Chapter 13

„And that is why, mi hijo, you should never start workin' on some plugged in wire." Bobby raised his finger, lecturing. "It never ends well."

"Uh, yeah", Dean replied, wondering if Bobby was high. "Good to know. But that didn't answer my question. Can Sam stay at your place for two days? Just two days next week. Wouldn't ask you if I wasn't that desperate."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bobby asked, grumpily. Already, Dean regretted asking him in the first place. "Thought I was your favorito. You just made an old man very sad, son."

"Listen, buddy." Dean held up his hands, not up for any games. "Just tell me if it's alright with you or not."

"Well." Bobby raised one brow and walked over to his old transistor radio, smirking. "Usually I search for answers in my songs. You know 'em well, Dean. But I hate to tell you that yesterday my good ol' radio died on me. And, as you know, the business isn't what it used to be. No money. So, sin música."

"Bobby, I'm serious", Dean interrupted, impatiently. "Can you stop playin' around for one second and just answer my damn question?"

"Nah", Bobby simply put him off. "Not until my bonito pal Crowley brings my music back."

Groaning, Dean was just rolling his eyes to the cobwebbed ceiling—can you believe that man—when loudly approaching footsteps made him nearly jump up to said ceiling. The clattering sound could only mean one thing. Boots. Probably fancy ones.

"Shit", Dean hissed, already ducking down under the work bench. "Speaking of the devil."

"Oh, you mean the king of hell?" Bobby adjusted his sombrero. "I've dealt with worse, trust me. The Mexican drug police, for instance. Oh, boy, you don't wanna mess around with these guys, Dean. But Crowley? Please. Hell, this is gonna be fun."

Dean heard a loud, alarming crackling sound, when Bobby set his knuckles. Crouching in the dirt under the work bench, Dean was expecting the worst.

Crowley turned in a pretty dramatic performance. With a convulsive bang, the heavy cellar door suddenly displayed the unmistakable figure of St. Tipper High's principal. Soundlessly, the grout fluttered on the ground like snow, or ashes, surrounding Crowley.

"Hello, darling."

Holding in his breath, Dean tensely watched the red boots hectically milling around the crammed, sweltering room.

"He ain't here, asshat, so beat it."

Crowley swirled around, squinting, and finished his round at Bobby's sandals wearing feet.

Unimpressed, Bobby didn't move at all.

"I'm surprised, El Cantante", Crowley said, bitingly. "I could have sworn I saw him walk down here half an hour ago. Dean Winchester. But it seems like my eyes aren't what they used to be. But why am I even telling you? You know how it is. We're all getting old, aren't we."

When Bobby didn't react, Crowley clapped his hands, turning around. "Nice chat. I love how talkative you are, El Cantante."

He's scared, Dean thought, and couldn't help but stare, fascinatedly, when Bobby grabbed Crowley's shoulder, violently turning him around again.

"Whaddya know", Bobby grunted. "I'm not getting old, muchacho, an El Cantante just keeps gettin' better with age. Didn't ya know? Don't try and peg me as the old bugger that you are, Crowley, or we're gonna have a bad time again. Now—"

Bobby paused to poke Crowley's chest with his finger.

"—get outta my heatin' room, or I'll kick your… your… oh, balls. Almost forgot!"

Bobby forcefully dragged Crowley by his shoulder in front of the broken radio, nearly pushing his face onto it.

"There. See? Nada. Sin música. You gotta buy me a new one, 'cause I refuse to work without my música."

"Well", Crowley said, senselessly pressing a few buttons, playing for time. "I'll see what can be done."

"Sounds like you wanna scrub the floor tomorrow", Bobby picked at him. "Fine with me, sir Crowley. You don't need to buy me a new one anymore. The sound of that already is música to my ears."

"Enough, El Cantante!" Crowley suddenly yelled, wresting himself free. "I didn't come here for this! I am the king and how bloody dare you eroding my power!"

"He didn't come here for this", Bobby repeated, mockingly. "And you expect me to believe that?"

"I expect you to follow my bloody rules", Crowley hissed, poking Bobby's chest, "because you are my slave, and frankly, you should be down on your knees, polishing my boots, kissing my derrière, worshipping the bloody ground I'm walking on."

"Oh, is that so", Bobby said, scoffing. "And yet I'm here, doing this."

With that, Bobby brutally pushed Crowley forward, making him trip over his own feet. Wrathfully, Crowley bobbed up, but only ended up being slammed against the next best wall. Bobby's sombrero sailed to the floor like it didn't want anything to do with this.

"Please", Crowley whined, all rueful now. "Let go of me… and I'll..."

"Buy the damn radio", Bobby growled.

Dean couldn't exactly see what Bobby was doing to him, because his back was blocking the view, but Crowley's desperate whining and twisting spoke for itself.

