Build the Moon
Chapter 1
BrigadeOfOctopi
The lake is calm, Castiel muses. Placid. The midsummer sun is setting beyond the trees, casting an orange and pink glow across the ripples on the surface of the water. The wind slightly ruffles his hair as he dreams of the freedom that bird feels, swooping down into the water in search of dinner. Although it comes up empty, it does not feel frustrated, useless. It must be nice. It dives again with determination, conviction, this time coming up with a wiggling fish between its teeth and flying off into the sunset.
Castiel cannot remember the last time he felt determination. He cannot remember the last time he felt conviction. Those two emotions burned up long ago in the supernova that is Dean Winchester. He does not have goals; he does not have hopes and dreams, for all that he is, all that he wishes to be, and all that he is capable of being is with him. And yet he knows this can never be; he knows that Dean will never let go of his mind's version of supposed-to-be and just let himself be. If he would allow himself to free-fall into this-is-where-I-belong, Castiel knows, with one hundred percent certainty that that place would be with him.
But Dean is lost and Castiel is alone.
He sighs as he lowers himself onto the dock, pulling his feet up to rest flat against the wooden planks. He knows he shouldn't think such things, but it's difficult for him to attempt to define himself outside of Dean Winchester. Anna thinks it's unhealthy. She is correct.
"Hey, Cassie." Gabriel approaches him from the left, a joint hanging loosely between his forefinger and thumb. Castiel says nothing, just turns his attention back to the water as Gabriel crouches down next to him. They sit in silence a while, Gabriel taking long drags every now and then, letting the smoke trickle slowly from his mouth and nostrils, swirling upwards and disappearing into the horizon. I wish I could be that free, Castiel thinks as he watches the smoke float up and up and into the rich blue separating here from there. Gabriel exhales the last of the smoke with a sigh of contentment before flicking the remainder of the joint into the water. The faint, almost inaudible sizzle of the dying embers captures Castiel's attention for several seconds.
It is dark now and the lake is starting to come to life. Crickets have begun their nightly serenade to the moon; a choir of croaking bullfrogs sounds from the bank; there are quiet splashes of water in the distance – the nocturnal lake monsters come to life. The only illumination comes from the dozens of fireflies hovering just above the grasses. Gabriel leans back on the dock, interlocking his fingers behind his head, staring up at Heaven's twinkling stars.
"You know, Cas," he whispers, careful not to disturb nature's precious balance, "you're not as useless as you think you are." These are unusual words for Gabriel; he is usually brimming with joy, bursting at the seams with laughter, some sort of trick always up his sleeve. "You've been… off for the better part of a year. We're all worried."
"Anna sent you," Castiel says. He ignores this.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, turning his head to face his brother, honey-colored eyes shining with nighttime and pot. "I know I'm not the best at this sort of thing, but you're my little brother. I love you." When Castiel says nothing, Gabriel turns his attention back to the stars, lifting a hand to trace the Little Dipper, Hercules. "I'm assuming this has a lot to do with that dickhole Dean Winchester—"
"Gabriel," Castiel interrupts, because even though it is true – Dean is a dickhole – he can't listen to Gabriel speak that way about the boy he's fallen so unfortunately in love with.
"Okay, I get it." He huffs out a breath and lets his arm drop down on top of his stomach. "You don't want to talk about it." He sits up, raking a hand through his hair. "But if you ever do, I'll be around." He leans over to kiss Castiel on the temple and stands up to walk back inside. The back door closes softly a moment later.
Castiel closes his eyes and breathes in the distinct smell of summer: lake water and freshly mown grass and smoke from bonfires heavy in the air. And he almost smiles because this – second only to those perfect, peaceful moments spent basking in the afterglow of sex with Dean – is where he is happy. And then the dock creaks behind him and he is forced to open his eyes. He turns to face his intruder.
It is Dean.
"Hey, Cas," he says. He doesn't smile – doesn't even look at Castiel, really – just rubs the back of his neck and slips down next to Cas in Gabriel's abandoned spot.
