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He had blue eyes, his mother had said. Bright blue tinged with specks of black.
Just like his father.
"And hair as dark as night," she'd murmured, one hand resting on top of his head. "My beautiful Castiel."
And his mother was usually right, so she must've been right about that too, but Castiel hadn't understood why. He'd been about to ask, what exactly makes something beautiful, when his brothers had come tumbling through the door, flinging backpacks and trampling into the kitchen where they'd been.
He'd gone to bed that night, mind racing. He didn't know what made things beautiful, but he knew his mother was beautiful. With a kind smile and sweet eyes - bottle green eyes, according to his father - she was the most beautiful person he knew.
Castiel picked at his blanket (red, said his mother) and shoved his sock covered foot out from underneath it, frowning when he didn't see a difference. His parents saw all these colors, things like blue and gold and green and purple and yellow and all Castiel could see was darks and lights and those greys in between.
He wondered if he'd find his blanket or his socks or his eyes beautiful, if he could see color too.
What made something beautiful? Castiel had asked his mother days later. She closed the book she'd been reading to him, her eyes meeting his. They looked different for some reason, wider, more alive, as if it were the first time she was really seeing Castiel.
"Happiness," she'd answered simply, one hand reaching out to stroke his hair. "When something makes you happy, it becomes beautiful, Castiel."
He thought of beauty, of the way his father looked at his mother, with eyes burning and wavering with an intensity that Castiel could clearly see, even without the presence of color. Of how his eyes seemed to light up when she was in the room, his smile always a bit wider when she was around.
He didn't know if colors were beautiful, but he knew colors meant love, and love meant happiness so colors must be very beautiful indeed.
His mother's (bright green) eyes closed when she laughed - when she properly laughed, her head tilted back and her throaty peals of laughter echoing.
Castiel could only remember that in his memories. His mother hadn't laughed like that in a long time.
Now, she smiled. It was a soft thing, like her lips could hardly manage the weight of tilting up, and they never lasted long.
"My beautiful Castiel," she'd said, pulling him onto her lap even though Castiel was far too big to be sitting on her lap. Still, he let her rock him gently like she used to when he was little.
"I love you," whispered against his head where her lips were pressed to his temple. "Don't forget that, okay? Even when I don't act like it, remember I love you so, so much. Remember, so that if I forget, you can remind me, okay?"
Castiel twisted around in her embrace, questions on the tip of his tongue (what do you mean, forget? why do I need to remind you? why are you crying?), but they all turned to ash before he could voice them.
Instead, he nodded solemnly, arms reaching up around her neck. She held him to her chest, clinging to him as her chest heaved with silent tears.
His father always said his mother's eyes were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, but Castiel never wanted to see them again if it meant seeing her cry like that.
When Castiel was old enough to understand the meaning behind the too-long words his parents used, when he finally understood that these words were fancy ways to say disease and inevitable death and pain, he asked his father if he'd still love his mother the way he always had.
"Yes, Castiel," he'd said simply, the grip on his hand tightening almost painfully.
Castiel had frowned - he thought that love meant happiness, but lately his mother never smiled and his father... well, he was always at work. He didn't sweep into the kitchen anymore to twirl his mother around or bring sweet smelling flowers home.
The way his father looked at his mother was different now, too. More subdued. Sad, almost.
As they walked home, Castiel came to the startling realization that if colors meant love, and love could hurt someone so much, then maybe... just maybe, colors weren't so beautiful after all.
"What makes something beautiful?" Castiel had asked Gabe that same day, poking his head into his older brother's room.
"Little Cassie getting into philosophy, eh?" his brother had answered distractedly, dangling a dead mouse over his pet snake's enclosure. They watched in silence as the snake unhinged its jaw to take the mouse in.
When he slid the lid closed, he turned to Castiel, who was still standing by the door.
"Beauty, my dearest brother, is subjective," he said with all the authority of a middle aged professor.
"If you think something is beautiful, it will be. Maybe not to everyone, but to you," he poked at Castiel's chest, "it will be."
Castiel thought of Gabriel's snake, of the way his sisters scrunched their noses up at it, but the way Gabe clearly adored it - even if it meant buying smelly dead mice.
"What do you think makes something beautiful?" Gabe asked after a beat and Castiel looked up at him. He kind of understood Gabe's answer, but.
