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The Empty is slick, like oil. It sticks to him, like molasses. Viscous and suffocating.
He remembers the taste of it, molasses. It was bitter and rich and soft, like Dean’s mouth. He remembers how it fought against gravity, slithering at sloth-speed from the carton to the spoon. He remembers the pinch of Dean’s brow, the purse of his lips. An intimate focus threatened by impatience.
“It’ll be worth it,” Dean said, “It just takes time.”
He was patient. He could stand back and wait for the molasses to reach the spoon at its own pace.
That was before he tasted it.
His lips puckered, his nose scrunched, and his taste buds begged for more. With each lick, he learned what to expect. The syrup made itself known, it made itself sweet. It stuck to his tongue.
It made Dean laugh, it made him smile.
It made him want more.
Molasses only comes out from the back of the cupboard when they bake. And only when the recipe calls for it. Otherwise it sits, accumulating at the bottom of the carton, comforted by the weight of gravity.
Dean didn’t smile like that when they weren’t in the kitchen, when he wasn’t tasting molasses.
But he could be patient. He could wait. He would let his tongue forget how sweet molasses could be, so he could go back again to that first, bitter taste.
The Empty was nothing like molasses. It didn’t make Dean laugh. He didn’t even smile.
“I love you.”
It surged towards him, seeking out his skin. It squelched, streaming down his limbs, swallowing him whole. It cascaded around him, cold and wet and unforgiving.
Love without pain; Castiel wishes he was fortunate enough to know it.
But at least he got to know the taste of molasses.
*