"Dean," Castiel replies, mildly surprised at his presence.
You see, sex with Dean Winchester is initiated in a handful of ways.
He picks Cas up on Tuesdays around 3 o'clock; he has an hour to kill before he has to pick his younger brother up from the high school's debate team practice. Sometimes – usually – he chooses to spend this hour with Castiel. His departure is not so painful on these days, because Cas entertains the idea that he would stay with him if he didn't have to get Sam. They would stare into each other's eyes, not having to say a word and still being able to communicate a thought; he would count the freckles on the bridge of Dean's nose, map out the contours of his cheekbones; Dean would walk his fingers down Castiel's arm, up the back of his neck, to eventually rest his palm on the back of his head, fingers lacing gently with the curls of his hair; they would kiss, slowly and softly, and nothing more.
More commonly, he retrieves Castiel from the library during lunch, gives him that you've-got-ten-seconds-to-get-your-ass-up look and drags him out to the backseat of his Impala for the quick and dirty version of their Tuesday afternoons. These are the days that always leave Castiel wounded and weeping, left alone to collect himself on the leather seat he'd become so accustomed to. Sometimes he can't face the world afterward; he walks to the nearby park and sits on a bench, where he quietly falls apart.
Sometimes, when Dean's especially desperate for release, he drags Castiel out of his bedroom window during the early hours of the morning and pins him against that all-too-familiar leather seat.
Other times, on rare weekends when Sam is with a friend and his father is stuck at work, Dean will take Castiel to his house and make love to him on his bed. These are the times Cas cherishes the most, because even though he feels lost and empty as he's walking back to his house, these are the times when Dean fucks him almost lovingly. He never breaks on these days.
Dean Winchester only comes to Castiel for sex, and only in these four situations, so you can imagine his confusion at the current situation. Cas stares at him, waiting for him to offer an explanation. He does not. Instead, he wraps his fingers around the side of Cas's neck, thumb tracing small circles over the joint of his jaw, and pulls him toward him. He kisses Cas slowly, takes his breath away even before he licks the underside of his tongue, and Cas doesn't think he's ever kissed him this way before. He slips his fingers into the messy hair at the back of Castiel's head, runs his nails along the sensitive skin, and tugs gently.
Now Cas understands: It is summer. They do not have those lunchtime moments that Dean so heavily relies on for release. This is a temporary arrangement until Castiel leaves for college. At the realization, he slips his hand under the elastic band of Dean's basketball shorts. He almost sighs at the familiar feeling of the soft skin on the underbelly of Dean's cock against his palm.
Dean breaks the kiss now, lips lightly brushing against Cas's jawbone and stopping to rest just under his ear. "Whoa, Cas," he says, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling his hand out of his boxers.
"What's wrong?" Cas asks, confusion once again taking over. Dean shakes his head, smiles softly.
"Nothing, just… c'mere." He brings Cas's face to his once again, kissing him softly and sweetly. "Happy birthday," he whispers against his lips before standing and walking up the dock.
Only now does Castiel realize it is his eighteenth birthday.
There are two hours left of August 17th, the day of Castiel's eighteenth birthday. He sits alone in his bedroom, staring blankly at the model airplane mobile above his bed, pondering the events of the day.
His family greeted him in the kitchen with a cheerful "Happy birthday!" as he descended the stairs this morning. He was mildly irritated at waking at such a late hour, but it seems they allowed him to sleep in late for his birthday.
If he's being perfectly honest, Castiel is not the biggest fan of birthdays, especially this year. It brings back… unpleasant memories. But he endures Gabriel's playful punch to the arm, Anna's kind smile, Michael's casual pat on the shoulder, the hair ruffle from his father, and the kiss from his mother because it is important to them. Just as Gabriel said, they worry about him; they only want to show him that extra bit of kindness on this day so that he knows someone loves him. For that, he is grateful. And so he smiles, takes a seat at the breakfast table, and digs into his mother's special birthday Belgian waffles.
