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Nothing goes over my head. My reflexes are too fast. I will catch it.


Sam and Cas both have tattoos, written in Enochian, over their hearts. They got them together, and they held each other’s hands (although they both have a high tolerance for pain and didn’t really need to). Now, when they meet again after a month, a week, a day apart, they rest their hands over each other’s tattoos and remember the words. They take off each other’s clothes and read them to themselves, smiling, brushing their fingers over the marked skin. They read them aloud to each other in soft voices, full of comfort and sincerity.

Cas’s says, “I have missed you.” It reminds Sam that he is precious and loved.

Sam’s says, “welcome home,” and it reminds the rebel angel that he has a place where he belongs. Always.


They were lying in bed, lulled to sleep by the thunderstorm outside, when Cas sat bolt upright, jerking the covers back and waking Sam.

"Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?"

"I have to go. Get blankets," Cas said, and in a breath he was gone. Sam’s heart was racing as he got up and dug through the closet for extra blankets, confused and still half-asleep but knowing better than to question it when Cas gave him an order.

It was only moments later that Cas reappeared, stumbling beside the bed and dripping wet, with a bundle of something in his arms.

"Help me get her out of these clothes," he said, barely glancing at Sam. It was then that he realized what Cas was carrying—it was Meg. Meg, whom they’d given up for dead months ago, and she was alive. She was soaked through and shaking with cold, though, and Cas was frantically trying to get her out of the wet layers. Where had she been? All that time…

Sam.” Cas grabbed his shoulder to bring him back to the present, and he helped Cas get Meg undressed and wrapped up in dry blankets in the center of the bed. Neither of them said anything else until they were lying on either side of her, Sam wrapped around her back and Cas stroking her face, looking for signs that she was improving.

"She prayed to me. I almost didn’t hear her, it was so… tentative. I think she was afraid to pray. That’s why she waited so long. She was in an alley…" He trailed off as he brushed the damp hair from her face, and Sam reached over to lay a comforting hand on Cas’s side. "I think she’s human, Sam. I don’t know how, but I think—"

"Heya, Clarence." Meg’s voice was weak but her mouth curled up in a small smile. "Did I miss the fun part of the threesome?"

Cas surprised Sam by chuckling at that, mostly out of relief, and they both wrapped themselves around her a little more tightly.

"Well, don’t go getting all sentimental, fellas. Takes more than a little impaling to kill me."

"We’re just glad you’re okay," Sam said, squeezing her arm gently. Cas nodded but didn’t seem able to speak.

"Me too, Sam," Meg answered. "Now shut up and let me sleep, ‘kay?"

They all fell asleep like that, wrapped up in each other in a mound of blankets. Soon, the storm had passed over, and in the morning, the sun was shining.




That’s life, that’s what all the people say
When I’m at the pearly gates
You’re cynical and beautiful
Monday morning wake up knowing that you’ve got to go to school
It’s a small town life and I like it

Castiel wonders what it might have been like, if they had met another way. If he hadn’t been an angel, and she a demon. If they hadn’t met in war and chaos. Maybe they could have been happy somewhere, in one of a million ordinary lives, with jobs that weren’t their destinies and families that weren’t all power and anger and death.

But if we had met another way, he realizes, wandering along the crest of a hill, watching the clouds float over the stars, I would not have been me, and she would not have been her, and I loved her. I loved her, he thinks, and his breath catches in his chest. Whatever else, I have to be glad to have had the chance to love her.

But if we had been human, he thinks, I could have buried her under a rose bush, and I would have had a place to go to say goodbye.


This is my hand, he thinks. This is my skin. This is my blood.

The body has been his since Jimmy moved on, but losing his grace made it…different. It was no longer a vessel, no longer something to be in; it was him. When it felt pain, he felt pain. When it felt thirst, hunger, tiredness, he felt them. How could humans concentrate on anything, he wondered, with their bodies so alert, always, so demanding and vulnerable and complicated?

These are my lips, he thinks. Those are her lips, and these are mine.

Touch became like an echo. It was no longer simply something he did, something he used his body to do; it was an exchange. When he touched April’s lips, she touched his. Was this why it was so difficult for humans to love? This echo of sensations, unpredictable and intimate, was this why they hesitated and stayed apart and stared longingly without reaching across the space between to touch?

This is my body, he thinks. These are my clothes, this is my home.

He felt affection for his body. He felt a caretaking urge toward it, and he was tender with it, experimenting with layers of clothes to manage temperature and considering the safety or danger of the spaces he inhabited. Showering at the bunker, he felt his body respond to the warmth and the pressure of the water, and he stayed under it until it ran cold. He would be kind to his body, he decided. He would let it be comfortable. And he would not be afraid to touch.

This is my wrist, he thinks. These are my bones, and they are on fire.

