super lovely kickass human @worthatryright asked for a destiel fic with the prompt of âmemoriesâ. here we go, kiddo. a high school AU with some serious fluff ^^
Theyâd always done it, ever since they were very small.
Cas couldnât remember when it had started. His first memory was already bathed in reassuring familiarity, just the brush of its sepia warmth across his mind enough to make him smile; in it, they were seven and a half, sitting in the hallway at Deanâs house, waiting for Casâ mother to come and pick him up. On opposite sides of the narrow room, backs against the walls, theyâd pressed the soles of their bare feet together. The dust from playing in the yard earlier had been in between their small toes.
âWhatâs your deepest darkest secret?â Cas had asked, watching Dean, whose face had been illuminated by the trickling light through the panels of glass in the front door. Heâd had a swish of blue paint on his cheek.
âYou know all my secrets,â Dean had replied easily. Heâd wiggled his toes and Cas had felt it, and wiggled his own back.
âSomething you didnât tell me yet,â Cas had insisted. He could remember the press in his little chest, the need heâd had to know Dean inside out, for there to be no surprises left. To have everything be known, and familiar, and safe.
Dean had shrugged.
âIâŠâ heâd said slowly. The touch of their soles was a warm reassurance. Dean had cast a nervous glance over at the door to the kitchen, where Mary could be heard clattering pots and cutlery as she emptied the dishwasher. âOK. I â I took a bite out of my birthday cake early this year. It was just sitting on the table before my party and I just lifted it up off the plate and scooped out a bit with my hand andâŠâ Dean had thrown another furtive look towards the kitchen. âYou canât tell anyone.â
âI wonât,â Cas had said seriously.
Dean had looked into his eyes for a moment, and then smiled, satisfied. âYour turn.â
Cas remembered blinking slowly, tilting his head at Dean. Dean had grinned and mirrored him, tilting his own head comically far to the left.
In the end, Cas had said simply, âI want to be friends forever.â
Dean had wrinkled his nose.
ââCourse weâll be friends forever,â heâd said.
Cas could still hear Dean saying it, now. He smiled to himself, wrapping up in the warm-scarf memory as he trudged through the snow on the way to Deanâs house. That hadnât been the last time theyâd sat opposite each other, bare feet pressed together. Theyâd remembered how it had felt, to touch in such an unfamiliar place, to press their tender and sensitive soles together and feel â accepted, and understood, in a way that no one else could make them feel. Cas would never press his soles against anyone elseâs but Deanâs. Throughout the years, that had never changed; it was a special place on each of their bodies, saved just for the other.
Theyâd ask to do it, sometimes, with weighted looks and raised eyebrows, knowing each other well enough to communicate without the embarrassment of words â theyâd strip off their shoes and socks with a kind of slow, relaxed ceremony, and press their soles with a familiar kind of wonder. Once, theyâd done it at school, tucked away into a quiet backroom, when Dean had come to Cas in panic, a tightness in his shoulders, his breath coming fast. Fifteen years old, dwarfed by his leather jacket.
âTell me,â Cas had said, when they were braced against the dusty walls of the dingy backroom, surrounded by stationery supplies in cardboard boxes and several mops and buckets. Deanâs feet had been cold, and he couldnât meet Casâ eyes â but it had still been there, the intimacy, the sensation of strange closeness. Deanâs face had been slotted in light, the lattice of the backroom door leaving strange shadows over his features.
âCas â Cas, I â I just â I â God, this is so â I canât tell you,â heâd said, and almost pulled his feet away, but Cas had caught his eye, stilled him with a look. Dean had let out a sigh, and relaxed his legs. âGod. OK. Iâm just gonna say it. Cas â shit, God, OK â Cas, I â youâre not gonna think of me differently, are you?â
Cas had said nothing, only looked. Dean had blinked down at his lap.
âYeah. Youâre right, Iâm being stupid. Cas â Cas, Iâm â I donât know for sure, but I think I might be â I might be gay. Or, uh, I dunno. Because Iâm â I think â I like, uh, looking at some guys, but I still like some girls, tooâŠâ Heâd been blushing furiously; Cas had been able to feel the way heâd been shaking through their feet.
Cas had only been able to stare at him, his heart thudding.
After a moment, Dean had looked up at Cas. âWell⊠thatâs it,â heâd managed to say, desperately shy. âUm. Your turn, I guess?â
Cas had sighed.
âI donât care who you like looking at and who you donât,â heâd said. Deanâs eyes had jerked up to meet his gaze, his eyes filling up with tears as heâd looked and looked, disbelieving.
âYou â you donât mind?â heâd said. Cas had shaken his head. The idea of disliking Dean was alien enough, but disliking Dean for something like this? It was unthinkable â and Dean could read that on Casâ face. His shoulders had shaken, hands over his eyes, his relief too great to hold inside. Castiel hadnât said anything, hadnât demanded anything, had only sat still and quiet and as calm as he could. After a little while, Dean had choked out a laugh.
âYou know, um. That doesnât count as your deepest, darkest secret,â heâd said. âItâs still your turn.â
Cas had opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say. Heâd looked right into Deanâs eyes â even today, he could still remember the exact way Dean had looked, tear tracks still on his cheeks, grinning shakily, a mess of nerves and happiness.
âIt makes me happy that you told me first,â he said softly. He wasnât sure why this felt like a secret, but it did â perhaps because he wouldnât normally say it out loud. âI like being the person you trust for something like this.â
Deanâs face had relaxed into surprise, and then his smile had returned, all the wider.
âIâm glad I told you first, too. God, I was so scared. I know I shouldnâtâve been, but⊠itâs a thing, you know? Iâm all twisted up about it anyway, let alone having to tell people. Or, I was. I, uh. I donât feel so bad about it anymore. I think I wanna tell my family, maybe. Definitely Sam. And Mom. I just wanted to ask you⊠how you think I should do it? I have no idea.â
Theyâd grinned at each other, soles still firmly pressed together. Theyâd accidentally skipped their English class that day, just talking and laughing in that tiny backroom, surrounded by blank paper and unused staples and pens and scissors. Theyâd been so easy in each otherâs company, giving advice and sharing their thoughts with bare truth, no need to hold back.
It never occurred to either of them that they might someday not be the person they went to first with news, with worries, with questions.
They were right not to be concerned about it. They were far too good to each other, every day, in the tiniest ways, to ever grow apart.
And down the years, theyâd shared so many things with their soles together. As Cas walked on through the snow towards Deanâs house, he ran through the memories like touching the tips of his fingers over the spines of his favourite books; all the secrets theyâd sharedâŠ
Iâm failing Math. I donât like Led Zeppelin like you do. I donât want to work at my dadâs auto shop. I want to be a writer someday. I didnât really kiss that girl, but she told everyone I did and I just went along with it. I tell everyone I lose my phone every time we hang out, so that it can just be you and me. I ate the whole of the pie that Mom baked in one sitting and I told her Sam ate half. I told Gabriel I dropped a book he lent me in a puddle and I never gave it back to him because I loved it so much. Iâm scared about college, because it means we wonât be in the same place every day. Iâm going to miss doing this. Iâm going to miss you. Iâm going to miss you, too.
Castielâs throat tightened when he thought of those last ones. The earnestness in Deanâs face⊠the sadness â it was giving him the courage to do what he was going to do now. To say what he was going to say, before it was too late.
The snow was thick on the ground, but Cas still managed to make it to Deanâs house in fairly good time, his hands deep in his pockets to keep them from turning blue. He was wearing the bright blue beanie that Dean had given him for Christmas, and it was keeping his ears warm. He rang the doorbell, and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
It was Dean who opened the front door, grinning as soon as he saw who it was. His expression shifted when he saw Casâ face; as usual, he was unconsciously attentive to the language of Casâ body, the subtle signs of nervousness and hesitation. Today, as always, he knew what was needed.
âCome on,â he said, smiling reassuringly. âBedroom.â
They headed upstairs, Cas kicking off his snowboots in the hallway and shedding his thick coat and hat as soon as he walked through the door to Deanâs bedroom. A lot had been added to it since Cas had first walked in, all those years ago â different posters, new books, clothes on the floor, pictures of the two of them in more places â but underneath those layers, the room was still the same. Cas touched the back of his hand to the side of Deanâs wooden wardrobe as he passed by, knocking on it for luck, like he always did.
Dean, meanwhile, was already sitting on the floor and taking off his socks.
âWeâll never get over doing this, will we,â he said, as Cas sat down opposite him. âEighteen years old and still going strong.â
Cas couldnât seem to speak past the nervousness, tight and cold in his throat, so he responded only with a smile. What Dean had said was, of course, quite true. For Cas, at least. He would never get tired of doing this â of feeling⊠well, whatever the opposite of alone was, even though they werenât quite together.
And that, today, was what he was hoping to change. He and Dean had always been close enough to live inside each otherâs pockets, speak for the other with assurance, trust each other without hesitation. But more and more often as the years went by and the deep, dark secrets came out, Cas found himself feeling as though he were walking along the edge of a sheer cliff face â with a chasm beyond, a secret that went deeper and darker than any other he had ever shared. Recently, with the threat of separation looming over them, Cas had come to understand the nature of this secret in its entirety; it had all added up, the moments of tension between them, the sensation of nervous excitement in his stomach when they were together, the warmth of his skin wherever Dean touched him⊠and the ache all over when he wanted more, more, more.