"Buy… it."

"I will!" Crowley called out, choked. "I will, you bloody psychopath!"

"Bueno", Bobby approved, abruptly backing off. "Y gracias. You're a wise man, Crowley."

Motionlessly, Bobby watched Crowley lose his footing, and tumbling down. Eventually, Crowley looked up at Bobby from below, clenching his hurting stomach, heavily breathing. There seemed to be a weird moment of understanding between the two that Dean couldn't catch.

"You've gotta be kiddin' me", Bobby groaned, suddenly.

"Do I look like I'm up for kidding right now", Crowley panted. "The school's support money turned out poorly this year. Extraordinarily poorly. And such a radio, El Cantante, a good one, is an expensive buy, and I cannot just go out and get one for you. What's in it for me? There is never anything in for me, or is there, honey bear?"

Bobby let out a frustrated sigh. "Yeah, shut up." Annoyed, he waved his hand. "How much do you want?"

"Well, like I said, a good radio is at a very high price."

"How much?" Bobby barked, impatiently.

Catching a pained breath, finally Crowley managed to straighten up, brushing off his coat.

"You are familiar with the currency, darling, so I suggest you to just show me how much you've got in these filthy, surprisingly big pockets of yours."

Now, out of the blue, Bobby had apparently decided to violently slam Crowley against the wall once again. Frightened, Dean knocked his head, and mouthed a million curses, desperately trying to handle the enormous pain without attracting the attention of the crazy old men. Pressing his cheek on the cold concrete floor, Dean was groveling as silently as he could, when all of a sudden, he heard something… unexpected.

"That covers it?"

Dean's eyeballs bulged out. Did they seriously just…? No, they didn't. Or did they? Dangerously, he crawled forward as far as he could get away with, peering at the two.

"Well, it's really expensive. Only the very best for you, honey. And the school isn't exactly—mmhpf!"

Dean couldn't believe his eyes.

But the way the janitor grabbed Crowley's cheeks, pressing their old faces together in an urgent, kind of violent way was leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.

And—Dean detected as he crawled out even further—they weren't just kissing, which would have been gross enough already. No, they were making out. And like it was with everything that was really disturbing, Dean just couldn't make himself look away.

Dean had never seen anyone kiss the way Bobby did before, and he definitely wasn't sorry for that. Crowley, however, was totally into it, enjoying the rough treatment a lot. Hell, he was basically jumping Bobby. Dean hadn't known that Bobby had such an enormous mouth—and why the hell would he care—but now that Bobby was opening his jaw ever so wide, Dean, undoubtedly, would never forget about that over-average body part ever again.

Then, abruptly, Bobby gave way.

Quickly, Dean reacted by cannon-backing to the hindmost angle under the workbench.

Right in front of Dean's crouched leg, Bobby's sandals stopped, so close he could have kicked 'em if he'd wanted to.

Crowley sighed, deeply, getting ready to leave.

"Well, are you happy now?" Bobby grunted, leaning against the edge of the work bench.

The door knob already in his hand, Crowley stopped, turning his heels.

"Oh, El Cantante, how very shy of you. Am I happy now. Please. I'm quite positive that you felt my overbearing happiness very clearly."

Bobby huffed. "Well, it ain't that big."

Crowley's face turned an angry red. "Spare me the pillow talk, would you."

"Only speakin' the truth."

"Eat me."

"Nah, thanks. Just had breakfast."

Finally, the door fell shut. Cheeks burning, Dean saw Bobby turn around to his workbench. Possibly, Dean wondered, in the heat of the moment his presence had been simply forgotten, but there was no way he'd simply let this—whatever it was that'd just happened—slide.

Dean cleared his throat, loudly, pushing himself past Bobby's stumpy legs. Judgingly, he placed himself next to Bobby, who was seemingly working on some wires, ignoring Dean, completely. When Dean wasn't making any move to leave, however, Bobby eventually turned to him.

"What?" Bobby barked, defensively. "Never seen a broke man before?"

"Uh, for your information, broke is my middle name, but I've never even contemplated prostituting myself for a friggin' radio. What are you, insane?"

"Aw, that's funny, coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean? You're the one who's talking about the size of Crowley's dick like it's the weather, man. You're literally selling yourself to him."

"Oh, shut up, it ain't like that."

Dean blinked. "Excuse me? Are you telling me that you and Crowley… that's a thing?"

Bobby sighed. "Define thing."

"Well, you know—a thing thing? An actual two old men in love, polishing each other's walking sticks kinda thing?"

"Looks like it, don't it", Bobby confirmed, testily. "Minus the 'in love' part. Hell, Dean, I don't know where we're standing, me and him, and—besides, watch your damn language, boy, we're not that old."

