A muffled gasp and a grip at the covers, although it soon moves to gently dig into Crowley's fiery red hair. With his eyes closing again and his head tilting back, his mouth still covered, the angel's thoughts get hazier, more vague, but he holds onto the feeling of possibility. Of hope and continued existence. Of companionship. Of the two of them. Their story.

The stories he's read throughout the centuries can't even begin to compare. The greatest romances make even more sense, like a door was unlocked and opened to reveal the last detail he had missed. The ones with a more erotic penchant, well, that can be easily accounted for. Art and story and song. Vague feelings of exhilaration and pleasure and...relief, of a kind, now that the words and the emotions have been brought out into the light.

Hope for them, hope for their story. Even if they're the only ones reading it.