So yeah, another crappy story that involves love and angst and two very queer dudes and a very emotionally damaged author.
Whoop dee fucking doo.
This was supposed to be fluff. Pure, unadultered fluff about Dean being grossly in love with Castiel so I could take a break from all the pain and angst that canon things bring upon me.
Guess I was wrong.
(I swear to you man, the day I don't turn romantic stuff into something angsty is the day I die.)
WARNING: This is kind of AU-ish. Or somehting. I don't even know anymore. *Throws laptop out of the window*
DISCLAIMER: Guess what, I still don't own shit. Lord, don't I wish I did.
(On the other hand, I was randomly watching TV today and those motherfuckers called the Winchester popped up in the screen. I screamed so hard that my brother fell down the stairs while running because he thought there was an emergency. God, those two have fucked me up bad.)
So, I'm sure you know how this goes. Leave your comments, follows and favs and tell me if you spot any mistakes.
Once again, thanks for reading!
I met you on a summer night, stars on the sky and in your eyes; and I felt the oxygen being punched out of my lungs. You were so beautiful that it hurt to look at you, knowing that someone of your kind would never associate with someone like me.
Except that you did, and I fell hard and fast, as they say, your blue eyes permanently burned into my mind as I ripped the air in to in my Fall.
The strangest thing, though, is that you were the one that pushed me over the edge, but you also helped me stand up after I crashed against the ground.
You spoke soft words of appreciation towards me, as if I was something precious to be cherished and not a messed up guy, broken beyond repair.
(But you still tried to fix me, your hands too sweet and delicate for my rough, sharp edges, and I just kept falling more and more in love with you.)
You called me the Righteous Man, and you weren't afraid to announce that my soul was bright, that we shared a more profound bond, that I deserved to be saved.
In all honesty, it made me think that you could love me back.
I saw the world in black and white, my days boring and grey and awfully monotonous, before you came along. Because the second I laid my eyes on you, and explosion of blue initiated me to a world full of colour (and you still wonder why I love you.)
Every time I'm around you my skin is on fire, little flames biting and tearing up my skin, and your cold hands are a gift sent from above. (I think I might be a little bit in love with your touches.)
Crystal wings are attached to your back and I drown in invisible feathers whenever you hug me tight —because I love it when you hold me close—. You are worthy of adoration, you should be an object of psalms, and words should be created to speak of your greatness (although I may be a little biased).
The sun drowns me in its warmth, gentle sunrays caressing my skin, and I can't avoid thinking about you (what have you done to me?), and that stupid smile of yours reminds me of the song "Can't help falling in love", because damn me to hell if those lips don't make my stomach turn into a million butterflies that fly between my ribs.
(But, oh darling, I stumble with words and insults, and you speak fluently in verse.)
I made a mix tape just for you, 'cause you got me stuck in the summer of '92, and sometimes I still only see in blue (I wonder if you feel it too.)
But you're damaged, oh so damaged, empty eyes stare through me from time to time (and I try to pretend that it doesn't make my heart shatter in a thousand of little pieces with edges just a bit too rough.)
And you laugh a little bit too loud,
and your eyes are a little bit too sad
but it doesn't matter
'cause you're slipping away
a little bit too fast.
My mother once told me "someday, somewhere, someone will be waiting for you, and it'll be the most beautiful thing you'll ever see"; but she never mentioned that I would be the one left waiting while you wander off to what seems to be your death.
(A prayer of don'tleavemedon'tleavemedon'tleaveme is the only thing that goes through my mind, over and over again.)
Pale skin and white lips —sometimes you just look like a snowflake—, and I always thought that your skin was like the finest chine, and that it would make the sound of shattering crystals when breaking. (turns out you're like any other human—when your skin breaks, there's no sound, only dark red blood running down your arms.)
As I try to reach a place that I'm not even sure it exists, I discover I like to think you've driven these roads.
But the thing is, I want you to drive them with me.
It's raining tonight (darling, why won't you come home?) and I try not to think as I sing "Hey, Jude" in a melody of tears while the rhythm of the rain keeps time, and the clock of the living room reminds me of all the seconds that tickle away while you're not here.
And I used to think —years ago, before it all started to go down— that maybe we would meet again, later, when years have gone and passed when we have left it all behind; when instead of being made of solitude and despair, we would be full of distant memories and stories ready to be told.
And I love you. I love you like the day loves the night, I love you with the intensity of the darkest shade of red, I love you like I'm moments away from my death (and in some ways, I guess I am.)
They said love is beautiful. But they forgot to say that, like most beautiful things, it breaks you inside.
It's all gonna be okay, angel, even though you never look at me anymore, even though you always try a little bit too hard to get hurt, even though you're going where I can't follow.
It's going to be okay, because I love you.
(And I know that somewhere deep inside, you love me too.)