It’s been fucking weeks and Dean’s fingers are curled tight up against his palm and his leg is wiggling under the table and there’s this ache in his chest he can’t shake no matter how many beers he chugs down.
And then Cas is there, fucking standing in the middle of their batcave—their home—like he hasn’t been gone and Dean feels the ache recede and there’s this needy, desperate groan eminating from the back of his throat and he’s practically throwing himself into Castiel’s arms.
It’s so warm and close and there are strong arms around Dean’s waist, hand heavy on the small of his back, thumb moving in circles against the thinness of Dean’s shirt and Cas is cooing in his ear and running his hand through the short hairs on the back of Dean’s head and Dean can’t fucking explain it other than he needs Cas to touch him.
So he inches closer.
He fits a leg between Castiel’s thighs, presses his hip against Cas’ torso and revels in the calm and steady push of chest against chest with each breath. Dean’s own hands are fisted tight into the back of that damn trench coat which still smells like the Impala’s leather seats, Dean’s cologne, and something stupidly Cas that probably smells like stardust or some other shit that Dean can’t even bring himself to think about.
It’s the Purgatory hug a hundred times over and Dean’s aching and starving and hungering for it.
He turns his head into the salty skin of Castiel’s neck and sighs, breath damp and hot, mouthing senseless words that make him feel weak and invincible all at once.
"Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Stay. For fuck’s sake, stay."
And Cas grips Dean’s body a little bit tighter, pulls their body a bit closer, presses chapped lips to the shell of Dean’s ear and whispers, “I’m trying.”