Now, here he was. Sitting on the floor of Deanâs bedroom, about to tell him the truth.
âSo, Cas,â Dean said, leaning back against the wall and stretching out his legs. Cas sat up against Deanâs bed, and pressed the soles of his feet against Deanâs. âWhatâs your deepest, darkest secret?â
And Casâ brain stalled. Heâd only resolved to actually tell Dean about an hour before, and on the walk over to Deanâs house heâd been far too occupied with the butterflies in his stomach and the whirling in his head to have actually figured out how he was going to phrase this. If he was being honest with himself, he didnât think that heâd have the courage to make it this far; several times on the walk, heâd almost turned back.
A large part of Cas now wished that he had, in fact, turned back.
Dean was watching him, letting him think out whatever he had to say, obviously concerned but not putting any pressure on Cas to speak before he was ready. Cas let out the breath that he hadnât realised heâd been holding. This was Dean. He could tell Dean anything. He just had to⊠start talking.
âD-Dean,â Cas said, unsticking his throat with an effort. Deanâs feet were warm against his own, the same twin points of strange vulnerability that theyâd always been. âDean, I⊠I⊠weâve been friends for so long, and â and you know how much I value that. And normally I would never do anything to jeopardise it. But thereâs something⊠something that I feel like I have to tell you, something you donât know yet, andâŠâ he trailed off. He was making this sound very dramatic, but it was dramatic, he was terrified and his heart was pounding and his fingers were shakingâŠ
âCas, man, youâre scaring me,â Dean said, his face caught in a nervous half-smile. âWhatâs going on?â
Cas frowned down at his hands, clasping them together to stop them trembling. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again, looking into Deanâs eyes. There was his comfort, his courage, his best friend. Cas wanted to tell him the truth.
He opened his mouth to speak.
âDean, Iâm in love with you,â Cas said. His voice didnât shake, not even once, and he was proud of that, at least. âI â um. I almost wish I didnât have to tell you, because I know this will change things between us. But I canât keep hiding things from you, because thatâs changing things between us too. I want to be open with you, like Iâve always been, and IâŠâ Cas shrugged, his throat closing up again as the magnitude of what heâd done set in. Deanâs face seemed frozen, his mouth open, his expression unreadable.
After a little silence, Dean finally spoke.
âCas, you â you really â youâre not just, uh, playing a joke?â
Cas blinked at him.
âWhy would I say I loved you for a joke?â he said. âNo. I mean it.â
Dean swallowed hard, seeming to be looking for the right words. Cas could only watch, feeling a small part of himself crushed down to nothing â the part of himself that had⊠that had actually hoped that maybe, just maybeâŠ
Heâd been a fool. And now Dean was uncomfortable, and he was thinking things that he wasnât saying, which was the opposite of the point of soles together, and â
âCas,â Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper, still looking stunned. âCas, I love you, too.â
The world stopped. Everything slowed down to a strange, soft, dreamlike pace. Cas watched Deanâs eyes flicker down towards his lap, and then back up to Casâ face, in gentle slow-motion. He felt his own mouth falling open, registering his own shock from a long, long distance.
âDean, you â you â? This isnât â youâre notâŠ?â
âIâm not joking,â Dean said. His feet, still up against Casâ, were a steady, reassuring weight. âIâm not. Cas, Iâve been trying to figure out how to tell you for years. I⊠God, Cas, I think about you all the time, and before it was â well, you know, we were kids, but then â then I, uh, you know â figured out I was into guys too, and â Christ, Cas, do you have any idea how attractive you are?â The last sentence came out strained with Deanâs emotion, full of feelings that heâd kept to himself for too long, hiding them just like Cas had hidden them. Now that Dean could speak freely, the dam had been broken and the river water was bursting through; Casâ heart was thudding furiously in his chest, his disbelief slowly melting awayâŠ
âIf itâs anything like how attractive you are,â Cas managed to say, âthen I think I understand. I thought â I used to think that I would never get together with someone, that I would never get married. Then I realised that I was just too busy being in love with you to even see anyone else.â Dean was pressing his lips together in the way that he always did right before he was going to cry; Casâ own eyes were filling up with tears. Could this really be happening? Did they really both feel the same way? His heart was soaring, and he could believe it, he could believe it â because really, after all â it had always been him and Dean, hadnât it?
âI think you already had your turn,â Cas said, moving his left foot slightly, taking Deanâs with it. Dean pressed harder against his soles, his tears beginning to fall. âSo Iâm not going to ask for your deepest, darkest secret, because I feel like you told me already.â
âI guess so,â Dean said, bringing up his hand to wipe at his face. âGod. This is ridiculous.â Cas lifted his feet away from Deanâs and crawled over to him, one hand and one leg on either side of Deanâs legs. When he was up close, Cas sat back on Deanâs thighs. He wasnât sure exactly what spirit of bravery or madness had possessed him to think taking up this pose was a good idea, but he had to thank that wayward entity for the way that Deanâs jaw loosened with surprise, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted. It felt so good, so right, to be this closeâŠ
âKiss me,â Dean said, bringing his hands up to rest on Casâ hips. âCas. Just â kiss me. Please.â
Cas reached up, his fingertips tracing the lightest patterns over Deanâs face. He leaned forwards, and kissed Deanâs cheek, his heart beating fast but steady. With one hand cupping Deanâs face, he leant back.
âYou said weâd be friends forever,â he said. Dean swallowed hard, and nodded.
âWe will,â he said. âAnd â and Iâm gonna be in love with you forever, too. God, I love you so much.â
And Cas couldnât resist any longer, couldnât bring himself to tease out the sweetness of this moment for a single second more; with one hand still touching Deanâs cheek, he leaned forwards and kissed him.
The press of their lips was like the press of their soles, a strange vulnerability, a new way to touch skin that was special, and only for each other. They relaxed into it, finding themselves at home at once in the taste and feel of the otherâs kiss. When they were together like this, there was nothing between them, no secrets, no dark and hidden dangers, nothing left unsaid. In the light of their love, they kissed each other warm.
Outside, the snow fell softly. Each snowflake fell as it should, and settled.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
This is a SUPER belated Christmas present for @nestingdean based on a prompt she asked for (If I post it before the new year, itâs totes cool, yeah?). I hope you like it boo! Merry belated Christmas and a happy new year. I miss you tons. *hugs*
Dean is⊠well heâs between jobs at the moment, but heâs fine. Okay. He can get by on his own with the tiny bit of savings he has.
The problem is, he isnât on his ownâŠ
No, Samâs kind of counting on him since heâs in school full-time, and someone has to pay the rent, and the last thing Dean wants to do is stress Sam out by making him feel he has to get a job to help out. So Dean tells Sam a partial truth: That he got laid off from his job, but that itâs okay because heâs already got a job lined up.
That last part is the lie.
He has nothing, and if Dean is being truthful, heâs kind of desperate, so heâs willing to do just about anything. Itâs about a month before Christmas, which means there are plenty of stores hiring for seasonal help, so Dean picks up a job at the local hardware store. But, heâs just not getting enough hours to earn what he needs to pay the bills and he needs something else.
He ventures to the mall, hoping to find another seasonal job, and thatâs when he sees it. The line of kids waiting to see Santa, who just so happens to have an advertisement near him requesting help.
And well, if Dean decides to go for it because he doesnât mind the kiddos, how bad could it be?
a little fic for my Christmas exchange with @victorian-hoecake. see the art that the fic is based on here! thank you for doing this with me, Donna, you lovely thing. and happy holidays, everyone.
Dean wasnât really into Christmas.
Admittedly, if you looked at him where he was now â sitting by the fire with tinsel strung all around, a Christmas tree up and decorated beautifully in the corner, and gifts wrapped and glinting in the firelight beneath â admittedly, it did look like he was kind of into Christmas.
But he wasnât. He was only going along with this because â well, it had spiralled out of his control, really. He wasnât the instigator. He was just â a reluctant collaborator. An accessory to the Christmas crimes. A â oh, a grateful recipient of a mug of cinnamon hot chocolate.
âThanks, Cas,â Dean said, as Cas sat down beside him, cosied up in a blue blanket. Dean wrapped his hands around the mug for warmth, and looked into the flames. They flickered merrily, crackling up around the logs and coal in the grate. The whole room smelled fresh and spiced with pine wood, the warmth slowly spreading throughout the cabin, relaxing the cold tension in Deanâs muscles, settling his heart into a deep, contented bass beat.
âCas,â Dean said, partly just to hear Casâ name from his own mouth again, a word so rarely spoken across such a short distance. Casâ was a name of stretches, of lengths, of insurmountable spaces, of needing and not having, of not giving enough, not taking enough, of want.
Except tonight, their very own Christmas night, Casâ name meant close, close, cinnamon, fire, gifts. You, me, close.
Cas blinked down at the flames, and then looked over at Dean, a solemn warmth in his eyes.
âYes, Dean?â
Dean wondered whether his own name meant anything to Cas. Whether Cas enjoyed saying it, too. Maybe he did. Maybe it was exactly the same for both of themâ
Dean broke off. It was obvious, he thought, that the Christmas decorations were definitely doing things to him. He cast an evil eye at the baubles on the tree. Those were influential baubles.
