Are You There, God? [30 Snapshots ; 15. Stars]
Are You There, God?
Who: Dean/Castiel
What: 30 Snapshots; 15. Stars // Castiel and Dean go stargazing.
When: Season 5
Words: 487
Warnings: None.
There were billions of them. Trillions of them. Too many to count, and they just kept appearing, kept reproducing, kept recreating.
There had to be a God.
Castiel did not move, did not ache or itch, but he felt these quirks of humanity buzz beside him; lived vicariously through the breath and substance that was Dean Winchester. Bones knit together, skin stretched taut over a skeletal, muscular frame. The stars were staring down at them, and it was cold, and he moved closer, and he smiled when Castiel softened.
The angel was a supernova. An explosion of energy, a flare of purple clouds singed with black veins, of blues so bright as to be excruciating, and greens reflected on hazy puffs of smoke. He was violent and raging and a swell of energy swirling beneath the surface of an immovable coil.
The human was the night sky; a blanket of stars scattered on the wind, ripples clung around a magician's bucket and tossed on a midnight canvas. Every constellation, every interstellar intention, all the beauty and ugliness and fascination and biting, bitter cold. There was insignificance set upon the soul when one looked at him for too long.
There had to be a God.
There was Dean Winchester, whose hands were warm when they closed over unfeeling fingers, whose eyes were shaded in shadows and whose breath made little shapes when it curled out from between his lips. There was the cruelty of a chill, and the comfort of mortality, and the little smirks and comments that never ceased to confuse the angel, never ceased to intrigue or annoy him. But the emotions didn't matter here; the principal did.
There was Dean Winchester, and so there had to be a God.
"How many stars are there, Cas?"
His questions were sometimes odd, but never unwelcome.
"They are unending."
"Oh."
The palm of Dean's warm hand was folded over the top of Castiel's knuckles; fingers twined delicately with the angel's digits.
He was in one of those moods, tonight. The kind he kept tucked safely away inside his own mind, waiting until the little demon in his head ranted and raved long enough to grate on every sense of self he still retained. When Sam was there, he was silent. When he wanted to scream, he sighed. And with Castiel, it was the same; unless the stars were frowning down upon him, and his head was incapable of turning away from the accusing looks because he was afraid he might accidentally catch the angel's eye.
Castiel didn't move, but it felt like he had rolled over and engulfed Dean in his presence -- wrapped him up and stroked his burning skin with a wave of celestial heat that shivered down the angel's spine like a soft tremor. It was natural for his stoicism to feel vivacious.
There was Dean Winchester, and there was Castiel, and there were the stars, and so there had to be a God.