Chapter 5: Save Me San Diego

A/N: Thank y'all for your unwavering support and kind comments as I push through this final chapter. I hope, as a whole, this story has sufficed all your fangirl (or boy!) needs.

The departure lounge was eerily quiet, save for the static voice-ins on baggage claims and periodical updates on weather conditions for outgoing flights (update: still humid as hell). Funny enough, there wasn't any absence of light as it came streaming through the gargantuan double-panel windows in a surfeit of paralyzing warmth. Castiel could feel the back of his jumper sticking to the glass he lent heavily on, causing him to shift cumbersomely in his already cramped seat. Admittedly, the only thing this waiting experience bequeathed him was the renewed sense of stillness that fell over his plane cohorts.

So naturally, he sat back, liberating what was going to be his last respiration in the West Coast and just when darkness began to consume his weary state, whispers arose. And not just one or two—everyone who had ears and a working mouth was conspiring to one another in hushed exchanges. Prudently, Cas popped one eye open to find someone stealing a vacant seat next to him. He could determine who it was despite dark clothes that unconsciously embellished his holier-than-though alter ego. Castiel closed his eyes again, very fatigued.

"Leave me alone," he mumbled. His head lolled onto what he hoped and presumed was his brother's shoulder.

Dean laughed humorlessly. "Don't flatter yourself, Blue Eyes. We're on the same flight."

"Well that's riveting information. I'll mull it over while I'm catching some shut-eye, so if you don't mind—"

"Moving? Hmm, see, our forefathers died to make this a free country, which means I'm entitled to park my ass wherever I please without anyone telling me otherwise."

"Well you've certainly exercised that right time again," Cas said, eyelids still shut. "Are you still here?"

"Blue Eyes, you gotta give me more credit—"

"Do you even remember my name?" he pressed, surging forward to meet his unforgiving emerald eyes.

Dean's tongue darted fleetingly across his bottom lip. "That depends, Cas," he spat savagely. "Does the world revolve around you?" Next to him was another shrouded figure, shunting him in the ribcage. Cas was too engrossed in the staring competition he was having with the older boy to notice his brother was doing the same to him.

"You're one to talk. But if you must know, fuck yes it does." Something inside him snapped and suddenly his words were merely an overture for a very long sermon. "When it's my emotions getting played, when it's my ass mooning for a couple of camera whores, when it's my hand milking your microscopic—" Apparently, he was preaching a little too high on his soapbox. He caught the astounded and equally discreditable glares of those around him, including Gabe (who may have actually been amused more than anything). "Oh, c'mon, like it really surprises you your Golden Boy is a flaming homosexual?" He turned back to Dean, whose face was singed an embarrassing red. "Until it's your life on the line and I'm the one playing God, then you better get used to my world as we know it."

"Flight 316 to Denver, boarding all first-class passengers, first-class passengers only…"

Cas mirrored the half-hearted laugh Dean put on moments ago. "That's your cue, asshole."

Dean hesitated as he kept his head angled to the ground, listening to the sass-induced snickering from his brother's mouth. He uttered two syllables: "Deathstroke."

"What?"

"Deathstroke is a solid anti-hero for DC," he said, "but the Arrow series softened him too much."

"Are you kidding?" Cas quipped incredulously. "Part of what makes Deathstroke the ultimate desperado is that he lost his true love to the Arrow—that's what triggered the Mirakuru and made him lethal."

"Fair point, at least he keeps his promises," he conceded. "Another thing, those Fantastic Four comics could not be more far-fetched with the whole 'I may be a mutant, but I'm just a human underneath flame-retardant clothes' thing. At least the Justice League didn't try to deny the obvious fact that they're superhuman—even if the ringleader's Achilles' heel is a stupid green rock. What ever happened to sticks and stones?"

Cas shook his head, dumbfounded, "Why me?"

"Why not?" he replied, lips inevitably quirking into a small smile. "However, the real question is why me?"

Cas schooled his mind to save the internal monologue as he lent in to kiss him, hard. Alone, the embrace was somewhat innocuous—nothing more than the faint brush of lingering lips—but it left the two winded and after seconds, which was granted. "Guess I have a thing for smarmy assholes."

"Hopefully you have the same fondness towards the ones shooting us right now," the star said. Except this time, Cas didn't run. Hell, he didn't even bother budging to align his view with the shutterbugs. He knew he was risking his chances of ever returning to San Diego on account of his newfangled notoriety—or worse, a sentence to a thousand years of Book-binging and purity cleanses—but none of it seemed to matter anymore. He couldn't find the will to care about anything but this moment and it felt good.

Cas reluctantly heaved the twenty-something to his feet and guided him away. "Go, before someone way more sophisticated—and straight—takes your seat. We'll cross paths at the mile high club."

"Now would be a good time to mention that I'm officially a second-class citizen." Dean smiled, tossing him a wink. "But I'll take you up on that previous compromise, Mr. Constantine."

-END-