"Oh, right", Dean said, mockingly. "Because an El Cantante's getting better with age. I forgot."

Bobby glared at him. "How about you mind your own damn business, son. And stop pretending like this here is some shattering, new ground for you, 'cause it sure as hell ain't."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Bobby, I have no idea what you're talking ab—"

"Please, boy", Bobby groaned. "White shirt? Blue eyes? Little out of it? Kinda looks like he's going to burst out singing Hey Jude any minute?"

"What, Cas?" Dean asked, confused. "What's Cas got to do with this?"

"Would you stop playing stupid, Dean. You know what I mean!"

"Uh", Dean made, puckering his lips. "No, sorry, I don't see the connection."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Do I need to spell it out for you? I've got Crowley, and you got your Cas guy. Enough said."

"Okay, okay", Dean said, conciliatory, heart beating fast. "But—I don't have Cas. Just to make that clear. We're friends. Or were friends. And—"

"Yeah, and I'm a skinny, French runway model", Bobby interrupted. "Come on, I've heard you talk about him at least a million times, Dean. Cas here, Cas there. Bo-hoo, Cas and I aren't friends anymore. Now Cas has grown a beard and I kinda like it. Cas looked at me today, Bobby. Twice."

"Shut up, I don't sound like that", Dean snapped.

"Well, how would you know, I'm the one who's gotta listen to this pining crap every single day!"

"I'm not—"

"Please, Dean, I've been through the same procedure with Crowley, and it took us over a year until we finally—"

"La, la, la, I can't hear you", Dean yelled, quickly pressing his ears shut.

"Dammit, Dean!" Bobby called out, grabbing Dean's shoulders.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. Something in Bobby's look made Dean slowly lower his hands and listen to him, even though all Dean really wanted to do was run away. Far away from here.

"I'm not gonna say this twice", Bobby began, reluctantly. "So you better listen closely, boy. The past few weeks, I've watched you fall apart, Dean, and I ain't having none of that crap anymore. Something's eating away at you, and if it's got anything to do with your Cas guy, then I strongly suggest you to finally get your shit together and do something about it, whatever it is that you choose to do in the end. You can't go on being one leg in, one leg out. Take it or leave it, understand?"

Dean swallowed, heart racing. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I understand."

Satisfied, Bobby let go of Dean. There was an awkward moment of silence during which Bobby's little speech was really sinking in, and Dean noticed Bobby slightly blushing.

"I'm sorry, were we just talking feelings?" Dean asked.

"Yeah", Bobby coughed. "Looks like it."

"That was… weird."

"Agreed", Bobby muttered in his beard.

"Let's never do that again?" Dean suggested.

"Good idea."

On the 6th of January a paper-thin, sparkling blanket of snow was covering all of St. Tipper—the town of the living dead—and as with everything else around there nobody really gave a damn about it. Snow in winter? Oh my, what a surprise. Who'd have seen that coming?

Of course said nobody was mostly Dean. But c'mon, who'd think any differently. It was just another natural given, simply taken for granted, annoyingly blinding until one day it just melted down, like every year, leaving drenched, muddy streets and nothing good. Great show. Thank you and good night.

So, in short, Dean wasn't too stoked about snow crystals, or the beginning of a new year as well. Just another year, another month, another day, right?

Wrong.

Because today was departure day, and it was all just really messy behind the unimposing, wooden façade of that small cottage up the hill, where the brothers were currently busy discussing whether or not it was cool with Sam for Dean to actually leave for a few days. According to Dean, it was further away from being cool than Sahara Desert.

"Dean, for the billionth time."

Sam closed his eyes, taking a frustrated breath.

"I'm not twelve anymore. I'll seriously survive two days without you. No, actually, let me put it differently, I will rejoice two days without you."

Sam tried an annoyed look, but Dean's boundless fuss was kind of funny, so he just ended up smiling with puckered brows.

"Just chill out", Sam entrusted him, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders. "It's all going to be okay. It's no big deal. Now, you take your things and go. You're running late."

"You want me to blow it off? 'Cause I still can", Dean simply skipped over Sammy's seemingly careless attitude. Bitch had to be stifling the truth. "You tell me to stay and I will. Just say so. I really wouldn't mind. No need for you to play tough guy here, Sammy."

"Dean", Sam laughed, cheerfully, and slightly shook Dean's shoulders. "Relax. I'll be alright. You're totally freaking out." He paused, and when he thought Dean listened, he went on extra-slowly, the way you'd talk to an over-anxious child. "I'm fine. Now go… and have fun."

Fun? Was he serious? Well, he looked like he was. Contented, Sam watched his brother calm down a little. Dean nodded, hesitatingly, while still searching Sam's look for any signs of withdrawal or lying.

"You sure?" Dean finally asked, raising his brows.