The gifts came soon after, and though he doesn't take much stock in material goods, these were very thoughtful. Anna's gift was first. She spent much time, she said, trying to figure out the perfect gift for her little brother. When he opened the package, he found a first edition, signed copy of The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner.
"Anna…" he said, too stunned for words. "This… this is priceless."
"I know," she replied, smiling that Anna smile of hers. "I found it at a rummage sale. The seller had no idea what it was worth."
"Thank you," he said, gazing in awe at the red and gray cover, running his fingers lightly over the creases and tears in the spine.
"Us next," Gabriel said, pushing past Anna with a badly wrapped box. "Michael and I went in on this together." Castiel glanced at Michael, who smiled slightly at him from the back of the group. He turned back to the box, peeling away the paper and peering curiously at the label. "Since you like those model airplanes so much, we thought you might like a model pirate ship."
"Thank you, Gabriel, Michael," he said, smiling. "This should be very interesting."
"And this," Castiel's mother began, stepping forth with a large, brown, leather-bound book, "is from your father and me." He took the book from her, furrowing his eyebrows at the curious title: The Encyclopaedia of Ecology. "I found it in your grandfather's old things," she explained, sensing his confusion. "Since you like nature so much I thought you might enjoy this."
"Wow," he breathed, truly overcome by their generosity. "Thank you. All of you. These gifts are more than I could have asked for."
And then, of course, there was the first birthday present of the day: that perfect kiss with Dean Winchester under the midnight moon. No matter how amazing the gifts from his family are, he cannot stop going back to that moment on the dock. That one, blissful moment when nothing else mattered – not the heartache or the longing or the pressure built up in his chest, just Dean, and him, and that one beautiful moment.
A tap on his window startles Cas; he jumps, quickly turning his attention from his new Encyclopaedia of Ecology to the image of Dean Winchester sitting casually on the tree branch just outside the pane of glass. After walking slowly over, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, he lifts the latch and pushes the glass outward.
"Dean," he says, surprised, much like the previous night out on the dock. Dean just grins at him and leans forward, crouched half on the branch and half on the window sill.
"Can I come in?" he asks, though instead of waiting for an answer, he just hoists himself in and pulls the window closed behind him.
Cas stands there, dumbstruck, staring at Dean's profile as he glances around his bedroom. In the four years that Castiel has known Dean Winchester, he has only been in his bedroom once before. "What are you doing here?" It comes out a little exasperated, definitely confused, and maybe a little awestruck.
"Oh, you know," he waves a hand dismissively. "Got tired of doing it in the Impala, you know? The backseat isn't the most comfortable thing in the world."
"I see," Cas responds. He has to wonder, though, why he hasn't complained about it once during the past year.
"So what do you say?" he asks, turning to Cas with that grin still fully in place. "Shall we get to it?"
"Uh—" he hesitates, looking toward the door, immediately thinking of his parents in the room just down the hall. There is no way he will allow them to overhear him having sex with Dean Winchester.
"It's okay," Dean assures, strutting over to lock the door. "We'll be quiet." He turns around, advances slowly toward Castiel with that seductive smirk on his pretty lips. "Can you be quiet for me, Cassie?"
"Y-yes, Dean," he swallows, glancing down awkwardly, a blush creeping up his face all the way to the tips of his ears. Sometimes Dean likes to talk dirty – typically on those Tuesday afternoons when no-one is around to hear his whimpers from particularly satisfying sex – and it always manages to embarrass him.
Cas allows Dean to take his hips between his hands, walk him backward until the backs of his knees are bumping into his bed frame. He lets Dean push him onto his bed, crawl over him slowly, bring his lips to Cas's. He kisses Cas breathless, tongue sweeping over all the ridges on the roof of his mouth, just the way he likes it. His hands start to wander, and Cas mewls as Dean trails wet kisses across his jaw, down his neck, while warm hands caress the flesh just above his hipbones. Hands move higher, sweeping lightly across Castiel's ribs, pressing just a little harder near the middle, fingernails trailing feather soft as he reaches higher; lips move lower, tongue wetting small circles as it makes its way to his Adam's apple.
