» SPN FIC: angels on the moon (pg)
.angels on the moon
"i'll wait for you," he promises, fingers ruffling dean's hair; never let me go!au.
Cas smiles at him like the sun, a smile that he’s never seen directed at anyone but him, not even the teachers who are all impressed with how smart Castiel is, how bright and brilliant. There’s a constant stream of compliments that are thrown Cas’s way, and while Dean used to be angered by this, now he’s nothing more than proud.
“Do you think we’ll ever be able to leave?” Dean asks, clicking his feet into Cas’, liking the feeling of pressing close. The slither of ankle that’s poking out from his pristine white socks is enough to cause a shiver to ripple through Dean when their skin touches, and to anyone else it would’ve looked like he’s shivering because of the cold.
They both know that it runs much deeper than that, and the secret smile-a gentle, quirk of the mouth that is subtle even to them-that they share is enough to make Dean slide their bodies closer together, feeling reckless.
Castiel is three years older, a hell of a lot brighter, and way too insightful for his age. He’s picked on, teased and insulted, torn apart for his intelligence-he usually says nothing, because Cas has never been one to entertain confrontation when it wasn’t absolutely necessary-but Dean isn’t afraid to come to his defense. There are a lot of things that Dean happens to be, but a coward isn’t one.
“Yes,” Castiel whispers, softly into Dean’s hair. It doesn’t take Dean long to realize that it’s a thinly concealed lie.
Dean doesn’t press because then they’ll do nothing but fight, and Cas doesn’t have much time left here. When you’re eighteen, you’re shipped off to a different set of houses in the woods, far from the Boarding school that you grew up in, where you learned about the world that you were never allowed to see.
Dean wasn’t resentful of this, but Castiel was (“We were made for more than to be some type of sick, governmental experiment,” Cas said, one morning when the air was too thick with tension, when Dean was supposed to be asleep. He simply let out a well-practiced snore and pretended that he couldn’t hear anything, it was better than acknowledging the truth-that maybe, Castiel was right about this, that they were nothing more than their countries guinea pigs; it was a thought that didn’t sit well with Dean, so he pushed it aside).
He would rather spend the last few days with Cas hiding out in the barn on the backside hill of the land, rolling around in the haystack together like they were eight and eleven again, innocent and untouched by reason and truth. Sometimes, when they’re sure they’re alone, Cas will press a gentle kiss to the outside of Dean’s mouth, a promise of what’s to come later, when they wouldn’t have to hide anything.
“I’ll wait for you,” he promises, fingers ruffling Dean’s hair.
Dean smiles, because he’s still only fifteen, and while he’s arguably one of the most intelligent kids in his class, he’s still naive; so he believes him. “I know,” he murmurs, voice smooth like satin. It’s easier to conceal how his voice still cracks-puberty truly is a bitch-when he doesn’t speak so loud.
When he pretends like this, the age gap doesn’t seem so huge anymore, it seems conquerable, like there really isn’t one at all, and stupidly (so, so stupid) Dean recognizes this, grabs tight, and refuses to let it go.
"i'll wait for you," he promises, fingers ruffling dean's hair; never let me go!au.
Cas smiles at him like the sun, a smile that he’s never seen directed at anyone but him, not even the teachers who are all impressed with how smart Castiel is, how bright and brilliant. There’s a constant stream of compliments that are thrown Cas’s way, and while Dean used to be angered by this, now he’s nothing more than proud.
“Do you think we’ll ever be able to leave?” Dean asks, clicking his feet into Cas’, liking the feeling of pressing close. The slither of ankle that’s poking out from his pristine white socks is enough to cause a shiver to ripple through Dean when their skin touches, and to anyone else it would’ve looked like he’s shivering because of the cold.
They both know that it runs much deeper than that, and the secret smile-a gentle, quirk of the mouth that is subtle even to them-that they share is enough to make Dean slide their bodies closer together, feeling reckless.
Castiel is three years older, a hell of a lot brighter, and way too insightful for his age. He’s picked on, teased and insulted, torn apart for his intelligence-he usually says nothing, because Cas has never been one to entertain confrontation when it wasn’t absolutely necessary-but Dean isn’t afraid to come to his defense. There are a lot of things that Dean happens to be, but a coward isn’t one.
“Yes,” Castiel whispers, softly into Dean’s hair. It doesn’t take Dean long to realize that it’s a thinly concealed lie.
Dean doesn’t press because then they’ll do nothing but fight, and Cas doesn’t have much time left here. When you’re eighteen, you’re shipped off to a different set of houses in the woods, far from the Boarding school that you grew up in, where you learned about the world that you were never allowed to see.
Dean wasn’t resentful of this, but Castiel was (“We were made for more than to be some type of sick, governmental experiment,” Cas said, one morning when the air was too thick with tension, when Dean was supposed to be asleep. He simply let out a well-practiced snore and pretended that he couldn’t hear anything, it was better than acknowledging the truth-that maybe, Castiel was right about this, that they were nothing more than their countries guinea pigs; it was a thought that didn’t sit well with Dean, so he pushed it aside).
He would rather spend the last few days with Cas hiding out in the barn on the backside hill of the land, rolling around in the haystack together like they were eight and eleven again, innocent and untouched by reason and truth. Sometimes, when they’re sure they’re alone, Cas will press a gentle kiss to the outside of Dean’s mouth, a promise of what’s to come later, when they wouldn’t have to hide anything.
“I’ll wait for you,” he promises, fingers ruffling Dean’s hair.
Dean smiles, because he’s still only fifteen, and while he’s arguably one of the most intelligent kids in his class, he’s still naive; so he believes him. “I know,” he murmurs, voice smooth like satin. It’s easier to conceal how his voice still cracks-puberty truly is a bitch-when he doesn’t speak so loud.
When he pretends like this, the age gap doesn’t seem so huge anymore, it seems conquerable, like there really isn’t one at all, and stupidly (so, so stupid) Dean recognizes this, grabs tight, and refuses to let it go.