#((left the bite part vague so you can decide if Angel gets bitten or not))

[dark-ambition]

@arachnoheaux

If Pet:

Pentious’s hood will stiffen a little the second he feels a pair of claws start to stroke it, but after a moment, once he realizes it’s Angel, he’ll let out a huff. “..Asssk next time, please.” He then turns back to his book and lets him continue to stroke his fingers through his hair.

If Feed:

The plate is set down next to him when he wasn’t expecting one, eyes glancing over to see the food prepared for him, steaming hot and thankfully less burnt and charcoaled than that steak he had seen before. He glances over toward the spider, a touch confused given he hadn’t asked for any food to be made, but after a moment, nods before taking it. “…Thank you.”

If Kick:

Pentious sure wasn’t expecting Angel to be standing outside of the door to his room, much less expecting him to be prepared for an assault, so when he slithered forth out from the doorway and was swiftly greeted with a hearty kick right to where his rear would be (making the cushioned part of his scaled hide jiggle as a result), he of course lets out a loud screech in surprise before reflexively whipping around to lunge at his attacker, jaws open wide in preparation to bite with his hood flared wide and his pupils turned into slits.

[justkeeptrekkin]

Brief Omens

An ineffable wives drabble- Brief Encounters inspired- that I wrote in collaboration with the amazing artist @selene-yoshi-chan ​, her pictures posted here with her agreement! This was fun to write, and I can’t believe how beautiful the illustrations are- thank you friend.

You can read it on AO3 here, or read under the cut! MORE ILLUSTRATIONS BELOW!

***

The weather is grey today. A strong breeze rolls over from the hills, tumbling into the valley of Devil’s Dyke. Aziraphale chose the meeting place herself. She thought that Crowley might find it amusing. 

This isn’t really a breeze, so much as a strong wind- it’s displacing her styled hair. Fashion has never interested Aziraphale in the same was as it fascinates Crowley, but the 40s really do have some smashing hairstyles and clothes. Now that the War is over, high-street shops are beginning to pop back up again, putting on their lights once more and dressing their mannequins with all manner of hats and a-line skirts. Of course, much of London remains destroyed from the Blitz. West Sussex, at least, has survived. 

Aziraphale lays her manicured hands on the wooden bridge, peers down at the burbling stream below. The water is clear, enough that she can see the smoothe rocks at the bottom. She can’t see her reflection, only the vague shape of her cream suit, orange and brown leaves floating along the surface.

She breathes in. She breathes out. She is nervous. 

“Morning, angel.”

She spins around- she doesn’t know why she’s surprised to see her here, she invited her. And yet Crowley has a habit of slinking up to her without warning, especially with this noisy wind covering the sound of her footfalls. 

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says too quietly. She clears her throat. “You got here quickly.”

“Yeah. I drove up last night and stayed the night a little further into the South Downs. Beautiful part of the world, this, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale simply nods. She continues to rest her hands along the rough, mossy wood of the bridge, but her gaze is on Crowley; her red hair spilling out of a silver snake hair-pin, curls tickling the sides of her neck. Red lipstick. Aziraphale wouldn’t dare to try a lipstick that shade, but she’s always wondered how it would look on her. How it would look if Crowley kissed her and left a taste of it on her lips. 

Yellow irises dart over to Aziraphale. She stops staring and looks away promptly, watching the rolling green hills. With the lack of rain recently, the grass is turning a greyish green and blending into the sky. The clouds beyond make the horizon hazy, like a weak watercolour painting. 

“What was it you wanted to discuss,” Crowley asks, all business. Her sunglasses don’t conceal peripheral gaze- Aziraphale can see her staring out at the view beyond. She’s avoiding eye contact, Aziraphale realises. And it’s not just the square shoulders of her jacket that make her look tense. 

“Um,” Aziraphale says. She feels herself panic. She feels her eyes widen and her chest rise with a too-deep breath. “It’s- not all that important really.”

That gets Crowley to turn and look at her, brows furrowed. “What? Why are we meeting here then? We could have gone to any of our normal meeting places.”

“I know, but I rather thought that we might like to try somewhere new,” Aziraphale says. 

What she doesn’t say is that she had an inkling that Crowley would like the South Downs- Devil’s Dyke and all. She felt that it might be nice to try somewhere different with expansive views, rolling hills, little tearooms. And none of the World War II rubble. Something a little more- romantic. 

Crowley pokes out her bottom lip. Then, nods in concession. “Alright. Devil’s Dyke, though?”