Cas's shirt comes off, those brief seconds during the absence of Dean's mouth on his skin pure torment, until his tongue dips into the sensitive skin at the center of his collar bone. Dean's hands replace themselves at Cas's hips, thumbs slipping under the waistband of his boxers, caressing a sigh from between his lips. He can feel Dean smirk against his chest before he moves his hands ever-so-slightly lower to cup Cas through his boxer shorts. He groans softly as Dean presses harder, palm just barely rubbing enough for it to count as torture.
Dean slides his tongue along the left side of Castiel's collar bone, trails kisses down every inch of his arm, all the way down to the inside of his middle finger. He does the same to the other side, moves his hand from Cas's cock to ghost his fingertips up his sides. His kisses flit upwards, catching every single rib on the right side of Castiel's body, before pressing a lingering kiss into that sensitive spot where the two sides meet at the center of his chest. Dean's hands push further upward, palms rubbing gently against his nipples, as he repeats his ministrations on the left side of his body. Cas sighs when Dean reaches the soft skin below his navel, positively buzzing with content anticipation.
It is only when Dean begins to pull Cas's boxers down that he realizes Dean is still fully clothed. He moves to slip his hands under his t-shirt, but Dean grabs his wrists before he can. "Leave it," he whispers, all gravel in his vocal chords.
"But—"
"Leave it," he insists, and Cas can do nothing but snap his mouth shut and watch as Dean slowly tugs his boxers down, glancing up at him briefly before he pulls them down just enough for Cas's cock to jump free. He is painfully hard by now, and Dean doesn't seem to care as he takes his sweet time getting them off his ankles, pressing the occasional kiss to the insides of his thighs as he goes. He slicks his thumb over the bead of precum, swiping it over the head, and Cas moans softly at the promise of a touch, before he finally realizes what's going on.
"Dean—" He protests, because even in his lust-foggy mind, he does not fail to notice that this situation is abnormal. Receiving a blowjob is a completely foreign concept to him, and the fact that Dean Winchester, the boy who has never even offered to return the favor, is about to be delivering it makes the experience far more surreal.
"Shh," he whispers, and his breath against Castiel's cock sends shivers all over his body. "Just enjoy the ride, Cassie."
He closes his eyes, lets out a slow breath; there is a beat of stillness, and just as he begins to think Dean's not going to follow through, he feels a soft kiss pressed to the dip on the underside, and a strangled groan pushes involuntarily past his lips.
"'Member, Cas," Dean reminds him softly, barely even a whisper, "you have to be quiet." Cas nods and clenches his teeth together. He snaps his eyes shut when Dean licks all the way from the root to the tip without warning, unable to suppress the shiver that runs through his body. Dean blows softly on the area he just licked and Cas's eyes shoot open in surprise. Oh, God. This is really happening.
Dean takes the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue experimentally around the tip, and licks slowly up to the middle, spinning a mixture of spit and precum around Castiel's cock. Cas's fingers curl into the sheets at his sides. With an audible pop, Dean pulls off and places four soft kisses to the underbelly of Cas's cock before laying his tongue flat and slowly stroking upwards. He takes Cas in his mouth again, this time moving past the head, slowly caressing the large vein with his tongue. Cas can feel his jaw open wider, feel him taking him further into his mouth before moving back up again, replacing his mouth with his hand and stroking slowly, skin slick with spit.
Just as Cas is about to go into sensory overload, Dean moves his hand down to caress his balls, and before Cas knows what the hell is going on, Dean takes him all the way into his mouth and suddenly the head of his cock is buried in Dean's throat. Cas's eyes bug out of his head, and he has no control over his body as his fingers curl into Dean's hair, pulling him closer, nails scraping across his scalp. Dean presses his palms into Cas's hips, keeping him in place, and moans simultaneously. And Jesus, the vibrations of that moan are all it takes for Cas to come, toes curling, body shivering, skin breaking out in goosebumps everywhere.
