[ Should've could've would've's don't do anyone any good; it's too late, Dean's too deep. He does need Cas, and it has nothing to do with angelic grace or power, or because of what Cas is, inside that vessel. It has nothing to do with what Cas can do for him and everything to do with the fact that Dean's hopelessly, carelessly, recklessly in love with him. Timeline shifting and magic and whatever aside, those feelings didn't disappear. Those memories didn't flutter away. He remembers every kiss, every touch; Cas' smile as Dean leaned in between his thighs to steal soft kisses in the greenhouse, the way they curled together in bed at night, tangled limbs and sweaty foreheads, panted breaths, white hot kisses, and curls of pleasure.
The kisses Cas gives him now are soft on his skin, sweet and tender, but each one he's gifted with stabs like knife in his soul, twisting deeper in his heart, the ache trickling out like a fatal, slow bleeding wound. It feels like some kind of final goodbye, like Cas is trying to let him down gently by giving him what he thinks he needs, and it hurts, but more than that - it leaves him a little frantic, desperate.
He slides his hands up under Cas' coats, around his waist, fingers curling in his shirt, pulling at the material to untuck it so he can get his hands on skin. ]
You keep -- telling me what I need, what I don't need, what you think I deserve, but what about what I want? I dunno how many times I've gotta tell you that I want you. I don't care what flavor you come in. Dickhead angel or junkie, I just want you.
[ There's a pathetic plea in his voice that Dean doesn't like; he sounds weak and needy, terrified and small. Like he's a little kid again, asking his daddy where Mommy went, and getting only silence in reply. ]
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[ Should've could've would've's don't do anyone any good; it's too late, Dean's too deep. He does need Cas, and it has nothing to do with angelic grace or power, or because of what Cas is, inside that vessel. It has nothing to do with what Cas can do for him and everything to do with the fact that Dean's hopelessly, carelessly, recklessly in love with him. Timeline shifting and magic and whatever aside, those feelings didn't disappear. Those memories didn't flutter away. He remembers every kiss, every touch; Cas' smile as Dean leaned in between his thighs to steal soft kisses in the greenhouse, the way they curled together in bed at night, tangled limbs and sweaty foreheads, panted breaths, white hot kisses, and curls of pleasure.
The kisses Cas gives him now are soft on his skin, sweet and tender, but each one he's gifted with stabs like knife in his soul, twisting deeper in his heart, the ache trickling out like a fatal, slow bleeding wound. It feels like some kind of final goodbye, like Cas is trying to let him down gently by giving him what he thinks he needs, and it hurts, but more than that - it leaves him a little frantic, desperate.
He slides his hands up under Cas' coats, around his waist, fingers curling in his shirt, pulling at the material to untuck it so he can get his hands on skin. ]
You keep -- telling me what I need, what I don't need, what you think I deserve, but what about what I want? I dunno how many times I've gotta tell you that I want you. I don't care what flavor you come in. Dickhead angel or junkie, I just want you.
[ There's a pathetic plea in his voice that Dean doesn't like; he sounds weak and needy, terrified and small. Like he's a little kid again, asking his daddy where Mommy went, and getting only silence in reply. ]