Boy, the Way You Look Tonight
Disclaimer: I own neither Supernatural or Blake Shelton's My Eyes. If I had even a slice of the royalties on either I wouldn't be worrying about the incoming student loans.
Rating: R, for language, adult themes, ect.
Warnings: Fluff, some swearing, little bit o' boy on boy lovin' ect. Also, haven't finished Season 9, I'm sorry!
Pairing: Good ol' Dean/Cas
Dedication: To my true love Mary, for inspiration - both in this fic and every day.
A/N: So it's been forever since I've written and I'm sorry! I graduated college in May, (eee!) and things are finally calming down a bit. In the mean time, shameless self-promotion, I have some short smutty romances published on Amazon, (I know, the big bad Goliath, forgive me!) under the name Holland Rae - so check it out! Also, I'm not usually into Country, this is a little out of left field. Otherwise, enjoy!
Goddamn it was late. A warm July breeze floated up from the edge of the river bank, and cicadas spun webs of harmony through the trees. Above them a full moon struck the sky with a shimmering delicacy, as if to illustrate that beauty still existed in the world. Beauty didn't exist for them anymore, Dean thought bitterly, though. Beauty had never really existed for them.
Cas sat on the bumper of the old Impala beside him, staring down the bottle of his beer as if some answers were to be found inside. Dean couldn't help but feel that perhaps he too tried to find answers inside the bottom of those glass bottles, desperate for a reason why he'd never see the moon for a simple brilliance, and not an omen of darker times to come.
Perhaps he was being unfair to the night and the nature around him. They were in the middle of no hunt, at the heart of no apocalypse. Both he and Sam were still breathing, with a soul to call their own, and even Cas had shed his heavy outer coat in needed respite from the heat. Things were okay, and when things were okay that was cause for celebration in the life of a Winchester.
Still, on nights like these Dean wondered about what kind of life he could have would have should have had. He wonders if he would have been good at anything, maybe he could have worked as a mechanic, maybe he should have finished high school. He thinks about all that he's lost in the years of his life, long, stretching, broken years, marked by scars on skin and under skin and deep in the depths of the soul he's so happy to have, he keeps telling himself.
But then he thinks about all that wouldn't be, if his life was different. Sam and he would have grown apart, like that damn Jinn had predicted. He would have spent his life feeling wandering, he thinks, never really finding a place to settle down, because Dean can't possibly picture himself in a world that isn't this.
Partially because a world that isn't this doesn't have certain people, and even though his reality is about the shittiest one the doctor could have possibly ordered Dean knows that if he hadn't met those certain people it could only be worse.
Certain people.
Certain person.
Because the man-who-was-an-angel who is still somehow Dean's angel, has figured out some fucking way to make all this utter crap something worth waking up for in the morning. Slowly and unintentionally he's slipped right into Dean's world, and made that the only world Dean understands, because without Cas everything is just a little dimmer, and without Cas Dean doesn't understand how to put one fucking foot in front of the other.
Cas doesn't know. It's part of the charm, because he's so beautifully pure, somewhere deep inside. Tainted, like they all are, because who can live that life and not be, but true and good and somehow still pure, even as he picks at his beer label and looks up at Dean with those marbled eyes that could only be made of celestial intent, because they're surreal and depthless, and yet every time Dean looks in them he feels like he's drowning.
"Dean," Cas asked, his voice low and rumbling, and Dean feels it through his chest like the roll of oncoming thunder.
"Yeah Cas," swig, lean, cool guy.
"I have…an embarrassing inquiry," Dean feels himself get hot, and even though it pierces him like hot iron he asks the question he's supposed to ask, asks the question that would fit the Dean character that someone else was writing. Is writing.
"Is it a chick question?" he goads, even though the question hurts in a way he doesn't really understand because he hasn't quite figured out when his friendship with Cas turned his world upside down, and he's not sure he wants to. There's no answer for a moment, and then Cas clears his throat.
"Not exactly," he pauses. "It's actually a question about a song," he lets out another soft cough and Dean can't help but raise an eyebrow. Cas can be so human so much of the time, but in the creaks and cracks Dean can see just how truly magical his friend is, and completely new, reborn into a world without the training wheels on.
"What song?" He asks his friend, feeling a wild curiosity build within him. Though, in fairness, he often feels wild around Cas.
"I heard it the other day on the radio," his friend begins, "but I don't understand it." He looks genuinely perplexed and Dean feels a complete joy at the expression that he'd rather not analyze.
"Do you know the singer?" He asks, treading lightly.
"I believe his name was Blank, but I did question the reasoning behind naming a man Blank," Cas says, and Dean can help but narrow his eyes.
"Last name?" He asks, realizing he's getting nowhere with the first.
Cas shakes his head. "Shetland, like the ponies we saw in Oklahoma." Dean turns, feeling a creeping suspicion sneak over him and a piqued fear at what he believes is happening.
"Cas, was it Blake Shelton?" He asks, watching his friend's expression contort into one of recognition, and feeling his own shoulders sag heavily when Cas nodded.
"You were listening to country music?" he asks, feeling himself grow somewhat petulant, but seemingly finding it impossible to stop. "I hope you weren't in my car." Cas looks genuinely apologetic, but Dean finds there are certain things where passion overrides reason, and musical taste is one of them.
"Country music is all the damn same," he says with agitation. "It's all about trucks and girls and farms and drinking whiskey and that's not music. Damnit Cas."
Castiel looks up at him in a way that makes Dean feel all kinds of vulnerable, and Dean doesn't like it.
"Doesn't your rock music talk about girls and cars and drugs, Dean?" he asks in that damn throaty voice of his that makes Dean sweat like a fucking teenager.