“Yes.”

“A bit tongue-in-cheek for you,” Crowley says, sounding impressed. Then a smile grows on her lips. Firey red hair dancing in front of her face. “I like it.”

They stand side by side on the little bridge. They’re the only people (beings) here for miles. The wind pours down, and it makes Aziraphale’s ears ache. She looks down at her shoes- totally inappropriate for a country walk, but pretty. Crowley has been more sensible and put on some leather boots. 

“Crowley.”

“Angel.” She says it like she’s been waiting for them to get down to business. Waiting for them to discuss something serious, perhaps The Arrangement. 

“Back at the church, during the Blitz,” Aziraphale starts. She swallows, her throat raw from the cold air. The stream trickles happily, singing a gurgling song below. “At the church, you saved my books for me.”

Crowley looks dead ahead and doesn’t move. Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way her fingers clench on the wooden fence of the bridge. 

“Yes,” she replies slowly, quite primly. 

She has been dreading this moment. She has fought with herself over this decision for months. But after what Crowley did- 

Inside her handbag, Aziraphale finds a tartan flask. It looks so innocent, nestled amongst the packets of tissues and lipsticks. She removes it carefully, placing it on the fence. And if Crowley wasn’t tense before, she certainly is now; she straightens beside Aziraphale, red lips parting in silent surprise. Brows pulled together, raised above her sunglasses. 

Aziraphale keeps a hand on the flask, holds it there between them, waits for it to sink it.

“Angel…”

“Holy water won’t just kill your body,” Aziraphale interrupts. She has to say this, before Crowley thinks she’s doing something nice for her. “It will destroy you completely. But I can’t have you risking your life, not even for something dangerous.”

Crowley is staring at her- Aziraphale can sense it. She can see her floundering. She’s speechless in a way that Aziraphale’s never really known before. There isn’t even the usual garbled stream of noises coming out of her mouth when she loses her words; it’s just silence. Aziraphale has stunned Crowley to silence. 

She clears her throat, feeling her wind-bitten cheeks heat up. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

“You did this for me,” Crowley says, almost too quietly over the wind.

And then Aziraphale turns to look back at her. Her hair is caught in the breeze. Crowley is so beautiful. Aziraphale always knew, always found her beautiful, even when she pretended she didn’t. But now- now, it’s impossible to ignore. How had she managed to ignore it for so long? How deluded has Heaven made her, that it took this long? Aziraphale is a being of love; it’s absurd that she hadn’t been able to see the wood for the trees until that bomb destroyed that church, Crowley handing over a briefcase, hands touching. Just for a moment. 

“Anything,” Aziraphale whispers.

She isn’t sure whether Crowley hears. If she didn’t, then that would be OK. Some things aren’t meant to be. 

They look over at the view again. Crowley takes a moment to pick up the flask and put it in her own purse. 

“I haven’t been as far as Ditchling before,” Crowley says suddenly, voice too light. “‘S where I’m staying at the moment. I’ve- I’ve only been as far as Hastings.”

Aziraphale goes along with it. “I helped evacuate some children here, during the worst of the War.”

“Ah. Yes. I was mostly in Liverpool helping out with that.”

Aziraphale frowns, registering this. When she tries to find answers in Crowley’s expression, she only sees her own white-blonde hair in her face and Crowley’s turned away. “You helped with the evacuations?”

“Yes,” she says sharply.

“That’s awfully… good of you.”

There’s a twist to her lips as she fights back a retort. “They were very naughty children, I assure you. Wales was traumatised by their arrival.”

She is too much. Oh, she is just too much. Aziraphale smiles at her, even though she won’t look back. “You are quite… something, Crowley.”

Crowley sneers. Aziraphale ducks her head and hides her smile. 

A single seagull flies overhead. The aren’t that close to the sea- it must have flown over from Brighton. It coasts on the wind. The air is fresh here, unlike London. Aziraphale breathes it in deeply, and tries to save it there. Save it for when she needs it in the coming days. 

“Are you happy?”

She doesn’t expect the question. She doesn’t even really understand it. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley hesitates, bites her lip. Then, “Do you ever ask yourself whether you’re happy? With the way things are?”

Constantly, Aziraphale thinks, but she never admits it to herself. No, she sees those kinds of questions float through her head and she banishes them to some bottomless pit in her mind. A pit that doesn’t feel so bottomless these days; all the doubt and confusion and questions she’s wanted to ask Heaven and Hell and God are piling up and starting to overflow. It’s only a matter of time before she decides she won’t be able to hide it anymore. 

