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itwasnightwhenyoudied · 1 year

Text

All You Had To Say

dean/cas, 2354 words, rating: T, s5 era, first kiss.

Dean pulled his Baby over—onto what was one of those areas where the roadside had simply worn down from drivers deciding to pull in there, just as he had, rather than it being a true, intended rest stop—and cut the engine on a deep breath's noisy exhale.

It was the delicious ember smell of late September streaming in through the Impala's open windows, then spotting that big ol'tree, which had decided for him that it had to be this spot.

Baby, she now sighed and made her sexy little arhythmic noises as she cooled and wound down, click-clacking away almost as if she were trying to match the nearly dusk's ever-present cricket chorus. Dean found himself rubbing both hands up and down denim thighs and felt like one of the noisy critters himself. His stupid thoughts were just so loud this evening.

He barked out a laugh into the quiet of his parked car at the workings of his weird-ass brain, then brutally chewed some more on his already reddened bottom lip.

Get a fuckin' grip, man.

He let a few moments pass, then a slight dizziness reminded Dean that he was a dumbass and that humans were supposed to breathe, actually.

After yanking the keys from the ignition, Baby's driver door creaked that homely creak when Dean hauled ass out of his car then squared his shoulders and set his jaw.

He began to walk.

You couldn't even really call the twigs and chicken wire that separated the road from the field a fence, it barely came up to Dean's knees. He stepped over it with ease and now trod his size eleven Loggers through the dust-dirt and crepe grasses, setting a leisurely pace.

That familiar smouldering smell on the still fairly balmy breeze was much stronger now and Dean pulled long satisfying drags of it through flared nostrils, wishing he could keep it prisoner in his lungs. Wishing he could bottle it, shit. He couldn't get enough of that burning ember scent, truth be told.

That's part of the damn problem right there.

Mumbling, "Shut up, man," outloud to his stupid inner monologue, Dean now picked up the pace a little and tramped towards the impressively big Oak he'd spotted from the road. It reminded him of the one in The Shawshank Redemption and, well. Dean was never one to shy away from a good movie reference, so.

When he reached it, he leaned into its body and let his feet give way, backside sliding down the huge gnarly trunk until he was sat, slumped, beneath the tree's sparse autumnal canopy.

He was facing west.

Dean knew that because of what was left of the fall's evening sun and how it shone bright in his eyes, painting the arms of his jacket in pinks and lilacs and oranges. He brought tired knees to his chest and draped his colourful arms over them, hooking hand around wrist. He looked up at the sky through slightly hooded eyes and more specifically at the wondrous mix of big, fat clouds and the more slender ones that curled around the horizon's edges.

The scene was like... like some enormous portion of pudding. Yeah, that pudding Missouri had made for him and Sammy that one time; it'd had some weird fruit in it with black seeds, yet Dean hadn't even minded because it'd tasted so frickin divine.

Passion fruit Ambrosia.

Yeah, this was an Ambrosia sky, if Dean had ever seen one. The tiny little birds flapping away in the distance were those little black seeds and the giant fluffy clouds were the whipped white creamy goodness.

Dean chuckled at himself, knowing he was procrastinating. Took a breath.

More thoughtfully, he now carefully fingered the hilt of the blade in his jacket's right pocket.

Dad's jacket.

Funny thing, but Dean vowed to himself there and then that he'd take off the leather when he got back to the motel, and he'd hang it on the hook on the back of the door—and he'd leave it on the hook on the back of the door in that shabby motel room near Glenvil, Nebraska, when they left. And he'd never, ever go back there again.

Dean didn't need nothin' from John no more.

Resigned to that now-fact, he cleared his throat, took in more lungfuls of awesome autumn woodsmoke-air, and told himself to just. Get the hell on with this.

Standing again, he unecessarily cleared his throat some more, just for good measure, and rubbed an unconcious hand along the back of his neck. He then said, "Hey, Cas? You around, buddy? Kinda need you to lend me your ears, if you're free…"

Nothing became angel in a heartbeat, in a rush of unseeable feathers and lightning-charged ozone—that same charred smell that already lingered in the air, only much, much stronger.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Hey, man. Uh, thanks for the flyby," he smirked on autopilot, fingers trembling traitorously in their betrayal.

