SPN belongs to EK and associates, not me.
Words: 1, 511
Characters: Dean and Castiel, mentions of Sam
Warnings: language
Summary: SPN!verse AU. In this den of stars and tears, we shall ignite the moon.
AN: For m_dono (lj), whose patience questions sanity itself. Thank you T for editing and C for your opinions and sentence fixtures and—just everything. I love you.
Castiel can't think of a word to define Dean. Dean is a swarming shadow of a hero with the smarts of all things auto and knowledge of possibly every 60s-80s rock song in existence (and then some). He belts out random rock lyrics whenever he pleases and marches to the soundless tune of Jimmy Page's guitar solos. His feet echo the sound of Grohl's drums, while his leather jacket mimics every sweet note of Osbourne's. He's a mix of notes and tunes without a music stand to keep him upright.
Everything about him screams, "I am Dean Winchester", and Castiel likes it that way, even though Dean takes it as his honorary role to teach Castiel about every screech of Kurt Cobain's.
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Dean can't think of a word to define Castiel. Castiel is a rebelling, so-sad-but-true kind-of-man. His mind roams the entire world in seconds and he witnesses murders he isn't allowed to stop daily. He tries to march to his father's tune, but gets lost along the way and sits on toilet seats to hear Dean singing in the shower. His trench coat has had more bloodstains on it than a woman's underwear, yet they magically vanish every single time. He appears next to someone randomly because he doesn't understand the concept of "a little warning" and personal space.
Everything about him screams, "I am Castiel", and Dean likes it that way, even though Castiel continues to sit Dean down and read passages from the Bible.
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Dean leaves every motel with hamburger wrappers on the floor and come stains on the rug. Recently, he leaves strawberry flavoured lube on rackety kitchen tables the motels supply and chocolate syrup on bed sheets, slightly in the shape of a deformed human. Sometimes, the room smells of iron and salt, or coconut shampoo (which is decidedly not his) or sex.
But everywhere he goes, the walls echo groans of despair and moans of pleasure.
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Castiel flies into every motel Dean is at unannounced. He'll watch Dean sleeping sometimes, pepper him with soft kisses, or fuck him until Dean's sore in the ass and can't chase any ghosts for a few days. He'll put too much lube on his fingers and it never fails to spill onto the table; his come stains the rug and so does Dean's. When he wants sugar, any type of chocolate syrup will do for him.
But everywhere he goes, the walls echo the flutter of wings and Dean's laughter.
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Dean's face is imprinted in Castiel's mind. The curve of his nose and rise of cheeks, where freckles love to stay and dance upon. This permanent pout of his lips that he doesn't know he has. When he orgasms, his face scrunches up a bit too much and his coke-stained teeth show and it looks a bit like he's in pain but then his pouty lips curve into a soft smile and he exhales.
Castiel could recognise Dean anywhere. He could recognise him from his body. (Muscular with a bit of pudgy fat and freckles that travel all over his shoulders, down and to his thighs and a few linger on his ass.)
Beautiful doesn't begin to describe Dean.
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Castiel's face is imprinted in Dean's mind. The shadow of his nose against his cheeks and mound of his lips. The stubble on his jaw always tickles, but Dean doesn't tell him to get rid of it because he knows he'd miss it. When he orgasms, his face is too emotionless to be normal and his blue eyes follow Dean's into a state of intimacy until he throws his head back and ruins the eye-fucking they had going.
Dean could recognise Castiel anywhere. Short black hair covers the length of his entire body, only to stop at his ankles in an awkward manner and they stutter along the expanse of his stomach, till it leaves a trail from his navel to the opening of his jeans.
Beautiful doesn't begin to describe Castiel.
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Dean isn't an amazing kisser. From time to time, he'll grab Castiel's hair too roughly, bite and pull on Castiel's lips. He'll suck Castiel's tongue, in what's supposed to be a flirty manner, but causes Castiel to lean forward because it hurts just a bit. He likes kissing in alleyways and trapping him with his arms; he'll hold Castiel's jaw tightly to bring him forward or yank his mouth open roughly.
