The Rays of the Sun
Politeness dictates that monogamy in a relationship is one of the most important facets. Adultery is seen as the penultimate betrayal, the cracking of your partner's trust. It tarnishes your record with friends and family. It's the sin to beat all others.
Didn't stop them, though.
The man they loved may have been dead, dead and gone, three months in the ground with only a burned corpse and a glowing gold amulet to show his past, but it still sure as hell felt like adultery to them. He, as cliché as it sounds, lived on in their hearts.
When he'd gone, it's broken the two of them. Listless, broken. One had returned to his old facade, his emotions pushed back behind the pale mask he wore, cementing it in place. The other had turned to the bottle, to other things, their false energy coursing through his blood like oil through water, never truly mixing with.
The house was empty, its robin's-egg blue shutters creaked on cold days, its russet shingles flapped when the summer breeze came. There were bottles squirreled away in all corners, the amber liquid shining bright when the faint rays of the sun peeked in through the cracks. The other man's mask was slowly peeling away, white flecks drifting down to the scuffed floorboards every now and then.
Their eyes, hazel with the color of whiskey and blue with the color of ice, tried not to prick with tears whenever they heard his name in passing conversation. They often failed.
Their rooms were strictly separate, on the exact opposite sides of the house. They almost couldn't stand to be near each other, some days. It helped, slightly, but not by much.
The man with eyes the color of the bottom of a bottle kept his room neat, with his letters tucked away in his desk and his tissues thrown in the wastebasket across the hall. He told himself he didn't need them. He was mostly right.
The man with a face as still as the Arctic kept his room in a much different way, with clothing and personal possessions scattered across the mahogany floorboards, except for one different factor. His letters, too, were kept in his desk. They were the most valuable thing he owned, and by God, he wasn't going to lose those.
They had lived like this for three months.
November 2nd. That had been the day.
The other man, the man with the eyes like emeralds in sunlight and freckles dotted across his face in constellations, had left. Not in the way that you can beg for forgiveness, or tempt back with promises of sweet nothings. No, he'd left in the way that was final, in the way that we all shall leave at some point, no matter the pain left behind for the survivors.
There had been blood everywhere.
It stained the walls, the floors, the inside of the porcelain bathtub had been full of the stuff. They'd scrubbed it away, but the stains still remained.
They didn't go to that part of the house.
The memories had caught up with the constellation man, had left him a wretched mess with all of his stars out of alignment. Those golden stars were scattered now, floating across that impenetrable void.
They swore not to venture there, either.
The constellation man, or Dean, as he was known to his many colleagues, or Winchester, as he was known to his father, or just simply known as the intangible whispers that drifted across his pillow at night, muttering sweet nothings to his ear; he was broken. His stars had already been dimming in the ever-increasing black cloud of his reality. The monsters of his past, both figuratively and literally, had come back to haunt him.
And no matter the man, or how strong and brave and wise he may seem, he will always crack under that weight.
The man whose eyes spoke of clear cut ice had found the blades, but only too late. A month after, they'd figured it out.
Christmas had been a bleak time.
No cookies had been left out. No lights had been strung up. No cheesy Christmas Claymation specials had flickered across the crummy television they kept in the living room.
It had just been silent.
It was February now, and the disgustingly pink and red hearts were plastered all around the small town where they'd hunkered down. Little kids ran around, consuming unholy amounts of FunDip as their parents stood by the sidelines, smiling and holding each other.
It was also at this point that they snapped.
The house had been tense lately. The upcoming holiday, with all it had on romance and love, stung at both of them sharply. It filled their hearts with a deep, dark envy; the color of the darkness behind the stars.
They hadn't felt any need to explain themselves just yet, only living on the thought that the other was there, nt in a romantic of possessive way, just as a gentle reminder that he wasn't the only one to be suffering through the Hell they were marching through.
The man with the eyes the color of bourbon in the winter sun's name was Sam, as he was known to his associates; Winchester, as he was known to his enemies; and also known as the dank whispers across sweat-covered pillows in the dead of night.
The man with eyes like cold fire and a face carved of stone was known as Cas, to his garrison; Castiel, to his Father; and also known as the silken moan of a man when he is on the brink of a cliff that only he can see the bottom of.
These two, the man of whiskey and the man of ice, were near driven to Bedlam by the signs of adoration and love shoved in their faces at this most opportune holiday. They both had to deal with the prying of Mrs. Dearn, the warm, elderly woman who ran the town bakery at the edge of town, who constantly would ask the man of whiskey if he'd found the right girl just yet, or ask the man of ice when he was going to bring around a girl for her to meet. The town pastor, Reverend Keats, would always wonder after his sermons if the nice two young men would ever come back after that day, they'd both seemed so passionate in the church for the while they'd been there. The postman would glare up at the house nervously, worrying that the two men were up in there commuting the unholiest of sins, partaking in the wrong flesh, and he'd leave the post by their doorstep and run, quick, back to the safety of his mail truck.
The day was February 13th. A Friday. 103 days since they'd lost him.
Castiel paced the halls of the house, drywall crumbling and floorboards creaking under his slippered feet. His tension settled itself in his shoulders, in his face, in those eyes of near-sapphire color. It settled in the purple bags under his eyes and in the sag of his posture.
