s hard to distinguish between the familiar anger and the bottled hunger when both are flames. Her fingers curl into fists, so tight that the rings dig into her skin. She stares at Cas, glares at her through wet lashes and tears and hurt.

When she finally gathers the courage to square her shoulders, the woman shifts on top of her, rolls her hips against the rough denim of Dean’s jeans and presses forward. Left speechless, Dean wonders if that lesson was ever needed to begin with.

“Cas—” What’s supposed to be a warning is just pathetic. The whimper is broken, somewhere between despair and desire, both pained and desperate.

What makes angels so terrifying is that they’re so easily underestimated. Their power is brutal and their words cruel. Or maybe it’s just that one in particular, the triple combo wrapped in a trenchcoat — eerie strength that intimidates, glowing warmth that intoxicates, and that goofy sex appeal stacked on top of each other.

“Who said you’re the only one who wants this?”

Dean can’t wrap her head around the idea that anyone could genuinely want her. Not like this. Least of all the very epitome of all that’s supposed to be pure and good and righteous.

Not until Cas leans impossibly closer and Dean’s protest dies on her tongue. Not until Dean feels her own eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones and her breath hitches, before Cas sweeps in to catch it.

She catches all of Dean, every little gasp, the flutter of her heartbeat. The broken pieces and the solid ones. All collected in a single kiss.

Their lips lock, first chaste then deep.

There’s no biblical disaster crashing down on the car’s rooftop, no ground shaking beneath them to open a pit to hellfire itself.

Just Castiel’s mouth on Dean’s and Dean’s arms around Castiel.

Being kissed by an angel tastes a lot less like rebellion and a lot more like salvation than Dean would’ve guessed. Doesn’t make it any less fulfilling. Definitely makes it way more addictive.

Dean sits up straighter, pulls her closer, only to be pushed back into the leather upholstery. The force of Castiel’s palm on her chest, holding her in place, nearly has her groan. Her pants come out in short puffs of warm air and kiss-drunken whines, until the windows fog up and shield them from the things that go boo at night.

“Sit back. And let me.”

While it’s not the first order Dean would’ve easily thrown her life away for to fulfill, the angel’s command is definitely the only one that could’ve made her heart stop on the spot.

A squirm, a nod, reluctant but trusting nonetheless.

A subtle gasp when Castiel pushes the leather jacket off Dean’s shoulders, another when her fingers explore the newly exposed skin underneath. Short nails tracing freckled and scarred arms and leaving behind goosebumps, a hand placed on top of that print — a perfect match.

All Dean can look at is the curve of Castiel’s lips. Their color are that of a dusty rose petal, remnants of cherry lipgloss lingering now.

She finally understands why it’s called a cupid’s bow, a powerful weapon from above. Because the next kiss is as much of an arrow shot at her heart as the first one. Sinking deeper and deeper, then wandering down her jaw, nibbling at her neck. Right over her pulse, stirring her to life; yet again.

Maybe Dean finds herself not minding dying — screw hell or heaven or whatever lurks in between —, if resurrection always feels this holy. Or sinful. Pick your poison.

“Looks like you didn’t need a teacher after all,” Dean chuckles in between little mewls.

The vibration of Castiel’s voice against her flushed skin causes a deep shudder, as if it has shook the ground and opened up the earth numerous times before.

The words themselves, however? She’d be lying if she said they don’t make her cringe.

“You learn a lot by observing.”

“That’s not— you know what, that one’s on me,” the huntress utters, half-embarrassed and double-defeated. Lots to unpack there as well. Though she’d much rather focus on the moment than think about how often she’s had a tongue shoved down her throat after hunts — unaware of any witnesses.

Seriously, the only tongue that matters is the one that moves like a prayer. It speaks her name like one too. Slow. Deliberate.

You think of angels as these delicate creatures, innocent and gentle. Or at least, Dean did, until one decided to run her fingers through her hair. Castiel curls one of the longer pieces, one from the nape of her neck, around her finger like it’s some kind of prophet’s scripture. Like it holds the secrets of the world in every strand.

Then she grabs a fistful and pulls with just enough force to start another apocalypse.

For someone who claims to be just observant, Cas is quick at picking up all the different ways to make the woman unravel. She’s mapping out the bumps of Dean’s collarbone, the outlines of her tattoo, and the swell of her breasts like she’s trying to memorize the valleys and veins of a planet.

Or maybe it’s like Cas herself is the moon, rounding each corner of her skin, gracing Dean’s body, pushing and pulling. Ebb and flow.

Dean’s mouth seems to be the sun then, breathing life into it all — through gasps and whimpers, which the moon chases like it’s the light she wants to reflect.

It’s when Dean gets impatient from just sitting back and she dares to burn brighter that Cas knows the metaphor fits. The touch is warm. Searing hot, even — reshaping Castiel into a molten Icarus.

She kisses back as if she’d just discovered a new flavor, the forbidden fruit too sweet to resist.

Dean’s hands are rough, with nails bitten and some monster’s blood always beneath, with scars that connect the freckles like they’re stars aligned. They’re hungry hands, desperate to reach for the sky and harvest its softness.

Castiel finds herself squished between Dean and the steering wheel, which digs into her shoulder blades. Briefly, at least. Until she reclaims the upper hand by shifting and pinning the huntress down across the bench seat.

Humanity at her fingertips, splayed out for her like some offering at the altar. Skin glowing like simmering gold, veins and limbs trembling like dancing flames, green eyes glassed over like a rainforest; and peering up at her in search for something.

Maybe approval. Or her own worth. Or just the connection. The collision a lesson where Dean is the student.