Dawn swallowed the thick smolder of Seattle, creating an abstract of blues and purples and even yellows in vibrant hues across the bay. Sunlight spilled through a mass of clouds, leaving the obscure water unsheathed to the earth's colors. Torrential rain cascaded over the plains a little over an hour ago, although it wouldn't have been perceivable had it not been for the heavy smell of rainwater lingering in the air. Other than seagulls chiming across the bay and waves lapping against each other like scorned lovers, the scene was silent.

For Dean Winchester, this was the perfect day to go boating. He raked his eyes over his beauty—Baby soared above even the nicest boats at seventy feet with black panels and polished oak floors on all three levels, not including the sky deck.

He began unharnessing Baby from the harbor poles, rolling up the sleeves on his button-up tartan to get a firmer hold on the rope. His fingers would have easily bruised, though after years of abroad traveling, they just grew calloused and eventually desensitized to the wrenching. His fingers weren't the only strong part of his body, however; Dean had a rather impressive physique for a man who never worked a day in his life.

The harbor was vacant with the exception of Benny Lafitte, an old comrade of Dean's. Benny was preoccupied unharnessing his much smaller and unimpressive fishing boat. He didn't even have to look over to Dean a few feet away. "Dean Winchester, when are you ever gonna give up that rubbish?"

Dean laughed humorlessly. "Maybe I will when you trade in that Easter basket for the real eggs."

"Andrea?" he said incredulously, as if he was genuinely offended by the comment. He began stroking the wood. "I would hav'ta sell my soul first."

"Wait—you mean you haven't already?" Dean smiled crookedly.

The bearded man threw his head back in mock-offense before settling into the boat. Dean embarked on his as well, throwing on a sailor hat— gold stitching engraved around the black visor and the official sailing logo stamped on the front. No, Dean wasn't anywhere near being a sailor. He retained the hat simply because it gave him a sense of empowerment.

Twenty minutes into the voyage Dean sitting on the lowest deck, feet propped up on the table and eyes sealed behind his angled visor, a blatant disregard to the world around him. It wasn't that he was unaware of the rich backdrop surrounding his peripheral vision; Dean was born and raised in small town Bellevue, a couple miles west of Seattle, so he was used to the sunsets after a long day. He sailed because it provided him a sanctuary outside of the busy city life. This time served as his relaxation period—that is, until an unceremonious collision sent him spiraling out of his seat.

Peering over the edge of the boat—barely perceivable through the metal railing—was an arm lunging out for support. Dean had to do everything in his power not to explode into a fit of rage when the limb latched onto the lining of the ship. Finding the grip steady enough to pull up from, the stranger exposed himself, a pair of indigo eyes barely visible through a snorkeling mask.

"Hey, Dick!" When he didn't respond, Dean reiterated the phrase, cupping his hands around his mouth and practically yelled in his ears. The figure craned his head ninety degrees to see the man towering over him.

He removed his mouth piece, using only one hand to keep his body afloat. "What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" Dean roared, tapping his creasing forehead in frustration, "I was about to ask you the same question! You're gonna scratch my damn hull!"

"That wasn't my intention," he specified.

"Oh fuck, my bad, all is forgiven," the seafarer muttered irately. This caught the diver's attention.

"Look, I'm trying to apologize; I'm not looking for bullshit where it isn't necessary," he explained, running his tongue over the cracks forming at his lips, "I just need to know how many miles to Kirkland."

"Kirkland?" Dean coughed, "Buddy, you're miles past Kirkland. How did you end up here?"

"I'm not sure…"

Dean heaved a sigh, ramming his arms into the railing and beating his head into the cold metal. He knew he couldn't leave the guy stranded in the middle of the ocean, and he was definitely too far out to even think about finding his way back; Kirkland was a good twenty miles out, his oxygen tank would expire before then. It staggered him how he even made it this far.

"Hop on," Dean said brusquely, extending his arm. The stranger cocked his head. "Hurry before I change my mind."

The diver did as he was told—the warmth radiating from Dean's fingers a jolting pleasantness from the freezing water—and found solid ground on the deck. Dean retracted his arm, eyes raking over the man. There wasn't much he could go off of—other than his sleek bodysuit that hugged his impressive physical features, until the diver shed his mask, behind them revealing an incredibly handsome man. The indigo eyes that were once staring forlornly into the distance, he noted, were not indigo, but pure cerulean, brighter than any sea he'd ever encountered. His dark brown hair came in wisps, and though matted to his forehead, only accentuated the rectangular shape of his light face.

