So the first story!
Is based on Bitter Sweet Symphony by The Verve. The best way to take this story on is to grab the song, throw it on repeat and ignore it while you read. Do let me know what you think or if you have song recommendations. I've got a list going, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't love more.
Warnings: implied sexual situations?
This is very vaguely placed in season five.
He inhales and the air is damp, like drowning without the fear of death or the pain of water in his lungs. He could feel it though, each drop playing a rhythm on his skin, leaving invisible lines and patters to trace over his shoulders and down his spine. He matches the clear curtain that separates his little moment from the world.
He breathes in, the air is damp, and he falls in love.
But Dean is not one for a committed longing or a soul-burning passion. He loves everything and nothing all at once because he loves the second he is living and then he is moving on, to a new second, a new moment, and the others are left forgotten. Dean loves the grey stripes of light that filtered through the venetian blinds and mold their way over a speckled array of wet droplets on thin plastic. He loves the hot scent of filtered water that tastes like metal and the film that soap creates under his toes. He loves the drying shadow of the rose that hangs from the curtain rail and the dizziness of his fading intoxication. He gives in to the feel of stubble against his belly and the slow moving tongue that follows the path between his rows of muscle.
Beneath his fingers, dark hair is parted without resistance, but he hasn't realized that he is running them through and through the wet waves until soft lips sigh against the space just under his belly button. Cas looks up at him, the blue of his eyes is the only color that Dean can see in the dull morning light and it entrances him. The man on his knees looks like a different person from this angle, lush and soaking wet under the shower's spray. Dean groans involuntarily and thinks about how they got here.
Castiel is not one to love second to second. No. He loves every second. And for every second he has loved, Dean is certain that he has ached an equal amount because Dean is slow on the uptake and even slower on the participation and it has taken two thirds of a bottle of straight whiskey and a shitty fourth of July party at Bobby's house for him to give in to a craving he hadn't even known existed.
Or maybe that is lie.
Maybe it hasn't taken anything more than being surrounded by smiling faces in the lot behind the house. Maybe he had started falling in love with the slow ticking of each passing second when he spotted Castiel across the party and watched the fireworks bleed through the sky behind the other man like rainbow wings. Cas is blue and pink and green and walking towards him as soon as he has Dean's attention. There is no hesitation as he sidestepped the other party goers, the night bathing him in a multifaceted glow. His cheeks are flushed and his gaze unfocused as though he too had consumed just a little more than he is capable of handling. Dean feels camaraderie in that and then lips are on his and he doesn't even fight it.
He can hear the roar of approval from the people around them as though they were underwater, the sound blurs in his head with the feeling of teeth against his jaw. They could have been cheering for anything, the fireworks, the party, another keg, he doesn't know. He sucks the air in and suddenly his time is erratic. He is pushed against the Impala, his back against the driver's window and a warm body at his front. He is being asked if he wants to get out of here. Parties were never really Cas's thing.
He is being shown a silly decorated invitation by Sam early in the morning and informed that yes, they were going and no, there is going to be no talk about hunting, or dying, or the rest of the apocalypse for the entire night. Someone needed a team moral booster and celebrating the birth of the country that is heading headlong into its end in the company of their lousy friends is obviously the best way to do it.
He is being handed a beer by the back door, or maybe it is out towards the road, or on the hood of his car with his brother by his side. Sam claps him on the back and tells him that it is about time they had a break and hey, there is Cas.
He has lips against his and time falters and all he could see were kids with sparklers running in the reflection of Castiel's adoring eyes until his own slipped closed. He focused instead on the feather light touch of hands against his chest and the thundering vibrations from the explosions in his head.
Jo meets him at the door, a tray of deviled eggs in her hands as she passes him on his way out of the kitchen. She smiles up at him honestly and tells him how glad she is to see him in good spirits. Sam needs this break, she insists, he needs this break too. The white gold of her hair is tied in a braid at her shoulder. She walks with a twist of her hips that is instigated by the low heels she wears. He has never seen her in heels before. What does Ellen think of that, he wonders. His lip quirks up and he pushes through the weight of the metal screen door. Jo calls after him only a moment too late. Don't miss the fireworks. They are going to be fantastic.
He is taking a beer from the cooler by the grill and signing himself up for a hamburger for later. Or maybe he is picking up a jello shot from the tray on the checkered picnic table as the last bit of sunlight disappears behind the trees. Maybe he is tasting the whiskey right off Cas's tongue under a shower of sparkling colors.
Maybe he is breathing down water at dawn with his back against cool tiles and his front pressing into capable hands.
Dean lookes up at the star-littered night sky and finishes the last sip in his bottle. The Impala shifts as Sam takes a seat against her hood. Dean agrees with him when he says he'd like to finish the night feeling completely wrecked in the comfort of his bed. He didn't want to wake up until three in the afternoon, which is a likely outcome since that girl, Val, from earlier is looking his way and she's fine. She gives him a little wave and Dean waves back. Sam rolls his eyes. Sam lets out an exasperated laugh. Sam asks the whereabouts of Castiel. Dean drops his hand and inhales his next beer. He doesn't know.
Cas is flush against his side as they battle their way up Bobby's slanted stairs. Dean has a half empty bottle of whiskey clutched between his fingers and it's going fast. Where the fuck did Cas find enough alcohol to get drunk? It doesn't matter. Dean swallows another mouthful of fire and they knock something off the wall. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.
Ellen grins at him when he gets out of the car. She greets him with sarcasm and one of the biggest hugs that Dean's received in years. She says he looks like shit, which is half true and half a joke, but he likes the way it fills him up with a sense of home. He likes the way the tacky red, white, and blue decorations are being tied to Bobby's porch railing. The man himself is arguing with Jo about the uselessness of star decorated streamers, but it doesn't seem like he's fighting too hard. Dean suspects that he secretly likes the normalcy that this little improvised picnic fakes. Dean has to admit, though only to himself, that there's a vague memory at the very edges of his brain where his mother takes his picture as his father lights the end of a sparkler and it bursts into life, scaring the both of them.
The light in the room pops and then it's dark. It's hot. It's dark. It's all bright blue and oh. And yes. And good. Dean sighs, Cas hums. There's a tub so this must be the bathroom. Was it always such a tight fit? It ridiculous. And good. It's so good. Ridiculously good. He tastes bourbon. He tastes bile. He swallows and taste's nothing but a tongue against his own. Cas? Yeah, Cas. Oh god, Cas. But he shouldn't say that, should he? That's kind of fucked up in the "has daddy issues" way. But not for him. Only for him. What would Sam think? He doesn't give a fuck, not right now anyway. Not while he's seated on the edge of the tub with a real breathing angel in his lap. Oh God. He says it anyway. Oh god. Where did his belt buckle go?
What time is it?
They're in the dark and breathing hard. He drowns and knows nothing but white.
Dean inhales again and he's in Bobby's bathroom. Everything is grey. They're on even ground now, maybe. Dean can't think much past the dull ache that starts where his temple is pressed against the blank tile and runs all the way to the cold porcelain under his knees. The water is running just as cold, but he's spent and wrecked and so very pleased with himself.
He opens his eyes-
"Hello, Dean."
- and the sky is nothing but cerulean fireworks.