Crowley is watching her, waiting for her answer as she thinks on this. 

“I don’t know,” she says, eventually. “Am I happy? Oh, Crowley. I don’t know.”

“Don’t you hate not knowing?” She rushes. “Don’t you ever just…”

Crowley trails off. Her hand rests against the fence beside Aziraphale’s. 

“I suppose you don’t ask questions, not being the snake of Eden,” Crowley eventually finishes. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what she thinks. Any opinions she has are obscured under layers and layers of Heavenly instructions and Bible verses and ineffable plans. 

For a moment, she finds a reply in a hand hold; not quite a hold, rather, her own hand gently placed on top of Crowley’s. Just to let her know that she’s there. And then she removes it again. 

She has been friends with Cowardice far longer than she has known Crowley. 

***

The Bentley is parked somewhere over the nearest hill. They walk in contemplative quiet, Aziraphale trying not to trip in her silly shoes, Crowley sighing in frustration at her. And whilst Aziraphale has achieved what she meant to today, something sits uncomfortably in her. 

The wind tries to push her back down the hill. 

When they reach the car, Crowley gives her a lift to the nearest train station, just outside Ditchling. It’s not far from where she’s staying, she assures Aziraphale, and she can’t cope with the idea of Aziraphale wobbling all the way to the station in her heels. Crowley makes it sound like an accusation, but Aziraphale recognises the kind gesture in it. She looks out of the window and watches the hills fall away, watches their moment in Devil’s Dyke fall away as if she’s abandoning it. 

The engine turns off and Aziraphale waits. Crowley says nothing. They both wait, although there’s no sign of there being anything to wait for. 

“Are you sure you want to head back to London?” Crowley asks. She doesn’t say it like a question. She turns to look at Aziraphale suddenly, lips parted and brows raised, looking lost. And Aziraphale realises then that it’s her that she’s abandoning, not Devil’s Dyke. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

And she sees it. Oh, Lord, Aziraphale sees it in her mind’s eye; the two of them in a cottage in The South Downs, walking through the neighbouring fields in wellies and Barbour coats. Trips to Brighton with ice-creams and sun hats, even if the weather is dreary. Trips to places they’ve never been before; days inside, drinking cocoa and reading and simply being together. Existing together, without any fear of the universe collapsing. Forgetting that this juxtaposition of theirs is a crime against nature. Aziraphale sees it, this daydream hanging between them in the Bentley, parked outside Ditchling station. 

It would be cruel to even pretend that such a dream could exist. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

She doesn’t stay to see the heartbreak in Crowley’s eyes, because she feels it herself- she can’t bear heartbreak for two. She gathers her handbag and steps out of the car, walking neatly towards the station. She has fifteen minutes until her train. 

When she steps inside and turns around in the doorway, she sees the Bentley pull away. 

Everything feels very sharp and clear. An awful lot like she has fallen into that little stream back in the valley, like she’s lying in the water and her senses are stinging with the cold. She feels too much until she feels nothing. And so Aziraphale stares at the receding Bentley, clutching her handbag like a liferaft and turns back around, onto the platform. 

There are only two other people heading towards London from Ditchling. A middle-aged man with a case in his hand, and an older woman, who sits on the damp, dewy bench. She dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. Aziraphale finds herself drifting into the waiting room, where there is also a little cafe. 

She orders a cup of Earl Grey from the waitress, finds a seat to perch on. 

She holds the cup between her hands, but feels no less adrift. 

Crowley keeps her tethered, she considers in that moment. That look of abandonment on Crowley’s face; the feeling that Aziraphale is floating away; the sky is grey and the world is grey and she is lost in it. 

“I made the right decision,” she says quietly to herself.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to realise that that waitress has spoken to her. “Oh- I’m sorry. I was merely talking to myself. A silly habit, I’m afraid,” she laughs emptily. 

“Not to worry, not to worry, talk to meself constantly- sign of a sound mind, my nan always said.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale breathes. 

She doesn’t feel sound, she considers. She feels silent. A disorientating quiet, like those moments in the middle of the night, when one is awake when they shouldn’t be. When she has awoken and found herself alone, in a dark room. Echoing, claustrophobic. She feels it in her throat and she feels it prick her eyes with tears. 

“I made the right decision,” she whispers. 

