heavenonearth | (no subject)

[ getting to know sam winchester has been a pleasure.

he's young, but he's smart, and more than that he is engaging, and that is something that too many full-time, serious students sorely lack. castiel doesn't consider himself particularly entertaining, blames his lack of friends on it rather than his own introverted tendencies, but the point remains that his peers can be so terribly boring that it's all but mind numbing to spend time around them. research labs are enough to make him want to suck his own brains out with a straw, sometimes, and that's saying something, considering his threshold for entertainment is really rather low. and there are some of them who aren't so bad, really, but it isn't like the movies make it seem, that's for sure.

still, castiel is a graduate student. he's quiet and serious, so climbing the social ladder isn't terribly important to him, but even still, sam winchester is a breath of fresh air, smart and clever and funny, with a winning smile and an incredibly active mind. interacting with him is a privilege.

it had started as a tutoring job. sam had asked for a little help understanding his physics course, and someone had directed him to castiel, who had graciously, if uncertainly, agreed to do it. he doesn't fancy himself a teacher, and he certainly didn't think he'd be very good at it, though after a stiff and uncomfortable start, sam had begun to warm to him, and castiel found that he was glad of it. he'd worried that the gap in age might have been a deterrent, but sam is friendly and more mature than any undergrad he's ever known, and they get along well, swimmingly even now that castiel has begun to open to him more, unfolding himself bit by bit as their friendship develops into something more comfortable, something less about classes and more about simply spending time with one another.

they study together twice a week, on fridays and tuesdays. sam doesn't need much help with physics anymore, so castiel brings his own books and notes, works on whatever it is that he's writing or researching while sam buries himself in biology or organic chemistry. it's nice.

it's friday today, when castiel arrives at the little house sam rents off campus, and he tightens his overcoat against the brisk spring breeze as he moves quickly down the block; it's not far from the campus, so castiel always walks. he's rounding the corner when he feels his ~~shitty ancient~~ phone buzz in his pocket, and finds on it a quick message from sam: Picking up pizza, hope you like extra cheese. The garage door is unlocked, go ahead in, I'll be back soon. once castiel arrives, he finds the tiny one-car garage not only unlocked, but flung open wide, filled up by a broad but sleek black classic car that castiel doesn't recognize, loud music blaring from an old, dented radio resting on the workbench. the hood is up, but castiel can't see anything past it, can't see anyone until he's stepping inside the garage itself, dark brows drawn tight, his mouth a moue of disapproval. someone is bent over the engine, obscured by the raised hood of the car, and castiel is bewildered, confused - sam hadn't mentioned company. he certainly hadn't mentioned noisy company. he clears his throat. ]

Excuse me.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ perfect is, more or less, quite on the mark.

being with dean, being near to him like this, touching him, tasting him - it feels like coming alive again, like breathing fresh air after spending too long underground, feeling the sunshine on your face, hearing the breeze whisper through the trees. the world feels in color again, and castiel remembers just how sweet real intimacy can be. sex is all well and good, the physicality of pleasure with another human being is something that even he can always enjoy, but there's far more to it than that, with dean. this thing between them runs deep, they reach out to one another in every way, a deep yearning in the very marrow of his bones cries out for him, draws him near to dean and nothing will scratch that terrible itch besides this closeness. the feel of dean's kiss and the touch of his hands are all that can quiet the incessant, consuming need, all that can soothe the ache of longing that has gnawed his flesh and bones and spirit since the moment they first met.

and feeling that again, after so many long years, after the complete certainty that he would never experience such a thing again.. it is dazzling. captivating. he feels whole.

at least, of course, until the very moment that dean is stopping it. ]

But..

[ the words seem kind, in their own way, and castiel knows from experience that dean is a kind individual, that beneath all the bluster and charm and leather a warm, soft heart beats. it's what drew him to dean to begin with, it's the light that he saw buried so deep, a great capacity for love and loyalty and sentiment.

but dean winchester does not simply say no to sex. dean winchester does not turn down someone beneath him, hard and wanting, so very eager and entirely willing and castiel gives both of those in spades, would pour it all out for dean, strip himself bare and offer all of himself up on a silver plate for his consumption. never has he seen dean turn down the chance to score, to chase tail, and castiel cannot help but think that it is dean's kindness that is.. sparing his feelings.

because, truly, what could someone like dean really see in someone like castiel? he does't have the curves, the charm, the confidence. he's not beautiful or sleek or indulgent. he's.. quiet, and rumpled, awkward and stubborn and foolish, nose buried in a book and head in the clouds. he's so far and away from dean's type that it's laughable to think that he could have ever thought there was a chance. they had shared a brief moment, dean had been drinking, and now, well, now he must be sobering up, looking down at castiel beneath him half-dressed and panicking, wondering how the hell he has gotten himself wrapped up in this situation. and they are friends, of course, and good enough ones that it seems entirely feasible that dean would feel the need to let him down easy, to spare him the embarrassment of being turned down. ]

.. of course.

