Work Text:
This is how it happens—
He builds you a house. He builds you a deck. A pier.
He tells you he wants you to be free.
Stretch your wings , he says. Feel the breeze, Cas .
He turns the house into a home. Fills it with things. Says, Our Place .
Says, Our Kitchen Table.
Says, Our Garden. Our Lake. Our Porch Swing.
Ours, Ours, Ours.
You bring him rocks from the lakeshore, and he takes them.
Careful , you tell him. They're old.
He puts them in a jar. Sets it on a shelf.
Touches it with a smile when he passes by.
You bring him a flower, and he puts it in your hair. Rests his fingers there.
Says, Looks good on you .
Says, Looks good.
He prays to you, still.
Sometimes at his bedside, arms crossed over the mattress.
His knees creak when he straightens, and your grace reaches for him.
It wants to hold him. It wants to soothe his aches. It wants an excuse to brush against his soul.
After all, it is a part of you.
You worry.
There is nothing you can give him.
You worry.
He has given you everything.
You worry.
Where is his happiness, in this home that is yours?
You worry. You worry. You worry.
This is how it happens—
"I don't know that you will be happy" you say to him. "Here. With me."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He isn't as quick to anger as he used to be. Still, a frown marrs his features. He sounds—puzzled.
"I have nothing to give to you," you say. "I am not what you've wished for."
And you would know. You've seen his wishes wrapped in wishes.
You've seen him.
He is still frowning when he says, "I don't care about all that. I just — I need you ."
You do not doubt him, but you ache for him, all the same.
You care about him.
You love him.
That is all it has ever been.
You love him.
"You've given me everything you have," you say.
See reason , you plead wordlessly. Want something.
"You gave me this life."
He lowers himself to his knees at your feet. Spreads his arms.
"You stitched-up my soul"
He is kneeling — in supplication. In plea. In prayer.
He is kneeling, and you cannot bear it.
He folds his hands around yours. Holds them to his heart.
He doesn't owe you for this.
Does he know?
He does not owe you.
"I am no God," you tell him.
I will not take, not like this, you think. Not from you.
When he laughs, it sounds almost bright.
When he laughs, you want to flinch.
"No," and he is smiling. "I love you."
This is how it happens—
You have a beating heart, and it thunders in your chest.
I love you.
Your grace surges in your veins, heats your skin.
I love you.
There, the echo of revelation.
I love you.
This is how it happens—
Your not-quite-human knees buckle.
You see — You see Him.
You're looking into the face of the divine.
And It is soft skin, wrinkled. Lined. Dotted with freckles.
You're looking into the face of the divine.
And It is smiling, still.
He tugs you closer.
Your knees scratch against this altar of wood and nail.
"I brought you back to me," he says.
"I built you a home," he says.
"I keep your gifts," he says.
"How could you not know?"
His eyes, searching. Shining. Shifting.
Emerald, Jade, Peridot.
Summer green & gold.
His love looks a lot like his guilt.
It looks a lot like his fear.
How could you have known?
Men build temples for the Gods they fear.
They only ever seem to build tombs for their lovers.
How could you have known?
This is how it happens —
With you on your knees.
With him on his.
Fallen, falling.
His fingers in the bowl of your fists, holding tight.
"This is our life," he says.
Our Place. Our Kitchen Table
Our Garden. Our Lake. Our Porch Swing
Ours. Ours. Ours .
"And I want it. All of it."
His lips on your knuckles, soft. Your gasp, softer, still.
A never-tilting world, on its side.
Your grace bends towards him, the stalk of a flower in search of her sun.
Your wings curve around him, the shield to his sword.
You want this, too. Every bit of it.
Does he know?
He must. He must .
This is how it happens —
"Dean," his name melting sugar on your tongue.
Dean — your charge, once. Your friend, always.
Your— Your Dean.
He loves you.
He loves you.
Tugs you closer, still.
Says, "I mean it. For— for as long as you'll have me."
And you love him.
You love him.
That's all it's ever been.
What else is there to say, then, for you?
He holds his faith close to his chest.
It beats a rhythm against the backs of your palms.
He holds it there for you. Because of you.
Your Dean.
Haloed in the falling light.
Smiling, still.
Happy .
This is how it happens—
His mouth against yours, sweeter than his name.
His pulse a-flutter under your palm.
"Yeah?" he says, the syllable pressed into your skin.
"Yes," you say.
You love him.
"Yes."