"I haven't figured it out just yet."
The day Castiel's mother died, it rained. A heavy downpour, like the heavens had opened up and released a whole new flood meant to wipe them out.
The day Castiel's mother died, Castiel dug up her old sketchbook - the one she'd stopped using even before she'd stopped laughing - and taken a pencil to the thick, starchy paper. He'd pressed line after line, digging the pencil in too deeply, leaving indents in the pages behind the current one.
He'd tried to draw her eyes, the slope of her eyelids, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes, the uneven bow of her lips, the curve of her smile.
The graphite sliced across the page, over and over, creating lines that were all too imperfect to capture the essence of his mother.
The week that Castiel's mother died, he made his way through the sketchbook. As the number of drawings increased, the amount of frustration Castiel felt mounted, feeling the inadequacy in his bones.
He drew and drew and drew, working his pencils to nubs and creating grey smears on his hands and wrists, drawing until callouses formed that made it too painful to press down pencils onto paper. He switched to paintbrushes, using house paint and oil paint and acrylics, throwing his windows open to air out the fumes already working their ways into the walls and his clothing.
His father bought alcohol for the first time since Castiel could remember. He stopped wearing cologne, switched his smart business suits for a dingy bathrobe, threw away the hair gel his mother bought.
Around him, people started to meet their soulmates, whispering declarations about love and beauty and color but no one understood love the way Castiel did.
Love was dangerous, blinding people with the promise of beauty, promising happiness and sickly-sweet feelings of infatuation, only disclosing the pain when it was too late to take your love back. Love made people vulnerable. Beauty and love were the promise of pain.
People saw their soulmates and thought of color and beauty and happiness, but they did not see what Castiel saw. They did not see his father passed out on the couch, half empty bottles surrounding his limp form. They did not see his father, a man who hadn't cried in 28 years, sob himself to sleep with too much liquor coursing through his veins.
Love had come into his father's life, bringing fleeting happiness and color before draining both, leaving an ugly, loveless world of grey.
Castiel did not care for color anymore. He didn't care for color or love or beauty, because they were all invariably linked to pain.
Instead, Castiel drew, the lines of his drawings becoming sharper and more precisely defined, following the images dancing through his head.
Eventually Castiel signed contracts, his name featured in newspapers, his art bought by people with more money than sense. He spoke about his work, tediously dodging the questions about the colors he chose to use (always monochrome, always blacks and greys and whites), never experimenting with a touch of color.
When they began asking about his soulmate (could it be possible the great Castiel Novak hadn't met his soulmate? Is that why his art lacked color? With the resources of today...), Castiel pushed through the cameras, his lips in a forced natural position.
He stopped giving interviews shortly after.
Castiel hated art showings. They were so boring, always full of snobby rich people who felt entitled to asking personal questions.
Meg would kill him if he left. A 'bathroom break' however...
He made his way toward the back of the gallery, feeling his shoulders hunch in slightly as the sound of laughter and conversation wafted into the hallway. If Meg saw him, she'd force him to talk to people.
Convince them to buy your shit, Clarence, she'd whisper furiously. As if he needed to convince anyone. He had her for a reason.
"Mr. Novak!" someone called out. Castiel turned, a scowl coming on his face when he recognized the face of Naomi Tappings, one of the more relentless reporters making her way toward him.
"No comment."
A manicured hand reached out, gripping his forearm before he could move. The woman was fast, he had to give her that.
"Oh, but I haven't asked anything," she smiled at him, her eyes cutting into his dangerously.
"Still," he removed her hand unceremoniously, "no comment."
"Is that any way to treat a reporter?" She scoffed incredulously. Castiel narrowed his eyes at her.
"No, but I don't think accosting an artist is much better."
She pursed her lips with faux-sympathy. "I hardly think this," she gripped his arm again, "could be considered accosting."
Castiel glared at her, feeling her nails dig in incrementally. "Stop."
"For a price," she whispered, her lips twisted into a ghost of a smile.
"Actually," a new voice piped up, "I don't think he's looking to negotiate."
Castiel reacted before Naomi could react, wrenching his arm away from her and moving backwards with quick, practiced ease.
"I'd call security but I think you can find the way out," the man said before he could say anything. Standing like this, he could see her direct her glare behind him, her dark eyes challenging whoever had intervened.