"Your hospitality is overwhelming," the bloke said while detaching himself from his tank. Dean had almost forgotten to uphold his tough-guy misdemeanor.

"Yeah, you're welcome for saving your life—uh…" Dean helped him out of the equipment while awaiting his answer.

"Castiel," he responded curtly, then, "I think."

Dean scoffed. "You think? What's that sup—?" The captain cut his words short seeing his—supposedly Castiel—head. A large graze was splayed across the right side of his skull. He wouldn't have seen it had the blood not trickled from his head.

"What is it?"

"Let's get you inside."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

They were on the first floor of the vessel, Dean patching up the wound on the side of Castiel's head. The seafarer had to smack the swimmer's hand away multiple times just so he wouldn't unravel the stitching. Slightly vexed, he tried shifting his focus to the open sea through one of the large double-pane windows of the living room. Dean had given him a towel until he could find clothes that fit him properly, and, out of both restlessness and necessity, tucked his feet underneath his stature. "I don't think that that's the most reliable method of detecting head trauma."

"Hey, maybe you're a doctor," Dean suggested mordantly. Castiel winced.

"Maybe," Castiel countered sharply, "I know I would be a hell of a lot better than you."

Dean stopped and centered his focus on Castiel's cobalt eyes. Suddenly, his visage turned very staid. "Are you implying that I'm not good with my fingers?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes accusingly. "I don't know, are you?"

"Oh I'm very good with my fingers."

"Are you hitting on me?"

Dean shook his head, and began picking up where he left off. "No," he said, "I don't hit on guys who go Overboard."

Castiel sat up straighter, his patience treading on thin ice. "Look, I told you my name is Castiel, I'm twenty years old—why am I explaining myself to you? I don't even know your name! You could be a cannibalistic serial killer for all I know."

"Why would I waste a perfectly good opportunity patching up your head when I could be eating it?" Castiel's mouth hung agape, as if the very thought of Dean eating him was acutely fathomable. Dean scoffed; his motions came to a short-lived rest. "I was kidding. It's Dean, by the way."

"What?"

"My name is Dean," Dean reiterated, sarcasm more subdued; he knew the satirical remarks would only stretch so far. Castiel nodded in understanding. Then, like a jolt of lightening coursing through his system, his eyes widened and he had to restrain himself from toppling over the couch. He settled, realizing that he probably just added another hour to the stitching process.

"I remember, I—it's coming back in fragments. I'm—I'm still Castiel… not a doctor, but a marine biologist…"

Dean had rested his instruments, strangely intrigued by the man's story. Sure, he was incredibly good looking—and yes, perhaps he was hitting on him just a little—but for some reason or another, that wasn't it. Maybe it was the way he spoke; though he was six years younger than him, he spoke with a voice abnormally deeper and more profound than his own. Or maybe it was the way his lips moved, or his cobalt eyes when they raked over the images behind his retinas, sometimes with sadness mirrored in them, sometimes bliss, and sometimes emotions he couldn't depict.

"I was stationed here in Seattle, but every so often I have to report to Kirkland, exchange information and whatnot," he continued hastily, as if his head would explode containing his thoughts any longer, "but I wasn't on a shift, I went out on my own to see what I could find but then I got too far off the grid, lost signal with the base…"

It was probably the most senseless thing to say, but it came out either way. "Didn't your parents ever tell you not to swim without a floaty?" Luckily, the question conjured a laugh out of the gent.

"So you don't have any sort of empathy, you don't so much as look at the water," he ticked the list off with his fingers, "I'm really starting to think that you're a robot."

"A cannibalistic robot," Dean rubbed his chin in mock-thought, "that put things into perspective."

"So you're not even going to try correcting me on either of those observations?"

"Oh, I swim," Dean reassured, a smile threatening his collected features. Castiel smiled a little, too, albeit trying to hide it. Dean couldn't believe how well they were getting along. Five seconds ago they were at each other's throats, now they were exchanging laughs—and sitting slightly closer to each other if he had to make a minor observation. "Do you want a drink? Soda, water…?" he asked suddenly.

"I'm fine, thank you," he said.

"What about dinner? You must be starving. I can cook a mean steak…" he suggested.

