Here, Castiel thinks, is where Dean belongs. With his head in Castiel’s lap, hiseyelashes fluttering against the freckled expanse of his cheekbones, his lips parted as though about to sigh. All of him beautiful and relaxed, deep in the sort of slumber that comes with trust and the knowledge that he is being absolutely safe.
Castiel smiles at his own thought and strokes one hand over Dean’s forehead and the other along the curve of his spine, following this primal, cramped position Dean fell asleep in, until he reaches the small of his back and can go no further. He repeats the motion, time and time again, and it is worth it to see Dean let out the softest of sounds and stretch out just so, taking in more space and making himself that much more vulnerable, instinctively.
In lie of bowing his head to scatter kisses to the myriad of freckles adorning Dean’s skin, Castiel’s fingertips dance carefully over Dean’s forehead, to his hairline and down towards his nose and chin and lips, where he is sensitive and sweet; where he is Dean.
Castiel’s smile grows when Dean snuffs as Castiel’s fingers pass his nose and trace along the inviting bow of his upper lip, yet does not pull away but nuzzle against his fingers. He looks almost searching, with his lips brushing Castiel, and it has Castiel aching with love.
Testing, Castiel opens his palm and lays it against the side of Dean’s face. And Dean, as Castiel had hoped he would but feared he would not, lets his face and all of his head lean into the touch, lays himself to rest without any hesitation or disruption to his slumber, seems to sink only deeper into it.
And for a moment, the weight of Dean’s head seems impossibly much, his skull too fragile and his brain too laden. Such a burden for Dean to carry on his shoulders any other day; such a privilege to be party to.
It’s too much, the thought strikes like thunder inside of Castiel’s mind. It’s too much, and it will never be enough.
Yet then, as sleepy he is serene, Dean calls out for Castiel – in what is barely more than a half-hushed, half-pleaded little “Cas” –, presses his lips against a stray thumb and opens all of his posture up to Castiel, lets himself go in his trust and dreams, with loose limbs and sighed names.
And just as Castiel’s heart breaks and brims over both at once, he cradles him closer to himself and he knows that if here is where Dean belongs, then this is where he belongs, too.
I did the thing. I recorded every. single. possible. audition.
Story time though: I was recording for the Ringwraith last cause I knew it was gonna be the end of my voice… and so I’m hissing into the mic and making these awful screechy sounds for the hell of it. And then I hear it, this confused whimper from behind my door. I thought I was home alone. Nope, I managed to terrify the shit out of my mother.
I had fun with all of them though. Bifur sounded a bit like he was chewing rocks I think, but I lovelovelove speaking khuzdul and working out how long-term khuzdul speech would affect an accent. That was probably my favorite out of the bunch to record.
Anyway, ignore my rambles.
TL;DR - I recorded my sansukh auditions and scared the crap out of my mother. Duel purpose recording, aw yiss.
Cas and Dean standing at the altar, wearing white tuxes and wide smiles, as they have overcome all obstacles and adversaries, especially themselves, and are finally about to marry. And they make it through the ceremony just fine, as boring as the religious stuff is (Cas insisted on a church wedding), but when they reach the part where they have to speak their wedding vows, Dean feels his heart suddenly pounding away in his chest and the church suddenly feels ten times hotter and his hands clammy and wet and all gross. Worst of all, Cas seems to have prepared the most beautiful of vows, millenniae of poetry woven into his words, and he presents it with a steady gaze and a fond smile and an expression of nothing but open love. And then, it’s Dean’s turn suddenly, and he feels naseous and like he’s boiling inside his tux, and he just – can’t. He prepared his vow, too, wrote and rewrote it for weeks, to make it perfect, as perfect as Cas is, as perfect as he deserves. And it might still not be good enough, but it’s Dean’s honest feelings, and it’s all he has to offer.
So he tries to stammer and stumble out what he needs to say, face burning and voice wavering, hyper-aware of all the eyes fixed on him. But he swallows and stops too often, his voice breaking off into nothing on every other word, like a nervous child, like a man without a clue, and he feels like crying. Because he wants to tell Cas, he does, wants him to know everything he wrote down, everything he feels. But he can’t, not in front of all these people, because they are not the ones who are supposed to see him laid bare and vulnerable, not the ones for whom his words and shy confessions are meant.
And Cas, his awesome and understanding Cas, gets it. He catches Dean’s grossly sweaty hands in his own without so much as a grimace, gently pulls him closer to himself, nestles his ear right against Dean’s too-sensitive lips, and whispers, low and only for Dean to hear, “Tell me.”
And maybe in the end Dean does cry when with this so simple display, this reaffirmation of that he has placed his trust and all of his affection into the right person, he can finally tell Cas of all the ways that he loves him.