[ It's Dean, the alternate timeline didn't matter. Not in retrospect. Castiel knew him inside and out, tied the fibers of his being back together, and reconstructed the strings of his heart. He knew him better than he knew himself.
He needs a haircut, Castiel never knew Dean to let his hair get too long. Always somewhere between a crew cut and a mohawk, but never one more than the other. It's a lot to take in, the hair on his jaw from forgetting to shave - maybe two days too many without taking the razor to it. Castiel's still taking it in when Dean says no, and the firmness that follows startles him enough to bring his attention back to his eyes and he finds the desperation in them too late to do anything but drown in those pools of green before their lips meet and Castiel's confusion and his discomfort are overridden by desire.
It's a selfish thing, kissing him back, and Castiel wouldn't have given himself so wholly if he'd been convinced that this was really happening. Maybe this was still part of the dream, maybe he'd wake up in the station with a twisted gut and goosebumps. Dean's grip is still firm though, and Castiel can feel it through the layers on his arms and it's that small acknowledgment that lets him believe that just maybe this was real, and maybe Dean wanted him the same way Castiel had wanted him without words or a name to put to it.
He's gone. Reckless abandon. The only thing that matters to him now is the way Dean's lips feel on his and after millennia his worldview has been completely centered on that, on him.
His arms, which were initially at his sides find purchase in the wings of Dean's back, and he opens his mouth deliberately beckoning something more, wild and hungry like a predator trying to lure prey. If this was some fluke thing, some way that the cosmic creativity of the ship sought to preoccupy him Castiel was going to take it regardless. After dying for it, admitting it only to end his own life, he knew that moments like these were precious and worthwhile. ]
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He needs a haircut, Castiel never knew Dean to let his hair get too long. Always somewhere between a crew cut and a mohawk, but never one more than the other. It's a lot to take in, the hair on his jaw from forgetting to shave - maybe two days too many without taking the razor to it. Castiel's still taking it in when Dean says no, and the firmness that follows startles him enough to bring his attention back to his eyes and he finds the desperation in them too late to do anything but drown in those pools of green before their lips meet and Castiel's confusion and his discomfort are overridden by desire.
It's a selfish thing, kissing him back, and Castiel wouldn't have given himself so wholly if he'd been convinced that this was really happening. Maybe this was still part of the dream, maybe he'd wake up in the station with a twisted gut and goosebumps. Dean's grip is still firm though, and Castiel can feel it through the layers on his arms and it's that small acknowledgment that lets him believe that just maybe this was real, and maybe Dean wanted him the same way Castiel had wanted him without words or a name to put to it.
He's gone. Reckless abandon. The only thing that matters to him now is the way Dean's lips feel on his and after millennia his worldview has been completely centered on that, on him.
His arms, which were initially at his sides find purchase in the wings of Dean's back, and he opens his mouth deliberately beckoning something more, wild and hungry like a predator trying to lure prey. If this was some fluke thing, some way that the cosmic creativity of the ship sought to preoccupy him Castiel was going to take it regardless. After dying for it, admitting it only to end his own life, he knew that moments like these were precious and worthwhile. ]