The two of them walking down a muddy country road towards the nearest pub- talking loudly about anything and nothing, the usual silliness in all likelihood, arms swinging and cheeks rosy. The two of them side by side on a sofa, bowties undone and tights on the floor and wine bottles empty. The two of them at a dining table in the morning, reading the newspaper and buttering toast. The two of them at the Ritz, just as it has always been. 

She made the correct decision. It is the decision that Heaven would choose for her. But is it the right one?

Aziraphale stands up abruptly, tea sloshing over the edge of the mug and into the saucer. She is going to catch up with Crowley- she can find her in Ditchling town somewhere, she could ask around and-

No. No, even if she has that dream, it doesn’t mean that Crowley shares it. Crowley might have offered to take her anywhere, but how far does Crowley mean? How could Aziraphale know whether this is the right thing for both of them? This would jeopardise Crowley’s life too.

She sits back down slowly, just as the whistle of the London train screams down the platform. A shaky hand picks up the teacup and she takes a small sip. 

She steps onto the platform and waits for the train to stop. The steam billows; she can’t see anything. She hears the train conductor shouting out of the window. She sees a door materialise before her, opens it and steps into the compartment where three other people sit and read. She takes her own seat. 

She looks through the window and she feels like she is drowning. She feels as if the train’s steam is inside her. She feels the walls around her in a way she has never experienced a room before, as if it is designed to trap her. She hears the scream of the conductor’s whistle in her ears, rattling in her brain. 

She feels herself breath in. She feels the air rushing into her lungs, like water filling a glass. 

The train begins to pull away from the platform. 

She grabs her handbag, opens the door, and jumps onto the platform. 

Aziraphale hangs her head back and closes her eyes. The steam surrounds her in clouds and the mechanical chug of the train recedes; she feels it rumble beneath her feet. 

“Aziraphale!”

That voice- she opens her eyes and turns to meet it, but she sees no one for all the smoke and steam. 

“Crowley?”

And then again- desperation, relief- “Aziraphale.”

She turns on the spot and searches for her, but she can’t see anyone- she’s lost, alone in the mist, until she sees the silhouette approaching. The clouds part and there she is, Crowley, holding onto a handbag with both hands. An expression so soft it could have been painted. 

“Crowley.”

Right or wrong, correct or incorrect- Aziraphale sees none of that, now. She walks towards her. Crowley walks towards her. And they meet each other, standing so close that Aziraphale can see through the lenses of her sunglasses.

“You got off the train,” Crowley says. 

“You came back,” Aziraphale says. 

When they kiss, it isn’t like it is in the movies. It isn’t desperate hands on each other’s arms, desperate lips pressed together as if they don’t care about breathing. When they kiss, it’s hesitant, careful not to break everything that came before. It’s unsure, but it’s also a promise. 

Next time we kiss, Aziraphale thinks, I won’t be so afraid. 

[casbeanwrites]

Tempted

dean/cas, T, 2k, canon verse, pining!dean, first kiss, AO3 link

Dean thinks about it all the time.

It’s the first thing he pictures when he blinks awake, and the last thing on his mind when he goes to sleep.

He obsesses about it all through the day. From the moment he shuffles into the kitchen and Castiel welcomes him with his lips stretched into warm grin, to the spell Castiel casts with a snarl twitching up his mouth.

He thinks about it a dinner, when Castiel humours him and bites into the food he’s prepared. He thinks about it when Castiel’s lips purse around the rim of his bottle and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows.

He thinks about it when Castiel speaks, and when he stands way too close to Dean and his lips are just so-

He thinks about it so much, it’s becoming a problem.

Castiel is talking about the case. An important case. Life-and-death-of-innocent-people kind of case.

His lips are pink and shiny. He keeps licking them between his sentences.

Dean’s not hearing a word. He’s thinking about how soft Castiel’s lips would be, how full and plush they look. How pink and wet his tongue is as it darts out.

He thinks about Castiel’s mouth, on his mouth. He thinks about biting into the curve of Castiel’s lower lip, he thinks about the groan Cas might make if he liked it. He thinks about his own tongue, and Castiel’s tongue. He thinks about how it would feel for Castiel’s hot, wet mouth to trail kisses on his skin.

He thinks about whether Castiel’s kiss would be soft and pliant, or hungry and demanding. 

He thinks about his mouth, and his tongue, and his teeth too, but mostly his goddamn lips, and everything they could do. 

All. The. Time. “Dean.”

Dean wonders if they would part and let out a shuddery breath if Dean touched him just the right way. Or get bitten red if Cas tried to be quiet while- “Dean.”