It was a tense few seconds before she sniffed obnoxiously and turned stiffly, walking down the hall, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.
"You didn't have to do that," Castiel said after Naomi disappeared around a corner. "I could've handled it."
A soft huff came from behind him, "'Cause it was going so well."
Castiel frowned, a retort forming on his lips. He turned to the person behind him, "I was handling it perfectly well before-"
A black button up. Arms crossed at the chest. Pink, cupid bowed lips.
Eyes- oh, fuck.
The words dissipated on his tongue, every going down his throat.
Eyes now narrowed in confusion. "What?"
Castiel scrambled backwards, his back hitting the wall with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. If he'd had air to begin with.
He'd heard people describe the first meeting with their soulmates; the first sight of color being staggering and mesmerizing, wonderful and awe-inspiring, an array of fluffy adjectives surrounding their lofty words as they recounted the single most groundbreaking experience in their lives.
Yet none of those descriptions could have prepared him for this.
The man approached him carefully, hands raised as if Castiel were a frightened animal.
Castiel pushed himself back further into the wall, and the man retreated slightly, bringing his hands closer to himself.
"I'm fine," he rasped, forcing himself to stand straight on wobbly legs, masking his face into one of impassivity. He tried to meet the man's eyes again but felt his stomach drop to his feet, sending a wave of anxious excitement thrumming through his body.
People always described their soulmates as beautiful. Castiel avoided using that label. And yet.
No, a voice whispered in his head, not beautiful. Perfect.
Castiel forced his eyes away, focusing on the man's cheek. A light tone, not grey but not white either, a tone tinged with something else. Something he'd never seen before and was only slightly visible to him now.
He needed to stop staring.
"Are you sure? I can -"
"Yes," Castiel cut him off. The man didn't seem affected at all, his hand hovering over Castiel's shoulder as if he was hesitating whether or not to touch him.
Other than that, he didn't show any signs of the earth shattering experience Castiel was going through. Whereas Castiel was categorizing the minute details in the different shades he could now see (greys tinged with color, not yet vibrant like he'd heard them described but present nonetheless), the man just seemed concerned.
He'd met his soulmate already. It was obvious.
One-sided soul connections weren't all that common, but it would be fitting for Castiel to be the one to carry such a heartache. One more ironic, mocking laugh from the universe.
"Right," he said, bringing his hands back to his side, before hastily extending one. "Sorry, Dean. Winchester. My brother's a fan of yours and when we heard you were in the area, we had to stop by. Great stuff, too."
"Thank you," Castiel said, shaking his hand. Dean's hand was firm, fingers indented with callouses. His skin was darker than Castiel's. Not just a different shade, but a different tone; something with saturation, not just a difference between greys and whites and blacks. Something more.
Castiel couldn't stop staring, marveling at his discoveries and trying to memorize it all.
The art he could create with this. Canvases filled with shades of every color, some sharp with contrast and others blended together to form a -
The thought died nearly as quickly as it had blossomed in his mind. The implication of it to the public... to go from dull monochrome to something filled with vibrant colors. The press, the public, the media would hound him, creating rumors and demanding to know who it was - who his soulmate was.
Unbidden, a memory of his father's cries drifted into his mind, his back heaving while he forced down another mouthful of alcohol.
He retracted his hand.
They lingered in the hallway, an awkward silence hanging over them.
"So," Dean coughed, "you paint these all yourself?"
Despite himself, Castiel felt his lips turn up slightly. "I've never heard of a painting ghost."
Dean huffed out a laugh, "Right, sorry, 'm not very good with all this art stuff."
Castiel smiled sympathetically. Even after years of being a 'world renowned painter,' he hardly ever felt good with the practical side of art.
Dean shuffled from foot to foot, opening his mouth as if to say something else before closing it.
It had been over ten minutes since Castiel had fled the showing room. Meg was bound to skin him. He didn't really care.
"Well," he finally said, "it was nice meeting you, Cas. Castiel."
Castiel tilted his head, a gentle smile coming onto his features. "You too, Dean."
Dean stepped around him, taking two steps down the hall before turning around.
"Your art is beautiful."
And there it was again. That word.
"Thank you." He watched as Dean nodded awkwardly before he started to retreat to the show room, his gait a little stiff.
Castiel sagged against the wall.
