hell the fuck oΒ Β β±Β Β @provehos
Rolling back his shoulders, grin stretched across his face as he lounged across the catwalks overseeing the jaegerΒ bayΒ Β (Β Β high above the commotion down belowΒ Β )Β Β post-fight cooldown, embracing the cold air almost permanently found within the hangar.Β Β Arm bent, braced against the chilled metal of the guide railΒ Β βΒ Β joy more genuine as his head cocked towards the noise of footsteps echoing closerΒ Β (Β Β fragmented thoughts, remnants of a joined mindΒ Β ).
There is no bond stronger.
β Β Β Hey Cas. Β Β βΒ Β Voice softΒ against the harshΒ clangΒ of metalΒ Β (Β Β tools, workmenΒ Β )Β Β surrounding them, turning toΒ eye his companion.Β Β Allowing himself to lean into the otherβs space, bumping shoulders.Β Β A sense of calm filling the space between them.Β Β But then again, when had the other pilotβs presence not offered such solaceΒ Β Β ??Β Β a home wrapped up in aΒ person. Β The end of the world trivial in comparison. Β Β Β βΒ Β You normally do some kinda post fightΒ hippie shit after a spar, whatβs upΒ Β ??β
Dark, unkempt hair is damp with shower water. Droplets form, then fall, onto worn cotton---tight and breathable jaeger athletics suit long since discarded with the sweat of the fight, rinsed down the locker room drain, tossed into the laundry chute---that hangs easily on a lean frame. Castiel is the picture of contented exhaustion---the shirt he wears is soft against sore muscles, his skin is warm and fragrant with the remnants of his shower and someone elseβs aftershave. He makes his way to the upper levels of the complex---foregoing his brief meditation for something---someone---far more important.
Castiel watches the figure on the catwalk for a moment. Thereβs an easiness to the man poised before him that is so uncommon. The pilot lets the sight imprint in his memory---something goodΒ to call on when he needs to, something steady and serene.Β
As always, though, he is drawn forward. Nothing can keep him far for very long. His footsteps are measured and even---not rushed, though the draw to be in this manβs proximity urges him to hastenΒ ( he resists, if only because the sight is as appealing as the company ).Β
Eventually, his feet bring him close beside the figure on the catwalk---a figure he knows more intrinsically than most know their own. Castielβs body cants towards the man beside himΒ ( itβs instinct at this point )Β and his arms come to rest on the guide rail, pinky and ring fingers idly intertwine with those already poised on the rail---there exists between them several points of contact. Castiel catalogs each---the soft pressure of shoulders, the warmth of hips, the easy contact between fingers, the unbreakable bond in their minds---the task brings him joy, his lips tilt upwards, he glances to the face of the man beside him and sees a similar joy.Β
β Hello, Dean. βΒ His deep voice is quiet, nearly lost over the activity far below them---but he knows it travels just as it needs to.Β
He laughs, softly and freely, Dean has a wayΒ with words.Β Β β There is benefit in variety. Routine breeds complacency. I do not mind deviating from my own routine. You, however, you are a creature of habit, and this, is not your habit---I should ask you, what is up? βΒ Itβs unsaid---thatΒ βI am concerned about youβ in part because it must be and in part because it canΒ be.
His question comes with pantomimed air quotes and an attempt to emulate Deanβs own vocal patterns. His head is tilted just so, his brows drawn forward in a quizzical look.Β
snowghoul
titsay
yousharknotpass
germansingergirl
discoholicmusic
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
kaledo-art
