[ The little expenditure of grace isn't nearly enough. Castiel still feels like he's vibrating beneath his body's skin, the miniscule chemical structure of his atoms spinning and colliding wildly, crawling towards nuclear.

Dean is gone again, and Castiel's skin feels suddenly cool, which should be a blessing given the heat and the imminent explosive climax he feels, but instead he whines in neglect, opening his eyes and lifting his head to see where exactly Dean's gone when all Castiel wants is more touching, more of Dean's warm skin and soul being closer. He's taking of his shorts, Castiel realizes dumbly as he watches Dean do it, and yes. Yes, that's wonderful. He'll allow it, if only to have more of Dean touching him soon.

But that soon doesn't come. Dean is looking around, and Castiel frowns in confusion, at a loss for what Dean could possibly be doing. Is it about the photographs again? Then, instead, Dean is asking that, and Castiel feels his grace recoil in insult at the question. Dean, you incredible, beautiful idiot. Castiel leans up onto his elbows and deadpans. ]

Angels don't have assholes, Dean. Or mouths, or genitalia.

[ It's not something Castiel enjoys being reminded of while he's trying to imagine himself as human, and he can't imagine Dean would find his true form attractive, either. And yet, Castiel feels obligated to explain. ]

Angels are made of grace. It's creation energy. Like the human soul, but... lesser.

[ He tempers the words by kneeling up in the bed and reaching for Dean. He catches Dean by neck and pulls him back down, slowly, into the bed. His other hand finds Dean's wrist, and he tangles their fingers together. As his fingers slip through Dean's, they become slick until they're dripping with thick honey-colored oil. Castiel kisses Dean's mouth as he arches back down into the bed, spreading his thighs, encouraging Dean's dripping hand to press between them. ]

You have no idea how remarkable you are.