"Sure as hell. Now stop blowing it up already, take your few things and go. You don't wanna miss the plane, right?"

Breathing in deeply, Dean nodded again. "Right."

And Sam let him go, knowing that he'd won this time.

Of course Dean wasn't entirely convinced, but then again, Dean figured he'd never be, so he might as well try and pretend to believe in Sammy's words, if only to make himself feel less like a piece of irresponsible shit. He would just make the best of it for Sammy. Yeah. That sounded like a plan. Emphasizing, he readily flicked his back pack over his shoulder, now realizing how actually late as hell he was, when someone knocked on their door, quietly.

About friggin' time, Dean thought, putting on his most parentally overawing don't-fuck-with-me-face, and opened the door for Walt Jr. "Flynn" White.

"H—hey, Dean."

Flynn stood in the snow, leaning on his crutch, wearing a puffy, red ski jacket and a crooked, sort of trustworthy smile. "I'm coming to p—pick up your brother."

"Yeah, hi", Dean replied, shortly. „You better take care of my brother while I'm gone, man. Make sure he eats somethin' once in a while."

"I'm not a pet, Dean", Sam said, tying up his organic hemp jacket. "Let's go, Flynn."

"B—bye, Dean", Flynn said, hobbling down the hill. "H—have an A1 day. Sam will be fine. Mum already m—made b—breakfast."

„Awesome. Thanks, man."

Dean quickly tapped Sammy's shoulder while zipping up his brown leather jacket. Walking, Sam smiled and waved at Dean, kind of mockingly, Dean noticed with fret.

"So long, bitch", Dean bid good-bye to Sam, and easily outpaced Flynn. Behind his back, he could hear Sammy quietly answer his catch-phrase, and couldn't help but grin.

His grin widened even more when he spotted Cas, waiting for him in the cold, leaning onto his brown Chevy, and looking like he'd just fallen right out of a trash can. Well, except that behind the ugly sweatpants, the oversized dark blue wool jumper and the (oh my God, were those his) garden shoes, was still annoyingly gorgeous Cas, who was driving Dean completely nuts, as lastly vividly demonstrated about one month ago, when they'd… kissed. Kind of. Friggin' soberly, at that.

But—unsurprisingly—Dean never thought about that. It was just another thing that had happened between them. Well, technically, Dean had just pushed the memory to the far back of his mind, which meant it was still always there, wasn't erased. But he never really, never purposely… never mind. He couldn't believe he'd friggin' kissed Cas. But at least, after what had happened on the day of John's last goodbye, they were on speaking terms again, and plus, they'd somehow made Cas' silent back-stroking thingy part of their daily routine.

"Heya, Cas." Dean grinned at him, checking out the hideous wool monster he was wrapped in. "Look, we all know life on the street's pretty hard these days and all, but you could've at least dug out a pair of clean jeans or somethin'. You know, you're gonna get us all a great deal of extra time at the security check."

"I, uh", Cas replied, giving his grey, saggy pants an insecure tug. "I thought I had to dress comfortable for the flight. You told me this was socially acceptable, Dean." Then, realizing the meaning of Dean's words with a pained expression: "Oh. Oh. That one took me a moment. You mean that I'm looking like an unsafe suspect."

"Yeah, but a teacher suspect," Dean said, casually, while getting in the car. "That's your alibi, bad guy. Now stop freezing your ass off and hit the road already, we're late." Dean gestured, vaguely. "Thanks to me."

Wearing a frown, Cas opened the driver's door, bringing in the biting cold, and clumsily sat down behind the wheel. Dean watched Cas fiddle with the car keys, when all of a sudden he remembered his ultimate, last minute heart-to-heart-avoidance strategy.

"Oh, uh, look." Dean rummaged around every single one of his pockets. There we go, he thought, grasping the square-shaped form of the tape he'd pursed earlier. "Check this out. You like 'em, right? The Beatles. Don't know which album, but…"

Cas immediately stopped what he was doing, his fingers joining Dean's, brushing his fingertips. With an awkward smile, Dean quickly stuffed his own hand back in his jean's pocket, and Cas intently studied the dusty tape, slowly turning it before his eyes, devoutly. For a critical moment, Dean wasn't so sure about the atmosphere he'd created, until, luckily—according to plan—Cas began his time travel with a nostalgic gleam in his eyes.

„Thank you, Dean", Cas said, sort of touched. "You remembered."

"Yeah", Dean grumbled, embarrassed. "Sure I did."

"Do you remember how we listened to them, Dean", Cas went on, dreamily. "On that one day back in September, sitting on your bed. Do you remember that, Dean?"

Dean blushed, not knowing where to look. "Yeah. That was—kinda nice, wasn't it."

"Yes", Cas agreed, quietly, smiling to himself. "Yes, it was. I remember everything."

