Dean's life is a stream of moments that can be strung together into a necklace of apathy, one that rests on his skin, brushing the hollow of this throat, choking like fingers wrapping around the arteries there. He is successful. He wants for nothing important, not food, nor company, or the love of what is left for his family. And yet there's something missing inside, a lack that's only digging deeper, hollowing him out as the years pour by, the unstoppable trickle of time that whispers in chilled tones that it's only a matter of moments, fleeting years until he's old, until he has to look back on his memories and see if anything has been worthwhile.
So far, the answer is no.
Dean is alone. He shares his bed by the night, though those encounters have thinned as of late. He can run his hands down the skin of others, lose his body to touch and taste and sensation, but his mind remains cold, reaching out for things unseen, for things he has yet to find. He knows the pleasure of men and women, fragility and strength but nothing satisfies anymore, nothing can stoke the flicker of flame inside that's a breath away from going out completely. But Dean's alright. He always is. How do you miss love when you've never had it, companionship when it's never been shared? Of course, he plays the game well, jokes and smiles and winks and charms everyone into believing the facade he's built, a shining tower of metal and glass that reflects back at whomever looks in.
But if there's one person who can look through to reality, can push past the shallow reflection to see the truth, it's Dean's brother, Sam, who sits across from him now, hand clasped lightly with that of his wife, Jess, who speaks easily in a lilting voice, the kind that exudes peace, that calms unconsciously. She's talking about her latest surgery, gesticulating with sharp, tight gestures. He can almost see the scalpel in her hands, the steady lines she cuts without blinking an eye.
"God, I'm sorry," she says, smacking her own head lightly, ruefully. "Here I am, going on and on. How have you been? How's work?"
"I'm an accountant, Jess," he says, allowing a slow smile to spread across his face. "It's pretty much always the same. Heart surgery, on the other hand..."
She just smiles back, bites her lip and chases a few peas absently with the prongs of her fork. "Sam found one of your old textbooks in the garage the other day. Best sleep aid I've ever tried." His brother grins wickedly in response, and Dean takes a sip of wine, comfortable in their closeness, the soft glow they almost exude for one another. At first he was jealous of their marriage, the vulnerability they share, but now he can only be happy for them, can only wish to find the same, though hope lessens with each day.
"Dean?" Sam asks, worry pulling at his lips.
"Oops. Daydreaming." He shrugs for Jess' sake, knowing Sam sees through him.
"Are you done? I'll clean up in a bit, but I wanted you to look at the car first; it's been making some strange noises." Sam doesn't lie often, but Dean recognizes this for what it is. His brother is just as adept as he at fixing cars. No, this is an excuse, a reason to pull him in and make sure he's alright. And he is. He thinks. He kisses Jess on the cheek as they leave the table and allow her to finish. He catches the concerned look she sends Sam, a wrinkled brow, questioning eyes, but says nothing.
They enter the garage together, Sam flicking on the light to reveal the sleek Audi Jess had insisted she and Sam buy. Dean shakes his head at the new car, its pretty curves and modern engineering. His own car, a classic Impala, or 'The Deathtrap,' as Jess calls it, sits in the driveway, waiting patiently for his departure.
"Sam, before you say anything," he starts, trying to diffuse the discussion before it begins. He aches inside, doesn't want to give in to talking about what he can't fix, no matter how hard he tries.
"Dean." Sam holds a hand up. "You can tell me you're ok until you're out of breath. But I see you, man—you're walking around like a robot." Sam peers into Dean's eyes, jumping back and forth between the two, trying to look deeper, to reach for something Dean hasn't been able to touch in years. "Can you honestly tell me you're happy?"
"I—Sam," he doesn't know how to do this, to put how he feels into words. No one gets it anyway, and he learned from a young age that differences are just ways to be singled out, to be pulled apart by the savagery of the people around him. It had been a hard lesson at the age of five, when he'd been pulled into the principle's office and asked what, exactly, he meant when he told the teacher her color was pretty. He hadn't known better, had told them of the soft light surrounding everyone, the variance of shades and strength, the beauty of it all. A few CAT scans and psychiatric evaluations later, he understood that sharing was bad, that it only caused pain. He stopped seeing colors after that, though no one could find a reason for them in the first place.
So now he stands, mouth slack, trying to pull words together, to tell Sam that he's never been happy, that the only time he knows what it really means is when he catches his brother and Jess looking at one another, the quiet moments that go mostly unobserved.
"Yeah, Sammy," he finally says. "I'm lonely, but I'm ok. I've just been busy, haven't gotten a lot of sleep." He grasps his brother's shoulder, stiffens when he's pulled into a hug but relaxes into the grip, allows himself to sink in and breathe deeply though it almost hurts to do so, a reminder of how little he's touched for unselfish reasons, held with no expectation waiting for him to repay what he's been given. Dean's slapped on the back a few times to keep the moment from becoming too girly, and he's thankful he's been allowed to sidestep the truth. They let go, arms brushing and Dean knows he should go, should leave before the layers can be pried back, pale and sallow under the harsh light of day.
"It's getting late, Sammy," he says, and he's given a knowing look, a sad sort of resignation that sends his heart into his feet.
