If someone were to ask, I could not pinpoint the exact moment it happened – the moment I knew my life had changed forever. And I already know what you're thinking: How sappy, how cliché, how dramatic. I mean – yeah – I agree, but that doesn't make it any less true. In fact, if I die never being sure of anything else in my life, I will be sure of this; I am in love with Castiel Novak.
Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. Allow me to explain from the beginning. Allow me to bring you back to the moment it all started – the time before Castiel was part of my life, before I was certain about anything. It was the summer of Sammy's fourteenth birthday; I only recently had turned eighteen myself. A searing hot June had melted into an even hotter July, the heatwave like a snake slowly tightening its grip around Lawrence, Kansas.
The Winchester family was sprawling – less than nuclear – relatives and friends and neighbors lining the street with glass bowls full of onion dip and potato salad and fruit salad and pudding tucked beneath their arms as they prepared to celebrate Sam Winchester's birthday. Originally meant to be held in the back yard, the party had grown too large to be contained by fences – leaking through the open gate into the street and beyond. Dean had known Sammy was popular, but this was getting ridiculous.
Dean was sitting on the front steps, elbows propped on jean-clad knees. Despite the heat, Dean Winchester did not do shorts. He watched the sheep flock to the birthday boy – obedient moths to the ever-glowing flame of his younger brother. Literally. In the few months since school had ended, Sammy had undergone a major growth spurt; he now towered over Dean like a tree, still all arms and legs and gawk. It wouldn't be long now before he started high school, Dean thought; only a month and half left to savor his little brother's childhood.
"What're you doing?" A familiar voice shook Dean from his reverie. He craned his neck up, shielding his eyes from the son with a tan, freckled hand. Sam was string back, his mane of hair like a halo framing bitch face number 12: you're acting like a creeper again. Dean simply grunted in response, returning his gaze to the onslaught of people, a wave which seemed never ending.
After a moment's pause, Sam folded himself beside Dean, awkward knees spiking up too high for the position to be comfortable. If he minded, he didn't say. "Too hot," Dean offered by means of explanation. It was also an accusation, in a way. Sam seemed to understand the implied meaning: It's too damn hot for these fuckers to be herding themselves up just for a piece of cake and a look at the birthday boy.
"Yeah, well -" Sam held his hands out, palms up, in placation. Dean grunted again. "Wanna ditch?" Now he was talking. Dean was up in one fluid motion, sweaty fingers wiping against his AC/DC tee with intent. He walked on without looking back, knowing Sam would inevitably fall in step behind him. The younger boy's long legs easily set the pace, causing Dean to skip every other step to keep up. It wasn't long before they were full-on running, the race towards the Impala an unspoken challenge.
Sam slammed his hands down on the hood of the car. Dean, to his credit, was only a step behind – a glare forming between furrowed blonde brows, the hair nearly imperceptible from sun-bleaching, presumably from spending his days outside working on cars at their uncle Bobby's repair shop. "Bitch," Dean wheezed, sidling up to the side of his Baby with sour defeat as he hopped in and started the engine.
"Jerk," Sam shot back, falling into the passenger's seat less than gracefully. He had to wedge the seat back to its extreme, and even then he was all elbows and knees and head nearly grazing the roof with barely a half inch to spare. "Just start the damn car. And turn the AC on, would you? It's friggen hot." But Sam couldn't wait for Dean's response, his hands already fiddling with the temperature dials.
"Don't," Dean said between clenched teeth, "fuck with the car." His brother's hands dropped immediately, soon replaced by calloused ones – a thick layer of black grease settled into the nail-beds. After a moment of adjustment, the cool air sputtered to life. Sam sighed, leaning into the vents despite the sharp angle. Not that Dean could blame him, considering the amount of sweaty hair hanging from the kid's head.
"Just drive," Sam pleaded, the cool air obviously not incentive enough. Not that Dean could argue – he was restless himself, tired of shaking hands, shoulder-claps, the feel of old women's lips moist with spittle and perspiration pressed against his cheek like brands. He didn't need to be told twice. He threw the car in reverse, executing a perfect arc out of the driveway, slammed the shift to first and proceeded at a slow crawl down the road – careful not to plow down the mob of people blocking the exit. Why did they have to live at the end of a culdesac?
Dean laid on the horn, successfully scaring the wits out of the group of people standing between themselves and freedom; the adults jumped apart like crickets escaping extermination. Both boys chuckled, though Sam had the decency to wave and shrug apologetically. Dean only sniggered harder, laying his foot into the gas and clutch, throwing his girl into second and quickly third. With his free hand, he cranked down the window, throwing his arm over the side to rest against the painfully hot metal of the door. He would probably have a burn later, red welt from elbow to palm, but he didn't care. Nothing felt better than the cool breeze tickling his flesh, the neighborhood shrinking in the side mirror.
"You should probably slow down," Sam admonished, his own massive hands curled around the edge of the seat with white knuckles. Dean only chuckled, slamming into fourth just to get a rise out of his brother. They had turned onto a long stretch of back-road, the tarmac newly laid and even beneath the swollen tires of Dean's prized possession.
It had been weeks since Dean had left the house. He had been grounded mid-June for some mishap or another, probably school related. He had been taking a summer course to make up for his failure in chem-lab, a class that met once a week in the high school's science wing. Thinking back on it, Dean vaguely remembered an explosion – possibly his fault, possibly intentional – that had abruptly ended the last session. The teacher – while having his suspicions about Dean – claimed the incident to be 'a lad-related accident,' and he told the six students that he would give them all 'A's if they promised not to report what happened to the principal, a crude woman with a mustache and uni-brow. Disregarding the report, Mary Winchester grounded Dean the second he stepped through the front door with an off-colored smudge across his front. Despite his pleas of innocence, Mary could not be bull-shitted into submission as Mr. McCoy had been.
Dean tapped his fingers against the door in time with the song pulsating from the tape player. Sam had slipped a cassette into the slot sometime during Dean's flashback, and Dean's drumming had subsequently and unconsciously followed. He swallowed back his usual reprimand – Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole – remembering, after all, that it was Sammy's birthday. So, instead, he smiled and dialed up the volume, both boys wailing along to the dulcet tones of "Stairway to Heaven."
Later that night, Dean would reminisce about the look on Sammy's face as they hit 80mph, Zeppelin crashing to crescendo as they sped past cornfields and cattle. It was a look akin to freedom. And while he didn't consult a mirror, Dean was sure he wore it, too.