Maybe Cas would just give in and press his mouth in the crook of Dean’s neck to stifle his-

“Dean.”

Dean’s glances up, snapping out of whatever daze he was in, gaze glued to Castiel’s mouth. Wide blue eyes stare at him expectedly.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not paying attention.”

Castiel’s mouth looks so fucking delicious when he growls in annoyance.

“Dean!”

“What? No, I’m - I’m listening.”

“No you’re not.”

Castiel sighs and rolls in eyes in the exaggerate way he’s come to be very fond of. Dean is very fond of it too.

“What’s going on?” Cas asks.

“Nothing.”

There Cas goes, licking his lips again. Wiping the corners with his long sinful fingers and-

“Dean.”

“Mh?”

“Do I have something on my mouth? Ink, or food, or-”

“What? No. Why?”

“Because you keep staring at me like there’s something wrong with my face. So much so that you can’t follow a very simple conversation.”

“Believe me there’s nothing wrong with your face. Or mouth. Or -- you’re just. You’re fine. Where were we?”

Dean pulls at his shirt. As it gotten very hot in here?

Castiel still has a very quizzical look on his face. And then he frowns. And tilts his head, and-

And then he bites it. Tug at his bottom lip, sucks it lightly into his mouth.

Dean steadies his hand on the table behind him. Oh. Oh lord. Fucking Hell-

“Dean?”

“I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“You seem bothered.”

Yes, yes, Dean is very bothered. His legs are shaking.

“I gotta go.”

Escape is the only option left, because he’s pretty sure that one more look at those lips and he’ll just fucking collapse on the floor.

Bloody fucking Hell. Dean hears it before he sees it - the distinct sound of someone suckling on something delicious. He prays, hopes that it’s Sam or Jack who’s found a popsicle or a candy. Please. Please.

It’s not.  Of course it’s not. Of course he’s sucking on a cherry popsicle like the centre of it contains all the answers of the universe. 

Castiel’s mouth is blood red and Dean’s entire body seizes at the sight. Sweet juice coats his lips as he parts them around the treat again, purses them to suck in the taste, and pulls back. His tongue pokes out to clean the mess and Dean stumbles, all the blood supposed to be in his legs suddenly rushing somewhere else.

Castiel looks up when Dean accidentally walks right into a chair and curses. His lips curl into an almost smile. He runs his lips along the length of the popsicle, eyes locked with Dean’s, and then takes it all into his mouth again. 

His lips are obscenely stretched around the very phallic shape and he has the audacity to moan into it. His eyes flutter close and the sounds coming out of him are freaking pornographic. If Dean closed his eyes, he would swear he’s listening to something very, very naughty.

But his eyes aren’t closed. They’re open. Bulging out of their orbits, probably, as Castiel’s tongue pokes out again, curling around the frozen treat and then licking spare droplets from the side. 

Dean’s head spins. He grabs the chair and collapses in it. 

Castiel bites into the popsicle teeth first and swallows it down without blinking.

He knows.

“Alright, you gotta stop.”

“Stop what?” Dean narrows his eyes at Cas’ falsely innocent expression. 

They’ve been trying to crack down on research for two hours for the case Sam and Jack are on, and the whole time Cas has been doing things with his mouth. 

First it was just biting and nibbling at his lower lip. Then he kept touching it with his finger while pretending to think. And then, Castiel decided that he was hungry, and once he was done with his fries he sucked every single of his fingers into his mouth while staring Dean straight in the eyes. He didn’t even fucking blink once.

The asshole.

And now - now, well, he’s been suckling on his pen for at least ten minutes, making obscene little wet sound and occasionally nipping at it with his teeth. Dean’s entire body is covered in goosebumps, hair dressed on their ends, tight as a hamstring.

He can’t take this anymore.

“You know exactly what you’re doing, asshole. That - that thing with your mouth.” He gestures vaguely at Cas’ face. Cas’ eyebrows shoot up and his lips stretch into a smile. An evil smile. “I know you’re doing it on purpose.”

Cas runs the tip of his pen on his lips one last time - Dean can see the tip of his tongue poke out and he almost throws a book at his face - and then puts it down. His grin widens.

“And why would I be doing anything with my mouth on purpose, Dean? And why would it even bother you so much?”

He tilts his head in a way that would be cute if he wasn’t so fucking infuriating. His teeth nip at his curvy, shiny bottom lip. 

“You know why.”