âHow exactly did we end up with all â this?â Dean said, refraining from calling it âcrapâ, because â well, because he didnât quite believe that it was crap, himself. He was pretty proud of how the tree had ended up looking. Cas smiled, and lifted one shoulder.
âWell, we were supposed to just be staying here for the case,â Cas said, taking Deanâs rhetorical question literally, and answering it. âAnd we went shopping for fuel for the fire, because itâs â um â âcold as balls up here.ââ Dean grinned. He could stop Cas talking â after all, he didnât need to hear the story, heâd been there for all of this â but there was something good about hearing it from Cas. He let Cas go on. âBut when I told you that Iâd never experienced a traditional American Christmas, you decided to change that. First you wanted tinsel, and then a tree, and then lights, and it all justâŠâ
Dean noticed a small white bauble that theyâd missed earlier, lying by his knee. He picked it up.
âSnowballed?â he said, finishing Casâ sentence with a smile and a wave of the snowy bauble. Cas returned his smile.
âExactly,â he said. Dean took a sip of his cinnamon hot chocolate. It was still too hot, his tongue zinging, but it was delicious.
âSam should be back soon with the food,â Dean said. His stomach gave a grumble of anticipation. Cas dipped his head in acknowledgement, silent, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
âThis â this is okay, right?â Dean said, watching Casâ seriousness, a sudden swoop of apprehension in his stomach. âItâs not â not too much? Or too little? I know we didnât get the best baubles, but they still look pretty good, at least, I think they do ââ
âDean,â Cas said, and there was something about the weight of the word in his mouth that told Dean everything â that told him without question that Deanâs name did mean something to Cas, something important. Deanâs certainty had nothing to do with the influence of the baubles, this time, and he knew it.
âGood,â Dean said, before Cas said any more. âGood. I wanted â you know, we didnât get this kinda thing much, either. So itâs new for us both.â
Dean looked over at Cas, who was watching him with a quiet, affectionate intensity. There was something â something about the way he looked, about the way the firelight played over his face, about the softness of his lips â that had Dean spinning, his mind misted over, he was suddenly leaning forwards and his hand was coming up and cupping Casâ cheek and â
And Dean kissed Cas.
He kissed Cas.
The kiss lasted just a fraction of a moment, before Dean came to his senses and drew in a sharp breath as he pulled away â a breath of cinnamon, and pine, and something sweet and undefinable that could only be â Cas, Casâ mouth, the way he tasted â
Dean was frozen, caught and blinded between a thousand stars of panic and happiness and heart-thudding, terrifying hopeâŠ
âThatâs new, too,â he finally managed to get out, in a tone that wanted very badly to be casual. âUh. For both of us.â
Casâ expression was unreadable. For a long, long moment, the balance held steady, tipping between victory and disasterâŠ
âI like new things,â said Cas, eventually, and reached up his own hand, wrapping his fingers into Deanâs green shirt and pulling him in for another kiss, a longer kiss, a warm, happy, joyous Christmas kiss.
Dean wasnât usually into Christmas. But if Christmas meant trees, and lights, and cinnamon, and â and kisses, and feeling as though the whole dark, dark world were just a little brighter because he and Cas were together â well.
for Citra, @castihalo, who is quietly brave and quite incredible. ^^
(read it here on AO3!)
Deanâs chair had glue on it. Heâd sat down on it without realising, and now he was completely stuck.
That had to be it. There was no other reason that heâd still be sitting here two whole hours after he first sat down, right? No reason whatsoever. Dean wasnât exactly a stare-into-space type. He wasnât into crappy romantic shit, and he wasnât⊠dreamy, and he wasnât⊠he wasnât⊠it had nothing to do with the fact that Cas was sitting right across the room, OK. Wearing soft pyjamas and a smile, buried in a book. Looking â well â good. Cas looked good in the lamplight, which smoothed over his skin and honeyed the lines of his face, left dabs of ochre shadow under his eyes.
Obviously it wasnât that which had kept Dean sitting in his chair for two hours, though. Look, heâd always been on the verge of getting up, alright? But â well, somehow heâd never quite made it. Heâd wanted to, really, but every time he made up his mind to do so, Cas would do something distracting - like yawn, or shift his legs on the sofa, or sigh gently in a way that had Deanâs heart squeezing. But the point was, the point was⊠it couldnât be Cas that had him stuck here.
It was the glue. Definitely the glue.
Maybe Sam had put it there as a joke.
Ugh.
Since Dean had been the victim of this ridiculous and childish prank, heâd had far too much time to spend thinking. Seriously, he thought, no one should ever be forced to sit with themselves for longer than thirty seconds. It did things to people. The effect it had had on Dean, in particular, was definitely to be taken with a pinch of salt. Rock salt, just in case this was some kind of⊠demonically-influenced⊠thing.
Hey, maybe it was a demon who had put the glue on the chair, and forced Dean to look at Casâ face for two hours, and make him think about how easy it would be to walk over there and⊠and tell Cas how he felt.
Well â well, not â not how he felt, because he didnât feel anything specific, per se, that was to say, he felt something, yes, but it wasnât⊠there was no point blowing it out of proportion. It was just because heâd been sitting in this chair and the light was all low and Cas looked so happy and gentle and kissable and â
Oh, God, Dean hadnât really just thought that.Â
Sure, the echo of the thought was still in his mind, but he hadnât just said those words to himself. He really, really hadnât. There was no way that heâd sat here for two hours staring at Cas because he looked kissable. Dean didnât do⊠kissable, for crying out loud. And he didnât do that thing that people did in the movies, getting all gross and gooey-eyed over kisses. He didnât. He didnât look at people and wish he could kiss them just for the sake of kissing them and feeling⊠emotions. And he didnât wish he could hold their hand in his, and lace their fingers together, and look into their eyes and hope that they wouldnât look away, would keep watching himâŠ
Ugh.
Across the room, Cas blinked solemnly and turned a page. The way his fingers moved over the book, and the way his lips pressed together slightly as he read⊠his whole Cas-ness right now was doing things to Dean. And not the usual things, either. Dean had got used to those things. After all, come on, who didnât look at their friends every now and then and think about â well, going there? That was totally normal. Happened all the time with Cas, so it had to be normal.
But⊠this was something else. This wasnât imagining taking Cas to bed, this was imagining taking Cas to bed and then tucking him in and pressing a kiss to his forehead and getting in on the other side and spooning with him all night. And waking up next to him, with pillows that smelled like him.
And yet with Cas, Dean thought that maybe it wouldnât be awkward at all.
It wouldnât be a big deal. It would be so natural. And so⊠good. Dean had a strange fluttery feeling in his stomach just thinking about it, like being scared, but â in a good way. He really wanted to do all those things.
But that was impossible. It didnât make any sense. It just â it didnât make sense.
Dean looked over at Cas, who was frowning slightly down at some fine print, a footnote at the bottom of a page. Maybe he needed glasses. Dean wanted to kiss him until everything else in the world just faded away.
And somehow, it felt like that did make sense.
But the problem was, of course, that Dean didnât know whether Cas would â whether he would want to âÂ
Oh, God, no, this was ridiculous. This whole train of thought was crazy. It was just because Dean was⊠tired, and â and stuck to this goddamn chair. He didnât really want to go over there, right? Cas would probably be totally freaked out. Well, not freaked out because Cas didnât really do freaked out, but heâd probably squint up at Dean in that adorable way he had, and say, âAngels donât feel for humans like that, Dean.â Stupid, pedantic bastard. I know, Dean told the Cas in his head. I know, stop acting all high and mighty about it. I just wanted to tell you how I felt, in case⊠in case you wanted to make⊠an exception, maybe, orâŠ
Dean resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He was pretty sure that Cas had forgotten that Dean was in the room at all, totally lost in reading, and he didnât really feel like putting a stop to that.Â
That is, sure, Dean wanted to get up and leave the room and be done with sitting on this stupid chair, of course, butâŠÂ
In a minute or two would be fine. When heâd made up his mind whether or not he was going to go over there, and⊠and ruin his friendship with Cas.
Or maybe â maybe â
Ugh.
Maybe.
Perhaps.
What if.
Ugh.
Words like that were pains in his ass. They made everything difficult. If only there could be no what if, just yes or no. If only there were some way of making sure Cas liked him back that Dean could control⊠if only Dean could take a test, could prove himself by â fighting a â a bear, or something, or running a marathon⊠saving Cas from a dragon, wasnât that how it used to go?
Dean kept himself amused for a long few moments imagining Cas in a floaty pink dress and pointed purple princess hat.
He sighed.
He couldnât do any of that. There were no real-life monsters to fight between him and Cas; no way to win Casâ heart, ugh, with a quest for glory. All the bears were in his head and the marathon was the seven or eight steps it would take to cross the space between them. The only way for Dean to prove his bravery was to â to walk over there. And Cas wouldnât even know what Dean had done, wouldnât even know how much it had taken for Dean just to unstick himself from the glue on this chair.
It would be the smallest, quietest bravery heâd ever shown.
And Dean didnât want to show it. He didnât want to. He wanted to slink back to his room and be miserable and think about missed opportunities and put on sad music and feel the reach of the empty side of the bed next to him. He wanted to be familiarly desolate, disconsolate in the way he knew best, with his closest friend sleeping on his chest â the weight of his own loneliness.
