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The first time they were together, he found the starburst of tissue across her belly and frowned. Not because he thought it was ugly, she could already tell that about him. Because she'd been hurt in the past and had had to survive it.
"I worked a job a while back in a rough part of town," she told him, weaving her fingers through his hair. "Place got held up once, and the guy got spooked when the cops showed up."
"You were shot?" he asked, disbelieving. She nodded. She didn't have to fill in the rest – that she made it to the hospital in time, that she survived, that she thanks the good lord every day for making it out alive and unharmed. He kissed her stomach, right over the scar, and then kept kissing in a line down past her belly button. And he'd do that every time after, working his way down her body and paying just that extra little bit of attention, and it heals something she hadn't realized was still laying open all this time.
Now, years later, the scar has faded and stretched, but he treats her stomach with just as much reverence. She's still tender and sore and they can't do much while Hannah's sleeping nearby, but Cas traces over the lines just as gently and looks at her with eyes full of words he doesn't know how to say. Kaylee rests her hand at the back of his neck and holds him there, and realizes she doesn't know what to say either. There's no word big enough for it, no way to tell him she knows how he's been changed and marked by this, by her, by the tiny child whose name means grace who looks at him and thinks he is the world. There's just silence and soft breathing and a room with a tiny light, just enough to see by.