For perlukafari, who wanted me to write about Cas and Dean kissing each other better. Smth like a 10x22 Coda.
It’s been so long, the Mark already gone for years, their lives settled, their feelings confessed, a balance and a way to go on finally found, and yet sometimes it comes back to them. To Dean, mostly. But sometimes to Cas, too.
(Cas has long forgiven him – that’s the problem, according to Dean. Because Cas had already forgiven him as it was happening, forgave each blow as it was landing, condoned every punch as it struck and painful word as it left his mouth, every way of hurting him that Dean could come up with. It was already forgiven by the time it was done.
Yet, Dean still came crawling up to him when all of it had blown over, when the Mark was gone, on his knees and with tears in his eyes and his hands shaking once again. And he kissed Castiel’s fingers and pleaded and sobbed out his apologies, begging for Cas to forgive him and to trust him once more, promising to never hurt him again, to do whatever Cas wants him to if only he could somehow make it right again. That was when Castiel sat down next to him on the ground, asked for the same forgiveness for a crime Dean himself had long forgotten about, and kissed not only the tips of Dean’s fingers and his knuckles and his palms, but also his salty eyelids and cheeks and lips. It was the first time they kissed, and ever since then, neither of them seems to be able to hold back anymore, to stop with trying to steal kisses whenever possible, to languidly indulge in them whenever they are alone.)
Still. There are nights when what happened still haunts them – be it the crypt or the library, be it an alley from what seems like another lifetime. Every now and then, either of them wakes up shaking and crying and in utter fear of themselves, of what they have already proven themselves capable of.
But those nights, like every night now, they are not alone. They are not left to themselves, their bodies still trembling with the trauma it just felt to have received, their hands not still grasping to a wrist or an angel blade; instead, their shaking bodies are enveloped by the warmth of each other, and their hands are intertwined with their beloved’s hands. The other’s eyes will always already be looking back, through the haze of tears and the lingering nightmare, the memory, into the other’s eyes, and deeper still.
It’s only the soft reassurances that bring them back; the gentle touches whose only purpose is to rewrite the memory their bodies and souls have received, to cancel out the hurt, replace the expectation of pain with that of tender affection. There’s kisses and shushing and sometimes the unity of bodies, life-affirming and honest in the basest of ways. Those nights, there’s not an inch of skin on either of their bodies that doesn’t receive caresses, doesn’t receive kisses. Even with the way their mouths always wander back to the other’s mouth, unable not to, drawn to it like a magnet, to taste the essence of the other, of their relationship and of everything that they are, straight from the source. As a result, their lips will be swollen, will be cherry red and smiling, always.
They take their time, sometimes the whole night, to do what both of them need to do: to see that there is no harm to them to come, and none from them to do. That in every touch now, there is only ever the intention to love, and that both the crypt and the library are things of the past.