(continue below the cut or READ THE REST ON AO3)

"I've told you a number of times, Dean, I'll always come when you call." Such a fucking Holy Tax Accountant. "Although, I am somewhat confused by your request; I'm honestly quite unsure of how I would go about lending you this vessel's body parts."

Cas was. Outrageously fucking earnest as ever.

"Whaddya—oh, right, the ear thing, yeah. Uh, nah, man, that's just a turn of phrase." Dean cleared his throat again, even though there was nothing left to clear. "Listen, Cas. I, uh. I got somethin' to say."

"Well, I'd be a little put out if you didn't."

Snarky bastard.

"Yeah, well, you might be a little put out regardless," Dean muttered it under his breath, momentarily forgetting Cas could still hear him with his magic angel-ears.

"How so, Dean?" Cas was now doing the head tilt thing and it was just. That was too fucking much. Dean felt like his melon was going pop and his chest was going to burst open like that scene from Alien if he didn't get this out.

"Thing is, Cas…" Dean now took the switchblade out from his pocket and when Cas' expression changed to that of his signature adorable-and-confused look, it was the last straw for Dean.

"Yep, okay, so there is obviously absolutely no frickin' way I can do this while looking at you, dude. Don't know why I ever thought I could. So, I'm uh, I'm just gonna. I'm gonna close my eyes, and pretend I'm on the phone to you. Okay, buddy?" and Dean screwed his eyes shut and brought his left hand, now curved into the shape of an old-school telephone receiver, up to his left ear. He felt like a first class schmuck but what else was he gonna do?

The actual ever-loving fuck are you doing?

Dean ignored his idiot brain. He cracked one eye open only to see Cas had done the same as him, with the hand-phone thing. The angel's more-than-perplexed eyes were both open though, wide as monster truck wheel trims.

Dean scrunched his peeping eye shut again. He now absently spun the switchblade in his right hand, antsy, but luckily he remembered to breathe. He took a few big ones and tried again.

"So, it's just. Thing is, I—okay, here it is: I can't fuckin' concentrate for shit with you around no more, man." It came out much harsher than he'd meant it to. “You're just. Too distracting." Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He opened his eyes to barely slits.

Cas blinked. "And does Sam also feel this way?" he asked.

Dean cursed the fact he hadn't yet mastered the art of telepathy and shut his eyes again.

"No, man. It's just—that's just me. It's like. You're just so there when you're around, you know? And it's too much. For me. You understand?"

"I... do not," Cas said.

Dean took another breath—then it all came tumbling out like Jack and fucking Jill.

"Shit, man, it's like. You with all your shoving me into walls crap and your sexy gravel on sandpaper voice and your blue, blue eyes, you know? And hell, your gooddamn addictive thunder and lightening strike woodsmokey angel cologne which, fuck, I can't get enough of that shit?! And, you know, it's almost October so, like, everywhere smells like you! And it just. It just makes me crazy, okay? Like, I want... fuck. I-wanna-touch-you-and-for-you-to-touch-me-and-shit. But. But then, actually, it's kinda more than that, Cas, like. I like you. Like, like you like you. And I don't normally do that kinda thing. Did it once; not anymore. And... and... all of this is just really fucked up because you don't shit where you eat, know what I'm sayin'? And you and me we're, like, best friends, right? That's why I brought the blade, by the way, so you can carve your initials next to mine and Sam's on the inside of Baby, if you wanna. So you an'me, we can be brothers, too. Because. Because it'll be easier then. Because I know you don't feel the same. But, yeah. So. I just had to get this all out in the open, you feel me? So I could—so I can stop feeling all awkward and shit around you and just. Move the fuck on. And before you say anything, I know, alright? I totally get it and you don't have to explain. You're an angel of the Lord and you don't even know how to feel these things, and even if you did, you, like, obviously wouldn't feel 'em for a grunt like me and—"

The ozone smell surrounded Dean and the burning breeze whipped at his cheeks as chapped lips pressed, hard, onto his. Dean's eyes flew open to see Cas' face—all close up and out of focus—and his head felt at once like he'd been holding his breath for seven hundred thousand years.