"Okay", Dean said, coughing slightly. "Me too. But we better get going now, 'cause—"

"It's funny, how it is possible to connect one's entire life periods, or just very… special evenings, to a group of four people that you've never met. And most of them are even long dead. Remarkable, isn't it? You know, Dean, I've listened to them back in college, all of the time. Mostly, when I was alone in my room. That happened—"

"—quite a lot, yeah, I know", Dean awkwardly finished, scratching his cheek. This wasn't really the reaction he'd been aiming for. "Let's get going now, 'kay? You can listen to them for the whole ride. Go back in time and stuff." Dean forced a yawn. "I wanna sleep anyway."

"Oh, oh, yes", Cas agreed, as if woken up from a dream. "The class trip. I almost forgot."

Dean blushed even harder. "Yeah, well, we're not going on some skiing vacation together."

Cas glanced at Dean, shyly, while inserting the tape. "No. No, of course not."

Dean crossed his arms. "Damn straight."

A second later, the car's inside was filled with soft, harmonic guitar chords, peaceful choirs, and soon enough the steady hum of the Chevy's ageing motor. Dean's mind, however, was all but peaceful for the first ten minutes of their road trip, because he was violently struggling to fight off the images of Cas and him sharing a cramped ski hut, basking each other, and the arising memories of their night in Dean's cottage, cuddling, snuggling like lovers.

Eventually, Dean's head got heavier and heavier as the dull, snow-covered landscape rushed past his more and more sleepy gaze, eyelids slowly developing a life on their own, impossible to keep open for more than two seconds. At every turn he startled, half-blind, dizzily blinking into the glistening brightness in and outside Cas' car, numbly realizing that Lennon and McCartney were now already halfway through their cheesy song about crap they could work out or something.

As soon as they hit the highway, and Cas picked up pace, Dean managed to actually fall asleep in the end, within the first beats of what he'd wearily identified as that one song where they went all crazy about holding some chick's hand the whole time. No great loss there.

The past few days Dean had set up an all-time record in sleeplessness. He wasn't even sure if he'd slept at all. Every time, as soon as he'd closed his eyes, Cas' stupid face had appeared in the dark, with those goddamn laughter lines, and those annoyingly tender lips, fucking forbidden, and as Dean had tossed and turned in bed, his mind had simply decided to torture him a little more by turning the upcoming class trip over and over like a friggin' vortex.

By the end of the nights, the trip had usually blown up into an enormous monster of an issue. Mostly, because Dean had had no idea how to deal with the Cas situation the whole two days, still hadn't. Precisely, with their unspoken, nondescript thing. Also, Lisa. Both of them united. It'd been pure horror. No wonder he was a chronic insomniac with eye circles darker than his blood-curdling nightmares.

Still, now being all alone on the road with Cas, locked in a rusty sheet metal cover, Dean felt weirdly sheltered rather than terrorized. So much so that he'd reached friggin' deep sleep.

Irony was a real bitch sometimes.

Hours later, only at the airport's spacious parking area, an ear-deafening roar of a landing machine managed to break through to Dean's knocked-out mind. The Beatles, however, had completely failed at that part throughout the whole drive, though Dean was definitely feeling some kind of dizzy peace-and-love-hangover now that he was waking up.

Jerky, Dean raised his head, staring at the surreal giant sweeping across the clear sky.

"Wait a minute", he murmured, sleepily, when the noise declined. "We've only just left."

On the driver's seat, Cas tilted his head in confusion. His hands were resting on his thighs, eyes focused on a group of young people passing the front window.

"I've been driving for nearly three hours, Dean. I'd say that's quite some time. " He paused, turning to eye Dean up. "You look well rested. Did you have a good sleep?"

What the… what?

Dean couldn't believe it.

Next thing Dean knew, Cas was hectically dragging him all across the huge, crowded entrance hall of the airport, going round and round with his infamous I-don't-understand-face, until Dean's tired head started spinning. Obviously, Cas was running in circles, but Dean was of no use, because he'd never been to an airport before. He had no clue what was supposed to happen next.

Anyhow, in the middle of the felt tenth round through the jam-packed, stressful hall, along hordes of travelers, people waiting, and air filled with the sound of laughter, a thousand gabbling voices, re-echoing footsteps and rolling suitcases, Dean finally decided to put in his two cents.

"Cas, uh", Dean began, grabbing Cas' arm, that was clutching a tail of his leather-jacket. "Aren't we supposed to, you know… be somewhere? A certain flight or something?"

"No… I mean, yes", Cas replied, distracted. "We agreed on meeting up here beforehand, though. Can you spot them, Dean?"

„Uh, Cas, you know, if they aren't here then there's a pretty high chance we totally missed the—"

As if on cue, a mechanical voice droned out of the speakers, shutting Dean up. "Last call for flight 267 air terminal 2b eastbound. Two more passengers are being awaited. Repeat, last call for—"

Cas and Dean faced each other, perplexedly.