That was safe. And easy. Not brave, but Hell, who was brave anymore? Who did anything that wasnât selfish, and straightforward, and sad?
He wasnât going to speak to Cas. He wasnât. He wasnât. He was going to get up and leave the room without a word, right now...
He was still stuck to the chair. His legs wouldnât move. Damn â damn glue.
What if he just did it, though. What if he just had one mad moment of quiet bravery, and stood up, and walked over there, and said to Cas...
Well, said something to Cas, anyway. He didnât want to script it in his head, if he was going to do it, because heâd just sound stupid and prepared, like an actor playing himself. He wanted to feel it as he said it. He wanted the words to come out mixed and blunt and wrong, because the way he felt â well, it was all of those things, too, probably. And anyway, Cas wouldnât be able to prepare what he was going to say, so it felt like an unfair advantage to map all of his own parts out.
So there was nothing left to do but go over there. Nothing left to say to himself but okay, letâs do it â or no. He could still say no. Everything would stay the same.
If he said no now, heâd say it again ten thousand times, that was for sure. Heâd never tell Cas how he felt. How he felt. Because he did feel. He did. He felt so much.
Ugh.
Ugh.
Ugh.
âUh, Cas?â Dean stood up, feeling the glue on the chair set him free easily, as though it had never been there at all. Cas blinked once down at his page, finishing his sentence, before pressing the book closed with his thumb still inside it to mark his place. Dean took seven steps towards him, his legs feeling like white noise beneath him.
âYouâve been quiet,â Cas said, looking up at him. âIs everything alright?â
âYeah, fine,â Dean said automatically, his voice a little gruff, his mind a sudden blank. He swung his arms back and forth, just once, and then held them stiffly by his sides, frowning.
âIs something on your mind?â Cas asked, lowering his book down to rest on his lap, page still carefully kept. He was wearing an old t-shirt, one of Deanâs own, Dean realised, which made the fluttering in his stomach double.
âUhh,â he said, his fingers curled up tight into nervous fists. âUhhh. Well, yeah, I guess. I was just thinking about how, uh⊠howâŠâ he trailed off, his courage waning. Maybe he could still back out of this?
Cas was looking up at him, his eyes soft and puzzled. The feeling washed over Dean again, the attraction that wasnât just attraction, the feeling of desire, and affection, the feeling of â of â
âCas, Iâm in love with you,â Dean said, the words tumbling out of his mouth even as he realised the truth of them, the absolute, obvious truth. His heart was pounding madly in his chest. Cas blinked, once, and said nothing at all for one long second, for two...
Deanâs panic set in, his eyes dropping to the floor, his cheeks reddening, heart still thud thud thudding against his ribs. Oh, God, he was mad, he was absolutely insane, why had he just â why had he just said it, just like that, with no build-up, no warning? Should he run? Should he just â
Cas got up.
And his book fell to the floor, landing face down, open to the wrong page.Â
Deanâs breathing seemed to stop.
âDean,â Cas said, in a tone that Dean knew so well â a complexity of fondness, and surprise, and total lack of surprise, all at once. âDean, I â this isnât⊠this isnât a joke, is it?â
Deanâs gaze, which had been still locked on the floor, jerked up. He met Casâ eyes, and knew that his expression had answered the question without words; Casâ face cleared.
âI - I mean it,â Dean said hoarsely, even still. There was no point in lying, now. He shrugged, a little helplessly. âI really mean it.â
Cas was standing strangely upright, his arms held just a little away from his body. He wasnât smiling, but his eyes were bright and solemn and intense as he took a small step closer. Was he - Dean swallowed. He didnât look... like Dean had expected he would. It was almost as though...
âIâŠâ Cas began. âI didnât think you would â that we would everâŠâ He lifted a shoulder, and let it fall.
âWell, we donât have to,â Dean said gruffly. He could feel even his ears turning pink.
âI want to,â Cas said, very, very quietly.
For a long moment, they only stared at each other.
Deanâs body swayed forwards, and he took a step. Cas followed his lead; they slid into each otherâs space, as naturally as could be.
âCas,â Dean murmured, his head bent down, eyes lowered, speaking to Casâ cheek because they were so close, so close. âCas, I donât â I donât normally do this very well. I donât know what â I donât know if Iâm gonna be able to do â all the things thatâŠâ He broke off, and swallowed. âI just want to be real with you,â he said, hearing the strung-out tiredness in his own voice. âI just donât want to pretend.â
Cas nodded, his expression still serious, gentle, with an edge of bright, glowing happiness to his eyes that made Deanâs lips curve upwards in a smile he couldnât stop.
âIt may surprise you to learn,â Cas said softly, and Dean could feel the warmth of the breath on which Casâ words rode touching his own lips, âthat I donât normally do this, either. I donât feel things the same way that humans do, Dean. I donât know what I will be able to want to do, either.â He drew in a breath. âAll I know is whatâs in front of me. All I know is that I - I want to be with you. All I know is that⊠I love you, too.â
Dean couldnât seem to control his own face. He was smiling and his eyes were starting to fill up with tears â tears â and he didnât know whether to laugh or cry. He pressed his hands to cover his face, and half-laughed into the darkness.
He felt Casâ hands come to rest on top of his own, and then pull them down and away. He expected Cas to let go when his hands were back down by his own sides, but Cas didnât; instead, he held on.
It felt so right that Dean really did cry, then â just a few tears sliding out in a rush down his cheeks.
âWill this be enough?â Cas said seriously, his eyes tracing over Deanâs features, his expression full of tenderness. âEven if we donât ââ
âI never thought Iâd feel... this much - or this, uh, in this way,â Dean said thickly, his forehead creasing as he tried to get himself under control. âI didnât think I wanted to, anymore. But when I l-look at you, Cas, I just⊠if you want to â want to be with me, too, in whatever way, then â then thatâs enough for me.â
Cas did smile, then, just the slightest upward curve of his lips, the smallest of expressions that expressed an infinity of feeling.
âCas,â Dean said roughly, and cleared his throat, and tried again. âCas, could we â can we kiss?â
Casâ hands dropped Deanâs.
For a terrible second, Dean thought that heâd misunderstood everything.
And then Casâ soft touch was on both sides of his face, drawing him in, bringing him close. Dean was a mess; he only remembered to close his eyes at the last second and he didnât angle his head right and he kept his hands awkwardly between them, but â
But they kissed.
And it meant so, so much. Dean could feel himself melting, thawing, turning to pure happiness inside.
The kiss meant, I love you.
And it meant, I love you, too.
It meant, I donât know what shape our love will be. I donât know how weâre going to make it work. But I know I love you, I love you, I love you.
In the spirit of christmas, use the code STOCKINGSÂ and get 20% off some certain products on my Redbubble shop! The offer only stands until November 17th at exactly 11:59 pm your local time (no matter where you live), so grab them fast!
The discounted products only include: stickers, cases, mugs, pouches and notebooks, but there's more than that on sale (both christmas and non-christmas themed!) so check it out! :)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
â007?â Q asks when James lingers at his side. Heâs been briefed. He has his new equipment. Usually he makes a quip and heads for the door by now. Instead, heâs just standing there. Ice blue eyes warming. Watching.
âQ.â James has a way of making everything sound like a command, even the single letter.
Q sticks his chin up. He doesnât take orders from 00-agents.
James narrows his eyes, laser focused. Q stares right back.
âSomething you need, Bond?â
âYou could say that.â
âIf you want something...â Q swallows. When Jamesâs gaze drops to his throat, Q wonders for the first time if heâs in over his head here. He says the rest much softer, âYou need to ask.â
James curls the edge of his lips in a sharp smirk, as lethal as the rest of him. He takes a confident step forward, right into Qâs space. Q refuses to move away. He will not be intimidated.
âAm I making you nervous?â James asks. A few more inches and theyâd touch. If Q stretched, he could kiss him.
âNo.â
âNo?â James closes the gap, chest brushing Qâs. His lips seek Qâs ear. âThen why are you trembling?â
âIâm not,â Q lies. He puts his hands on his hips. He canât see Jamesâs face like this, so he stares at his shoulder instead. Itâs a nice shoulder. Wide and solid. Q thinks about running his hand over it, and shivers.
James smiles against his ear.
Q huffs, âJust tell me what you want, 007.â
âI thought it obvious.â James traces his nose around the shell of Qâs ear, before placing a gentle kiss beneath it.
Q tilts his head away, offering more. Heart pounding, he tries to keep his breathing normal. It hitches when James kisses under his jaw. But no. Q wonât lose control like this. At least, not all of the control.
So he takes another breath and makes his own command. âSay it.â
James laughs and kisses his chin. âI want you.â
âMore like that.â Q grabs him by the tie and drags him to his lips for a proper kiss.
this one is for the amazingly kind @i-like-scaring-homophobesâ, who did some very lovely and heartwarming art for me. prompt by a super cool anon who knows what I like:Â Person A is the son of an arrogant author and Person B has read all of that author's works but happens to think that the stories Person A tells them when they look at the stars are way more beautiful.
(read it here on AO3!)
