Dean sometimes wondered why Cas’ handprint faded. A brand from an angel carrying his soul from Hell sounds like something that should be permanent. He remembered the first time he saw it like it was yesterday.
He remembered the smell of the dingy stop n’ shop store bathroom, the cracks and scuff on the mirror, the sickly color of the walls. He remembered the dirt dirt still clinging to his skin like itchy film, and he remembered the sweltering heat that no amount of shade could relieve.
He remembered the way the brand burned as the cotton sleeve of his shirt rubbed against it, how Cas’ huge hand engulfed most of his shoulder, immortalized in a position of possessiveness. Dean hadn’t known them, but Cas had all but slapped “Property of Castiel” on his ass with that mark.
Dean could remember all of that, but he couldn’t remember when it disappeared. Many times when he couldn’t sleep or took first watch he tried to go back and pinpoint exactly when it faded.
Sometimes, he’d find himself slipping into an odd daydream of Cas’ hand fitting over the print, his big palm and long fingers brushing across his chest and pressing over the raised bumps of the mark he left. Dean would fantasize of his breath warming his neck, soft hair tickling his skin, lips gently brushing his.
Every time he would jerk himself out of it, cover it up with denial and Busty Asian Beauties before his imagination took him where no man has gone before.
He’d avoid thinking about the handprint for weeks, and usually the world was ending enough that it would distract him even further. Sometimes he’d distract himself with a willing lady from a bar—anything to prove to himself that he wanted a woman and not his best (dude shaped) friend.
Those weren’t exactly his proudest moments.
So after Chuck and the Empty and Cas’ dumb fucking deal and Jack, Dean finally got a chance to figure it out for real.
He didn’t have to imagine Cas holding him close, or his breath and lips against his skin anymore. He was experiencing it at the current moment.
“Why did your handprint go away?”
There was a rustle as Cas moves from behind him, leaning on his elbow and peering over at him.
Dean shrugged, scooting around so they were facing each other, legs tangled in the sheets.
“Dunno, I just think about it sometimes. Can’t remember when it faded.”
Cas reached out and traced Dean’s bare shoulder, outlining his handprint that had once been there. His eyebrows were furrowed slightly, his eyes squinty.
“It hasn’t.” He replied. “I can feel it.”
“What?” Dean blurted, slapping a hand over his shoulder and feeling around. “Dude, no way. I’ve been touching this and looking for years.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” Cas said, gently pushing Dean’s fingers away. He pressed his whole hand against his freckled shoulder, holding it just like Dean has always imagined. “It had a piece of my grace in it. I can still feel it there, marking you.”
Dean raised an eyebrow as a slight flush appeared on Cas’ cheeks.
“Marking me as what?” He asked, teasing. He already knew the answer. Cas gave him an exasperated look.
“Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it.”
Cas snorted and moved, looming over Dean with his hand still planted firmly on his shoulder. He leaned in close, their noses brushing and their breath mingling.
“Marking you as mine.” He whispered, tracing Dean’s freckles with his lips.
Dean hummed in approval, tipping his chin up and chasing Cas’ lips.
He still couldn’t remember when the handprint faded, but he didn’t need to know anymore. He carried a bit of Cas with him anywhere, and everywhere else he had his angel right beside him.