Beauty. Perfection. Color. Pain. Dean.
Castiel lasted three days before he broke down and ordered a shipment of colored paint from his private Amazon account. He'd picked up the brown package gingerly, his hand shaking with nerves (excitement?).
He locked the studio door behind him, sending sheets flying over his windows and spent the day experimenting with color. He struggled, having to learn how to control the different hues rather than simply use a variation of black and white.
And then, like puzzle pieces, it all began to slot together, the blending, the similarities between the colors and the sharp contrasts. Like his previous monochrome work, it became an obsession to master, only amplified with colors of the rainbow.
He sent Meg new portraits and canvases, all done in grey and black and white, letting her organize showings and galleries to showcase his work. At night, he'd lock himself away, slashing color onto white canvases, and shoving the completed works under his bed to dry, only to hide the finished products in his closet, too scared to show them to the world.
Red and orange melded together to demand attention, fiery concoctions that leapt from the pages and stretched fabrics. Purple and blue were calm, soothing colors, like applying ice on a burn. Black mixed with these colors to create darker variations, whilst white made them light, into soft, cheery pastel colors.
Green and yellow, however. They were his favorite. Bright green surrounding a sunflower of yellow, swirling perfectly onto the canvas to create eyes. Eyes that made Castiel's heart hammer.
How foolish he'd been to think he could live in a world of just black and white.
Dean began to show up everywhere.
From his galleries to the grocery store or the coffee shop, he was there. Amidst the whirlwind of newfound colors (red, orange, magenta, lilac, emerald green), Castiel would catch sight of him, sometimes holding a cup of coffee, or pushing a shopping cart, or nervously fiddling with a gallery brochure.
Sometimes, he'd catch Dean staring, those bright, bright green eyes meeting his across the room, and he'd feel a thrill go down his spine, his heart beginning to pound in his chest.
And then the excitement would fade into something else, something hot and shameful, something that felt a lot like a reprimand, a reminder of what exactly love and beauty were capable of.
He couldn't. He denied. He avoided.
Dean cornered him at a coffee shop one damp spring morning, pulling the chair in front of him out with a screech that earned them a few glares.
"Are you avoiding me?" He asked. Blunt. Braced for rejection, if Castiel had to guess.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Are you following me?" Castiel asked, feeling something warm bloom in his chest when Dean paused, before he smiled bashfully, a pink (pink! his mind yelled) hue settled over his freckled cheeks.
"Guilty," he smiled wolfishly despite the blush staining his cheeks, "I wanted to ask you a question."
Castiel gestured for him to go on.
"Do you believe in soulmates?"
"I'd find it quite difficult to argue to the contrary," Castiel answered dryly, fighting to keep his face impassive though his heart was tripping over itself in his chest.
"Right," Dean licked his lips. His voice was steady, but his fingers were drumming rhythmically against his coffee cup, "What I meant is, do you believe that you have a soulmate? One true love and all that."
Castiel looked at Dean. "No," he said. "I don't believe that."
"Okay," Dean breathed out, "Okay. And - and your soulmate? Have you met them yet?"
"I thought this was supposed to be one question."
"Fine. Several questions."
Castiel watched as Dean's fingers tapped over the cup, watching them dance along the thick paper, nervously but with a practiced ease that bellied his nervous habit. There was no way he knew. It wasn't possible - they'd talked once and, and Dean hadn't reacted at all.
Castiel thought of his years of hard work, of building his walls up and denying any chance of love. Dean didn't know. He couldn't know.
He blinked slowly. "No, I haven't," he said at last.
Dean's shoulders slumped. "Good," his eyes were wide, wild, like he was a pent up animal, thrumming with energy and eager to get out. (God, his eyes, Castiel could fill canvasses trying to do them justice). "Last question, do you want to get coffee with me?"
Castiel thought of his mother's eyes, full of love and adoration on the day she told him his eye color, thought of them brimming with tears and sadness. He thought of the paintings hidden under his bed and in his closet, all of them brimming with colors of the rainbow, each of them vibrant and unique and beautiful. He thought of Dean's green flannel which brought out his eyes. Emerald green eyes, if he had to pick a color.
"Okay," he said.
Dean had had a soulmate. Her name was Amara. She died in a car accident two years ago. She had brown eyes.
She was beautiful.