"As long as the steak isn't comprised of human flesh, then count me in."

"I promise on my razor-sharp cleaver that my meat is one-hundred percent authentic," Dean said, crossing his hand over his heart and raising his eyebrow subtly.

Castiel pursed his pink lips with a crooked smile. "Now I can't tell if you're hitting on me again…"

"Slow down, Richard Gere; first let's get you into some proper clothes."

If Dean thought it was hard restraining his thoughts just looking at Castiel, then he certainly wasn't prepared to see him naked.

Well, technically he didn't see him naked, just the backside of him; but that was enough to make the hairs stand erect on places he didn't even want to think about. After rummaging through myriad dressers and closets, he finally found clothes that weren't too oversized for Castiel's frame. Castiel, that name. It sounded like something out of a fantasy, so pristine, and… angelic. After seeing him threadbare, however, he couldn't deny the verity in the name. His back conformed securely to his broad shoulder muscles, which dipped into the start of his spine, forming a large "V" there. His hips were strong and sleek, the kind perfect for straddling. His ass was two squares of sheer perfection, and his calves—probably his personal favorite—were tanned and like silk under the fluorescent lights.

While he stood outside of the doorframe foaming at the mouth, part of him couldn't help but wonder if Castiel did this to him intentionally, letting him in on the sneak peak. The bathroom was plenty large to close the door behind him, and the mirror only occupied one percent of the entire room, so why would he chose to stand right in front of a mirror unless he knew he wanted to be watched?

Even so, he was pretty sure Castiel caught him gawking because he stepped out of his reflection and trailed off in the opposite direction. Dean had to forcibly remove his eyes and card a hand through his hair to create the impression that he was never looking in the first place. Of course that was a difficult task when every ounce of blood was thrusting straight to his face.

Now they were sitting on the porch of the second deck, occasionally making conversation between the crackle of charcoal as Dean cooked. Castiel was too engrossed in the scenery splayed before them, which was now turning into a cosmic night. Dean shouldn't have been so astounded by how captivated Castiel was with the picture; he was a biologist, it was his job to note the atmosphere and all of its forms.

"So, Cas—can I call you Cas?"

Cas craned his head to Dean's voice. He appeared thoughtful. "Sure… I don't see why not."

"What is it?" Dean asked curiously, turning to catch the faintest gleam in Cas's eye. The cut was still in the tenderizing stage, but since he and Cas both liked their meat on the rarer side, it wouldn't be too long of a wait. The smell, however, was a different story. He almost forgot about the smell of the juices that seeped from the bone and onto the burning coal; it was one of the best aromas one could even begin to dream of.

Cas waved away the inquiry, though his facial expression remained the same. "Nothing—it's just, no one's ever called me that."

"What, you've never had a nickname before?" Dean asked curiously. Cas shrugged.

"Unless you call Small Fry or Cipher nicknames then no," he answered sullenly.

"Why would you be called those names?" Dean flipped over the steaks, trying to keep his mind preoccupied with the meat, though having minor difficulties after being victim to the next sentence.

"I'm the youngest intern the corporation has ever hired so naturally I'm a victim to persecution. Some of the guys have been scientists for well over thirty years; they don't think I stand much of a chance," he explained. Dean could tell from the tone of his voice that this wasn't something he shared with anyone; the thought sounded like a grenade, one more second he was subjected to pondering over it and he would shatter. Just admitting that he was bullied on a day-to-day basis made him want to hurt whoever beat him with a tether. "Do you have any nicknames?" Cas asked, for an alteration of topic or for his own personal interest, he couldn't tell.

"Yeah, I mean my brother Sam calls every once in a while to call me bitch," Dean mused before setting the steaks onto a silver platter, "but that's for lack of better reason."

Cas forced a smile and focused his attention on the backdrop again, which was now turning as dark as the charcoal evaporating into the stratosphere. Dean sat down next to him, handing him his portion of the meal. He must not have noticed that Dean roasting potatoes on the grill, probably lost in thought as usual.

"Look," Dean began softly, eyes traveling across the table in attempt to meet Castiel's wandering ones, "I know I don't know you that well but in the short few minutes that I have known you, I can tell that you're smart; you're not the dark horse that you or anyone makes you out to be."