âChuck Shurley? Sure, Iâve read his books. Kinda Vonnegut, but like, Kilgore-Trout Vonnegut, you know?â Dean took another gulp of his whisky, and smacked his lips like an adult. The guy sitting beside him at the bar, however, did not look suitably impressed. In fact, he was staring down into the bubbles of his cider, not even noticing the way that Dean was smiling at him, giving him the eyes.
âI thought his stuff was pretty good, in a kinda metamodern way,â Dean added airily, and a little more loudly.
The guy only nodded gloomily. Dean almost clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in frustration. Câmon, dude, Iâm trying to impress you. Twenty minutes of talking and all Dean had to show for it was a weird first name, a series of dour stares and the strangest need to know more about this â Castiel.
Maybe he should be taking the hint, though. The bar was full of people, and Dean was bound to find someone else who might actually want to talk to him, which would make a nice change. Though Dean had the feeling that even if he got up and left, heâd still be glancing back every twenty seconds â checking to see if Castiel was still here, maybe taking a deep pull on his cider, or maybe even watching Dean...
He sighed. For some reason, this was going to be an evening lived in reference to Castiel, whether Dean was sat here on this barstool or over by the pool table or back beside the jukebox. And if he did leave this spot, he knew full well that heâd only spend his evening laughing too loudly at jokes heâd barely heard and making himself large in the room and generally trying too hard to be attractive to the person right in front of him, right now.
So he might as well stay.
âHeâs my father,â said Castiel, breaking into Deanâs thoughts unexpectedly. It was only the fourth or fifth time heâd spoken beyond monosyllables since Dean had sat down next to him, grinning warmly, resting one hand on the bar and letting the other spread wide over his own thigh. Castielâs voice still took Dean aback with its roughness.
âChuck Shurley,â Castiel clarified, looking over at Dean when he received no response. Dean blinked back to reality. âHeâs my father.â
âWow, really?â Dean said, trying not to sound too sceptical. Heâd heard a thousand take-me-to-bed lies, but this was one of the weirder ones. Not least because Castiel really didnât seem interested at all in actually taking Dean to bed; he just didnât have the look in his eye, the tension in his body. Maybe he was really telling the truth.
Castiel nodded mutely, and took a sip of cider.
âHuh.â Dean paused for a second. âSo⊠whatâs it like, having a famous writer for a father?â
Castiel looked down into his drink for a long couple of seconds, and then looked up at Dean. Dean blinked. There was something in Castielâs eyes, something⊠quietly judgmental, as though he were weighing Dean, wondering about him. Dean swallowed. He knew that look â it was the âhow much do I tell youâ look; the one that spoke of a history, a thoughtfulness, possibly a certain level of damage. For the first time since heâd sat down, Dean was aware of Castiel as a person, rather than a body and a voice and a pair of blue eyes: a person as complicated as he was, himself. Dean raised his chin and watched Castiel right back, wondering if heâd get a good answer, or a true answer, or even any answer at all.
Castiel opened his mouth, dropping his gaze.
âLike being chained to a comet,â he said quietly, not looking into Deanâs eyes. Honest, then. Honest enough that he only wanted to confess it, didnât say it to provoke a reaction.
âChained to a â comet?â Dean pressed, when Castiel said nothing more. Castiel raised one shoulder.
âBeing dragged around,â he said. âAnd never having any say in anything. Never making your own choices. And never getting a chance to ââ He broke off, with a shake of his head. âIâm sorry,â he said. âI donât mean to⊠I donât get to talk about it much.â
âItâs fine,â Dean said quickly, automatically â but he meant it, he really did. There was something about the way Castiel spoke that was complex without being untruthful, and it was actually â Dean was kind of confused to admit â very attractive. Not in a physical way â the guyâs deep and delicious voice was still taking care of that â but in an âI want to sit here and hear your thoughts about everything, everâ kind of way. What the hell?
Dean was so alarmed by the novelty of it that he almost slipped right off his stool and walked away, then and there. But then Castiel sighed, and it was so natural, and so tired, that Dean settled back into his seat, back into the conversation, somehow reassured.
âYou mean, he takes you around for book signings and stuff?â he hazarded. Kind of a stupid question, not on the same figurative level as Castiel and his chains and comets, but Dean wanted to understand. Castiel lifted one shoulder.
âHe used to,â he said. âThen, one day, he left me behind. Never spoke to me again.â
Deanâs throat seemed to seal over. He cleared it a couple of times, wanting to reach out and put his hand on Castielâs shoulder, but not quite having the courage. He didnât know if the touch would be welcome, anyway.
âIâm sorry,â he said, trying to make the words strong enough and deep enough to hold a little of his empathy, a little of his own sadness. To his ears, they came out sounding just as vapid as any other apology offered by one stranger to another. But maybe there was something in them for Castiel, who blinked over at him with an expression of slight surprise, and then tipped a little more cider into his mouth.
He swallowed it thickly, and shrugged again.
âSo it goes,â he said, with a dry little glance that Dean caught. It made him smile.
âSo it goes,â he agreed, and took a more measured sip of his whisky. It tasted like poisoned soil, but he liked the way the amber liquid looked inside the glass in his hand on the bar, the way the sight of it fitted neatly with the croon of music from the juke, the thin straining ache in his shoulders and up his neck.
And so the evening passed: in quietness, mostly, an oddly-weighted mixture of silences and cut-off sentences. The significance of every word seemed to be intensified. Dean had never had an evening that felt so important, even though they didnât talk about much: their drinks, the music, the rain, the promise of snow â at one point, the way that they felt as though something they desperately needed was missing, but they could never tell what it was, because it wasnât there, and the only way to understand it was to feel all around the place where it was missing and find out the shape of it so they could look for it but that hurt â and then they went back to the weather. It had been a dark, leafy October.
âItâs late,â said Castiel, finally. Dean glanced at the clock, blinking at it twice when its hands smiled a crooked twenty to one. He felt slightly giddy, though heâd long since switched his whisky for a light beer. He took the final draught of it now, wiping his mouth afterwards and looking over at Castiel, who was looking at him. Dean could feel his heart actually stutter in his chest, flustered.
This hadnât been how it was supposed to go; he was almost embarrassed at himself. Heâd come out for a cruise, and now â well, now he found himself pretty much falling overboard, with heartbeats skipping and cheeks reddening and everything. Crap.
Castiel was still looking at him, waiting for him to say something.
Dean wanted to say, Iâm not ready to go home. Letâs find another bar.
Dean wanted to say, Iâm not ready to go home. Letâs go for a drive.
Dean most wanted to say, Iâm not ready to go home. Where do you want to go?
Dean opened his mouth.
âWe should go home,â he said. Coward. Coward, coward, coward. What was he even afraid of? That Castiel might say no? That Castiel might say yes?
Castiel nodded, slowly.
âWe should,â he said.
There was a pause, a long one. Dean wanted to imagine that it was a tense pause, full of words unsaid, but Castiel didnât seem bothered by the idea that they were going to go their separate ways in just a few moments, and never speak to each other again. Dean didnât know what to do with his hands; he kept shifting them on and off the bar, twisting them one over the other. He wished he had a pen, so that he could scribble his number on Castielâs hand and leave with a suave smile. He wished he had the courage to just reach over and take Castielâs hand in his own. He wished⊠oh, but wishing was for cowards. Damn it, all heâd wanted tonight was a cheap hook-up, not⊠whatever this was.
Castiel turned to look at him, and smiled slightly. How was Dean going to be able to say goodbye to that? He was opening his mouth to speak; Dean tried to focus.
âYours, or mine?â Castiel said, and Deanâs heart almost stopped.
âEither,â he managed to say, and then thought of the bareness of his little apartment. âYours.â
Castiel nodded. There was something in it, some kind of soft smile around his mouth, some releasing of tension in his shoulders, that told Dean how nervous Castiel had been about asking that question. His eyes were still a little wide; maybe he was even surprised that Dean had said yes. That thought alone made Dean want to take Castielâs face in his hands and kiss him. His heart was thudding out a happy beat in his chest, and he wondered if Castielâs was playing a matching rhythm.
âI live not far from here,â Castiel said, standing up and pulling on his coat. âItâs up a hill.â He looked at Dean, both eyebrows slightly dipped, as though concerned that the topography would somehow be a deal-breaker. Dean smiled and shrugged, trying to put Castiel at his ease.
âIâm down for going up,â he said, resisting the urge to say, and the reverse, too, if you know what I mean. Normally the line would have been out of his mouth before heâd thought twice, but⊠it just didnât seem right to be flirting so cheaply, not tonight. Not on a night that was worth its weight in gold. Castiel smiled at him, and they turned to go.
Outside, the coldness swept over them, chilling Deanâs skin but not coming close to taking the edge off the giddiness and the warmth in his chest. Castiel was walking beside him, setting off down the sidewalk at a steady pace. Dean could feel himself practically skipping along, and tried to calm down, or at the very least wipe the grin off his face.
Castiel looked over at him, and caught him smiling. He smiled, too, a gentle thing, eyes bright and familiar as though heâd known Dean for years â and now Dean didnât want to stop beaming, not ever, because if there was even the slightest chance that itâd make Castiel smile at him like that, he just couldnât pass that up. What was it about this guy that made his heart thud in his chest, in the best possible way?
