This is tender and fragile, tinged ever so slightly with sorrow. Just lovely.
Love doesn't have to be slow and gentle. It just has to be.
This might well be the most perfect sentence I've ever read to describe them.
Sam lowers his head, mouthing up the arch of Dean's throat. He tastes like salt, tastes earthy and clean and this is exactly where Sam is supposed to be, right here, drinking in the taste of love and loss, of tears and blood, the things he's left behind and what his future is.
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This is tender and fragile, tinged ever so slightly with sorrow. Just lovely.
Love doesn't have to be slow and gentle. It just has to be.
This might well be the most perfect sentence I've ever read to describe them.
Sam lowers his head, mouthing up the arch of Dean's throat. He tastes like salt, tastes earthy and clean and this is exactly where Sam is supposed to be, right here, drinking in the taste of love and loss, of tears and blood, the things he's left behind and what his future is.
Beautiful. Perfect.
♥