Title: Ethereal
"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." Castiel: The angel of Thursday
a/n: This is my first fic in quite a few months. The first chapter is always awful while I'm getting back into the groove of writing. It will get better from here.
This is Destiel. Don't like it, don't read it. I know how crazy the SPN fandom can be so please leave your flame at the door. You have been warned. (Dude/Angel action, SmokingDrinkingDean)
Dean sat slumped on the hood of the Impala, an unlit cigarette clenched between his impossibly straight teeth. He knew he shouldn't partake, and if Sam caught him with one he would be in for one hell of a lecture but- Sammy wasn't right now and Dean needed /something/ to calm his nerves. At least he was giving his liver a break?
The thought made him stifle a chuckle as he pulled out a matchbox. A single strike and the familiar scent of flame relieved his senses of the pungent odor of motel dumpster and whorehouse perfume. His first drag propelled him back to his time in Hell. The sickening screams, clean snap of bone, scrape of rusted metal against the agonizing squish of flesh. A putrid sulfur smothering him, strangling hi-"Hello Dean."
"-AH! Cas! Hi. Don't.. sneak up on me like that, man." He exhaled, the smoke curling like tendrils against the blank face of the Angel before him. If it bothered Castiel he made no show of it. He remained as straight backed and inflexible as ever. Dean shook his head lightly, mentioning internally that he would never get used to this near robotic demeanor.
"What do ya' need Cas? I'm busy." His voice came out with a graveled bite. He avoided that penetrating azure gaze by running a hand through his tousled locks, fixing his vision on the flicking 'vacancy' sign.
"You left. Sam left. I wanted to check in on if you needed anything before I went on my patrols." His voice was even, his words precise. Dean looked up, the last drag of life from the cigarette dancing on his tongue.
There was a long pause as he studied the man before him. Those eyes were the only indication of anything living within the inert frame. They were captivating pools of experience so ancient Dean mused he could spend the rest of his life exploring and not nearly scratch the surface. The lips that formerly belonged to Jimmy Novak were full, but pursed in a flat line of indifference. Plump, pink and a complete waste being on a man. The hunter knew a few women who would kill for the aesthetic.
"Dean...?" It was so surreal, hearing a voice come out of a body neither belonged to. Castiels' cerulean blue gaze softened with concern. Dean coughed, tossing the butt and stamping it out with his boot. "No, no... You're good to go."
The angels brow furrowed in momentary concentration and right as he was about to disappear (another thing Dean would never get used to) the other man cleared his throat hoarsely and choked out, "Actually Cas.."
A swift turn and the bottom hem of the trench coat skated the laces of the Deans boots. No words left the otherworldly man, he simply waited- expectantly.
"No. Go. Never-mind." Castiels' shoulders ruffled, obviously perturbed at being held between two worlds for a 'nevermind' - and with a blink of an eye he was gone. Not without leaving a curious gust of wind in his wake. If you could storm off with a teleport, that was obviously what the man had done.
As the thread of wind expired, Dean felt something disembodied feather against his cheek. A plummeting of something red-hot boiled up from his gut, knocking him to his back on the sturdy hood of his baby. His hands shot up to the collar of his shirt, stretching it down as he gasped for air. Something blinding was pulsing through to his fingertips. Sensation ensnared him- radiating through his pores like steam. It was delicious, chaotic, and euphoric. Completely unlike anything Dean had ever experienced before.
It only lasted a moment before it ebbed away and Dean was able to recollect himself.
His brow was damp with sweat and his chest heaving labored breaths. The usually cool and composed Winchester fumbled through his Jacket pockets for another light. A second match strike and the humble kindle sent him through a fractured spiral of hell fire, shrieking, chains and torture- all cleared away by a firm grip on his shoulder- raising him from perdition. He surrendered, and allowed himself to be pulled from the inferno- the grip on him pulsed and in a scorch of fume he was met with the furious copper eyes of his brother.
"Sammy!" Dean snapped back and eyed the non-ashed stick held disdainfully away from the both of them.
"What's gotten into you Dean?" Behind the turbulence was genuine worry. Sam tossed the offending bud into the dirt, his attention turning back to the older boy.
"Nothing." He waved his brother off, hopping up from the car and stalking back inside. "Just... Stupid Angel mojo." His pulse hitched when he felt a slight tightening in the front of his jeans- the last syllable dying on his lips.