#dreamydrabble

“Do angels dream?” Dean murmured, lips brushing against Cas’ throat tenderly.

Huffing quietly, Cas muttered back, “Angels don’t sleep, Dean.”

“You sleep,” Dean countered, kissing Cas’ collarbone.

When Cas shook his head, the movement dislodged Dean, and he let out a grumbled noise of protest before tucking his head back against Cas’ shoulder.

“I’m not an angel anymore.”

Frowning, Dean pressed another kiss behind Cas’ ear. “You’ve never stopped being an angel to me.”

Cas shook his head again, minutely this time, so as to not disturb the path Dean was making with his lips.

Brushing his nose under Cas’ jawline, Dean amended his question: “Do you dream?”

The question hung between them as Cas chased Dean’s mouth into a kiss. When they broke apart minutes later, Cas replied softly, “I do.”

Nudging their noses together, Dean spoke his next question against Cas’ mouth. “What do you dream about?”

"I prayed to you, you know," Dean broke the silence for the first time in a while. He enjoyed the silence, after years of loudness anyway, but he loved talking to Cas.

He wouldn't tell a soul, but these are the moments he treasures the most. Sex is good, don't get him wrong, but the peace he feels afterward is incomparable. Listening to Cas breathe while he kisses each of his freckles. "You have stars on your skin, constellations are formed all over your body, and each of them deserves to be worshipped," Cas would tell him, making him blush because who says those things.

"Every moment I could, I prayed to you," Dean repeats after Cas stops kissing him.

"Mhm," Cas mumbles with a happy sigh. "I'm listening. Keep talking." Cas takes Dean's hand and starts kissing his knuckles.

“Show me which ones you created again.” They both know it's a ploy to get Cas to lay even closer to Dean in order to point at the stars, but neither mention it.

Dean is only half listening, having heard that same explanation hundreds of times before.

“Do you have a favorite?” Another question Dean asks nearly every time, but Cas’ answer is always different. Sometimes pointing to one or another, sometimes saying he has no favorite.

Today, he turns to face Dean, their faces barely inches apart.

“Yes.” Castiel replies, gazing into Dean’s eyes but apparently not feeling the need to elaborate.

“Which one, Cas?”

“These two.” And before Dean can even open his mouth to reply, Cas lifts his head slightly, softly kissing Dean’s eyelids just as they drift close. Once Dean opens his eyes again, he finds Cas gazing at him lovingly.

Touch. Dean had always liked touch, had always needed touch. Platonic touch, sexual touch, simply kind and loving touch.

Intimacy wasn't easy on a body that was so used to beatings, any gentleness felt unnatural and foreign. Even a hit that left his face bruised and bloody could feel like a caress when you were starved for contact, when violence was the only intimacy you knew.

But Dean had always longed for what he couldn't have. 

He wanted the ease of affection shared without a second thought. He wanted casual kisses and entwined fingers and brushing thighs and the exchange of smiles. He wanted closeness in all its beautiful familiarity.

And he didn't trust anyone but Cas to hold him and not simply sit by and watch as Dean's heart and body fell apart in his arms.

Sometimes he wondered, what if he just gave in?

Following the desperate need to feel Cas' fingers brushing against his when he handed the angel his morning coffee. Draping his arm over the couch during movie night, curling it around Cas' shoulders to pull him in and feel his warmth, hearing the content sigh Cas might make. Catching Cas' hand after the angel had healed him, keeping him in place before he could withdraw, delaying that inevitable moment when he'd lose the touch he so desperately craved.

Keeping Cas' hands on his body, Cas' eyes on his heart, and Cas' attention on his soul.

—

cas’s healing fingers slipped from his temple down his cheek and he couldn’t stop from leaning into the warm palm now caressing his face.

“dean?” cas sounded confused.

his thumb stroked absently over dean’s cheekbone and dean heard himself whimper. he pressed even harder into cas’s hand, feeling his cheeks flush.

“are you still hurt?”

“no,” he sounded breathless. “i just…”

the words got stuck in the aching need to be closer and he rubbed his face shamelessly against cas’s fingers like a cat.

“oh,” cas exhaled. “you like this.”

“please… touch me,” dean practically begged.

A little piece for @starcrosseddeancas Dreamy Drabble Day 1:

Cas is human now.

He lays sprawled out, taking up most of the bed. Arm tucked under the pillow, knee hiked up to the side. Face turned toward the desk where Dean sits.

He looks peaceful in a way Dean has never seen. The usual furrow of confusion is gone, his brow smooth, skin soft. His lashes brush his cheeks, his full lips parted with breath.

Dean stops looking at his lips.

Instead, he stands to leave, shutting down that train of thought like clockwork. Maybe he can sleep now that his buddy is safe.

As if to confirm Dean’s thoughts, Cas lets out a soft sigh. The hunter pauses, no longer creeping toward the door, and turns to look again.

Cas’s eyelids flutter. His breath hitches slightly.

What do angels dream of?

Cas sucks in a deeper breath.

Dean can’t remember when the dreams started, really. He thinks he’s been having them for a long time. But ever since he got Cas back from the Empty, they’ve been more frequent. And more vivid.

Intense.

Heat. Lips. Dark hair. Dark feathers…

Dean runs a hand over his face as his heartrate slows, expecting the dream to bleed and fade away. But if he closes his eyes, he can still almost feel the solid muscle and silky feathers of two huge wings beneath him.

‘I love you’, Cas said before he died again.

‘I love you too,’ Dean said when he brought him back. ‘You self-sacrificing sonofabitch.’

It’s the soundtrack to his dreams now: IloveyouIloveyou.

He knows they need to talk about it. He does.  

He’s getting kinda sick of starting the day with a cold shower.

• demon!Dean

• mild angst

• drabble for @starcrosseddeancas challenge

“What if I told you I missed you every day? What would you do?”

Dean’s voice was quiet, yet his words rang loud and clear between them.

Castiel walked in a slow pace around the demon cricle, with Dean tied to a chair in the centre of it.

„Then I wouldn’t believe you“, Cas replied.

The angel’s voice was unnaturally deep, while his eyes were enlightened by his grace. The icy blue gaze was focused on nothing but Dean.

„But you’d want it to be true“, Dean drawled. „You want me to want you.“

The words put Castiel’s motions to a halt. His face turned into a careful mask of indifference.

A smile danced across Dean’s face. He sat back in his chair as his eyes trailed across Cas‘ body. Up and down until he met the angel’s gaze again, who still stood as still as a statue.