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Stonewashed Lives of Newfangled Lovers

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He felt every ridge on the tips of those fingers as they slid from his chin, across his jaw line, and up to his left ear. His heart felt like it blocked his throat, shutting off the logic supply to his brain. The angel had never felt something like this before. A chill shuddered through him, starting somewhere in his neck and subtly shaking him to the foundations, shaking through his spine and shoulders. It felt better than anything he knew, and he’d lived in heaven – the pinpricks of uncomfortable delight were almost too much for him, sending him all to gooseflesh. But it was so perfect as he shivered so violently and afraid, afraid of what was happening.

“Dean?” the angel asked, his voice small, his eyes a childish blue, older than the seas.

“Yeah Cas?” Dean replied, his unquestioning mouth 2.37 inches away from Cas’ lips. Castiel just knew: like he knew how many freckles Dean had, and the exact shape of the crow’s feet that cracked from Dean’s eyes when he laughed so genuinely, so rarely. Cas wanted Dean’s words closer to him. He didn’t remember what he wanted to ask Dean. He almost cared. He just let Dean’s fingers scrape back across his stubble, so gingerly tickling the rough skin. The sheer proximity was a newfangled heaven in itself. He thought that this was just a stupid dream of his, some strange, human phenomenon of love: caring seeping through the crack in his mind, the crack he called Dean Winchester. Cas felt his scapulae sink into his back as he pressed himself against the red wall of Bobby Singer’s house, refuge, orphanage. He wanted Dean closer to him. He wanted them to come together, he wanted Dean and that wall to make an angel sandwich out of him. He wanted to be pressed so tightly against Dean that he would never get away, never have to get away; be buried in the dark green T-shirt and brown leather coat that smelled indelibly like the Impala, like home. Funny how that smell already feels like home down to this vessel’s bones. That scent defined Dean Winchester, that smell was his life; Cas wanted nothing more than to bask and bathe in the light of that beautiful combination of forest air and old horse hair and rain and wind; just be enveloped in its dichotomous warmth and chill. And so he raised his trembling hands, the hands of a shaking vessel, so quick to give away that angel’s weakness; those hands found a small spell of courage, found the edges of that open coat, that brown leather coat, and gently pulled Dean closer, that fledgling pull so weak and afraid. Dean stepped closer, sending Cas’ heart through the roof, pounding like the galloping hoof-beats of a racehorse. The hunter’s hand slid quickly ‘round back to Castiel’s neck… Their lips were 0.72 inches away… And in a small spell of courage, the angel let himself fall into Dean, their lips meeting, shattering the air around them, letting their worlds fall away, leaving only the round softnesses, the electrified cozy warm of their touching lips. It was just them; the boy who had kissed all the girls, and the boy who had never been kissed. And they swore that in that moment, they felt anything but infinite. There was only the small space between them, only the small spaces they occupied, and everything else was gone. They had nothing left but the warm, intimate, close, limits of each other, lips and hands and hips and hearts.