Cas shifted his eyes to meet Dean's pensive ones and his lips turned into a genuine smile. "Thanks, Dean. You're not so bad, either… you know, even if you have the predisposition to eat people."

"I think I liked being a robot," Dean said brazenly. Cas laughed and began cutting his steak. At first bite, he was making noises that could have easily been mistaken for things of a more voluptuous manner.

Dean grinned, waiting for a proper response before taking a bite for himself. "Would you like me to leave you two alone?"

"It's amazing," Cas admitted upon first swallow, "where did you learn how to cook?"

"There isn't a lot to do when you're stuck babysitting a pain-in-the-ass little brother. My dad was gone most of the time so I figured I should probably learn how to cook something tasteful. Ramen can only satisfy an appetite for so long…"

"What did your dad do?"

Dean heaved another piece of meat down his throat. "He was an innovator, dedicated his life to one product until someone finally heard him and voila," Dean announced, gesturing to the vast area surrounding them, "I'm just living the perks."

"Well good job, Dad," Cas said, pausing his fork at his lips, "I wouldn't be mooching off of a handsome stranger right now."

Dean symbolized an arrow piercing through his chest. "That's all I am to you, a meal ticket?" he emphasized.

"I believe I noted that you were handsome," Cas corrected. And he was very handsome. Dean had a hard face and golden brown hair with emerald eyes to compliment said features. Castiel was surprised that Dean wasn't sharing this boat with anyone—male or female, whatever his sexual orientation. The only way he could tell that he wasn't involved with anyone was by the magical finger in-between his middle and small digits, which didn't have a gold band resting on top. He supposed he could have taken it off, though. The thought of being Dean's amour shouldn't have been as welcoming as it was.

"Well, yes, but I knew that," Dean winked. Setting his fork down, he carefully prepared his next question. "While we're on the subject matter, and I'm just blatantly curious… was that intentional back there, you flashing me or…?"

Cas tossed his head smugly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Dean shook his head, taking the last bite of his potato before settling his fork on his plate. "This is going to be a long night."

Dean stirred, not to the blinding sunlight spilling through the arcade, not to the same scornful lapping of waves outside his window, not even the violent storm that raged through the night; he awoke to a tune that resonated throughout the ship.

The sailor stirred a bit longer, stretching his broad arms above his head and shaking off the fatigue from last night's events. Obviously it wasn't often that he found a stranger tucked underneath his boat. That's the other thing: why had he been so keen to aid him? This solitary thought resounded through his cranium as the night came to an end. He knew there was something different about Cas, although he couldn't bring his mind to think of it. All he knew was that he didn't have the courage to let him go, not just yet.

Unlike most occasions—where he would have stumbled over an inconsequential object—he managed to saunter through the deck soundlessly. He located the spare bedroom that served as Cas's temporary headquarters, and slipped through the doorframe, using the voice as his sole pilot. To very little of his surprise, he was led to the outskirt of the lavatory where Cas was standing in place singing a familiar tune. From his angle he could barely distinguish his cobalt eyes, opening and closing for dramatization. He knew it was blasphemy since neither of them could see one another, but he could have sworn that his voice transitioned into softer notes every time Dean's lips were hinting at a smile.

A few seconds later, Dean unsheathed his form, drawing his hands together in a slow clap. Cas whipped his head to the direction of the sound, heart drubbing madly against his chest until the figure came to light. He looked more discomfited than anything, cheeks turning profusely salmon. He was sporting nothing minus a bath towel wrapped loosely around his waist, exposing most of his chiseled frontal. Dean couldn't decide whether he looked better in his faded Zeppelin shirt and loose-fitting jeans or out of them.

Dean chuckled, arms folded snugly against his chest. "Don't stop on my account."

"I—I didn't hear you walk in," Cas admitted sheepishly, immediately dropping his hairbrush-turned-microphone and rummaged the cabinets for a glinting object that he could pierce through his chest.

"I liked that song you were singing," Dean confessed. Cas bequeathed a suspicious look.

"Look, you can make fun of me all you want, just make it quick," he retorted somewhat irately, meandering to his bed. He sat vexed, eyes forlorn from Dean's. Dean sat a good distance apart from brooding scientist, a pained expression on his face.

"Making fun of you? I think any guy who can sing 'Somebody to Love' unabashedly is worthy of a Grammy."

Cas craned his head in bewilderment. His hair was still in the drying stage, which made him seem even more astounded than he appeared. Brown curls were spearing from his scalp. "What?"