"Don't call me Sammy." It's halfhearted, something said because of tradition and history. Dean wants to apologize, to ask for forgiveness for being unreachable but there's a bridge between them with a gap in the middle, leaving them on either side, staring at the uncrossable space. He drives home with the radio off and the windows open, trailing fingers through the wind though it means to push his hand back, to force it down. The radio is off and it's quiet, just him and the night that still carries summer's last goodbyes, the spice of long days and sultry heat. He tastes it on his tongue, swallows it down and tries to save it, savor it because the wasteland of winter is coming, months that make it easy to forget anything but the white-cold of its icy grip.
It would be impossible to be more uncomfortable, Dean thinks, looking down through the hole in the cushion that is currently smooshing his face. The masseuse's table leaves him feeling unguarded, makes the muscles in his back even tighter, the reason he's here in the first place. Apparently, his office had tired of him popping Tylenol like candy and wincing every time he was forced to stand. His doctor hadn't found anything, had told him it was stress, a psychosomatic reaction to his work environment. Dean thought his Doctor was using big words to say "Fuck if I know." So when a gift certificate had been obviously and anonymously taped to his computer, he decided it was worth a shot. But now, lying naked on a table in a sterile white room, unable to see the door and who's going to be working on him, he's having second thoughts. The twinges jerking his muscles, spasms that leave him restless and crabby tell him to stay where he is, dig in a little harder as he moves to at least rest on his elbows until his masseuse joins him.
"Hello," a voice says suddenly, breaking the crystalline silence of the room. Dean jerks slightly, but offers a muffled greeting in reply.
"I'm Castiel," says the obviously male voice, one that gets closer, until it's next to his head.
"Castiel?" Interesting name. Strange name. There's a laugh, light as bells, not the false 'oh, really, you think my name is odd' type, but a genuinely amused little chuckle.
"Hippies for parents," He explains, laying the pads of his fingers on Dean's left shoulder blade, a sharp-angled extrusion that creates a graceful line to his back, beauty of an unexpected sort on such a solid man. He's good-looking, he knows, big eyes of an unusually deep color, freckles like a little boy and the sturdy, easy-muscles of a man who takes care of himself, but even he doesn't know all the secrets his body holds, the wonders that can be found there.
"So you've been having some problems with your back?" Castiel runs his fingers, warm and just slightly slick, along Dean's spine, feeling out the vertebrae and muscles beneath.
"Yeah, it's been aching like nothing I've ever felt before. I didn't pull it—it just hurts. Feels like something's twisting around back there."
"Mm," the masseuse hums, drawing down lower now, so light it's sensual, sending sparks toward Dean's sex, a twitch that makes him grit his teeth and think of cold days, the tile of his bathroom floor after stepping out of a hot shower.
"You've got knots on knots," Castiel says, pressing down, thumbs digging in to rover over skin in small circles. A groan finds its way through Dean's teeth, so needy and wanton the hair on the back of his own neck stands up. It's ignored, though. Thank God. Castiel just keeps working, pressing hard, coaxing Dean's body into a relaxed jell-o, until he drifts away under the steady grip of someone who knows how to work his mind away. His dreams are thin, the shallows of water just before a deep sleep, chaotic images and words that don't make sense. A man with eyes deeper than the ocean holds his arms out, asking for him, just him, nothing more. He waits patiently in front of Dean, allowing him to make a choice, to streak forward into his own destiny. It's easy, though, because this man, this stranger smells like the light sweetness of spring, the heady electricity of attraction in blood, the push of pheromones that don't think but want. So he steps forward, allows himself to be folded into the arms of a man who feels like the love he had when his parents were alive but somehow deeper, purer, an acceptance that allows him to collapse, letting out the breath he's been holding his entire life.
The cushion underneath Dean's face is slightly wet when he comes back to himself; it matches the dampness on his cheeks. For a long moment he doesn't know where he is, what he's doing.
"It's ok," Castiel whispers, close to Dean's ear. The man's fingers are busy on his neck, running over the joints there. "I released a lot of tension today."
No shit, Dean thinks, vaguely wishing he could wipe his eyes. Without warning, Castiel pulls away. He hears hands being wiped on a towel, sits up slowly, reveling in the lack of pain, the fluid movement that comes so easily. He feels younger, somehow, as flexible as a rubber band.
"Wow," he mutters, glancing appreciatively at Castiel's back, taking in the long limbs, the firm, lithe build. "You're a miracle worker." Castiel turns around, a smile lighting his eyes as he gazes toward Dean.
"Nah," he says. "You just needed the right touch." And Dean would say something else, would have responded to Castiel's farewell, if he hadn't been shocked still at the sight of the man. At his eyes. The same eyes that gazed at him from his dream, holding him like a safety net, cradling him like the child he never got to be. He'd dreamt of the man without ever seeing his face.
But his chance is gone, and he sits alone in the room like the fool he is for a moment before gathering himself, collecting his thoughts and heading back to the changing room, where his briefcase and clothes wait patiently. Though, when he gets there, moves the neatly folded pile of his shirt and slacks, he finds that something has joined his belongings, something that most certainly isn't his. It's a note, a business card with a familiar name on it, a cell phone number and the scrawl of a few words that send his heart racing:
I want to know you.
—Castiel