Being unable to heal himself was frightening. He had been human for hardly any time at all, and he had already collected so many injuries. How could he possibly protect this fragile body? He felt his chest heave, his breath coming more quickly as he tried to calm himself, to be still as Dean inspected his injury, but his face…well, it was his face now, and it must have shown everything he was feeling, because Dean stopped and looked at him with a frown.

"Did I hurt you?" He shook his head. "Cas, you’re okay, man. It’s a bad sprain, but I don’t think it’s broken," he said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, cradling Cas’s wrist gently. "You’re going to be okay."

"Am I, Dean? I thought I was, but now…I don’t know anymore."

"Hey, listen to me." Dean put a warm hand on the back of his neck, not letting him look away.

This is my skin.

"You’re going to get banged up, Cas. That’s life, okay? Look at me. I’ve broken pretty much every bone I’ve got, and I’m still going. The human body is a hell of a thing, man," he promised, bringing his hand back down to support Cas’s wrist again. "You can still heal yourself; it’s just gonna be a lot slower without your mojo."

Cas opened his mouth to respond, but he wasn’t sure what to say. How? He wanted to ask. How did humans live through all the accumulated pain, gathering new injuries as they waited for old ones to heal? He sat there, lips parted, thinking, and he saw Dean’s eyes flicker downward, only for a second.

These are my lips. Those are his lips, and these are mine.

Was this why they hesitated? The space between them felt too wide. Cas raised his uninjured hand carefully and lifted it to Dean’s collar, rubbing the fabric between his fingers and resting the side of his hand against Dean’s collarbone. He remembered unbuttoning his own shirt, and the way Dean had looked at him then.

This is my body. These are my clothes.

For a moment, Dean didn’t move, but he licked his own lips and looked at Cas’s again. Cas shifted his hand just enough to let his fingers rest on Dean’s throat, to feel his pulse there, fluttering rapidly just under the skin. He thought about how touch echoes, and how Dean must be feeling Cas’s skin against his own, how Dean’s hands still supported the weight of Cas’s wrist.

This is my home.

If nothing else, Cas knew Dean Winchester. He knew his insecurities and his fears. And the look in Dean’s eyes told him that it would have to be Cas. Just as the pain in his wrist told him something was wrong, the look in Dean’s eyes told him that something was right, he just needed help getting there.

I will not be afraid to touch.

He leaned in slowly so that Dean could back away, but he didn’t. He held still as Cas brushed their lips together, hardly touching at all.

Those are his lips, and these are mine.

Once, twice Castiel kissed him, softly and sweetly, before Dean moved, meeting Cas for the third kiss, closing his eyes and taking Cas’s lower lip between his own, holding it as carefully as he held his wrist. Cas felt it like a tremor all over.

These are my bones.

He slid his hand around Dean’s neck, feeling the tension in his muscles but unsure of what it meant. Touch was limited, he was finding. It was full of meaning but inarticulate, and he wanted to know. Needed to know. He pulled away and waited for Dean to open his eyes.

"Cas…" He looked so unsure, almost lost.

"I want this, Dean. I want you. What do you want?"

"I want…" Dean hesitated for a moment, glancing down at Cas’s wrist like he was afraid of breaking him more than he already was. But when he looked up, his eyes were dark and sure. "Want you, Cas. I want you." This time, Dean leaned across the space between them, and his kisses were hungry, and Cas felt them in every part of his body.

These are my bones, and they are on fire.


They’re all worried about Bucky. For Steve’s sake, yes, but also because how can you not be worried about the guy? He looks like a trapped animal all the time. Or at least he would, if he ever came out of his room.

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Cas has this habit of never being more than a room or two away from Sam, so much so that Dean thinks of it as Cas’s “orbit,” and it actually makes life easier; if you’ve found one of them, the other can’t be far away. So, although Castiel has patiently explained that there is no relationship between angels and stars, or planets, or any other inanimate celestial objects, Dean insists on calling him Sam’s “moon.” “Sam, your moon left the peanut butter open again.” “Sam, your moon mopped himself into a corner in the kitchen and needs to be rescued.” “Dude, did you piss off your moon? He’s, like, three rooms away from you.”

Although it aggravates Cas, Sam thinks it’s cute. And, being the massive nerd that he is, he gets Cas to read Game of Thrones so he’ll get the reference when Sam calls him “moon of my life.”

It makes his heart skip a beat when Cas starts calling him, “my sun and stars.”


The first time Meg lets Cas use his grace to hold her still while he goes down on her, she cries. He stops, worried, and asks if he hurt her, but she says no, just the opposite. And she’s still crying, so he holds her in his arms for a while until she can explain that he’s the first person—angel, demon, or otherwise—that she doesn’t have to be even a little afraid of. The first one to make her feel safe.

So he holds her close, and wraps her up in his grace, and kisses her gently, everywhere.