"It's not the same," he says, chugging back the rest of his beer.
"How Dean?"
"It's just not."
There's silence for a moment and Dean realizes he's being too harsh. Cas is still new to feelings and human nature and culture clashes, and it's not his fault Dean's only form of expression is through tangled chords and shouted lyrics.
"What was the line in the song, Cas?" he asks after a minute, wondering who let him ever go out because he's really bad at being a good person.
"You're going to laugh," his friend says softly, and Dean wonders if he deserves this man at all, in friendship, or whatever more he might want from their coexistence. He's too hardened by his life as a soldier, and while Cas has seen more fighting than anyone ever should Dean can't help but wonder if maybe his soul is just darker at its core than Cas'.
"I promise I won't laugh," he says after a moment. "Honest." Cas is quiet and it seems like he's not going to respond to Dean after all, when suddenly he starts humming a bit. At first Dean can't make out the music at all, Cas hasn't had much exposure to the world of human music, and which he has comes mainly from Dean's collection. But after a few bars the tune becomes a little more familiar, and he thinks he might have heard it in a bar or a motel somewhere.
"I know it's a love song," his friend begins, "but I find myself confused, there's this line." He pauses and Dean feels that enormous moon in the sky as if it's there just for them, feels the weight of summer heat heavy on his skin. Cas looks down, then peers back up at Dean with those damn blue eyes and says simply,
"My eyes are the only thing I don't want to take off of you."
Dean can feel his eyebrows raise and then a small tugging of his lips and an enormous smiles as spreads across his face.
"I knew you'd laugh," Cas says.
"I'm not laughing," Dean tells him. "The line, it's about - do you remember the Pizza Man?" At this Cas raises his eye, and Dean shakes his head.
"You're right, it's not like that. It's a love song, and the guy is saying, Blank is saying that he finds her beautiful, and he'd like to see all of her. Does that make sense?"
"But his eyes don't touch someone?" Cas asks, his own narrowing, "it doesn't make sense."
Dean stands up, aware that the moon behind him feels huge and beautiful and powerful and that the night is theirs alone.
"It's not literal," he begins to explain, "it means that he'd like to take off of his girlfriend's clothes and look her over top to bottom. The phrase is a little like this," he lowers his eyes to Cas' feet and slides his vision over the man's shoes, up his legs in those loose fitting pants, over the chest, raking his eyes across Cas' sinewy muscle, over the slight bulges of bicep, up the sweat stained neck he finds himself wanting to lick. He looks higher, sees Cas' straight jaw, sees the arch of his nose, and finally, finally, those impossible eyes, and considers for a moment, licking his lips and feeling the hardness of his own body beneath his jeans, that maybe he's the naive one here.
"I think," Cas coughs, and his voice is rough, as though he is feeling strained in a way he doesn't want to show, "I think I understand what it means to have someone's eyes on you."
Dean takes a deep breath and steps toward his friend, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, man," he says, though the words feel like ash on his tongue, "I just wanted to show you."
Cas looks at him and deliberately raises an eyebrow and Dean knows for a fact that he's the naive one, because in a single step his friend, his pure angel, is leaning into his neck and pressing his lips into his ear and whispering, in a throaty growl that makes Dean throb behind his pants, "just let the rest fall to the ground."
Dean's never been accused of having self control, but those words, those loaded, dirty words, push away any semblance of them, and he finds he can't stop himself from pressing his lips against against Cas' and pulling the man closer against, feeling every press of muscle against his skin, and wondering, in desperation, how fast he'll be able to get Cas' pants off.
"Dean," he hears Cas growl, feels himself being pushed onto the hood of the car.
Cas undresses him slowly, biting the inside of his neck, and running teeth down his fire hot skin. Dean can't quite understand how he's not the one in control, how Cas has the ability to do that, when the man blushed at innuendo just moments before, but then Cas is pulling Dean's t-shirt over his head and sliding his mouth over a hardened nipple, and Dean realizes he doesn't care much where Cas learned it, only that he keeps on doing it, and that he only does it with him.
Still, he's fully invested in the prospect of getting Cas out of his clothes as quickly as possible, and soon the two of them are in a rough, hard tangle of limbs on the soft grass near the river bank, and Dean would notice how bright the moon is, how like a knowing smile it shines on the water, but he's preoccupied with the feeling of Cas' bare legs and boxer covered cock as they writhe against him, and in brief snatches of sanity he knows he won't last very long. Because now Cas is letting out tiny little groans that run straight through Dean's body to his cock, and he knows that Cas will always get him hard, always get him hot.
And it's not long before they wrapped up in each other, lips around throbbing, slick hardness, matching each other stroke for stroke, moan for moan, climax for tumbling climax as they find the center of heat and passion in another's sweaty touches, and soon they're both tumbling an edge neither was expecting but both can't wait to try again.
Sweaty and out of breath they lay together on the grass, having found their shorts and pants for the moment. Cas has rested his head on Dean's chest, and Dean finds that's just the way he likes it, because it means Cas is close to him, and that's all Dean has ever wanted.
And when Cas stares up at him with those impossible eyes, Dean knows it's always been deeper than lust for either of them, deeper than anything he's ever known, and while that scares the living shit out of him it also makes him the happiest he thinks he's ever been.
"I think I understand now," Cas murmurs sleepily into Dean's arm, eyes slowly fluttering. "My eyes are the only thing I don't want to take off of you." He slowly drifts off into a light sleep, looked beautiful and satiated and moon lit, and Dean thinks that maybe, just maybe, country music isn't so terrible after all.
A/N: As always, apologies for spelling/grammar/tense mistakes. Thanks for reading!