Spring was reaching it's turning point that morning, chilly enough that the reminder of winter was not far from the mind, but with grass blowing sweetly, a soothing sea of green surrounding the newly budding trees and flowers.
Castiel stood up, walked to the trash bin, and threw his cup away, hand reaching out to do the same to Dean's.
When he turned back, Dean was standing, a funny look on his face as he stared at Castiel.
Castiel tilted his head, eyebrows coming together in confusion.
"You've got, uh," Dean said mirthfully, pointing at his own head. "Flower in your hair."
Castiel ruffled his hair.
"No, not there - " Dean murmured as he stepped closer, plucking something from his head.
"There," he breathed, offering the pink flower to Castiel. He picked it up by the little nub of a stem it had left, skin brushing together as he did.
Dean didn't step back, standing inches away. There was something bright in his eyes, something crazed and excited, as he put one hand on Castiel's neck. The question in his eyes was clear as he began to lean in.
Castiel stood still in momentary shock before realizing what was about to happen and shoving at Dean's chest hard enough for him to go stumbling back a few steps.
Dean regained his footing, a flash of hurt and confusion playing over his features before his face settled into a nonchalant smile, one that was too tight at the corners to be seen as anything other than strained.
"Sorry," he said. "Guess I read things wrong."
Castiel's hand trembled at his side.
"Guess you believe in soulmates after all, eh?" Dean joked, but it fell flat in the silent space between them.
"Right," he said when it was evident that Castiel wasn't going to reply anytime soon. "I'll see you around." (Or not, he heard him whisper).
Castiel watched as Dean raised a halfhearted hand in goodbye, a small, pained smile on his lips, before he turned and walked away.
He was still holding the flower in his hand when Dean was out of sight. He looked down at it, taking in the soft pink color with a vibrant, darker pink in its center. Castiel twirled it briefly in his hands before letting it fall to the floor, where it joined a few others of the same.
Castiel handed his first colored piece in a week later. Meg had been furious, reminding him about the announcements and media reactions, but the anger had quickly melted into confusion.
Who? When? Why? And again, who?
No comment. No interviews. Another colored piece, more speculation from the media.
Allegations came one after the other, rumors flying through headlines.
On the anniversary of his mother's death, Castiel locked himself in his studio, and emerged with a portrait of a woman with bottle green eyes, her smile radiating warmth.
He suffered through an onslaught of questions, each of them demanding the impact of his mother's death, asking about the aftermath, and his siblings. After the sixth question about his mother's illness, Castiel forced the reporters to disperse, exiting the gallery and escaping to the same park he'd pushed Dean away at.
When he returned, only one person remained, his head tilted back to stare up at the newest addition.
"Castiel," his father said when he stood next to him, turning to smile at him. His mother had lied, Castiel thought - his father's eyes weren't the same as his, they were a more a mesh of blue and grey, the two colors swirling together with a melancholy that he chose to dutifully ignore.
"What are you doing here?" he asked instead.
"I came to see you."
Castiel stared up at the painting, at his mother's smiling face. "You came to see her."
"That, too," his father smiled sadly. "You captured her perfectly." His father craned his neck again, staring up at his smiling wife, his soulmate etched forever onto the canvas.
He spoke again without looking away from the painting. "So you've met your soulmate."
"Yes," he said.
"And if the media isn't lying, you're not with them."
Castiel swallowed, thinking of freckles and green eyes. "They aren't lying."
His father turned then, the melancholy in his eyes shifting into something sharper, something almost angry that sent his eyes blazing a blue almost as bright as Castiel's.
"Why?"
"I've seen what happens," Castiel said, turning to peer at his mother's green eyes. Bottle green, rather than emerald green. "They may be the best years of your life but soulmates don't last forever. Everything comes to an end." And the pain that came with an end would be too painful for Castiel to relive.
Losing his mother had left a gaping hole in his chest, one with the shape of both parents rather than one.
Beside him, his father shook his head.
"You're a fool, Castiel. Too anxious, too cautious. Your mother was the best thing that ever happened to me," he said. "The pain of losing her was nothing compared to what she gave me. She is forever in my mind, in my heart, and that makes the pain of her loss a little more bearable."
He softened then, reaching up to brush Castiel's hair back, just like his mother used to.
"Find them, Castiel. There is no love, no life worth living for without risk."