"That's… our flight. They didn't wait, did they."

Dean just stared back at him, fairly surprised, too, although he couldn't suppress a tiny bit of relieve. So, they weren't gonna make it. That meant that Dean's strategy had worked after all—

—Oh, dammit.

Apparently, Cas wasn't one to give up that easily. Because with a forceful start, he suddenly went on with dragging Dean to some unknown destination, rushing through glassy corridors, the security check—surprisingly, he got off rather cheaply—and finally to the huge landing field, where an enormous, frightening plane was planting itself in front of them, kind of threateningly. Before Dean even had a chance to think better of it, a stressed-looking stewardess called them by name and quickly shooed them up the stairs.

Inside, Dean noticed with relieve, it looked like a simple train coach. Possibly he'd be able to talk himself into actually believing he was on a train. A train that would lift off the ground in a few minutes. A train that would be riding above the clouds. No big deal, right? Yeah, right. He was scared as hell.

"All right, students, looks like we're finally complete."

Mr. White—Flynn's Dad, who was also their chemistry teach—stood in the aisle, listlessly, talking to the taken seats at the far back of the plain. Out of breath, Dean and Cas stopped next to him. Dean looked around.

Where the hell was… Oh, that sonofabitch. Sitting next to their classmate Kevin, Gabe shot Dean an apologetic look, making a helpless gesture with his hands. Yeah, thanks a ton, man, Dean notified him, telepathically. Lisa, Dean observed, resignedly, was sitting next to Meg, flashing him an annoyingly sympathetic smile. Dean really should've just stayed at home.

"Now that we're all here, please return to your seats. And Mr. Novak and Dean", Mr. White turned to them, sighing. "I've saved this double seat here for you." He flourished his hand right next to Cas. "Front row."

That figures, Dean thought, grumpily, watching Cas store away their few carry-on baggage. Another two hours next to Cas. Terrific.

Sighing, Dean collapsed into his seat. Cas was now staring out of the small window, looking extraordinarily pensive. With his ever-growing, voluminous beard he actually could be some kind of would-be philosopher, Dean thought, randomly. And that was when it hit in again. The irrational feel that he was going on a trip with Cas rather than together with his classmates. Now, being isolated, it didn't even feel that irrational anymore.

And as if that thought wasn't scary enough already, the machine now started rolling, slow-paced, like a roller coaster getting off the starting blocks. Dean pressed his eyes shut, trying hard to control his breathing.

Friggin' planes, man.

All hysteria aside, it had turned out that flying actually wasn't much different from train riding. Well, apart from the clouds-under-your-feet thing, of course. Other than that, it really was no biggie, and Cas was busy reading some dog-eared book the whole time, anyway. So, sooner or later Dean's heart had calmed down a few beats, and again, he'd fallen asleep faster than a bashing of one's eyelids. Almost as if Cas was his personal sleeping pill or something.

The flight was just drawing to an end, when a sudden vibrant rumbling nudged Dean against something soft, something woolly.

He grumbled, sleepily.

Shortly after, another turbulence caused his forehead to heavily punch against a… a dark blue jumper. Of course, Dean had to be sleeping on Cas' shoulder like a pathetic baby. He lifted his tired head, blinking. Cas was just gazing into the distance, wide-awake, his body alarmingly rigid.

"Dammit", Dean cursed, when the airplane abruptly jumped up again, causing a nervous whisper to spread like wildfire between the passengers.

The world beyond the plane was jet-black, Dean noticed with horror. A girl behind his back squeaked, and someone in the front yelled "What's going on?!", full-throated. The sudden turmoil scared Dean mortally. Were they caught in a thunderstorm? Were they crashing?

Dean turned about, wildly, only to find everyone else looking even more horrified than he felt.

So that was it. He was going to die on his first flight.

"Dean."

Cas' voice made him swirl around, and nearly break his own neck.

The hell's going on, Dean wanted to scream at him, are we going to die?

"Dean… it hurts."

Vaguely, Dean saw his own hand clinging onto Cas' outer arm, realizing that he'd probably slept like this the whole time, huddled up against Cas, but that notion didn't touch him the slightest right now, because the goddamn lights began to flicker.

Dean backed off, pressing himself into his seat with full force, hanging on his armrests for dear life. Another forceful gust caused the plane to trouble so hard that a few pieces of baggage hit the opposite passengers like a storm of deadly missiles. The stewardess was thrown to the floor like a puppet. She cried out in pain.

Dean's thumping heart leaped into his throat, when a hand—warm, heavy and urgent—suddenly covered his own.

