He can count the particles of stardust in his vessel like he could once count freckles on a face.
He can taste every molecule in every bite like he could once taste sweat and sex on tan skin.
He can’t sleep anymore. Not because he doesn’t have a need to, but because the voice of him is echoing inside his brain. He drinks a lot, beer to beer in front of a shitty old TV in a shitty old motel room--waiting.
For a call.
For a sweet text.
For a plea, for him to come back.
It ended before it really began, but it was still the most exhilarating experience Castiel had had in millenniums.
And it slipped through his fingers so quickly-- like sand washing back out to sea.