"That was a compliment, Cas. Haven't you ever been complimented?" he said.

Cas shrugged. "No, the guys at the facility always tease me for singing, so I just stopped altogether."

Something in his system caused the last levee to break. The entire front-half of his body swiveled to meet him halfway. His dominant hand came to rest on his shoulder, clasping firmly there. He tried greatly not to focus on the smooth contour of his bare skin and the surprising warmth that radiated from the muscle to his digits. Cas didn't look up until Dean began speaking.

"Don't ever change, Cas."

Cas chuckled half-heartedly. "I appreciate that, Dean."

Dean's hand fell into his lap and he emitted a deep chuckle. "It does make me wonder, though."

"What?"

"Is there any particular reason you chose Mercury?" Dean asked cheekily.

Cas pursed his lips, eyebrow raising inquisitively. "What gave me away?"

"Well, I don't know," Dean began ticking the list with his fingers, the same mannerism that Cas had done yesterday, "you love Queen, you're a huge flirt, and you're incredibly handsome…"

Cas smiled, unveiling dimples in his rosy cheeks. "What does being handsome have to do with it?"

"Guilty as charged." Dean said blatantly, raising his hand in mock-defeat. Inside, Cas was gloating with happiness, though outside he remained as stoic as ever. He was astounded that he could even muster a smile.

"That explains the self-righteous persona," Cas chimed, smile spreading wider when Dean had to bite his lip in an attempt not to let his show. Dean swung his face to Castiel's complacent one and shoved him lightly on the arm. Cas tipped over only to shove him back harder. Dean fought back, grappling him onto the pillow. Exceeding in pinning him to the mattress with only half of his stature in use, Dean chuckled, throwing his head back and laughing like a child. Only, Cas wasn't laughing. Dean turned his head only to be pulled into the stupor of his lips.

Finding equilibrium on his chest he bestrode his legs on his hips, he rocked Cas back and forth to the rhythm of his scourging heartbeat. Slowly, he glided his tongue across his lips, begging Castiel for entrance in a code only Cas could decipher. Cas answered by stretching his mouth across Dean's, slipping his tongue in fiercely.

Their flesh wrestled ravenously for dominance, before Dean's slipped from his grasp and cascaded to his neck, tenderly tracing the curvatures of muscle there. Cas steadied Dean with one hand and braced him, draping his legs around his back and pulling him closer. Though his breath hitched somewhere in the back of his throat and his towel was slipping from climaxing, Cas refused to let anything sojourn Dean's actions. Dean noted the second issue and used it to his advantage, slipping his calloused fingers inside the opening of the cloth. To his surprise, Dean didn't so much as touch his member; in fact, he skated over the heated muscle just to run his forefingers across his thighs, as if they were a consecrated artifact and he was Indiana Jones.

The pressure was mounding as his system, the anticipation of where Dean's hands would wander next. As a result, Cas peeled Dean's chemise to eliminate the scarce layer that hindered their proximity. His hands ran over his shoulder blades, back, arms, as far as he could reach until Dean stooped lower, leaving behind traces of taste marks as he went.

The chamber swayed with the voluptuous sighs that secreted Cas's mouth as Dean's swathed around Cas's member, clasping his thighs and breathing softly; no one would lay another insult on Cas as long as he was around.

The two spent the rest of their days sheathed in each other's presence. Dean presumed his usual role as the coxswain of the vessel and Cas assumed his as copilot—if you would call lounging around watching—sitting in the seat across from Dean's. He enjoyed watching Dean as his hands moved across the steering wheel and minimizing the proximity between his lips and it, almost as if he was coaxing the object into driving itself. Occasionally, Dean would peer over the wheel or steal a glance from the double-pane window to look at the diver. Admiration flecked with azure was engraved in the silhouette of his eyes. Ahead of them was the vast sea and endless possibilities.

"Come with me, I want you to see something," Dean said, the gold in his emerald eyes glinting as he grabbed Cas's hand. He led him outside of the station to the second floor of the basin, where the boat came to a point, overlooking the landscape ahead. The afternoon was transitioning discreetly to a cool evening; the stars were at the beginning stage of unveiling themselves to the galaxy. The towering buildings didn't look quite as dominating when they were only half-lit, most of the vessels that were once out had returned to shore, and for once, the city was unobtrusive.

