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The moon hangs low and full in the sky, casting a silver edge to everything it touches. The curtains are drawn back, the window opened to the night breeze, warms still from the days heat.
Calloused fingertips trail down his side, and he shivers slightly, gooseflesh rising on his arms. The fingers rest upon his hips delicately, and Castiel smiles inwardly, because ‘delicate’ is not a word that anyone would use to describe Dean Winchester, but he certainly knows differently.
The man is beneath him, not moving, just looking, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Castiel knows that that is a nervous habit for Dean, and it is one that sends a surge of heat through his belly.
Castiel’s fingers trace down Dean’s chest, to his stomach, and he relishes in the feel of taut skin and smooth scars and fine, curly hairs.
Dean speaks then as Castiel’s eyes and fingers fall to one particular scar on Dean’s side, and he pointlessly explains that it came from a burst appendix. Pointless, of course, because Castiel knows everything that there is to know about this man.
Time works differently in the Pit, this much Dean knows to be true. However, he does not know of the time that Castiel and him spent together, several months, a blip on the timeline that is Castiel’s existence, but somehow he still remembers every miniscule moment.
He remembers the way that Dean’s atoms felt, full of energy and purpose and righteousness and profound sorrow. He inspected each and every one and found that, perhaps, Dean’s atoms were more beautiful than the stars in the night sky.
He built up every block of bone, weaved together the flesh that is warm beneath is fingers, smoothed out the skin, and sewed it all together with his Grace. The marrow in Dean’s bones and the blood in his veins is the very lifeblood that is within Castiel.
The way Dean’s eyelashes look in every setting and lighting, the color of every freckle and mole that litter his body, the flecks of gold and ark green in Dean’s eyes; all have been carefully catalogued and preserved. There is no detail that has escaped Castiel’s observant eye.
Dean’s memories are now Castiel’s, for he watched every one during their time together in the Pit. He knows all of Dean’s secrets, fears, worries, vices, and pleasures without Dean having to ever vocalize them. When he does, however rare, Castiel is quiet and allows him to talk, for he knows how hard it must be.
And when Castiel had finished and Dean was complete, his soul soothed and mended the best it could be, Castiel reveled in the work of art that was Dean. A work of art that had existed before his touch, but that Castiel had newly uncovered, and he couldn’t help but leave his mark upon his Father’s work; He would never know Dean the way that Castiel did anyway.
‘Cas?’ Dean breathes, breaking Castiel from his thoughts.
He looks at the man below him, a look on his face that makes Castiel momentarily believe that Dean knows, that he knows what Castiel had done and that he couldn’t possible be blamed for falling in love with the man who’s atoms rivaled the very galaxy that contained them. No, he couldn’t be blamed for that.
Deans licks his full lips, lips that Castiel agonized over for days in the Pit, and he bends down to kiss him as has so many times before, so many that Dean is simply not aware of.
His eyes are closed when Castiel pulls back, and they stay closed as he nudges at the space below Dean’s ear. His hips roll languidly against Dean’s, and the contact elicits a small moan, and Castiel thinks about how beautiful it was to restring Dean’s vocal chords, much like a fine harp.
‘Cas,’ Dean murmurs again, still curious about Castiel’s pause from earlier.
Castiel has no idea how to explain to him how he had memorized every color in his hair, how he had sifted through every synapse and neuron in his body and how he loves him for each and every one individually.
Instead, he settles for the first thing that comes to his mind; ‘Your atoms are stars and I will spend eternity learning them.’