imitation is the highest form of flattery? set in endverse, Deancas postsex cuddles
And Dean slides a leg between Cas’s and that is the moment that Castiel becomes truly his. Every ounce of tension in his body just bleeds out, his face nuzzling against the pillow as if his body can't quite remember where Dean is but is so drunk on trying to show affection he'll give it to anything around him. "Dean..." He says with the air that angels sing in, and Dean /can't, he's so weak to everything Cas is, and is finding out with every passing second that it goes much deeper than he ever expected. His fingers trace lightly up Cas's spine, catching on vertebrae and Cas pants out breaths that speak of worship, his world narrowed entirely to Dean. (As if it had ever been anything but. Had there ever been a time the angel didn't speak his name with loss and pride and disappointment, anger and bleeding bleeding love?) And Cas's back arches into the touch of Dean's fingertips, his face dropping blank and blissful, brows just barely furrowing as his mouth opens, completely lost in pleasure. And it’s in that simple motion that Cas gives Dean his /heart, forces him to look at it beating warmly in his fingers and make him /acknowledge that, if he had looked, he had always truly had it. And Dean could /sob with the blank trust Cas gives him with his entire self, asking for nothing in return. In frailer times, he would whisper words of incredulity to the ex-angel, asking him how he had got so lucky. But now Cas looks /angelic like this, and Dean stores that image, in a small warm place that he won't admit to anyone, even himself, that he has inside. Lust and needs have their place, but there is just blind love and disbelief in its storage. And Cas's nails are pressing so /lightly into the arm that Dean has wrapped around his ribs, and the rest of the world fades out. There's only Cas. And there's only him. And there's only them. And there's only /good. For a quiet, still morning at the edges of the world. There is only good.
