The wood of the bench was cool as Dean looked over the serenity of the park; he was the only one there and silently lost in loneliness as dawn broke. Sighing he breathed in the crisp morning air and took it in deep to his lungs, letting his eyes shutter closed; he would never get over that feeling—the slight burning sensation he felt in his lungs until he raggedly releases the breath that he was holding.
He thought of him today. He doubts his memory, often wondering how long it has been since he saw him and those impossibly blue eyes, as bright as the ocean and twice as stormy. And he smiles wistfully, because he never saw him again. Strange love it was, like a series of dreams over a series of months; the best months of Dean's life.
How it started? He sits for a moment, concentrating hard on a dried, dead leaf that is browned and twirling and scraping along the bright green grass in front of his feet; he shifts as the leaf hitches and flies away with a freak gust of wind, frowning in its direction as it disappears. Then something strikes him; Wings. Angels and wings. He turns sharply to his side, only to find it vacant. His lips twitch slightly before a grave line replaces it.
It's always like that isn't it? Hazy? Hazy thoughts and mind tricks, memories forgotten but not completely lost. Then before you know it, something so simple brings them all flooding back, overwhelming really. It was all because of Dean, it started with Dean… and it ended with Dean, too, breaking all of his promises.
And so; Dean walks into a private moment, a quiet moment. He was reading fast from a book, talking in a language Dean had never heard of; it was a fast and off-beat, even hopeful tune which Dean cannot remember any more …and he doesn't know why he tries, but Dean tries to remember it. It was in a small room, a motel room and inside felt like it was filled with warm sincerity, and the curtains were drawn as the bright rays of the day shined through, Dean sat with him, and he was pouring numerous things in a round pot, pouring a red substance and herbs before trying to teach Dean how to do it; 'Would you like to learn Enochian?' he'd asked in such a deep, liquid tone lined with curiosity and like a clumsy child, Dean tried to follow, stumbling on pronounciation of words. They had laughed at their own awkwardness, their own attempts to create harmony.
The second time Dean saw him, Dean didn't expect him to… but he had walked into his dreams. Gently he tapped Dean's shoulder, surprising him, he'd caught Dean's hand. His hair was dark and messy and his clothes were smart; a suit and tie with a long, flowing trench coat. But his eyes held the same warmth as before and his smile was the same slight curve, that strange twitchy smile he had only around Dean. Dean told him he liked him like this. He said he had always liked Dean's taste. Dean told him they should meet up again the same way; Silly really, Dean wanting to preserve it forever. By the third time he had asked Dean his name… strange that they had talked for so long without knowing each other's names. Dean didn't tell him. Dean asked him for his name, but he tried to avoid him. Why? He didn't want to let go of the dream, he said. And then Dean had to leave, reality was knocking. Dean woke up.
Later in the day, Dean remembered that he didn't know his name. How could he not know? How could he know his heartbeat but not his name? Curiosity turned into greed. Dean wanted to know. Even if it meant losing him. So the fourth and final time Dean met him, he asked for his true self. He didn't want to; he didn't want to answer Dean. He said it meant hurting him, losing him, it meant losing what they had. Dean knew. He knew but he kept asking.
Dean said they could have what they had, but in reality. They could make reality their dream. Dean had forgotten; lost in the security of the dream… he had forgotten how reality could be. He made Dean promise that he'd never forget what happened, and Dean asked him of the same.
Dean said he would write it on rocks, how could he forget? He wrote down his heart and Dean, he wrote down his own. As they showed each other the plaque, that crude plaque they had both carved on, they wondered where it would all go now. In that moment, they stood, raw and scared that they wouldn't see each other anymore. The risk suddenly seemed stupid. Reality knocked and Dean answered dutifully, running from him, a faint whisper about angels and the word 'Castiel' ringing in Dean's ears. And then reckless confidence seeped in immediately, too much trust in his own abilities; Dean forgot about his promise, he thought it could be fulfilled later. Later never came.
And he never came back.
Sometimes Dean thinks about him. In those quiet moments amidst the chaos; waiting for the traffic lights to change, sitting by himself at a diner. Sometimes, Dean wonders if they had met in reality, how long could they have lasted? But it was all just a series of dreams. Dreams that are mere fragments of old memories.