#writesthings

Dean Winchester was not the serial killer type. Dean Winchester was the protective-mama-bear, make-eggs-and-coffee-with-just-the-right-amount-of-creamer type. Castiel watched those green green eyes, the pink Cupid’s bow lips wrap themselves around a beet and it’s pornographic how his lips melded with the glass, and his throat bobbed and he side-eyed Castiel and sweet Mary mother of Jesus did he quiver. “Jimmy Novak,” he fumbled as Dean wiped foam from the Cupid’s bow, patted the seat of his jeans.

“Jimmy? Plain name for a stunning guy like you. How about Castiel? Cas,” he repeated, shortened to a monosyllabic blurb Dean yells with urgency. “Better.”

He laughed, and Dean was drunk enough or sober enough, Castiel could never tell, sixteen years later he still couldn’t fucking tell, to invite Castiel to his bed and Castiel agreed to those green green eyes and sure, callused hands, and please so tight for me, baby, your pretty virgin asshole, relax, baby and Castiel wanted it, stretched apart to nothing and coalescing before he sipped his morning coffee.

Dean Winchester was not the protective-mama-bear, make-eggs-and-coffee-with-just-the-right-amount-of-creamer type. Dean Winchester was the wakes-at-sounds-of-sirens type.

“Up an’ at ‘em, Cas.” He shoved the rake-thin body, smacked the bruised ass. “Gotta go. Sammy!” he yelled across the motel and Sam Winchester moved with the speed and fluidity of a hummingbird angling for nectar his bare ass unblemished as he jerked rough denim up. Castiel stretched languidly as the brothers scrambled for their possessions. He’s given up his life, his family for the green green eyes Cupid’s bow and ashy hair. He’d given up Jimmy Novak, given the mononym Castiel because why the fuck not, and he watched Dean’s swoop in and slap his cheek. It swelled. “Move,” he hissed. He’s given up college, his Religion degree, his sisters and brothers, and that was fine. He’d given up. Castiel found jeans, a black tee, and the godawful trenchcoat Dean had bought him two towns back. “You’ll freeze, pet,” he’d crooned. “Catch pneumonia or sumthin. And what if the cops catch up? Well, we’d hafta leave ya behind. And you wouldn’t want that.” He’d patted Castiel’s shoulder and yelled for the cashier. “Impala, Cas,” Dean ordered, now, and he obeyed.

Cas snagged the keys from the windowsill, jogged down the stairs, huffing little clouds. This was their first mistake, confidence that they’d outsmarted those goddam bastards and their lights. Cas stared apathetically at the ice crusting the ‘67 Impala. This was their second and third mistake combined, the distinctiveness of the low-slung muscle car and the weather hampering their departure. The sun shone coldly overhead, light bouncing off the red and blue sirens. This was their fourth mistake; they’d slept in. Cas started the car and clambered into the backseat, lying down. Used condom under the driver’s seat. Cas closed his eyes and dreamt. Dreamy of coarse blonde and pale blue, of a slight British lilt and small, well-compacted arms. Dreamt of fireside trysts, of the arms gently holding after and stroking his forehead and affirmations that you are beautiful, Castiel, absolutely beautiful, so fragile here. Dreamt, dreaming, dream. He yelled, and isn’t it funny how his name sounds wholly different from his pale lips, the ‘a’ elongated, the ‘l’ thrumming, thrumming- “Castiel!” thrumming, thrumming, air thrumming, frigid air in his throat and lungs and cold on his wrists and the soft British voice was fading and he screamed “Balthazar!” into the void and his cheek stung.

“Wake up, boy. You’re under arrest for aiding and abetting two fugitives, Sam and Dean Winchester.” His cheek dotted with gravel, Castiel stood and wept to the Miranda Rights where was the soothing the peace the certainty of safety? He wept to the station in his cell in the trail where Dean’s silver tongue worked against Cas, the willing lover of two nationally hunted serial killers. He wept and at night dreamt of Balthazar who shushed and patted when tears crept in and don’t worry, Castiel, darling please, smile for me. Such a pretty smile, Castiel. And Castiel shook and wept.

The brothers Winchester opt to go first, staring each other down as needles sent them off. Dean winked at Cas through the glass, mouthed “Love you, babe”, and the guards tightened the straps a tad too tight, so his freckled skin inflamed pink and green green eyes dimmed as the needle plunged as sodium thiopental put him under, pancuronium bromide sent him twitching, and potassium chloride stopped his heart. Dean’s hand was the last to move, the hand that had cupped Cas’s cheek their first night and he’d called him “prettier than all the boys in Kansas combined”. Sam had already been wheeled out: 8:42am.

Dean Winchester: 8:44am.

Cas’s face was dry as he entered the chamber and they strapped him in and the needle pricked.

He dreamt one last time of blonde and blue and safe and he smiled as Balthazar took his soft hand.