Cas smiled as a pair of strong hands came to rest on his waist and lips to the nape of his neck.

"It's beautiful," Cas mused. Dean needn't say a word of his own for Cas to hear him say the same about him. He simply dipped his lips lower, decorating his shoulders with his mouth. Cas arced into the embrace, a hand coming to rest on the back of Dean's head, drawing him closer. "You know what else?"

Dean tore his focus from Cas's warm skin, resting his chin in the crook of Cas's neck inquisitively. Cas laughed softly. "I feel like I'm in the Titanic."

Dean chortled too, then, more seriously, "If you start singing Celine Dion, I will have no hesitation tossing you overboard."

"I thought you liked my voice," Cas defended, mostly to agitate Dean.

"I like it when you sing good music," he said sharply. Cas's eyebrows peeked in amusement.

"But Dean, every night in my dreams, I see you…."

"Cas," Dean warned.

"Feel you; this is how I know you go on…"

Dean stilled his singing, swinging him around, and planting a measured kiss on his lips. Cas returned the embrace as Dean glided his hands to the insides of his back pockets, heaving him against his hips. The diver's hands grappled for his shirt collar to sustain his balance, Dean's tongue swiping around the innermost corners of his mouth. He smiled against his lips.

"You're here, there's nothing I fear, and I know that my heart will go on…"

Castiel stirred, incompetent of shaking from one particular dream. The dream wasn't necessarily bad given the circumstances, but it definitely wasn't one that he would contemplate on ceaselessly. Then again, he usually didn't usually have dreams of his thighs spread open with just anyone.

On the other hand, it wasn't just a muse; Cas was just recreating the image of last night's events.

The best part about the fornication, however, wasn't during, it was after. Dean was more than just a good sack; Dean was the epitome of what it meant to be human. Every so often throughout the night, when insomnia would take its toll on the young scientist, he found himself studying Dean, as if he was a rare species under his microscope. He studied the way his eyes had a sporadic flutter while he dreamt, sometimes revealing the emerald-gold stones. He studied the way he slept—well, that is after he managed to liberate himself from his broad stature. One leg was buttressed above the other while his arms—his skin was smoother than even the finest silk—was cradling his head, his back arced with certain favoritism to Cas's direction. He breathed softly, an occasional whistle emitting the plush cushions. And as if all of this wasn't enough to drive him insane, Dean wore certain cologne so unfathomably delectable that he had to sometimes refrain being blanketed in the essence because he was afraid that he might lick, bite, or even devour him whole given the chance.

Now Cas was in Dean's bathroom, sighing contently at the thought of the picturesque man. He couldn't believe how immensely lucky he was to have met him by happenstance. The more that he put thought into it, the more he realized that the thought of settling down never occurred to him. Sure, he had sexual desires like any other man—he wasn't asexual. And he did believe in true love—his parents were married ten years before they had him and twenty more years after he was born. He just didn't believe that there was someone out there for him, not only because he existed in a society that didn't measure the acceptance of homosexuality by endorsement, but because he existed in a society that condemned the weak. And he happened to be the poster boy for the subject at matter.

That's why he devoted his life to science; scientology—unlike politics and religion, the foundations on which made this "great" country of ours—was factual. Science focuses on the realm of human perception, also known as the entities in the world that actually made a lick of sense. He chose marine biology because of his devout admiration for sea creatures. He always felt a sort of connection with the creatures of the lagoon. These were creatures so beautiful, so magnificent, yet so unheeded by many. If he could put his faith in anything, it would be science.

Well, that is until he crossed paths with Mr. Perfect.

He turned on the faucet, drowned his face in water, and lightly dabbed at the crust around his sapphire eyes. If Dean was going to be seeing more of him, it was going to be his halfway-decent side. Pulling on a pair of pants, he meandered out onto the open deck that served as a patio in quest of Dean. After minutes of searching, he continued his journey to the upstairs kitchen. The thought of Dean making breakfast for a famished Cas brought a smile to his already glowing features.

However, when he reached the peak of the stairs, he smelt no grease nor did he hear the clatter of pans that accompany the production of a meal. He crinkled his nose, as if another peculiar smell hit his senses. Where could he be?