They followed the road, mostly in silence, Dean enjoying the simplicity of the passing moments. His mind was full of Castiel and nothing else, a breather from his troubles and cares. When they started to climb the promised hill, Dean found he was too short of breath to say much, anyway. The road was winding, with trees on either side that murmured to each other, leaves whispering and kissing in the dark. Deanâs hands were loose by his sides, and so were Castielâs. Dean wondered if Castiel felt the spaces between his fingers as a lack, or a freedom. And he wondered whether, if he were to put his own fingers into those spaces, it would be a cage or a comfort.
He hadnât the courage to find out. If Castielâs hand went limp beneath his own, didnât hold him right, everything would be different. Everything would be ruined.
âWeâre almost there,â Castiel said, just as they emerged out of the trees. The road continued a little way and a hundred metres or so up it, Dean could make out the lights of a cosy little house tucked in next to a grand old tree, whose branches dripped down in tearful strings. Dean thought of his own shabby apartment, and was glad that theyâd come here, instead.
âLooks like a nice place,â he said to Castiel. Every time he spoke, he was worried that Castiel was going to roll his eyes â everything he said was so boring, so obvious â but Castiel only nodded solemnly.
âBeing the son of a rich author has its upsides,â he said, a sudden gust of wind almost swallowing his words. Dean shivered, and thought he noticed Castiel step up the pace a little.
âHe pays for your house, even thoughâŠ?â Dean said, breaking off a little too quickly, because âeven though he never speaks to youâ seemed like a harsh thing to say. It was an even harsher thing to do, Dean thought with a tiny clench of anger, as Castiel mentally filled in the rest of Deanâs sentence for himself, face pinched with sadness.
âI donât understand it either,â he said. Dean wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, again, but they were almost at Castielâs house and the moment slipped into the past as the lights drew them forwards. The house had a porch made of white-painted wood, which looked a gentle lacquered orange in the light from the lamp above the door. As Castiel fumbled for his keys â a weirdly normal gesture, Dean thought, from someone so generally other-worldly â Dean turned around, scuffing his feet against the wood beneath his feet. The road theyâd walked up was a grey tarmac river flowing naturally down the hill. The trees were still sighing, peering up towards the house. And above themâŠ
âThereâs not so much light pollution from the town up here,â Castiel said, as Dean heard the click and thunk of the door being unlocked and opened. Castiel came and stood beside Dean, looking upwards with him. âThatâs why you can see them so clearly.â
Castielâs face was smooth and relaxed, but the expression in his eyes was complex, beyond Deanâs understanding. For the hundredth time that night, Dean wanted to kiss him.
âItâs beautiful,â said Dean, and he wasnât looking at the stars.
He didnât know why he was still hesitating, still waiting for the right moment to actually touch Castiel for the first time. Maybe it was the fact that every other person heâd ever hooked up with, heâd ended up losing â the morning after, the week after, sometimes even on the same night, when theyâd shimmied back into their jeans and left his bed half-empty. And he didnât want that to happen with Castiel. He really, really didnât want that to happen. He couldnât even explain to himself why. Sure, he and Castiel had a little in common, their conversation flowed easily, their silences were mutually appreciated and not awkward. They worked well together, or at least, they had so far. But that wasnât really enough to justify the horrible tightness in Deanâs chest when he thought of Castiel closing the door on him, or of walking back down the hill alone, with the trees muttering amongst themselves as they watched him disappear. Why did he even care?
Maybe he didnât. Maybe he was just tricking himself into caring because⊠because he wanted to, wanted to have an attachment to someone, and Castiel spoke little enough that Dean could paste whatever personality he wanted into the silent spaces. Dean could imagine that Castiel was⊠serious, and calm, intelligent but still kind, deep but without pretensions, with a dry sense of humour and bright, bright eyes, and a vibe to him of having a story about himself constantly unfolding, a story that Dean wanted to write himself into in big, important lettersâŠ
Yeah, sure, Dean was just imagining the way that he liked this guy, it had nothing to do with who Castiel actually was.
Dean swallowed. It had been five hours since heâd met Castiel. He needed to take a seriously big step back.
âComing in?â Castiel said, finally taking his eyes off the stars, turning round and making for the inviting light of the doorway. Dean didnât hesitate. He stepped forwards, and into Castielâs home.
Inside, the place was a comfortable mess. Every surface was littered with books, with coffee cups, with stray papers and coins and newspapers folded untidily. The hallway led straight through into a large living room, where Castiel gestured to a big, ungainly couch, switching on a lamp.
âIâll make us some drinks,â he said. âAlcoholic, orâŠ?â
âLet me help,â Dean said quickly, not wanting to be left in here alone, tapping his knees together and waiting. âIâll have what youâre having.â
Castiel smiled and led him through to the kitchen, a pokier little room â or perhaps it only felt that way because of the plants dripping waxy leaves down from the top of every cupboard, making the place smell of Italian pizza and peppermint gum.
âBasil,â Castiel said as he put a pan of water on to boil, answering Deanâs unspoken question. âOregano, coriander, mint, rosemary and thyme. I use them in cooking.â
âWish I could cook,â Dean said wistfully, rubbing a twisted basil leaf between his fingers, releasing the delicious scent. âAlways wanted to learn, but there was never time.â
âOne day,â Castiel said, not a platitude, but a statement of fact. Dean could almost believe that Castiel had taken a peek into his future, he spoke with such certainty.
âYeah,â he said, almost believing it himself. âOne day. Iâll probably â heh, Iâll probably be bad at it, though.â
Castiel did no more than throw him a look â one that said, quite eloquently, shut up, Dean. But in a good way. Dean grinned. God, he wanted that look in his life.
The water on the stove was bubbling, and Castiel was opening a cupboard, brushing aside rosemary to pick out two mugs. Dean picked up a green oven glove lying on the counter and picked up the saucepan by its metal handle, and Castiel turned off the gas.
âHot chocolate?â he said, as Dean held the saucepan steady.
âHell, yeah,â Dean said, and Castiel ran his hands over a huddle of jars and pots on the counter next to the fridge, selecting a purple one with white swirling letters on the side. He spooned out cocoa powder, and then Dean poured the water on top, steam swirling, while Castiel replaced the purple jar and opened another cupboard.
âWould you like some rum?â Castiel asked, retrieving a bottle of amber liquid and holding it up to Dean, eyebrows raised.
âWell, now youâre talking,â Dean grinned. âDirty hot chocolates for two.â
âDirty?â Castiel said, squinting over at Dean as he unscrewed the bottle lid.
âYeah, you know. Like, spiked with alcohol. Dirty.â Dean smirked, and this time he couldnât resist a wink â his heart fluttered â but it was alright, Castiel was smiling back at him, and maybe there was even⊠was that a little heated glint in his eyes?
Dean felt a little hunger unfurl inside him, at the sight of that glance. He licked his lips and watched as Castiel turned away to put the saucepan into the sink, taking in his broad shoulders and strong, thick body and tight jeans all over again. Fuck.
âWe could drink them in the lounge,â Castiel said, coming back over to pick up his mug. âOr we could go out onto the porch.â
âThe porch?â Dean said sceptically. âDude. Itâs freezing outside.â
âI have blankets,â Castiel offered, with a shrug. âI like to sit out there sometimes. But if youâd prefer not to ââ
âNo, no,â said Dean. âItâs cool. The porch sounds good.â He didnât even know why he was agreeing. The porch did not sound nearly as good as cosying up together on the big cushioned sofa in the living room. But there was something in the way that Castiel had said it⊠his tone had been weighted strangely, as though heâd been hoping to tip the balance towards that option, or perhaps as though â as though sitting on the porch were somehow important, and he wasnât entirely sure whether or not he wanted to show Dean why. For some reason, it mattered to Castiel that they did this, and Dean⊠Dean couldnât seem help himself wanting to understand that.
They made their way back through the house, Castiel hooking a bundle of blankets under one arm as he passed a large pile of them sitting on a table in the living room. Dean clutched his hot chocolate tightly as the front door opened again, spilling them out into the coldness of the night. Castiel sat down first, and Dean hesitated over distances between them for a few seconds before deciding on a neat thirty centimetres. He could almost feel his usual self groaning at him as he sat down; a rulerâs width? He was a high-school teen all over again. He set his hot chocolate down on the step beside him.
Castiel passed him a blanket, which Dean gratefully wrapped around his shoulders. It smelled of basil, and washing powder, and most strongly of something that Dean didnât recognise â a person smell, presumably Castielâs. It smelled good, really good. Comforting, but also⊠good, in a way that Dean couldnât entirely explain, but which had something to do with the hunger sitting low inside him and growing a little stronger, and a little needier, every time Dean took a breath of that smell. Or looked over at Castiel, who was looking at him.
Their gazes held for a long, breathless moment, and then Dean blinked, and Castiel turned his head away. Round both of their lips was a smile, soft and sweeter than words could have been.
âI like being out here,â Castiel said, after a moment. His face was tilted upwards, towards the stars. âIt makes me feel⊠small.â
âSmall?â Dean said, reaching down for his hot chocolate and cupping it in his cold hands. âWhyâd you like that?â
âYou donât?â Castiel said, not taking his eyes off the skies above, so he must have understood the shake of Deanâs head without seeing it.
âI guess it is a little strange. But it makes a good change.â
âFrom what?â Dean asked, breathing in the scent of his steaming hot chocolate. He traced his eyes over the skies, the great midnight cloak of the night kissed with tiny glints of white. It truly was beautiful.
