“But angels are pouring out of the farmland, angels are swarming
Over the grassland,
Angels rising from their little dens, arms swinging, wings aflutter,
Dropping their white-hot bombs of love
They want you to love the whole damn world but you won’t,
You want it all narrowed down to one fleshy man in the bath,
Who knows what to do with his body, with his hands”
-Richard Siken, “Driving, Not Washing”
He’s a man-but-not-a-man, a pale, red-fingertipped ghost that drifts from room to room, and sometimes sings.
Dean sits on his bed and watches him go, shedding clothes as he walks; uninhibited (what reason does he have?) he drops things everywhere, makes a mess until he unmakes it again, later; and now he is filling the bath.
The scent of warm water – that loamy, comforting, childhood smell – is drifting out of the bathroom, following Castiel when he swings the door open, then shut again, drifting out into the bedroom and then back into the bathroom. Each time he makes the trip he is less clothed; he shrugs out of his suit-jacket (caked in mud), out of his tie, his shirt; he makes another trip and returns pantsless, Jimmy’s white, wide-banded boxer-briefs riding high on his thighs.
Dean sits on the bed, just – watching. Makes no comment on the angel, how the lines of his back move when he walks, how he hums gently to himself, (and Dean didn’t even know he knew songs, let alone the classics – Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday) – Castiel sings ‘Gloomy Sunday’, half a hum, half an absent-minded whisper, and Dean watches, and Castiel sheds his clothes.
“I would like to kiss you,” says Castiel, looking down at the figure of Dean Winchester. The words taste strange, unfamiliar in his mouth, but… nice, possibly. He considers this for a moment, and then repeats them, tentatively. “I would like to kiss you.”
“And this is Cas, my…”
And that’s where he always stops. Cas will step in sometimes, fill the silence with some meaningless words, partner being one of the terms he is more fond of. Other times, the person he’s talking to will get it without any descriptors needed, will smile…
oh gosh but just after Dean’s little comment about wanting to send the person who was killing demons flowers, and we now know it was Cas, I just want Dean to remember it somewhere down the line when things have settled.
and he does it half as a joke, trying to put a…
And then you cry and your tears are of the Studio Ghibli variety, pouring fat and fast down your dusty cheeks.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Dean; by the gramophone, moving awkwardly from foot to foot – just trying it out, just a little, and Swayze was a sex symbol, wasn’t he? Swayze was hot, right? - looks up at him. He flings an arm out – jogs the needle off, making the music skip…
Cas is sat at the table, his hair swept unruly, hurricane tousled, a perfect complement to the way Dean’s faded t-shirt sits on his shoulders a little too big and slipping on the curve of his left collar. He’s only got on boxers and a pair of black socks that Sam loaned him,…