Cas was kissing him.

Kissing. Kissing Cas.

The angel had Dean by the scruff of the neck, fists balled up and white-knuckled with handfuls of Dean's Henley and army surplus shirt and Cas, he was now opening his mouth, opening Dean's mouth with those chapped lips of his and fuck, his tongue, that was there, warm and wet and licking into Dean, licking Dean's own tongue and teeth and fuckfuckfuck.

Dean was being consumed by Cas.

Dean dropped the switchblade into the paper grasses and grabbed onto the meat of Cas's solid arms just as his own knees started to shake like the oak leaves above them in the breeze, shaking like they were going to give up on him.

Yeah, Cas was definitely kissing Dean alright. Kissing Dean like it was feeding him... So, Dean fed Cas. And it was all suddenly as easy as breathing and totally awesome and fucking sublime and the messiest yet best kiss in the history of kisses.

Dean was thinking of absolutely nothing at all and also of how he could happily do this for the rest of his days, when Cas pulled abruptly away from him. Dean, a damn near panting puppy dog, now had that fresh ozone smell—Castiel's scent—smeared all over him. He felt claimed. And he liked that.

A helluva fucking lot, turned out.

When he could focus his eyes back into reality again, Cas looked more than slightly irritated.

"Why did you not tell me sooner, Dean? We could have been doing this the whole time," was all he had to say.

Dean's brain shorted a circuit. Or all of them.

Cas... liked him back?

Dean threw his head backwards to scan the freshly twinkling stars in that divine Ambrosia sky and breathed in deep, gulping again and again for more of the vital oxygen his brain and body so badly needed to ground him in the here and now.

When he looked at Cas again and tried to speak, he only managed to gurgle out a his second strangled laugh of the day.

He wondered if he'd finally lost his damn mind.

And when Dean could finally think about forming a sentence, the words, "Cas, did God invent Ambrosia—or was that all mankind's good work?" were all he had to say.

After Cas informed Dean that he'd thought the reason he'd been summoned was because the hunter had wanted to stab him again like when they'd first met, the angel proudly carved his name into Baby's interior:

C A S

...the name Dean had christened him with.

Dean was very clear about how they were now something very other than brothers, though.

With a slight curve to those chapped pink lips, Cas climbed into the Impala, riding shotgun next to Dean, and Dean drove them back towards his and Sam's skeevy motel under that barely there fruit-whip sky that was now silently fading into a deep purply-black azure.

Dean turned on the radio and smiled when Cas smiled at Stevie Nicks's voice singing about thunder only happening when it's raining.

Heh.

(They both knew that wasn't strictly true).

Neither had too much to say to one another on the drive, neither—they both knew talking could come later. Dean had said so much before Cas had kissed him, and he was now far too busy experiencing Nirvana for such complicated things as words. And Cas? Cas was always happy with silence. And this one was so damn comfortable.

Dean tried his best to concentrate on the road but he couldn't stop looking across at Cas.

The Holy Tax Accountant looked happy, Dean thought, properly happy—for the very first time since they'd met in that warded old barn a couple years back.

It felt really, really good.

Dean realised: everything was actually exactly the same as it was before, it was just. More.

Better.

Yeah, better because he too now smelled just like Cas—like woodsmoke and Mother Nature and Handsome Rebel Angel—and better because of the way Cas's gorgeously long fingers seemed to fit so perfectly between his own.

Dean nodded his head and smiled some more.

"This," was all he had to say.

#never posted this here in full #have some early deancas first kiss shenanigans #angel castiel #POV dean #destiel ficlet #destiel fic #all you had to say #dean winchester #castiel #deancas #spn fic #iwnwyd writes #itwasnightwhenyoudied

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