Sam sat in his room, bedsprings wobbling and pillow sagging under his weight. His tension settled itself in the way he shuffled, in the muted tones of his voice, in the razors Castiel found in his sock drawer that one morning in January. It settled in his eyes as well, dulling their color and drawing their gaze away from what was in front of him, pulling him back to memories.
They hadn't shared any affection. You'd think that affection is a necessary part of grief, sure, and you'd mostly be right.
But these men pulled away from affection, unwanting and unwilling to be close to one another, for that would just send the memories crashing back onto themselves as well, and what good would another person gone be?
Castiel paced the halls. His slippered feet slid across the glossy wood, slowly wearing away the thin fabric. He did little else these days.
Sam laid down onto his bed, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars that had been stuck up onto the ceiling once, as a prank of course. He, also, did little else these days.
They'd both considered it. They'd both considered keeping each other company sensually, trying to evoke the emotions that the constellation man once did.
Sam had considered it, and so had Castiel.
And they'd come to a conclusion.
Castiel broke his routine that one day, took his shuffling up to Sam's room. He'd stood in the doorway, watching the taller man, his soft, caramel hair floating over the stained linens, eyes focused up on the stars above him.
It was breathtaking.
Cas crept into the room silently, his own black, ruffian hair swishing in the cool breeze coming in from the cracked window. Sam's ears perked up from his snuggly berth, his eyes lighting upon the utter wreck of the other man.
"We should probably talk." Castiel said.
Sam nodded in agreement. He didn't know how much longer he could take the unbearable silence.
"We've got do something about... this." Castiel continued, flapping his arms between the two men. "It's just so..." he trailed off.
Sam sat up. He was already tense. He hadn't seen Castiel in the longest while. Only something serious would have brought the ex-angel here.
And then Castiel leaned in.
His lips tasted of sugared almonds and mint and smoky cedar; they tasted of a river on a sunny day; they tasted of home.
Sam leaned back into the kiss, his own lips giving Castiel the bitter taste of alcohol on dry breath; of dank motels and willow trees and maple syrup; and also of home.
Castiel bent over Sam, draping himself over the bigger man, showering his neck in slow, longing kisses. Sam reciprocated back, kissing the top of his head, even touching lips again when Castiel came up for breath after his relentless worship.
They peeled off their shirts, their pants, their underwear, Sam's getting caught in the zipper of his pants, earning a small chuckle from Castiel.
It was the first time he'd heard him laugh in months.
They lay together, without any singular urgency, hearts beating next to each other as one. Their skin caressed, their teeth nipped, their vocal cords slipped, letting out small moans and pants and whimpers.
They rubbed up against each other, sparks flying betwixt, their lips connecting with a new fervor, a sense of finality.
The bed creaked under the dual weight of their bodies; the bedsprings creaked and groaned along with the timing of their gentle thrusts. The sheets lay on the boards beneath them, forgotten in their throes of passion.
They were one, even if for only a moment.
The moment came crashing down amongst them all too soon, their climaxes creeping up onto them. The sense of finality had returned, it's cold hand lingering.
"Dean-"
"Dean-"
The sheets were stained, opaque liquid dripping onto the floor below them, the one reminder of their small infinity.
And then there was one.
The man with eyes the color of the dregs of whiskey at the bottom of the shot glass and hair the color of caramel on the wheel had found the blades, oh so careful hidden they were, and let history repeat itself.
It was Valentine's Day, and yet he had never felt any more alone.
Castiel had to assume that the house and the black, gleaming car and everything contained within both properties were his. After all, who else would they go to?
He'd fondled the guns inside of the trunk many times, all with a different purpose, but this was different. The handles felt rougher, the barrels felt thinner, the triggers felt oddly soothing.
He tucked one of them into his belt, the one with the mother-of-pearl handling, the one that had belonged to the man he loved before him.
Along with that, he also grabbed the gasoline canister, the rock salt, and the matches. The Hunter's Holy Triumvirate.
Oh, the comfort of knowing you hold your life in your own hands. What a glory.
He marched in, and started to slosh the can. The smell of the gasoline permeated through the carpeting, through the walls, through the cabinets in the pantry.
It all had to go.
The salt came next, stinging in his eyes and painting its own flavor of rock candy across the garish walls. Sugary sweet though it may not be, it served its purpose.
He marched down the stairs, boots thumping on the creaky, old wood.
The house was evil. And like all evil things, nothing couldn't be improved by a good old salt-and-burn.
He flicked the lighter and threw it over his shoulder as the door shut behind him.
The inferno didn't take long to start. The gasoline did its job quite well, paving the way for its penultimate destruction.
It was time for the final task.
He took the gun out of his waistband, hands shaking. His mouth opened in that one, last, final scream.
Boom.
When Mrs. Dearn had found the horror on the outside of town, she had been beside herself.
No one believed her, of course. Who would've thought that the sweet men from across the river would've caused all this pain?
Their heaven, ultimately, was together.
Surprisingly, someone had intervened in their cases. Looks like all the good they'd done was more important than the manner of their deaths.
They didn't care how. All they care about was that they were back. Together.
They'd all heard the stories of soul mates being able to share a heaven. Castiel had heard them since he was a wee fledgling, and Dean and Sam had learned of them in one of their previous ventures up to the land of Jesus.
Looks like the rumor were true.
And as they walked down the Axis Mundi, the men of whiskey, ice, and constellations were at peace.