Dean takes every last drop of cum into his mouth, pulling off only when he knows Cas has finished. His pupils are so blown Cas can't even make out the green of his irises; he looks straight into Cas's eyes as he swallows, using the back of his hand to wipe away a small drop that escaped the corner of his mouth, and fuck if it's not the most erotic thing he has ever seen.
Castiel collapses back onto his pillows, unable to speak or move or do anything other than lay there in a pile of post-orgasm putty. He closes his eyes, breathing heavily and willing his heart rate to slow. When he finally manages to collect himself, he wipes his sweat-slicked brow with the back of his hand and pushes up onto his forearms so he can see Dean. He is kneeling at the foot of Castiel's bed, just staring at him. From the bulge in his jeans to his dilated pupils, Cas becomes painfully aware of the fact that Dean has not gotten off yet.
Cas pushes himself up onto his knees, shuffles over to sit in front of Dean, and moves to work on the button of his jeans. But just like earlier, he grabs Cas's wrists in his hands and stops him. "Don't."
"But, Dean –"
"Don't, Cas." He doesn't understand, but from the hard look in his eyes and the firm set of his jaw, Cas knows he means it.
"I… okay," he relents, settling for slipping his boxers back over his hips. He lies back again, expecting Dean to leave any minute, but he does not. Cas feels the bed dip next to him, and he doesn't know when Dean removed his shoes and leather jacket, but now he's lying next to him and Cas is beyond mystified. He turns his head to face Dean; he is looking up at the model airplane mobile, interlocked hands resting underneath his head, just like that very first time Cas saw him. Cas stares at him for God-knows-how-long, thinking – about that day they met, how it changed him forever; about how he's probably never going to see Dean again once September rolls around; about how all he's ever wanted to do is count the freckles on the bridge of Dean's nose.
"You never told me you build these things," Dean finally says, quietly.
Castiel is quick to reply with, "We never did much talking." Dean smiles a half smile, almost a sad smile, like he knows Cas has a point.
"Yeah," he breathes out, chuckling without mirth. "Guess you're right." And he is acting so strange, so out of character, that Dean lying next to Castiel seems almost normal, natural.
"You know I'm leaving soon," Cas says after a while, moving his head to stare up at the small planes. Dean grunts softly in acknowledgement. "You're going to have to find somebody else to do this with." He can feel it as Dean turns to face him, props himself up on one elbow and peers over at him.
"Do what?"
"I don't know. This," he responds, shifting his eyes so he can see Dean's face. "Fuck in the backseat of your Impala." It comes out far more self-deprecating that he meant it to. Dean says nothing, just narrows his eyes slightly in thought before laying back into the pillow, closing his eyes and slinging one arm above his head. Cas swallows thickly, willing himself not to cry. Not in front of Dean, not after all this time spent holding himself together in front of him. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.
"Can we just pretend? Just this once?" He asks, in a moment of particular neediness.
"Pretend what, Cas?" Dean breathes out.
"That… that you never left?" Dean opens his eyes, turns to look at Cas, and he can tell from the spark in his iris that Dean knows what he means. He knows Cas just wants to go back in time, fix the first time they made love, wake up next to him and fall in love the right way.
He says nothing. By way of answer, he slings his left arm around Cas's shoulders, tugs him over until his head is resting on his chest, and it doesn't matter that Cas is soaking his t-shirt with his tears because Dean's free hand is running through his hair and now they're both pretending. It doesn't matter that this is weird – that they've never talked so much, that they've never cuddled or that Cas has never before told him how much it hurts – because it feels good. And he will hold onto that feeling for as long as he possibly can.
When Castiel wakes up in the morning, eyes still puffy from crying himself to sleep, he is alone. If it weren't for Dean's scent on his pillow, he'd think he was never here at all.
A/N: I changed the narration from first person to third person limited.
I sincerely apologize to anybody reading this story, but please be aware of the fact that I will not be held accountable for any depression and/or psychological illness/damage you may experience as a result of reading this piece of fiction.