There is a feeling incredibly similar to drowning, but a thousand times more pleasant. It invokes a crushing sense of closeness, a desperate shortness of breath, a rush of panic, fear, and even excitement; a thrill unmatched and inexplicable.

Dean Winchester was a violent victim of the sea, and Castiel was the rush of waves, the crash of water, and the salt in his lungs.

When the angel's chapped lips pressed into his own, and the touch of his tongue sent shivers down his spine, Dean was a ship on the ocean. A rowboat amid the Atlantic during a storm. Completely and utterly helpless. Sparks lived in Castiel's fingers, like lightning as they trailed through Dean's hair.

Oh, and his voice. It was the rumble of thunder in Dean's ears. A low cacophony that meshed with the rush of blood in his ears. Castiel's breath was the sultry wind, and Dean wavered in its wake.

As they moved together, pulling and pushing into the other's touch, Dean felt his chest grow tight. He desperately wanted air, but the longest breaths could not have saved him.

Dean was drowning, drowning.

The kiss became slow and languorous and Dean became the beach and Castiel was the surf on his shore. The tide was laboriously slow, but as Castiel wrapped Dean in his arms, Dean felt the salt water take him over. The smell of salt and sting of air lulled Dean into semi-consciousness. They had long ago stopped kissing, and now only lay entwined.

But Dean was floating.

Floating.

Drowning.

Sinking.