Dean finally manages to tear his gaze away from it and he falls into Cas’ eyes - the striking blue of his irises stretched wide around his blown pupils. 

Holy fuck. Is Cas - is he  flirting? Because if he is, he’s enjoying it.

“Do I?”

God, even the way he raises that one eyebrow is arousing. This isn’t a fair fucking fight. And for all that Dean knows, Castiel is just having fun at his expend - this may be just a game to him. A game he’s obviously into, but this is a too dangerous territory to simply play.

“Alright,” Dean says, getting up. His chair rattles and almost falls back. “Stop.” 

Cas gets on his feet too, without breaking eye contact.

“Make me.”

Castiel’s tone has dropped to a gravelly husk, and there is no way to deny what Castiel means. What he wants.

Dean walks around the table to face him, willing his hands to stop shaking, his breath to come out even. It’s not easy. Castiel watches him without a word, until they’re almost nose to nose.

Dean fists his hands in the lapels of Cas’ stupid trench coat and starts pushing. He expected resistance, but there isn’t any. Cas steps backward, yields to the pressure of Dean’s hands until his back hits the wall.

They stare.

Cas’ cheeks are pink, his eyes dark, Dean can feel the warmth of his breath on his own jaw.

His lips are there. Pink and ever so plush, slightly parted. Awaiting.

As he leans  closer, Dean expects Castiel to stop him. It’s agonizingly slow, because Dean can’t believe every inch he’s allowed. Can’t believe the shivers when Cas wraps his hands around Dean’s wrist and doesn’t push back - instead he grips and pulls him even closer.

Their breaths mingle. Dean can almost feel the tingle of Cas’ mouth on his own.

Cas licks his lips and the invitation couldn’t be more clear, yet -

“Sure you want me to make you?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Oh, fuck. Dean briefly shuts his eyes - it’s just a little too much right now, the way Cas’ thunderstorm scent envelops him all at once, how wrecked his voice sounds as he breathes out the agreement. 

Dean could take him. Could slam him against the wall and kiss him hard, he could bite and eat at Castiel’s lips until Castiel moans for release, he could take what he wants and finally satisfy this constant feeling of urgency, this buzzing underneath his skin.

But he doesn’t. Because he can’t do this roughly. He needs to take his time. He needs to taste every last bit of Castiel’s lips, of his mouth, of his tongue, he’s going to go slow and savour every second of their kiss. He’s wanted this for so long. He needs to commit every touch to memory.

Dean brings up one of his hands up, slowly, and brushes his fingers over Cas’ open lips. He feels their curve, their smoothness, their wet warmth. Feels the lower one catch a little on the dry pad of his index. 

Castiel exhales a shuddering breath, his eyes flutter, his grip tightens on Dean’s arms. Dean’s palm moves, curving around Cas’ jaw, the tip of his fingers slipping under the soft curl on the nape of his neck.

He closes the last inch between them. 

It’s barely a brush of lips - a hint of taste - before he pulls back, just to watch the way Cas chases his mouth. The little huff of annoyance as Dean hovers just out of reach, before he tilts his head and leans in again. This time his kiss if firmer, fully feeling the soft plumpness of Cas’ lips against his own. The heat, as their lips part, as oh, their tongues meet. It’s soft. Infinitely soft.

Cas’ hand slide from Dean’s wrist to his neck, up until they pull at his hair, asking for more. The angel makes soft, keening sounds, and Dean crumbles inside. 

He buries his face in Cas’ neck and breathes, because he needs to. He feels like he’s about to pass out, chest heaving, head spinning.

“Are you okay?”

The words are whispered right into the shell of his ear. He can feel Cas’ lips brushing against his skin.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He pulls back to look into Castiel’s eyes - still dazed with lust but ever so blue. “I’m freaking amazing.”

Dean still thinks about it. Days and night. 24/7. 

It still keeps him distracted throughout most of the day. He still misses half of what Cas says because he can’t stop staring.

He thought it would change, to know, but it doesn’t. If anything, it only makes it worse.

The only difference is that now whenever he thinks about it, dreams about it, yearns for it, he can get it. He grabs Cas and kisses him in the middle of his sentences. He pushes him against walls, against tables, against counters, while they’re talking, eating, cooking. 

He kisses him in dark alleys between two witnesses, he kisses him outside the morgue, he kisses during the best scene of the movie. 

Sam calls them gross. Jack bemoans and covers his eyes. But Dean’s yet to hear a single complaint about it from Cas.

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