There are two ways of ways to perceive a fight. Some people call the first one a battle calm. Everything slows down a few notches and it seems the only sound in the world is your own breath in your ears. Actually, it's almost like you're looking at it through a second person point of view, reading words in a book or watching it on a screen. You can feel pain, but it's through a veil, and the blood running hot and heavy over your fingers or the bone cracking in your hands doesn't really mean anything.
The second is absolute hell. You're painfully aware of every little thing, every minute detail around you. Every drop of blood that gets flicked onto your face, every grunt of pain that you cause, every rustle of clothing when a limb bends at an unnatural angle. Your heart is in your throat the whole time and nothing is going through your brain but horrible what if's. What if we don't make it out, what if this doesn't go our way, what if this is the end.
And right now, the latter is the one going down.
It all happened so fast. One minute, they were just leaning over the hood of the Impala trying to figure out why she was making that ugly rattling sound, and the next five demons jumped out of freakin' nowhere and started beating their asses.
Sam, of course, got knocked out after he ganked the first one, so Dean and Cas were each left with the other four hellbitches.
"Cas," Dean hisses. "Get behind me."
Cas glares at him and makes a show of flipping the demon knife, snatching it right out of the air again so fast his hand is a pale blur. It's a constant argument now, trying to get Cas to take it easy. He doesn't seem to grasp the concept that he's human now, that he could die from a simple stab wound to the soft flesh of his stomach or a well placed blow to his head. More often than not, Dean ends up handcuffing him to the nearest heavy object just so he won't get distracted during a fight trying to watch out for the guy.
The demons circle them, snarling and eyeing Cas up like he's a juicy steak and they haven't eaten in a week. Dean grips his sawed-off harder and reloads. The empty shell plinking to the ground is unnaturally loud in the silence, the clink of it against the concrete of the road is worse than a gunshot.
When the demons lunge, the two hunters spring into action. The first one is down before Dean can blink, a crackling gash across her throat, and Cas hurls himself towards the second as the third and fourth try to wrestle the knife out of his grasp. Dean curses and fires salt rounds as fast as he can, helpless as Cas slices and spins and twists.
But, of course, since Dean Winchester never gets anything good in life like a fight that actually goes well, Cas' back is soon pressed up against a tree, legs dangling beneath him as the bitch pinning him cocks her head in a disgusting mockery of her victim and grins. Dean starts towards them but the she flicks her hand and he goes flying, smacking his head against the bumper of the Impala so hard that his vision blacks out for a few seconds and all he knows is pain.
His eyesight trickles back just in time to see the demon tuck the knife into her belt and tighten her grip on Cas' windpipe, smile stretching wider when his eyes started to bulge and a vein pops out in his forehead.
Dean clutches his head and groans before starting to drag himself forward. Those electric blue eyes start to roll back, exposing the tiny red veins on the underside, and somewhere in Dean's concussion addled brain a little voice is telling him they'll never pierce you with their gaze again.
"No," Dean grunts, and swings out a sloppy punch at the demon. She's actually genuinely shocked and her grip loosens just enough for Cas to tear her hand away from his throat and collapse at the base of the tree, gasping and coughing and trying to hack up his lungs. Dean takes advantage of the demon's momentary surprise to wrap his hand around the hilt of the knife and tug it from her belt before stabbing her in the throat, upper lip curling back into a snarl as her skeleton crackles and sparks.
She collapses, dead, into his arms and with a disgusted noise, Dean shoves her limp body off his and it falls to the ground with a heavy thud. Cas looks up at him, a small smirk skirting across his lips like an apology, and makes to stand up.
Dean fists his hands in Cas' shirt (plaid, he's a hunter now) and hauls him to his feet before punching him on his cheek. He was this close, this close to death, so close to the edge of Dean can feel it in his fingertips. That near death experience tingle in his flesh that reminds him just how bad it could've been. Stumbling back against the tree, Cas touches a few fingers to his cheek where Dean's fist landed and glances up uncertainly just as the hunter punches him again.
"You stupid, stupid son of a bitch," Dean growls, crowding into his personal space and grabbing the lapels of his coat, shaking him so hard he might be in danger of brain damage. Little flecks of bark rain down on them and a leaf floats to the ground as Cas' back rubs up against the trunk, but he seems to be focused more on the fact that Dean's so close to him than how his spine is currently being driven into a tree. "You could have died."
"Dean, I-"
Whatever half-ass excuse Cas was about to make about not being fragile, that he can take care of himself, thank you very much, is cut off as Dean crushes their lips together in something that's supposed to be a kiss but doesn't quite make it, filled with teeth and the metallic tang of blood- his or Cas', Dean's not really sure. Cas makes a surprise mph! against Dean's lips and jerks his head back to give him an incredulous stare.
"Dean?" he breaths. It's quiet, soft, half questioning half awestruck. "What?..."
Dean just chuckles and pulls him forward again. This time, there's head tilting involved so noses don't bump. Cas' hands come from where they were stiff at his sides to gently run up Dean's arms like he's afraid that, if he presses to hard, the hunter will slip through his fingers like sand. His fingers end up twining in Dean's short hair, blunt nails catching on his scalp, and he leans forward into the solid wall of the other and inhales his scent- sweat and whiskey and leather and shampoo.
When Dean's tongue traces across the seam of Cas' lips, his breath hitches in his throat and Dean smiles into the kiss. Cas tastes like something warm and rich and ethereal- warm apple pie on a rainy day, homemade chicken noodle soup after shoveling, ice cream during a heat wave. The warmth and wetness of his mouth sends tingles racing up and down Dean's spine, little curls of something he'd rather not name latching its fingers onto his heart and carving its name into his very soul right next to where a certain angel gripped him tight and raised him from perdition.
There's a groan and a ruffle as someone moves behind them, but Dean just squeezes Cas' coat tighter and presses him against the tree harder. Because that little thing now woven through his soul pounding in his chest next to his heart doesn't care if his brother snickers and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like it's about damn time or if Cas laughs and his cheeks taint pink with embarrassment. Dean just grins and spreads his fingers out over where he can feel Cas' heart fluttering under his palm and kisses him again because, yeah, it is about damn time something good happened to him.
...
I've been in a one-shot mood lately, this is the only one of today that I've deemed internet worthy. I've always imagined Dean and Cas' first kiss to be after a fight where Cas almost died and Dean is all pissed at him. The you stupid, stupid son of a bitch line is a must, of course. Thanks for reading!