Knowing it was Cas', Dean just went ahead and grabbed it, tightly, as firmly as he could. So what if he broke it this time. They were going to die in a friggin' plane crash. Soon they'd be floating across the Atlantic in bloody piece parts. They were going down. Wasn't that what the pilot had just said? Dean couldn't make out his shredded words. The machine shook and spun like a buckling pony, back and forth, just like Dean's stomach. He turned white as snow, drenched with cold sweat. They were so dying.

Dean yanked his watery eyes open to cast one final look at Cas.

He was sitting as straight as a board.

From the corner of his eyes, Cas was returning Dean's look. Terrified, Dean watched his stony face light up, then shade, light and dark, bottling Dean up with its pervasive stare.

In spite of the terror all around them, Dean held fast onto Cas, who was pressing his hand just as tight, and God, Dean had never been so thankful for anyone's existence. The plane sank into total chaos, underlain by the shredded voice of the pilot, but Dean didn't even perceive any of it anymore, for his racing heartbeat was drowning out the noise, completely.

Hell, Dean could even kiss Cas again—only properly this time—and it wouldn't matter at all.

The urge rose synchronous to the storm.

The way Cas' eyes were staring at him, anxious but trustful—Dean couldn't just lose him when he was looking at him like that. Cas was his friggin' lifebelt, and it felt like Dean didn't really have a choice when his outer hand reached out for Cas' face, fingers soon running through scratchy whisker.

Surprisingly, Cas immediately embarked on it. His look wandered down to Dean's unclosed lips before Dean himself even knew he was actually proposing doing it, but apparently, he was, and Cas didn't seem to differ. In fact, Cas was now cupping Dean's neck, firmly, pulling him even closer. Dean couldn't breathe.

"Dean", Cas whispered in his ear, urgently. "Can we make an exception right now, because I am full of fear, and I cannot possibly tell acceptable from unacceptable anymore—"

The plane jumped up again. The lights went black, enclosing them in horrifying darkness. Dean felt Cas' lips barely touch his own, his breath brushing his opened mouth, the strong hand on his neck.

"Yeah, yeah, okay", Dean breathed.

Cas' forehead was pressing against Dean's.

"I'm going to kiss you now, Dean."

"Okay", Dean whispered.

Cas kissed Dean—really kissed him—and Dean was almost passing out, though he tried not to, because holy shit, Cas, and his lips, Cas kissing him, kissing him, kissing him, messily, sort of clumsily, because in all of this chaos it took them forever to match their movements, and the jounce of the plain made it hard to press their lips together, but then, then—

—the lights went on, and the plane suddenly balanced itself.

"AND THE WORST PART'S OVER NOW, WE NOW HAVE PASSED THE EYE OF CYNCLONE. PLEASE TRY AND STAY CALM EVERYBODY. I REPEAT, THE WORST PART IS OVER NOW", the voice of the pilot blasted out of the speakers.

With an electric thrum, even the built-in radio above their heads jumped off.

Dean shrank back, escaping to his own seat. Clutching his hammering chest, he was breathing like a friggin' asthmatic.

Son… of… abitch.

All around him, people began talking. A few were even laughing, hysterically.

Gasping, Dean turned to Cas.

Cas' eyes were closed, brows furrowed, and his skin blushed, raggedly. Dean had no idea what had just happened. Weren't they supposed to be… dead? Had they seriously just …? On a plane?

Unbelievingly, Dean's wide eyes couldn't part from Cas, and those dark curls, sticking out in every direction, and that gasping mouth. Cas' chest was lifting and lowering ever so fast. He was a complete mess, just like Dean. The hell had they just done?

Frightened, Dean's look shot down to his feet.

From the corner of his eye he could see Cas watching him.

Also, Cas was still clutching his hand.

"Cas", Dean croaked, not daring to look at him. "You can—let go now."

"Oh", Cas said between two breaths, releasing it. "Right."

Dean's hand hurt like a bitch, but he was too damn embarrassed to take care of that right now. Well, embarrassed didn't even cut it the slightest. Jesus Christ, they were supposed to be dead, not awkwardly sitting next to each other, pretending they hadn't just… and that it hadn't been…

Friggin' planes, man.

"Now, that's what I call a vacation!" Gabe exclaimed, happily.

Dean and Gabe were just entering their shared room for the first time. Their two-days-home was a back-alley, no-name hostel located in a side street of the coastal town St. Tripper.

"Just look at it, Dean-o, it's so awesome! The friggin' balcony, man!"

There was no stopping him as Gabe threw his suitcase on one of the beds—interesting way to own a bed—and pushed the glassy balcony door open.

"It's pretty cool", Dean commented, unemotionally, but it really was.

By all means, they couldn't complain. The square-shaped, well-lit room was clean, there were two separate beds, and they had their own tiny bathroom. Compared to the shabby, verminous store room that Dean had been expecting, it was actually a little piece of heaven.

