This is the first thing that I have written in a long time that I have been happy enough with to post, isn't that sad. The most recent episodes however have inspired me and this is the twenty minute result of that inspiration. Please R&R, hate it or love it, I don't really mind, because flames will be used to make tasty smores.
Disclaimer: If it were mine this would not be a fantasy, this would be a reality, so given current reality, can we really assume that any of the boys belong to me in any way shape or form?
One Thing.
If there is one thing that Dean Winchester knows for certain, absolutely, one hundred percent without fail, is that he is most definitely, totally, utterly and without out a shred, an ounce or a whiff of doubt, completely not gay. He knows this. Has always known this. There has never been a reason for him to question the fact that he is straight as a die, a phrase he never completely understood anyway.
It is just that, lately, he has begun to question that one thing that he knows. It has been the only constant thing in his life. Not his car, not his father, not his brother, nothing in his life has been so constant as that simple thing. Not even hunting. His car has given out on him on occasion, usually it's not her fault, but there have been times when he has had to leave her. His father disappeared with barely a word, only to sacrifice himself a year later and while Dean knows that everything was more complicated than that, the central fact of it is that he could not be certain about his father for a long time. His brother, Sam, Sammy, Sasquatch. Even Sam had abandoned him, had done things that had made Dean question in the past, and now, with his hell-bitch, Dean could not be sure that his brother really had his back. It shattered the little fragments that his heart had become. Even hunting, even that had become complicated, when the bad guys were the good guys, but were still really the bad guys, and you could not even rely on the good guys either because they were secretly the bad guys dressed up in suits but still ready to beat the ever living hell out of the bad guys just because they could.
The one thing that he knew, thought he knew, without fail. Dean Winchester is not gay. He is straight, he has been the best night or weekend in the lives of many a woman, except, and this part is where his mind starts to shy away and panic, now he is not sure. Because he dreamed, but if he were to be honest with himself, he had dreamed every night since Hell. What made him question was not the fact that he dreamed. He had always dreamed, dreamed of love, dreamed of loss, of normal, of abnormal but never, not ever, had he dreamed of a man, in that way. Until three months ago. When he had stopped dreaming of Hell.
See, dreaming of Hell, he would have almost preferred it to this at first, at first. Because now, now, he enjoys them. A lot. Hell was exhausting, the dreams kept him awake, stopped him resting until he left the motel one night, until he broke down outside the room and begged the heavens to make them stop. Begged for just one good night so that he could rest and recover, get his strength back, because neither he nor Sam was strong enough to beat this, he knew that now, Sam knew it, even if he would not admit it, and Dean needed to rest, he needed to sleep, he needed to not drink himself into oblivion. He was broken, completely broken and beyond repair and even though he had been shown that this was his true path, Dean knew he was not strong enough. No matter what Zachariah said, no matter what Chuck implied in his smutty little books that would become the Gospel, Dean knew he would not be strong enough, knew that the one thing that he would fight for felt that he no longer needed him. So Dean needed to rest and screw his head on a little straighter and get himself together, to look strong for Sam.
He did not remember going back to bed, did not remember sleeping or even dreaming. Just that he awoke, refreshed, satisfied and oddly whole. The feeling had not lasted, but at least he did not dream of Hell, he did not remember. Until the inevitable happened. Until with a tilt of his head and a whisper of confusion, Dean remembered. He remembered kisses and cries, even smells, the feeling of lips on skin, the gentle caress of feathers, rough hands, seeking, questing, desperate. He remembered a desire that he has never felt and even though part of him wanted the dreams to stop, they continued.
Dean Winchester is not gay. Has never been gay. Has begun to think that part of him has clung to that fact for as long as it has because without it he would not be certain of anything. Dean is not gay, but that does not mean that he does not enjoy the dreams, actually, part of him began to look forward to them. The problem is, the tilt of the head, the blue eyes that express nothing, but at the same time, every little thing have started to have another draw, outside the dreams. He began to wonder, wanted to know what it would be like, would it be the same as his dreams. He did not ask, did not try, could not. Except there was always that moment, that little flutter when he saw him. As the months passed, it grew strong, until it was no longer a flutter, it was an urge, irresistible and dark and desperate. Until he could hardly resist it.
The one thing that Dean Winchester knew, absolutely, completely and utterly, was that he was not gay. Not gay. But that one thing was joined by something else, something that he could not be absolutely certain of, not without a shadow of a doubt, but close enough, was that he was falling for the one who had come for him. The one who had helped him even when he had known he should not. One who lived in a body with dark hair and impossible blue eyes, whose presence was announced by the flutter in invisible, shadowy wings and the monotonous gravely way that this being spoke his name.
Dean Winchester was not gay, but he did not know it for certain anymore. What he did know was that he had begun to fall in love. Fall in love with Castiel, an angel, his angel and that scared him, more than even the prospect of returning to Hell, that scared him.
Reviews are like little Castiels flying around our heads
Artemis