But, then, he'll stop and just breathe for a second and kiss. He'll kiss until Castiel's lips go numb and it's only the motions of turning-opening-closing keeping their saliva entwined. He'll wrap his arms around his waist and bring him closer until their bodies fit in every nook and cranny in the world. They'll breathe in each other's words and it is all okay.
He kisses in harsh strokes and brutal touches and Castiel understands. This is Dean's way of speaking without the glorified terms and lies.
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Castiel isn't an amazing kisser. From time to time, he'll stand motionless and let Dean do all the work. His lips move as if controlled by a puppet master and try to recreate a porn star's techniques. His tongue will cause Dean to moan loudly in darkened alleyways full of trash and piss, but there is nothing in it.
No matter how much Castiel studies, he cannot recreate the passion Dean seeks so desperately. He kisses as a shell, a hollow mime, a programmed mannequin. His lust seems that of another's. His lips and tongue aren't his, and then he'll stop thinking and fall for Dean all over again.
But he's trying for Dean. He's learning for Dean. This is Castiel's way of proving himself.
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Dean is brash, yet isn't. His words cut through air, but his "I love you"s make Castiel tingle. He never likes to hold Cas's hand in public, but isn't afraid to give him a handjob in diners. Most of his sentences consist of shit and hell, without his knowing, but he can say Castiel so very softly when they fuck.
He'll give Cas a shit-eating grin whenever Castiel lets him fuck him, but will throw "mature" tantrums when Castiel doesn't answer any of his calls.
Castiel likes to think Dean can't live without him, but whenever he sees a girl in Dean's bed, he doesn't know what to think.
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Castiel is genuine, yet isn't. He doesn't know when to shut his cakehole and isn't afraid to read people's minds, even when those people are heart-eating bitches. He always tries to hold Dean's hand in public and frowns when Dean removes his hand, but accepts Dean's random blowjobs as an apology. He talks about being God's son, thus believing in every task he's set out to do, but drops them in a heartbeat when Dean needs help.
He smiles when Dean does hold his hand, even when it's just interlocking pinkies, but flies away instantly when he sees Dean with another woman.
Dean knows Castiel can't live without him, because Castiel tells him so. I'd do anything for you.
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Castiel can read minds, so he knows Dean thinks about Sam. It's in the way he'll look at the fire on a stove, and stand and continue looking; he'll
look at the ground and his pout will turn into a frown and he'll mouth "Idiot" until Castiel's hand touches Dean's shoulder. The way he'll touch the amulet around his neck and take it off in a second, only to wrap it around his hands and whisper to it. He'll whisper until the sky turns from blue to pink to purple or he plays "Ramble On" and sits there with a pensive mouth.
But he won't ever cry, because Castiel is enough.
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Dean can't read minds, even so, he knows Castiel thinks about heaven. It's in the way he'll stare at the sky and speak in Enochian till a sunray shines down on him; he'll stand in the rain outside of a motel and catch raindrops in his hand. He'll sprout out his wings, black in the shadows, invisible in light, and take off for hours or days, with Dean's amulet to keep him sound. The way he'll sit on the hood of Dean's Impala, while Dean kisses down his neck and he surrenders himself to the stars and quiet murmurs.
But he won't ever speak of heaven, because Dean is enough.
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Castiel can't think of a word to define Dean.
Dean isn't a word, but he's a man with a string of adjectives attached to his very bones and hanging from his flesh, because his soul can't contain every dictionary in the world.
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Dean can't think of a word to define Castiel.
Castiel isn't a definition, he isn't a syllable or two formed by vocal chords, but everything made of nothing; a paradox that makes an entirety of sense.
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What they have isn't perfect; sometimes, it seems like nothing at all.
It's hard to understand, but for Dean and Castiel, it's enough.