[ kissing dean feels like something from a dream, like a fantasy realized, because.. well, he supposes that it is. he's thought about this so many times that it's embarrassing, too many times to count, but it's just as good as he'd hoped. dean is, unsurprisingly, a good kisser - a great kisser, his mouth soft and warm and inviting, and when dean pulls away castiel feels dizzy and confused, his chin tipping forward like he's following after, unable to understand where this good feeling has gone, and more importantly, why.
when his eyes lift up to find dean's, castiel's breath is rushing and his face is warm, his hands still caging in dean's face, thumbs smoothing just beneath his cheekbones. he's too damned good-looking for his own good, even so close, and in all this dimness. castiel is so frustratingly taken with him that he can hardly stand it, that just lying here looking up into his face is distracting, that he'd rather stare into dean's eyes than watch the meteors streaking overhead, or the beautiful swath of stars glittering in the belt of milky way above them.
he's got it so bad. it's a problem. ]
Huh?
[ he says, eloquently, his mind still reeling, his hands dropping from dean's face and down onto his shoulders, leather creaking beneath his fingers as he grasps loosely. ]
What do you mean?
[ because he's absolutely not suggesting that he's.. thought about this before.
is he?
castiel can't even entertain that idea. guys like dean don't think about guys like castiel, and while cas has certainly learned quite a lot about him, and gotten to know him well enough to see that dean isn't at all entirely the way he presents himself, that there's so much more to him than the tough guy playboy exterior. but the fact still stands that dean sleeps around, that he can get any girl that he wants, and castiel isn't.. exactly the desirable type, with his rumpled, ill-fitting clothes and his nose stuffed perpetually into a book. dean likes, you know, busty, flashy girls with short skirts and confidence, castiel isn't exactly, uh, his type. ]
no subject
when his eyes lift up to find dean's, castiel's breath is rushing and his face is warm, his hands still caging in dean's face, thumbs smoothing just beneath his cheekbones. he's too damned good-looking for his own good, even so close, and in all this dimness. castiel is so frustratingly taken with him that he can hardly stand it, that just lying here looking up into his face is distracting, that he'd rather stare into dean's eyes than watch the meteors streaking overhead, or the beautiful swath of stars glittering in the belt of milky way above them.
he's got it so bad. it's a problem. ]
Huh?
[ he says, eloquently, his mind still reeling, his hands dropping from dean's face and down onto his shoulders, leather creaking beneath his fingers as he grasps loosely. ]
What do you mean?
[ because he's absolutely not suggesting that he's.. thought about this before.
is he?
castiel can't even entertain that idea. guys like dean don't think about guys like castiel, and while cas has certainly learned quite a lot about him, and gotten to know him well enough to see that dean isn't at all entirely the way he presents himself, that there's so much more to him than the tough guy playboy exterior. but the fact still stands that dean sleeps around, that he can get any girl that he wants, and castiel isn't.. exactly the desirable type, with his rumpled, ill-fitting clothes and his nose stuffed perpetually into a book. dean likes, you know, busty, flashy girls with short skirts and confidence, castiel isn't exactly, uh, his type. ]