That night, Castiel locked himself in his studio, taking a pencil into his hand and sketching a cherry plum flower onto a canvas. He drew precise lines, perfectly curved with elegant strokes.
He took out his older paint supplies, blacks and whites, mixing them until he had every shade of grey imaginable and set about creating the perfect monochrome flower.
He stepped back when he was finished. It stared back at him, unmoving. Dead. Lifeless. With no staggering potential to seize the viewer.
A surge of anger overcame him them, and he dragged his colored paint to him, sending his paintbrush slashing across the white surface in harsh strokes, anger taking over his practiced movements. Pink and red, white, and specks of yellow dotted the canvas, followed by long, anger-fueled brushes of green and brown, creating a background that was nothing like the war Castiel felt inside of him.
He stepped back. Examined the still wet canvas. Felt his heart soar with hope even when his stomach clenched in nervousness.
It was beautiful.
"Clarence," Meg sang from the door. "There's someone here to see you. Looks like he just stepped out of Lumberjack Daily. Says it's urgent."
Castiel turned suddenly, feeling his heart begin to race in anticipation.
"Send him in. Please," he cleared his throat.
"You got it boss," she winked, and Castiel would've questioned her compliance if it hadn't been for the amount of sales and publicity they'd been getting lately. Of course she was in a good mood.
He took a second to brace himself. The door opened, and there he was.
"Hello, Dean," he breathed, mouth going dry at the sight of Dean - his soulmate.
Dean smiled slightly, just a tick of his lips. He extended his hands out, palms facing the ceiling in supplication.
"Look, Cas," he began. He sounded a lot more tired than he had those weeks ago, when they'd been getting coffee. "I- well, I saw you met your soulmate, and I realized it must have been around the same time we met."
He paused, looking at Castiel mournfully. "I know what it's like to meet your soulmate - whole world changes in a second. No hard feelings. Just... wanted to put that out there. I'm sorry."
He kept speaking, even as Castiel walked around the desk and crossed the room to stand in front of him. Castiel stared up at him.
"What?"
"It's you."
"What?" Dean asked again, brows furrowing.
"It was you," Castiel said, tentatively raising one hand to place it on Dean's shoulder. "You're my soulmate."
Dean stayed silent. Castiel found words tumbling from his lips, words and confessions that he'd kept buried for so long.
"My mother. She died when I was young. I saw what it put my father through." He paused, meeting Dean's eyes. "I didn't know what would happen to me if I gave in to love of my own."
"Jesus, Cas."
"I've recently been told I was acting like a fool for that," he smiled self-deprecatingly.
"Maybe a little," Dean said, returning it with a smile of his own. His hand came up to cup Castiel's cheek, his fingers gentle over his skin. "Can I ask you a question?"
"One or several?"
"One."
Castiel swallowed. Nodded.
"Do you want this? Me and you. Don't think about the future or the past. Do you want this now?"
Castiel nodded again, his pulse thumping against Dean's pinky where it was pressed under his jaw.
"Good," Dean whispered, his eyes coming alive with something Castiel couldn't describe.
"Do - do you?"
Dean paused. "Why would I not?"
"You've met your soulmate already."
"I think Amara would want me to be happy," he said finally.
Castiel closed his eyes, feeling a burning sensation in his throat. Even like this, he couldn't help but feel the conflict in his chest.
"If we do this... if we do this, I'll be scared, Dean."
"Why?" Dean brushed his thumb under Castiel's eye, the sensation both soothing and terrifying.
“One day, you’ll die.” Castiel opened his eyes and looked into green irises, imagined them dull and lifeless. “Or I will. Or - or there’s no knowing if I’m unrequited. We could be incompatible. It may seem unlikely now, but as we know each other better, things get complicated. You could meet someone new, someone better, and I’ll be left with nothing but memories.”
“But isn’t it worth it?” Dean insisted. “Isn’t the slightest chance enough to try?”
Castiel thought of his mother’s warm, chapped lips on his forehead. He thought of his father’s tired eyes. He thought of soft pink petals and sunrises, brilliant and burning bright in their beginning.
He smiled. “I suppose it could be.”
Dean smiled back, wide and unrestrained. (Beautiful.) When he leaned in to kiss him, Castiel closed his eyes.
Colors burst behind his eyelids.