Castiel paused for a moment before answering, and Dean turned to look at him.
âI feel⊠large, somehow. All the time. Caught up in a box that I canât escape.â He fell quiet, but Dean could sense him thinking, and waited. âI feel as though my existence is a set of parameters and rules that canât be broken. But when I look upâŠâ Dean watched him swallow. âI remember that I am not large. And I am not trapped. And there are no rules, not really. Only people who think there are.â He looked over at Dean. âAnd people who think there arenât.â
It was the perfect moment to kiss him. Castielâs lips looked soft and his head was tilted just right. Dean swallowed hard.
âYou think about things a lot,â he said. âYou should write a book, or something.â
Castiel dropped his gaze, half-smile fading.
âMy father writes books,â he said.
âDude. Itâs not like thereâs a limit on the amount of books in the world,â Dean said, frowning. âYou like to write?â
Castiel said nothing for a long moment.
âI like to tell stories,â he said eventually, in a voice that was small, and flat.
âYeah?â Dean said softly. âWhat kinds of stories?â
Castiel shrugged.
They sat in silence for a little while, sipping at their drinks, pinching their mouths tight because they were still hot enough to scald a little.
âThereâs one Iâve been thinking about a lot recently,â said Castiel suddenly, the words spilling out through a broken dam of lost resolve. âWhile Iâve been sitting out here in the evenings.â
Dean said nothing, but shifted around a little, tilting his body towards Castiel, waiting. He sensed that if he spoke, itâd spoil it somehow. So he kept his mouth shut.
âItâs about that star,â Castiel said, pointing up, and Dean followed the line of his hand, noticing the length of his fingers, the size of his palm. âOr perhaps that one⊠or that one. Theyâre all the same, you see. From here, anyway. But when you get up close, you can see that theyâre all different. And the story is about one specific star thatâs completely different from all the rest. Because the star doesnât have a name.â Dean was trying to keep his eyes on the stars, but he couldnât help watching Castiel as he spoke; the look on his face was one of sadness, and Deanâs brow furrowed, his lips pressing together in sympathy. âEvery star in the whole universe has a name, except for this one. Because, you see, stars are given their names by other stars. When one loves another, it will give it a name. A special word that only works between them, to hold them both together. But this single star didnât have any names, not even one. No one had ever loved it.â
âWhy â why not?â Dean couldnât help asking. Castiel barely seemed to hear him, going on speaking and answering his question seemingly more by chance than choice.
âIt was because nobody could see the star. It was just as bright as the others, just as unique. But there was something about it that made it invisible. It was a ghost star. It couldnât be touched by any of the others, couldnât be heard, couldnât be seen. And no one can love something they canât see. Nobody loves a ghost.â
Dean pulled his blanket in closer around himself, shivering ever so slightly. His hot chocolate was still steaming, the scent of cocoa warm and comforting.
âFor millennia the star existed, alone. It drifted through the heavens, hopelessly. Wishing it had a name to fill the terrible void at its core. And then, one day, it realised something.â Dean was chewing his lip, fingers tight around his mug. âIt realised that right in front of it, all along, there had been another star. A star that was just as bright and unique as all the others, but which couldnât be seen. A star just like itself. A ghost star.â
Castiel took a sip of his own hot chocolate. His voice was steady, his eyes still watching the stars above, gaze moving in soft curves over the heavens.
âFor the first time in the course of their existences, the ghost stars were seen. And once they were seen, they could not be ghosts, anymore. And they loved each other at once â for being eyes that saw. And for understanding the most important things immediately, because they were utterly different, but also entirely the same. One star named the other âLostâ, for what they had been. The other star named the first âFoundâ for what they were now.â
The breeze was starting to pick up. Dean huddled his blanket closer around himself, his eyes still watching Castielâs face, the way that it shifted subtly as the story unfolded; it was like watching thin shadows of great giants on the wall of a cave.
âLost and Found existed for many millennia in happiness. And when the end of their lives approached, and they appeared to be burning out, they made a decision. Refusing to let one pass away before the other, they chose instead to leave the world together. One night, with the rest of the universe as oblivious as ever, the two stars collided.â Dean drew in a breath, feeling the cold air hit the very bottom of his lungs. âThey fused messily, matter flinging far across the cosmos. Most of it was burned away by other stars, but specks of stardust still flew far and wide, into new galaxies, new solar systems. Through the pathways of planets and moons, and down to Earths. And on those Earths, they landed in the upturned eyes of the humans who were looking up â up at the stars.â
Castiel finally dipped his head, blinking his eyes as though to rid them of dust.
âAnd that is why some humans have a feeling that something is missing, sometimes,â he said. âThey have a little of the Lost and Found about them. They canât be seen by just anyone. Theyâre missing another person who is a little bit the same â a person who will see them. Will really see them, and be seen by them. And will love them for it at once. And will give them a name, a word spoken just between them, to bind each other together, until it is time for them to pass away from this universe, and on.â
He glanced over at Dean, who was gripping his hot chocolate without drinking it, as though heâd forgotten what it was for.
âThe end,â he said dryly, lifting up one shoulder.
âDudeâŠâ said Dean, aware that nothing he could say would convey the feeling he had inside â a feeling of understanding, of uplifting, of â shit. He couldnât even begin to express it. âThat was amazing,â he tried, though it wasnât nearly enough. And the fact that Castiel had all of that tucked up inside his head? He couldnât believe heâd somehow managed to get lucky enough to run into him in some random dive bar. On a night when he would have gone home with just about anyone cute enough, with a liar or a waster or a complete loser, heâd somehow ended up going home with a⊠a Castiel.
Castiel, meanwhile, had ended up going home with him â a liar, a waster, and a loser, all rolled into one. Crap. Guilt settled over his shoulders like a second blanket, a colder one, inside the first.
âGuess one of us really lucked out tonight,â was all he could manage to say to Castielâs questioning face. Instead of the expression of badly-disguised agreement that he was expecting, however, Dean saw Castielâs face twist into immediate and genuine confusion.
âWhat does that mean?â Castiel said, though Dean thought that Castiel must at least understand where he was coming from, even if he didnât understand why. After all, Dean hadnât told Castiel anything about his life. For all Castiel knew, he could be some kind of storyteller or deep thinker, too.
A large part of him really didnât want to spill the truth â wanted to let Castiel keep thinking of him as someone also probably hiding some kind of great talent. Someone who deserved his attention. But⊠but that would be a lie by omission, and God, more than he wanted anything else in this moment, Dean wanted to do this right. He wanted to do this thing between him and Castiel right. He couldnât lie. Even if it meant losing â Dean bit his lip â losing a little of Castielâs respect. Or even a lot of it.
He opened his mouth, not even knowing what he was going to say, how he would even begin to explain.
âI just⊠I mean⊠I mean, wow,â Dean said lamely, raising his hot chocolate mug in Castielâs direction. âAnd Iâm sittinâ here just⊠just being me. And me⊠being me, that is, I, I am, uh, really nothing special, at all. So.â Fuck, he sounded pathetic and he knew it, whiny and insufferable and begging for reassurance. âI donât mean that self-pityingly,â he hastened to add, almost slopping a little of his remaining hot chocolate over the side of his mug as he shifted uncomfortably. âI just meanâŠâ
âItâs alright,â Castiel said calmly, and Dean fell silent. âI understand. You donât think you deserve to be here.â
He said it so bluntly that it almost took Deanâs breath away. He tried to reply, and found that he had nothing to say. Castiel, meanwhile, was frowning reflectively.
âI like you,â he said bluntly. âAnd I want you to be here. But I understand that on its own, that is not enough.â He turned to Dean with thoughtful eyes. âWhat is it that youâre good at?â
Dean could feel himself cracking like thin ice under too much pressure.
âNothing,â he said hoarsely. âNothing.â
He saw Castielâs hand stretch out of the corner of his eye, and understood that Castiel wanted to comfort him, wanted to place a hand on his arm. He didnât know how to show that he wanted it, how to angle his body to accept it, and before he could find a way Castiel had already clenched his hand back into a loose fist.
âWhatâs your job?â Castiel asked. âHow do you make money?â
Dean shrugged.
âI â I fix cars,â he said.
âYouâre good at it?â
Dean said nothing. Good at it? Heâd never thought of it in those terms. It had only ever been a job that needed doing, one broken car that needed to be fixed after another. Sure, he did get them all fixed, and pretty quickly, too, but⊠that didnât mean he was good. It just meant that he did what every car mechanic could do.
Except for Garth, over the other side of town, who couldnât so much change out a spark plug without calling Dean to check he was doing it right, no matter if the sign over his door said The Best Mechanic in Town. And Ellen, whoâd been in the business far longer than he had, still said he did the neatest paint jobs sheâd ever seen â and when sheâd challenged him to fix her Old Unfixable, a big 1974 Chevrolet Pickup, heâd done it two weeks and trimmed her out all pretty, too.
So maybe he was â sort of, maybe â a little bit good at it.
âYeah,â he murmured, soft as leaves kissing. âMaybe.â
âBeing good with your hands is a talent,â Castiel said, lacing the fingers of his own together.
Dean wanted that to be true, so badly. He wanted to be interesting, he wanted to have a talent, he wanted to be just a tiny bit special. So that he could match up to people like Castiel. So that he could match with Castiel, specifically.
