starsinursa:

On the nights Dean doesn’t dream of his mother burning, he dreams of Castiel. He dreams of his hands.

– of a hand perched on the backseat between them, a careless offer, the minutes trickling away until Billie comes to collect, and Castiel is looking at Dean, he can tell something’s wrong, but Dean can’t tell him, not quite yet, and all he really wants to do is reach out and grasp that hand in his own, palm to palm. But he doesn’t.

– of long fingers darting out with the quick grace of a bird alighting, plucking a cassette tape from his own fingertips with just enough haste that it loosens the knot in his stomach, but it still doesn’t quiet the voice in his own head telling him that Castiel didn’t want to come back, doesn’t want the cassette back, doesn’t want Dean to choke down his pride and ask Cas to stay, just this time, stop leaving, please. So he doesn’t.

– of two healing fingertips pressed against his forehead, rough and warm, the last time Castiel’s hands ever touch him in those final moments before everything goes to shit and Dean loses everything, but he doesn’t know that yet, he only knows that something feels different this time, something feels off, and he wonders if he should ask why his skin feels like it’s tingling with the phantom sensation of a kiss goodbye.

But he doesn’t.