Quickly done with his first look-over, Dean too stepped on the walled-in balcony where Gabe was all busy taking a thousand pictures of the sunny outlook. Dean huffed at the sight of him, because, basically, he was being the cliché tourist.

"Guess what, dude, we can walk to the beach." Gabe pulled an overly-excited face and moved his cell phone to take a picture of his hand lying on the stone wall. "Like, just how cool is that?"

Dean lit up a cigarette and joint Gabe at the heated stone wall, pausing to soak in the view with its long coastline. All of the small, colorfully painted houses, the narrow streets, and the bright sky. St. Tripper definitely deserved the "R" in its name, because it couldn't at all be compared to their boring home town. Only wearing a black, light top and jeans himself, Dean could already feel himself getting sweaty.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool", Dean repeated, smiling at Gabe. "Like I just said."

"Duh, smartass."

Gabe put on his huge sunglasses and grinned at Dean proudly, looking like a giant human fly.

"Yeah, I know you're jealous, Dean-o. Don't hide it", Gabe scoffed, throwing back his non-existent mane of hair. "James Bond got nothing on me."

„Well, don't wanna ruin your illusion, but I actually just thought you're looking like a giant human—"

"Hey guys!" Lisa fluted.

She put her arms around Dean's back from behind, squeezing him, tightly. His cig nearly dropped out of his hand.

"Hey, Lis."

She placed her chin on his shoulder. "Your door stood open. Thought I'd pop in for a moment. Your room's just as nice as ours!"

"Y—yeah, it's pretty co—"

"Hey, I'm here too, you know", Gabe chimed in, fake-sadly. "But go on and hug your precious boyfriend, I'll just stand here and watch you then."

"Oh, you crybaby", she laughed, letting go of Dean.

Dean watched her punch Gabe's arm.

"Your sunglasses are pretty cool, though. Where'd you get them?"

"Oh, well, these", Gabe said, giving Dean the I-told-you-so look. "I've bought them from some Indian guy at the airport. We totally negotiated and stuff, it was a real cultural experience for me. Nice preparation for the Tolerance Day. Dean-o, however, has been busy holding up the whole flight. Well performed, too, I'd say."

With a curious expression, Lisa turned to Dean. It was only noon and already Dean was hating Gabe's guts.

"Yeah, I know. What took you two so long, Dean? Traffic jam?"

"Uh, no", Dean made, clearing his throat. "It was nothing, really. I mean, uh, of course we… did kind of get stuck. Otherwise it'd be kinda weird, right? Just being late for no reason. Uh—yeah. I was late."

"Huh", Lisa made. Jokingly, she nudged Dean's shoulder. "So… does that mean you're back together?"

And there went Dean's cigarette. "Funny, Lis. Really."

"Oh, Dean", she giggled. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to make you feel awkward. Are you friends again, though?"

"Yeah, well, we're talking", Dean quickly replied, scoffing. "And stuff. Hell, you make it sound like we almost made out on the plane, or something."

Lisa laughed, light-hearted. "That was scary, wasn't it? I can't say I haven't been close to kissing Meg good-bye for a moment."

"Okay", Dean coughed, blushing. "But I haven't."

"Are you sure, Dean-o?" Gabe chimed in. "Because you look like—"

"Shut your face!"

"I know, Dean, jeez", Lisa giggled, patting Dean's shoulder, sympathetically. "I'm just happy that you're friends again. It was kind of weird when you weren't, to be honest. You're cute together."

Dean froze. Again, Lisa laughed.

"As friends! You're cute as friends, Dean."

"Yeah", Dean scoffed, looking away. "I know. Obviously."

"Obviously", Gabe repeated, annoyingly, receiving a deadly scowl from Dean.

"Anyway", Lisa suddenly said, smiling, as if remembering a good joke. Winking at Dean, she opened a few buttons of her floral blouse. "I wanted to show you something, Dean. Look, my new bikini! Isn't it pretty?"

She showed off her silver, skimpy bathing-dress to Dean, her ample breasts nearly touching her collar bones. Even though Gabe couldn't see any of it, her bikini action was actually kind of embarrassing.

"Yeah, it's really… it fits you", Dean commented, awkwardly. "Nice."

"Nice?" Gabe repeated, brows shooting up. "I bet it looks pretty damn hot. Let me take a look and I'll give you my professional opinion, Lisa."

"Shut up, Gabe", Dean grunted.

"Stop it, you guys", Lisa just giggled, enjoying the male attention, buttoning up her blouse. "I just wanted to pick you up for the bus ride, not egg you up on fighting over me. The event starts at 3 p.m., remember?"

Ugh, right.

Dean rolled his eyes skywards.

The stupid stage play.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, guys 3