âWhat do you feel when you fix a car?â Castiel asked, with quiet curiosity. Dean frowned.
âHungry, mostly,â he said. âLunch never comes soon enough, Iâm telling you.â
Castiel smiled at that, sidelong, his eyes narrow and bright.
âNo, I mean⊠what does it feel like to accomplish something physical? To make something work? Iâve neverâŠâ Castiel looked down at his palms, as though chastising them. âHow does that feel?â
Dean hunched his shoulders up awkwardly.
âI dunno,â he said. His voice felt thick and too loud, awkward, too⊠big. He remembered Castielâs advice, and looked up, up into the skies. Not too big. Not trapped. No rules. He didnât have to live by his own rule of not knowing things, not saying things. He could try, at least. He cleared his throat, and began again.
âI guess â I guess I f-feel good. Because, say, I get this car, it comes in to me, and itâs broken.â He held his hands out in front of him, eyes focused on something that wasnât there, seeing the car before him. âAnd the car, she needs me to help her. And I can do that, so I do it. And itâs like, when I can help, when I can make things better, itâs like â like Iâm needed, you know? Like Iâm in the right place, working at the shop, and people can come see me, and they know me and they know Iâll fix their car for them, and itâs like â like I belong, I guess.â Dean downed the last of his tepid hot chocolate, tasting the bitterness of the cocoa dregs. He licked his lips. âYeah. Like I belong.â
Letting out a half-shaking sigh, Dean turned to look at Castiel. He had one eyebrow raised, mouth and nose scrunched up awkwardly to one side, awaiting his verdict. Thatâs the best Iâve got, man. No stars or anything. Sorry.
But Castiel was blinking at him thoughtfully, apparently considering what heâd said with real solemnity in his eyes. It took Dean aback; heâd half been expecting marks out of ten, or an elimination round. Dean Winchester, you are the Weakest Link. Goodbye. But apparently, heâd done alright. Heâd got Castiel thinking, if nothing else.
âSo, you like that?â Castiel said. âThat sense of belonging?â
ââCourse,â Dean said, a little shyly. âDoesnât everybody?â
Castiel was still for a moment, before shaking his head.
âNot me,â he said quietly. âI know that I should, but⊠I donât. I worry that I am not unique enough, not special enough. Belonging somewhere, not feeling strange or â or somehow different, it makes me feel so â average. I donât want to be average, I want to be â unusual. I want to be a little bit removed, a little bit⊠lost.â
Dean placed his empty mug down on the wooden board beside him, to give himself time to think.
âYouâve got it backwards,â he said. âOr mixed up, man. I mean, I donât want to challenge the word⊠guy⊠on the whole words, uh, thing, but. I donât think belonging means what you think it means.â
Castiel turned to him, and the expression on his face was intense enough to make Dean gulp. He looked so beautiful, his face painted in orange and shadow, and when Dean looked at those full lips and wide blue eyes, his mind was half in the gutter, and half in the stars.
âWhat do you mean?â Castiel asked, softly. Dean cleared his throat, looking down and away before he did something stupid.
âI â I dunno,â he said gruffly. âJust, uh. You know, maybe. Maybe youâre thinking of belonging as like, I dunno â conforming, or something. But, actually, itâs not like that. Belonging means⊠well⊠well, you would belong somewhere that makes you feel special. And still a little bit, uh, lost, or something, even though you have a home. Like you could go away, but it would be the place that you could come back to.â He swallowed. Castielâs eyes were flicking over his face, his expression unreadable. âMe, Iâm not like that. I belong somewhere I feel useful, or whatever. Needed, maybe, or ââ Loved, supplied his brain, but he wasnât going to say that. He cleared his throat, and spoke a little faster, trying to sound matter-of-fact. âPoint is, weâre different, but we both could belong somewhere. And be happy to belong there.â
Castielâs eyes were still on him, he could feel them. He wondered what Castiel was thinking. He wished heâd been able to say all of that better, without all the dumb stops and starts and shrugs. He wished he had a way with words. And more than anything else, he wished that heâd known Castiel all his life, or at least longer than one single night, so that it wouldnât be completely crazy for him to turn round right now and say, You and me, we should try belonging together.
âI could⊠belong somewhere I feel different. I never thought of it that way,â Castiel said quietly. âNever. And I never would have done, I donât think.â He turned to Dean, who shivered slightly under his gaze.
âYouâre cold,â Castiel said, frowning. âWe can go inside. Come on, Iâll put on the water for another hot drink.â
They stood up in unison, Dean only remembering his mug after he was on his feet, and bending over to pick it up. For a few moments, they stood facing outwards together, looking up at the stars for one last time that night. And then, as one, they turned â both inwards, so that they ended up facing each other, and Dean had fully intended to keep turning towards the door, but then suddenly Castiel was close and directly opposite him and there was just a little of his scent in the air between them and his eyes were on Deanâs and everything stopped â Deanâs movements, his breathing, his heart, everything.
âDeanâŠâ said Castiel, in that voice that reached Dean in all the right ways, with those eyes that ran back so deep that Dean could get lost in them â or perhaps looked so intensely, so knowingly, that Dean could only be found by them. âDean⊠Iâm lucky to have met you tonight.â
And Dean didnât know what to say to that. All of the words heâd ever known flew out of his head, and he was just staring at Castiel with big wide eyes and a stupid half-open âoâ-shaped mouth and nothing at all to say â but he had to say something, because Castiel was looking at him searchingly, wanting to know if he felt the same.
He was tongue-tied, and wordless, still.
And so finally, finally, with no other way to reciprocate but this, Dean took in a deep breath⊠and stretched out his hand. Being good with your hands is a talent. Gently, gently, he touched the back of his curled fingers to the cool skin of Castielâs cheek.
It felt â it felt like skin, slightly scruffy with past-midnight shadow. And it felt like coldness against coldness, the night chilling them both to the bone. And more than either of those two things, it felt heart-thuddingly, terrifyingly, amazingly, shudderingly good, the simplicity of the touch, the way Castielâs breath sighed out through slightly-parted lips, the way Dean stroked, ever so slightly, letting his fingers trail softly down Castielâs cheek and over his chin, with the pad of his thumb brushing over Castielâs lipsâŠ
Castiel breathed in, and then out, the cool and warm inrush and outrush of air sweeping over the backs of Deanâs fingers â
And suddenly he couldnât wait any longer. He couldnât bear for a single second more to do anything but slide his hand around the back of Castielâs neck and lean in close and barely pause for a single, breathless second to allow Castiel to close the gap between them and then â oh, and thenâŠ
Oh, God, it was like nothing else Dean had ever experienced in his life. There was kissing, and then there was this⊠it was as though the Earth stopped moving, and the only way Dean knew he was alive and that time hadnât stopped was because his knees were shaking and his fingers were trembling and against his lips, Castielâs were moving, slow and gentle and loving, and then â fuck, then â oh, God, Castielâs hand was on his cheek, was in his hair, was tugging him in deeper and Dean didnât hold back; he almost dropped his hot chocolate mug as he wrapped one arm around Castielâs waist, keeping the other hand pressed firmly to the back of Castielâs neck and holding him close, close, close, tasting bittersweet chocolate on his tongue.
When at last they pulled apart, it was only to press their foreheads together and sigh into each otherâs mouths, Deanâs eyes still closed, each breath an indrawn Castiel. Dear God. That had been â that had been the best kiss of his entire life. How was he â how was he ever supposed to enjoy kissing again, after that?
And yet â when he slid his eyes open, finally, and looked down at Castielâs lips, he thought that he could probably give it a try.
Castiel leaned in, and pressed a gentle kiss to Deanâs cheek. He said nothing, and Dean understood. Nothing needed to be said. It had been the same for both of them.
âCastiel?â he said, pulling away just a little â barely an inch, but almost an inch too far. âI â I want to do this right.â
His eyes searched Castielâs, trying to see what Castiel was thinking. It was impossible; his face was inscrutable.
âI know how I mustâve come off at the bar, at first, butâŠâ Dean swallowed. Castiel wouldnât kick him out for this, right? Surely not. Not after that, not after everything theyâd said to each other tonight. âI want to take this slow. And you know, not⊠well⊠yeah. Not tonight, straight away. Because I want to do it right. Is that â is that OK?â
Castielâs eyes were changing, suddenly becoming softer, and sadder, Dean thought at first with a little clutch of horror â but then he saw the smile lines around Castielâs mouth, and realised that Castiel wasnât sad. He looked⊠he looked relieved, he looked happy in the way that was so profound, it was almost sad.
âSlow is the only way I do things,â he said softly. âI want to do this right, too.â
He squeezed Deanâs hand, and together they walked inside. They drank some more, they talked some more, they kissed a great deal more. And when morning came, it found them curled up together upstairs in Castielâs bed, Deanâs cheek pressed to the back of Castielâs neck, Castielâs hand gripping Deanâs firmly against his chest, intertwined legs running smooth lines of warm, pressed-close skin down the soft sheets of the bed.
In a few more hours, Dean would wake up with a sleepy smile to find Castiel rolling over, eyes blinking open, hands reaching out to cup Deanâs cheeks and pull him in for their first kiss of the new day.
But theyâd been up all night, and that wouldnât be for a while yet.