There are many human turns of phrase that Castiel felt he would never understand. One was the frustratingly illogical phrase “making love”. It never made sense; how love could be brought into being. And especially by a sweaty, frantic, physical act.
But then it happened between them, and things… changed.
The morning after, he woke to Dean’s lazy kisses against his neck. Something warm inside him began to unfurl, making home in his chest as he wrapped Dean close to his side.
He would glance at Sam, snoring in the backseat of the Impala, and take the moment of privacy to gently, hesitantly lay his hand on the back of Dean’s. There was a flicker of surprise in Dean’s eyes; then they would soften, crinkle at the edges, as he threads his fingers through Castiel’s. The sun, suddenly, is brighter and warmer through the windows.
Touches became gentler, kinder, between them; a soft brush of Dean’s palm against his shoulder as he sat at the table, reading. Castiel holding Dean’s bruised face between his hands as he gust out a breath of relief, feeling the beloved pulse against his fingers. In the night, Dean’s fingertips absently stroking, feather-light, against the small of Castiel’s bare back, as he fell asleep.
Castiel’s mood would inexplicably lift, just from a smile from Dean that was aimed in his direction. Dean’s frown would often be smoothed away when Castiel would (attempt) to make a joke.
They began to knew what each other needed, wanted, in a simple glance. They would be inevitably pulled to each other’s gravity; to stand beside, to be close to. It felt like their orbits were entwined; never to be pulled apart.
No, Castiel did not understand the term “making love” - not until Dean showed him how.