[ castiel's heart sinks like a stone, falling into the pit of his stomach and pulling at him like a weight, all the heat in his blood running cold, a tension rising in his bones that squeezes his chest and constricts his throat. dropping his eyes down and away, castiel clears his throat and nods sharply, to reaffirm. ]

I understand. That's very kind of you.

( and that is precisely – fucking precisely – what he wants to preserve. the whole of it, every little thing that they've been building up to, everything that he'd never thought he'd even come close to wanting, because if it all crumbles in his hands, slips through his fingers, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to forgive himself for fucking this up.

he's never turned down sex, now. never once in his life, not a single time since he'd figured out that he could easily bury, burrow away the troubles of his life beneath the sheets and some squirming, curvy thing. any woman he's ever brought into his bed, they've never meant anything to him beyond the warmth of their hands and mouths, the sounds they made in the dark for him as he pressed them open and brought them to the kind of release they had likely never felt before and likely never would again once he'd taken his hands away. they're all nameless, now, faceless in the shadows of the closet where he keeps all his skeletons, and the one time he thinks he might have found something real, something substantial, he isn't taking any risks that he doesn't know for sure will work out in his favor.

and that, of course, makes it awkward now, with the way castiel drops his gaze. refuses to look at him even as he spills the contents of his heart all around them, laying himself open and leaving himself vulnerable as he never has before, and there's something in the tone of the other's voice – something that falls flat, falls short of believing him, and that tugs at something at the very center of his chest in a way that nothing else has yet. something that nothing else has even touched. )

No. No you don't – ( he drops down again, closing some of the distance he'd put between them and curling his hands against either side of castiel's neck, thumbs pressing just beneath the edge of his chin to force his gaze back up – even if he doesn't quite look at him directly, his own eyes trained on how pink, how plush his kiss-swollen mouth is, and he gives in to temptation far too easily as he leans in and takes again from those lips, kissing him deeply, fervently, trying to drive home the meaning of his words.

that he isn't being kind, even though there is kindness in him. he feels he's being cruel, when he really thinks about it, having let them get this far and then reeling back, dangling something they clearly both desperately want right in front of the other's nose.

he kisses him, again and again, unable to pull himself away from it until he finds himself breathless all over again, and even when he pulls back he lingers, the very tips of their noses bumping against one another as he breathes in deep, shuddering, hard-pressed to keep to his newfound morals instead of stripping off clothing. )

Don't say that like you think I'm lyin'. Like I'm trying to let you down easy – because I'm not.

[ dean is trying to be sweet about it, trying to be kind, but castiel's gut still feels all twisted up, his heart heavy in his chest, and a lump sticks in his throat that he cannot for the life of him swallow down.

it's just so impossible to believe, to think that dean could turn him down for any other reason besides the clear and simple reason that he's gotten cold feet, that he's realized that too much beer and a nice pretty sky had led him to do something that he now regrets. it happens to the best of people. sometimes mistakes happen. sometimes you are caught up in a sweet warm moment and it becomes so very easy to let it go too far, to find yourself all tangled up in it until you're turned around and you've got to slam on the breaks once you realize you're skidding out of control.

it's not the first time it's happened to him. mostly with men. it's not uncommon for a guy of dean's type to pull back, to realize they've gone too far with another man, or that castiel simply isn't their type. he and dean have so very little in common once you really get down to brass tacks, and a pretty face can only get you so far.

his love life is so damned cursed.

but then dean's kissing him again, over and over and over until his ears are full of the sound of their mouths and castiel can hardly stand it. a bittersweet ache burgeons inside of him, filling him up, and he breathes a plaintive sound against dean's mouth, falling into the kisses so easily that he finds himself swept away again, pining and yearning and clinging, his fingers wrapped around dean's wrists and gripping tight, face upturned and seeking for more. it feels so good, kissing him, like their mouths are two halves of a whole and he's only been waiting his entire life for this, for dean, for this man he is so comfortable against, their souls cushioning one another, pulled together like magnets.

it's foolish, though. that's nothing but castiel's own childish, wistful desires talking. dean says he isn't letting him down easy, but castiel cannot bring himself to believe it, cannot understand how this could be anything but that.

but he has to agree, doesn't he? there's no reason to argue it. swallowing thickly, he nods. ]

Of course.