After a few more minutes of relentless searching, he found the green-eyed man on the lowest deck. Not before too long, the smile of content on Cas's face dissipated as he witnessed a despicable sight. Dean was unclad from the waist up, heaving something out of the boat that he shouldn't be.

Dean glanced over, beaming as he heard Cas's familiar footsteps approaching him. "Good morning, sailor."

As if Cas couldn't have been more appalled by his whereabouts, the comment itself sent him into a complete spiral. Was he blind to his own actions?

"Good morning?" Cas scoffed, folding his arms over his chest, "That's what you have to show for?"

Dean narrowed his eyebrows. "Is that not still the proper morning greeting—?"

"Dean, why the hell are you dumping shit—your shit—into the ocean?" he said irately.

"Why the hell not, everyone does it," Dean justified smartly, as if that one comment was the solution to world hunger.

"Everyone does it," Cas retorted, disgusted even by the mere repetition of the statement. "So let me get this straight, if everyone decided it was alright to drive their vehicles off of the edge of the earth and into a suicidal oblivion, you would do it too?"

"Well, actually, that would resolve our issue on pollution—"

"Dean, are you so fucking stubborn that you can't see that this is pollution? How would you like it if someone dumped their shit on you? How would you feel if you had to ingest someone else's waste because they were too goddamn ignorant to put it somewhere else—?"

Dean set aside the tank and held out his hand. "Please spare me the sanctimonious speech."

"I would if you would just listen to me!" Cas argued, pushing Dean's indignant hand aside.

This set the taller man off. "Where the hell else am I supposed to put it?!"

Cas sighed hopelessly. He knew he arguing about the subject matter wasn't in any way persuasive. Besides, he didn't want to argue with Dean, especially when it pained him to think about how much he cared about him. And arbitrating by the constricting lines surrounding the place where his smile once was, he knew Dean felt the same, if not more strongly about him. At least, he hoped Dean felt just as strongly about him. They had only met a week prior to the sentiments, but there was something about Dean—though it was hard to see at the moment—that Cas didn't want to lose.

No, instead of carrying an argument to no end, Cas schemed up a better idea.

"This is ridiculous."

"This is not a verbal activity," Cas stated, sliding on his gear. Though Dean was complacent with his wishes, Cas couldn't help but note the underlying comicality in his tone, as if the idea altogether was absurd. All Cas wanted to do was take Dean a few feet away from his precious Baby and experience the reality of the waters, and hopefully open his conscious as to what he was doing. Below them both were manifold of aquatic mammals—and that was just in the finite section that they were going to explore.

Nonetheless, Dean slipped on his gear, agreeing for Cas's sake. He had been waiting for the right moment to tell the blue-eyed bandit that he stole his heart, that although they only met seven days to the date, he was completely and inevitably captivated by him. He was only acting comical as a coping mechanism to hide his true feelings.

He couldn't deny how adorable Castiel looked back in his suit, only this time thinking that he had caressed every stressed body part underneath. He had to refrain from turning profusely red; he couldn't possibly let Cas think that he was actually enjoying this.

The only tangible sound a few seconds later was that of the ocean water swallowing them into blue obscurity. Dean had trouble treading water at first, but found his balance later on. Cas immediately went into stealth mode, as he usually would on a professional scavenge.

Below them was a vast world of fish—everything from golden rainbow trout to neon tetras travelling in a school. As they delved further into the water, some of the more predominant kings of the sea bared their faces, like the jellyfish and zooplankton. Some of these creatures were sporadically spread, while many were highly dependent on another fish for resources, often feeding or living off of one another.

It wasn't until witnessing the niche of the clownfish, however, that Dean realized. Clownfish typically found a mate and settled down behind a nice coral reef. These fish mated because it was simply in their nature to reproduce; reliance seemed to be the main dynamic. This reminded him a lot of he and Cas—Dean couldn't even dream of losing him, and he imagined Cas probably felt the same way about the dependency factor. When he met him, Cas only envisioned himself as a twenty pound bag of crap in a ten pound suit. The first time Cas told him about his enemies was when he had the innate feeling—he guessed much like the creatures of the sea with their mate—to defend him at all costs. Castiel was the center of his world, and nothing would ever be strong enough to heave that out of balance.

Yes, these fish were beautiful; not only aesthetically, but personally. These fish deserved to live; they deserved a life as prosperous as the one he foresees with Cas. Dean was in love with Castiel.

Castiel smiled through his mask because he knew.